I recently spent five glorious days revisiting Puglia and one of the places I enjoyed most was Alberobello.  That is the beauty of travelling in Italy: once is never enough!

This was my third visit to the UNESCO world heritage site, and I could focus less on the quaint and irresistible charm of the round tiled roofs set on the square-based structures, and more on their history.

The town is ensconsed in thick groves of olive and almond trees that thrive on the dry, bouldered soil of Puglia.  In fact the soil is so rocky that new stones come to light every time the soil is tilled, thus creating an endless supply of light-weight stones that can be used as rooftiles.

The history of these unusual dwellings dates back to the second half of the 15th century when the territory was ruled by the Aquaviva family, who had introduced some forty families into the region to clear the terrain.  Over time, the land was populated by these farmers who learned to cultivate the rough land, rendering it extremely fruitful.

However, during the same period, the Kingdom of Naples had enacted legislation requiring all new towns to pay a heavy tax.  In response, the feudal lords ordered their tenants to build ‘dry’ dwellings without the use of mortar, so that they could easily be pulled down in the case of royal inspection, cunningly avoiding taxation!

In 1797 a group of brave citizens petitioned the Bourbon King Ferdinando IV who, by royal decree, in May of the same year set the village free.

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As I was walking along Sant’Agata’s sunny ‘panoramica’ and basking in the delicious warmth of the longer days,  I marveled at the explosion of greens, yellows, whites and pinks coursing through the countryside that, until a week ago, had seemed dead to the world.

I rounded the homeward bend, and while keeping an eye on my dog, who was furiously pouncing on the grass in the hopes of arousing a lizard, I was blown away by a vision of grace and beauty that embellishes so many Italian villas, walls, balconies, pergolas, terraces, banisters and rails and that more than anything embodies the promise of Spring: the wisterias in bloom.

Introduced into Europe in 1816 and Italy in1840, the plant originally comes from the Orient where it is known as the ‘blue vine’.  There are many varieties of wisteria ranging from white to yellow and even red, but the one commonly seen in Italy sports abundant flowers in a mixture of lilac and lavender.  The plant can reach a height of 40 meters and if well-supported, can grow to a length of 80 meters!

The Italian name, glicine, comes from the same Greek word which means ‘sweet plant’. (Introduced into America in the 1700’s the ‘wisteria’ was named after the German anthropologist Kaspar Wistar)

Like all the best things in life, the wisteria’s bloom is over much too soon, but fortunately it flourishes again in June and July and its lush, green leaves provide welcome relief from the unforgiving August sun.

(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:

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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.