Traces of history

Spello will live long in our memory, I think, as it was where we ate one of the most memorable Sunday lunches we've ever eaten, albeit quite by accident.

We had attempted to book lunch for today at a recommended restaurant close to home, but with no success: the restaurant we tried is frequently booked out well in advance and today was another fine Sunday with families in long lunch mode so bookings had to be made much earlier than our attempt. 

So, we forgot about lunch, and just planned to eat wherever we landed: which is our usual modus operandi when this happens.  

We landed in Spello after a beautiful sunny morning ooh-ing and aah-ing over the Perugian countryside scenery all around us, which is a magical mix of villages with church spires poking from the tops of hills, long groves of olive trees, and cedars in long lines along a road, or the horizon. It is such a beautiful part of Italy, Umbria: gorgeous pockets everywhere.

Spello happens to have a history that involves the Etruscans, one of the earliest inhabitants in this part of Italy: a civilisation we are specifically hunting down this trip to learn more about. It is not known exactly how the Etruscans came to occupy the parts of Umbria and Tuscany that we are visiting, but it is theorised they might have come from the near East of modern-day Europe and happily traded with the Greeks and others along the coastlines here. They had a big influence on the Romans who followed in these parts, leaving them many words -- 'Rome' is Etruscan -- along with their alphabet, which they acquired from the Greeks and passed on to the Romans: along with olive trees, togas, and the arch. 

So, they left a big mark on modern day Italy, though their presence was so long ago. 

We were just about to enter Spello by an interesting old crumbling town gate which had two side arches specifically for pedestrians, and a larger central arch for carts: one of many medieval gates that still survive here, when we sighted a Locanda, like a traveller's inn, to the right of the square outside the city walls. The smells wafting from it were delicious, and as it was close enough to lunch, and they could found find us a spare seat, we were offered a menu.

Italian food places are interesting. Many cafes and bars we come across in small towns and cities--too many--serve an assortment of sameness that is completely unappetising to all of us: cold arancini, slices of ready-made pizza, ciabatta with dried salumi and a slice of cheese cut hours ago. The staff don't even assemble stuff, they just remove it form a cabinet, warm it if asked, and there is no cooking involved. We avoid them. We would rather pick up fresh bread at a bakery and assemble our own with market fare than bother with any of these. 

Italian breakfasts, too, are sometimes disappointing these days. Standard breakfasts at a cafe are sweet buns or a thick cold slice of bread with tomato topping served with your cafe, or expresso: eaten standing at the counter, or while heading out the door. Many of our overnight stays come with breakfast included. These breakfasts are nearly as unappetising as the ready prepared lunch spots we avidly avoid. Typically they are pre-packaged products laid out like a buffet: often with sweet buns in cellophane that sit out on a bench for days, even weeks, maybe even months. If the guests before you have not eaten them they still remain. Sometimes a small hard plain toast is offered with an indefinite due date. Rarely packaged bread: but when that is offered the same loaf is presented on the same board day after day--but at least, if you are desperate, you can toast the lack of freshness away. But, many breakfasts, too, we are leaving largely untouched. 

Fresh baked croissants, or today's freshly baked bread rolls, seems to be a French thing. These no longer appear on our breakfast tables in Italy: though they used to in the past. Many breakfasts have become standardised: industrialised. 

Even buying for dinner--attempting to find a single onion, or any single vegetable at a supermarket, has become a challenge, as most come in large pre-packaged portions. This is even happening with market fare, so we walk right past these offerings until we find what we need. If we can.

As compensation, though, coffee, everywhere, is divine. I order espresso in Europe and have not been disappointed yet. Though the others, who order cappuccino--though rarely after lunch to avoid the tut-tutting--would often prefer their coffee served hotter. Mine is always delicious. 

So this lunch in the Locanda was a surprise and a delight. Given our past experience we chose things that sounded different but regional, and that would take some effort in the preparation. We asked for, and they were delighted to prepare, a kind of degustation of their local fare, which came out as separate courses. And was all so delicious that we did not even take time to photograph the food so that we could try to replicate it at home some time. 

We ate so well. Eggplant layered with burrata cheese and the softest tomato jam as puree, a handmade Umbrian strangozzi pasta, so called because of its resemblance to shoelaces, topped with the famous black truffle from Norcia which is but an hour away; char-grilled chicken -- which clarified for me once and for all why Jamie Oliver insists on using blocks of wood, fired outdoors topped with a raw metal grate, to cook his favourite meats. The meat has to have that edge of char which we never seem to manage at home, flavoured with the irresistible smokey tang of the wood; and a thick long-simmered rich pork ragu over polenta -- the waiter encouraged us to include this and we are so glad we did. Everything tasted sublime and now, our only challenge is how are we ever to reproduce it at home; as we will want these flavours again, and again. 

All topped off with the local delicious Montefalco wine made from the Sagratino grapes growing on the hills all around us. 

This Sunday lunch made up for the disappointments we have had over many of our breakfast and lunch options: truly memorable. 

After which we wandered the very pretty town of Spello for the afternoon: famous for its art and flowers, as any of its medieval little side lanes can attest: all so well maintained and decorated. The local salumi seller had even made a work of art of his sausage hanging, in a frame.

And in another lane a tailor in the 1800s chanced upon some exquisite frescoes hidden under a thin coating of plaster on his workshop walls. Around seven hundred years ago these were painted by two artists from a nearby village to decorate the walls of this little oratory used by the Brotherhood of the Flagellants of St Ann. The work is gorgeous. 

Up, up, up we went, working off our lunch. With pink and white stone churches all the way and beautifully tended homes, many of them quiet today: tho' some where the inhabitants were stretching their Sunday lunch well into the afternoon, for we could hear their jollity. 

From a belvedere at the top we could look over the marshes that the Etruscans tried to tame: reclaiming land, digging canals to direct the water into the Tiber. Their work was later carried on by Roman war veterans who after good and faithful war service under Emperor Augustus were given this town for their duty, and the continued canal-work was integral to their livelihood here. Traces of that history and their effective drainage work still remain. 

Beautiful Perugia countryside 

Crumbling old town gate entering Spello 

Waiter at our Locanda lunch spot

Eggplant layered with burrata cheese and handmade Umbrian strangozzi pasta with rich pork ragu 

Delicious Montefalco wine made from the Sagratino grapes

Pretty Spello with its medieval lanes

Art everywhere

Plants arranged artfully

Salumi hung artfully

Frescoes from the Oratory of the Brotherhood of the Flagellants of St Anne

Wonderful work 

View at the top of the hill 

Etruscans tried to dig canals to reclaim the  marsh land below

Effective drainwork still remains

The tale of Francesco

For the last two variable weather days of rain showers, sleet spots, patches of hot sun, tufts of low cloud, and windy spells, we have been traipsing around the countryside following in the footsteps of St Francis. 

Francesco, as he was called, was a local Assisi lad about town. A cloth trader's son. Reasonably well off, popular, a little on the wild side. He went off with a band of his merry Assisians to fight the neighbouring hill town foes, the Perugians: but was on the losing team that time and taken prisoner of war for a goodly twelve months, during which time he became ill with a low grade fever that was hard to shake and that lead to visions.  

During his long recuperation he began a period of soul-searching and reflection about his life: what it was all about. What he might do with the rest of his. Having wasted so much of it already, he believed.

He thought to join the military, but enroute heard a voice calling him to return home, which he followed. And for a time he was chided as a deserter: his friends wondering whatever had happened to their happy-go-lucky mate, who now began to give away his money to the poor, wear ragged clothes and live on the streets, until his father attempted to drag him home to try to talk some sense to him.

He soon broke with his family, found shelter in mountain retreats or local churches with sympathetic priests, and began leading a life of poverty, chastity and obedience, dedicated to serving God by caring for others: while hearing voices telling him to repair the church. This, too, he proceeded to do: taking rocks and stones and repairing local broken ruins but coming slowly to the realisation, that his life's work was to be larger than that. Followers came to help him out. They, too, donned simple mud-coloured robes and knotted a rope at the waist, like Francesco. They, too, roamed the hills and valleys and gathered even more folk as followers: all drawn to their good works and simple life creed.

The Benedictines offered this little band of friars a small chapel at Portziuncola, St Mary of the Angels. Here they established a base and from this collection of wattle and daub huts grew the amazing Franciscan Order, a body of brethren who have given up their worldly goods and devote their lives to the care and welfare of others. 

That renovated chapel still stands to this day. It is tiny. Though now it rests like a small jewel, deep in the heart of a massive papal basilica that has been built up all around it, and dwarfs it; but the majority of tourists who pour through the doors of this grand basilica, see nothing but the humble chapel that Francesco helped rebuild with his own hands.

It was here, that Clare, a wealthy heiress from Assisi, a strong and faithful supporter, was welcomed, renouncing her worldly goods and taking vows that ended with her setting up the Order of the Poor Clares to continue the work of the Franciscans. 

Francesco's little prayer niche, where his own hut lay, also survives: albeit transformed and now heavily decorated with frescoes painted by ardent followers. 

As does the rose garden, where Francesco in a moment of self-doubt and flagellation threw himself onto a thorn bush, which followers believe God instantly turned into a rose bush without thorns -- the Rosa Canina Assisiensis -- which grows in the same spot today, it is said. 

The infirmary cell where Francesco died on the 3 October, 1226 at just 44 years of age still survives, just a few metres from his little church. 

The complex, these days, is enormous. Brown-robed friars in large numbers wander throughout chapels, residences, conference centres, and vast halls filled with busy Franciscan folk and their followers. The community is thriving. 

And just four kilometres away in Assisi is a building constructed after Francis's death that occupies nearly half the hill on which Assisi stands: the town where Franceso was born: the massive Basilica of St Francis: one of the most beautiful churches in all of Italy, every inch of its walls filled with exquisite works of art by Giotto and his apprentices. 

Here, behind an altar in the crypt, lies the body of St Francis, canonised soon after his death, with even more followers today than when he lived some eight hundred years ago. The Basilica of St Francis which was built to house his relics occupies half the Assisi mountain side: upper and lower churches, and 53 long arches of pink and white stone, the Friary, the Sacro Convento, with quarters for monks, a vast library, a museum, and a reliquary, which holds, among other treasures, the small silver chalice and platen that Francesco used, the simple tunic and slippers that he died in, and a prayer he wrote for a fellow brother signed with his T-cross signature, the last letter in the Hebrew alphabet, faithful to the end.

Today it has become a symbol for the Order of the Franciscans and hoards of followers recognise it as the mark of St Francis. One of the most beloved saints in all of Christendom. 

Francesco, a local Assisi lad about town

Began leading a life of poverty, chastity and obedience

From a small hut on this site, amidst a collection of wattle and daub huts of followers, grew the amazing Franciscan Order

St Mary of the Angels, Portziuncola, where the Franciscan movement started

Francesco's little prayer niche

Followers donned simple mud-coloured robes and knotted a rope at the waist, like Francesco 

Friar numbers are still thriving today

The complex, these days, is enormous

Basilica of St Francis houses the relics of St Francis

His signature, the last letter in the Hebrew alphabet

St Francis, one of the most beloved saints in Christendom

Where the rose without thorns grows even today

Once an Etruscan hill fort

It took only an hour to fly from Catania to Perugia, but many many hours in the entire process. We were dropped to the airport about 5pm expecting to board the plane around 7pm at the latest. Then, we were delayed over 2 hours: Ryan Air, which is the only flight that does this leg. No real choice. But, having said that, we had great seats--actually nine of them between the three of us and had it been long haul that would have been super, we might have had a long sleep, prone; but as it was just a short hop we sat and used only three of them. 

We were dropped at our farmhouse retreat in rural Perugia and noticed about two inches of snow on the grass in the dark. Not what we were expecting. The temperature, though, was mild: not much different than Catania, so we went to bed tired, but extra warm, with a log fire burning brightly in our living room, welcome, though not really needed. Temperatures were still mild in the morning but we managed a shot of the melting snow before it disappeared completely around lunch time. 

We woke to the sound of church bells ringing right outside our bedroom window. That is the sound of Italy to me: church bells. Three special bells crafted by local villagers long ago, ring out at different times each day, just a couple of metres from where we sleep.

For the next nine days we are in this delightful traditional farmhouse with its raked wooden beams, inglenook fireplace, and wooden shuttered windows creaking on big iron hinges, on a plot of land, in a tiny hamlet, at the top of a hill, where some 2,400 years ago a group of Etruscans built their stronghold overlooking a valley that the Tiber runs through. With just a short pretty drive into the town of Perugia, if and when we needed to visit. 

From here the Etruscans could see far. They thought they would be here forever. 

But, their Etruscan fort has long gone. The Romans moved in on them; though signs of both remain in ancient foundation remnants. The hill then became a powerful city state with a castle set atop the spoils of the Etruscan fort held by a Bishop of Rome. The ruins of that are today owned by a wealthy local family and are slowly being converted into luxury apartments, with the adjoining church still adorned with many priceless objet d'art. And the local residents proudly display their religious leanings in the tympanum arch over the front door. For whom the bells toll.

Our charming backyard garden feature

Church bells right outside out bedroom window on the site of our ancient Etruscan fort

Our rural farmhouse with its raked wooden beams and big fireplace

Our spacious bedroom with its raked ceiling

All set and ready

View from our balcony

What the Etruscans looked out upon, too 

A wealthy local family have converted the buildings into apartments

Once Etruscan, then the abode of a Bishop of Rome, now holiday apartments

Restored and crenellated 

Tympanum arch over the front entrance

Route of Sicily trip, 2018

Arrivederci, Sicily

Moovit has been a boon this trip. However did we manage without detailed bus schedules and map apps all at your fingertips when you need to hop on a bus in a city.  It really doesn't matter where you are: Moovit finds you, then points you in the shortest direction you need in order to walk to a nearby bus stop that will take you to whatever destination suits your fancy at that moment. Voila! No wonder tourist information offices are becoming redundant. There are just so many travel apps around that we now do it all without the bother of hunting an office down. 

Today we had time to dawdle. We had no big plans until late afternoon when our apartment owner is kindly dropping us off at the airport for our night flight to Perugia: where it is raining ice. It is barely an hour away by flight,  yet reports are that it is cold. Here it has been so mild for most of the month that we have come to expect this weather. We are in for a shock, I fear. 

So, with nothing planned we took a bus that seemed to follow an interesting route and hopped off near Corso Italia, along Via della Liberta, and instantly found a gorgeous little coffee shop which we made a beeline for. And it won praise all around: so much attention to detail in everything. 

Teapot, it is called. We particularly loved the rusted exterior which is so well used in Australian outback venues, too. And the pretty colour combinations inside were cute too. You might find such a coffee shop in Paris or London. We didn't really expect anything quite like this in Sicily. Which underrates Catania, again: for in the next couple of hours we wandered along Corso Italia and its surrounding streets and found shopping as good as any you might find in Rome, Paris, or London. In fact, Catania, we learned today has been called 'the Milan of Sicily' for the quality of its clothing stores. And it wears this label deservedly. 

Even the entrances to some of its apartment complexes in this area are somewhat special. And some stores sprinkle Swarovski crystals, polish them into the marble floor tiles, then allow you to walk on them. We did. It is just luxurious. 

The Giardini Bellini Park in Via Etnea is built on natural terraces: the lave has never quite covered this section. This land was once owned by the Prince of Bascari who had a maze on it, but the city bought the land in the 1800s and have now created a beautiful relaxing space for Catania folk and tourists to enjoy.

Salumi shops are doing a brisk trade in luncheon panini. Their exteriors frequently decked in ornamental citrus plants: so Sicilian. 

And yet, Catanians consider themselves to be different. Not typical. The relationship between Palermo and Catania, for example, sounds like that between Sydney and Melbourne, when the locals tell you their take on it: competitive, not wanting to be seen in any way similar. Catanians even tout that they have  different DNA from the Palermo folk. They want this difference to be acknowledged. 

Our last hour or so in Catania we spent in the Fero o' Luni market, in the back streets, before we wound our way home.  We longed to buy much of the produce and all of the fish we saw: so plump and fresh, and inviting it was. We will soon have to explore Perugia markets for our fare. It will be interesting to see the differences.  

Some marketeers were closing up shop and trundling their wares home on wheeled market carts as we left. Others were more functional: using just the corners of a sheet, which allows a quick getaway in countries where they cannot always afford the fee to set up their stall; if and when an market inspector might be spotted not far off.

We have enjoyed Catania.  And Sicily: so very much. We have been thoroughly well looked after and had such fun, each day, that we will remember it all with such fondness. 

Arrivederci, Sicily! We will miss your warmth and kindness. 

Teapot, our coffee stop

Lovely decor

Entrance to apartment complex

Crystals ground into the floor tiles

Giardini Bellini Park 

Salumi shops for luncheon panini 

Citrus is so Sicilian 

Fero o' Luni market

Trundling their wheeled market carts home

Street vendor using sheet corners to pack

Sicilian cafe decor

Colourful and distinctive

Arriverdeci, Sicilia!