Bella Tuscany (17 page)

We began my favorite topic of discussion—where we will eat lunch. Since most of the towns around the lake are mentioned not at all in guides, we walk around, examining the posted menus, checking out the ambiance of each of the restaurants. Food is robust and traditional in the whole Trasimeno area, nothing vaguely trendy, though pasta sauces made with rabbit or wild boar still seem exotic to us. During cool weather,
ribollita
, a soup so thick your spoon can stand up in the bowl, is my favorite. Most of the special dishes are fish of the lake—carp, shad, perch,
frittura
(a fried mix of tiny lake fish that look like the minnows that swarmed around my legs in the lake), and
tegamaccio
, the local fish soup that varies with the catch. Yellow eels are plentiful here and are often prepared in a sauce for pasta (
spaghetti al ragù d'anguilla
). A highly regarded fish,
lasca
(the European equivalent bears the unappetizing name of
roach
), has disappeared from the lake.

We decide to circumnavigate the lake, turning off on whatever roads lure us, to take the ferry to Isola Maggiore, and to drive to Panicale, Paciano, and Città della Pieve, slightly off the loop. Since distances are very short, it's easy to return home at the end of a day's travelling. It's just as easy, however, to stop for the night along the way. Passignano, the main resort on the lake, looks like a good choice for a night, as does Isola Maggiore. Like the restaurants, hotels in this area are not elaborate but are pleasant and comfortable, with the additional virtue of being inexpensive.

Before setting off, we stop at the
forno
and pick up two kinds of
torte al testo
(crispy, flat bread cooked on a hot iron in a wood oven), one with
pancetta
and the other with
parmigiano
. The cases also display
serpentoni,
almond pastries formed in the shape of a serpent.

Tuoro is our first pause. We want to get a closer look at the marshes along that edge of the lake. And, of course, we know about the famous battle site. A man pulling his fishing nets off his flat-prowed boat points out where Flaminio bivouacked for the night while Hannibal waited for dawn to attack him with his melting pot army of Numidians, Berbers, Libyans, Gascons, Iberians, and other dissidents he picked up along his way. Hannibal was down to one elephant by then, after his famous crossing of the Alps with thirty-nine. He also had lost an eye but still was in complete control of his 40,000 men. He outsmarted Flaminio and on a foggy morning drove the Romans right into the lake. Fifteen thousand Romans died, to fifteen hundred of Hannibal's men. Besides Ossaia (boneyard), where Anselmo lives, Sanguineto (bloodied) also recalls that day. An ugly modern bust of Hannibal at Tuoro commemorates his feat.

When I was a college sophomore, I was amazed that my Modern History course began with the year 1500; 1500 seemed beyond the bend of time. When I started travelling to Italy, finally it began to make sense in a real way, not an abstract way, that 1500 is quite recent. It's still hard to imagine Hannibal duking it out with the Romans, here where the tranquil view looks unchanged from long before that era. Just beyond the marshy edge, poles are stuck in the water, with nets attached, a method that could go back to prehistory.

A four-lane highway runs along the Tuoro/Magione side of the lake. We stick to our good map and stay off the busy
raccordo
; the small roads are fun to drive. Along the way, we watch for the thin yellow signs, pointing the way to a thirteenth-century church, a
fortezza,
Roman gates, or a tower. It's fun to stop, too, at the
“vendita diretta”
signs posted near the farms or estates that sell their wine or oil or honey directly to you. Out of Tuoro, intriguing roads lead to Vernazzano's leaning tower, to Mariotella, a medieval fortified
casa,
and to Bastia Corgna, a larger abandoned castle from 1300.

Castel Rigone occupies one of the prime positions above the lake. Substantial sections of the old walls of the town still exist. In the early sixteenth century, a fine small church was built because of local miracles associated with a painting of the Virgin Mary. Inside the plain, pure gray stone church remain wonderful frescoes, including an Assumption by Battista Caporali.

We wind downhill to Passignano, a peaceful resort of oleander-lined streets with a medieval section of town and many cafés and hotels along the lake. Two shops spill out onto the grounds with extensive selections of the hand-painted majolica from nearby Deruta; their prices are lower than Deruta's. How can they stand to take all those mugs, pitchers, candlesticks, and platters inside every night? I find the cheerfully designed espresso cups, plates, and pasta bowls irresistible, even if they are a nuisance to lug to San Francisco. Our china at Bramasole is going to be a wild mixture. Butter dishes,
parmigiano
servers, teapots—thank the gods for bubble wrap; I'm well into Christmas. Ed strolls next door for espresso. He can take only so much. I store the bags in the car and see him heading toward a
rosticceria
and pizza shop, headquarters for potato pizza, which is much better than it sounds. The onion pizza is a close second, with onions cooked slowly, almost caramelized.

No need to plan the hour to go to Isola Maggiore and Polvese; ferry service from Passignano, or from Castiglione del Lago or Tuoro, is so frequent that you can jump on often. Twenty minutes over the water and we step out on strange territory—no cars. Because Maggiore seems so completely severed from time, we decide to spend the night at the island's one inn. We feel the special isolation of the place after the last ferry has departed and the island returns to the fishing village it always has been. A solitary walk down the main street at midnight can make you feel as though you've been stuck into a time capsule. About sixty people live here now; the high point of the island's population was six hundred during the sixteenth century. The one-street village is lined with golden stone houses, with olive groves rising behind. Occasionally, you see a woman in a doorway, catching the light for her lace-making. Large, hooped nets, called
tofi,
dry in the sun. Shaped like cornucopias, the nets are for catching eels. We walk all the way around the island (about a mile), passing a spot where San Francesco landed in 1211. San Francesco was everywhere in Tuscany and Umbria, somewhat like George Washington–slept-here in the United States. Three open churches remain on the island. Right on the main street, Buon Gesù has the feel of many Mexican churches, with naively executed frescoes. The spontaneity makes you aware of the hand of the maker. The other two churches are from the twelfth century: San Salvatore and San Michele at the top of the island, a hot uphill climb through olive groves.

I ask the church caretaker at San Michele about the strange castle on a tip of the island. We'd skirted it on our walk and had tried to see inside, but the shutters were so long closed that ivy has grown over them, splitting the wood and twining into the stone walls—surely Sleeping Beauty is dreaming in an upstairs room. Situated on a curve of the island periphery, it has 300-degree views across the water. The caretaker tells us the castle, abandoned for years, used to be a monastery. “Any chance of seeing the inside?” I ask without much hope. But as so often happens in Italy, yes, her friend is the caretaker and, yes, she will show it to us. She will be passing the church in an hour, come back then. We go down to the village again and buy a guidebook to the island. The castle, we read, was built at the end of the nineteenth century onto a 1328 monastery and church of San Francesco. A marquis built this folly for his wife, Isabella. The family restored the church, built the boat landing, and imported an Irish woman to teach the villagers the art of lace making. By the 1960s, however, this late fiefdom was abandoned, its luxurious furnishings sold.

The caretaker turns an immense iron key and leads us into the castle's church, totally dark except for her flashlight. We make out a blue vaulted interior with gold stars. Chairs, pieces of the altar, and choir screens lie in heaps. Soon we are turning in corridors and following her light through darker and darker rooms. In some she suddenly flings open a window, letting in the stunning blue view, and we see damask walls hanging in strips, opulent painted borders and mouldings. In a courtyard, we glimpse what must have been the monastery cloister with its great stone well. I lose count of the rooms. We see in the circle of her light the ruined game room and theater, with painted scenery and velvet curtains piled on the floor, a castle for generations of mice. It is astonishing how quickly ruin has again overtaken the place. Will anyone awaken the princess? The caretaker says someone from Rome plans to restore it someday. Let's hope he has a boatload of
lire.

 

Continuing around the lake, we zigzag among clusters of enchanting stops. I especially like peaceful Monte del Lago, a castle town with impressive walls and gate right above the lake. The hotel there serves an amazing
carpa regina in porchetta,
carp paired with herbs and bits of roast pork, and
zzurlingo al sugo di lago
.
Zzurlingo
is a dialect word for a thin flat pasta, here served with a rich, fish-based sauce. Their
filetti di persico con salsa della casa,
delicate perch with a herb sauce, is also wonderful with a glass of spritzy white wine. Monte del Lago has wide-angle views of the lake. From the ramparts on cloudy days the gray water near shore stretches to apple green, aqua, lapis blue. No one is about except for a three-legged cat sleeping on a wall.

Equally serene are Antria, a toy walled village, and Montecolognola, with a double-gated entrance. These places rearrange my sense of time. The unchanging places continue to soak in the sun as they always have. The strange gate at Montecolognola accommodates a roaring Moto Guzzi (
why
don't they require mufflers?) as well as a cart pulled by oxen in earlier times.

A larger, less appealing town, Magione sits under a very tall tower encased in what looks like permanent scaffolding. The Knights of Malta also left a marvelous fortification from the time of the Crusades at Magione but it's privately owned now and hard to see because of the trees. Right outside Magione, however, I glimpsed another Cantina Sociale and found their DOC wines as good as their neighbor's across the lake. The cantina stands next door to a large wrought-iron works.
Ferro battuto
is the ancient craft of the area. Cortona, like many towns, has torch and banner holders, rings to tie horses, fanlights, and lanterns. Except for a few masters, the craft is dying. Here, however, is a large-scale operation. They still make traditional iron lanterns with clear globes, fireplace and grilling tools, and andirons, as well as tables, beds, and other large pieces. Their warehouse attests to the fact that they deal in quantity, unlike the scattered one-man forges we've used in our restoration. One of my favorite things about Italy is that even in such a large place, they will do anything to please you. I didn't like the flower on the fire screen. “Is it possible to have it without the flower?” Marco considers. Come with me, he motions. We go into the immense workroom with smouldering fires and pits of paint and stacks of iron parts. With a torch and a touch-up, he has removed the flower in ten minutes. Can we have the andirons without the curve? Yes, next week. I remember the abandoned slab of travertine at the house and ask if they can make a table base. Of course. He takes us into his house and shows us the table he has designed for his family. His wife offers us a Coke, and we sit out on his patio while he sketches a table base he thinks we would like. We do. Expecting him to say six weeks, I ask how soon we can have it. “Would next Tuesday be all right?”

Nearby is Rocca Baglioni, with a double tower, and Zocco, an abandoned castle on a prominent knoll overlooking the lake. In the fishing village of San Feliciano, we find the Fishing Museum, where we learn perhaps more than we want to know about the history of local fishing.

Although it sounds as if we're zooming through Umbria, these are short distances, a few miles between stops. We then drop down to the area just south of the lake, in search of the Santuario di Mongiovino. As we arrive, mass blares from the bell tower and the doors fly open, releasing dozens of children and nuns into a forecourt of tumbling ancient buildings; only the church is intact. Its almost square structure is unique among churches I've seen. When we walk around back to examine the building, we find several mobile units, housing for the Benedictines. Up the hill we come to Mongiovino Vecchio, a military stronghold in ages past and now inhabited by a few families. Not that we see anyone. Many of the castle towns have a day-after-judgement-day stillness. We do see wash flapping on a line and from a high stone window we hear the unmistakable sound of Jimi Hendrix. We sit in the grass by a fallen wall and eat the hot grapes we've left on the back seat of the car.

We are looking for the Torre d'Orlando, a castle with a tower built in 917. The detailed map pinpoints it on a squiggly road between Paciano and Panicale. We drive up slopes of olive trees to Paciano and walk through the medieval gates into a town totally closed down for siesta. A pile of ginger cats sleeping in a doorway does not even look up. At a lookout point over the valley, someone planted a flourishing circle of lavender around two facing benches and we sit down to enjoy the secret garden. Bees and yellow and blue butterflies flash and buzz—the only activity in town. After a light morning rain, the fragrance seems to rise in waves. Paciano, we read, has a museum and two churches built around 1000, as well as several fifteenth-century churches with frescoes and carved doors. All closed, of course.

We can't even find an espresso in the eerie quiet, so we drive on, turning left when we probably should have turned right to find the elusive tower. The road opens up at every curve to another broad valley view of the Umbrian countryside. All the traffic we meet is a flock of sheep in the road, madly munching grass and wild arugula on the shoulder, while a frustrated spaniel tries to herd them up the hill. We turn off the car and listen to their bells.