The new road stopped where it was to span the old on a viaduct. Exactly where the viaduct was to be, the reinforced concrete skeleton of a four-storey building materialized. Years passed. It seemed that this building, obviously built without planning permission, could not be demolished perfunctorily: a long legal process had to be undergone to establish its illegality and thence to obtain an order for its destruction. The viaduct was built, the road moved on inexorably, but at a snail’s pace, towards Frosinone. By 1990 another section had opened, the road a magnificent example of Italian engineering. The final section, which connects with the ring road around Frosinone, is still to be completed.
And it is at this point that, like most things in Italy, everything becomes unclear. Conspiracy theories abound and rumours are rife. You can choose which explanation to believe. Sora politicians were fighting a rearguard action, and had been for years, to stop the road. They feared a huge loss of trade if access to Frosinone became easier. On the surface a more plausible explanation was that funds had simply run out, the line followed by the local press. Another theory said, yes, funds had run out, or more precisely had been run away with. Another, which also seems likely, has it that when a road is finished and is handed over to ANAS – the national road authority – ANAS becomes responsible for its maintenance and upkeep. It appears that ANAS believes the standard to be under par and will not accept responsibility. Take your pick – all or none may be true. The fact is that the Comino Valley area is full of road projects initiated but never finished. Even the road to Cassino from Atina stops short of its intended finishing-point, and does not currently allow access to the motorway without having to pass through Cassino itself.
The local roads have been much more of a success. In my lifetime a new road has opened up a huge hinterland of natural beauty. On the north side of the valley the town of San Donato is now the starting-point for a road which winds high up into the Apennines, over the pass of Forca d’Acero and into the Abruzzi National Park. This is a vast, unspoiled area, traditionally the preserve of shepherds, and although close geographically, was until recently as remote as Sicily. There had always been contact, of course, but only for those who had no objection to a ten-hour journey on foot, leading a mule. I know people who did the trip, trading the valley’s wine for the mountain cheeses, but the contacts were sporadic and seasonal.
The effect of this road has been dramatic. Since it is now possible to drive from Cassino to San Donato in about thirty minutes, the Abruzzi National Park is a two-hour journey from Rome or Naples. In the winter the once serene, silent mountain valleys are now host to thousands of Italians on skis. Where once a few lone cross-country skiers ventured, there are bars, deck-chairs for hire, mountain rangers to supervise, police, parking problems and all that goes with an influx of humanity to a place where until recently nature was undisturbed.
The National Park was established to preserve the flora and fauna of the Apennines: here the last of Italy’s brown bears, the Marsican bear, still roam free. Two packs of grey wolves live here; Apennine chamois, porcupines, martens and golden eagles are some of the wildlife that, despite the encroachment of man, survives and flourishes within the confines of the park. It is a huge reserve, straddling the boundaries of three of Italy’s regions: Lazio, Molise and Abruzzo. Some of the most beautiful villages of the Abruzzi lie within the park, surrounded by heavily wooded peaks whose summits are up to 2,400 metres high.
Pescasseroli, the capital of the park, is the centre for the downhill skiers. It has a cable-car to the summit of Monte Vitelle, some 2,000 metres high, and 25 kilometres of piste. It’s an enchanting village, whose older male inhabitants still carry a staff and wear the black beret and cape typical of the Abruzzi. In contrast the weekend fashion parade of Romans and Neapolitans sporting their latest ski-wear is a wonder to behold. I used to find their sartorial splendour intimidating, until I understood that in many cases the dressing-up was as close to skiing as many of them ever got. Mothers and fathers fuss and coddle small versions of their tailored selves, encouraging and cajoling – ‘E sù, Marco’ – until Marco finally stands upright on his tiny Rossignols. Fretting Italian mothers are torn between two conventional truths: mountain air is good for you, and children shouldn’t get cold. You can see lots of tiny, red-faced Italians sweltering in portable saunas called ski-suits, while their mothers refuse to let them undo so much as a zip.
The fondisti, or cross-country skiers, are a hardier breed. Cross-country skiing has become a huge growth industry. Ten years ago it was a crank pastime, something Finns did in the winter. It was accepted wisdom that unless you were capable of running a two-and-a-half-hour marathon, fondismo was not for you. This was an image fostered by television coverage of cross-country skiing as an event at the Olympics, with lanky Scandiwegians covering 80-kilometre courses on their skis. This is not a sight readily found among the masses on a weekend in the Abruzzi mountains. Perhaps 95 per cent of those who engage in this sport neither physically resemble these champions, nor aspire to their technique of skiing. They are young and old, fat and thin – the entire gamut of human form is there, not so much for exercise as for fun.
At the pass of Forca d’Acero there is a beech-lined forestry road which slopes gently downhill to a huge natural amphitheatre called La Macchiarvana. This is where most of the cross-country skiers gather, where the road joins the open plain. If you’re feeling adventurous, from here you can set out for the wilderness, with a backpack and food. Or for the less gung-ho, like my family, we start out towing a small sled filled with wine and beer, a small charcoal grill, sausages and cured ham, scamorza, a local cheese that toasts to perfection, fresh crusty bread from San Donato, and perhaps a pork chop or two. We always try to get our skiing in before lunch; after a lunch with ice-cold beer and wine – we bury it in the snow – it’s hard to start trekking again, especially in warm sun. On windless days it can get remarkably hot, a condition that can only be cured by more beer. Lying in the sun against one of the beeches that skirt the Macchiarvana plain, cold beer in hand, looking over the vast expanse of white, the snow-capped peaks starkly silhouetted against the dark, deep blue sky, is one of life’s great pleasures.
Over the years we became very attached to these picnics in the snow. As the winters went by, friends from my village of Gallinaro started skiing and at weekends groups of up to twenty of us would set off for the mountains. I remember one occasion when I described our picnics to some friends. They thought it sounded like fun and decided to join us there. By that strange serendipity that allows Italians to meet one another when neither the time nor the place has been decided, we met up with our friends who had gathered in a little valley deep in La Macchiarvana surrounded by beech trees, miles from anywhere. We had arrived on skis, towing our sledge of victuals and pushing our baby daughter in her buggy, on which I had fitted tiny skis.
As I unpacked our picnic, I began to notice what the others had brought. A three-kilo bag of charcoal, a large, not-so-portable grill and oven combined, fifteen beef steaks, eight large brown trout, a two-kilo loaf of bread, a ten-egg onion omelette, a kilo of liver sausages, seven litres of wine, four bottles of mineral water, beer, a large mixed salad in a plastic bag, a bottle of olive oil, a bottle of vinegar, a box of salt, Tabasco and a large fruit flan. Oh, yes, and a tin of corned beef. There were six of them. It was hard to make half a kilo of sausages look exciting as I unpacked beneath their watchful and slightly pitying gaze.
We built a large fire on the snow from the dead branches that were all around us; without it we would have spent the day with cold feet and wet socks. As the day passed the fire burned a deeper and deeper hole in the snow, until by evening it was a good three feet below the surface. It also became clear that skiing had assumed a distinctly lower priority than eating. The fire and the food were the principal sources of activity and conversation. The only skiing that took place was collecting wood for the fire.
The steaks were cooked on the fire embers, and ea
ten between slices of pagnotta, the large two-kilo loaf that is the Italian staple. The trout were wrapped in foil and suspended on green branches over the fire, the omelette was divided, the sausages and cheeses devoured with beer and wine. The flan was followed by a thermos of good coffee. All this under a dark blue sky with the sun blazing against the brilliance of the snow. We didn’t leave until nearly five, as the gathering darkness brought the cool night air.
It was a special day for all of us. Italians love an excuse for a meal and a new location for eating is an exciting discovery. Since this meal on the snow, we have had many others, even one by the light of the full moon. The road to the Abruzzi makes one last hair-pin turn before leaving the upper edges of our valley for the pass of Forca d’Acero. The view from here is spectacular, since nearly all the valley can be seen laid out below like a scenic model railway. About twenty of us had our midnight picnic in the snow here, the lights of the towns and hamlets below us twinkling in the crispest of clear nights.
My first memory of Italian picnics is going with my uncle for a mountain picnic on the August bank holiday when I was eight. Until then, picnics had been sandwiches in a field beside a road, or sandwiches in the New Forest or sand-filled sandwiches on cloudy English beaches. I was unprepared for the Italian version. Three car-loads of family and impedimenta set off for Canneto, a sanctuary high above the town of Settefrati where the Melfa begins its course. In those days the road was what the Italians called a ‘white road’, which is to say its surface was non-existent. It was absurdly twisting and narrow and had no crash barriers to prevent a car from sliding off the edge into oblivion. The road arrives at the sanctuary and opens out into what was once a lake – a flat expanse of small white rocks – over which my uncle insisted on driving, cursing all the way. Uncle Alberigo had a great line in curses; he adapted litanies learnt in his youth into a list of saints who could go fuck themselves. He started with Adriano and continued alphabetically, systematically cursing each in turn. Sudden jolts, or ominous sounding bangs from the underside of the heavily laden Fiat 1500, found the Madonna joining the saints in this list of invective.
At the far end of the old lake bed an even worse road starts to climb, roughly following the waterfalls of the upper reaches of the Melfa. Up here we drove until my Aunt Gerardella persuaded Uncle to stop. Some 20 metres below the car was the mountain stream. Across the stream, there was a small flat area of grass at the top of a waterfall, a natural terrace with a view down the valley to the Sanctuary of the Madonna. We began to unpack the picnic: not as I had suspected some sandwiches, but tables, chairs and white linen table-cloths, gas cookers and cylinders, pots and pans and food, lots of food. The men unloaded the cars, set up the tables and chairs and brought the water from the stream for boiling the pasta. The women cooked. As far as I could make out the purpose was not only to eat well, but to ensure that whatever standards of cuisine and comfort were set at home could be maintained even at the top of a mountain. This was a three-course picnic. Pasta to start, then a meat dish, and finally a dessert. As with most Italian meals on special occasions, we were eating for a good two hours. Even a natural fridge is available – all wines, beer, watermelons and fruit go into the freezing waters of the stream. We’ve been back to this place many times since, but there is one thing that has always been left undone – a swim in the icy waters of the mountain brook.
Mountain culture is deeply ingrained in my valley. We go to the high places for recreation, to collect wild strawberries, to gather mushrooms and plants for salads – and we go for our health. As a boy my father’s brother had asthma; the cure then was a prolonged stay in the little town of Terelle. This is the highest village in Frosinone, standing at about 1,000 metres above sea level. Although the comuni of Terelle and Casalattico border one another, by road the journey was long – from Casalattico to Atina, the winding road to Cassino, and then doubling back up the hairpin bends to Terelle, a car journey of some two hours. From Atina a new mountain road now gets you directly to this little town with its stunning chestnut groves in about twenty minutes. These chestnut groves are the last remaining in our province; they surround the lower reaches of the town and during the heat of the summer there is cool mountain air and shade.
The area of mountain forest along the ridge of La Silara above Casalattico, a part of the family patrimony that has come to me, was for many years something I looked at proprietorially from the valley floor. Not relishing the prospect of a three-hour uphill climb along overgrown mule tracks, I contented myself with long-range visual inspections of my forest. Well, to be exact, I inspected what I thought was my bit. My grandmother Luisa, who left me this piece of forest, was never too clear as to its exact location. When pressed by me, she would point vaguely at the ridge and say, ‘It’s up there.’ I am still not entirely sure which bit is mine, but since there is not much I can do with it anyway, it’s not really a problem.
Now I can drive to within a kilometre of where I think it is, and do so regularly. A terrifying, unsurfaced road runs up the side of Monte Prato from Atina, and continues along the ridge of La Silara. The views are sensational. To the north, spread out below, lies the Comino Valley, visible practically in its entirety; to the south the Monte Cairo Valley stretching down to the Cassino plains. You can see Belmonte, Terelle, the town of Cassino and the abbey of Montecassino, with the horizon disappearing into the haze. Along this ridge are the scars of war. There are bomb craters and fox-holes, part of what was once the Cassino line. Almost at the summit of La Silara is a small area of pasture, and five Samnite wells. They are called wells, but are in fact huge cisterns that collect the winter rain in this natural basin. Even in the driest of summers there is always cool water deep down the cisterns. Places like the five wells have remained unspoiled because of their inaccessibility, but expansion into previously remote areas will certainly continue, as increasingly mobile and affluent Italians demand more space. Currently the density of the Italian population is on a par with India.
When I was twelve, my cousin Gigino took me to the top of Monte Cicuto, a small hill to the west of Atina where the family olive groves are. We drove to La Macchia, a hamlet of Casalattico, and then walked from there to the summit. It was my first recollection of seeing so much of the valley at one go. Immediately below was the bridge over the river Melfa, connecting Atina to the rest of valley. I could see the garage, the hotel and the few scattered houses that made up Ponte Melfa. Today, from the same vantage point, now reached by tarmac road, Ponte Melfa looks like a miniature Hong Kong. Dense, high-rise buildings line the banks of the river, housing developments stretch up the surrounding hillsides, an industrial estate lies downstream, the skeleton of a huge hospital is taking shape, a hippodrome and go-kart track invade more of what was once green. So meteoric has the growth of Ponte Melfa been, fuelled in part by the new road to Cassino, that moves are afoot to establish it as a comune in its own right. The majority of the citizens of Atina now live there rather than in the old town on the hill.
Monte Cicuto is still largely unspoiled. Amid the olive groves there is a small cottage, which now belongs to my uncle. Originally it was a casa colonica, a house for the farmworkers, who were given the house under the old system of land use, whereby the landlord let the land in return for half the produce – a system unchanged for centuries. Gradually I have discovered its drawbacks as an absentee landlord: my strip of olive grove on Monte Cicuto has produced, over twenty or so years, 1.5 litres of oil as my share.
It was in this cottage on Monte Cicuto that my father and his cousin Dino hid from the Germans from October 1943 to February 1944, while the Gustav line at Cassino was established. When Italy broke with the Axis powers on 25 July 1943, my father, still officially in the Italian army, needed to keep his head down. On that July day, which also happened to be the day his grandfather died, he took off his uniform and walked home from Rome, avoiding roads and keeping to the hills. When Monte Cicuto itself was declared a war zone by the Germans, the fami
ly moved en masse to the hills above Arpino, burying as much of their belongings as they could in a cave. They stayed here until the end of May 1944, when the Allies finally took Cassino and liberated the valley. For them, at least, the war had ended.
Despite massive post-war emigration, the Italian economic boom has continued unabated here, so much so that the valley, once a source of manual labour for Rome, and desperately poor, is now one of the most expensive parts of Italy in which to buy land. It must be said that the price of land is so high not only because of the economic upturn in the valley’s fortunes, but also because of capital returning from abroad. The diaspora that so impoverished the valley in the late 1940s and 1950s is now being reversed. The émigrés who have made their fortunes have been coming home, bringing their capital with them. Many of those who left were landless, and the dream of returning always carried with it the need for land on which to plant a vineyard and on which to build a house. Their determination to buy land at virtually any cost pushed prices on occasion up to £8,000 or £9,000 an acre, at least four times as much as similar land in Tuscany.
A trip around the valley towns in August shows clearly who emigrated to where. In Casalattico and its hamlets the roads are filled with cars with IRL stickers, or in the case of Mortale, GB stickers. Mortale, a small hamlet, has recently had its name changed officially to Monforte. This is to honour its most illustrious son, Lord Charles Forte, who came from here. Recently he has been spending more and more time in Casalattico, where he is held in high regard, especially since he paid for the floodlighting of the football pitch. In Atina you find GB, in Gallinaro F and B. Germany, Venezuela, America, Argentina and Australia became home to many from the valley. As Italy’s fortunes improved – it is now ranked sixth among the world’s economies – so homesickness and perceived opportunities have brought many of the emigrants home.
North of Naples, South of Rome Page 2
