The weather this morning is once more glorious to the horizon and that horizon is far far away, as we sit 400 metres atop a pretty high hill over looking a number of villages and towns below us. Apparently you have to be taller than 600 metres to be a mountain, so we are a wee bit short of that, but it feels like we are on top of one. The view is breath taking, scattered houses, villages and churches, ribbons of road laid between them, the green of trees, vineyards and rows of olive trees, grass far below, ochres and the scorched sun blanched brown of earth. There is an early morning haze to the horizon and the sky remains as far as the eye can see. The view pays no attention to boundaries. A frightening zig zag, steep hairpin bend after hairpin bend uphill of a journey, with half of Italy trailing behind me and making suicidal overtakes, only to miss our turning and come all the way down to go back up again. This was not a turnaround kind of road. The advantage of the height is not just the stunning view, but it is considerably cooler of an evening.
Whilst staying at the organic vineyard and farm, I spent some time chatting to the woman who owns it, it has been in her family since 1804. The family house was built some time prior to 1730, has it appears on a local area map of that date. During our chat, the lovely woman disappeared momentarily behind a thick cellar door and then reappeared carrying a small carefully wrapped book. The wrapping was an aged thin, creased, weathered, cream parchment paper, it had clearly been opened and resealed many times. The book was tied up with a very faded piece of leather lace. She gently unpackaged it and undid the leather bow and explained that the book started in 1804 and recorded all her family births and deaths since that date, in the actual house. A frail little book which contained two hundred and twenty years of history, sitting in her hands. Its first page opened with a flowing, beautifully small, cursive script writing, the ink now faded and an entry of the birth of a long lost relative, and what followed were pages of family members, beautiful flowing cursive writing, faded red, blue and black inks. Many pages later we came to a some what simple biro entry with the birth of her daughter. Not just the evolution of the family, but time and writing. The house had been in her family, who had farmed the land, since 1804. Only two other occupiers during that time, the Germans for a short time and the Americans a few years later. She even had an American helmet on display in the cellar. The walls sat two foot thick and huge 300 year old beams hung over our heads in the cellar. An incredible insight into a family, its history, its roots , its feet well and truly in the community and hands in the soil. Another to add to my exploration of real Italy. A real experience of time in your hands. At every turning there is some one new to meet, a story to share, and something to learn. It never ceases to amaze me. Lovely days people.
“ People are guests in our story, the same way we are guests in theirs. But we all meet each other for a reason because every person is a personal lesson waiting to be told.” Lauren klarfeld.
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