THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, May 19, 1996 TAG: 9605170181
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: STORY AND WATERCOLORS BY PEGGY EARLE, TRAVEL CORRESPONDENT
LENGTH: Long : 275 lines
MY VACATION in Umbria came about because of a movie. My mother, having just seen ``Il Postino'' (The Postman), phoned me from Brooklyn to describe the Oscar-nominated Italian film.
It's about a young man who delivers mail to exiled writer Pablo Neruda on a tiny fishing-village island. Enchanted by what she'd seen, my mother envisioned returning to Italy, where she'd gone with my father long ago.
``But this time,'' she mused, ``I'd love to see places like that island: no big cities; only small towns and villages.''
She suggested we go there together - and she was serious. Here was the deal: she'd pay for everything, and I'd plan the trip, drive the car and speak the Italian. It would be a major mother-daughter bonding experience, a mutual gift, a one-of-a-kind adventure.
Now, while every drop of my blood is descended from Russian Jews, I've always held a special place in my heart for all things Italian. It began when I was a kid in Brooklyn and our neighbor, Mrs. Barra, presented us with a small Christmas tree, fully trimmed. Then, when I took a year off from college in 1968, I spent it working in Rome, where I became quasi-fluent in the language. Add to that the chance for me to paint watercolors of the gorgeous Italian countryside and you could say I took to my mother's idea like pesto to pasta.
I began my research with an Atlantic Monthly article about Umbria that hooked me with references to charming little towns dotting its rolling hills. The region, I read, was nicknamed the``green heart of Italy'' because of its central location, shape and lush landscapes.
I searched the Internet for anything about Italy or Umbria and found Howard Isaacs, editor of The Italian Traveler magazine. I e-mailed him for advice, and he enthusiastically seconded my choices, assuring me that although the region is hilly, the terrain wouldn't be too difficult for someone like my spry 85-year-old mother, who walks everywhere and exercises in a gym twice a week.
Then my sister-in-law told me that a couple she knew owned a bed and breakfast right in the middle of Umbria. I decided to use the B&B as a home base from which we could take day trips by car. I made reservations for two weeks in April and arranged a car rental through my travel agent. We were all set.
Known as Tuscany's quiet baby sister, Umbria is named for the Umbrii, a peaceful tribe forced into the hills by the Etruscans in about 500 B.C. Then the Romans came and held sway over several centuries. But it was the Middle Ages that gave the Umbrian towns the look they have today, complete with fortifcation walls and castles.
The region measures about 100 miles from top to bottom, is 53 percent mountains and 41 percent hills, with the rest set in the Tiber River valley.
When we arrived in Rome, we were met by Iain Mackenzie, who with his wife, Diane, own the B&B where we would be staying. Iain, a Scottish retired Royal Navy captain, kept us entertained on the two-hour drive to Umbria.
As we drove, the modern surroundings morphed into gentle hills patterned with fields in a hundred shades of green, clusters of red-tile-roofed houses, vineyards and groves of olive trees. I remembered reading that Dante was picturing Umbria when he described the serene valley below Mount Purgatory where souls rested on their journey to salvation.
Our little slice of heaven began with our lodgings. The converted farm house, named Romagnella, sits in a valley at the bottom of the tiny hill town of Cibottola. Built of pink and tan field stone, the restored building is a marvel inside and out, with lovely landscaped gardens, patios and covered eating areas. The view from any point around the house is punctuated with graceful, slender cypresses and clusters of houses set in the blue-green hills.
Each morning, we could step out the door and be greeted by crystalline air, idyllic beauty and stillness - disturbed only by the distant calls of rooster, peacock or cuckoo.
We planned our itinerary, agreeing that although we would focus on the small towns, we would include a few of the more touristy (and that's relatively speaking) spots. We selected Perugia, Assisi and Orvieto for their proximity to Romagnella as well as their abundant art treasures. COLORFUL PERUGIA
Perugia is the capital of Umbria and its largest city. It's also the home to two universities (one for Italians, the other for foreigners) and the site of the annual Umbria Jazz Festival. You may have heard of a couple of its more famous exports: Buitoni pasta and Perugina chocolates, which, my mother informed me, you can get much cheaper in New York.
We arrived in Perugia and parked our car in a garage at the bottom of the hill where the more modern outskirts lie. Then we rode a series of tunnel-like escalators to the top, the old city. When we emerged, we were dazzled both by sunlight and Corso Vannucci, one of Europe's most impressive high streets. It was a beehive of tourists, students and fashionable Perugini.
We visited popular sites like the ornate Palazzo Communale, which houses the National Gallery of Umbria, and saw works by medieval and Renaissance masters, most impressively Pietro Vannucci himself (a.k.a. Perugino, for all the years he worked there).
We wandered, strolling arm in arm like Italian women do, up and down the often steep, narrow back streets of the city. When the climbing got tough, my mother was able to navigate with tiny steps and frequent rests. We were happiest away from the crowds, which even in the most popular cities, was possible. This way, we might come upon a dark old church with lovely frescoes or paintings, and have it all to ourselves.
Leaving Perugia was torture, and not just because we'd had such a nice time there. I hadn't driven a stick-shift in years and here I was driving for the first time ever in Italy, trying in vain to find the road out of town.
As I prayed not to have to stop on an incline, the light turned red on (I swear) an 85-degree uphill angle. To make matters hideously worse, a guy pulled up behind me, leaving about five inches between us. My heart began to race and then sink as I wished for the light never to turn green again.
And just as surely as it did, my car slid and bumped right into my buddy behind me. When I recovered, I pulled over, waiting for my victim to come over and sue me or shoot me or rave at me in Italian.
Instead, he jumped out of his car, told me not to worry about it and led me safely out of town. You can see why I love these people. SACRED ASSISI
The next day I was behind the wheel again and we were off to Assisi, one of the most visited sites in Italy. Despite this and the clutter of souvenir shops hawking every St. Francis chochka imaginable, there were places where Henry James' words about the city rang true: ``. . . it would be hard to breathe anywhere an air more heavy with holiness.''
We joined the crowds at the Basilica of Saint Clare (Santa Chiara), a pink and white striped marble cathedral, built around 1260. Clare, born the same year as St. Francis, became his most fervent follower and took care of him as his health declined. She outlived him by more than 25 years and began an order of Franciscan nuns, which exists today as the Poor Clares.
Assisi's main attraction is the splendiferous Basilica of St. Francis. In contrast to the ornate churches (one built on top of the other), the saint's crypt is a simple, cave-like vault. Complete silence is requested there, and the only light comes from hanging oil lamps. A constant hum or rumble resembling the sound of a waterfall creates a moving, meditative atmosphere. JEWEL-LIKE ORVIETO
Sympathizing with my frequent navigational problems, Iain offered to drive us to Orvieto. It took about an hour on the scenic route, up and down some incredibly steep, curvy, narrow roads and past a string of breathtaking views.
The city, glowing like a giant jewel on top of a volcanic plateau, is known for its ceramics, brass and delicious white wine. The streets were crowded with both tourists and locals on their day off, since it was a festa with banks, schools and many businesses closed.
I was eager to see the spectacular striped Duomo which took some 33 architects, 90 mosaic artists, 152 sculptors, 68 painters and over three centuries (1260-1600) to complete.
It is nicknamed ``The Golden Lily of Cathedrals,'' and its facade glimmered, even on a drizzly day.
The inside was equally majestic . We were drawn first to the Cappella del Corporale, where we heard muted singing, a service still in progress. In this chapel, an exquisite golden reliquary and its sacred altar cloth were on display.
The story goes that the 13th century popes were having trouble convincing their flock to accept the concept of transubstantiation. A priest, on his way to Rome, stopped in a small town outside Orvieto to celebrate mass. During the ritual, the host dripped real blood on the linen altar cloth. When the pope in Orvieto saw the instant relic, he declared it a miracle and initiated the feast of Corpus Christi.
It was the opposite chapel with Luca Signorelli's fresco cycle, considered one of the greatest works of the Renaissance, that we most longed to see. Its unusual subject matter intrigued us: the ``Preaching of the Anti-Christ,'' ``Last Judgment'' and`` Resurrection of the Dead,'' which were inspired by the words of Dante and, in turn, inspired the art of Michelangelo.
We loved the story about the artist's mistress jilting him while he worked on the frescoes; his sweet revenge was painting her portrait on one of the damned being carted off to hell by a winged demon. We wanted to cry when we found out the frescoes were hidden behind scaffolding because the chapel was still being restored. Even worse, some small groups of tourists were being allowed in because they had made reservations (and payment) in advance. Next time! THE SMALL TOWNS
We'd had enough of the larger cities, dazzling though they were, and remembered our reason for the trip: the small towns. A favorite was Citta Della Pieve, birthplace of our old buddy Perugino (1446-1523). He was not only Raphael's teacher, but quite an odd character.
Born poor, his eventual success turned him into a miserly misanthrope. Then, about midway into his career, he became an atheist while he raked in the lire for one holy painting after another. As he died of the plague, he still refused absolution - something that just wasn't done in the 16th century.
The tiny town of Panicale is perched on top of a hill. Its medieval walls concealed a quiet village, full of charm and, to our delight, empty of tourists. A wedding had just taken place and we joined the locals at an outdoor cafe, sipping cappuccino and watching dressed-up guests filter out of the nearby church. LAKE TRASIMENO
Maybe because my mother and I have always been surrounded by water (in Brooklyn and Norfolk), we found such pleasure on and around the tranquil turquoise waters of Lake Trasimeno.
Just about 20 minutes' drive from Romagnella, Trasimeno is, at 50 square miles, the fourth largest lake in Italy. It has a maximum depth of about 27 feet, so only special, flat-bottomed boats can manage it.
Shallow as it is, the lake has a deep history: Hannibal defeated 15,000 Romans on it; Napoleon wanted to drain it; and Hans Christian Anderson wrote a fairy tale about it. From its waters come 30 percent of Italy's supply of fish, including perch, pike, carp and eel.
In the village of San Feliciano, where we happened on an outdoor market one Friday, we found a funny little fishing museum and were its only visitors. From there, we took a 10-minute ride to Isola Polvese, an uninhabited island maintained as both bird sanctuary and olive tree grove.
We wandered in silence for about an hour. We never saw any of the island's wild horses, but did find the ruined castle, built in the 14th century as a defense against the armies of Arezzo and Siena. We walked past the nearly 10,000 olive trees, farmed for the wonderful local oil, and through swarms of wild flowers and tiny dragonflies.
Diane had tipped us off to Wednesday market day in Castiglione Del Lago. The town, suspended on a point high over the Lake, is said to have once formed its fourth island. Archaeological finds prove it was inhabited in Etruscan and then Roman times. But, ah, the market!
It spread up and down the cobblestone streets, with real bargains to be found on tables and in large overturned umbrellas. They sold everything from flowers to shoes to kitchen utensils and beauty supplies. I found a huge, diaphanous banner with Kurt Cobain's face surrounded by Italian newspaper headlines - a pefect gift for my 13-year-old (only 10,000 lire - about $7).
At a vegetable stand where I was about to snap a photo of my mother, artichoke in hand like the Statue of Liberty, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the white-jacketed young proprietor, who raced around me, threw an arm around my beaming mother and grinned for the camera.
Hard as it is to choose, I think the high point of the trip was our visit to Isola Maggiore, Lake Trasimeno's only inhabited island. From the pretty town of Passignano, on a splendidly perfect day, we took a quiet, 35-minute ferry crossing to reach the small paradise.
The island, which includes a fishing village, one hotel and restaurant, a few coffee bars, some old churches and a castle, could easily have been the set of ``Il Postino.'' True, the movie was shot on islands off the coast of Sicily on the Tyrrhenian Sea. No matter; Isola Maggiore was our movie island come to life.
There were strange, tubular fishing nets (called bertovelli) hung out to dry, flower-festooned and wisteria-draped houses and a smiling, elderly woman sitting outdoors, crocheting some of the intricate lace for which the area is famous. A walk up a steep, rocky path took us through strange vegetation and provided great views of the azure lake and its surrounding hills. Our footsteps disturbed some brilliant-green lizards that scurried across our path. Then, as we ate an excellent alfresco lunch of trout and pasta with porcini mushroom sauce, we were visited by two of the island's scrawny red cats. They lustily devoured the morsels of fish and spaghetti I passed them under the table.
Leaving the island was like awakening from a dream. But we consoled ourselves back in Passignano, shopping for majolica pottery at a store called Marina's, where gaily-decorated bowls, pitchers and cups from nearby Deruta spill out onto the sidewalk from three crowded rooms.
My mother and I only scratched the surface of what Umbria has to offer. We never made it to Spoleto, site of the famous music festival or Todi, named the most livable city in the world, not to mention so many other``not to miss'' towns. So, as if I needed one, I have an excuse to return to Umbria someday. ILLUSTRATION: Map
JOHN EARLE/The Virginian-Pilot
Paintings
Church of San Stefano, Assisi
Cloister of the Basilica of St. Francis, Assisi
Street in Perugia, the Capital
Houses, Isola Maggiore
Photos
PEGGY EARLE
A vegetable vendor welcomes the writer's mother, Marge Wolfman, to
Castiglione Del Lago.
DIANE MACKENZIE
Peggy Earle and her mother, Marge Wolfman, at the Basilica of St.
Francis in Assisi.
Graphic
HOW IT BEGAN
``Il Postino,'' the movie that inspired Peggy Earle's trip to
Umbria, will be shown at 1 p.m. today at the Naro Expanded Cinema in
Norfolk.
by CNB