Something I wrote 35 years ago.....

NOVEMBER 1^ST, 1988

Monte Amiata

Tuscany

 

Amanda and I have just stopped by for a night to light the fire.  It is decidedly autumnal here and yet we have been lucky with the weather. We were in the Dolomites briefly and the sky was stark blue, like a gothic vault, and the air as crisp as toast.  At 1000 metres the nights are now well below zero, and the car was a block of ice for a while in the mornings, but the inn was double-glazed and feather-duveted and we were good and snug.

 

On the way down we came via Garda, but couldn’t see the other side for mist.  We spent a night at Sirmione, a curiosity that Catullus would surely now avoid, but peaceful at this time of year:  the morning was sunny, the lake soft and transparent and the olives on the headland, with no one about, created one of those timeless Italian scenes – grey-green trees, pale blue water and sky, white and pink rock – but still the visibility was poor and the lake remained a mystery.

 

The Pianura Padana was worse, though not dangerous, as it had been on the way up, veiled in thick gauze, with the occasional disc of sun and the looming poplar trees.  In a way it is effective, and one can easily imagine the lumbering Gonzagas riding out from Mantova to hunt, but it’s a tiresome light, and it clings – it reminds me of Manchester, when I lived in Levenshulme.  I never saw my street in sunlight and whenever I went out, even for just a paper from the corner shop, I had to wash the grime off my face and hands when I got back.  There aren’t many similarities between Italy and Manchester, but that raw humidity that sticks to you and eats into your skin is something I am glad to have left behind.

 

We called briefly on Guido Reni in Bologna. The city teams with life, and prospers.  I know of no market area as appetising as that just off the Piazza Maggiore, the Via Pescherie Vecchie rivalling its Spanish and French counterparts. The civic and tourist information office, also on Piazza Maggiore, is also a marvel, and the comparison in efficiency, design and welcome with Rome and the South is startling.  Here you can consult computers or people, and reliable information about travel or accommodation is given, even with a smile!

 

Anyway, there’s a major exhibition of the work of Guido Reni in Bologna, at the Pinacoteca and the Archiginassio.  There has been much talk about this artist, who lived quite a bit of his life in Bologna and who died there in 1642; it’s as if he’s been rediscovered and ‘talk’ ranks him very highly.  Perhaps his effect, in his time and after, was very great?  This is where I wish I knew so much more.  I have learned to appreciate many things, about Italy and otherwise, by learning what was going on: the development of the portrait from the idealised, or stylised, picture, for example, the particularisation of light sources, the introduction of perspective and modelling, the idea that in the Mona Lisa Leonardo was trying to express, through her smile, ‘Her complex inner life.... caught and fixed in durable material,’ (Kenneth Clark).  But what is it that makes Guido Reni so important?

 

As Amanda and I wandered round these galleries, we quickly tired of Madonnas in puce silks gazing upwards with anguish and awe in their faces, and of painful deaths, and saintly poses.  One feature that struck us was that the babies were all chunky, rippling, blubbery infants as far removed from Roman-occupied Nazareth as if they had been Cantonese or Peruvian – not that that matters, though, as nobody seeks ethnic authenticity in Italian painting.

 

But what do we look for?  Guido was a ‘religious’ man, that seems obvious, even if a lot of his paintings were commissioned by the church and hence it was his job.  He communicates the pains of martyrdom and the glory of the Virgin in a way that would be effective and impressive on a gloomy church’s candle lit altar.  One has only to think of the acres of billowing dresses on Titian’s ‘Assumption’ in the Frari in Venice to understand the power of colour in a dark place; but Guido’s colours are more acidic; they are the colours of pale death, and his people suffer from anaemia, and they have cadaverous eyes.

 

The three paintings in the whole exhibition that did make an impact on us were: the corner of the ‘Slaughter of the Innocents’ (which they use as a poster); here the young mother twists to protect her child, is moving to evade the killers and is imploring God on High to be merciful.  In the context of the painting as a whole there is structure, geometry, power in the design, and in the face of the fleeing girl there is humanity.  

 

The second painting we liked was Guido’s portrait of an old woman, who might have been his mother.  If she wasn’t his mother, she was certainly someone’s and you can see the natural pride and preoccupation that makes her come alive.  She is thinking; she is worrying about whether her boy is getting enough to eat and about whether she looks ‘decent.’  She doesn’t like to bother the painter with all this fuss; she’s just an old woman, but she is proud that someone cares enough to think so well of her, though she’s still not convinced that she is really worth it.  And she is worried that if he takes much longer, she will miss the shops and she has nothing in the cupboard for supper.

 

The other picture we were impressed by is not by Guido:  it is of Guido.  Here we see the earnest, intelligent expression of the man who has striven all his life to express his fear of God and his adoration of Mary, using the utmost ounce of his skill from his God-given talent, and he is not sure that he has got it right; he still hasn’t cracked it.... perhaps he should have used a deeper red, or perhaps that Saint Jerome should have faced to the left and down?  You can imagine that he too would be impatient to have the portrait finished: ‘There’s work to be done; I’m not worth all this fuss and bother!’ (Like his mother.) It is the face of a man, too, who would have been much embarrassed by the streams of school children and professors, tourists and housewives, bank clerks and football players, all paying homage to him. That’s not what his art was for, most of it should be in churches, where the silent eyes of restless mortals can contemplate the stories, the mysteries and the glory of strong faith.

 

Of course, I am probably quite up the creek.  But there was one other thing that caught my eye, and that was the duplication of a large canvas on a classical subject.  On the left of the picture the naked Atalanta stops to pick up an apple, moving left; on the right, the little figure of Hippomenes stretches out of the frame to escape.  Who amongst hoi poloi would know what is going on here?  And why on earth are there two identical (?) versions of it?  And why the dickens don’t they tell us something in the exhibition?  I guess, and I shall look it up in a minute, but I will guess, that even the most devout artist must get sick of virgins and saints sometimes, and the development of any artist depends on at least two things: one is progress in technique and the other is people buying your work (even posthumously, à la van Gogh). Presumably this was an experimental work, for intellectual reasons (inspired by the popularity of Ovid’s ‘Hippomenes and Atalanta’ - a clever story of a suitor outwitting a girl in a race by dropping golden apples – as you probably well know?) And it proved popular.  So, if you can sell two of the same, why not?

 

Last night we stayed at Greve in Chianti.  It was dark, and it had rained, and we didn’t feel we could make it further.  Besides, neither of us knows the Chianti area very well, so it was a new experience.  The arcaded triangular piazza is very attractive and we found a warm and quiet room in the Albergo Giovanni da Verrazzano. This has been a locanda for about two hundred years and the beamed ceiling and private terrace gives the accommodation charm, although this is somewhat spoiled by cheap modern cupboards and an awkward juxtaposition of a photographic poster and an African batik.  We thought of having supper in the hotel, but it didn’t open ‘til eight and looked costly, so we went out to explore.

 

The keeper of the enoteca is a wary contadino on to a good business; his shop is very attractive, leading back into store rooms or stables where most of the different labels of the Gallo Nero (Chianti Classico) area are displayed, ordered in different years.  He wasn’t very forthcoming at first, but when we took his advice on different names to try, and started buying and talking, he became very friendly, giving us a wealth of information, including where he buys his loose wine, and finally the name of a trattoria to try nearby.

 

So, we drove up the hill in the damp dark night and found ourselves in the echoing alleys of Montefioralle, a medieval castle just above Greve.  Here we found the Guerino, a family trattoria with a painted ceiling and a beautiful terracotta stove, though this unfortunately was not lit.  We did soon warm up, however, with excellent village wine and a steaming bowl of ribollita.

 

It was one of those places that wouldn’t give you a menu (though one was posted at the door) but we trusted our advice and the son who served us was very gentle and helpful and, when we had finished washing home-made cakes down with Vin Santo, we were perfectly happy with a bill of forty-two thousand.

 

This morning was heavily frosty, but bright, and, when we had warmed up the car, we headed off for a tour of a slice of Chianti.  The autumn colours may be past their best, but the yellow and ochre tints of the spent vines and the turkey-oak woods had a muted beauty in the clean, low sun.  The shaded ground was frosted, white fringes on the blacks and browns of the undergrowth, the road and the sun-struck fields steaming gently, swathing our path in a rustic fragrance. How different from the close humidity of the Po Valley!  These defiles and gradual undulations exude well-being, and their produce is immediately recognisable as bottled health, combining Keats’s Nightingale with his Autumn. 

 

We by-passed Siena and raced down the Via Cassia and over by Castiglione d’Orcia to have lunch with Andrew and Yvonne Brown.  As we got nearer Monte Amiata, we became more and more blown about by gusty winds and up on the mountain we could see heavy storms coming down.  For us it remained dry, but yesterday Yvonne thought they had been struck by lightning and Andrew was only just in time resetting the chimney as it fairly chucked it down.

 

They are trying hard to sell.  The milk factory in Seggiano hasn’t paid Andrew since March, and is in liquidation at the moment because the region has not paid the compensation for all the milk and cheese destroyed during the Chernobyl panic.  They have had it hard in recent years: it is easy to say that as you make your bed you must lie, but the obstacles of Italian state bureaucracy are mountainous and if you don’t have aristocratic finances or the back-up of another job (as many small farmers, like Corrado, have) or the beneficial network of an extended family to help when times are hard, it is very difficult to survive.

 

Apart from the delayed subsidies for milk and olives (destroyed in the 85/86 winter) there’s also the natural world to deal with: to warm the house Andrew has to collect and saw up thirty quintals of wood, and only the other day one of his sheep was found headless in a ditch – tracks of some dog (or fox?) all around the barn.

 

After lunch we sat for a while in their sitting room by the fire; parts of the house they have finished restoring – this room, the dining room, the kitchen and the stairs – are beautiful.  Apart from the furniture that Yvonne has collected, the walls, ceilings and windows are nicely done, either leaving clean natural stone, or in white and black, and relaxing by a blazing stove with a bright Tuscan hillside shining through the glass is a fine experience.

 

We left them with a good bit of daylight to spare, as it is always difficult getting up here, and making beds and sweeping out when it’s dark.  As it is we stop to greet Corrado and Concetta, and Corrado ushers us in to the dim kitchen, ordering Concetta to fetch a bottle of wine.  We sit at the table, the children perched in the fireplace.  Concetta hovers about, producing some slabs of sponge cake – excellent for soaking up the wine, but heavy.... and we settle into our routine.  I ask about the season and the wine and so on, and Corrado gets on to some political subject, often with a British slant. It is actually very interesting to talk to him, though sometimes it is hard to follow.  His dialect is difficult and his habit of talking fast doesn’t help.  On occasions when I have brought Italian friends they have had difficulty too, so it’s not just me..... And then, if he goes into a monologue about his army service, or fire-fighting (on Elba, for example, where ‘the people must eat stones – there’s nothing else there!’) he can be hard to stop.  His children listen with rapture, though I suspect they also find it amusing, and Concetta butts in with a correction, or translation, at times, though she too appears to be having a whale of a time.

 

They do make a happy family.  Corrado’s imagination is working on being a funny old man at present, and he has no illusions about the future.  Giacomo is planning to become a Carabinieri, and so the farm will eventually cease to function, unless Maria marries someone who is prepared to work the land (a rarity these days).  When Corrado retires from the Corpo Forestale he is going to buy a few sheep and eke out his days on the hillside.

 

When we finally extricate ourselves, we have the hill to climb as dusk starts to fall.  Blackbirds crash away from us in alarm, and small rodents flurry in the fallen leaves attempting to gather some last energy before the sun goes.  As always, the last corner of the track nearly finishes us off, but then there’s the flat run, green with untrodden grass where a trickle overflows from the fontana.

 

In front of the house there are autumn crocuses, pale violet with saffron stamen; just a few, scattered wide, but enough to lend colour to the rather weary aspect the land has this year.  It has hardly rained for months and there are no fungi round here. It has been good for the grapes, but bad for most other things.

 

Although it is only a month since we last opened up the house, it is amazing how cold and desolate it has become.  I hurry to make up our bed and to lay and light the fire, as even with light outside the sun is not strong enough to penetrate the interior gloom for long now.  I throw open shutters and windows to get the air circulating, for, no matter how dry it is outside, the living foundations always make the air inside cool and damp.  When three families lived here in the old days, three fires would have smouldered permanently and animal warmth from the stable would have contributed, but even then, the back rooms, with their earth floors and lack of windows would have been good stores for hams, and cheese, and wine.

 

Even in August, as the crossed shadow of the sala window creeps across the blackened red of the chimney breast, the fire is often lit here.  It’s not just the beginning of the chill but we are at 600 metres above sea level, and there’s a need for houses like this to be brightened by the jewel gleam of burning wood, and the smokiness is a natural part of the tang of mountain air.

 

When we have settled ourselves, and night falls, there are only the sounds of the mountain: the stirrings of the wind, the clatter of a dry leaf on the tiles, the scrabbling of a mouse that needs catching, the distant bark of a dog.....  It is wonderful to sit in the shelter of the red-beamed roof, with a glass of dark wine and a hunk of salty cheese, or a handful of chestnuts.  It seems lifetimes since I panted up the track for the first time, in hot summer sun, and since I first sat at the window in autumn, after sunset, trying to identify the lights I saw, the villages dotted on the maps of the night.

 

Now when I look out, I know the clusters of fireflies and diamonds: Monticello on the horizon, Montenero in the shadows, Poggio Ferro behind nearby Seggiano, and so on, though nearly every time I look now there’s a new flicker somewhere.  Looking down will soon be almost as starry as looking up; and I think that when this house was built there would just have been the stars, and the night-scape would otherwise have been lit only by the occasional gleam of light from a momentarily opened door.

 

This afternoon it snowed up the mountain. When we left the Browns’ the clouds had lifted a little and we could see the beeches all white above Pescina.  It won’t be long now before the steely claws of winter clasp this place, but for now Amanda and I are snug, curled up like cats in front of the fire.  Happy days!

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me and My Delta....

Me and My Delta…..

Nicola is expecting us; the paperwork is soon complete, and three hours after checking in at Gatwick on a grey Monday morning in April we are on our way out of Verona’s Valerio Catullo airport.

I am no motoring geek, and claim no Clarkson gene, but something about the new Lancia Delta 1.6 litre diesel multijet affects me like the full moon, transforming a rather pedestrian sixty-year-old Englishman, into something else – not the Italian Stallion that symbolises the Ferrari perhaps, but at least a pit pony on holiday in fresh green pasture.  I want to kick my heels, tap my toes on the pedals, and frisk through the (six) gears as I lean into the corners and fly down the straights.  In fact, I feel kin to every one of the 120 brake horses under the bonnet, and just to celebrate our arrival I jump out of the stalls from 0 – 100 kph in 10.7 seconds…… 

The Lancia brand was famous for its World Rally Challenge career in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when it dominated rallying. Because of regulations the car had also to be produced commercially, and so the Lancia Delta HF4WD and Integrale - 5000 were produced. Now we are into the third generation and this model, designed by the Lancia Style Centre, was unveiled at the 2008 Geneva motor show and is aimed at the luxury end of the small family car market.  I guess my wife and I constitute a small family (the rest of the tribe missed out on this trip!) and for us this is certainly luxury (at a price of about £20,000 possession would be way beyond our means).

I settle back in the moulded seat, appreciating the clarity of the Bose cd player, barely disturbed by engine or tyre noise, and enjoying the scenery unfolding around us as we glide down towards Bardolino and the blue expanse of Lake Garda.  The narrow road twists along the lake shore, slowing through villages which squeeze between the water and the steeply rising hills, and the car seems to enjoy itself, relishing the bright world around it and positively welcoming the vistas exposed at every turn.

First stop is Malcesine, infamous for having imprisoned Goethe in 1786, in the Scaligero castle, on suspicion of being a spy (something that also happened to me in the town of Norma, south of Rome, some years ago – a self-important and officious Comandante of the Carabinieri failing to understand why a foreigner with a camera should be interested in the 2,500 year old cyclopean walls of nearby Norba).  Subsequently Gustav Klimt stayed and painted (but avoided imprisonment!).  The town, which clings to its castle, still bears the imprint of its medieval past. The historic centre is a labyrinth of cobbled alleys and little piazze, spilling down to the harbour from where various boat trips are possible.  Nowadays Germans inundate the town on sunny days (with internet weather forecasts they don’t bother to leave their homeland unless the prospects are clement) as the Brenner pass is only a short distance away. 

I last stayed here (in Tonino’s campsite, which still flourishes) at the time Elvis died, and remember vividly how the gods lamented, waves of tears drenching the landscape from sad grey thunderclouds.  We are fortunate this time, however, and though visibility is not crystal clear, the top of Monte Baldo (1783 metres nearer the sky than the lake) is unshrouded and the cable car ride enables us to enjoy the views without the strain of obsessive hiking.  Vestiges of the winter snows decorate the northern and Eastern slopes, but tiny white and purple crocuses poke through the dry grasses and herald the spring.

At lake level, gardens are elaborate with non-native trees and shrubs as well as oleanders and vines, but up the slopes cherries and olives abound, and then oaks and chestnuts, then ashes and pines, then beech and finally birch.  Amongst these there are orchids and above all you will hear skylarks and, possibly, see golden eagles.

In the evening I quietly sit in a bar and watch the lights of the town of Limone, on the western shore, sparkle through my glass, the lights emphasising the black depths of the fiord-like lake.

The next morning we head north, the car eager to move, champing at the bit.  From Garda we nose through Arco and Dro, then under the teeth and eyebrow Castello at Sarche, shielding us from the Brenta massif, then we pause by the pre-Raphaelite beauty of the medieval towers and crenellated walls of Castel Toblino, mirrored in the waters of its homonymous lake, which itself is adorned by an islet of cormorants, splashing themselves in their reflections.

Thence to Trento, modest regional capital, host to the Council of Trent (incidentally this raises approximately 2.5 million results on Google) which was first convoked by Pope Paul III in 1545 (it actually went on for 18 years in three locations, under three different popes) to clarify the doctrines of the Catholic Church in the face of the very awkward and irritating interventions of Martin Luther and his followers, who were involved in a movement known as “Protestantism.”  This Counter-Reformation was the last great council before Pope John XXIII confirmed the precepts of Trent at Vatican II, a position subsequently endorsed by Pope Paul VI.

Trento today rises above the river Adige at a key point on the Autostrada A22 (a little south of Bolzano and the Brenner pass) and the main rail link between north eastern Italy and Austria and Germany. It’s an attractive town, though did not get a mention in the recent “Times” top ten cool Italian locations.  We leave the Delta safely in an underground car park to explore, but find the Duomo occupied by a forty hour non-stop prayer session (with fierce notices denying access to tour groups - which seem to have little effect on those who have itineraries to follow); we cheat by joining the similarly grey-haired faithful praying along with the elderly priesthood…..

The main attraction of the town, however, is the Castello del Buonconsiglio, which saw service as the residence of the Prince Bishops.  This is a curious mixture of flamboyance, architectural poise and historical emotion.  There is a touch of Windsor Castle about the walled and bastioned exterior, but then inside it’s more Hatfield House with Tower of London additions, though with a strong Italo-German accent. Part of it is medieval castle, and part renaissance palace.  There are frescoed walls – most notably in the Eagle Tower, where an unknown fifteenth century painter depicted the months of the year in delightful detail.  There are gloomy rooms, and splendid gardens, and a wonderful loggia with views over the town roofs to the mountains beyond, but most affectingly there are some small impregnable cells, constructed by walling in a series of arches, where the patriots Damiano Chiesa, Cesare Battisti and Fabio Filzi and others were held by the Austrians in 1916, tied to iron loops set in the walls.  Their trials were held in the old refectory, and their executions carried out in the Fossa degli Martiri below the castle walls. 

A journalist and politician with irredentist opinions, Cesare Battisti became a soldier in the Alpini Corps, fighting for Italian repatriation of his home town against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was captured at the battle of Asiago, on July 10^th, 1916, and his last words, recorded by the chaplain, were:  “In my forty-two years I have achieved what many men fail to achieve in a long life.”  Then, having been dressed in shabby civilian clothes rather than the military uniform he was entitled to, he was garrotted and hanged. The thought of his untimely death in the grim ditch outside the castle, with the subsequent photos of smiling Austrian soldiers proudly displaying their victim, chills me.  Nearly one hundred years have passed, but the pain and injustice can still be felt.

We return to the Lancia, which is keen to escape from its dungeon.  I imagine that Cesare Battisti would have appreciated this car, and see him slipping into the back seat as we negotiate the busy streets of the town and surge away from the heavy walls of the fortress, a rope trailing from the battlements.  Ultimately his aim of unification of his native town with Italy was achieved and his spirit lives on.

The road rises rapidly up away from the Adige, and then we loop up into the Valley of the Pinè, the car purring as it climbs.  The village of Baselga di Pinè is a resort of villeggiatura, or non-specific vacation – i.e. no ski slopes nor rock climbs, just peaceful walks and fresh air away from the heat of summer cities.  It is just below 1000 metres and has an attractive lake (Lago di Serraia) complete with a fully working model beach.  Franca Merz is expecting us at the Due Camini, though she is also very busy celebrating her mother, Lucia Balbo’s, 90^th birthday with a large group of similarly aged guests.  Her hotel and restaurant was built for her mother in 1974 in an alpine chalet style.  It is comfortable and peaceful and the food, based on local resourced products, is renowned, with dishes such as home made ravioloni stuffed with pumpkin, venison with polenta, and a chocolate bonet for dessert. But Franca, who speaks English, French, and German as well as her native Italian (and who is a speed-skating referee in her spare time) wants to sell, and the business has been on the market for some time.  The trade is too intermittent (again people choose or cancel according to the weather reports) and it is hard to get staff when and if guests decide to turn up.

Before we dine, we go to pay our respects to the sanctuary of the Madonna at Montagnana, where in 1729 Mary appeared five times to the shepherdess Domenica Talga.  The first shrine was erected here in 1740, but since then a complex of hotels has gathered around the site, and now a neo-baroque Sanctuary, incorporating a Scala Santa, which was dedicated in 1906, stands with magnificent views of the mountains amongst an eerily quiet pine wood.  As we return to the car park, I glimpse a woman’s form peering through the windscreen of the Lancia, seemingly dusting the glass.  She has gone, however, before we arrive.

After breakfast, the high-spot of which is a mostarda di cotògna (quince preserve), we hit the road again, heading north into the Dolomites.  Initially we spiral down the Valfloriana, through dense forest, with the steep valley on our left.  Then we pick up the N50 at Cavalese and then the N48 up the Val di Fiemme to Moena.  The road is well made and I can open up the Lancia’s 16 valves and leave the local traffic standing. 

We then start to climb properly up to the San Pellegrino pass, where skiers are making the most of the last snows of winter above 2000 metres.  I am followed up the hairpins by a powerful Mercedes, which gains on me on every straight, but which cannot handle the curves like the Lancia.  For a moment I become 007, or the Transporter, with the baddies on my tail, and the gear stick warms to the multiple changes as the road twists and turns through the double chevrons on the map.  Reaching the pass I spin the car to a halt with a handbrake turn and dive for my beretta, but I have beaten the Merc and it explodes in a ball of flame as it plummets into a ravine, destroying a ski lift and hotel complex with it……  I step away from the Delta, light a Balkan Sobrani and admire the silence of the snowy peaks.

It’s then all downhill, literally, with the gears holding me back and the electronic damping control on the SDC suspension keeping us comfortable as we slice down 700 metres in seven kilometres, then another 500 metres in 10 kilometres to reach the gorge of the Cordevole torrent that takes us to Agordo.  This road, Number 203, is exciting and the car responds superbly, its electronic stability control being used to the full.  We are bounded by precipices and a scurrying river, and the tarmac slips through tunnels and round blind bends with unflappable aplomb.  And everyone goes at their own pace – trucks rumbling on their business at 50kph, grizzled contadini in their Api struggling to hit 40 kph, and flash saloons with some kind of urgency.  I have to get past them all, as my business is of the utmost importance.  The Delta stalks the opposition until it sees its chance and it pounces forward, devouring the prey and careering away before it can be caught.  Even in fifth gear there is plenty of power to surge past some dawdler at 110kph and then I ease into sixth and carry on as if nothing had happened, touching 130 on the straights (top speed is in the region of 190kph, but I am keeping that for another day!)

We stop in Belluno for lunch, appropriating the only remaining parking space, and profiting from the local custom of not charging between 12.00 and 2.30pm (while the Vigili have a break!).  The town is quiet as the market is just packing up.  The Venetian style predominates in the centro storico, with a graceful Palazzo dei Rettori in the Piazza del Duomo, looking almost as if it has washed up here after some Adriatic tsunami.  The town sits atop a rocky terrace at the confluence of the Piave and the Ardo rivers, and is surrounded by mountains, with the Dolomites to the north and the Prealpi bellunesi to the south. A busy little trattoria provides me with a piadina and a small plate of local cheeses, seasoned with a delicious sweet pear jam, and accompanied by a glass of dry white wine from the region.

We then head west on minor roads to view the Certosa di Vedana, splendidly isolated beneath the peak of Monte Alto (2069m) whose slopes are a designated nature reserve.  This Charterhouse, or Carthusian Monastery, was founded, by Act of Pope Hadrian IV, as a Lay Confraternity in 1155, becoming a centre for the Certosini in the mid fifteenth century, with the church being finished in 1471. 

In 1769, following a decree of suppression, the Carthusians were expelled and the buildings became a privately owned farm. It was not until 1882 that the monastery, without lands or benefits, was returned to the Order, under the patronage of the Charterhouse of Pavia.  During the First World War it narrowly escaped destruction in conflict, and indeed, a fortnight before the end of the war it was occupied by the Austrians, who installed electricity and mounted cannons on the walls, but fortunately no harm came of this.

The Second World War also passed very close by, with suspicions and inspections by the occupying German forces, but again without conspicuous damage.  Throughout most of the twentieth century in fact the monastery played an important part in local life, providing food for the hungry, and as a centre of religious sanctity for those in need.

Then, in 1977 the Order decided to consolidate its monasteries, and the sixteen religious brothers and fathers were transferred to other sites, although the traditions were then taken over by a community of Carthusian nuns, and while there was a complete change of guard in 1998, it is still essentially a community of nuns (twelve of them, with a Carthusian father and three brothers) who live there, dedicated to prayer, work and silence.

It is indeed a silent place, though the sounds of the river, the wind in the trees and the songs of birds can be heard over the ticking of the Delta’s engine.  I shush the car, out of respect, and for a moment the ticking dies, the bird song deafens…….

In the evening we eat at the Osteria tradizionale “Alla Certosa” where Casimiro welcomes us as old friends.  The place is a gem; tastefully simple and warmly comfortable on this wet, dark night.  We are not the first there and soon it is almost full, despite its fairly remote location.  Our dinner is a dream; light, fresh, and original, using locally sourced ingredients (such as speck, and asparagi) and accompanied by a superb white wine.  If it wasn’t for the car outside in the rain we would take another bottle…..

In the night it rains and rains.  The Delta finds its way without fault to our hotel, no slips or skids, and then waits calmly ‘til the morning, when it is up betimes, with no complaints, dry and warm inside and with no worries about the change of weather.  We motor on to the little town of Feltre, the only blemish being the squawk of the wipers – must get that fixed!

Feltre is another Venetian outpost, with the old town an extended citadel upon a hill.  The Delta has to wait while we explore on foot, almost alone, through the stepped streets and arcades up to the castle.  The Piazza Maggiore, deserted due to the rain, is an extraordinary space, flanked by palazzi and the church of San Rocco and dominated by the castle.  There’s a Venetian gothic flavour, but the drifting clouds and surrounding hills add a less maritime feel.  We climb to the castle, adorned by curious ironwork designs, but no one is home.

On toward Vicenza, for our last night.  I feel at one with the Lancia, and almost prefer driving it to wandering empty streets.  I have learnt its individual traits, and it just needs to be stroked like a cat to purr and play.  I am not going to want to give it back, and would like to carry on driving, to Florence or Rome, or even over the Alps and home.  Could I get away with it?  Would they follow me?  Damn credit cards!  How much would it cost me?

But one more stop on the way, to see the Palladian Ponte Vecchio and the Museo degli Alpini at Bassano del Grappa.  The wooden bridge over the river Brenta, originally designed by Andrea Palladio in 1569, has been destroyed, by war or flood, and rebuilt at least eight times, the last being in 1948.  The town is busy, as a great market has filled the central piazza, and we are back on the tourist trail, with Germans and Brits making us feel like foreigners again.  We park on the Viale degli Martiri, where 31 neatly trimmed trees each bear a memorial to the partisans hanged there by the Germans in the Second World War.  We then walk down to the bridge, and to the Taverna del Ponte, for refreshment overlooking the river, and to view the two storeys below the bar that house the museum of the Alpini.  The various rooms are crammed with memorabilia: photos, helmets, uniforms, guns, bayonets, shells, a mock-up of a gun emplacement complete with a porcupine made of barbed wire, a bicycle with rifle attached.  The emphasis is on the First World War, but the regiment is the oldest active Mountain Infantry in the world, having been founded in 1872, and having seen distinguished service in the Alps for three years in WWI. 

The Alpini are also famous, and much loved, in Italy for their singing, and various Choirs specialise in their extensive repertoire of unaccompanied part songs – many of them popular traditional folk songs.  One is, “Addio, mia bella, addio,” which starts as a farewell to a soldier’s love when he has to depart because the army is on the march and it would be cowardice not to go along.  Verse two goes: “The back pack is ready/ I have my rifle with me/ and at sunrise/ I will take my leave from you.”  And the third and final verse goes: “Ma non ti lascio sola/ io ti lascio un figlio ancor,/ sarà quel che ti consola:/ il figlio dell’amor.” Which roughly translated means, “But I won’t leave you alone; I leave you a son who will console you: the child of love.” 

The Lancia has a feather in its cap as we speed down to Vicenza, and I hear the engine sighing, “Addio, mia bella, addio.”

And so to Vicenza, city of Palladio, città d’arte.  In the Osteria Vicolo Santa Barbara, sustained by an €0.80 glass of wine from a tap, I read, in Il Giornale di Vicenza, that according to the London “Times” Vicenza is one of the ten “piú cool” places in Italy.  And certainly there are plenty of visitors here to back that up.  And it is all down to Andrea Palladio, though he has had some help from various marketing devices.  When I first visited the extraordinary Teatro Olimpico here I had a personal guide who told me the history, and allowed me to explore the rake of the stage and behind the scenes so I could appreciate the way the illusion of perspective was created. 



This time, in the company of a polyglot assembly of tourists, we are made to sit on the wooden tiers and are treated to a son et lumière with coloured lighting set to the music of Pink Floyd!  It is very impressive, but why Pink Floyd?  Why not Monteverdi, or Corelli?  What does this tell us about renaissance art and architecture?  Might just as well put a Lancia Delta on the stage!



Anyway, after yet another fine evening meal (care of the Antica Osteria al Bersagliere), we redress the balance on our final morning by visiting the Villa Valmarana and La Rotonda just outside the city.  These two villas, set beside the Vallata del Silenzio, have no echoes of Pink Floyd, nor unnatural lighting.  The former, with its separate guest rooms, was decorated in the mid eighteenth century by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo and his son, and they covered the walls with flowing brushstrokes of light and air, perfectly picking up the blue sky and cherry blossom of the gardens outside. The subjects range from peasant picnics, to classical mythology, but all seem just right for their spaces and elevations.

A short walk down a rustic lane takes us to La Rotonda, masterpiece of Palladio, who managed in this building to demonstrate how cubes and circles can intersect in perfect harmony.  Joseph Losey recognised this when he filmed “Don Giovanni” here in 1979, but visitors for nearly five hundred years have taken ideas away and half the country houses in Great Britain owe something to this particular house on a hill.

We turn the Lancia toward Verona on the last stage of the trip.  The centuries of design and decoration, of pleasure and practicality, whirl in my mind as I pilot the machine through the traffic, round roundabouts, past lorries and over bridges.  A brief stop in Verona for a climb to the top of the Torre dei Lamberti (368 steps if you are strong enough!) and gnocchi and asparagi for lunch in the Trattoria Portichetti, near San Zeno, and I put my foot down to catch the flight from Valerio Catullo.  The Delta knows its way, and doesn’t resist the temptation to break a few speed limits.  It doesn’t seem fair not to; it’s so easy!  With no time for niceties, and less still for customs, we hit the runway at 170kph and go for max power; I instruct my wife to put the doors to manual and cross check, and before I know it the nose is up and we are airborne, retracting the undercarriage and turning steeply towards Lake Garda and the Alps, and Heaven….. 

I radio the control tower to say, “Thank you Italy.  Thank you Lancia!” thinking to myself that we will be back soon.  The car hums,  “Addio, mia bella, addio” and I look back at the airport.  I can just see Nicola waving; waving a piece of paper…..