LA COTE D’AZUR – WHAT A RIP-OFF – WE DIDN’T EVEN SEE THE SEA
To reach Brignoles, our destination for that night, the quickest way was on the A8 ‘Coast Highway for the Cote D’Azure’. I have decided that I hate that route; especially as it rained all the way. This toll road was lined by 1930’s 2-up-2-downs. We were charged upwards of three Euros when we passed by each of the Riviera towns from San Remo and Monte Carlo to Frejus, above San Tropez. There were about four of them as I recall, but they were not visible – no sight, nor even a sniff – of the desirable sea. We thought it a very unfair rip-off.)
HOTEL HIDDEN IN A CAR PARK
We had chosen Brignoles for our first overnight stop. Just because it was the first small town in France past all those exhausting tunnels above Genoa. Back in La Casa di Plinio in Pompei, Martina had hastily booked for us a night at an Ibis hotel, having heard they were cheap and good.
After much circling around and around an industrial park we eventually found the Ibis Hotel. It was hidden away next to a small slip road running by the toll road we would take in the morning. We were pleased to see armchairs in the lobby. All were occupied by young women sipping coffee, clustered around tiny tables.
A very pleasant, handsome Frenchman was running the place. When I showed him our booking form he told us we were not staying there –we had booked the ‘Ibis Budget’ hotel next door. I felt cheated, as I thought the price I’d paid (around £45 – though I may be mistaken) would have covered a room in the modest building we were standing in.
WE GET LOST – THEN HAVE TO LEARN A CODE
We searched high and low for the ‘Budget next door’ and in the end had to go back for Mine Host to point the way – obvious when you knew where to look!
He showed us how to tap in numbers on a machine to give us a card with OUR room Number. This would effect us entry into the secured front door, and later, our room. Nobody was manning the front desk. They would be in from seven pm until 10pm he said. He added ‘You can buy breakfast in the main hotel in the morning’.
We thanked him and I opened the front door for Graham to bring in our nightly backpacks. There was a drinks machine in the lobby, and one selling crisps and chocolate.
OUR ROOM WAS A PLEASANT SURPRISE
Hmm, I thought; but when we found our room we were pleasantly surprised. All white, small but very clean. It was well appointed, down to a hairdryer attached to the wall in the bathroom. Also, an ironing board and iron were in the tiny wardrobe. There was a good shower, adequate fluffy towels, and even a range of free toiletries. The bedside reading lamps worked, too – so not such a bad deal, after all. www.ibis.com/Brignoles
BRIGNOLES – A VERY ATTRACTIVE SMALL FRENCH TOWN
When we had washed and changed we emerged to find a very friendly girl at the front desk. She gave us directions into the nearby town, which we found very pleasant. It was raining, so we drove round for a bit before parking, then walking to the very attractive main square. It looked really ‘French’.
Light failing on wet pavements, Brignoles
A PRIEST TRIES TO DIRECT US
Here Graham stopped a priest and asked for a nice local French restaurant. The patient priest, huddling under his umbrella, kept trying to direct us to the ‘best Chinese in town’. I expect he was trying to help out the owner.
BRIGNOLES – A LOVELY AUTHENTIC FRENCH RESTAURANT.
However, I had seen an attractive small place in a back street,and remembered the way. We walked there and discovered an empty, rather dignified square right opposite. I waited while Graham walked to fetch the car and park there.
(It appears under Graham’s name, because I use his web page):
“It was sad that we were just getting over ‘flu and travelling slowly back to England when we found this charming restaurant in a side street. If we ever go back we will book a bedroom there, too – because their prices are very reasonable for a high standard of country living – French style.”
DELICIOUS FOOD IN LA HOTEL/RESTAURANT DE PROVENCE, BRIGNOLES.
I cannot now remember what we ate, but only that it looked attractive and tempting, and what we could manage to eat was delicious. It was, after all, the first full meal we’d ordered since catching ‘flu over two weeks previously. We had to apologise for the food left on our plate, and explained that it was in no way a shortcoming in the cooking. The hostess/waitress was very understanding. We left full of gratitude. Do try this pretty dining place.
(ADDRESS: Place du Palais de Justice, 83170, Brignoles, France. (phone: +33 4 94 6901 18)
We had another lovely day, exploring round the coast,first glimpsed from the roadway high above. It frequently wound round the lower slopes of a mountain. Soon we were walking down (and up from) one of the famous little fishermens’ towns – Castellammare del Golfo. We even think we drove on that circular elevated highway you see in earlier Montalbano downloads. I somehow cannot call it a viaduct because it is on stilts, instead of arches.
Castellammare del Golfo
THE MOUNTAIN ROADS TO SUTERA
Sicily gave us more than a few unlooked-for adventures. Graham tackled atrocious roads, hairpin bends, and doglegs to ascend mountains. Not forgetting the usual reckless and selfish Italian driving – so surprising in this most gracious of peoples. All in our eleven-year-old VW Golf, which had so far needed only two new tyres. And maybe that was because of that farm track back in Grottole? Or possibly our car’s old age?
FIRST ATTEMPT BY MOUNTAIN ROADS TO REACH SUTERA.
11th November:
WE START A 3.5 HOUR DRIVE –
Leaving Alesso and his Mum with fond hugs and kisses, Graham decided to take the smaller roads right across the mountains to reach Sutera, where I had booked a room because it promised ‘mountain views’. I knew it would be Graham’s last chance of photographing any on the island – and he’s just crazy about mountains. Sutera is situated almost in the centre of the island and about halfway between where we had been staying and the ferry back to the mainland.
Google showed this route as taking three and a half hours as against just under two on the High Toll Road. We both like to explore off the beaten track, and Graham just loves driving through mountains. That day he had the experience – in spades!
A SLIGHT DEVIATION
We had been bowling along nicely, despite being on a very narrow road winding in and out of lower mountain slopes. Suddenly we came to a barrier across the road, announcing ‘Lavori Stradale’ (‘road works’). There were no road workers to be seen, but we saw a school bus just ahead turn in through a hole in a netted fence onto a levelled piece of rough earth. From there it drove out, executed a smart turn and took another road in the rough direction we had been travelling.
In the Parco Del Madonie
WHERE’S THE MOUNTAIN ROAD GONE?
Our SatNav quickly adapted – but about 2 miles further on Graham nearly drove straight off into – space! When we got out and peered over the edge we saw lots of rocks and a few toy cypress trees far, far below us. So we retraced our tracks and took another, slightly wider road.
MOUNTAIN ROADS – NO ROADS!
All was well until Graham, after manoeuvring around very nasty potholes, suddenly screeched to a halt. I was thrown forward slightly.
“What’s the matter? Why did you stop like that? I could have –“
“Thank God I did. Get out, and I’ll show you.”
Being tall, Graham had just managed to see that the road had dropped a good three feet, creating a step just about ten yards in front of our bonnet. He had to drive in reverse all the way until we reached the turnoff at a minute crossroads.
He sat for a while, considering, until he had to edge the car forward and nearly into the rocky wall in order to let another VW Golf pass.
“That guy’s a local, you can see. He’s obviously going somewhere and knows his road. I’m going to follow him,” he said.
“But it’s not in our direction.”
“I don’t care. I have to get back on to a proper road. Any road. We’ve been four hours already. Besides, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”
A DEVOTED FAMILY.
Indeed, I was. So when we ended up in a medium-sized village we stopped and asked a lady meeting her child from school where we could find food. She directed us to a side road ‘Just a few yards up.’
And so it was. A very plain room, but clean, with many tables – all of them empty at that time of day. But the lady of the house came forward and in halting English explained that if we did not mind a pasta dish her husband would cook for us.
A CHILD TRIES HIS ENGLISH –
We had just started attacking the good food when in came a very fat schoolboy. He rushed to the kitchen and came out with his hands full of little cakes, which he proceeded to demolish.
Standing right in front of us he asked “Inglese?”
We agreed that we were.
“My name is Alberto Grimaldi (or some such) and I am thirteen years old,” he announced in a loud voice, whereupon his mother rushed in from the other room where she had been chatting to local friends. She smiled proudly and smoothed his hair.
– AND YEARNS AFTER OUR FOOD
Road snaking away below Sclafani Bagni
“I learn English at school.” He stared fixedly at us as if he would like to be fed scraps from our plates.
“Yes. Your English is very good,” I said politely, hoping he’d go away.
Not a bit of it. So I asked him a question he couldn’t answer – and wouldn’t you know it, in drifted his English teacher, a friend of the family.
Father came out from the kitchen and there ensued a sort of ‘Love-In’ around this child, who promptly went back to the kitchen to scoop up another snack.
WE REMEMBER OUR MANNERS
They were a lovely family – a devoted family. His father had willingly cooked us lunch at 3pm. What could we do but give Mama and Papa the pleasure of seeing their offspring show off?
ALL THE WAY BACK TO PALERMO
We finally set off again and in Sclafani Bagni we looked across to a town called Caltavuturo. It was perched just below the highest slope of the Rocca di Sciara. Graham stopped: We both left the car to look out over the land. Below us, the road wiggled away like a thin piece of string. Another signpost pointed down a wider, faster road back to Palermo and the coast. The question on both our minds was ‘do we risk the little road or go back and start again?’
There was no argument as Graham turned back to Palermo. It took well over an hour, but I enjoyed some elevated views of the lovely bays of that coast before we finally found the highway, actually a bit past where we had started from that morning…
WHAT WE MISSED:
Because we were in such a hurry to turn back we had no time to look for the famous ‘Bagni’: a perfectly round, pale green thermal pool, fed by a waterfall in the rocks that surround it. Also, to my dismay, we had to ignore the posters advertising the annual Fungo Ferla Fest. The mushrooms depicted were not the usual wonderful Porcini of Italy. These were pinky-brown, and in clusters.
If you are in the area in November, I hope you catch the festival and find all that Caltavuturo has to show you.
We left Tripotello on our fourth morning. We would be staying in Carini, a town just outside Palermo. Our country road crossed the island to the North Coast. It would lead us through a very large forest.
Golden woods of Parco Dei Nebrodi
My one regret in planning such a late holiday had been that already (on 8thNovember) I would have missed autumn in Britain. I love to see the colours each year. I had not expected to see them here, as back in mainland Italy there was hardly a sign of yellowing in the trees. To my delight, as we entered the forest we found the whole area was gleaming with brightly golden autumn leaves. If anything, they grew even brighter as our road climbed and then started to descend, a mountain. After two hours or so I begged Graham to stop where we might take a walk. Presently he was able to park the car by a grassy glade.
Our Golf parked by the grassy glade
Cattle of the Parco Dei Nebrodi
JOURNEY TO CARINI – AN ABRUPT END TO AN IDYLL
No sooner were we out of the car and enjoying the birdsong and the feel of soft grass through our sandal-sides than a tinkling of bells grew rapidly louder, and we could hear conversation. A large group of men and animals were obviously coming down from the mountain.
To our great consternation a largish herd of bulls appeared out of the trees. They proceeded to cross the road not very far in front of us – about twenty yards. We could see many coming up behind. So I had to forfeit my walk; but Graham took great pleasure in filming the handsome beasts with their long horns. I admit that I stood well behind him! We debated whether to post the video as it was of such poor quality, but the sounds that it captured were so evocative of the region. Several times we stopped the car in the forest. Though we only saw the cattle roundup once, we heard it several times.
Parco dei Nebrodi, Sicily.
Cattle of the Parco Dei Nebrodi
CEFALU
Duomo at Cefalù
As there was time for some sightseeing, we took the coast road to Cefalu. Itwas high time, we decided, to visit the sea again. After all, we were staying on an island!
We are not lovers of beach resorts. Rather, ‘culture vultures’, I suppose, seeking out historical buildings and art. Unlike many, though, we love to get off the beaten track. Our chief joy is diving down any little country lane that looks inviting – seeing where it leads. Though not infallible, we have discovered many a hidden gem this way.
Nobody can blame the Italians for ‘prettifying’ their fishing villages, and filling them with souvenir shops. Nevertheless, it was a joy to discover that Cefalu offered much more. It had evidence of an important past.
Its impressively grand cathedral, we learned, was built by one of Sicily’s Norman rulers; Roger the Second. As well as its twin towers, it had some intriguing and delicate arches along its front.
Deciding we did not have time enough to justify paying a rather steep entry fee, we settled for sitting just outside, sipping Peronis. Feeling cooler, we started exploring the town. Buildings gave witness to its history. We saw Byzantine and Spanish influences, as well as Norman and Arab; then rather fine Italian styles.
We made our way down to where we overlooked the rocky harbour. This still retained the look of an honest fishing village. We soaked in the view along the coast before getting back in the car.
Cefalù
Days 4 & 5:
CARINI – TROUBLE FINDING OUR B&B – ‘THE GREEN HOUSE’
Our next B&B was in The Green House, in Carini – run by Alesso and his mother. We had terrible trouble finding it. Miss Satnav would insist on sending us down an empty back-alley right beside the elevated motorway we had come in on.
This was not the first time that Airbnb had given insufficient directions. We tried telephoning the number on our sheet, but with no success.
Finally we retraced our steps and found a café nearby. After a refreshing coffee, the owner tried phoning for us, and obtained more detailed directions.
Our B&B was in the road behind the alley, and had to be approached from a different direction entirely!
CARINI B&B – HELPFUL HOSTS
As we turned into a very private small road, our host came out to direct us to a parking place, and then, with his mother, helped Graham carry in our luggage.
We found ourselves in a very nice private house – the inside reminding us vaguely of ‘haciendas’ seen in Hollywood films.
We had a large bedroom, although the wardrobe was at that time filled with someone’s clothes (this may have been unavoidable). We had to share the bathroom, but that proved no problem.
CARINI B&B – CAKES FOR BREAKFAST
Mamma (Janice?) went to great lengths to produce nice breakfasts, cooking many cakes (which is about the only time Italians eat cakes – and little else!) It was very reasonably priced. We felt very welcome in their private home, and we stayed two nights.
Adresse Chambres d’hôtes Green House : Via Medusa 3 – 90044 CARINI
(We booked this place through Air B&B – but as so often with them, we had vexing complications regarding payment (through exchange rates, I think). We will not use them again – at least for staying abroad. They are never as cheap as the first advertised price anyway.) To be fair, many friends back in England have been pleased with bookings in our own country.
The next day we visited Syracuse – city of living history. Principally because we love history, Central Syracuse impressed us the most of the whole island of Sicily. In truth – Syracuse (or ‘Siracusa’ as the Italians call it – and it is THEIR city) is a place so full of beauty, history and charm that we know we only touched the surface. If we are ever able to return to Sicilia we will make Siracusa our base.
SYRACUSE – FIRST THINGS FIRST – WE PARK IN THE BUSY HARBOUR
As I remember, it took a long time to traverse the road from the highway that led down to Syracuse. Like most early settlements, it was built by the sea. Following the signs to ‘Harbour Car Park’ we saw, as we got close, the spars of yachts and other boats, large and small. Then we entered a wide, clean street lined by smart hotels. We emerged by the most impressive: a quietly grand, pinky-terra-cotta building of some age. It took up the entire corner at the end of the horseshoe-shaped enclosed harbour.
Near the Harbour
Even more imposing was the ‘palazzo’ we could see beyond the large bridge spanning the river that disgorged into the sea. We parked, and strode into the small piazza where they sold tickets for boat trips. But we were both thirsty, and there was a tempting little bar facing the sea.
Cafe
SYRACUSEHARBOUR – AN EXCELLENT LITTLE BAR
A pretty, friendly girl served us with Peronis, while I admired the covered snacks that lined a long, covered ‘cooler’ counter. It was too early for lunch. Later, when we stopped at a place that gave us the ‘end of season’ treatment, I bitterly regretted that we had not gone back to that bar – but we did not wish to retrace our steps so early.
Cats attracted by a birdcage on a balcony
SYRACUSE – WE CLIMB NARROW OLD STREETS
There was quite a trek up narrow, winding streets of elegant, tall houses. I would guess them to be late eighteenth century – like our Georgian era. Cats hogged every patch of sun until frightened off by motorbikes. These roared down (and up) at fairly regular intervals, somehow dodging around us in the confined space. Then the cats would reclaim their patch of sun. Italian love of cats may be because they keep rats and mice at bay in these warm old towns. Every so often we would find ourselves in a small piazza, generally with a fountain in the centre. Some of these had stately and elaborate stone carvings as a base.
SYRACUSE – THE BEST THINGS ARE ALWAYS AT THE TOP
Emerging from the deep shadows of a narrow street we were lured by the airs of Vivaldi being expertly played on a guitar. As soon as our eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunlight, we found ourselves in a very large and elegant piazza. Graham was enchanted by the expertise of the romantic-looking, curly-haired young man who sat outside the cathedral, absorbed in his music. He was very talented indeed. After taking several photographs, and engaging in conversation, Graham asked permission to make a small video. After buying a CG, and exchanging email addresses (sadly mislaid since), Graham left a generous tip and we resumed exploring.
SYRACUSE DUOMO – UNIQUE IN BEAUTY AND HISTORY
The Duomo
We especially admired the Duomo (Cathedral). It had a very clean, elaborate, baroque frontage – all rosy-white. But the gasp factor came when we went inside and found ourselves in a vast, mainly empty space with pitted columns of enormous girth. We had to look right up to see the tops – so high was the ceiling. To our right, beyond the nave, we could discern many chapels hidden behind them.
A DAGGER IN HER THROAT.
One of the inner chapels was dedicated to St Lucia– one of the three patron saints of the city. There she stood, richly dressed in real clothes, with a large, fearsome dagger stuck in her neck. She gets regularly paraded like this throughout the city.
AN EARLY CONVERSION.
Inside the Duomo
We learned that the whole building is an early conversion, using parts of an ancient Greek temple to Athena. Indeed, on one side of the exterior you can see where the walls have been contrived. They were built in-between the ancient columns, still standing strong in their entirety.
SYRACUSE’S ANCIENT TREASURES – HIDDEN BENEATH THE BAROQUE.
We had to pay a small sum to enter. It was explained that our tickets also included the remains (next door, and below the level of the cathedral crypt) of a much older, (5000 year-old) temple to Artemis. She was the daughter of Zeus (chief god) and Leto. Artemis was Goddess of Hunting, like the Roman Diana. We also saw the few remains, below the Duomo, of the 5th-century BC great Greek Temple of Athena aforementioned, which had been ransacked to build the present cethedral above it. Archeological site excavations by Paolo Orsi in 1907-1910 show that Greek temple to have been built on even older foundations. They uncovered a wealth of archaic and pre-Hellenic artefacts. Many are held by the Museo archeologico regionale Paolo Orsi in Syracuse.
Part of the Old Temple
THE PLINTHS FOR THE SHATTERED COLUMNS STOOD HIGHER THAN ME
We had to approach the ruins of the older temple (to Artemis) through a rather scruffy, neglected garden. Some shallow steps led down until we finally stood at the bottom, on a wooden walkway. A marvel met our eyes: We appeared to be about three feet above the uneven floor level of an enormous chamber. The sheet of explanations stated that most of the pillars had been broken up or transported to build the temple to Athena that was the basis of the Duomo next door. Even so, I got down and stood on the base of one of the plinths upon which the original pillars were erected, and the square block of stone reached to above my head.
5,000-YEAR-OLD SPECIAL SEATS REVIVE OLD MEMORIES
As we progressed along the walkway more marvels emerged. Namely. a glass-covered relief model of the original layout, and then an intact row of stone latrines. They reminded me of the old ‘karsies at the bottom of the garden’ that I had to use each time I was evacuated to the country as a child. (I wondered if those very, very Ancient Greeks had the equivalent of little squares of newsprint strung on gut dangling down beside them…) These were grander, as they had armrests carved between each hole. I had a vision of Greek worthies sitting solemnly reading their scrolls like Mr Bridger in ‘The Italian Job’.
The Latrines
WE DISCOVER THE BACK HARBOUR (ORTIGIA ISLAND)
By that time we were quite thirsty, but we took that stroll round the back of the headland, and found a completely different harbour from the one we had first encountered. There was a feeling of it being much as it would have been in the Renaissance, with sailing ships pulling up to disgorge cargo into the smaller warehouses that lined the long sweep of the quay.
Syracuse harbour
HUNDREDS OF PHOTOS – SPECIAL MEMORIES
Graham has many, many photos of this wonderful ancient city. Its old side streets captivated him, as well as the grand squares with their fountains. Below is a taster of the many ‘quiet corners’ where people live their lives, relatively undisturbed by tourists.
A Quiet Corner
A Cartouche
HIDDEN FROM TOURIST EYES
While in that area we explored some other, lesser-known towns inland, and closer to Mount Etna. Most of these betrayed the very real poverty Sicily is still suffering. We got curious stares as we entered one town where we had to turn around because the road leading out from the main square and down the mountain had completely collapsed, right in front of a house! We felt great empathy for these struggling people, and could not help wondering why more of the riches culled from tourists like us could not be shared to improve the lot of these inner, less-penetrated towns and villages.
The above view was taken from the balcony outside our bedroom
BASILICATA – FOND FAREWELLS – AND YET MORE GIFTS
Basilicata is unforgettable and remembered with love. We made our fond first farewell when standing in our hallway, ready for the off. Giuseppe came up the stairs to help with our luggage, which was strewn all along the passage.
He was carrying two large carrier bags, stuffed with groceries. He held them out to us.
“Here”, he said, “ some specialities of our area to remind you of Basilicata.”
“We’ll never forget Basilicata,” said Graham. “I love this area and the friendship we’ve found here. I don’t know when, but I’ll be back.”
BASILICATA – LOCAL FOODSTUFFS
We looked in the bag at the packets of superior quality: Very local pastas made from Durum wheat (and some had porcini in them). Senise peppers, and packets and jars of chickpeas and black lentils. We were still serving some of them up for friends to taste nearly a year later.
Giuseppe
BASILICATA FAREWELL – HUGS ALL ROUND
Then Graham and Giuseppe embraced like true brothers, and I in turn got a hug (difficult when I only reached Giuseppe’s chest). We all picked up what we could manage and took it down to the car.
BASILICATA – FAREWELLS IN MIGLIONICO – OUR ‘HOME TOWN’
We decided we must make time to drive into Miglionico and say farewell to friends we had made there. First stop was ‘Frutti’, the greengrocer’s shop.
As ever, we were greeted with a mixture of salutations and giggles.
‘Just a minute,’ said the proprietress, turning back to the customer she was serving.
We were in a hurry, so Graham said, a bit loudly; ‘We’ve not come to buy – just to say goodbye. We leave for home today’; (the easiest explanation).
The friendly shopkeeper immediately rushed round her table of produce to hug us both tightly.
‘I SHALL MISS YOU,’ she said, ‘please come back soon.’ This was backed up by a variety of clucks and whisperings amongst the good ladies waiting.
Finally – ‘Arrividerci’ they all chorused, as we backed out of the door.
‘Arrividerci,’ we replied, and really hoped that would be possible. We had grown to feel very comfortable in this little town.
Vincenzo
Next, Graham popped his head into all the bars, looking for his good friend Vincenzo, but it was too early.
We had given up, and were making for his house when his best buddy, met once before, stopped us.
‘Vincenzo is on his way to meet me,’ he said. So we waited with him, and when, shortly, Vincenzo arrived, we all went into that nice coffee shop and pasticceria before mentioned.
Over coffee we enjoyed some last friendly chat. Then addresses and telephone numbers were exchanged, embraces all round, and we were at last on our way down to Sicily…
BASILICATA – AN UNFORGETTABLE REGION
We had really made the most of our seven weeks. We’d taken in churches and castles, and tackled never-ending, climbing corkscrew roads. We had paddled in the sea, and slaked our avid thirst for history. We suddenly felt very sad to be leaving Basilicata.
BASILICATA – UNFORGETTABLE PEOPLE
We shall never forget Basilicata, or the lovely people we met there – most of all Familia Riccardi, so kind to us. Mimi, who would come and lovingly tend his beautiful garden: Giulia, who made us so welcome and plied us with her home-baked cakes. Glamorous Angela and her husband – both charming, and providers respectively of memorable pasta dishes and meat barbecued to perfection. Elegant Alfonso from Rome, with his beautiful wife and daughter. Most of all we will miss Giuseppe; our charming, cheerful – unforgettable host. If we can return, we shall…
“If we don’t go today, we’ll never see the little town where Carlo Levi was imprisoned,” I told Graham. “I’ve got to do our packing tomorrow – and there’s quite a lot. We’ve spread ourselves over seven weeks. Apart from clothes there’s that thin duvet we brought which has proved so useful, and things like our chest cooler – never really used, but full of veg and bread; and…”
“O.k., oKAY,” he said. “Don’t go on. I thought you couldn’t find Gagliano.”
ALIANO – CARLO LEVI’S GAGLIANO DISCOVERED
“I told you. He made up the name Gagliano – I discovered that three weeks ago. It’s really called Aliano – and it’s not far. See? And we can call in again at Ferrandina on the way back. You said you wanted to take more photos there. And Pisticci – which Giuseppe said we should visit.”
Thus it was that our last day trip in Basilicata proved to be one of the very best of our many lovely memories of this unique part of Italy.
ALIANO – CARLO LEVI’S LANDSCAPE: (The feature image at the top of this post was taken from Aliano)
Centre of Aliano
Sure enough, as we approached the town – less than an hour’s drive away from our base, the landscaped changed. Flattish ‘khaki’ farmland gave way to the bare, grey-white clay hills described and painted by Carlo Levi. We took the winding, narrow road up to the town. We had to park right at the beginning, until we saw a sign that said invalid parking was allowed further in. This was just as well, because we drove quite a way down the main street before we found the Blue Badge Car Park. Even then a quite long walk awaited us.
We had got as far as some railings overlooking a ravine, where men who clearly looked like locals were eating great slices of pizza they had bought at a littlel shop opposite. We were about to go in when I noticed a tiny baker’s shop almost next door.
ALIANO HAS A TRADITIONAL BAKERY
“Just look at those loaves, Graham – and the lovely rolls. They’re almost like our French dinner rolls at home. I’ve never seen them before in Italy.”
So we went into the shop, which was really the bakery. A very small, very old man was bringing loaves out of a brick oven. He used a long shaft (12 feet?) with a paddle at the end, which he manoeuvred carefully under each loaf.
His wife stood behind the modest, L-shaped wooden counter that fronted the place. She smiled and wished us ‘Buongiorno.’ I pointed at a small loaf on the shelf behind her, but was interrupted.
ALIANO – ‘THE SOUL OF ITALY’ IN A BREAD ROLL
I’d hardly noticed a pretty young girl squashed behind Graham until she confronted us and asked,
“Americano?”
“No. Inglese.”
“Aah. You will like Italian bread, then. Inglese know good bread.”
“Some do – a lot just buy wrapped from supermarkets. Silly things.”
“This VERY good bread. I come from Bari whenever I can. This town is SOUL of ITALY!” She threw up her arms. “And this bread the SOUL of the Soul of Italy! Best bread; you taste. Here!”
ALIANO – WE EAT ‘THE SOUL OF ITALY’
And she lifted up the little counter and dived through to a table at the back, bringing out a small bread roll. This she broke open. She then reached across the amused, ageing proprietress and picked up an olive oil dispenser. She doused each side of the little roll, then put her hands into a small pot and sprinkled some finely chopped fresh basil on each half, bit into one and threw up her hands – “Divine!” She then thrust the other half at us.
“The taste of Italy! Eat the SOUL of Italy!”
So we did –
The proprietress beyond the counter grinned at me and spread her hands in that ‘Waddayado’ gesture seen a thousand times in Hollywood films featuring Italian actors.
Clay columns
ALIANO – NO ESCAPE FOR CARLO
After buying our loaf, and receiving hugs and kisses on both cheeks from all present, we made our way to the railings again. Looking over, we saw sharp peaks of that white clay, too perilous to descend by. And there was nothing else – for miles. No wonder that Carlo Levi did not need to be kept confined, for where would there have been to escape to? In those days (1936-1945) there was little traffic, and only the one road down. The extreme other end of the village held only the bleak graveyard, set on a high promontory. And all the surrounding area was well nigh empty – and very poor.
The piazza
ALIANO FRUSTRATION – LEVI MUSEUM CLOSED – BUT STILL WONDROUS
We followed the railings, passing a really exquisite little square. This held the old town hall, and some attractive houses. Not least was ‘The House of the Hundred Eyes’, so called because of its many windows.
House with a hundred eyes
Unfortunately, the museum was closed, and so we could not get a guide to take us to view Levi’s lodgings at the time of his ‘imprisonment’. Also closed was the house he later had built. Strangely, he decided to return to this place of ‘exile’. He had made so many friends – and no wonder – he had used his doctor’s skills to treat the poor for no payment.
BUT DID WE SEE THE VIEWS CARLO LEVI HAD SEEN?
But we did see them from the outside. The house where he stayed was substantial and attractive. His own, later dwelling was right on the edge of the escarpment. He would have looked right over a sea of the white clay peaks, caused by too much forest clearance in the past. We wondered if he had lived to see the later changes in the more distant landscape, when topsoil was brought in and fields planted on the plains.
NO WONDER CARLO LEVI DID NOT ATTEMPT ESCAPE
Carrying on down the long main street we came to a bust depicting this great man and benefactor. Just below it were steps to a viewing platform to see to the bottom of the deep gorge. Graham went down, but I stayed up top. I watched people coming away from the ‘castle’ – too late for us. A bell tolled ‘Closing Time’.
DID HIS ‘PRISON’ LOOK AS ATTRACTIVE THEN?
Aliano today is a very clean, bright and pretty town. I can’t help thinking that it must have looked very different to Carlo Levi. That writing, painting, Jewish doctor-activist put it and ‘Lucania’ as Basilicata was known, ‘on the map’. He wrote about his captivity there, and the poverty of the whole region, and most of all – the wretched conditions of those starving souls living in the Sassi of Matera. It was through his book ‘Christ stopped at Eboli’ that new homes were built for the 16,000 odd inhabitants turned out of their wretched cave-dwellings. They were offered the alternative option of passage to America and Australia.
Some, like our friend Vincenzo, came to Britain.
Carlo Levi’s ‘Soul of Italy’
LOST IN THE TUNNEL – WE MISSED THE CITTA ANTICA
PISTICCI.
We took a different route back, visiting again (very briefly) Ferrandina. This road first took us through Pisticci. Giuseppe had told us that this town should be on our list. So we were bemused when after entering by a very long tunnel cut through the mountain, we finally ascended to a rather boring, characterless modern street of little shops. We did pass a statue in a small piazza. It did not seem that Pisticci was that special after all. We were just as bewildered as the staring local inhabitants were by us. Clearly, they were not used to foreigners in left-hand drive cars.
The road looped down, and we exited through the same tunnel by which we had entered. We were glad to stop once more in Ferrandina. Later, studying the map carefully, I realised that we had been in Pisticci SCALO – we think it must mean ‘New Town’ and had by-passed the ancient hilltop town, which probably saw numerous tourist coaches.
ALIANO – LAST DISCOVERY IN BASILICATA
It was with sadness that we returned to base that evening. Our stay in Basilicata was at an end. We had grown to love the region – and that love is with us still. The next day (3rd November) would be taken up with packing and checking the car over for our next long leg – down to the ferry, and then exploring Sicilia (Sicily).
We were going on a ‘drive of discovery’ when, close to Tricarico, we happened on this restaurant at 2pm on All Saints Day – another Bank Holiday. We were hungry, but expected to find the door locked.
Not a bit of it! The first thing that caught my eye was the strange headdresses hanging on the wall. Multi-coloured ribbon streamers hung from one; the other was black. Nearby a log fire was blazing in the large grate, and even at this time of day, two or three tables were occupied.
WE GET A COUNTRY WELCOME!
Everyone looked up and gave us ‘Buon Giorno’, and the son of the house hurried to welcome us. He offered us a table near the fire, but we thought that might be too hot. So he placed us near some rapidly filling tables in the middle of the room.
SURELY A LOCAL RITE LOST IN ANTIQUITY
Carnevale delle Maschere
We asked him about those long-ribboned headdresses.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Those are my father’s and mine. We wore them for the Carnevale delle Maschere, Tricarico. My father was all in black, with the red streamers. He represented the bull. I was the cow.’ Seeing our puzzled faces, he quickly explained – though by now the other local customers were anxious to add their bit.
It seems that sometime in January comes the day dedicated to the patron saint of animals. Local people take their animals (many adorned with beads and necklaces) to pass round the local church three times. The animals then enter to be blessed. Well, we have something similar in Britain – but not like this. I hope I’ve remembered this aright –
‘The old town is awoken at dawn by ‘low’ bells: The same service is provided by drums and clashing wooden battens. There follows a procession of men dressed from head to toe in white or black – women are forbidden.’ he continued.
‘The men in black wear the black headdresses with scarlet streamers down to their feet. They represent bulls. Those in white wear multi-coloured streamers – they are the cows. They all shake cow bells as they walk, as do the animals awaiting blessing, as bells are hung to their harnesses.’
It seems they are presently joined by the townspeople. At intervals there is a ritual ‘fertility dance’ between cows and bulls, with an enactment of the inevitable outcome. Rude humour indeed.
This sounds very primitive indeed – and reminded us of our English maypoles and Morris men. One wonders just how universal these old rites are – and just how old?
The festival lasts several days, but the procession of ‘masks’ is repeated on the Sunday, when the procession climbs up to a chapel ‘at the top of the mountain’. I cannot be sure, but it seems logical that is where the animals are blessed. There are feasts also – but when was not made clear.
‘Do you know that Tricarico is placed on a ‘transhumance’ route?’ A man in the far corner piped up. His English was good. ‘Which means,’ he continued, ‘that in the proper time and place animals and men can change into each other – and back again?’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ quipped another, and they all joked in Italian.
‘Because of this custom Tricarico,’ Our informant resumed, somewhat importantly, ‘–and its masks, in 2009 became part of the European Federation of Carnival Cities. It is a founding member of the Southern Italy Carnival Network.’
Antipasti
A TRULY LOCAL, RUSTIC MENU
Suddenly, we all became aware of filling tables. The son of the house quickly handed us a menu and moved on.
The menu he handed us was not large – but boy, it was tempting. Hard to choose…
After a ‘lagniappe welcome’ of buffalo mozzarella whipped with chopped hazelnuts (or was it walnuts?) we each then enjoyed a very nice, generous starter. Graham was delighted with the quality of the varied antipasti; he particularly enjoys a slice of good, paper-thin braesola, and there was plenty of that for him.
Carving the Boar
WILD BOAR – FOOD FOR THE GODS
Next we shared a mixed salad, and then were served with beautifully cooked wild boar meat and porcini. (We both chose the same because there should be a poem written about this dish – oh boy!).
A HIDDEN GEM WELL WORTH FINDING
We cannot remember if we had desserts – we were probably too stuffed. We still somewhere have the receipt for this feast, and it was amazingly low-priced. A hidden gem – do find it if you are travelling that way – and it’s a beautiful drive on the top road leading to Tricarico. _Ristoro_della_Civita-Tricarico_
Turbines by the roadside
A SHORT WALK YIELDS PHOTOGRAPHS
After coming out of the restaurant we headed down a side road for a way. I had pointed out to Graham the satisfying curve made by the very tall wind turbines that had been installed – rather incongruously, on that lonely road. Even so, those stark vertical lines sweetly curving on the edge of a seeming precipice (for the ‘view’ was set well back behind them, across an invisible divide) made an arresting contrast.
A CRUMBLING BEAUTY
Masseria
While Graham trotted off with his camera, I dove down a steep, short track, and was soon rewarded by the charm of a dilapidated but once-gracious masseria. It looked to be a few centuries old, but that may have been the effect of decay.
I went to join Graham and told him of my find, and when he was satisfied with his photo shots he followed me to my vantage point. Equally enthusiastic, he took a few photos, but said he was by no means certain that the place was empty, as I had assumed. He pointed to a TV aerial on the roof. Being British, we were relieved that nobody came out of the house and spotted our interest. So fond are we of this old building that we make no apologies if it has already appeared on another blog. We think it bears a second viewing…
Lone Tree
SO OFTEN TOMORROW NEVER COMES…
Afterwards, we completed the short ‘new’ road into Tricarico, and this time became aware that just up from the square, behind all the parked cars, there was a complete medieval city. However, the sky was darkening, and there were spots of rain, and the narrow, grey streets looked dauntingly steep to me. So we left it ‘for later’. As so often, that ‘later’ never came. We never learn…
This has to be the day when I found myself eye to eye with eagles.
In bed that morning I said to Graham:
“Remember all those gorgeous small mountains we passed on the way to Pompeii? I marvel each time I see them – particularly a cluster on the left of the road.” He nodded. “Well,” I wheedled, “I’ve just looked up Google maps, and then Images. There’s a really attractive little village called Trivigno. It’s not too far away, honestly – 40 minutes, if you take the main roads… And if we don’t go now, we never will.”
WE TAKE THE ROADS LESS TRAVELLED
Hilltop town
40 minutes? At least, that’s the theory. Of course, we did not go by main road: at least, not once we had left behind the boring bits. Graham is just as fond as I am of diving down side roads (or in this case, up). And up, and up again until, our little Golf quite dizzy, we reached the top. Even from afar off we could see a small town perched atop a high mountain.
A MOUNTAIN TOPPED WITH SILVER
It was dominated by a large dome. It gleamed bright silver, reflecting the sun in quite a dazzling way. (This proved to belong to a large Planetarium). This was not Trivigno, but the nearby town of Anzi, which we visited afterwards.)
Anzi with Planetarium right at the top
To resume: As we rounded each bend the views became ever more breathtaking. Mountains pushed behind more mountains. We sometimes saw down to the now-distant highway. Toy cars passed insect-sized animals in the fields far, far below.
Mountain peaks on the way to Trivigno
And thus it was that we visited what became one of my very favourite places. We could never think to stay there –as it had no restaurant, not even a café. There were just two bars. One was really tiny, run by an elderly couple.
Mountain roads
TRIVIGNO – FULL OF SURPRISES
Once we turned off the main road our valiant little Golf tackled potholes that belonged by rights in the Grand Canyon. Dog-leg curves went round nearly 300 degrees in places, and that on a 45-degree slope. In many places the low ‘safety barrier’ had been stove in, or was missing altogether. Round and round we went, and up and ever up. We declined Miss SatNav’s suggestions of tiny little grass-grown tracks that shot out like arrows. They sped in a straight line (almost vertical, they seemed) directly to the top.
AN OMINOUS ‘PONG’
At one point an awful smell assailed our nostrils. I kept trying to guess what it was.
Graham said, “look down to the left”. I did so, to see a small graveyard – the type with mausolea above ground. A woman completely swathed in black clothes was making her way along one of the paths. We assumed that there had been a recent burial in a tomb in need of repair. This was not surprising in what might well prove to be a very poor mountain-top village.
Main Street – Trivigno
WE ATTRACT STARES
We arrived at 1.30, and found some men gathered outside a bar; but that one was closed. When we asked for a Ristorante, they shook their heads. They pointed to a very small, shabby shop at the top of the steep street by the square where we’d have to park our car.
Only half-believing, we went inside to find a clean and well-stocked little shop. We waited for all the locals to be served first. After all, this was probably their lunch hour. Finally, we asked the old lady who was serving if she would kindly make us a sandwich. But I spotted, in a glass case, half of a freshly made foccaccia. This delicious Italian flatbread was loaded with tomato paste, sun-dried tomatoes and olives.
WE BUY A WHITE CHEESE ‘BALLOON’
We bought a tiny cheese to try with it; one of those shaped like a party balloon. But when we opened our ‘picnic’ this cheese proved to have a wax skin, instead of a length of cleaned intenstine. When we cut it, the inside was extremely creamy and milky. Pure white, it was too mild for our taste. But we decided we must try some of those larger ‘balloon’ cheeses before we left the area. They come in all sizes, and they probably vary in taste according to where they are produced.
A PICNIC ABOVE THE CLOUDS
It was 26 degrees Celsius or more, so we looked for a patch of shade. We chose a thick stone bench overlooking the mountaintops opposite. We brought out the cheese and prosciutto (ham) we’d purchased. It was quite a feast, washed down with bottles of fruit juice.
Courtyard entrance
NOT THE BEST CUP OF COFFEE
Then we walked down to the little bar at the bottom for kaffé. It was manned by a toothless inhabitant of great age. I had a hard time making him understand my need for – you’ve guessed it…
The kaffé was not good, and the little cups less than spotless. It transpired that he was minding the place while his wife (younger and fitter) was out shopping or something. Presently she came down from the hill the other side, clucking at him reprovingly.
We then made our way slowly up that very steep hill. I clung to Graham’s arm while using my stick in my other hand. We passed very old and pretty small houses and the open door of what must have once been the ‘Palazzo’. Looking past the few restoration bits and pieces we glimpsed several arches and wide steps disappearing from a sizable courtyard.
STATUES DRESSED IN SILK AND VELVET
Next came a little building that did not from the street look like a church. However, the door was open and we glimpsed the stained glass and effigies. Was this where some life sized lady saints (dressed ‘up to the nines’ in 17th century fashionable silks and velvets) were enclosed in glass domes? I know we saw several of these, and it is hard to be certain that it was in this little church in Trivigno that there were so many, and so sumptuously dressed. One especially impressed me in a generous gown of dark green velvet trimmed with intricate cream handmade lace. She was wearing a rich-looking ruby necklace.
Alter screen at Trivigno
SO MANY CHURCHES – SO SMALL A TOWN
There seemed a surprising number of churches for such a small, mountaintop town.
One in particular left a lasting impression: It was dedicated to San Pietro (St Peter).
Church organ at Trivigno
We were surprised and delighted when we went inside. We admired a handsome malachite and gold barrier topped by most delicate intricate wrought iron separating the sanctuary. It supported the pure white pottery Jesus on a wooden crucifix. All that wrought iron was studded with lit candle-type lights that bathed the figure in dazzling white light.
MORE JAWDROPPING BEAUTY
As we turned around to leave we were astounded to see a large golden balcony above the main door. Rising from it were the silver pipes of an organ. Such riches for a tiny church in a modest little mountaintop village!
THE GUARDIAN OF THE STEPS
Suddenly, round a steep corner, we were confronted with a long, narrow ‘staircase’ of shallow steps. They led up the steep slope to a facing row of houses like nothing I’d seen so far in Italy. We had just put a foot each on the lowest step when we were startled by fierce barking from a dog; heard but not seen. We paused, uncertainly, and at last a woman came out on her little balcony and led him indoors.
I COME TO A HALT – I GET VERTIGO
She waved us on up. We rounded that terrace to go further up amongst abandoned, if not ruined dwellings. There was still a steep climb until we came out right at the top. There was nothing but a very narrow path leading round the house on our right. It looked out, like us, over a sheer drop. We looked across miles of apparently empty space to the closest mountain of a range. In the clear air I felt that I could almost touch them.
Jackie’s View – closer to the peaks
LOOKING DOWN ON BIRDS OF PREY
Kites and buzzards and eagles wheeled around us. ‘In fact’, said Graham, standing on that narrow corner, ‘I’m actually looking DOWN on birds of prey! And I’m not in an aeroplane!’
As for me; I stepped cautiously sideways, and with quaking legs lowered myself onto a slab of concrete.
ALONE WITH EAGLES SWOOPING ROUND ME
Graham was, of course, enchanted. He took snap after snap, and then noticed some very narrow steps to his left, leading down around the rooftops. He hoped it led to what resembled a short runway and helicopter pad sticking out on a promontory.
Trivigno’s Platform in the Sky
HELICOPTER PAD – SACRIFICE JUMP-OFF
I don’t think it was – we think it was built for religious processions – but it was a unique viewing platform that Graham had to attain. So for 30 minutes or so I sat steadfastly unmoving, gazing over the void to the spectacular mountaintops. An eagle flew over to study me, and when I summoned the strength to stand up and turn around Icould see Graham’s tiny figure far out on the end of the ‘peninsula’.
Jackie on Terra FirmaLocals putting the world to rights
ON THE EDGE OF THE VOID
It looked to me as though the railings ceased right at the end. Visions assailed me of this being used for human sacrifices in days long past. I prayed fervently that my venturesome husband would not stand on the edge. He did; of course. He waved, and I quickly sat down again until he finally returned to me, safe and sound. It was a long twenty minutes until he returned; I could only study the eagles, hoping they did not wish to study me at closer quarters!
I’ll never forget tiny, humble, magic Trivigno. It’s Sump’n Else!
ANZI – A PLANETARIUM ON TOP OF THE WORLD
We had to go back via Anzi, so we eventually took the winding road up to this much larger hilltop town. We went along a quite smart street, and were able to locate the road up to the unmissable Planetarium. However, when Graham saw the rough, unmade track leading to it, he balked… He’s tackled some hairy roads in his time, so I respected his wishes. Anyway, science isn’t exactly my passion.
Zig-zag road to the Planetarium
THE LOCALS SEE US TURN ‘CHICKEN’
To the bemusement of some of the local population we rejoined the road at the point where it started corkscrewing down the ‘small’ mountain. The toy cars gradually became larger and the pinpricks in the fields turned into cows.
ROUND DIZZYING BENDS – A RECEPTION COMMITTEE
It was with relief that we at last emerged from the last bend. Lovely to drive on a nice flat surface on a nice wide junction of empty roads. But then a shock! We wondered why no less than THREE Caribiniere (and officers of high rank at that, from the look of their uniforms) were waiting to greet us. What had we done? What crime had we committed?
But it was soon evident that these were comrades who had just emerged from some Ceremonial lunch or something. They greeted us with polite waves, and then laughingly passed cigars around. Graham pointed the car back to Grottole. We were satisfied with our Day in the Clouds. Amongst all our travels of recent years we were certain we would be able to call to mind quite vividly the remarkable Eagle’s Nest that is the tiny village of Trivigno.
We went over to Pompeii to share our 40th wedding anniversary with our ‘Italian Family’.
Our Italian Family
Again we were taken to Andrea and Antonella’s comfortable house overlooking the town. As Graham walked in bearing the loaf he had bought that morning, Andrea, our host, shouted in delight: “Matera bread! Bellissima!” (Matera’s bread is famous all over Italy; that country where food is revered as much as in neighbouring France).
Andrea straightway cleared away the pre-laid baskets of bread, and bore the Matera loaf away to be cut up and presented in its stead.
After a starter I cannot remember – only that we found it delicious, washed down with the wine we had brought, came salad, followed by toasts to us on our 40th wedding anniversary. –
Pompano
GRAHAM DOESN’T ENJOY FISH – BUT REALLY ENJOYS EATING POMPANO
– And then Andrea brought from the kitchen a whole Pompano he had cooked. Even Graham, who on the whole has to be coaxed to eat fish, cleared his plate. He then, to the delight of Andrea, mopped up the juices with a hunk of the aforementioned Matera bread.
– AND I PIG OUT ON ANTONELLA’S DESSERT
The ‘boys’ had all dashed over to the couch by then, while Antonella’s dessert was handed round. It was a chocolate and hazelnut torte or cake, if memory serves. Both husband and wife are excellent cooks (well, to my knowledge Andrea always cooks the fish).
LOCALS CELEBRATE US – DULY TOASTED – ‘IL FOOTBALL’ TAKES OVER
They all rushed to explain that there was a major football match about to start on the television; (Napoli v Milano, Graham says.) Due attention having been paid to our Wedding Anniversary, the entire family now squashed onto the couch for the Main Event.
Graham and Antonella perched on the arms. Every eye was glued to the screen. Italians are just as intense about their football as we English (with notable exceptions).
I am one, though out of politeness I tried not to show it.
LOCALS CELEBRATE – Le FIVE ‘FOOTBALL FANS’
When Vincenzo offered to give his place to me I said I was happy to sit on a chair to the side, as I was ‘so full of food’. I quickly learned which team to cheer for, and which to shout down. My consolation was that so many of the footballers were real Hollywood Beefcake material. Italians are, taken as a whole, an extremely good-looking and sexy race.
Of course, being Italians, and Italian football fans at that – and Napoli just down the road, there was as much shouting and punching of the air as if we were in a stadium.
LOCALS CELEBRATE US – GIVE ANNIVERSARY PRESENT
After the match was over we gathered our things to go back to La Casa di Plinio, where we had our usual room reserved (but at no charge, they insisted). Antonella disappeared, to return swiftly with a present for us. It was a lovely warm, furry comforter blanket. We are both currently enjoying it now this winter has REALLY kicked in. It is on our bed, giving extra warmth on cold nights – but is as light as a feather. We think of our lovely ‘family’ each night and morning.
LOCALS CELEBRATE ANOTHER ‘BIT OF A DO’ – MASSERIA MAZZAPEDE
We also had an inkling there’d be a ‘bit of a do’ back at the Masseria in Grottole on the Sunday; to celebrate the return from Rome of the elder son. But, even though Giuseppe had only just learned of it, we felt our Wedding Anniversary would not be forgotten! We had strict instructions not to be late for the lunch.
Sunday, 30th October:
LOCALS CELEBRATE AT MASSERIA MAZZAPEDE -A FAMILY REUNION –
AND OUR 40TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
We hurried back for the Celebration Barbeque at 1pm.
On the Veranda at Masseria Mazzapede
A DOUBLE CELEBRATION – FAMILY REUNIONS – A LOVELY CHILD
Giuseppe’s brother Alfonso had come from Rome with his friendly wife and their little girl; a child so beautiful she took our breath away. She had long, glossy chestnut hair and those smoky, truly grey eyes that are so rarely seen in Britain. One might come across them more often in Southern Ireland – but we had also noticed a glamorous beauty with those identical assets on a couple of episodes of “Inspector Montalbano”.
LOCALS CELEBRATE WITH A TYPICAL ITALIAN FAMILY MEAL – A LONG TABLE NEEDED!
This little girl was pleased to meet with her young cousins; also the granddaughters of Giuilia’s best friend. This time the veranda was filled with the long table – about twenty people seated. I imagine every Italian family must have these folding tables stashed away somewhere. Everywhere in Italy you see these family feasts. When there is a special Saint’s Holiday the residents will be joined by visiting American, Canadian and Australian cousins. We found it the most heart-warming sight.
LOCALS CELEBRATE – A SPEECH IN TWO LANGUAGES – SIGNORA GIULIA RICCARDI
Giulia with Jackie
Giuilia made two speeches. One in Italian, of welcome to Alfonso and his family, who we gathered could not get time away often enough for his mother. Next came a lovely one in two languages saying how much they had loved meeting we Ushers. We heard repeated references to our many good qualities. It was hard to recognise ourselves, and we joshed each other afterwards.
LOCALS CELBRATE US – WE RECEIVE MORE LOVELY GIFTS
We were also presented with lovely gifts. I was especially touched to be presented with a large embroidered tablecloth, clearly a treasured heirloom. If only I could let Giulia know that I too treasure it.
LOCALS CELEBRATE WITH A SPECIAL HEART-SHAPED CAKE FOR US
And she had baked another of those wonderful, unique lemon-filled cakes. There was another in the shape of a heart, topped with the icing figures ‘4’ and ‘0’. It was filled with raspberries and pink cream. Giulia presented it to us ‘For your Wedding Anniversary.’ We cut and shared it with full and happy hearts.
LOCALS CELEBRATE THE IMPORTANCE OF ‘FAMIGLIA’
Family means everything to Italians – and friends are enclosed into the family. It will not take long to be received as their friend. I love these openhearted, direct Italian people so much.
My hairdo had disappeared. Once-well-trimmed locks had reached that ‘straggly’length, below my chin but above my shoulders. It didn’t seem to matter when we were just driving around explorig the area. But now, suddenly, it did. We had already been told that we MUST go over to Pompeii on the Saturday afternoon/evening to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary with our treasured ‘Italian family’.
Also, Giuseppe had told us, a few days before, that on Sunday there would be a big family meal to welcome his brother, returned from Rome. His mother was also baking a Special Celebration Cake just for our wedding anniversary. The party would be a double celebration. The Riccardi parents were excited to be welcoming Alfonso and his wife and young daughter, and friends of the family would also be coming.
I felt that with both these events laid on for us, the least I could do was to get my hair cut and styled – it had seen no hairdresser since August…
The morning was spent checking on suitable clothes for us to wear on Saturday night. (I’d packed just a very few ‘glad rags’). We motored into Matera to find a hairdresser who could ‘fit me in’ straight away.
SO DIFFICULT – TO FIND A HAIRDRESSER NEAR PARKING
It took a while, but finally Graham and I entered a rather bare-looking salon. I was relieved when a young man came towards me. In my experience, you can usually rely on getting a good cut from a man. Once Graham knew that I would have to wait, and to come back in an hour’s time, he took off to take photographs.
BOSSY YOUNG BOSS
I was disappointed in the man, who was obviously the owner of the salon. He brusquely ordered the only other hairdresser to shampoo my hair. She was a comfortable-looking woman of late middle age. When my hair was washed I was surprised to have it swabbed partially dry with kitchen paper – though why not? It was just that modern Matera presents itself as quite smart.
The ‘boss’ went out. The lady considerately produced a towel to place over the rubber neck-guard thing I was wearing. She gave me paper and pen to draw the style I wanted. This was a graduated bob, shorter at the back, with a wispy fringe. She nodded, then proceeded to cut my hair.
A hairdo has never over-excited me. Well, not my own. These days, in my ‘definitely mature’ years, I wear it in a short bob with a thin, shortish fringe. My hair never would hold a curl, even after three abortive permanent waves – the first was ordered by my mother when I started ‘big school’ at eleven. It was an agonising procedure in 1941. I looked weird – but never mind – my hair fell back to straight within three weeks. The same held for the other two, much later attempts.
So for a presentable hairdo I rely on good cutting. I couldn’t help wondering if I’d get a good cut here.
HAIRCUT THE ITALIAN WAY
This lady had not a word of English, but she gave me a reassuring smile as she flipped most of my hair over to one side, and secured it with clips. (Or did she start in the centre? I cannot remember.) She gradually went over my whole head this way, flipping and cutting. I had never had my hair cut in this way, but she seemed to know what she was doing. Gradually, I could see that it was taking shape.
The boss came back, and immediately started a fierce diatribe. I did not need to understand Italian to know that he was telling her “Get on and finish it. You are taking too long”.
I mentally called him ‘Male Chauvinist Pig’, and touched the lady’s hand reassuringly.
FLYING HANDS – FLYING HAIR
Her hands flew, but she finished off one of the best haircuts I have ever had. It was not what I had drawn, but it looked great. For a good couple of months, until my next haircut, it always fell into place. No matter where I parted it, whether I’d been out in a strong wind, or screwed a towel too tightly making a turban around my wet hair.
I had to wait awhile for Graham to collect me. I gave my lady hairdresser a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, because she was so nice and her boss so horrid to her. I also slipped her a generous tip, right under his disdainful nose.
MATERA – GREAT LUNCH – AUTHENTIC LOCAL COOKING
That done, we went in search of lunch. I mentioned that Vivien and I had had coffee one morning outside a small restaurant off one of the smart squares atop the Sassi. It’s menu board claimed to serve local dishes. I had been inside and found it full of Italians. The food smelled and looked very good, and very affordable.
It was only a short walk. We went in, and sure enough, it lived up to its promise. Cannot remember what we ate there, only that it was certainly authentically local, plentiful and delicious.
I think it was Il Rusticone; Via San Biagio, 5 75100 MateraMT Italia +39 0835 185 3209
MATERA BREAD IS RIGHTLY FAMOUS
Busker
We had plenty of time for another little stroll around, mostly people-watching. Graham took two charming photographs. One was of a busker, with his dog. I was convinced he was English; I’d seen so many like him in the late 1960’s. To me, in the photograph he looks positively Dickensian.
Baker of the famous Matera bread
The other photograph Graham took while sitting on some steps.
(Note from Graham: I thought the scene so timeless except for the baker’s blue trainers that I aged the photo. It could have been taken in the last century.)
Graham caught two policemen stopping to chat to a baker; who, still in his apron, had put down on a plinth one of the enormous, shapeless loaves typical of Matera bread.
Never mind the odd shape of many loaves. Matera bread, like a crusty golden brown cloud, is creamy-yellow inside, because it is made of the Durum wheat grown by the ancient Romans. It is of a rare flavour and nuttiness. The texture, too, is pleasant and airy.
We decided that Graham would pop back in next morning early and buy a loaf to take as a gift to be enjoyed in Pompeii that evening.
Last word from Graham:
The feature photo at the top of this blog was of a couple of tourists finding some shade from the hot, late morning sun, in one of the many small piazzas on the upper levels above the Sassi
