Stone upon stone: an Italian sojourn: 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