On a normal holiday, it would be half over, but I'm only starting. I'm starting to hear Italian in my dreams. I was going to say "dream in Italian", but that would imply a greater level of understanding than I have so far. It's going to be a slow process.
Doing the Italian morning--long break--afternoon/evening plan, before eleven I drove (yes, drove) down to the village to buy bread. There are two food and general shops in Preci, one slightly scruffy one in the borgo, and one clean and swish one in the high town proper. I hadn't yet been in either, and this time chose the nice one, parking the car near the Carabinieri station, but not in their reserved places, of course. They have a Subaru.
I wished I did (did I mention? I have a Nissan Note. Diesel.) but later in the day had reason to reconsider that. I'll tell you in a moment. Anyway, shop, automatic doors. Clean. Nice. Bread. I'll have to try the other place for balance, of course.
The new neighbours were out with charts and cameras, taking photographs of the mountains. I have no idea what they were up to. It turned out that they only stayed one night though, since they were gone later in the day.
After the extended siesta break, I drove to Spoleto. I wanted to check out parking near the railway station so that I can go to Rome, and maybe Perugia and Assisi, on the train instead of driving all the way. Let the train take the strain was the advert. I didn't really learn very much, except to familiarise myself with the roads in that area. I think I'll just have to allow a lot of time and expect to drive around a lot until I find a place.
Then I re-joined the tourist fraternity. I wanted to visit the incredible Ponte dei Torri on the far side of Spoleto, after having seen it soaring above the road so many times. My Umbria guide says the date of building is unknown, but it may be a medieval reworking of a Roman acqueduct. Now, it looked to me as though the road to Monteluco might give access to the far side. But in the end, not that I could see. The road to Monteluco just goes to Monteluco, which is perched at an unlikely height above Spoleto. The road just zig-zags up (or down) for seven kilometres, and then stops.
I zig-zagged all the way down again and went back into town. Thinking my GPS would know how to get to the bridge by road, I set the address and followed instructions. It took me through the tiny, winding lanes of the old town. There were signs for some sort of event which went by before I could work them out, and I found a "marshall" with an official waving thing waving me down. I went on. In the rear-view mirror, I could see him trying to write down my registration. I drove on.
Down alleys that closed in tight on both sides. If I was in that Carabinieri Subaru, I'd have been in difficulties. But there was a pay parking place close to the bridge and castle, and I did get to go out onto the acqueduct and take photos. It's high. There's no guard rail. I was scared.
I returned to normal driving and left the car to climb back into Spoleto centre. I complained previously about all the climbing required to get around the place. Well, they're in the process of installing escalators. Three or four stretches, I think, linking the lower parts of town to the most significant sites in the higher. It seems to be mainly (or justified, anyway) to address disability access, and if I understood correctly, there's to be a dedicated car park with escalator transport into town. The first bit is to open later in the year.
I was into town after six o'clock, and to be honest, I liked it a lot more. True to my theory, more places were open, and more people were around. I might even have hung on for dinner. Two side-by-side restaurants in Piazza Mercato were offering 4-course "tourist" menus at €12 and €13, but, if I translate the more expensive one accurately, it had "wine as you wish", which I assume means they keep filling your glass. I'll do that some other time.
But on this night, I had a mission, which was to stock up on more food. After all, with a Sunday coming, I'd have to be self-sufficient. It was coming up on seven, and I worried that the supermarket might close soon, but actually, they're open to eight, six days a week, which is good to know. Accomplished, I headed for home. I had to cook my own meal, which means I didn't get to eat until nine or so, but that's OK.
Watching television later, I was stopped in my zapping by some sort of beauty contest, the theme of which seemed to be the statuesque. I spent a while watching, trying to work out which of the finalists were transsexuals. On the one hand, it's great that transsexuals can compete on equal terms with those women fortunate enough to be born with all the right bits, and yet, I can't help feeling that the spectrum of female beauty is wider than just large frame and big tits.
Sunday being an officially designated day of rest, I had no plans to go anywhere. Just as well, since the weather wasn't good. It rained, not heavily, but after a brief practice session in the morning, set in consistently all afternoon. And the outside thermometer was showing only thirteen degrees. Drifting low cloud covered the hills: it was almost like being at home in Ireland.
Sergio called in to apologise for having "abandoned" me, having left me to my own devices, and mostly all alone for a week, but I assured him that I had enjoyed the time in the apartment, which was true. I was asking him where was a good place to park near the station, and as we looked at the city map, he pointed out the ancient building his firm is restoring. He says there's a billboard with his name on it as chief engineer. I must look out for it.
In a spell between showers, I washed the car. I know that may sound perverse, but when you wash the car and let it dry, the evaporating drips always leave lots of marks. So I'm testing out a new theory that letting the rain rinse off all soapy residue will leave the car shiny when it does dry. I'll let you know how that works out.
There was nothing much on television. Church in the morning, and football in the afternoon, mostly. One channel did show Lawrence of Arabia, oddly, with some segments in English subtitled in Italian and some dubbed into Italian. I couldn't see any particular logic to it; maybe they just never finished dubbing it. I lost interest myself quite quickly.
There's still quite a lot on the news about the Abruzzo earthquake. The student house which collapsed is still an issue: it was a modern building; it should have been earthquake-proof. The deaths of the students seems to nag at the Italian psyche. There was a small quake recorded last night at Bra, near Turin. It probably wouldn't have made the news at another time.
Monday started foggy and cool. With the mountain tops sliced off by the layer of fog, it looked almost like a normal landscape that you might get in a less vertically-varied part of the world. It took until after midday before the cloud cover peeled back to leave broken overcast.
The car washing turned out very nicely, thank you. Good to be respectable again in image-conscious Italy. To coincide with life restarting after siesta, I hit the road for Norcia, just for someting to do and see. It's about twenty minutes' drive.
Norcia was a lot quieter than on my last visit during the Easter hols, but it's still a nice town. I explored a bit more this time, including a new pedestrian walk half way round the town walls. There's plenty of car parking, suggesting that they have lots of tourists in season. They must do, to keep all the specialist food shops in business. I realised, with slight guilt, that I was contributing nothing to the Norcia economy, by not being tempted by the gastronomic delights. There is a specialist chocolate shop though.
After thoroughly going around the old town (and not buying anything), I went out through the gate and continued my walk round the walls, although that section was just on the roads. I'd spotted an Esso filling station in the newer part of town that's grown up a little distance outside the walls, and verified how to drive there. There's also a sizeable-looking Co-op that I'll be checking out soon.
Before leaving home, I'd used my GPS to look for petrol stations, since the needle was getting low. (I'd got the car with a full tank of diesel and only now was needing a refill.) My advisor identified no facilities within 20km of Norcia, which I found unlikely, it being quite a populous town. Still, just in case, I worked out a route back via Cerreto, on the road I take to Spoleto, because I know there's at least one petrol station there.
But in real life Norcia has at least three stations, two large modern ones, including the Esso, and a quaint little old one. Filling the tank cost me €30, and based on usage so far, will take me about 700km. Even though fuel is a little more expensive here, compare that with my cars at home: the equivalent of €30 would get me less than 300km. I'm still not a diesel convert though.
As I drove home, there was a little bit of rain again. I made a an uncooked dinner with actual green, vegetable substances in it, because so far I've been pretty constant on the pasta, bread, cheese and similar. To be honest though, I have a craving for pizza and chips.
The weather forecast for the next day looked better to the North, so I made plans to visit Assisi.
The day started wet. I postponed the departure for Assisi until early afternoon. It turned out to be much the same kind of weather when I arrived: cold, with occasional light showers, but not an obstacle to exploring the town.
I still like the Temple of Minerva. I realised when I was in Spoleto and Bevagna that there are some sites with distinct continuity between Roman and Early Christian times, and some where there must have been a gap of several hundred years before urban life returned, and the debris of Roman buildings was rifled for new construction. The cathedral in Spoleto is the latter, particularly visible in the bell tower, where you can see big blocks of older masonry used randomly to build it. There are a couple which had lines of inscibed text painstakingly chiselled away, presumably to erase the pagan words. Blocks with neutral decoration were left as they were.
But the Roman temple in the middle of Assisi has defiantly stood there since it was built, around 100 BC. I went inside to see if Minerva was still at home, but it was hard to tell with all of the relatively modern churchy redecoration. The location fits with my sympathies though. It's in the Piazza del Comune, the civic and secular centre of what is a very Catholic town.
I don't have anything against Francesco though: he was OK by me. I know he was obsessed with a mystical medieval vision of religion, but he was also gentle, kind, thoughtful and tolerant. I like his 'Canticle of the Sun' (or 'Canticle of the Creatures') where he thanks God for the existence of Brother Sun and Sister Moon, and Brother Fire and Sister Water, and even Sister Death, whom no one can escape.
I think that the last time I visited Assisi, I mustn't have gone in to the Basilica, because nothing seemed familiar, but this time, I joined the pilgrims and did the whole thing, even including going down to his tomb. But I suppose I take a different message from the grandeur of Assisi than do the faithful. I see it as the proof that the teaching of St. Francis, like the teaching of Jesus, was poison to the Church, which had to be erased, decontaminated, controlled, repositioned. Where was poverty and service in the Church at the time of Francis's surrender to Sister Death? And where is it now?
In the monk's old chapter hall, there is now a display of the "relics" of St. Francis. Thankfully, no actual body parts (well, apart from a small vessel of ashes), but his austere 'rule' for his order is there, and a letter to a fellow monk. Probably best known is his patched monks habit. And you know what? I think it's a fake. It's just too patched, in carefully random locations. There are holes where no holes would occur in normal use. The stitching is nicely contrasting. In short, it's what the Hollywood props and costumes department would deliver if you asked them for the habit of an extremely poverty-struck monk. Or presumably, what the props and costumes department of the Basilica delivered around 1300 when pilgrims wanted a closer connection with the Saint.
Leaving Assisi, I got a bit confused, and did my worst-ever left-hand right-hand driving error by going (the wrong way) down the off-slip to a major road. Not exactly a motorway, but close. In America, there would have been signs: Do Not Enter; Wrong Way. But nothing here. I managed to get turned around before anything very dangerous happened.
On the way home, I went to Foligno again. I'd got the address of the vintage guitar shop and wanted to check it out. Not just to look at exotica -- if they'd had a budget, second-hand instrument, I might have bought it. But, their prices turned out to be absurd. I don't know, maybe they're supposed to be a basis for negotiation, but they're almost double what you'd pay in the UK. If there actually is that much difference in the going rates, I think I have a foolproof new money-making scheme. Even at the low end, they were taking the piss. A second-hand SG, of Wesley brand, which I think sells new in Britain for under £120, was priced at €330. No, thank you.
Rain set in again as I left for home.
It was still wet in the morning, but I had no plans other than a shopping trip to the newly-discovered Co-op in Norcia. Quite a useful trip, in that I was able to buy a few things I hadn't seen elsewhere. Since my cooking facilities are relatively limited (two gas rings), I need to use the odd "convenience" item to keep things simple. Italy is known as a place where people take food seriously, which they do, so you might think that there wouldn't be much mass-produced crap in the shops. Well, to some degree.
Back home, the average supermarket would have a large range of mass-produced bread, for example, and the addition of "real" bread from a specialist counter is an exciting innovation. In Italy, the bread always comes from a real bakery department, unless you absolutely insist on something plastic-packed, in which case you may find a few choices on the shelves. On the other hand, the same supermarket will have whole rows devoted to astonishingly synthetic food creations. What they label "toasts", for example: thin, ready-toasted bread in plastic sachets. I'm not sure what you're meant to do with them; put paté on them?
But a lot of the synthetic stuff that we are offered at home is absent here. No Pot Noodle, no instant rice-sauce packets, not even much in the way of tinned soup. When I shop at home, I always feel that I'm the one buying the slightly odd stuff, like a visiting foreigner (such as the time my local Tesco was reduced to reducing drastically the price of jars of truffle sauce in order to shift them... and I bought three). Now I'm in Italy, I feel much the same. Although, I did buy a small jar of the exact same truffle sauce at full price, €6.50, in the Co-op. It's made just down the road in San Antolia di Narco.
In the afternoon, the sun began to break through, giving me the chance to get out of the house and walk half-way to the village. No, I didn't run out of energy, I was checking out a potential short cut I'd noticed. There are two roads that run parallel as they leave the village in the direction of the farmhouse. The one that actually leads there is steep and unlighted at night. The other, at least at its start, is flatter and has street lights. It curves off in another direction, but I'd seen that there seemed to be a steep lane joining the two roads, just where "my" farmhouse lane meets the first one.
Well, in reality, the two roads aren't as close as I thought, so the muddy lane connecting the two is longer and steeper than expected, and goes through dark creepy woods. I don't think I'll be using it at night. I may give it a go in the daytime once the weather improves and the mud dries.
The other main restaurant in Preci is at the top of the hill, part of the "real" town. Since I'd tried the excellent "Castoro" in the valley, I had decided to do the other as well. It's in the town's hotel, Albergo Agli Scacchi. Since my nearest "city" at home doesn't possess a hotel, that's advantage Preci, even though it's tiny. Sergio had mentioned that the Scacchi were one of the ancient families of the area who had made their name in Renaissance times, unusually, through surgery, and especially eye surgery. The other, naturally, were his own family, the Carocci. He slightly sniffly let me know that the hotel in the Scacchi palazzo was no longer owned by the family of the name.
I drove down and up and parked outside. I walked in, and saw a few tables through the windows, but the restaurant seemed to be vacant. I went on and up some stairs to hotel reception, which had signs of have been manned recently, but was deserted. I looked around, and all was empty. I'd pretty much decided to give it up and go back down to Il Castoro, but out in the courtyard, I saw that there was an external door to the restaurant where I'd looked in before. I tried the door, opened it, and went in to find a couple having dinner behind a pillar, where I hadn't seen them earlier, and a waiter came out and confirmed that the restaurant was open and I could have a table. Happy days.
Actually, I suspect the waiter may be the owner. Too casual. But I got a table and a menu and made an order. I think I will confess at this point something I have been skating over, having worried that I should offend any vegetarian friends reading. I'm eating animals in Italy. It was a conscious decision, not something I fell into. I was never a vegetarian anyway: I just cut meat out of my diet to reduce my impact on the environment. Vegetarianism is known in Italy, but it's too rare and too hard. There was an item on the news about a major hotel in Rome doing an exhibition and introduction to explain what vegetarianism was. The fact that I'm doing 60 miles to the gallon rather than 25 isn't really the issue. I'm just going native, is all.
While we're on confessions, I admit that I drank half a litre of wine and then drove the 1.5km home. Bad, but not a hanging offence. I saw no other vehicles from start to finish -- I mean, we're in the middle of nowhere here. But that was after my meal. When the only other couple in the restaurant ordered desserts, I was happy that they'd be around for a while longer, and I wouldn't be left as the sole customer. When they did go, they went into the hotel, and not out, so I assume they were hotel guests, possibly the only ones. Quite charmingly, the "waiter" and the uniformed "chef", who may have been his wife (lucky man if so) set a table in the restaurant and had their own dinner.
My bill came to €23, the same as at Castoro. I'll be back.
I'd thought of taking the train into Rome, but the weather forecasts on television hadn't been good. Actually, the forecasts on the main channels are rubbish. I mean, the UK and Italy are about the same size, and the broadcasts take about the same time, but you get much more useful information from the British one, where they do area by area and give you an idea of the trends and movements of weather systems. In Italy, you get a much smaller map of the country with one weather symbol for each region, and that's pretty much your lot.
So expecting thunderstorms today in Umbria, where I am, and Lazio, where Rome is, I abandoned the idea of getting the train and had a lie in. Naturally, when I did get up it was to blue skies and sunshine. There was a duller spell in the afternoon, but then it brightened up again.
In the afternoon I went for a short exploration up the mountain behind the house. Just beyond the fields directly associated with the house, it seems to be a national forest, judging by the text on the 'no truffle hunting' signs. There had been a bit of woodcutting going on, with stacks of cut branches waiting for... what?
I saw some sort of building through the trees, and couldn't quite match up what I was seeing with a house, so I had to go closer, and it turned out to be a cemetary. Italian cemetaries aren't like the ones we have at home, large fields of tombstones. They're small enclosures packed with varying shapes of family tomb, mostly rather house-like; and structures consisting of arrays of "cupboards" for single coffins. Each cupboard door has the details of the deceased, iron vases for flowers and a little lantern for a candle. The iron gates of this cemetary were locked. I could easily have climbed over the wall, but didn't like to.
I think I may have been responsible for a death myself. When I was going out the door of the apartment, a lizard on the wall saw me and dashed for cover, which happened to be the gap between the door jamb and the door I was just closing. There was a little crunching, as of broken bones, when I couldn't stop in time. The lizard fell to the ground. He looked alive and intact, but surely must have had internal injuries. Since there was nothing I could do for him. I left him alone. When I came back later, he was gone, so maybe he survived. Or something bigger ate him.
I carefully searched the television channels for weather forecasts in the evening. The most official one, presented by an Air Force officer in uniform, still wasn't very useful (frankly, no better than the ones where a vacant, mini-skirted model reads a script, word-for-word). The little symbol for Lazio showed cloud and showers, but I decided, what the hell, I'd go to Rome.
Actually, that reminds me. At Preci, a long way from anywhere, and 200km from Rome, there's a road sign that does indicate 'Roma', reminding me of the old saying that all roads lead to Rome. If that's a proverb, or metaphor, I don't know exactly what it's supposed to mean, but when I saw the sign, it occurred to me that they only lead to Rome if you go in the right direction. Now that's a metaphor.
There are trains roughly every hour from Spoleto to Roma Termini, the gigantic stazione in Rome. There is a variety of train types, with the fastest taking about an hour and a quarter, but I'd decided to take the one leaving after ten o'clock, which stopped at most stations and took about an hour and forty minutes. (It meant leaving home by nine, and that meant getting up at eight. I'm hard to get going in the mornings.) The train was fifteen minutes or so late in arriving at Spoleto.
Where is Mussolini when you need him? Well, she was on television the previous night, but I couldn't be bothered watching the interview. It was probably about Saturday's "Liberation Day", 25th April, which is a big holiday in Italy. (Though, this year, being on a Saturday, it's not giving people a long weekend or anything). Apart from the extremist Ms Mussolini, the dictator's granddaughter, who campaigns on a right-wing ticket, and gets around 1% of votes, there is a party currently in government, in coalition with Belusconi's Forza Italia, which is descended directly from Mussolini's Fascist party of the Thirties and Forties. The current opposition parties, from centre-left to Communist, are making pointed remarks about 25th April being a festival of commemoration of the triumph of patriotic, socialist resistance to Fascist oppression. (With some help from Americans, British, Poles, Australians, New Zealanders and allies.)
Anyway, without Fascist assistance, Ferrovia della Stato managed to pull back the delay and make the train arrive on time in Rome. (The legend about Mussolini "making the trains run on time", an allegory for bringing Fascist order to primitive, chaotic Italy, is a bit of propaganda spin from the dictator. He was only taking credit for improvements coming through which had been made by the previous Socialist government.) Of course, Rome is a big place, and just chock full of antiquities and interesting sights. Even just pulling in to the station, you can see Roman walls. (All right, technically, all walls in Rome are Roman, but you know what I mean.) But for my first ever visit, with just a few hours (seven, it turned out), I wanted to limit my agenda and not try to rush all over the place.
I spent the majority of the time on the huge archaeological site of the Palatine and Forum, the centre of the Classical city. Not much to report. I just like ancient ruins. And to have my mind boggled by the extent and ambition of Imperial Rome. The gigantic city map on marble slabs that was attached to the wall of the Basilica for reference by civil servants; the huge vaults of the Basilica itself; the extensive public works and buildings. All paid for by taxing or enslaving the natives across the continent from Syria to Brittania.
After being sated by archaeology, I walked to the Trevi Fountain. I wasn't that interested myself, but it's the one thing my mother remembers of Rome from her first ever foreign holiday many years ago, and I thought I'd check it out and make a report. Thronged with tourists, and this early in the season too. It must be packed tight come July. Extravagant bit of architecture though.
Then one for myself. The Romans again, but this time their technology. The dome of the Pantheon was cast in concrete two thousand years ago, and has survived better than any modern concrete building. I think the dome was the largest in the world for about a millennium and a half until Brunelleschi designed the one for the cathedral in Florence. The size is still impressive. Of course, it was full of very noisy tourists too, even though it's a church now. Originally, it was a temple to "all the gods", the Pan-Theon. It's a good idea to do that, because you never know if there's a god who's going to be pissed at you for not having a monument.
Then I half-accidentally came upon the Piazza Navona, which is probably the most touristy place I'd seen that day. But I liked it. Ringed with resaurants with tourist menus, and the square filled with hack artists and the odd musician busking for cash, it somehow still retains an appealing atmosphere. I walked around a bit and decided to make my final target for the day the river and bridges and Castel San Angelo. Passing through an interesting, twisty bit of old Rome as I walked due West, I came out directly to the river embankment at the bridge to the Castel.
I like the Castel San Angelo for two reasons. First, it was originally built by Hadrian as a tomb for himself, and shows how grandiose you can get when you're Emperor. And second, it was made into a fortress by the Popes as a refuge when the citizens rebelled against Papal rule. I'm with the citizens. The Vatican itself is relatively near by, but it would have been too much for one day. Our kind can't go in anyway. It's like an invisible force field that grows stronger the more you attempt to press forward.
I went back to Piazza Navona and chose a tourist restaurant for a pizza and beer. Afterwards, the walk back to the station seemed very long compared to early in the day. Needless to say, it hadn't rained at all during the day, in fact mostly it had been very hot and sunny, although there was a light shower after I got onto the train. Does that count as success for the forecasters? It was a Eurostar train, due to get in to Spoleto at about nine o'clock. I forgot to stamp my ticket in the machine before getting on, and when I remembered that, I was in fear of a ticket check for almost the whole journey. On the way down, they'd been playing announcements about a two hundred euro fine if you were caught with an unstamped ticket. (If you don't stamp the date and time, you could theoretically reuse the ticket another day.)
Well, the guard came by ten minutes before arrival, but he either didn't notice or didn't care that there was no date stamp on my ticket. What a relief. It might have been because my ticket was booked to a specific train, and seat; I don't know. At Spoleto, I walked back to the car, almost the last one in the dark car park, and drove the forty minutes or so back home. There was a new car at the farm: neighbours, probably for the holiday weekend. In fact, they were in the apartment right next door this time. The walls are thick, but there's a connecting door between the two apartments (locked, of course) and I could hear the voices coming though. The female, in particular, had a particularly penetrating tone. Fortunately, my bedroom is on the opposite side.