Route of Italy trip, 2018

 

A saint, a shepherd, a blacksmith and arriverderci

Another day, instead of heading right at the crossroads of our little lane as we usually do, we headed left, towards the mountains, and stopped in the town of Camaiore, which I doubt has seen many tourists ever, but should. It is one of those delightfully authentic towns that wears its history in a very real fashion, without the need for cheap souvenirs or expensive bling. 

Over time, as Lucca gained more and more power it crumbled the castle settlements on hills surrounding it. As these fell one by one, the population moved downhill, and so the little town of Camaiore grew.

Once there were four gates to access Camaiore Castle, built in 1374, but there is only one left. Above the arrow slit is the coat of arms of Camaiore and the Di Poggi family; though pavers now cover where the moat once protected the town. 

Saint Bernadine of Siena very likely came this way, too, given most of the IHS symbols on lintels over most of the township doors. He was the son of a governor born not far from here, orphaned at the age of six, and brought up by pious aunts. He later gave his inheritance to charity and became solemnised as a friar. He had the gift of eloquence. Such was his talent, that he was soon called to travel the length and breadth of Italy preaching the word of God, carrying placards with IHS printed on them and gilt radiating from the letters -- the first three letters in Greek for Christ. 

So large were his audiences, sometimes thirty thousand and more, that he was often compelled to speak in the market place: the only forum large enough to accommodate the crowds who came to hear him. He urged that vanities be burned in bonfires, but his lasting message was one of 'Peace'. Everywhere he travelled, he asked citizens to remove warring symbols from the walls of churches and homes, then to replace them with the symbols I H S, rekindling fervour for Jesus Christ. 

So many homes in Camaiore bear the IHS mark that there were too mamy to photograph. So, I think the locals heard his message. 

The abbreviated symbol also radiates from the church in stained glass, too,  and is quite gorgeous. 

This particular church, St Michael the Archangel, had to be reconstructed after war bombings but earlier manifestations had stood in this place since 1180. And in the 13th century a pilgrim's hospital, also St Michael's, was built just metres away across the Via Francigena, the pilgrims' route. Those pilgrims who happened to die in this hospital whilst travelling were buried in shallow narrow parallel pits behind the apse; their graves discovered during the reconstruction. It is a simple, plain church with a beautiful frescoed dome. 

The town is all long lanes, like the via Francigena, with offshoots that are also long. Some have religious paintings on display, the closest this town gets to a tourist-type art gallery. 

The local bakery has on display an array of ancient Pasimata sweet cake, which has been eaten during Lent and at Easter all around this region for centuries. Pasimata, from the Latin, means 'bread baked in ashes'. There are two kinds here: the one made in Lucca, which is rectangular and flavoured with aniseed but has no eggs or raisins; then the Camaiore version which is round, rich in eggs, sugar, vin santo and raisins: a little like Panettone to the taste. Brilliant as a rich sweat bread in a bread and butter pudding. 

After a delicious lunch of local pasta in a lovely locanda, which we again forgot to photograph, we headed further up the mountain to see what we could see. And this turned out to be a magical afternoon. When the road became too narrow, we just parked where we could, and wandered. On a lovely warm day, so high up in the hills, the air was amazingly crisp and clean. So were the mountain streams tumbling fast over rocks and tree roots as it carved a path down the side of the mountain, under ancient bridges and beside trodden water paths heavy with moss. 

We came upon a lone shepherd, his small flock of sheep tinkling gently as he moved them slowly up the mountain for the summer, his home patch likely too small to sustain them all year: his knapsack with his days portion of home-made pecorino over his shoulder; his eyes ever watchful on his flock. 

Further up the hill we found an old iron forge, still working. It had a series of ancient stone buildings practically buried in moss, shrubs and dripping greenery covering outbuildings, tools and workshop. 

A millrace, running alongside a gushing mountain stream, turned the big old hydro-wheel. The iron forger was using an expensive mechanical carrier to load a long section of gate panelling he had clearly just completed, on to a truck for delivery. A functional piece. But at random spots along his mountainside workshop his iron work creations were more inclined towards the artistic. And one of them may be the artist at work--very likely a self portrait in iron.

Such a lovely day: we took home so many special memories. 

On Sunday we were to have a day of rest. We need to begin organising ourselves for our trip home soon as this Friday we have a train to catch to Rome, then flights for many long hours to follow. 

Instead, we found another endless line of traffic, giving rise to yet another giant mess of impossible parking along every single side street within cooee of it. But we were so inspired to see what was going on, that we had to join the fray, so after a long hunt found a parking spot that involved quite a bit of walking back to the bustle and hubbub. 

Enroute, we came upon a sign for cats and dogs that had us laughing. Which put us in the right frame of mind of a street party. 

For like last Sunday, this was a similar celebration: another market -- this one home made crafts -- another Street Food festival, with smooth music filling the airwaves keeping everyone bopping. 

Italians, since the days of the gladiators, have migrated towards such entertainments. They seem to happen so often here that there is no real time to ever develop a sense of being disgruntled about much at all. Those wiley Romans clearly understood all the ploys needed to keep their citizens happy. Today the same: the food is endless, the drinks flow, the music is effervescent and it was enormous fun.

So instead of getting organised, we ate wooden platters of sliced spiced porchetta, baked somewhere in Perugia two days ago, we were told, especially for this festival, would you believe, then well rested between there and here. Tender. And for us, this was accompanied by thick chunks of soft, medium and hard cheeses with a lovely local bread, for once. We hunted down the artisan baker providore later, as we were dancing in the streets.

After a little legitimating exercise we then nibbled on the street food. Deep fried artichokes. I would never have thought of it. So delicious. Whole. Steamed first, then dunked in hot oil, right to the end of their very long green stems. And, those luscious stems. Never will I waste them if I see them ever again. They are simply delicious.

Then miele and marmalade bomboloni (like little doughnuts) dragged through soft sugar and popped whole in the mouth. Dripping at the edges. 

We really must head home soon, or we will literally not fit on any of the airplane seats available. 

Our comfortable exchange home in the delightful town of  Camaiore

Hills around this area were once covered in castles 

Last remaining gate to now defunct Camaiore Castle built in 1374

Above the arrow slit is the coat of arms of Camaiore and the Di Poggi family

Saint Bernadine of Siena encouraged citizens to remove warring symbols and instead put IHS, Greek for Jesus Christ, on their home, to rekindle fervour in Him

IHS in radiant glory in church stained glass window

 St Michael the Archangel, reconstructed after the war, has stood on this site since 1180

St Michael's simply adorned frescoed dome

Camaiore's Via Francigena, the pilgrim route lined with shopfronts

Galleries down side street of Camaiore

Ancient Pasimata cake, eaten at Easter, means 'bread baked in ashes'

The mountain ahead

Shallow mountain stream tumbling over rocks and tree roots

Old iron forge and ancient building buried in moss and dripping greenery

The aged millrace which turned the old hydro wheel

The iron forger is still at work here

He clearly also does decorative pieces 

This could be a self portrait 

This made Miss Bec laugh

Another Sunday festival, another street fair and party

Deep fried artichoke, steamed first, then dunked in oil, including the edible stems

Bombolini

Paper and silk; gold and diamonds

Today, we took a trip down memory lane and re-visited Lucca: a tall brown stone city with interesting piazzas, palazzos and churches that reveal a history of great wealth, a city surrounded by wide expansive low walls that are delightful for a passegiata at any time of the day.

Lucca comes from the word 'Luk', meaning 'a place of water', and has had easy access to water way back into Etruscan times. Which explains how, over the centuries, it has become a huge manufacturing producer of paper, which needs considerable water for its production. First, in the 1300's, Lucca made vellum from sheep and animal skins. Sheets of these finely pressed skins were bound into accounting books for the city merchants. Lucca then moved to making writing material from rags: ground, pressed and dried. But, in the 1800's a pharmacist, by accident, discovered a formula for yellow packaging paper: a combination of straw, mortar and water. So huge did this trade become for the local economy that Lucca ended up setting the price for raw materials for it, for much of Europe at the time. But the lobbies out to protect water as an environmental resource were such that the demand for yellow paper gradually diminished, at which point Lucca took up the challenge and, began, in the 1970s, making tissue paper and corrugated board, up there with the best in the world. With some 200 factories still today. 

Parallel to this, Lucca's prime location near two rivers has made it of strategic importance since its early days. It was so important that three powerful Roman leaders arranged to meet here in 55BC to discuss Rome's direction and strategies: Julius Caesar, Pompey the Great and Marcus Craccus--at what came to be called the First Triumvirate, planning the Empire. Lucca, then, would have had many typical Roman features behind its city walls and along its grid-like streets, which today have changed character. 

The elliptical shape of the old Roman Amphitheatre is still visible, but these days, it has been converted into connected blocks of high rise apartments overlooking a vast piazza where gladiators once ruled and crowds once roared. Today it is thickly carpeted with boulevard restaurants and bars, shaded by umbrellas: a hangout for tourists sipping wine and and twirling pasta. Or eating a typical Luccan sweet bread, Buccellato, from the panificio display.

Silk became a big seller as did precious stones in centuries past; and Lucca's merchants became wealthy, their banks serviced Europe; their palazzos grew more beautiful; their architecture more extraordinary. The Guinigi tower-house, built by one of the wealthy silk merchants in the 1300s, its oak trees growing out of its rooftop gardens, stands high amongst them. 

Their churches, including the beautiful San Michele in Foro, which was built on the ruins of the old Roman forum, were highly embellished. San Michele in Foro, with highly decorative columns, blind arcades and loggias, has Saint Michael the Archangel flanked by two angel statues, one of which, so goes the tale, wore a huge diamond, given that the town was so rich. 

Then, thanks to Elisa, Bonaparte's sister, who inherited Lucca's rule after Napolean's invasion in the 1800s, followed by Maria Luisa, newly appointed Duchess of Lucca who arrived on Viareggio's shore in a beautiful sailing ship of white and gold enroute to taking up residence in the Ducal Palace there--Lucia was treated gently in subsequent times. Arts and culture were encouraged, money was spent on education, the walls and moats of the city were renovated and beautified, turned into public spaces that are still used today for the passeggiata. 

Lucca, where Caesar, Pompey and Marcus Craccus held the strategic First Triumvirate

Apartments around the elliptical shape of the old Roman Amphitheatre

Buccellato, a characteristic Lucca sweet bread

Guinigi tower house, built by a wealthy silk merchant has oak trees growing in its rooftop garden

A different perspective on Guinigi tower

So wealthy was Lucca that Saint Michael the Archangel, the church's namesake and central statue,  is said to have worn a huge diamond

Lucca city gate

Maria Luisa arrived on Viareggio's shore, to begin her rule as a Duchess at the Ducal Palace, in a sailing ship in beautiful colours of white and gold 

Artisan pastry at Lucca

Immensity of the city walls

Our favourite avenue of trees this trip

Sand, water and sun of Viareggio

Today we headed for our local Viareggio marina area, with nothing planned other than to enjoy the hot Saturday sun. Italians were out in droves. They really do know how to enjoy themselves, and they don't need much.  We often see a family group sitting on a pavement corner enjoying a packed picnic on their day out. Just as well they don't need cut grass, as there isn't any. And parks are few and far between, and rarely found on the waterfront. 

We parked where we could find space, which had us in a back lot beside the docks, tucked away in waterways that have been around as canal access since before the 1500s. Ancient. Here, Viareggians, became experts in building strong wooden boats that could carry the giant blocks of Carrara marble down the length of the coast of Italy dropping them off for clients like the Medicis, and artists like Michelangelo. 

From the 19th century onwards, they became skilled at building fishing boats and thrived on that while the tide was high--further developing their ship carpentry, craftsmanship and engineering skills. Today, we saw small single operator boats roping themselves to the bollards along the canal before they headed to their final mooring. Here, they cleaned their fishing tackle and mended nets as they set out a fresh fish stall of their catch of the day to one side, and voila! a queue formed and their daily catch was gone. So fresh. 

Other small boats operated as bobbing moored street food stalls selling crispy frittura mista di pesce to sun loving Italians out everywhere. 

We ate in a fabulous canal side restaurant, Baracchina.  Their fish soup has now taken up the Number 1 spot in my favourites for the region, filled as it was with crab and spice and all things seafood-nice. 

These days Viareggio has taken on the luxury shipbuilding game in the Burlamacco canal and is now one of the world leaders in designing these giants in metal and fibreglass. We wandered passed massive modern boat building yards: Benetti, Perenni Navi, and Viscera Marine to name a few. Monster yachts under commissions from Russian oligarchs, Middle Eastern princes and technology billionaires were under construction. Business looks to be thriving.

An incredibly long black number, Seven, won an award for its lighting design. Such is the competition here that even lighting is a separate competitive category. Old buildings on shore alongside these shipbuilding docks, decorated in stainless steel and glass, hold window displays of chandlery, lighting, space-age technology and custom-design boat furniture. All looking very swish, even exotic. 

Some yachts were under plastic wraps as they were getting their last coat of glossy paint and likely wanted no dust specks marring the work. Amazing luxury. Billions spent every year on these ships, just in Viareggio alone. 

Today, throngs of Italians were out sunbathing on the large and lovely public beach we came across along the Lido. As we walked further along the jetty we came across a mournful statue, l'Attesa, depicting families waiting for their loved ones to return from the sea. 

It was not far north of here, on remote rocks overlooking the sea at Lerici on the 8 July, 1822, that Mary Shelly, wife of the young poet Percy Bysshe Shelly, waited--somewhat like these stone statue figures--for her husband to return in his boat, the Don Juan, which he had not long modified to outpace Lord Byron's boat.

He did not arrive. 

A vicious storm blew up and the seas raged and the modified top masts and sails caused his boat to struggle. He was offered help between Livorno and Viareggio by a boat captain who warned him he was in dire trouble in these conditions. 

Shelly paid no heed.

Mary waited in vain. Percy's body was washed up days later on a Viareggio beach, unrecognisable, but for his clothing and a book of Keat's poems he had rapidly tucked into his coat pocket. 

He was twenty-nine. 

He was buried on the beach.

Barely a month later his body was dug out and burned there on a pyre with old friends, including Bryon, gathered around, waves lapping. His heart refused to burn, and was later given to Mary who wrapped it in silk and kept it close in her writing case until the end of her days. 

Today, children make sandcastles in the sand on sunny days. 

Daily catch for sale in shaded fresh fish stall

Bobbing moored seafood stalls selling crispy frittura mista di pesce 

This Baracchina seafood soup is famous

Massive boat building yards build monster yachts for Russian oligarchs and Middle Eastern princes

Long black number, Seven, won an award for design

Some still under plastic wraps protecting glossy paintwork

Sunbathing on the Lido

 l'Attesa, depicting families waiting for loved ones to return from the sea

Today children build sandcastles in the sand where Percy was buried

By the waterfront

We have taken time throughout our stay to explore our immediate surroundings. We are just a short walk from our early morning coffee bar, and that is always fun.  Given that our morning coffee is now such a fixed routine in our day any future move we ever make would require a coffee shop within easy walking distance, I fear. We love shutting the house door and walking there in  just a couple of minutes.

Barely a block down our back lane, we have found another phenomenal find: a home grown pasta factory.  So many great businesses are thriving down this lane, which is amazing to us. In a lane? I don't believe we will find one of those in any of our back lanes at home, but this clean, neat, sterile factory sells many different kinds of freshly made pasta, and sauces to go with them if you need them, along with  complete dishes like Lasagna-to-go.  All just needing heat to serve.  Fresh pasta is sublimely silky.  We have fallen in love with it all over again on mainland Italy, and are going to have to pull out our never-yet-used pasta maker that someone gave us for Christmas one year and learn how to use it properly.  A mix of flours is the secret so our factory folk tell us. We think. It is all Italian here, and we may have it wrong, but we are on a mission to master the mix when we get home. 

We are well on the way to mastered foraging, too, down our local lanes. Between there and here we can harvest wild nettles, leaves from great bushes of sage leaves, and long healthy needles of rosemary and fine fragrant thyme,  all poking through grassy patches or fence wires along our great lane. We just char-roast some pumpkin cubes with sliced sweet caramelised leeks, crisp hand-pulled wild sage leaves in melted butter, and mix with soft slippery ricotta over hot fresh pasta, topping the lot with freshly grated parmigiana.  Yum!  Some toasted seeds on the side if we have any. Another firm favourite are the little squares of ricotta and spinach ravioli fresh from our factory, topped with ricotta cream and chopped walnuts.  To. Die. For. 

Between coffee and pasta we explore. Odd things appeal to us now. We have done much of the traditional tourist stuff so often we now allow our curiosity free rein. Everywhere mandarine and orange trees are dropping fresh fruit over the footpaths. I have yet to see a single person take one of these fruits. Mayhap they all have citrus trees in their own gardens. A local church enroute to the waterfront is gilt and gorgeous its artwork captivating our camera. 

Then we happened upon a large Italian villa, currently running an art exhibition, that is open to explore.   Sadly for the artist, we practically ignored the art display, and focussed instead on the architecture and the decor which spanned some 6o years all up from the time Villa Argentina was built in the mid 1800s until it acquired some of its more exotic enhancements in the Art Nouveau period in the 1920s.

This villa is in a side street in the stylish beach side town of Viareggio, just a couple of kilometres south of us, on the way to Pisa. It has the most gorgeous facade of cupids,  fruits and flowers crafted in ceramic tiles by Galileo Chini at  a factory in Florence. I love the Art Nouveau staircase spiralling up to the private rooms and the detail and craftsmanship of the wrought iron balustrading is eye-catching, too.  Not to mention the paint colour. In several rooms there are the most amazing chandeliers, accentuating the ornate cornices and ceiling detail. The floors are marble aggregate, but of different and stylish patterns in each main room, though using similar colours.  The finish is like polished concrete. But the pièce de résistance is the ballroom with its extravagant Persian wedding theme and highly decorative ceiling and wall panels. Very pretty. The waterfront in Viareggio, barely a block away from the villa, is of the era and has delightful character buildings stretching along the beach road, south and north.  Long, long miles of it.

Though the big disappointment about the Italian waterfront, like the American waterfront,  is that most of it is private. For nine months of the year these buildings for miles and miles north of here, even to La Spezia, occupy prime viewing of the sea--along with the rights to the sea front. You cannot even see the sea unless you have a coffee, a drink, or find a public beach and they are few and far between and not easily signposted. And they are usually barricaded off from the privately run sections of the beach by boardwalks or fencing, making it all a bit of an eyesore, really. All such a shame. The beauty of this natural flat sandy beach--and it could be beautiful--is completely lost with all the private franchises operating bars, cafes, boutiques, and restaurants along its frontage.  Even more tragically they are only in business for about four to five months of the year. The rest of the time they seem to be locked up and lonely. As is the beach. And sightseers are padlocked out. 

On the other side of the beach road are mainly hotels. These, too, operate similar opening times. Even now, after Easter, very few hotels are open, though they are all starting to spruce up their paint work, gardens,  and ready themselves to open soon, so it is possible May is the beginning of the season while September likely closes it. At other times of the year the waterfront is almost eerily silent. Economically that makes no sense to me having things virtually closed for  dozens of kilometres for so much of the year. 

We took time to visit one of the many starred restaurants for lunch. We have discovered the regional seafood soup that is to our taste, and have been testing it in many restaurants all around the coast  to date. Today's seafood dishes came highly recommended, but, in truth, we have had similar dishes as nice, if not better, further up the coast when our friend from the Netherland was with us. But we are still taste testing. And will be until we leave in about a week. So judging is ongoing. 

Citrus fruit all along the streets

Gilt work on local church

Villa Argentina built in the 1800s is now an art gallery 

View of ceramic tile frieze along the side of Villa Argentina 

Facade of cupids,  fruits and flowers crafted in ceramic tiles by Galileo Chini

Art Nouveau staircase

Chandeliers with ornate cornices and ceiling detail 

Marble aggregate finished like polished concrete

Gilt Persian wedding theme in the ballroom wall panels

Stalls  close to waterfront 

Access to the waterfront is problematic often blocked by rows of buildings 

Hotels and apartments close to the beach

Viareggio seafood soup

Characteristic  dish