(based on this original article)

Wikipedia defines transhumance as the “seasonal movement of people with their livestock, typically to higher pastures in summer and to lower valleys in winter”. Until fairly recently, cattle-driving along the Apennine mountain paths or tratturi was a tradition that had been going on long before Romulus or Remus met up with mamma wolf.

There were four main highways: the Aquila-Foggia, the Castel di Sangto – Lucera, the Centurelle – Montesecco and the Pescaseroli - Candela, or Regio Tratturo.  From the hilltowns of the Sannio, the mountain path of preference was the Regio Tratturo, or royal track, which wound its way down to the huge plateau known as the Tavoliere della Puglia.

Since time immemorial and until as late as the 1970’s, it was uncommon to house animals in barns during the winter, because it meant large investments in buildings and fodder.  Instead, in late autumn, between the third week of October and S. Martino (November 11th) millions of cows, sheep and horses, together with their pastori, or shepherds, swept south along the ancient mountain paths.  The trek began at the full moon and took 12 days.  Horses and cows had better eyesight and could continue through the night, but the sheep, though better protected from the cold, did not have good night sight and were held in temporary pens that were set up each evening.

The cattle path was wide 60 neapolitan paces (sessanta passi napolitani) and there were rigid laws governing passage.  Overtaking was forbidden; one herd could not pass another, possibly to avoid the mingling of herds, but more probably to avoid a rush for the best land, which would have further tired the animals, many of which were already pregnant.

Cattle-driving was a tough life so is no longer in vogue and most of the tratturi themselves are slowly disappearing under man-made mountains of concrete.

“E vanno per tratturo antico al piano;
quasi per un erbal fiume silente,
sulle vestige degli antichi padri.”
D’Annunzio, I pastori

Sabra has made a splash in S. Agata.  We go out for our ealrly morning walks and chat with the old folks along the way.  It is a ritual that I find enjoy and find particularly comforting; a sort of daily embrace by the local comunity.  Naturally, these old men and women have lived with all sorts of farm animals, but never have they seen anything quite like Sabra.  Watching them watch her train, performing tricks or chasing the ball, is like observing children at the circus; their amusement and wonder is a delight to see.

The latest ‘old friend’ to make our aquaintance is Gianfranco.  About 75 years old, he lives with his wife on the Panoramica which overlooks the old town.   I met him this morning and he said that he had written a poem about Sabra.  He hurried to his house and returned with a scroll of white paper tied with a red ribbon.  I asked him if he would read it aloud.  In a proud and slightly embarrassed voice he slowly pronounced:

Read the published article at Italian Notebook

On the day of my visit to the sanctuary of S. Lucia in Sassinoro, I had an experience so glorious in its absurdity that it had to be documented and shared.

While admiring the inside of the church of S. Lucia in Sassinoro, my host Giovanna pointed out the last-minute preparations being made for a wedding that was to take place shortly: the bride and groom’s seats and pew had been padded with white satin drapery; the central aisle carpeted with a white runner and strewn carefully with orange rose petals.  Bouquets of yellow flowers decorated the pews on either side of the carpet, creating a strong visual perspective towards the magnificent, suspended cross with its incredible, rocky backdrop.

As we walked out into the dappled sunlight I began to say my goodbyes, but my eyes were drawn to a strange apparition on the far side of the courtyard, standing directly opposite a white marble statue of Padre Pio.  Like the glimmering image of St. Michael in the dark grotto of 1600, a young man stood, emanating a blinding light.  I had to blinked twice to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

He was olive-skinned and decked from head to toe in shades of cream and white.  A diamond-studded clasp closed the lapels of a jacket made out of what seemed to be upholstery fabric; a smaller pin glinted at his throat in place of a tie.  While the unhemmed pants billowed out over his cream-coloured boots, a jauntily-held white cane brought my gaze back to ruffled shirt-cuffs peaking out from the jacket sleeves.  The whole thing was topped off by a top hat studded with sequins.

Could this be St. Barnum or Bailey, I wondered, or was it a character out of a Savoyard production of Gilbert & Sullivan? The total effect was of a ring-leader at a circus and I watched, tranfixed, to see whether he would pull a rabbit out of his hat.

“Oh my God” I gasped, “It’s the groom!”

Two considertions broke into my mind.  What kind of person could have suggested this bizarre outfit and had the young man had to pay for it?

At that moment the bride’s entourage pulled up at the the gate below, cars piling up behind the  10-meter limousine which huffed to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.  Out spilled a cresting wave of white tulle.

St. Lucia is the patron saint of the blind and this girl must have been a long-standing member of the congregation because the lenses of her glasses were thick as bottle-bottoms. Her father - also dressed in white, but with an interesting shade of purple shirt and tie – helped her out of the car and proudly led her up the stairs.  Not to be outdone, her mother wore a red strapless gown while her aunt videoed the procession from behind in a tight-fitting black dress with a striking cleavage.  Someone at the top of the steps shouted down to the bride as she bravely navigated the stairs that she was lifting her dress too high for decency…

The riotous assembly regrouped in the sunlit churchyard, as the four-year-old bridesmaid augustly took her place behind the couple and holding the end of veil in her tiny hands.

The statue of Padre Pio, unperturbed by the garish show, calmly blessed everyone as they entered into the shadows of the church.

While on a heritage tour with an Italo-American family who had come to meet their Italian relatives, we spent some time with their family near the tiny hilltop village of S. Giorgio la Molara in the province of Benevento.

This is a vast farming region of rolling hills and an immense checker-board effect is created by the colors of the crops: predominant are the powder blue of the sky, the rich browns of the tilled fields and the grey-greens of olive, tobacco and corn, with golden necklaces of tabacco neatly hanging to dry on wooden racks.

At first glance it’s an idyllic scene, with sheep grazing in the meadows, far from the drama of Naples or the exhaltation of the Amalfi Coast.  But it’s a stark, spartan place, where in the early part of the last century lives were torn apart by back-breaking labor, famine and emigration and where even today familes live isolated lives highlighted only by births, baptisms, weddings and funerals.

As we travelled through the countryside, huge turbines harvested the Autumn winds and I reflected that nothing here goes to waste.  And then I was struck by how this stark landscape, viewed from the air, might seem like some titanic game of chess, with the huge windmills posing as pawns on an awesome and endless chessboard.

segue versione italiano

“Under every stone lurks a politician” wrote Aristophanes in 410 B.C.

This was undoubtedly the case in the recent administrative elections in our town.

Three candidates were running for the office of mayor this year in Sant’Agata, each with a roster of eligible  officers which meant almost practically everybody in town was jostling for a position in the administration.  I began to understand how personal political campaigning could be.

The months and weeks running up to the elections saw a flutter of activity in our little town.  Candidates could be seen everywhere, huddled in small groups or talking to prospective supporters.

This brought me to muse about an entertaining book I’m reading on the political campaigns of ancient Pompei.  Candidates were promoted largely by friends, family and ‘corporations’.  These were associations made up of local merchants and professionals: fruit sellers, goldsmiths, launderers, porters and mule drivers would urge citizens to vote for a canditate, writing slogans such as:

NERUM AED(ILEM) OVF. UNGUENTARI FACITE ROG(ANT)
I urge you to vote for Nero as surveyor.  He is packed by the perfumers.

C LOLLIUM FUSCUM IIVIR(UM)…ASELLINAS ROGANT NEC SINE ZMYRINA
Asellina’s chambermaids – including Smirina – request the election of Gaio Lollio Fusco as duumvirate.

Or even the slightly offensive:

CEIUM SECUNDUM IIVIR(UM) OVF. SUTORIA PRIMIGENIA CUM SUIS ROG(ANT) ASTYLE DORMIS
Choose Ceio Secondo for duumvirate.  It is Sutoria Primigenia and her family who ask for your vote.  Astilo you are asleep!

Oooh, that must have hurt!

ELEZIONI PASSATE

“Sotto ogni pietra si annida un politico”, scrisse Aristofane nel 410 a.c.  Era il caso delle recenti Elezioni Amministrative avvenute nella nostra città.

Tre candidati si contendevano la carica di Sindaco, ognuno con la propria lista di candidati assessori, per un totale di aspiranti amministratori vicino alla metà dei votanti. Cominciai a capire quanto personalizzata una tale campagna elettorale possa diventare.

Nei mesi e settimane precedenti il voto fervevano iniziative nel paese: si potevano vedere i candidati presenziare un po’ ovunque, in piccoli gruppi fra loro o parlando a potenziali elettori.

Questo mi fece pensare ad un interessante libro che sto leggendo sulle campagne elettorali dell’antica Pompei.  I candidati erano sostenuti principalmente da amici, familiari e corporazioni.
Queste erano le associazioni in cui si organizzavano mercanti e professionisti: fruttivendoli, gioiellieri, lavandai, facchini, mulattieri. Tutti si adoperavano, spronando i cittadini a votare per il proprio candidato, per mezzo di slogans come:

NERUM AED(ILEM) OVF. UNGUENTARI FACITE ROG(ANT)
Vi prego di eleggere a edile Nero. Lo appoggiano i profumieri..

C LOLLIUM FUSCUM IIVIR(UM)…ASELLINAS ROGANT NEC SINE ZMYRINA
Le cameriere di Asellina – non senza Smirina – chiedono l’elezione a duunviro di Gaio Lollo Fusco.

O perfino il leggermente offensivo:

CEIUM SECUNDUM IIVIR(UM) OVF. SUTORIA PRIMIGENIA CUM SUIS ROG(ANT) ASTYLE DORMIS
Vi prego di eleggere a duunviro Ceio Secondo.  Lo chiede Primigenia insieme ai suoi congiunti.  Astilo, tu dormi!

Questa deve aver toccato a fondo!