Gite Italiane

10-December

As I write this our Vermont family is “enjoying” traditional snowstorms and temperatures not above freezing. The web tells us that you in England are having below-freezing temperatures, but I must report that we’ve made mostly crystal-clear sun for the past three days – probably not a short as yours, but still very much nearing Solstice brevity – and can eat breakfast on our first-floor, south-facing terrace in the morning. Yesterday we looked out over the wall into the next fattoria, we saw a man high on a spindly ladder, beating the branches of an olive tree, harvesting fruit into the ground-net below. He worked on into the morning, singing outside, unaccompanied, except by the dogs of all the surrounding groves.

It’s hard to believe that Ellie left lane End nearly two months ago, and I followed at the end of October. We left our home and all of you, our friends; it will likely take a bit of getting used to in order to again feel “at home” in Vermont, but – before we go there, it’s been great to take advantage of some of Europe’s wonders. Let me tell you just a bit of what we’ve been up to in Puglia, Italy.


While I was finishing up business in Lane End, Ellie met her daughter Sophia in Paris, and spent a week crossing Europe – by way of Reims, Strasbourg, Munich, Lake Garda – to Venice, where I met them at the start of November. The best part was that Ellie had found us a marvelous owner-let apartment in a back neighborhood on a quiet canal in Venice AWAY from all the tourists. Three days with no cars, motorbikes (even bicycles); just a few putzing motor-boats!

We wandered and lost ourselves in the maze of streets and canals, and took a boat way out into the islands of the lagoon. Sophie’s guy (back in Vermont) is a glass-blower, so she and Ellie spent a couple of hours on Murano (the centuries-old home of “Venetian glass”) while I went to Torcello, the site of a fabulous Byzantine basilica.



The Autostrada took us to Ravenna the afternoon we left Venice, but we arrived too late to visit the fabulous cathedral. But it seems that Ravenna is an international center for conservation, design and creation of mosaics, partly because of the fabulous work preserved in the floors of ruined palazzos left from the Roman era. I walked into a lovely back-street Renaissance church and through a back chapel, paid for il billetto, and walked down into another world. It was my first (but not my last) experience suddenly encountering the foundations, decorated floors and mosaiced walls they left us, buried beneath the world we’ve built in subsequent millennia.

We drove down the Adriatic coast after dark, and landed in a hotel in Senigalia. We awoke to all the spaciousness of a coastal vacation town out of season, had a nice run on the deserted beach, and prepared for another long day in the car, heading straight for our new home in Puglia. We drove all day down the coast to Bari, headed inland, following directions given by our landlords (Terry and Joan, from Sevenoaks), arriving in time to make our first Italian supper.

So what have we been up to? One thing is: learning and enjoyed Italian cooking. (OK, that’s two.) Ellie is a good cook anyway, but particularly seeks out fresh ingredients. We have them here: greens, pears, pomodori, with great choices of cheese, salamis, and meats in shops everywhere. And of course: entire store aisles full of pastas: fresh and dried. Puglia is a huge source of both olive oil and wine, and we enjoy them fresh and local. The wine at .79€/L. isn’t GREAT, but is very drinkable. So we enjoy the sun as much as we can, eat well; I work while Ellie works on Italian verbs. (In case she never told you, she’s always wanted to live in a foreign culture, learning the language by the seat of her pants: French or Italian being her ideals. She has made fast friends with a local woman Patrizia Lelli, whose mom is teaching Ellie to make a traditional pasta: orecchiette (small ears).

As we enter the final festive two weeks of the year, we anticipate a fairly quiet Christmas; we’ve sent off cards to friends and family in the US, and limited our gifting to no more than 10€ of little nothings for each other. Our host/landlord Terry turns sixty on Boxing Day, so Joan has warned that we might be over-run by ex-pat British celebrants that day. Our (third) wedding Anniversary in January 1st , and I return to the US on January 4th, so we are likely to take several days for our own celebrating and leave-taking, mostly likely in Sicily.

What I’d like to share, though, is an amazing exposure to antiquity that we had several weeks ago. In the course of about ten days we travelled to the Naples area and the – a few days later – took the overnight Adriatic ferry to Patras, Greece. In the course of these we had five very different exposures to the ambitions, skills, and accomplishments of the ancients Mycenean, Greek and Roman civilizations. Planning our trip to Naples with visiting Lane End neighbors Taz and Kellie, we learned about Paestum, an ancient somewhat out-of-the-way site of what had been a huge trading hub of Magna Grecia, the civilization which spread west from the Greek city states around 2500 years ago.
Paestum is only partly excavated, as it had been a city of thousands at its height; like all ancient sites, a visitor sees structural remains from many eras – in this case including a Roman forum and gymnasium superimposed. But most famously, Paestum shows off the most well-preserved Greek temples in Italy. The sun had miraculously banished two days of rain, and we chose to spend all our time that morning out of doors, missing the artifacts preserved in the museum nearby.

But then, on to our other destination of the day – Herculaneum. When but a youth I was captured by the romance and decadence of Bulwer-Lytton’s Last Days of Pompeii, and had fantasies of growing up to be an archaeologist. But several people had told us that spending our time in Herculaneum – the other Roman city buried by Mt. Vesuvius in August 79AD – was more worthwhile. Pompeii was famously covered by ash and pumice from the angry mountain, but Herculaneum was horribly engulfed in a flood of boiling mud which hardened to a porous rock over the centuries.

Plundered by 18th century aristocrats who tunneled to find its treasures, Herculaneum was more recently brought into the open air. The biggest problem is that encroaching Naples suburbs grew over it; as you look over the railing twenty to thirty meters down into the ancient city, you see only ¼ of its estimated size – the rest laying undisturbed beneath the tufa cliffs on which the modern world sits. The surge of volcanic mud blasted much, but it also left wooden beams, furniture, and food preserved (well-baked or charred), and even two-story buildings: the partly-preserved top floors and roofs are evident at no other ancient site. We saw incredibly well-preserve mosaic floors and walls, delicate and sophisticated wall paintings and other amazing architectural and artistic bits – all in situ, just as crafted and preserved. We saw the baking ovens, food storage containers, and the sophisticated plumbing in the public baths.



And the following day we visited the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, and marveled at the treasures removed during the excavation years – the most artistic and lifelike statuary of bronze and stone, intricate jewelry of gold and precious stones, household implements (bronze, bone and wood). Glass work, painting, and incredibly detailed and subtle wall mosaics too: staggering.


















Having stayed with Ellie’s old Bucks University chum Luigi and his family, we were subjected to a fearsome dose of “mama’s cooking” and other local delectation.


We spent a day with Luigi driving to wonderful out-of-the-way hilltops, beaches and harbors around the Bay of Naples. We started the day visiting the tunnels, temples, and ruins at Cuma, founded in the 8th Century BC on the top of a hill right on the sea, from the which it dominated the coast and played a vital role in spreading the Hellenic culture. After the collapse of the Roman Empire, it was progressively abandoned for becoming a safe shelter for pirates and Saracens and for this reason destroyed by an alliance of close cities in the Xth century.
Tradition recognizes in one of its tunnels the Atrium of the Sibyl where the Greek hero Enea was announced a glorious destiny that will lead him to found the eternal Rome.

After a few days recovery, we headed to Greece for a visit with our dear friend Andreas and his family in Athens. More recently our friends Alison and Michael visited us from Gloucestershire, flying out just in time for the dose of winter winds which have hit us and kept our fire going day and night. OK, well several days have gone by since I started this, and things do change.

We’ve been enjoying ourselves in Puglia for the last weeks, but now I am beginning to think more about my inevitable and long-deferred return to the US for work. Ellie and I will go to Sicily a few days after Christmas – she will likely stay there for January before coming back to Puglia to receive more visitors in the spring. On the other hand, I’ll be getting on an airplane early on January 4: Catania (Sicily) to Rome to Dublin to New York. A dreadful day is what I’m expecting, followed by yet another flight the following day to Huntsville, Alabama, where I will work at the “home office” with colleagues I’ve seldom seen over the past years.

As Alabama cotton blossoms Vermont will just be coming out from under snow, and I’ll make my way to the northeast in late March, rendezvous with some in-coming flight bearing my wife from Italy, and we’ll re-claim our home. Whew!

We’ll keep you apprised of some other experiences in the New Year, but this is quite enough to write just now. Wishing you the Happiest of Holidays, our warmest regards. . .
Bruce & Ellie

Mother daughter road trip: Calais to Puglia

On 20 October 2011, after dropping off Bruce at the ferry terminal in Calais, my job was to get myself, my daughter, Sophie Bielenberg, and Bluebell (the car) to Puglia. The route: Paris, Reims, Strasbourg, Heidelberg, Munich, Venice, Puglia. Sophie had just spent five weeks traveling alone and with friends all around Germany, France, and Benelux, and the plan was to meet outside the door of the apartment in Paris where we were spending the night.

I had my first trial by fire, driving on the Autoroute from Calais to Paris. I was alone and trying not to be scared, driving Bluebell, whose top speed is 70 mph, on the Galactic Highway. I had exactly three hours to get where I needed to be, but I hadn't factored in the Boulevard Peripherique around Paris at rush hour, which was gridlocked. Then, I had somehow forgotten to write down the complete address, having only the name of the street, so I just drove down rue monge searching for my daughter...! Incredibly, she was standing just where she should have been, despite my being an hour late. We had a happy reunion, and then looked for that famous French cuisine. Weirdly, we had the worst meal of the trip that evening! Next day, we went in search of upholstery tacks, as the only good ones seem to be French. We ate the best croissant I've ever had in my life, and the best blue cheese I've ever had in my life (pictured above), and a very fine fig tart:

Then, precisely at rush hour (!), we left Paris for Reims.

We spent two nights with Luc and Noelle south of Reims, who took care of us like family. We rested, ate well, bought local champagne, and saw a fabulous sound and light show on the Cathedral of Reims. The countryside of north-eastern France is not very interesting, but the production of champagne has a certain romance in itself.

The great cathedral of Reims:



We bought champagne from a very small producer; it actually seemed to be just someone's house, and most of the other houses in the village seemed to have their own champagne label, as well. I liked seeing champagne simply, as a family farm product! I had barely dusted off my French when we left. It takes weeks for what French I have to resurface and be useful.


We then drove to Strasbourg, just for the sake of seeing it, and it did not disappoint. The city has a beautiful river running through it, with picturesque bridges, and an astounding cathedral with a unique appearance, because the exterior is all carved in vertical points. All of Strasbourg's architecture tells you that you are in Germany, but everyone is speaking French, so I felt sligthly disoriented. We felt a bit stupid being there for only one night, as it is a gorgeous city. The air was very, very cold, even in October, and I started to think, isn't it nice we're headed for Puglia!


The next day we went to Heidelberg to visit a first-cousin-once-removed, my mother's cousin -- arriving at rush hour, naturally. Heidelberg is also on a river, and very, very pretty. After spending a lot of time circling the old town and trying not to get arrested for driving into pedestrian zones (a bemused policeman asked, "Do you not have navigation?!?"), we finally parked, found our hostel, and met up with my cousin, who took us out to the nicest restaurant in Heidelberg, where we ate a truly superb meal, with about four hours of conversation of the most varied and interesting sort. Sophie had fallen in love with Germany, and was thrilled to be back after several weeks in France. Germany is wonderful, I agree. And it was fun to be trotting out my German. (Apologies for the lack of pictures; we seem to have misplaced a large chunk of pictures, so there's nothing of Germany or Lago di Garda!)
Next day we drove to Munich, stopping on the way in Blaubeuren, where I had studied German in a Goethe Institut when I was 18. Blaubeuren is famous for its Blautopf, a large blue pool that appears to be infinitely deep. It was a trip down memory lane, though I didn't seem to remember much of the town, but how nice, this time, to be there with my daughter, instead of being an unhappy, lonely 18-year-old! The contrast was worth the trip. We arrived in Munich well after dark, to the home of our truly delightful German friends Lothar and Petra, and their boys. The weather, which had been fine from the beginning of the trip, turned rainy, so we slept in, ate well, went to the Pinakoteka Art Museum (which was excellent, though we didn't allow anything like enough time, having a superb collection of Dutch masters), tried to speak German, and just had fun being in the bosom of their family. The youngest boy had a serious soft spot for Sophie.

After two nights we drove to Lake Garda, crossing the jaw-dropping Bavarian Alps, the Tyrolian Alps, through Innsbruck and the Bremmer Pass. Unfortunately, my camera battery died just as we approached. How predictable. It was challenging to stay on the road because of the scenery. The driving was horrendous because there were only two lanes of traffic: the right lane for bumper-to-bumper trucks going 60mph, and the left lane of people going 100 to 120 mph, neither of which suited us. It was a-mazing to see agricultural pursuits going up the 80-degree hillsides, where it looked impossible to stand up, let alone harvest grapes and olives. We arrived at Lago di Garda in Italy at the end of the afternoon, but in time to see the wildly dramatic mountains surrounding the Lake, and fortunately the air was clear. The drive on the west side of the lake is really windy and mostly a sheer dropoff to the water. I saw a village 600 metres above us and said, "thank God we don't have to go up there for our hotel!" Of course, it turned out that was where our hotel was located, a village called Tignale. It was a terrifying ascent, almost more than I could do, frankly. But in this village we had the BEST pizza I've EVER had -- baked in a wood-fired oven, with the tenderest crust imaginable. Wow. Now I know what the fuss is about.
The next day we headed for Venice to meet Bruce, stopping in Verona for exactly one hour, where we had our first gelato. It was the best one we ate on the trip, still memorable: one scoop mango, one scoop chocolate the colour of ... well, I don't how to describe it, but really, really dark! Verona was brimming with tourists, but beautiful. We looked for Juliet's balcony, never did find it, but saw many very similar, including this one, but not exactly Juliet:



Then we got back in the car and drove to the airport of Venice, picking up Bruce. We rearranged the luggage to stuff now another person and his luggage, parked the car, and took a vaporetto to Venice. It was nighttime, and enchanting! I had found a beautiful apartment to rent, overlooking a canal, for incredibly little money, in an out-of the way section of the city. We discovered that the best parts of Venice are where the tourists don't go, which fortunately is most of Venice. Every corner, every site, is worthy of a painting. It was very wonderful to spend four days without hearing a car, bus, motorcycle, or even to encounter a bicycle! We spent one day at the island of Murano, famous for its glassblowers, who at one point were all moved there, to limit the fire hazard to Venice. Some of it is wildly tasteless (a mystifying taste for clowns), but much of it is beautifully crafted. Bruce went to Torcello (another island in the lagoon) while Sophie and I toured the shops of strange glass objects, especially chandeliers. What I will remember the most about Venice was the sheer beauty of the buildings and colours and water glittering and reflecting them. How it handles all those tourists, I cannot imagine, but it does seem to.

An example of Murano glass:






From Venice we headed for Puglia. The east coast of Italy, as it turns out, is pretty boring. We did make a pitstop in Ravenna, and wandered around trying to see mosaics. It, too, was old and beautiful, but this was nothing more than a pitstop, so we continued on to our delightfully empty, off-season seaside hotel in Senegalia.

The final day we arrived at our new home, about five miles south of Ostuni. Puglia is pretty flat, and theoretically produces more olive oil and wine than any other region of Italy, and famous for trulli. A trullo is a funny little round house with a conical roof, insanely cute to look at, mighty uncomfortable to live in, except in the scorching summer heat, during which they stay delightfully cool. Our house is not a trullo (thank heaven), but is charming for having a cosy fireplace, big balcony where we eat breakfast and lunch, and olive groves all around. Nearby in all directions are small towns that have markets and every kind of small shop. We have already met some people who have become friends, one in particular who helps me with my Italian, yay! Everything in the shops and supermarkets seems to be local produce. The pears are sweet, juicy -- why can't they arrive that way in England or the United States? I eat a pear every day

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The Last Jaunt

Jaunt – late 16th century: of unknown origin. Originally depreciatory, early senses included ‘tire a horse out by riding it up and down’, ‘traipse about’.

To Ellie and me “jaunt” will always, I think, mean the short trips that have marked our time in England. Maybe the 30 miles to Oxford for a walkabout, late lunch, and an Evensong service in an ancient college chapel. Maybe heading to Norfolk with a couple of B&B reservations, maps, and overnight gear to explore Constable Country, we have had jaunts. Last week a departure from Lane End in pre-dawn darkness, a wet-eyed ferry ride to Dunkirk, and some Belgian beer marked our last jaunt.

Though deeply in denial, we had been planning our departure from England for months and “ticking the boxes” for jaunts to various places we’ve always planned to visit. Our trip across the Channel began with Ellie filling two suitcases and various baggages with all of the clothing and household gear she’ll want for living in Puglia (Italia) for November through perhaps March. (Coincident was the packing of all the baggages we’re shipping back to the US, but that’s a separate story.) We loaded up Bluebell, and Ellie planned her trip (ultimately) to Italy; I planned to share the first two days, and then head back to Lane End for a week of work and cleanup.

It was a crisp autumn morning, and the dreaded M-25 London ring motorway was tie-up-free in the pre-dawn hours. We descended the sloping downs above Folkstone into the port town of Dover as the dawn light illuminated the never-sleeping shipping and ferry traffic up, down, and across the English Channel. The cliffs began to glow with the dawn, and France was on the horizon. Ellie shed her last tears as we left England behind, and we adjourned to the lounge for a breakfast of tea and beans on toast. We had chosen a ferry to Dunkirk, further east on the French coast than the port of Calais, partly because both of us are so staggered at the stories of good fortune, determination and grit that marked the legendary evacuation of the British Expeditionary forces from the beaches seventy years ago.

Surrounded by Hitler’s tanks and strafed by his warplanes, the Brits and some French defended a perimeter around Dunkirk for just over a week in May 1940 at the close of their rout in the Battle of France. With little notice and no advance planning, the British command despaired of evacuating perhaps 45000 troops before they were over-run, but managed almost ten times that number.

We saw nothing in the way of historical markers, but found teeny local roads leading out around some nightmarish industrial zones to the dunes and the seaside. Today sail-boarders in wet suits frolic where starving and wounded waded out to the Kentish fishing boats which had braved the Channel and the Nazis to save them.


We picked our way along country towns heading south to Ypres, a market town first besieged by the English in the 14th Century, and completely destroyed by German bombardments in 1915. In looking at the roadmap of the countryside, we were astounded at the number of teeny rural cemeteries maintained by the Commonwealth Graves Commission. This was Flanders, the land ravaged and criss-crossed by years of trench warfare, and each cemetery holds the remains of perhaps just a dozen, or maybe a hundred, British teenagers lost in The Great War.



American war graves in Europe and in the US are solemn rows of identical tombstones, most inscribed with a symbol of Christ, some with a Hebrew star. In Belgium and France each German boy is marked with a dark stone cross. Each British and Commonwealth stone bears the historic regimental crest of the fallen: the thistle, the rose, the elk, or the other symbols that say “Here lies a Highlander,” or “This is an Oxfordshire rifleman.” The most appalling are those stones with no such crest, honoring the two, or even three, unknowns who lie entwined below.



And where the medieval wall and its gate would have been, near the reconstructed market square of Ypres stands the Menen Gate, its carved stone slabs overwhelming a visitor with the names and ranks, regiment by regiment, of each of the 54,896 British and Commonwealth men who came here to fight and die, and whose remains were never found after the guns fell silent in 1918.








In the nearby shops you can buy the rusty bayonet, shell casing by the dozen, or tarnished buttons that these men and their German foes wore in the mud. Each night, from one season through the next, the roads to and through The Menen Gate shut down, the crowds gather in silence, volunteer memorial groups conduct a ritual, and “The Last Post” plays on a bugle.

We drove out of Ypres toward Bruge, silently horrified by the slaughter and wondering at how the medieval town of Ypres, the surrounding villages and fields have healed in the decades since.


Finding our vest-pocket hotel after dark on a canal in the ancient trading center of Bruges was a minor puzzle. Safely parked with Bluebell and our worldly goods locked away, we relaxes: Ellie took a long bath and I wandered down the cobbles in search of a Belgian brew.

We found such brew, searching the streets, in the hall of a sixteenth century public house. The morning dawned clear and chill, giving us a few hours to explore the back streets, canals, and squares of the city before heading out.

Ellie’s destination was a rendezvous with daughter Sophie in Paris; I had to return to Lane End for a week of work deadlines, packing and scrubbing. We spent a few minutes organizing Bluebell at the ferry terminus in Calais, and Ellie pondered the circuitous routes to the rendezvous point in Paris. I boarded the ship, and then watched the modern port and medieval center of Calais disappear into the crystalline autumn afternoon.

Following a brief snooze of the sunny afternoon ferry ride, I came back to England for the last time and headed into town on foot from the ferry port. Dover is a major port on the south-east coast of England, at a gap in the white cliffs near the narrowest point of the English Channel. Its proximity to mainland Europe has made it a key military, maritime and trade location for millennia. The Romans built forts here and the town has fortifications from many eras since. I walked up the steep path to Dover Castle, most famous as the bastion built by Henry II as expiation for countenancing the murder of Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury. But I had visited the castle keep before, and was here to tour the “secret” underground tunnels. Though some date back to the unsuccessful 13th century siege by Louis VIII of France, tunneling in earnest began as part of the defense against feared Napoleonic invasion in the late 18th century.

I briefly visited St Mary de Castro, a church in the grounds of Dover Castle, a heavily restored Saxon structure, built next to a Roman lighthouse which became the church bell-tower.

The outbreak of the Second World War in 1939 saw the tunnels converted first into an air-raid shelter and then later into a military command centre and underground hospital. In May 1940, Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsey directed the evacuation of French and British soldiers from Dunkirk, code-named Operation Dynamo, from his headquarters in the cliff tunnels. A military telephone exchange was installed in 1941 and served the underground headquarters. The switchboards were constantly in use and had to have a new tunnel created alongside it to house the batteries and chargers necessary to keep them functioning. The navy used the exchange to enable direct communication with vessels, as well as using it to direct air-sea rescue craft to pick up pilots shot down in the Straits of Dover.

In late afternoon I came above ground to have my last glimpse across the channel, hike down and through the town to the railroad station. I made my way back by rail, in the dark, through London, and out to High Wycombe. Friends met my train, and so I came back to Lane End for the last time, our English jaunts at an end.