A View From The Greenhouse, Edizione Apulia; Seconda Parte (All In It Together)

The hotel outside Matera is new and consequently very modern, the food in the restaurant was pretty good, but the waiting staff knew we were a tour party and treated us accordingly. Not rude, as such, but haughty and perfunctory as Italians can be. My smattering of Italian helped me in the bar though and the wine cellar, a technological masterpiece, was something to behold. The swimming pool was decent too and the weather had improved enough to allow full use to be made of it.

Matera is fascinating, it’s positioned on the side of a deep limestone gorge the “newer” part of the town sits above “The Sassi”, a collection of dwellings and small businesses, mostly hewn from the rock, which were occupied as recently as the early 1960’s. Our guide, a young Italian woman whose grandmother (now in her nineties) had lived and brought up her children in what was essentially a cave, was most knowledgeable about the place and its history (I suppose it’s her job) and was clearly passionate about telling the story. Her rich Italian accent added to the experience. I could probably “write” a whole article about the place, if I could be bothered to do the research. Suffice to say, the history is treated sympathetically and (as always) if you’re interested in social history and the lives of ordinary folk, it’s well worth a visit if you’re ever down that way. I’d advise booking a guide, you might get lucky and get someone as enthusiastic and easy on the eye as ours was.

I’d notices this “Gastranomia” as we’d waited for our guide to show up and popped in for a quick look. Although it clearly knows there’s a tourist euro or two to be had, it’s still a local shop for local people. Cheeses and meats in abundance take up the length of the narrow room to one side, with all manner of products, including wines and liqueurs, both artisan and basic on the other. I attempted a conversation and (kind of) made myself understood (more of which later). This is the kind of place I’d hoped to see and I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to sample at least some of the wares on offer.

Returning from our walking tour, we found ourselves back outside the “Gastronomia”, which happened to be adjacent to a “Panetteria”. The bread of Matera hold special significance for the local people even today. Loaves were once baked in communal ovens, the size of each loaf being determined, in some part, by the size of the family. Each family also had a stamp to mark the dough as theirs and three slashes were cut into the top of each loaf to symbolise the holy trinity, this practice still continues although the communal ovens are long gone. A sandwich was required, it being lunchtime, but, me being me, I decided on a somewhat different approach than the one the majority of tourists might take; “Buongiorno, una panne piccolo, per favore”? was met with a shrug of consternation, but, in the end (it took a couple of minutes), I managed to purchase half a kilo of Materan bread, which the lady in the shop kindly sliced into ten for me (six more than I really wanted). Next, back to the “Gastronomia,” to purchase two slices of mortadella from a sausage the diameter of a dinner plate and two (thicker than I really wanted) slices of the local sheeps milk “formaggio”. The second transaction was a little simpler than the first! I bought a beer and a “limonata” and we sat outside in the sun and thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience. It probably cost five euros less than buying prepared, so a win-win for this particular Yorkshireman.

What to do with six slices of lovely fresh and supremely crusty bread when you’re replete and full of good intention? Take them back to the shop and ask the lady behind the counter if she has any use for them, or if she knows someone who does? You probably had to be there, but she clearly thought I was after a refund for my leftover bread and the more confused she got, the more I panicked. I left with the bread and a somewhat red face and deposited it in a bin. A shame, it really was very good “pane”!

I didn’t spend too long in Bari, but it was long enough for me to know that had I been a native, I think I’d have been very happy. It’s a great little city with a very welcoming outlook and, especially around the wharf area, a “life’s short, lets get on with it” attitude. The Barinese fishermen, both those still fishing and those retired gather here from early morning, firstly to sell their catch and then, from about 11am onwards, to drink beer, play cards and insult each other in their own particular dialect of grunts, guttural outbursts and expressive hand gestures. “Quattro bierra a la spina, per favore” (everyone should know how to order been in a variety of languages) were purchased from the hatch at the end of the wharf, served to me by a shirtless, suntanned fellow who looked like the kind of chap you wouldn’t argue with. A guy turned up on a moped with a large plastic carrier bag full of ice and beer, primarily (I think) to save his pals from having to interrupt their card game. If the chap in the hatch cared, he didn’t show it and the daily “party” got underway. We were offered more beer, but politely declined. A splendid hour spent observing some of the “real” Italy.

We had an hour or so to kill before we left to briefly visit Trani (the pearl of the Adriatic) and headed off to find the 500 year old panneria where “focaccia a la pomodoro”, the Barinese alternative to pizza, is sold at lunchtimes. One final small boat was entering the harbour as we left, the chaps on the wharf were cheering him home and he proudly displayed a part of his catch to us. A grilled octopus tentacle sells in the restaurants for upwards of fifteen euros, so even if he only had three or four (octopi, not tentacles) he’d probably made his beer money for the day.

Five euros, including a beer and a water, very reasonable and very tasty. I’d like to visit Bari again.

From Trani (an unremarkable place, so far as I could see) we took the long and winding coast road to our final destination of Vieste, a popular resort with wealthy northern Italians. It’s a bit like Whitstable, but hasn’t lost its charm. Vieste is a port and fishing town with long history, making the old part, with its steep narrow streets and “trabucchi” (a fishing system peculiar to the Gargano coast) well worth a visit. The market stalls, as with everywhere we visited, are colourful and well stocked too. Bloody Brexit!

A change in schedule saw us take a boat trip on Friday, along the coast to view the coves and hidden beaches of the area, which made for an interesting morning. Following this we took a short coach trip up the coast to Peschici for another “free time” wander about. A couple of beers were taken, before returning to Vieste for dinner in the hotel, where the seafood risotto “primi” was far nicer than the overcooked turbot  “secondi”. On Saturday, now a free day, we spent our time looking around the old town, before enjoying a late lunch of antipasti, followed by a simple, if rather expensive, excellent plate of fish. Another “bucket list” item ticked off. A siesta and a late afternoon dip in the Adriatic, before drinks and an early night saw the week over. Why the early night? A 5 hour coach journey, commencing at 4.15am, that’s why. All in all, a bit of a “curates egg” of a holiday, I’m not sure I’d want to do it again in the same way, but memories were made that will last for a goodly while. That’s what it was all about, really.

The sprouts and the “cavalo nero” were fine and I’ve planted them in the greenhouse. We’ll see how well they do over the next six weeks or so before deciding whether or not to plant them om outside. Currently I’m thinking not, but we’ll see.

I could go on, but it’s a postcard. I’d been looking for some sticks of rock or stuffed donkey toys to bring home for the kids, but having been unable to find such things I visited a tiny shop in the residential area close to the hotel. It’s the outlet for a small local cooperative that produces olive oil and honey. Three one litre cans cost me the princely sum of thirty euros but, if you’ve bought olive oil lately, you’ll know this wasn’t a bad deal. A “Nonna” was minding the till and she was very nice, but I didn’t stay long, I’d learned my lesson at the Panneria. She did knock a euro off each can as a discount for bulk purchasing (at least that’s what I think she said).

Shenanigans aplenty back at home, where corruption’s now joined “rioting” and putting bacon on door handles as only being wrong when “they” do it. There’s little to be said about our PM and his band of very merry men, women and “others” that hasn’t already been said, but; If taking free (executive level) tickets to pop concerts and football games, whole wardrobes of designer clothing and extended stays in luxury apartments are “legitimate office expenses” then I’m a Dutchman. The country tired of the lazy Tory shower, partly (and ironically) because we could see how corrupt they were. In doing so Labour, a party that had campaigned mostly by offering “transparency and change” won a large majority of seats, but without a popular mandate, having secured less than 34% of the vote in an election where turnout was only 60%. This hasn’t held them back one bit, as previously mentioned, but did we really expect the sleaze to extend to Starmer’s private life? Whatever happens in the coming weeks, because I doubt we’ve heard the last of it (injunction or no injunction) it seems we’re stuck in a never ending cycle of grandiose schemes that cost a fortune but come to nothing, pledges that aren’t worth the shiny paper they’re printed on, lower “growth” as standard, continued mass immigration (legal and illegal), all delivered by a political system that’s beyond rotten. As the old chestnut of a saying goes “what a time to be alive”.
 

© Colin Cross 2024