2 Canadians in Napoli

Fall means the coming of many tasty things, among them, chestnuts or castagne in Italian, the fruit of trees of the genus Castanea. In the south of Italy these have always been a vital boon of the forest. In days not long past dried castagne were ground into meal and use to supplement wheat flour. It was often the main source of carbohydrates for mountainous populations since antiquity. So you can appreciate that when the fruit is ripe, there is reason to celebrate. Many towns in Italy have chestnut festivals or sagre delle castagne. Our friends Luciano and Antonella invited us to go with him to two such festivals in the province of Avellino.

We figured the day would be pretty long so The Bean and I proposed we start it with a good old Canadian style breakfast of bacon, eggs and some home-style hash, browns that is. Luciano and Antonella weren’t sure that they could handle anything heavier than a capuccino and some cookies that early in the morning, but once they dug into it, dipping their crispy Napolitano bread into the runny yolks, their faces lit up. Antonella later thanked us for the breakfast, when we’d been on the road for 4 hours without a chestnut in sight!

Luciano was the captain, and I the navigator, armed with a map, that like the majority of the roads we were travelling on didn’t have any names displayed. The country was beautiful. We were in the Irpinia region, a valley in the Apennine mountains renowned for its grapes, which according to Luciano makes some of the best wine in Italy. Before heading to the main sagra in Montefusco we were going to a smaller one in San Francesco. Somehow we got off the main road after taking a pit-stop at Luciano’s favourite bakery in a town just north of Avellino. The roads we were on for much of the day were the kind that are rarely traveled by vehicles that aren’t hauling trailers of some agricultural product. You could never see far down them as they wound around hills, never taking a direct route to where you wanted to go. We arrived in San Francesco after about 3 hours on the road. We made it into the main square that was full of people just getting out of church. We parked the car and noted a particular lack of chestnuts. Despite multiple newspaper articles the Luciano found mentioning the sagra in San Francesco no one in the town seemed to know they were holding one that day. This is the south of Italy, and after living here for over half a year, The Bean and I weren’t really surprised. So off we went.

Before heading to Montefusco we would be going to visit the medieval Abbey of St. Guliermo and then to see the Le Mefite, the source of a river that bubbles with so much CO2 that the surrounding valley becomes toxic. On the way to the Abbey we encountered a goat the the middle of the road. As we approached it ran off, but its leash got caught on a guard rail, stringing the rope across the road. At first we laughed, but it didn’t take long to realize that he wasn’t going to let us pass. I had to get out and drag him across the road. He then sprung into the field to the right, his rope becoming untangled as he ran away.

The abbey was in an isolated spot, and it looked like ruins as we approached. This was because the large central church was just that. The abbey is still in use though, and the monks there keep a tidy garden and have a cute row of ancient town houses there. Signs constantly remind you to be silent, despite the fact that there was no one in sight. The place was hauntingly beautiful and tranquil. Back to the back roads and the journey to see La Mefite. Guessing which way to go at a cross-roads we figured we’d keep what we thought was Sant’ Angelo dei Lombardi on our right and head down the smaller, less well kept path. After a few kilometers we saw the medieval castle of Rocca San Felice perched on a small rocky hill rising above us. The road lead us right into the heart of the medieval town, whose low stone houses seemed to lean against each other. The town’s elders were hanging out on the streets and didn’t try to hide the fact that they they were staring us down. The central square was dominated by a large tree, ringed in stone, to its side clear water ran from an ancient fountain. The back of the fountain had a trough for animals to drink at. The ancient castle, just a ruin now, still watches over the town, silently playing the role it was created for 12 centuries ago.

Hunger was setting in, and we searched the town for a place to eat, but it was pausa, and when a sleepy old town takes a break, it takes a break. We couldn’t find any place to grab a bite, so we decided to go on the La Mefite, figuring that the wait would make the chestnut dishes at the sagra taste that much better. A local pointed us down an even smaller road than usual. There were more chickens on the road than in the coops that lined it, and it was obvious that they were at home. It took more than one honk to get them to move out of the way. Needless to say, the going was slow. A fitting pace for a place where rabbits hung out with pigs for a chat. There’s no need to rush I guess, when your future holds little more than a roasting pan.

La Mefite isn’t that big of a tourist attraction, even if it is a very interesting place. There were no signs pointing to it off the road that ran by it, and the only sign I saw there was one the that read “risk of death”. It was revered since about the 8th century BC as a place where the underworld bubbled up to earth, releasing toxic fumes. There was a temple dedicated to the goddess Mefitis here, the embodiment of the earth’s deadly vapours. Interestingly, she is also the Roman goddess of sewers… Romans were known to stop here and offer animal sacrifices to Mefitis, using her gasses to suffocate the animals. Perhaps we came upon a modern reenactment of this ancient ritual. The Bean heard a crying as we approached the edge of the small valley, at the bottom of which was the bubbling pool of mud. From beside the death’s head sign I saw a small white thing scrambling madly. Farther down the valley’s side there were four more white bodies, but they were still and silent. I pointed it out to The Bean, and without thought she immediately bound down the slope toward the crying animal. As she went, loose stones tumbled down the hill, falling with menacing “plops” into the bubbling mud below. Luciano called out for her to return, warning of Mefitis, who could take your life without spilling a drop of blood. She picked up the puppy and scrambled up the hill. It seems that he was just high enough up the side of the valley as to be out of Mefitis’ grasp, his littermates were not so lucky. The puppy is abut 1/4 the way up in this picture in the middle. He’s a small white patch.

So it was that the four travelers became five.

The puppy calmed down slowly as he warmed up, wrapped in my scarf, lined with a plastic bag to limit his ability to soil it. How did he get there? How long had he been there? Clearly he wasn’t very old, as his umbilical cord was still attached, red and wet. His eyes and ears closed shut tight. I suggested we call him Mephisto, after the literary character, the demon of Faustian legend and arch nemesis of the Silver Surfer, since he’d been found by an ancient connection to the underworld. The Bean has since tried to rename him to Chester, since he was found on the way to a chestnut festival.

As we sped down the the farm roads, trying to get to our final destination, we passed through a few small towns. Antonella’s nephew lamented the fact that his breakfast wasn’t nearly as hearty as ours and it was well passed lunchtime. So we veered off the direct road to head into another hilltop town. While the girls and kid (no I don’t remember his name) went into the local bar for a bite Luciano and I looked for a Pharmacy to see if they had a baby bottle. Needless to say it was closed, and the sign on the door indicated that the closest open pharmacy was in a town that was completely out of our way. The puppy was out of luck it seemed.

At the bar the girls had procured some milk and a small spoon, but babies need to suckle. What to do? I asked the lady behind the bar if she had any rubber gloves. Sure enough she did. Cutting a finger off the glove I made a makeshift baby bottle. After many failed attempts he began to suckle! A cheer went up in the car and everyone crowded their heads around to see, even Luciano, who should have had his eyes on the road. He veered a little to the right and struck a sheep that was walking along the edge of a flock, splattering its brains all over the bumper. Save a life, take a life I guess…no just kidding, no veering, no sheep. Just a pleasant ride to another town, Dentecane. Yes, we’d made plenty of stops on our way to Montefusco for the sagra, but there was time for one more. You see, Dentecane is famous for the production of torrone, and since we were practically passing through we just had to stop and grab some.

There’s more than one torrone shop to choose from in Dentecane, we settled on DiIorio, a family run business that has been making torrone since 1750. We walked in the shop, but no one was there. Yelling out a “permesso”, we began to browse the shop. Man did they have a variety to choose from. In short order an elderly woman popped out the back and welcomed us. She proclaimed that everything was made in the shop be the family in the “laboratory” out back, which she showed us. It was quite big, and there were boxes of their products stacked high. I expressed disappointment that it wasn’t just her in the back working over an old stove. She just laughed. The Bean loves the hard stuff, so we got 2 classic almond torrone, one plain, the other chocolate covered. We also picked up a “Pralinato” with cereal and chocolate. I’ve never had anything like it, flecks of torrone mixed into a crunchy chocolate…something or other. I don’t know what it is exactly, but it is good.

Finally, torrone packed in the back with our bread we were on the final leg of our journey. It wasn’t long before we could see Montefusco, it sits on a high hill that commands a view over a good bit of the Irpinian valley. We rode up the road that was carved into the steep slope of the hill and parked the car outside the historic center of town. The pup had had something to eat and seemed to have settled down nicely, so we trusted that the scarf would keep him warm enough until we’d return and left him in the car. Walking the cobblestoned streets the festival seemed quite…subdued. In fact there wasn’t much to be seen at all! When we came to the town square we found an empty stage and not much else. We asked a local when the sagra would be happening, and he said it wasn’t due to start before 7:30. Given that it was only 5, and none of us (other than the kid) had eaten since before 10 we just weren’t ready to wait. So we headed into an old tavern that was just off the main piazza and asked if they could serve us. The pizza oven wasn’t ready, but they could muster something up they said. The tavern had a large main dining area with one window looking out over the valley. It was quite rustic looking, with stone walls and large wood beams holding up a wooden ceiling. Dinner consisted of an anti-pasta of home made prosciutto and capicollo, baked pasta with mozzarella, a grilled medley of pork, lamb and beef sided with friarielle (rapinni). Even if we weren’t all famished I’m sure it would have still been good, but in our state it was great. The home made wine was quite nice as well.

When we left the tavern things were starting to get set up for the sagra. We went for a small passeggiata around town, through the narrow streets, passing groups of people gathered on the street for their evening chats. We made our way back to the central piazza, but not much was happening yet. Young men in traditional costumes were setting up chairs and the cash register. Sadly the kid had to be in bed for 9, and we were over an hour away from home. So we decided it would be best to leave early, but not before I bought myself a piece of a castagna dessert and some roasted chestnuts that just came off the fire. Yes I am fat.

The kid was incredulous, lamenting the fact that they’d dragged him out to be driven around all day to get to this sagra, then we had to leave before it even got started. I laughed and complained that he ruined our day for having to go to bed so early, the rest of us could stay up all night after all if we wanted. Laughing together Luciano walked back to the car arm in arm (it’s OK, this is perfectly normal behaviour for men in Italy).

We made it home in good time and even found a pharmacy in Vomero (a nice part of Napoli, up on a ledge overlooking the historic center) that sold baby bottles and puppy dog formula. Once home The Bean and I quickly prepared the puppy his meal and took a crash course on hand raising puppies via a few Google searches. He took to the rubber nipple with no problem at all and was soon fast asleep.