Forest path
You learn to expect the unexpected when you’re doing this sort of thing, but when you’ve finished reading today, tell me if it isn’t a pretty extreme example.
We set off in nice sunny and warm weather. There’s no breakfast at the B&B so we stop for a coffee and croissant in a little bar. One of the few times someone has tried to rip us off, the owner gives the wrong change. R holds his hand out and the guy just gives a shrug, opens the till and hands over the other 10 euro note. We narrow our eyes and give him a stare, that’s about all we can do. It’s hard to say “thieving mongrel” when you don’t know the words for “thieving” or “mongrel”.
But a few steps later we are on a pretty path and spend the rest of the day off road. Orchards of hazelnuts, chestnuts. A trail through the forest, slender trees with feathery yellow leaves.
It’s Saturday so the cyclists are out in force, and we come across a big group of children riding along the path with a couple of adults. Their little piping voices sound like a flock of birds. The autumn leaves are thick on the ground and they crunch and rustle as we walk. There are signs on the trees telling hunters what days they are permitted to go after wild boar.
We pass an old apple tree with apples covering the ground around it. We try one cautiously but it is crisp and delicious, so we put another one in our pocket for later. At lunchtime we stop in an orchard. We find a couple of old chairs near a hut. Mine is a sturdy little stool, but R’s has a cane seat which makes alarming little snapping sounds and finally gives way just as he stands up to leave.
We come to a village with only one person in sight, an old man leaning over to the ancient water fountain in the middle of the square filling up a pile of bottles.
All day it is pretty and peaceful. And very quiet. After a few hours we cross the Via Cassia, we have met this road a few times now. It’s heading straight for Rome, less than an hour away by car, but we just cross it and strike off again across the fields away from the sounds of civilisation.
We don’t know where we will stay in Capranica and it looks very dreary as we walk in. There are ugly, dilapidated modern flats for about a km. We look ahead to the old town but when we walk in through the arch our hearts sink. It is old, definitely. It is also shabby, crumbling, drab. We walk along the empty Sunday street looking for a B&B, a hotel. No signs, nothing that we can see. Lots of the buildings look vacant, shops empty and shut, and For Sale signs dotted around.
Capranica
We consult the list of possibilities with growing anxiety. Maybe tonight is the night we will finally have to sleep on a park bench. There is a convent somewhere, maybe we can find that and try our luck. We glance up, we are standing next to a sign with an arrow to the convent’s address! “Maybe it’s a sign”, I say. Yes, it’s definitely a sign, screwed to the wall.
We follow the sign, up a flight of stairs and knock on a door. It opens, there is an elegant white-haired woman on the phone. Slim, dressed simply in black skirt and top. Classy nun! Very different to the general run of dumpy, pudding-faced sisters we see traipsing around cathedrals all over Italy. “Oh,” she says to the person she is speaking to on the phone, “there are two pilgrims at the door.” She hangs up, ushers us in. We explain we are looking for somewhere to stay. Does she have a room, or is there a B&B or a hotel in town?
She hesitates, then asks us for how many nights. “One.” She leads us upstairs and then we enter a little Kafka moment. It is not a convent, it is her home, her bedroom. She explains that we can stay there. I suppose that she is going to sleep downstairs.
She strips the bed and she and I make it together with clean sheets, chatting in Fritalian, a unique blend of French and Italian (sounds like a brand of potato crisps, really, doesn’t it). Her jumper is on the chair, her personal photos on the bedside table, her dressing gown behind the bathroom door, even her knickers drying on the rail.
R offers her 50 euros, but she refuses firmly, so that seems to clarify that it is not in fact a B&B. Despite it being so unlikely we gradually become convinced that she is indeed offering to let us stay there while she is away for the night. She is going to Rome, taking her old dog with her and will be back tomorrow. She shows us the cupboard with the tea and biscuits for breakfast, gives us the key, tells us to leave it in the letterbox when we leave. We go out for a walk.
When we return , she and the dog have gone and we in possession of her house and all her things. We tentatively make ourselves at home, hoping we haven’t made some sort of mistake. The house is very pretty, full of artwork. It is a little bit bohemian, a little bit herbal tea. “Are you an artist?” I had asked her. “No, but my late husband was a great artist.” Not sure if that means successful , the house isn’t a palace, but it is interesting, artistic, individual. There are pictures stacked against the walls here and there, all modern art. A couple of his paintings are on the wall, one of them looks vaguely familiar. Matteo Guasco, must look him up, I think. We put a cd on, make some tea. R catches me looking longingly at the fireplace with the basket of wood. “Forget it,” he says, “we won’t be lighting a fire.” He’s right , of course, accidentally burning the place down would be a bit embarrassing.
We go out to check out our exact route out of town for tomorrow, as usual. The town is transformed, fascinating. Tourism has passed Capranica by and its untouched buildings, arches, stairways, alleys, softly highlighted by pools of golden light from wrought iron streetlamps, could truly have been 500 years ago. One old man with a limp hobbles slowly down the road, a young couple hang over a rail. Otherwise it is deserted. It is fantastically atmospheric.
We walk back stopping to peer into shadowed courtyards until we reach the restaurant where we had planned to have dinner. Disaster, it is closed! We hunt for another, it is locked tight. We walk into the bar opposite to ask and the barman points to the man standing beside us. He beckons for us to follow and leads us….into the place we had intended to eat. He is the owner, just opening up a bit late.
He sits us down, the Signora starts to cook. Their young son is doing his homework. The young couple come in and take another table, the Signor’s daughter and a bunch of her friends arrive, noisily settling at a big table. The boy comes over, and shyly practices his English. “My name is Giacomo. I am twelve years old. What is your favourite team?” Lovely!
That really is unbelievable!!
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