17th April 2006, Easter Monday, Napoli
You know those days when you get in the car, look at the map and just drive in a general direction without a plan or definite destination? Today was one of those days. After three boring days at home over the Easter weekend I implored Gigi to take me out of the city, risking the inevitable public holiday traffic and crowds of strolling Italians.
We were heading vaguely north, through Acerra and possibly to Telese, avoiding the highways and the freeways. After winding through small towns on the outskirts of Naples, welcoming the increasing signs of countryside life, Gi spots a sign for Sant’Agata de’ Goti, some place he has vaguely heard of but never visited. Turning off we drove through a tiny village of ‘no name’, where at a roadside nursery Gi turns again at a sign for a sanctuary. Pulling up at the local church (was this the ‘sanctuary’ the sign eluded to?) I walked up onto a platform for a view of the neighbouring properties; citrus trees laden with fruit, artichoke plants drooping heavy with cherished produce, earth ploughed into rows, smoke billowing from a pile of rubbish smouldering in a backyard. Apple trees shyly blooming with pink and white flowers, hazelnut trees guardedly yielding young green nuts, yellow flowering friarielli sprinkled amongst the roadside weeds. Gigi had entered the open chapel, to be greeted by fading pink walls, an awkward mural of the Last Supper and a statue of Jesus robed in hot pink and a white cloak.
Following the dirt road up we passed orchards with weeds of violet, a wiry old lady in a front yard watching us with either suspicion or interest, or perhaps both, and two newly built homes scattered amongst farmhouses with grey stone walls alive with mauve wisteria vines. The road ended at a private property where Gi commented on the triple glazed automatic teller machine glass sitting beside the road as we turned the car around.
Before turning off the main road we’d driven through the impressive arches of an aqueduct built by the Romans to carry water from the mountain springs to the surrounding towns. It’s an enormous structure, with three levels, the only modern modification (to my unexperienced eye) being the fortification around the arch where the train passes through. I’m unreliably told it was built about 200 AD.
Sant’Agata de’ Goti was just a place on the map of the region of Campania as we entered the township. Turning left in the direction of the historical centre Gi slowed the car to awe at the quiet elegant street lined with mature trees leading to the bridge. Driving over the bridge towards the central car park it becomes obvious that we are not the only visitors in town as several cars are circling looking for a vacant space. Deciding to look around on foot we drive back over the bridge to another car park that is almost empty, to be greeted by the ‘unofficial’ car park attendant (you give him some loose change in exchange for watching over the car) who has an prominent case of elephantitis. With one side of his face severely swollen with the disfiguring disease, the lips purple and distended, his personality was affable and professional. Leaving the car park we headed towards a nearby villa and beautifully manicured gardens that begged to be photographed. Walking towards the bridge Gigi observed two men entering the car park looking like thieves (don’t ask him to tell you how we can pick them) and suggested we return to the car to put his leather jacket in the boot. (Some ten years ago we left his leather jacket and other valuables on the back seat of a hire car in Dublin only to return ten minutes later to a smashed window and everything stolen, passports, plane tickets, cameras, everything, the day before our return flight to London.) He then changed his mind, thinking he was being over cautious, especially with the parking guy around. However, having once made the mistake I was not about to do it again some ten years later. Entering the car park we could here the guy with elphantitis raising his voice, arguing with the two men. He was ordering them out of the car park, away from the vehicles that were effectively his responsibility. They in turn were claiming to be just standing around, doing no harm, but Mr Elephantitis was having none of it. What a sight, this gentle man with his physical deformities, holding a buckled umbrella in the drizzling rain, threatening to poke their eyes out with his brolly if they didn’t leave immediately! Fifty cents well spent, no doubt.
Confident that the car and our now hidden belongings were safe we strolled over the bridge to enter the town centre proper. What would have once been an impressive river is now just a bubbling brook, overgrown with lush vegetation. The steep bank elongated by the rising foundations of the external town wall, stretching about one kilometre along the side of the river and perhaps seven storeys up. I stood there for several minutes wondering at the sheer size of what amounted to an ancient apartment block constructed of stone blocks, looking very much the same as it did some centuries ago.
The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around, exploring alleyways, peeking under archways and enjoying the mostly pedestrian zone of the town. It soon became apparent that we’d accidentally stumbled into one of those little places in Italy that is off the beaten track but well visited regardless. The Tourist Association of Sant’Agata de’ Goti had posters promoting the Spring Festival from 8 April to 1 May and the towns slogan of ‘Citta di Domenica’ (City of Sunday); other formal posters wishing the citizens best wishes for Easter. A handful of trattorias, pizza restaurants and dimly lit pubs were pulsing with lunchtime trade. Enticing cafeteria signs led us to two bars catering to the influx of tourists with views of the neighbouring mountains. Our quick caffeine hit was accompanied by long sighs and apologies as the barista exclaimed how busy and stressed she was feeling. Gi commented on the attractiveness of the town, only to have her warn us against it due to the monotony, explaining it was always busy on public holidays, Sundays and in summer.
With the late afternoon light still bright, and a huge mound of fresh bread to sustain us we headed home, avoiding the major roads, winding our way back to Casalnuovo. Dusk is getting increasingly later, and it’s still early spring. I’d forgotten how long the summer days are here, and am looking forward to the extended twilight.
Enjoy the photos.
You know those days when you get in the car, look at the map and just drive in a general direction without a plan or definite destination? Today was one of those days. After three boring days at home over the Easter weekend I implored Gigi to take me out of the city, risking the inevitable public holiday traffic and crowds of strolling Italians.
We were heading vaguely north, through Acerra and possibly to Telese, avoiding the highways and the freeways. After winding through small towns on the outskirts of Naples, welcoming the increasing signs of countryside life, Gi spots a sign for Sant’Agata de’ Goti, some place he has vaguely heard of but never visited. Turning off we drove through a tiny village of ‘no name’, where at a roadside nursery Gi turns again at a sign for a sanctuary. Pulling up at the local church (was this the ‘sanctuary’ the sign eluded to?) I walked up onto a platform for a view of the neighbouring properties; citrus trees laden with fruit, artichoke plants drooping heavy with cherished produce, earth ploughed into rows, smoke billowing from a pile of rubbish smouldering in a backyard. Apple trees shyly blooming with pink and white flowers, hazelnut trees guardedly yielding young green nuts, yellow flowering friarielli sprinkled amongst the roadside weeds. Gigi had entered the open chapel, to be greeted by fading pink walls, an awkward mural of the Last Supper and a statue of Jesus robed in hot pink and a white cloak.
Following the dirt road up we passed orchards with weeds of violet, a wiry old lady in a front yard watching us with either suspicion or interest, or perhaps both, and two newly built homes scattered amongst farmhouses with grey stone walls alive with mauve wisteria vines. The road ended at a private property where Gi commented on the triple glazed automatic teller machine glass sitting beside the road as we turned the car around.
Before turning off the main road we’d driven through the impressive arches of an aqueduct built by the Romans to carry water from the mountain springs to the surrounding towns. It’s an enormous structure, with three levels, the only modern modification (to my unexperienced eye) being the fortification around the arch where the train passes through. I’m unreliably told it was built about 200 AD.
Sant’Agata de’ Goti was just a place on the map of the region of Campania as we entered the township. Turning left in the direction of the historical centre Gi slowed the car to awe at the quiet elegant street lined with mature trees leading to the bridge. Driving over the bridge towards the central car park it becomes obvious that we are not the only visitors in town as several cars are circling looking for a vacant space. Deciding to look around on foot we drive back over the bridge to another car park that is almost empty, to be greeted by the ‘unofficial’ car park attendant (you give him some loose change in exchange for watching over the car) who has an prominent case of elephantitis. With one side of his face severely swollen with the disfiguring disease, the lips purple and distended, his personality was affable and professional. Leaving the car park we headed towards a nearby villa and beautifully manicured gardens that begged to be photographed. Walking towards the bridge Gigi observed two men entering the car park looking like thieves (don’t ask him to tell you how we can pick them) and suggested we return to the car to put his leather jacket in the boot. (Some ten years ago we left his leather jacket and other valuables on the back seat of a hire car in Dublin only to return ten minutes later to a smashed window and everything stolen, passports, plane tickets, cameras, everything, the day before our return flight to London.) He then changed his mind, thinking he was being over cautious, especially with the parking guy around. However, having once made the mistake I was not about to do it again some ten years later. Entering the car park we could here the guy with elphantitis raising his voice, arguing with the two men. He was ordering them out of the car park, away from the vehicles that were effectively his responsibility. They in turn were claiming to be just standing around, doing no harm, but Mr Elephantitis was having none of it. What a sight, this gentle man with his physical deformities, holding a buckled umbrella in the drizzling rain, threatening to poke their eyes out with his brolly if they didn’t leave immediately! Fifty cents well spent, no doubt.
Confident that the car and our now hidden belongings were safe we strolled over the bridge to enter the town centre proper. What would have once been an impressive river is now just a bubbling brook, overgrown with lush vegetation. The steep bank elongated by the rising foundations of the external town wall, stretching about one kilometre along the side of the river and perhaps seven storeys up. I stood there for several minutes wondering at the sheer size of what amounted to an ancient apartment block constructed of stone blocks, looking very much the same as it did some centuries ago.
The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around, exploring alleyways, peeking under archways and enjoying the mostly pedestrian zone of the town. It soon became apparent that we’d accidentally stumbled into one of those little places in Italy that is off the beaten track but well visited regardless. The Tourist Association of Sant’Agata de’ Goti had posters promoting the Spring Festival from 8 April to 1 May and the towns slogan of ‘Citta di Domenica’ (City of Sunday); other formal posters wishing the citizens best wishes for Easter. A handful of trattorias, pizza restaurants and dimly lit pubs were pulsing with lunchtime trade. Enticing cafeteria signs led us to two bars catering to the influx of tourists with views of the neighbouring mountains. Our quick caffeine hit was accompanied by long sighs and apologies as the barista exclaimed how busy and stressed she was feeling. Gi commented on the attractiveness of the town, only to have her warn us against it due to the monotony, explaining it was always busy on public holidays, Sundays and in summer.
With the late afternoon light still bright, and a huge mound of fresh bread to sustain us we headed home, avoiding the major roads, winding our way back to Casalnuovo. Dusk is getting increasingly later, and it’s still early spring. I’d forgotten how long the summer days are here, and am looking forward to the extended twilight.
Enjoy the photos.
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