Nature's Color Pallett

 

Nature’s Color Pallett

After eighteen days at sea, we came to a terra firma

Restroom of 'The Burger Rm' with
Wizard of Oz Movie in 
Continuous Playback

full-stop in Amsterdam.  Of all our cruise destinations, we accorded Amsterdam the highest marks.  Whether it be The Burger Room with its Wizard of Oz theme, including the actual movie playing in the unisex restroom, the Van Goth and Rijksmuseum, or the suggestive Red Light District, it proved enchanting.  It was Transavia Airlines, a wholly owned subsidiary of KLM, which threw us a last-minute curve.  Citing a “lack of equipment” (whether that meant aircraft or crew, I’m not sure), an email announced the cancellation of our flight to Naples from Amsterdam.  Plan B turned out to be EasyJet, but not without the added cost of a last-minute reservation.  So go the quirks of travel along with a 5 AM airport show time.

It felt like home as we walked across the tarmac following our arrival at Capodichino Airport, Naples, later that morning.  Maybe the feeling was due to familiarity with our surroundings, hearing the melody of Italian being spoken, seeing roofs clad with red clay tiles, and Vesuvius on the eastern horizon.  Whatever its basis, it was good to be back.  It has become clear to me why Italy is so special.  No secret: it has been in the making for countless

Van Goth Museum

centuries. 

The sweep of history has allowed this lengthy peninsula to mature into what we enjoy today.  Its many ‘residents’ during this time — Etruscans, Greeks, Romans — on to a myriad of occupiers, has sculpted something unique in the world.  Before each has let go, each has deposited a trace of itself, adding to this rich mosaic.  We call the US a “melting pot.”  In Italy, it is more characteristic of a blast furnace where an amalgam of cultures, art, food, and architecture, to mention only a few, has created something unique in the world.  From the northern Dolomite peaks and lakes to the fertile valleys of Tuscany, southward to the clear waters of Puglia, through the grape orchards of Campania, across the Strait of Messina to Sicily, the variety is encyclopedic.  So much so that practically everyone wants to visit Italy, and many want to stay.  Its very mention evokes shiny-eyed imaginings and a craving to be there.  Attribute it to empire, a crossroad of east and west, its prominent position — a boot jutting into the sea rewarding it with a beautiful climate and that renowned Mediterranean diet — the result captures the attention of the world.

Undoubtedly, we are smitten with the place and, as a result, absolutely biased about Italy.  After all, we live in Italy a portion of the year and marinate in its bounty, hospitality, and history.  Not too bad a sentence for ‘lifers’ like us, is it?  People often ask why, but it comes mixed with a touch of how.  I have seen it in hundreds of musing faces.  Yet as temporary stewards, ours is a temporary sentence.  The stone lintel over our entry door has the inscription, “L.S 1875”.  I wonder who L.S. was and hesitate to ask who will follow us.

Countless artists, with the stroke of a brush or the tap of a hammer on chisel, have by their work documented the evolution of Italy.  Their physical statements not only capture a revolution in art but capture life as it evolved through the centuries.  Crooner Tony Bennett in the lyrics to his standard, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” put it this way: "The glory that was Rome is of another day."  The audacious grandeur of ancient Rome may be gone, but there

Welcome to Naples Roman
Patrician Woman Status

is beauty even in the remains time has afforded us.  Whether in a statue absent an arm or head, the ruins of something as utilitarian as a bathhouse, the formidable Pantheon and Colosseum, or a grand mosaic opus absent some of its closely set tesserae pieces, millions of visitors continue to marvel in awe.  

Walking into the Naples terminal that morning, like an artist’s fresh brush strokes on new canvas, visual projections and graphic depictions along the entry corridor welcomed us.  This ‘beauty of another day’ masterfully hinted at what had been and what lay ahead for the visitor.  Soon afterward, as we left the airport, driving east across the Apennine mountains ever deeper into the Italian peninsula, Vesuvius close by at our shoulder, I was struck by another Italian national treasure, its landscape.  While sculpted by man over time, it remains intact.  In this case, we were not in the flowing Tuscan countryside of the Val d’Orcia, or farther north, that of the Po Valley.  This was the Italian Mezzogiorno (The South).  Here, ever ascending rugged mountain switchbacks exploit every narrow ravine and crease that might allow passage.  Some Hershey candy kiss shaped mountains sit so close to each other that only narrow fissures exist between these pointy tops.  Farther south in neighboring Calabria, where nature had made travel practically impossible, men have burrowed tunnels through peaks and sculpted bridges connecting them impossible only centuries earlier.

Phenomenal Tunnel & Bridge
Consrtructionin Calabria

The tunnels along Highway E-45 are so long that Margaret, our GPS, loses her signal before we can exit.  The engineering marvels of joists and support girders which connect the tunnels, tower high above steep, narrow ravines.  Maybe I drive too fast, but the distances tunnel-to-tunnel appear insufficient to allow time for Margaret to reacquire the navigation signal before you enter the next warren of tunnels.  The signal loss, however, is hardly noticed because we are enthralled as we approach each exit, anticipating the next panorama, however brief, off toward the Med from our elevated perch.  Far off below us, along the shoreline, we’d catch glimpses of small villages and narrow, secluded beaches, each undoubtedly with its own story.  How to get there remains a story unto itself.

Leaving the Neapolitan coastal plain and the impediments of the Apennines now in our rearview mirror, we were soon deep into the pastoral fields of Campania.  While man has helpfully tinkered to make Calabria accessible to the world, back on SS-7, especially that portion of the road from Avellino to Lioni, nature, not man, has gouged two delightful valleys that serve as steppingstones to Calitri.  Both are relatively small, or better put, tiny, by Tuscan standards.  Rounding a turn, they appear as

SS-7 Valley Scene on Way to Calitri

diminutive bowls bordered by a rise in the terrain.  Looking down into them, a web of roads blotting the landscape connects ranches with grazing animals, farms hemmed with hay fields, and picturesque homes under shading trees.  These vistas offered a startling spectral shift from the white snow we’d left behind to the verdant colors before us throughout this Italian countryside.  The empty vastness of the Atlantic had opened our eyes to the breadth of nature’s template.  Here, unlike at sea, the vista of an ever-shifting otherworld of green rose to draw a different horizon.  Passing clouds served as filters.  In kaleidoscope fashion, they altered the light to gradually shift the greens of the scenes from emerald to soothing olive, lime, and fern, onto the coolness of moss and sage.  These greens, carved from this countryside, tell of its strength.  Early on some mornings, you can ‘breathe cloud’ as you skirt the

Norman Volturaria Castle Oversees the Valley
(Photo courtesy of Salvatore Cassese)

valley walls and pass above and below low-lying morning puffs of vapor.  Viewed from above, you experience the illusion that you are skimming across an enormous inland sea. 

In the corner of a valley basin hemmed by a pyramid-shaped mountain is the town of Volturaria.  The hamlet was first recorded in 976 AD.  Its name was apparently derived from the original Etruscan base vel (high ground), but also from Utur, which in Oscan-Samnite means "stagnant water."   During the Swabian-Norman domination (999 to 1139), known as The Kingdom In The Sun, a medieval Norman Castle was built atop this peak.  Later, during the Aragon dynasty, the Castle was transformed into a noble residence.  Thereafter, the Castle was the property of several lords.  Among them was Guglielmo de Tivilla, who sent troops to the Holy 

The Dragon Now Long Gone, This is the
Piana del Dragone 

Land during the Crusades.  In 1303, ownership passed to Nicola della Marra.  It remained in the ownership of the della Marra family until the 16th century.  Today the Castle has four quadrangular towers no more than forty feet high, along with a wide courtyard.^[4]  This is a land of myths and legends.  Evidence of this rests in the valley’s name.  Today it is known not as Marra Valley but as Piana del Dragone (the Dragon Plane).  The name derives from an urban legend that a prince named Gesio managed to kill a three-headed dragon with his sword.  Once it lost the duel, the monster sank into the bowels of the earth, creating three holes dug by its three heads, giving rise to the natural sinkhole called Dragon’s Mouth still visible today.^[1]

Shooting along the highway that rounds this creator-like valley, we soon crested its ridgeline to find ourselves negotiating a few tunnels in a descending rollercoaster ride into the next panoramic vista.  Much larger than Dragon valley, this valley offers a much more striking approach.  I especially enjoyed it because I wasn’t driving. 

We entered the valley by Cassano Irpino, a town characterized by the steep, narrow ridgeline it rests on to the side of SS-7 and exits on a section of

The Castagne Harvest 

the highway elevated on concrete stilts to the side of the Piccolo Ranch.  Off to the right is Montella, a town founded by the Samnites in the first millennium B.C. to later become a municipality of the Roman Empire.^[2]  Coming in along this downhill serpentine path, for the first time I noted chestnuts in their spiny husks lying along the roadside.  Castagne (chestnuts) have made Montella famous.  Here chestnut trees cover the mountainsides.  A chestnut cooperative of local producers traditionally contributes about 60% of the chestnuts harvested throughout the Irpinian region.  The terrain, altitude, and volcanic soil are ideal for the predominant chestnut strain grown here, the palommina.  They are so valued that these chestnuts have an official DOC seal of approval that in 1996 was elevated to premier IGP status as 'Castagna di Montella.’  This designation made them the

Montella's Prized Palommina Chestnuts

first vegetable (as opposed to cheese, meat, etc.) to receive such recognition in Italy.^[3] 

Speckled here and there are structures, colored shades of Amalfi lemon and crab apple, topped with terracotta roof tiles.  Some are so old that where they manage to peek through the forest canopy, they are but shells of their former selves, bleached white now and absent their former rooftops.  There is one abandoned stone homestead I especially like.  It lies across the guardrail of SS-7, sharing a field with a few cows.  Over the years, it has aged along with us.  It still has its for sale sign (vendesi) but parts of the roof have since collapsed.  It has also developed a diagonal crack running from top to bottom across its front, that most certainly would discourage any passing potential buyer.

Still for Sale - A Handyman's Special

.     We’d visited Montella years earlier and have since returned especially for the niche dining establishments in the area which in addition to comforting regional cuisine, offer lovely views from their mountainside perches.  By car, we zig-zag climbed to the Santuario del Santissimo Salvatore (Sanctuary of the Most Holy Savior), which dominates the entire valley below from high atop a cone-shaped mountain.  As we zoomed through the valley that day, we could see it white against the green of its chestnut-brown forest background.  Its development can be traced to 1779, though records Still for Sale testify to the presence of a chapel there as early as 1500.^[5]  1779 marked a six-month drought that devastated almost all of Europe.  Montella was at death’s doorstep and in fear of a

The Sanctuary of the Most Holy
Savior Overlooks Montella

possible famine.  Prayers to San Rocco, patron saint of Montella, were made and a pilgrimage to the top of the mountain and the sanctuary dedicated to the Savior was organized.  About three hundred Montellesi went to the mountain to widen the path for a procession to follow.  The workers drew a modest quantity of water from the well by the chapel sufficient to quench their thirst.  To everyone’s surprise, the amount of water miraculously grew.  Like the biblical miracle of the Bread and Fishes, the event was interpreted to be a miracle.  In the days that followed, heavy rains put an end to their long period of drought.  From then on, this sanctuary, steeped in sacred silence situated high atop its mountain perch and evidently proving a savior to the people of Montella, has undergone many changes and improvements to become what we discovered during our visit.

I recall getting there the first time.  We’d driven through private acres along forest gravel roads guarded by gates and wire fences.  The road was terraced as it led us, ridge to ridge, rising to one side and perilously dropping off on the other.  I imagined how this terrain made harvesting no easy task. The day we passes, there were plenty of prickly, tennis ball size chestnuts on the road, under the trees, everywhere.  I recall opening and closing those gates to get through these closely watched areas as we made our way ever higher.  Stealing chestnuts was as common as vineyards being raided by wild boars.  Instead of electric fences, owners kept close watch, especially approaching the harvest.  The results of the harvest are put to good use.  Various castagne products are produced including fresh and dried chestnuts, whether shelled or not, farina di castagne (chestnut flour), and confettura di castagne (chestnut jam).  An ideal time to visit is in Mid-October during the chestnut harvest, and in November during the Chestnut Festival.

The Legend of Witches on
the Straga Label

From antiquity, the city of Benevento, not far to the northwest of Montella, was believed to be the seat of witches’ rites even before the arrival of the Romans.  The strega (witch) from the Latin strix (screech-owl), a bird of ill omen, is often used in Italian to refer to pagan magic users or witches.  Legend has them in this area of Irpina as well.  I can imagine them on holiday, gathered together in the valley’s forests.  As presented today on the Strega Liqueur label, folklore has them depicted at night holding hands, dancing and chanting in a raucous around a venerated magical tree overseen by an owl settled on the letter ‘L’ of Liqueur, with brooms mustered nearby on the ground.  Appropriately, Benevento’s maker of this liquor co-oped this idea and, as the legend put it, created a magic potion that, when ingested, forever unites those who drink it.  Following its aging in ash barrels, Strega has a unique and unmistakable taste thanks to the exclusive use of natural ingredients which include about 70 herbs and spices, including notes of saffron which accounts for is color. 

Witches aside, near Montella is the Convent of Saint Francis.  According to tradition, it was founded by Saint Francis of Assisi in AD 1221-1222 when he was turned away from the town due to the townspeople’s fears of strangers introducing leprosy to the town.^[2]  Without shelter, the saint and his fellow travelers slept under a tree and were miraculously protected from the snow.  After this event, they founded the friary, where it remains to this day.  Whether large or small, these two valleys add to our perception of the world and to the grandeur of its diverse scale.

I could appreciate the scenery because, I as i mentioned, I wasn’t driving.  Joe, also known as ‘American Joe’ and a good friend from nearby Pescopagano, had picked us up in Naples.  Joe drove us first to his home.  After a long spell of winter up in mountaintop ‘Pesco,’ and as he would jokingly describe as an upcoming brief encounter of a single day in July they'd call summer, I think they were looking forward to our visit.  His wife Annamaria had prepared a much appreciated lunch.  It was a wonderful offer since our home, shut for the winter with thick walls acting like a thermos bottle, unlike our empty refrigerator, would be cold inside.  As the Italians are wont to say, we needed to change the air.  Along with plenty of wine, cheese, and fried peppers, her covered pot revealed a hearty, comforting stew called Spezzatino di Patate e Carne.  For dessert, she had prepared a baked crostata alla pesca tart that along with some Montenegro Amaro topped off our surprise arrival luncheon.  It was difficult to leave.  In fact, every time we visit Joe and Annamaria, it is hard to leave.  Theirs is an example of what I believe makes Italians stand out from the majority — their hard-wired, unabated sense of hospitality. 

Earlier, I mentioned how Italy evokes shiny-eyed imaginings in the uninitiated and a craving to be there.  A big part of this phenomenon are Italians like Annamaria and American Joe.  They foster that mind’s eye image we dream of experiencing of a friendly and generous reception and the entertaining largess they provide guests, visitors, and even outright strangers.  We’ve been willing witnesses to this hospitality.  There are some quirks I have noticed, however.

I’m respectfully amazed, likely because of an inborn American penchant for uninterrupted progress, whenever I must come to a complete halt in a variety of circumstances in Italy.  It might be when I chance upon Italians standing in a doorway chatting, blocking entry, or when an attendant continues chit-chatting with an associate while a customer, myself for instance, waits for service.  I’m not convinced, but I suspect they are utterly oblivious to what is happening around them.  Case in point: We have a new rotary in the town center with two obstacles, called ‘round abouts’, to navigate.  In fact, for added entertainment, they are side by side.  It reminds me of a pinball machine where the ball, me, would bounce from one post to the other as a bell rang, adding up points.  We’d just arrived, and unfamiliar with this particular pattern, I went between them.  I got no points, and I’m sure some observer who may have seen my maneuver said, “The Americano is back.”  I’ve since figured it out and have run this gauntlet many times since.  Immediately following this confusing web of turns is a sharp right turn onto the two-lane main road through the heart of Calitri.  Pretty impressed with myself for having navigated the maze, I had to come to an abrupt halt.  I couldn’t continue.  A car had stopped right at the turn.  The driver’s window was down, a gentleman in the center of the road was leaning in, and a conversation was underway.  I couldn’t go around this obstacle because approaching cars in the opposite lane made that escape route impossible, especially since the bent over pedestrian’s posterior, extending into their lane, made further passage impossible.  I could only imagine how long this would have lasted in the States.  Since using a horn is impolite in Italy and indicative of displeasure, if not ill manners, you must wait out whatever is being communicated.  It is clear. There is so much I still need to learn about Italian behavior and my behavior in response, patience being chief among them.  A taxi driver in Amsterdam, himself embroiled in traffic, had made this same point.  Irritation is to be avoided; blessed are the patient.  As the old saying goes, “Good things come to those who wait.”  I think the lack of agita is one of them.

       These steppingstone valleys that I count as I range to and from Calitri typify a rural world immersed in a broad range of heritage.  I see this time-refined culture expressed in the care they take with nature and its bounty that I so admire when offered glimpses of  the scenic color pallet that surrounds me.

Calitri Poppy Field

The millenniums have also allowed this region to inherit a dominant religious fervor tinged with superstition and spirited magic.  I’m also mindful of the respect and care they take with each other — greeting total strangers like us when entering or leaving a restaurant or simply passing on the street remains amazing to us.  I called it hospitality earlier, but caring concern is a better description of the primal nature of these Italians.

Unfortunately, there is nowhere to stop along SS-7 to take in these vistas safely.  In our indomitable haste to get somewhere, we only catch glimpses of the true nature of things which, as in this case, defy accurate description even in pictures.  There is a message here.  Maybe that is why the impromptu conversations that seem so inappropriate, especially in the middle of the street, are so vital to life here.  The road of life is like that.  In my haste, I can easily miss the messaging.

From That Rogue Tourist
Paolo

[1] Volturara Irpina, https://sistemairpinia.provincia.avellino.it/en/comuni/volturara-irpina

[2] Montella, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montella

[3] Chestnuts-of-Montella, https://www.deliciousitaly.com/campania-naples-food/chestnuts-of-montella

[4] Norman Castle in Volturara Irpina, http://www.castellidirpinia.com/volturara_en.html

[5] Santuario del Santissimo Salvatore, https://sistemairpinia.provincia.avellino.it/en/places/santuario-del-ss-salvatore