64. A CASTLE FOR A PRINCIPESSA

I woke this morning in a castle.

A soft mist wraps around the ancient parapets and rain drips from the forest of trees below my shuttered, tall window, from where, on a clear day, I can see stone houses with weathered terracotta rooftiles that cling to the hills like barnacles.  The statues in the vast garden that tumbles down the hills are mossy and worn, their feet sunk into centuries of Umbrian soil. I'm surrounded by the drama and duels, and magic and mystery, in the green heart of Italy.

 

Clouds of white voile curtains flutter in the soft breezes and I stretch out across my enormous bed, languid and happy, still fairly delirious that I am in a country that feeds the senses which such abandon, without pause.  I'm sleeping the sleep of the just, the chaste, and the blessed.  Every day now I am molto bello - people are commenting that I am serene, that I am passionate, that I am happy.  I love Italy and everything about it so much that I feel I'd like to live here as long as I can and I'm trying to soak up the language as much as I can. I was so happy that I told Virgilia that I was fragole.  Strawberries. At least I'm good value for their euro!

Castello Dello Oscano

Castello dello Oscano was built in the 14th century. There are grand drawing rooms, and sweeping staircases and stone terraces and intimate libraries containing crumbling centuries old books for perusing when the lure of countryside has swamped me momentarily. Then, I can sit at a frail old table, covered in hand stitched Italian cotton, and wonder at the intrigues that went on in this castle. It's survived major world wars, earthquakes, Italian rain, shine, hail, snow, heat and dust;  family dramas, political upheavals and shifting stones. As I walk through the halls and softly frescoed rooms, enjoying the subtle Italian light drooping into the windows I'm tempted to whisper softly so as not to disturb the ghosts. I am silenced by the secrets the castle contains, yet it's warm and beautiful and elegant.

Splashing around the new pool the first day, surrounded by groves of olive terraces and misty hills as far as I could see, a guest approached me and asked what I thought of the castle.  He thought it was rather "primitive".  Primitive?  It's almost 700 years old! The only thing that creaks around here would be floors, beautiful inlaid parquetry that's been trodden on by the aristocracy and the gentrified; or perhaps his expectation that something of this age and accompanying history should look like a Sofitel. Was it safe to eat here? Safe?  Over the past few nights we've dined under frescoes, had our Umbrian wines in sand etched antique glasses, been elegantly served lightly scorched salmon with chicory and blackberries, or rabbit with an aromatic truffle puree, angus beef soft as the morning mists, pheasant, local cheeses, pates, honey, homemade pasta.  Was it safe to eat here? No, Sir, not with you around, expecting Mackers. No wonder your wife looked so miserable. She wanted what we were having - fabulous food, in good company, in a fascinating place.  Primitive?  I've had the best wi-fi connection since I've been in Italy!  If you don't like the sound of cobbles under your feet, doves, deer crossing your path and urns, go back home you grumpy, unappreciative curmudgeon!

Moi at Montepulchiano

Two handsome, elegant young men, enjoying breakfast of rich cakes, strong coffee and proscuitto and melon, in the rays of soft light one morning, told us they'd driven from Belgium, across Italy. They were enjoying the gardens, the light, the food, staying in beautiful historical places.  I expected them to languidly brush their thick dark locks off their forehead as they lay on a picnic blanket in a field of poppies, clad in white linen, reading Keats to each other.  Italy is where Keats died, and where he wrote his most famous poem - Ode to a Grecian urn. He loved Italy because he sought beauty in words and the art and myths of the ancients. No matter how old anything is in Italy, I wouldn't dare call it primitive!  It's far too sophisticated and exquisite.  The man is a donkey. 


The Castle is about twenty minutes drive from Perugia, so old and exquisite, too; enormous fortified castles built with engineering feats that would challenge the computerised age still guard the town. We walked along a Roman aquaduct in a soft rain, wondering how these were built, when buildings that have gone up this century are already crumbling.  The ancient towns hang like necklaces around their hills, looking across to each other, challenging each other to see who can have the highest tower. 

Spello

The countryside is so beautiful, I understand why the Italians would rather paint, plant and make love and music than conduct successful wars.  Nobody in their right mind who lives in a country like this would want to bring guns or war into it.   Food, love, the valleys, the skies, style and colour, the humanities and values are the pulse of Italians. Virgilio, our driver, spends his time waiting for us to return to his black Mercedes listening to Rigoletto and La Traviata, followed by passionate discussions about who is the best tenor or soprano.   Occasionally he'll get out of the car and lean against it, smoking a Camel, while philosophing about art or literature.  Or he'll tell us the best way to make cherry jam, using the cherries plucked from his garden.  In a restaurant he'll explain how to make the cheeses, or why the bread is so crusty. 


Ask him when is the best time to phone someone, and he'll pause, and look at me as if I'm mad, and reply, "When you want to talk to them, of course! Why would you call them if you didn't want to talk to them?  You can call your doctor at 3am, but you don't call anyone before 9.30 in the morning to tell them about your new shoes. If you call them at dinner time, it must be about something very important to disturb them. Otherwise, you can call until midnight.  If you are a mother, you can call your son anytime. Wherever you are, the mothers are calling their sons. Can I put the pasta on now? In the bank, in the car, the sons are calling their mothers.  When I ask him what he's having for dinner, he looks at me as if I'm mad, again, and says he'll call his wife and ask her. We point to the vines, and he's waxes lyrical about the various ways of growing grapes, for the best quality. 

Spello

Over the few days here we drive to the hill towns;  to Spello, Montepulchiano, Torgiano, Cortona; each is so different, from the width of the streets to the type of stones, to the heights of the towers and the flowers in the windowboxes. Spello was having its annual flower fest, and every windowbox was bursting with spring, and the smell of jasmine and wisteria was intoxicating. Churches smell of wax and frankinsense and the are dark, sacred places built for worship tens of centuries ago. A priest sits in a confession box with his green light on, and I realise that he's really like phone a friend when in trouble . ... unh, unh huh don't worry he'll forget about it all in the morning. Many of the frescoes are intact, and many others are attempting to be restored; and every time I'm agog at the engineering feats of the builders of those times.  

We visited a tarturo/truffle factory where the owner, Alfonso Fortunato, gave us shaved truffles and semolina as a gift, just because I took photos of his divine, earthy smelling truffles. I'm now addicted to them .. they smell like .. earth, and rain and mud and sex!  But I still don't understand how man could have decided to make money - and such a lot of it - out of something that looks like a spiky chestnut covered in mud, smells like all of the above,  has to be sniffed out of the ground by a dog, kept refrigerated, shaved, boiled, squashed and then spread on toast.


But mamma mia, how multo multo belissimo! These Italians know how to live. In the past few days I've eaten tartufo like it's going out of fashion, I've bought some blue leather shoes, I am the very proud warm owner of two cashmere twin sets (do not say a word about nonnos and bobbas and grannies - they look and feel divine and one is orange and the other deep purple and also do not make a comment about those being the colours of frustration!!!).  I've eaten cherries till I'm about to burst, amazing cheeses, raddicchio, I even had a coffee that it was so bitter I though my nails would curl.  If I could drink the wines I would, but I want to live long enough to return here as quickly as I can.  I only have 8 days left of my journey phase one ... thank goodness I have plans to return to Italy or I would be a very unhappy principessa indeed .... only a few more sleeps in this castle then off somewhere just as wonderful .... 

Truffles/tartufo at Alfonso Fortunata