Living Castello

by

The castle that most appealed to me was the closest to my friend’s home in Salsomaggiore. It is the Castello di Tabiano, just down the hill and atop another, up a winding road.

Even from the outside, the castle looks well kept, with very old and large trees gracing its edges. Early on this Sunday, there were only three of us to be guided through the Castle by the amiable and well informed Claire, who spoke English very well.

It was originally a military fort built by the Pallavicino family around the year 1000 to oversee the lucrative salt trade, where the salt was extracted from the thermal waters of Salsomaggiore and Tabiano and taken by horse to barges destined for Milan or Venice. It had a moat and a drawbridge and could house within its walls all the animals needed for fresh milk, eggs and meat, enough for the village and troops to survive even a year-long siege. The rainwater cisterns are still used today.

Bought by Giacomo Corazza in the late 19th century, it took 20 years of restoration by about 70 craftsmen to turn the abandoned fortress into the gracious home of today. Having made his fortune in London from ice cream and ice, Giacomo went on to turn the castle and its surrounding hectares into a highly productive farm: wheat, wine and cheese.

It was only 10 years ago that the castle and its village, its piggery and dairy, were transformed into a beautiful venue for weddings, events and conferences, plus a hotel and a restaurant. Even 25 years ago the family was still farming here.

And members of the family remain in residence.

It is this sense of continued life, with so much equipment so recently stilled, that imbues the castle with its special ambience.

Of course a chapel had to be added for the family, and the shallow horse-friendly steps were replaced by a grand staircase in pink marble.

Although the stables became the wine cellars, the horse history is still there, with the tack room looking as neat and ready as it once must have.

The whole castle was built to follow the rock beneath, with the rainwater cisterns using that rock; the rose garden with its stunning views is actually atop an icehouse cave, where snow would be brought in, squeezed into ice, sprinkled with straw and sand, and raised as needed.

The 1800s’ passion for exotic plants brought such trees as palms and Lebanese cedars, and the micro-climate created by the sea breeze, albeit from 50 kms away, ensures their survival.  That lavender at the base of the palms apparently kills bacteria that attack palm trees.

In the area where the family lives, chandeliers of Venetian glass illuminate grand ceilings, in rooms like the Ballroom, the Hunting Room and Dining room, filled with treasures and tastes brought with them from London. Here Claire is noting the fireplace lined with turquoise majolica tiles.

Certainly the Ballroom, or Mirrored Room, is impressive, with enormous and elaborately framed mirrors from London.

But my favourite room was the Children’s Room, pleasantly and charmingly decorated as their playroom.

The family has great plans for further restoration, including of the Corazza greenhouses that had used the Roman grottoes under the walls. I’d like to come back in five years and see… and perhaps stay in the hotel and enjoy the history and the view up close…

Much about Castello di Tabiano will remain etched in my mind.

Thanks Claire!

A castle or two

by

Castles are all different; like the old ad said,’Oils ain’t oils’.

This one, outside Parma, is the 15th century Torrechiara, and open for us to enter.

A steep cobbled ramp led up to the main entry, past where the portcullis would have been lowered against the enemy.

Of course it has sweeping views over the country that would have been under its protection.

This included the village within its hilltop realm, needed to house the workers and artisans to run this fort-cum-villa.

From the broad tiled loggia or verandah, I can look down on the roof below and admire the ancient lichened terracotta tiles.

It has the usual central courtyard and well, which all look quite simple, almost monastic. Inside is another matter.

Yep, frescoes galore for the family’s living and entertainment rooms, but they were very different to the religious ones with which I’d been swamped. So much skill and talent had been at the disposal of these wealthy families.

I loved that this one featured jugglers and acrobats.

And I especially loved the beautiful ceilings of these four connected rooms, depicting birds at different times of the day.

But the defensive purpose of this place was brought home by the incredibly heavy-looking armour and weaponry, The soldiers must have been short, judging by the breastplates, and I hoped the fellow on the left had a matching codpiece.

Safe within their fortress, protected by their short soldiers, I could imagine the pleasure of being surrounded by ceilings and walls painted with fascinating scenes.  For a time…

But I found myself yearning for at least one more restful and less demanding room, with plain white walls and just a few pictures.

The next castle, my favourite, was quite different, as you will see next post!

Elegant Parma

by

If I thought Cremona was grand, Parma is more so. If I’d only associated Parma with ham or Parmesan cheese, I have had a major shift of associations. I now also know Verdi belongs here. It is an elegant midsized city, with many boutiques and parks and cafés. And of course, churches.

This being a personal take on my travels and not a travelogue, I will share glimpses like this one as much as grand buildings. This elderly lady had been feeding the pigeons with bread chunks, much as she would have had in her café latte for breakfast.

Parma is well-maintained, its historic buildings constantly being cleaned and refurbished, as seen on the octagonal Baptistry.

Certainly the Cathedral was grand, but I am finding the gold and arches and frescoes are beginning to blur. I did see a relief sculpture by Benedetto Antelami that was a first in using more natural representations in flow of robes and position of limbs.

This church is especially famous for its groundbreaking Correggio dome fresco, with its unusual perspective, from below, and where for the first the bare legs and implied bare bottom of the Christ are shown. It caused a great stir at the time, but he was truly avant garde and opened the way for others.

I preferred the later Benedictine Monastery, with its simpler lines and central well, where water was drawn that had been collected from the roof.

The Monastery has a famous library, with an adjoining room of arches and unusually simple frescoes, commemorating the translation of the bible into the four languages of Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Syriac.

It does have a church; way too grand for monks, I thought.

In its Correggio dome fresco, of the Vision of St. John (San Giovanni), painted after the infamous one, the perspective is still from below, but the exposure of bare limbs is toned down.

The octagonal Baptistry used lovely pink and white marble from Verona in its  construction. Inside, its open space soars to a high frescoed dome, with a central large baptismal font designed for adults. The astrological sculptures, again by the trailblazing Antelami, have been moved from the upper galleries to the ground floor.

But for me the highlight of this building’s treasures is the atypically realistic Madonna and her atypically playful Child.

Cremona the contradictory

by

Of course the Town Hall was not open for me to see inside… or not until the afternoon when I’d be gone. Indeed the official looked horrified when I asked. But I can’t be sure if this was at my Italian or the idea of a morning opening.  So I wandered.

Cremona celebrates both its famous sons: composer Monteverdi and violin maker Stradivari. There is a Monteverdi Festival occurring: as this banner proclaims, ‘It is not Cremona without Monteverdi.

In his own piazza stands a statue of Stradivari; I liked that his tools were included at his feet.

I saw several music schools and violin makers’ shops, and at least 6 people carrying cases for stringed instruments large and small. Music matters in Cremona.

As do statues. They are everywhere, of every possible subject and in every possible position.

Alongside and atop the statues are pigeons; beneath are bicycles.

Cremona, on the rich agricultural plains of the Po River, is flat, so many people cycle about. They seem to weave effortlessly amongst the pedestrians in the narrow streets as much as the large squares.

The squares or piazzas also host edging cafés… and newspaper stands, just as in Martin Place.

I was able to visit one museum, the Museo Diocesano, modern and well-arranged, full of paintings and statues of Madonnas and Nativity and Crucifixion scenes.

As befits a town first established by the Romans in 218 B.C., cars are banned from its historical centre. Streetside parking is facilitated beyond that. I note that fuel is almost twice the price as in Australia. My friend says that applies to everything in Italy…

I am not sure about access in the old town for the many villas and what seem to be  elegant and ancient equivalents of gated communities.

 I am finding the lack of public toilets somewhat of a problem; how many times must I have a coffee so as to use their toilet? In the biggest café opposite the Duomo, I am surprised that the only toilet is a porcelain-rimmed hole in the floor. I back out; surely I am in the Men’s by mistake? But no, it is the only one.

Ah, Cremona! Ah, Italy…

I do manage to keep the Duomo in sight, do not get lost and even catch the right bus back. As soon as I see the Piacenza hills in the distance, I find myself thinking, ‘Nearly home’.  After three weeks, Salsomaggiore does feel like ‘home’.

Cremona the Grand

by

A day trip to Cremona has been my first solo excursion, catching an early bus from Salsomaggiore, which did arrive at the right time, offering the right money, that we’d been told by the bus company was essential. Except my right money was not what was required, so I was left scrabbling through my coins, to be rescued by the bus driver.

‘Head for the Duomo’, I’d been told.  Fearful of getting lost, I made sure I kept that tall Tower in sight from wherever I went. There were people queuing to take the ‘vertical tour’ to the top of the Torrazzo or Bell Tower, c.1300, the highest made of bricks in Europe. Good luck to them; my friend’s mother had told me how as a child, she had been taken to the top and seen the cars down below like ants. The stuff of nightmares for me.

I preferred to look in the Cathedral, consecrated in 1190.  It is breathtakingly high and solid, arched and full of gold and frescoes, impossible to see them all in the gloom and so far up. There are several galleries, with special dedications and candles to be lit for special prayer requests.

I sit for a while in the main nave, savouring the peace and coolness, while in a smaller area a Mass in Latin is being sung, with five priests officiating, and quite a few attendees. I could have sat there all morning…

When it is empty I take a photograph of this gold-bedecked ‘chapel’ and wonder how it must be to have such grandeur as your local church.

Even the rear of the Duomo complex is impressively lofty. The left hand octagonal building is the Baptistry, not open at the time of my visit.

Feeling I have had enough of religious subjects, I think I will like the Commune or Town Hall (mainly 13th century) as the approach frescoes appeal here, and am assured by the Tourist Office that is open for me to see inside.

Silly, gullible me…

Ten centuries on…

by

Appropriately high for defending from invaders, with the Piacenza Hills in the background, the Castle Vigoleno remains impressive. In wonderful condition, given it was built in the 10th century, it stayed in the one family for five centuries or so.

It is a grand and sprawling ridgetop complex, really a fortified medieval village, with a classy restaurant, San Giorgio, I assume named after St George of dragon-slaying fame, as on the crest. We could not see inside the apparently gorgeously appointed event centre venue and hotel rooms, nor tour the castle.  Wrong day.

But we could wander down the cobbled alleys past occupied houses and admire the views of the valleys far below.

And we could enter the 12th century church, a mere eight centuries old!

This Madonna puzzled us; why is she standing on unhappy heads, and why is the bellringer for lepers beside her? If I find out, I’ll let you know…

The church was dark, but its massive supporting columns loomed large. My arms could not reach around such a solid bulk.

Here I have to confess that en route to this Castello Vigoleno my camera settings dial must have been bumped so all the outside photos were overexposed.  Sorry: mi dispiace! But you can get an idea of its grandeur. This is the main courtyard, with the restaurant and fabulous view beyond.

The distinctive swallow-tailed tops or merlons were for sheltering behind as you fought through the slits. Iron grilles would have been lowered at the entry to the outer walls and to the main castle.

This is prized wine grape growing country, and no matter how steep, the soil of these hills are planted with best loved varieties, like Gutturnio.  These vines are growing beneath the walls of the much more modest Castello Scipione. Also built about ten centuries ago, it has remained in the hands of the one noble family.

Of more homely appearance, Castello Scipione is also in greater need of repairs, with the typical narrow  Italian bricks jostling with stones to shore up damage. As I walk over its rough cobbled lanes, I am somewhat overwhelmed to think of the feet that have walked here before me, so very long ago.

When we owned the old jail and residence at Minmi, I had the same feeling about the hollows worn in its slate steps… and it was less than 200 years old!

Living history

by

The walk along the ridge and down to the valleys from my friend Paola’s family home offers seductive views of ancient castles, towers and churches.  We head for the closest.

All three …castle, church and cemetery … have been recommended to me to see.

The sign seems to send us to the right place.

But not one of the three is open. Like so much of Italy’s  built history, the upkeep is too great; some are being repaired by current owners, hopefully to become income earners.

We can hear peacocks, and the dog of which the sign warns.

We pass the totally closed-up church; we can see nothing of the inside.

We could have prayed by the ivy-draped shrine to the Virgin, set in a small garden nearby.

To Paola’s bemusement I am fascinated by any evidence of older ways of building and this barn by the road is both sad and beautiful as its timber lintel rots and the bricks follow its trajectory.

Any walk in this country means chances for foraging. Not as many as in Paola’s youth, but enough to warrant always carrying a bag, just in case some still exist and are ripe.

Wild plums, red and yellow, wild cherries, alpine strawberries, walnuts, wild oregano…

Even if no finds, the intense green of the roadside trees stuns me; it is hard to imagine their winter bareness, with perhaps only the ubiquitous ivy not leafless or snow-covered.

We walk down to Tabbiano Terme, another spa town, full of apartments, some hotels; no shop but a pharmacy… and this one big farmhouse in empty fields. I think of all the food that this farm could grow now, for all the people living here, who include refugees housed by the government. I am told many hotels are only still open due to this funding, but  surely some refugees must be from the country and could grow food?

No; it is all about the money, says my friend.

So what’s new?

On Monday we will be taken to a castle that is open…or so it says… so I hope to share that next.

Trees first

by

It is said that, like the Art Nouveau style, the town of Salsomaggiore Terme drew its inspiration from Nature. It certainly favours trees; many parks and broad avenues like this offer more dappled green shade than I am used to in a town or city.

Once-grand hotels like this, now a conference and event centre, are suitably graced and softened with trees and gardens.

Old trees are revered, their arching and bending limbs propped up. As I walk under such trees, or over cracked and lurching pavements that accommodate their roots, I have observed that our fear of litigation, our O H & S paranoia, does not rule here.

Even the cars in car parks must fit around the trees, rather than the whole area cleared for maximum cars. This is not a street, but a dedicated parking block, absolutely full on a Sunday, when it seems most shops and cafés are open and most people are out and enjoying the summer day. Our friend drives round and round seeking a spot. No wonder most cars here are small; the turning spaces would not suit the large SUVs more usual in Australia.

One Sunday event is a very long street market, where used goods like clothes and bric-a-brac are offered for sale for charities. This is a rare chance, as op shops… my usual retail choice… don’t exist in Italy. I buy a good coffee maker for using here, hover over a few unsuitable shoes and clothes, wish to be younger to wear them, wish for more space in my bag to take larger and heavier items home… but refrain. 

Because of all the trees, the stallholders and patrons are not in the baking sun as is more usual here, with such markets held in open parks or sports fields.

The cafés lining one side of the street are full of people eating al fresco, sipping coffee or wine. Sundays seem devoted to very civilised leisure.

And of course there are  much narrower paved streets, with no room for trees. Their shops are tiny and varied, with apartments above, the outdoor café spaces are small.

In an incongruously pretty building I spot a cow and horse meat vendor. Now that is a shock for any Australian, let alone a vegetarian one…

A tourist in town

by

Salso’s most opulent building is the Berzieri Thermal Spa, unfortunately not operational, nor in fact even open for me to see its reputed wonders. A temple to Art Nouveau, the images of its interiors look wonderful and I would really love to see them.  Built from 1913-1923, it is meant to resemble an oriental palace or a grand casino. Maybe that’s why I find the outside over-the-top — I am not charmed.

I did sit at the café opposite to ponder on its famous facade and attempt my first ordering of a coffee on my own. I did this partly because my friend Paola had warned me that there are no public toilets in Italy but that every bar/café must have one. The ordering was not a success, as I ended up with two cups of coffee: one the cappuccino without froth and the other the double espresso I had meant to be included… must be the wrong accent, the emphasis… or just a most non-Italian coffee wish.

But there was a toilet…

Of more interest to me was the ornate Scotti Well Cage; the well was one of many that once drew the hot mineral laden waters to the surface. Only one spa now operates in Salso but it is intentionally therapeutic, not recreational; not the sort of spa we Australians are used to, either basically coming straight out of the ground as at Pilliga or harnessed for the local pool as at Blackall or Moree.

A building that did have charm for me was the much smaller Warowland. It had been built as an art gallery but became a home. Its functions now include that of the Tourist Information Centre. The graffito plaster walls are highly decorated inside and out with fine painted patterns and I wonder that artisans can still be found to maintain them.

I had been directed to it as ‘the yellow building’. I did know the word ‘giallo’ for yellow, but there are many shades of yellow.

My first wrong call turned out to be the local Council Chambers. I am wondering if the warm colours of the buildings are partly because in the snowy cold winters the town needs the visual warmth.

Next to it was a building of yet another shade of yellow.  A scooter and a pushbike were parked nearby; I have noted that many of the bicycle riders are older women and they do not wear helmets. It is apparently a rarely enforced law.

A murkier shade of yellow adorns a private home in the town, but it is enlivened with the riot of potted flower colour and the gay green curtains.

I am agog at so much here that I am going to do more posts per week than usual to keep up with my fascination. Coming with me?

Stepping to Salso

by

My head is finally clear from the 21-hour torture of the plane trip but actually it is still spinning… from the differences in place and culture and language in which I am to be immersed for two months.

I am staying with my friend Paola at her mother’s house in the hills above Salsomaggiore Terme, which is a most beautiful town in the region of Emilio Romagna, so recently flooded in its lower areas. It is a town of leafy trees, parks and plazas, narrow streets and wide avenues, of boutique shops and cafés, of buildings quaint or grand.

My usual readers will not be surprised that the first photo I took here was not of the grand view above, but of a detail: a public rubbish bin. Apparently of ancient beauty, but of modern design, make and function.

The walk down to the town is via steep paved steps, bordered by weeds like the orange papavera poppies I had seen growing wild by the train line from the airport to Milan station. Even the stones in the edging drains here are aesthetically laid, diagonally. 

Naturally the walk back up is more of a strain; I could choose to follow the longer winding road instead. Italians drive on the other side of the road, very fast, and often one-handed, as, if in company, they are usually speaking — also fast — which necessitates gesticulating.

From the train I had also remarked on the many abandoned large farmhouse complexes, old and partly vine covered, in the midst of fields. People prefer to live near services now I am told. Yet on my walk down to Salso I pass quite a few mansions similarly falling into disrepair.

The first was Poggio Diana, once a sort of resort, a nightclub, a place of hospitality, of dancing and fun, with a pool and overgrown tennis courts below. I fall in love with the windows, the shapes, the shutters, and begin to feel the sadness of history’s changes. I think of the Hydro Majestic at Katoomba…

The road runs below the large tree-filled grounds of half-hidden, once grand villas. I think I see the one I want to rescue most. I am told many were built by owners of vineyards elsewhere in the region to take advantage of the higher air and the thermal spas, as the latter were the reason for Salsomaggiore Terme’s establishment.

Armies of gardeners would be needed for any of these, like this imposing rare one clearly still used by its wealthy owners.

Of course most Italians do not live in grand villas, or even separate houses, but in apartments, and I love that so many beautify them with flowers, roses and geraniums especially.

Most of the houses I do see are tall and narrow; colour abounds, particularly yellow. The house where I am staying is of three levels; I am in the attic.

I am getting used to tiles, and stairs, and even Italian TV. The latter is overly glamorous, bright and lively and I now better understand why the Eurovision Song Contest is so glitzy. But it is a good way to learn Italian…

Farewell flashes

by

As I am about to head off for two months in Italy, I visited my nearest home nature spots to refresh my mind and memory.

First a walk to the long beach, often wild, today deceptively gentle and brilliantly blue. 

Only one other person is here, a mere speck a long way up the beach; fishing, I assume.

I doubt I will see such an empty beach in Italy.

Next, to the river, where a small group of pelicans have been checking out the low tide mudflats. Two take off, but the rest stay.

And what a treat to see my special solo seagull there as well; did he come to say ‘Arrivederci?’

He looks very small next to his big-beaked Big Bird mates. I missed him at the beach…

And at my actual home, my about-to-be-abandoned garden has exploded with prolific and beautiful farewell flowers on the various Schlumbergera truncata succulents. I had feared I’d miss them, and was about to ask my house minders to send me photos.

The next posts will be from Italy; I will be staying in the Emilia-Romagna region, although in the hills above the flood-ravaged area.

It does feel rather like going to visit the Northern Rivers after the Lismore etc. floods, but Nature’s payback has no concern for my travel timetable.

Tia up close

by

From the little bridge across Tia Creek above the Falls, you can see the water weeds waving gently with the current of the mysteriously cloudy water.

Slightly above that the water is more calm, the banks higher. I keep an eye out for platypus, as they have been seen here, but I have no luck.

Like the slopes of the Gorge itself, the scattered creekside rocks are aslant, rough and layered.

Several sorts of lichen choose to adorn a few, softening them visually at least.

On the longer Tiara Walk, the post-fire tree regeneration is the main feature, apart from the views over the Gorge, of course.

Such glimpses never fail to astonish me; so close, so extreme, and here I am meandering along the top beside it, as if the land extended safely forever.

But in between, my attention keeps being drawn to the bright new growth of some of the young trees, glowing like firelight amidst all the black and grey.

Others are purple and magenta on the backs of the new leaves, commanding attention with their colours before the mature sage green.

Hard to keep watching where I walk, to avoid tripping, amidst so much to see. \

But I do; a fall when bushwalking, especially when on your own, is no fun… as I learnt at Gibraltar National Park!