10 October 2006 Mountain Dream
Sunday drives. There is something romantic and special about driving out of the city on a Sunday, especially in Italy. Sunday drives are not the cultural norm in this country, at least not in Naples. Traditionally, Sunday is the day when families gather around the table, to enjoy a late, lengthy lunch. And the aftermath: animated discussions, unbuttoned jeans and a wave of lethargy caused by indulgence. Any idea of wandering around the countryside, cruising and exploring simply because you can would, in fact, strike some as the strangest way to spend the day.
Yesterday we took a Sunday drive. Borrowing Rosa’s car we drove north, taking the freeway out of the city, leaving the Sunday morning bustle of religion, pavement socialising and Sunday lunch market shopping behind.
Heading off the A1, which would otherwise take us to Rome, we skirted around Maddaloni, taking the No. 265 through Dugenta before turning right towards Melizzano. The road now started the series of twists and turns that would take us up, up into the mountains.
From a city like Naples, throbbing and heaving with intense energy bordering on chaos, you escape to one of two places; the coastal beaches and islands or the mountains. Delightfully, the region of Campania is a treasure trove of both, and more. As we drove Gi lamented the fact that Campania, as a whole region, continues to be a largely undiscovered area.
As with all things in life this means that it is relatively easy to escape the tourist crowds of the ‘known’ pockets of Pompeii, the Amalfi coast and the isle of Capri. The other side of the coin is that, unlike Tuscany, it fails to attract the attention of travellers and misses out on the associated economic, social and cultural benefits. Similarly, increased tourism could bring more refuse, traffic and environmental damage. But sometimes, as in Tuscany, tourism promotes a level of pride in a particular area which sees improved services and a focus on environmental sustenance that might otherwise be neglected.
We drive deliciously close to Solopaca, a community well known for its wine production, but that’s for another Sunday. Instead the road curls around the side of the mountain and soon we float through Frasso Telesino, a mere red dot and scattering of black specks on the map, but in actuality a charming village.
We pause several times to take in the view, wide panoramas of the countryside falling away below. Houses are strewn across the expanse, like a giant child has tired of his toys and walked off outside, scattering them in his wake. White walls and red rooves are in the majority, but it’s the occasional and unexpected splash of apricot, yellow and orange that draws one’s eye.
However, it’s the traditional farmhouses which catch my imagination; some lovingly renovated, others stand abandoned and derelict. I always want to stop and knock on the door, my knuckles causing some of the fading blue paint to peel and flake away. As we drive by I can’t help but peer into open doors and windows, catching glimpses of people’s lives. Women don housedresses and flowery aprons, short wavy hair greying at their temples, as they sweep floors, string beans, fold sun warmed laundry or wait for the coffee pot on the stove, already enjoying the headiness of the caffeine from the aroma alone.
The men that I spy never seem to be as gainfully employed. They sit by kitchen tables waiting for that small china cup to deliver the hot, dark drink already sugared and stirred just as they like it. Maybe they sit out the front of the house, occupying a well worn chair, watching the trickle of passing traffic. Or more energetically they tend to vegetable patches and inspect grape vines as the sun slowly ripens the small orbs of fruit. With time cloudiness settles on the skin which is neither black nor purple in colour.
The valley reflects the agricultural heritage of the area, plots of green, lines of olive trees and fruit trees like little groups of soldiers on parade. The season is over, but in some plots corn lingers, drooping with the weight of unpicked cobs, the leaves and husks pale, crisp and papery. We pass open sheds, with leaves of dark brown, the colour of shoe leather, hanging in neat orderly rows. In due course I recognise it as drying tobacco, and can only wonder at its end use as the quantities seem hardly enough to be for commercial production.
It’s autumn and that means apples and pumpkins. Along some strips of road it seems that every private home has apple trees. The thin branches splay out; some are loaded with green leaves and the rosy apples. Others are stripped of nature’s bounty, with the apples laid neatly on the ground, bedded on top of hay for further ripening. Most of these homes have a little hutch set up out front, or perhaps it’s just a barrow with loaded fruit boxes and buckets. The apples look pretty in the morning sun. However, the enormous pumpkins stacked one on top of another in descending size look proud and removed from the people stepping out of cars to buy fresh, organic produce from little old ladies in dark stockings and sensible shoes. I want to stop and photograph these little wooden stalls and piles of grey skinned pumpkins, as they look like something out of a children’s story book, but by the time I’m ready the last of the stalls is behind us.
Instead I take to photographing the real thing, apples adorning trees in a small orchard by the side of the road. Gigi takes to raiding. Initially he has pulled over unexpectedly at the sight of a prickly pear, its fruit glowing red and enticing in contrast to the large, flat stems. He scrambles around for something to protect his hands, and settling on some paper stretches up, leaning perilously close to the cactus’ spiny paddles to reach the fruit. I’ve never eaten Indian figs (as they are also known), it’s a menace in Australia, and he’s delighted that I’ll get to sample it.
In the meantime I’ve wandered up the road to take a closer look at the apple orchard. I’ve discovered something even better and Gigi is soon clambering up on the bank of rich soil to pick fresh figs, speckled amongst the broad flat leaves. For good measure he also helps himself to some apples, secure that we are out of view of the nearby farm house, although the sound of barking dogs soon drives him back to the car.
Once buckled up, I try one of the apples. They are small, their size undoubtedly making them unsuitable for sale in a supermarket, but the first bite reminds how an apple is meant to taste. The sharpness fills my mouth, crispness mixing with the sweet, tangy juice. It’s as though I can almost taste the colours too, the cherry red melding with the pale green of the skin.
The figs are still green on the outside, but some of them are ripe to the touch and we split them open to reveal the luminous dark pink tentacles, tipped with white, inside. There is something very special about eating fresh, fresh figs. They are almost impossible to buy, but sometimes we stumble across an unlikely looking rotund man selling figs from a wheelbarrow, on the street corner. Most commercially grown figs are dried, canned or candied and following these processes I lose interest. The fresh fig has something of the Garden of Eve about it. Its freshness and edibility is a fleeting thing, too much handling and it’s lost. It’s a fruit of the moment, best enjoyed while standing in the shade of the tree’s low deciduous branches.
The views drop away and we drive through a small lush valley. A craggy mountain looms on the left, parts of the forest vegetation interrupted by bare grey rock. A sign declares that we have now entered the National Park of Mount Taburno, and we begin to climb again. The atmosphere changes and I feel decidedly cooler, yet resist the urge to wear my jacket. We both relish the change of temperature, it makes us feel like it really is autumn after the unseasonably warm October days in Naples.
Soon we are surrounded by autumn. The national park is enchanting. The deciduous trees are in that lovely phase where the beckon the change of season. We drive through groves, mottled grey tree trunks slender and confident unfettered by branches until well over head height. Small green leaves decorate the trees, with the odd flash of gold. Most of their companions have already fallen, and the ground is hidden by a blanket of dying leaves. There is a complete lack of undergrowth vegetation, so the rust floor, grey trunks as the focal point, and canopy of lime creates a strangely beautiful image, both tranquil and mysterious in its uniformity and openness.
Further along we drive through a natural archway. The trees are different with low spreading branches and spindly scrub reaching out to greet us. Damp moss crept over rocks and exposed root systems. The sunlight is filtered, dappled; the trees making a gallant effort to prevent us from seeing the hazy sky above. The road is clear, a solid white line guiding the way but its edges are awash with the casualties of autumn. We stop to breath in the underlying dampness of the shady woods, and crunch over piles of leaves, their colours leaping up in contrast to the asphalt. A closer study reveals a myriad of colours underfoot: russet, tan, bronze and copper, mahogany, flaming orange, amber, cool yellow and slate grey.
The area is largely inhabited. We pass a couple of private homes, one which looks like a holiday escape, its dark green exterior attempting to hide its very presence. Another villa is nestled on a hill to the left of the road, obscured by vegetation, but the ‘For Sale’ sign gets us wondering at the local prices. We also notice a hiking refuge, a depressed restaurant that looks closed and a small hotel with a sweeping car park to match the views. We pass only a few cars. Some are stopped as people painstakingly pick blackberries, tramp over layers of leaf matter along walking trails or pause to eat lunch at wooden picnic benches.
We breathe deeply, enjoying the clarity of the air, reconnecting with an environment that isn’t polluted from vehicular fumes, factory output and the presence of several million people. Unfortunately much of the native fauna has disappeared, but we do hear the trill of unidentified birds, and the cling clang of bells hung around the neck of wandering cattle.
Twice Gi stops to pick chestnuts. Initially we pull up beside a corrugated shed, with window shaped holes cut out and fading petrol sign peeling on the front. Another hand painted sign in navy blue and crimson has arrows pointing left and right, providing directions for lost visitors. Oddly there is a fireplace inside. The shack is hardly big enough for a table and chair, but there stands a red brick fireplace, as though it is ready to provide warmth at a moments notice. The space is littered with refuse, which I find both repulsive and sad.
Gi hops around looking for chestnut pods that are yet to spill their nuts. The pods are green-yellow and covered in prickly spikes. If you step on them carefully you can ease them open without risking fingertips, bend to prise out the chestnuts. Across the road, beside the shed, he spies a hazelnut tree and we crack open a couple of nuts that are edible.
At another bend in the road Gi again pulls over and we spend some time working our way along the road, filling a plastic bag with chestnuts. The road is awash with squashed pods, the nuts a crumbly mass on the bitumen, the spikes no match for car tyres. I find dealing with the barbed pods a painful exercise and take to looking for chestnuts on the ground, careful to check them for the microscopic holes indicating worm infestation. Gigi is very excited, already anticipating the process of toasting them under the grill at home before eating them like a popcorn snack as we watch a movie. To his dismay I find chestnuts generally unpalatable, very mild in flavour and too pasty in texture, although I suspect he’s secretly pleased that he gets to eat even more as a result.
We see a sign for a fresh water spring and turn to investigate. These signs rarely have any distance indicated on them and after driving for some time we stop to study a colourful tourist map on the side of the road. As we try to work out how much further it is to the springs Gi notices the sign is riddled with bullet holes. The large ‘Siamo Qui’ (We are here) indicator is surrounded by the disturbing marks and we turn to return to the main road.
Having entered the mountainous national park on the north western side we exit on the south eastern corner, skirting most of Montesarchio before taking country roads to San Martino. We bypass Pannarano and marvel at a gorgeous villa that has been converted into a private dentistry practice. We are now on the northern edge of another regional park, but drive through the valley to Rotondi, a small village Rosaria recommended. It’s quiet, and pretty in the historical centre, with a train station that would be convenient for the commute to Naples. The main activity on this lazy Sunday afternoon is happening at the local bar, the old men of the neighbourhood have gathered for aperitifs over card games and loud political discussions.
After half an hour of trying to get the street signs and map to correlate we find ourselves on secondary road No 162. This takes us through Acerra, once a distinct town, now a border suburb of the swelling Neapolitan metropolis. This is a place that struggles, with crime and ignorance. The rubbish is piling up on the streets as the garbage collection strike continues. The sweet aroma of cool forests is soon replaced by the offensive odour of smouldering, toxic gases released from the plastics as the locals take to burning the rubbish in an attempt to eliminate it.
We have driven less than an hour from city to nature and it’s as though we’ve travelled to another world. We both hope to visit on another Sunday drive soon. In the meantime we are dreaming up ways to combine country living with city based work.
Sunday drives. There is something romantic and special about driving out of the city on a Sunday, especially in Italy. Sunday drives are not the cultural norm in this country, at least not in Naples. Traditionally, Sunday is the day when families gather around the table, to enjoy a late, lengthy lunch. And the aftermath: animated discussions, unbuttoned jeans and a wave of lethargy caused by indulgence. Any idea of wandering around the countryside, cruising and exploring simply because you can would, in fact, strike some as the strangest way to spend the day.
Yesterday we took a Sunday drive. Borrowing Rosa’s car we drove north, taking the freeway out of the city, leaving the Sunday morning bustle of religion, pavement socialising and Sunday lunch market shopping behind.
Heading off the A1, which would otherwise take us to Rome, we skirted around Maddaloni, taking the No. 265 through Dugenta before turning right towards Melizzano. The road now started the series of twists and turns that would take us up, up into the mountains.
From a city like Naples, throbbing and heaving with intense energy bordering on chaos, you escape to one of two places; the coastal beaches and islands or the mountains. Delightfully, the region of Campania is a treasure trove of both, and more. As we drove Gi lamented the fact that Campania, as a whole region, continues to be a largely undiscovered area.
As with all things in life this means that it is relatively easy to escape the tourist crowds of the ‘known’ pockets of Pompeii, the Amalfi coast and the isle of Capri. The other side of the coin is that, unlike Tuscany, it fails to attract the attention of travellers and misses out on the associated economic, social and cultural benefits. Similarly, increased tourism could bring more refuse, traffic and environmental damage. But sometimes, as in Tuscany, tourism promotes a level of pride in a particular area which sees improved services and a focus on environmental sustenance that might otherwise be neglected.
We drive deliciously close to Solopaca, a community well known for its wine production, but that’s for another Sunday. Instead the road curls around the side of the mountain and soon we float through Frasso Telesino, a mere red dot and scattering of black specks on the map, but in actuality a charming village.
We pause several times to take in the view, wide panoramas of the countryside falling away below. Houses are strewn across the expanse, like a giant child has tired of his toys and walked off outside, scattering them in his wake. White walls and red rooves are in the majority, but it’s the occasional and unexpected splash of apricot, yellow and orange that draws one’s eye.
However, it’s the traditional farmhouses which catch my imagination; some lovingly renovated, others stand abandoned and derelict. I always want to stop and knock on the door, my knuckles causing some of the fading blue paint to peel and flake away. As we drive by I can’t help but peer into open doors and windows, catching glimpses of people’s lives. Women don housedresses and flowery aprons, short wavy hair greying at their temples, as they sweep floors, string beans, fold sun warmed laundry or wait for the coffee pot on the stove, already enjoying the headiness of the caffeine from the aroma alone.
The men that I spy never seem to be as gainfully employed. They sit by kitchen tables waiting for that small china cup to deliver the hot, dark drink already sugared and stirred just as they like it. Maybe they sit out the front of the house, occupying a well worn chair, watching the trickle of passing traffic. Or more energetically they tend to vegetable patches and inspect grape vines as the sun slowly ripens the small orbs of fruit. With time cloudiness settles on the skin which is neither black nor purple in colour.
The valley reflects the agricultural heritage of the area, plots of green, lines of olive trees and fruit trees like little groups of soldiers on parade. The season is over, but in some plots corn lingers, drooping with the weight of unpicked cobs, the leaves and husks pale, crisp and papery. We pass open sheds, with leaves of dark brown, the colour of shoe leather, hanging in neat orderly rows. In due course I recognise it as drying tobacco, and can only wonder at its end use as the quantities seem hardly enough to be for commercial production.
It’s autumn and that means apples and pumpkins. Along some strips of road it seems that every private home has apple trees. The thin branches splay out; some are loaded with green leaves and the rosy apples. Others are stripped of nature’s bounty, with the apples laid neatly on the ground, bedded on top of hay for further ripening. Most of these homes have a little hutch set up out front, or perhaps it’s just a barrow with loaded fruit boxes and buckets. The apples look pretty in the morning sun. However, the enormous pumpkins stacked one on top of another in descending size look proud and removed from the people stepping out of cars to buy fresh, organic produce from little old ladies in dark stockings and sensible shoes. I want to stop and photograph these little wooden stalls and piles of grey skinned pumpkins, as they look like something out of a children’s story book, but by the time I’m ready the last of the stalls is behind us.
Instead I take to photographing the real thing, apples adorning trees in a small orchard by the side of the road. Gigi takes to raiding. Initially he has pulled over unexpectedly at the sight of a prickly pear, its fruit glowing red and enticing in contrast to the large, flat stems. He scrambles around for something to protect his hands, and settling on some paper stretches up, leaning perilously close to the cactus’ spiny paddles to reach the fruit. I’ve never eaten Indian figs (as they are also known), it’s a menace in Australia, and he’s delighted that I’ll get to sample it.
In the meantime I’ve wandered up the road to take a closer look at the apple orchard. I’ve discovered something even better and Gigi is soon clambering up on the bank of rich soil to pick fresh figs, speckled amongst the broad flat leaves. For good measure he also helps himself to some apples, secure that we are out of view of the nearby farm house, although the sound of barking dogs soon drives him back to the car.
Once buckled up, I try one of the apples. They are small, their size undoubtedly making them unsuitable for sale in a supermarket, but the first bite reminds how an apple is meant to taste. The sharpness fills my mouth, crispness mixing with the sweet, tangy juice. It’s as though I can almost taste the colours too, the cherry red melding with the pale green of the skin.
The figs are still green on the outside, but some of them are ripe to the touch and we split them open to reveal the luminous dark pink tentacles, tipped with white, inside. There is something very special about eating fresh, fresh figs. They are almost impossible to buy, but sometimes we stumble across an unlikely looking rotund man selling figs from a wheelbarrow, on the street corner. Most commercially grown figs are dried, canned or candied and following these processes I lose interest. The fresh fig has something of the Garden of Eve about it. Its freshness and edibility is a fleeting thing, too much handling and it’s lost. It’s a fruit of the moment, best enjoyed while standing in the shade of the tree’s low deciduous branches.
The views drop away and we drive through a small lush valley. A craggy mountain looms on the left, parts of the forest vegetation interrupted by bare grey rock. A sign declares that we have now entered the National Park of Mount Taburno, and we begin to climb again. The atmosphere changes and I feel decidedly cooler, yet resist the urge to wear my jacket. We both relish the change of temperature, it makes us feel like it really is autumn after the unseasonably warm October days in Naples.
Soon we are surrounded by autumn. The national park is enchanting. The deciduous trees are in that lovely phase where the beckon the change of season. We drive through groves, mottled grey tree trunks slender and confident unfettered by branches until well over head height. Small green leaves decorate the trees, with the odd flash of gold. Most of their companions have already fallen, and the ground is hidden by a blanket of dying leaves. There is a complete lack of undergrowth vegetation, so the rust floor, grey trunks as the focal point, and canopy of lime creates a strangely beautiful image, both tranquil and mysterious in its uniformity and openness.
Further along we drive through a natural archway. The trees are different with low spreading branches and spindly scrub reaching out to greet us. Damp moss crept over rocks and exposed root systems. The sunlight is filtered, dappled; the trees making a gallant effort to prevent us from seeing the hazy sky above. The road is clear, a solid white line guiding the way but its edges are awash with the casualties of autumn. We stop to breath in the underlying dampness of the shady woods, and crunch over piles of leaves, their colours leaping up in contrast to the asphalt. A closer study reveals a myriad of colours underfoot: russet, tan, bronze and copper, mahogany, flaming orange, amber, cool yellow and slate grey.
The area is largely inhabited. We pass a couple of private homes, one which looks like a holiday escape, its dark green exterior attempting to hide its very presence. Another villa is nestled on a hill to the left of the road, obscured by vegetation, but the ‘For Sale’ sign gets us wondering at the local prices. We also notice a hiking refuge, a depressed restaurant that looks closed and a small hotel with a sweeping car park to match the views. We pass only a few cars. Some are stopped as people painstakingly pick blackberries, tramp over layers of leaf matter along walking trails or pause to eat lunch at wooden picnic benches.
We breathe deeply, enjoying the clarity of the air, reconnecting with an environment that isn’t polluted from vehicular fumes, factory output and the presence of several million people. Unfortunately much of the native fauna has disappeared, but we do hear the trill of unidentified birds, and the cling clang of bells hung around the neck of wandering cattle.
Twice Gi stops to pick chestnuts. Initially we pull up beside a corrugated shed, with window shaped holes cut out and fading petrol sign peeling on the front. Another hand painted sign in navy blue and crimson has arrows pointing left and right, providing directions for lost visitors. Oddly there is a fireplace inside. The shack is hardly big enough for a table and chair, but there stands a red brick fireplace, as though it is ready to provide warmth at a moments notice. The space is littered with refuse, which I find both repulsive and sad.
Gi hops around looking for chestnut pods that are yet to spill their nuts. The pods are green-yellow and covered in prickly spikes. If you step on them carefully you can ease them open without risking fingertips, bend to prise out the chestnuts. Across the road, beside the shed, he spies a hazelnut tree and we crack open a couple of nuts that are edible.
At another bend in the road Gi again pulls over and we spend some time working our way along the road, filling a plastic bag with chestnuts. The road is awash with squashed pods, the nuts a crumbly mass on the bitumen, the spikes no match for car tyres. I find dealing with the barbed pods a painful exercise and take to looking for chestnuts on the ground, careful to check them for the microscopic holes indicating worm infestation. Gigi is very excited, already anticipating the process of toasting them under the grill at home before eating them like a popcorn snack as we watch a movie. To his dismay I find chestnuts generally unpalatable, very mild in flavour and too pasty in texture, although I suspect he’s secretly pleased that he gets to eat even more as a result.
We see a sign for a fresh water spring and turn to investigate. These signs rarely have any distance indicated on them and after driving for some time we stop to study a colourful tourist map on the side of the road. As we try to work out how much further it is to the springs Gi notices the sign is riddled with bullet holes. The large ‘Siamo Qui’ (We are here) indicator is surrounded by the disturbing marks and we turn to return to the main road.
Having entered the mountainous national park on the north western side we exit on the south eastern corner, skirting most of Montesarchio before taking country roads to San Martino. We bypass Pannarano and marvel at a gorgeous villa that has been converted into a private dentistry practice. We are now on the northern edge of another regional park, but drive through the valley to Rotondi, a small village Rosaria recommended. It’s quiet, and pretty in the historical centre, with a train station that would be convenient for the commute to Naples. The main activity on this lazy Sunday afternoon is happening at the local bar, the old men of the neighbourhood have gathered for aperitifs over card games and loud political discussions.
After half an hour of trying to get the street signs and map to correlate we find ourselves on secondary road No 162. This takes us through Acerra, once a distinct town, now a border suburb of the swelling Neapolitan metropolis. This is a place that struggles, with crime and ignorance. The rubbish is piling up on the streets as the garbage collection strike continues. The sweet aroma of cool forests is soon replaced by the offensive odour of smouldering, toxic gases released from the plastics as the locals take to burning the rubbish in an attempt to eliminate it.
We have driven less than an hour from city to nature and it’s as though we’ve travelled to another world. We both hope to visit on another Sunday drive soon. In the meantime we are dreaming up ways to combine country living with city based work.
1 comment:
sounds good Jenny.You must be getting to be experts at raiding the fruit and nut trees.Is the garbage strike still on in Naples?!!! Keep smiling .Mum
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