A View From The Greenhouse; Edizeone Apulia (Prima Parte)

And so to Italy, but not before making sure the Buildings and Maintenance team had been fully drilled in the routines required to ensure I didn’t return to any kind of disaster. I needn’t have concerned myself, the transfer of responsibilities went very smoothly and, as shall be revealed at a later date, the weeding programme would be so strictly and completely adhered to that if I could have felt shame at how I’d left the place, then I most certainly would have done. Hats off to the back-up team, maybe I’ll go away for a fortnight, next time. The olive tree? A fine example of what time and effort, over something approaching two hundred years, can achieve.

I took this picture on the Friday before I set off on my long anticipated trip to Apulia. It seemed fitting at the time and it put me in mind of the colours of the Italian flag (minus the “bianca” bit) and I saw it as a sign of what was to come. The long red pepper (pepperoni rossi dolci) is well used in Southern Italy, as I was to discover.

Apart from India (did I mention I’ve visited there) where we toured for seven days as part of a small group of five people I’d never really fancied a “coach tour” type holiday, but, curiosity having got the better of me, that’s what (between us) Mrs. C and I recently decided to do. I won’t rush to do it again anytime soon, but that isn’t really a criticism, it’s more of an observation. I like to make my own decisions and I’m not really a “pack animal” but, all in all, it wasn’t too bad. We flew into Brindisi and drove south to Lecce (around 40km) for a two night stay. A guided tour of the old town was interesting enough, the city has a rich history which is still being uncovered and some interesting architecture. We had to shelter from what can only be described as a cloudburst for around an hour (we were exploring by our two selves at the time) and were joined by four extremely wet young women, wearing ineffectual ponchos they’d bought from a “Lucky Lucky” man (they’re everywhere). They were howling with laughter at the absurdity of it all and I managed to capture them, without their knowledge, in “the moment”.

Is it Roman? Who knows, but the romantic traveller in me likes to think so. I came across it (after the rain had stopped) in the corner of a the yard of a public building which I don’t suppose I should really have entered, but whatever period it’s from, it’s certainly very old and has the look of ornate functionality (get me) that typifies the period. Whether Roman or later, it certainly wasn’t added as an afterthought. An interesting find (if you like that sort of thing).

The city of Lecce is adorned with several examples of the art of statue making using papier mache. In one of the many squares an artisan, who still continues the trade, was working on a new commission. He obviously now makes much of his income from selling small examples of his work to tourists, but the skill involved an the time it must take to create such a piece is testament to the art. Fascinating to watch him and also listen to him discussing (in Italian) the process with an interested fellow countryman. It may even have been the client. My Italian is limited, to say the least, as we’ll discover a little further down the road.

Back then to the hotel to change for our evening repast (smart casual, de rigeur) at Enoteca Mamma Elvira, where we were served up a selection of  antipasti and rustic “cicchetti” (Italian tapas). Some of the dishes were more palatable than others, although none really disappointed, but the star plate, at least for me, was the prosciutto, speck, salami and Canestrato Pugilese (a hard ewes milk cheese) the wine was decent and the bread was as good to eat as the meats. TBH, I wouldn’t have minded another day in this small historical city. The local Agricola birra is decent and not too pricey (you can’t say that about everywhere we went) and there’s plenty to see, but, as the old saying goes, coach and tour guide wait for no man, so off to bed we went (after another “bichiere” or two) so as to be up, bright and early, for our onward journey to Alberobello, some 115kms north, along the coast road.

Alberobello is a World Heritage site, primarily because of the concentration of the architecturally unique Trulli Houses. The exact reason for the design isn’t easy to pin down, (I didn’t try that hard) but they’re cool in the summer, warm in the winter and were reputedly easy and relatively quick to construct, as originally they were built without mortar. Some locals continue to live in them although many are now holiday lets (as you might expect). Given that this small town was full of tourists, it did have an “old world” charm about it, until it came to pay 10 euros for a small beer and a Sprite. There’s nothing old world about those prices. The house at the end of this group is home to one of the village “characters” and his equally characterful wife and daughter, who, although shy of getting their photos taken aren’t too shy of raking in a few euros for the privilege of getting a glimpse of their compact and simple living conditions. I’m happy to have seen the place, but I was also happy to move on. It put me in mind a little of where I live, avoiding the throngs of visitors from April to October is a growing pastime for Lakeland residents, but that’s what keeps the financial cogs turning. A bit of a double edged sword.

The peasants who originally inhabited the trulli were mainly indentured farm labourers (at least that’s what I think the guide said) who grew wheat, raised sheep and cattle and tended the olive groves. One chap, sensing an opportunity, seems to have cornered the market in both glazed and un-glazed olive oil jugs of all shapes and sizes, which he’s happy to sell on for a “small” profit. I wouldn’t have minded one, but I doubt it would have survived the journey home and it wouldn’t have fit in the suitcase anyway. You’ll have to make do with the picture, which he grudgingly allowed me to take, after I’d chucked two euros in a basket he keeps handy for just that purpose. How much are the jugs? I didn’t get round to asking, but I’m guessing he isn’t giving them away.

After leaving Alborebello we travelled a few miles to A Masseria (a working olive farm, hence the tree) for what was billed as a “light lunch”. Plate after plate of vegetables, cheeses and various breads, followed by a small dish of the ubiquitous orichiette with tomato sauce and veal chops, de-boned, skewered and grilled, were delivered to us over the course of the next 90 minutes or so. All delicious, as was the wine (from bottomless jugs) which was also made on the farm. It’s no secret that I like my grub and I felt this was the best meal I had throughout the duration of the trip. Simple fresh ingredients, clearly prepared with care and served up with a smile. This is the other side of tourism in Italy, allowing “traditional” farming to continue, alongside the burgeoning visitor numbers. Sadly, I don’t think there’s anything like it (on the larger scale) in the UK, which is a shame. If I were a bit younger I may have picked up the germ of an idea. Who knows?

Mama Elvira (see above) was very impressed by the fact I was able to grow San Marzano tomatoes in the North Of England, until I explained, using sign language and (very) broken Italian about the greenhouse. She’s a very busy lady and has a reputation for being both an excellent cook and a splendid host. Most of the people eating in her (albeit quite small) restaurant were Italian, but she made it her business to speak to us. The San Marzano is prized in Southern Italy as a cooking tomato and is rarely used for much else. This was a lesson I was happy to have confirmed. I’ll plant more of them next season. Surprisingly (at least to me) I didn’t see a tomato soup, not even a cold one, on any menu. Maybe it’s a regional thing, I didn’t think to ask. I’ll fill you all in (I bet you can hardly contain your excitement) on the rest of the trip next time.

Out of the country for a week and what do I find on my return? TBH very little I didn’t expect to find. Senior government politicians are taking full advantage of the “rules” (when they can remember their obligations). We all know, from past experience, that Labour are just as adept at squeezing cash from “donors” who expect nothing in return and “working” the system as are the majority of their colleagues, whichever party they serve (for they rarely serve the nation). It does however stick in the craw that these same people were so vociferous in their condemnation of the previous government. Keir clearly likes a freebie, whether it be a ticket to a show, or a football game, or even a day at the races. I don’t know what this Lord Alli fellow gets in return for buying clothing (and underwear?) for our PM and his wife, but I find it all very tacky. If he isn’t buying influence he’s clearly buying something, the mind boggles. An honourable man would have refused said gifts, but there’s little honour in politics these days, if there ever was any in the first place.

The boats keep coming, even though the gangs are being smashed, paedophiles keep walking out of court, even though they’re often party to the very worst kinds of abuse imaginable and Labour MP’s (the party of the working class) enthusiastically and without reservation vote to divest the aged and vulnerable of a small amount of money that could well have made a big difference in their lives. It’s only my opinion and (as yet) I’m entitled to hold it, but the judiciary, the police and the legal profession as a whole (along with politics and the media) have mostly been captured by the “Common Purpose” mind virus, manifested in the cult of “Progressive liberalism”. How long before someones granny is “assisted” to shuffle off her mortal coil because life has become unbearable and how long, after her death, before her home is occupied by benefit dependent “refugees”? I thought we’d bottomed out under the last, very poor administration. It appears I may have been wrong in that assumption.
 

© Colin Cross 2024