A cooler start to the day this campervan morning. The local cockerel has been sounding since about six and in full voice. There is a tree close by full of the chatter of birds in boisterous form. The nearby road punctuates the soundscape with passing cars. We sit in a bit of a valley surrounded by lush green wooded hills on all sides, each with a church on, each with a bell in, each sounding the hour. There is something comforting about their sound and their presence. Longfellow said of church bells :
“ They have tones that touch and search the hearts of young and old. “
Italy likes its churches and they punctuate the towns, villages, roads, valleys, hillsides and mountains. Spires and towers, whites and terracotta and of course the summoning of the bell. They date back centuries, their bells marking and reminding us all of the passing of time. There is a cooling breeze, blowing coastwards down the valley, which brings a welcome relief to the temperatures. The sky a soft powdery blue, bands of greying cloud passing overhead.
So dipped my toe into the world of the true tourist yesterday, trains and buses, crowds, shops and restaurants, an amble by the beach and some people watching. Observing the great and the good parade their finery and bathe on private beaches and the humble at their fun. Basilicas and town halls, piazzas and statues to heroes and revolutionaries, towers and keeps, marble and stone, fine old buildings paired at time clumsily with modern architecture. Narrow shaded walkways and open sunlit streets, busy traffic and the bustle of people. A real adventure into the urban landscape. It’s not my thing, it really isn’t, but that said my desire for history and to sample a bit of urban Italy confirmed to me what I do like. If nothing else that was a confirming experience. The preference for the rural quiet, space and time to be. Even the limited number of pictures I did take, lacked something, the passion, the depth and the construct. Anyway that adventure should do for the next few weeks as I head back into the back of beyond and try and rediscover the real Italy. Onwards now to Tuscany. A shout out to Italian bus drivers, balls of steel. One handed driving through narrow spaces, oncoming lorries, whilst holding a conversation with one lady and arguing with another after he missed her stop. Lovely days people.
“… a tourist can't help but have a distorted opinion of a place: he meets unrepresentative people, has unrepresentative experiences, and runs around imposing upon the place the fantastic mental pictures he had in his head when he got there.” Michael Lewis.
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