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* photo by micora
There are a plethora of small regional Italian Banks, but only a certain number of clearing banks, thus international transactions can result in astronomical bank charges. Consequently Italians generally prefer to do lots of their transactions in cash. In fact they don’t trust banks at all, and often prefer to keep their savings hidden under the mattress. In the end we tore up the cheque book in disgust and closed this euro account, as it was basically useless.
So we had to organise setting up an Italian bank account, to enable us to transfer some of our funds over to Italy. Guido’s cousin worked as a cashier in one of the bigger Italian banks and he said he would try to help us by organising for us to meet the Bank Manager. In due course the meeting went ahead, but we were advised that we could not open a “normal” bank account, as we were not registered as “Residents” in Italy, yet we couldn’t be “Residents” because we didn’t have a normal bank account ??? Therefore we had to open a “Stranieri” account, which of course was subject to significantly higher charges.
The staff in the bank turned out to be very helpful, and it was just as well, as it took a full hour and a half to complete the procedure of opening the account, which meant Paul had to leave to feed the parking meter on several occasions. There was a long list of questions and a series of screens on the computer that the clerk had to fill in using a complicated system of codes. The staff didn’t seem to have created a “Stranieri” account before, clearly they were unsure of the procedures, as they had to phone up Head Office several times for advice. Then reams of documentation were printed off in triplicate, at least half a tree’s worth!!! Eventually after much sorting and stapling we were given pages and pages of documentation to sign, before we were finally despatched with two enormous bulging folders of paperwork. We left the bank totally exhausted by this experience.
We soon learned that free personal banking does not exist in Italy, because an account holder has to pay a three monthly fee just for the privilege of having an account. We opted not to have a cheque book as every cheque you write also comes with an additional cost.
Subsequent visits to the bank also proved to be very time consuming. Firstly simply getting in and out of the bank can be quite an ordeal, as most Italian banks are, for security reasons, equipped with a metal detecting device. (There are said to be more bank robberies in Italy than any other country in the European Union !!!)
Firstly you are told to leave your personal belongings such as: keys; coins; watches; jewellery and mobile phones in a small locker, a system somewhat similar to that of a swimming pool changing room. Then you have to push a button to open the door of a small, claustrophobic “airlock”, and automatically the door closes behind you, imprisoning you inside. Then inevitably the machine picks up on something metallic on your person, and a grating voice instructs you to go back outside and put all your metallic objects in the locker provided. Paul found, to his great annoyance, that many seemingly innocuous objects can fall foul of this wonder of modern technology, such as a buckle on a belt, zips and in particular safety shoes with protective steel toe-caps. Paul was often stared at by other customers whilst approaching to the counter, in his socks, holding up his trousers with one hand, whilst trying to get a cashpoint card out of his wallet with the other.
So, having eventually gained entry to the bank, you now have to start the process of “waiting to be served”. First you must make a mental note of exactly your place in the queue, as this can be confusing. There are sometimes chairs for elderly customers to sit on whilst waiting their turn. On one occasion an old dear entered just before us, gnarled and bent double, hobbling on a stick, complaining of her artriti. We smiled sympathetically as she took a pew, and noted that she was before us in the queue. I watched her shrewdly observing how the transactions at the counter were proceeding. When she concluded that it was her turn, she jumped up and made a sudden sprint to the counter, we’d never seen someone be so quickly energised, despite their dreadful artriti !!!
Basically, Italians just don’t comprehend queuing, and customers tend to stand around in a rebelliously disorderly fashion, huffing and puffing, generally grumbling loudly about the excruciatingly slow speed of service. Meanwhile, they take advantage of the situation to size each other up and listen in to other people’s conversations.
Customers are, on the whole, served in turn, but inevitably there is somebody who just wants to sneak in to “ask a simple question”, and “it will only take a moment”, and “You don’t mind do you?”. Consequently you end up waiting forever and a day, because nothing in Italy is simple, so inevitably the matter in question turns out to be far more complicated than it should be. Meanwhile you are left thinking of all the other things you could usefully be doing with the precious wasted time.
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It became clear that very soon we would have to consider moving from Salvatore’s campsite, as the summer season was fast approaching.
Dear Salvatore had allowed us to remain with our two hounds as a special favour, although his campsite had an official policy of “no dogs”. He had been so concerned for us and had tried his best to prolong our stay, but before long another family from Rome would be arriving, expecting to park their caravan on our pitch. Already at weekends several families had begun turning up, busily organising themselves for the summer months. They arrived with their cars packed to the gunnels with crates, plastic tables, chairs, sun loungers, umbrellas, fridges, cooking stoves, plastic cupboards, shelving, fans, TV’s …… even canaries in cages and pet cats. This was an almost “home from home” relocation – Just how much could more could they manage to cram into a small caravan and awning, we wondered?
All the little local campsites, shops and restaurants dotted along the coast road had started springing into life, preparing for the onslaught of summer visitors. Boards were prepared advertising the local cuisine and delicacies such as zuppa di pesce, tiella and fresh mozzarella di buffala. Stalls appeared setting out a colourful array of holiday goods. Over-grown verges were cleared for parking so that in August hundreds of cars could squeeze into every little nook and cranny of space available.
At one stage we considered purchasing a second-hand mobile-home to accommodate us all on the building site, while the necessary renovation work was being undertaken on the farmhouse.
However in due course we abandoned this notion and decided that the quickest solution was to find a suitable rental property in the Itri vicinity. We had not taken into account that rental prices were significantly inflated during the profitable summer months, thus we were greatly relieved when Giampiero, the estate agent, came up trumps by locating a more reasonably priced property, which could solve our accommodation problem, at least in the short term.
This was merely a small, simple country villa, but to us it felt perfectly luxurious and spacious, compared to our compact little caravan quarters, and best of all it had a bath and lots of hot and cold running water.
Yet we were particularly sad to conclude our stay at the campsite, as we had very much enjoyed our spell there, under Salvatore’s watchful eye. We promised to drive down to visit him and his family regularly.
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So, we needed to get our Birth and Marriage Certificates translated into Italian. Therefore I spent several days with our huge “bible” of a dictionary, working on this exceedingly challenging task, and eventually printed off the translations to be checked by Guido. He awarded me seven out of ten for my efforts, but there are certain official words that just do not translate easily. Guido was wonderful and patiently amended the transcripts so that they made better sense.
Now “all we had to do“ was to get the translations officially authenticated as being accurate and true, but had no idea of how to accomplish this. We tried ringing the British Embassy in Rome for advice, but this turned out to be a complete waste of time, as we just got recorded messages saying that the Embassy was no longer open to the public, and only dealt with matters through the post, otherwise to consult the information on their web-site.
On the website we eventually hit upon a link to a list of approved translators, however they all seemed to be based in Rome ……… until we scrolled, down, down, almost to the bottom of the page and there we found one ……………….. in Gaeta … Bravo!!!
We phoned the lady immediately. She was English and very helpful and friendly, and advised us that as we had already translated the documents, we could save ourselves a lot of money, as there was a relatively new law that made it possible for anyone to “self-certify” a document. However, to do this one had to visit the Cancelleria department (probably the equivalent to visiting a Commissioner of Oaths in the UK) in the comune. She also added that if we needed any further help or advice, she would be very happy to assist. How wonderful – A new friend, that spoke our native tongue!!!
We dashed off, post haste, with Guido’s teenage son Peppe to help us out. However after climbing seemingly interminable flights of energy sapping marble stairs, we arrived at the very top of the building, desperately gasping for breath. The corridor was bustling with Armani suited businessmen, with leather briefcases in hand, their jackets draped nonchalantly over their shoulders.
Abruptly, Peppe was taken aside and firmly reprimanded for wearing shorts in an official building, and was asked to leave the premises directly. Thankfully we managed to find the Cancelleria department and queuing patiently,were successful in obtaining the necessary forms. We were instructed that we needed to buy Franco di bolli (official government duty stamps which) which are required to legalise many Italian official documents. These stamps come in various values and can be purchased from a tobacconist’s shop known as a Tabaccheria.
By now it was almost lunchtime, and the town hall was soon due to shut, and with it being a Friday it would not be open in the afternoon, of course !!! So over the weekend we had plenty of time to complete the forms.
So bright eyed and busy tailed on the following Monday morning we presented ourselves once again at the Cancelleria with various sets of forms and of very expensive Franco di bolli costing (at that time) about 18 euros per document. Giovanna offered to accompany us.
The lady official licked each set of stamps and stuck them onto each form, which in turn was stapled to the original certificate and the translated copy. Giovanna was asked to sign her name on each and every page of the document, having taken an oath that the translations of the certificates were in fact true and accurate. Each bundle of papers was allocated a number and these were then entered, by hand, in an enormous leather bound register. Each and every page of the documents was then heavily rubber stamped, indeed I think the signora found this to be the best part of her job, as she performed this with such gusto. Finally, we exited the comune skipping down the steps, triumphantly waving the papers in our hands.
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Next we revisited the Agenzia delle Entrate to change my surname on my Codice Fiscale. This was a soulless, echoing building of fairly new construction. As directed we took a numbered ticket and then sat anxiously in the uncomfortable plastic chairs watching the illuminated board waiting for our number to come up. Progress seemed painfully slow, and we were concerned that the office might soon close for lunch, no doubt just before it got to our number. However thankfully, that day the gods were on our side, and with all the right translated documentation to hand altering my name turned out to be a remarkably simple and painless procedure. Thank goodness or meno male as the Italians say.
It felt very strange though, signing on the dotted line in my maiden name, something I hadn’t done for many a year.
Some good news – We made further enquiries and it seemed that we were not required to have our Permesso di Soggiorno’s in order to purchase the house. Also, we learned that if we bought a house in the district of Itri we would have to register at La Questura in the town of Fondi, so thankfully we would not have to deal again with the aforementioned “green eyed hag”.
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* photo by LaertesCTB
We learned that we needed to apply for a Permesso Di Soggiorno, sometimes also referred to as a Carta Di Soggiorno, permission to stay in the country, for a period of more than 90 days. We wanted to be sure of exactly which documents we needed to present to the authorities in order to be granted this certificate.
We bravely ventured forth in search of the nearest Questura / Commissario Policia (State Police Headquarters), to make such enquiries. As soon as we entered the austere building we felt a sense of foreboding. In the reception area we were met with a formidably sized, uniformed and armed police officer sitting at a desk behind a large plate glass window. He tersely directed us to the Ufficio di Stranieri which translates inhospitably as the “Foreigners Office”.
Here we found a particularly unreceptive, lady official, with decidedly dodgy, olive-green eye make-up and brown lipstick. We were not sure if she had another profession, but we could have sworn we’d seen a broomstick parked outside. We greeted her politely in Italian, saying that we were British, and requested some information regarding applying for our permits.
“What?” she said incredulously, “You should have applied for the Visas from the Italian Consulate in your own country of origin. Surely you know that !!! “.
But ….. ??? We tried to explain that we were citizens of the UK and of the EU, which gave us the right to ………………………
But t’was in vain – she would have none of it. She continued to intimidate us asking us where we were currently residing. We replied honestly: “In a caravan on a campsite near Sant’ Agostino beach.” “What ???” – she said !!! I think she envisioned us as zingarelle – gypsies! “How on earth can you possibly expect to get a Permesso di Soggiorno if you have no proper fixed address !!! It is all highly irregular!!!”.
Brusquely she said she would have to contact the Provincial Police Headquarters in Latina for advice, and insisted that we should come back on Saturday morning. This was rather odd as later we found out that the Questura is actually shut on Saturdays !!!
So, we limped off, with our tails between our legs, feeling very despondent, depressed, confused, and frustrated. What on earth was to be done? This had been our first dose of culture shock.
We returned to the campsite and proceeded to relate our tale of woe to Pasquale. “These Officials – they know nothing!!!” he said, “All they want is their pay cheque at the end of the month, and to do as little work as possible. If they are in a bad mood you’ve had it!” It seemed that Italian bureaucracy was as much a “thorn in the side” of Italian citizens as it is to us foreigners. In Italy the wheels grind painfully slowly.
We re-consulted our books and internet articles, to once again check our entitlements. We also asked Guido to check things out for us on the official Italian Government website.
Yes !!! Of course we were right all along !!!
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* photo by John Morgan
So we were left with the possibility of buying the deserted farmhouse with the large acreage of land. However it seemed that even this property had problems attached. We discovered that there was an ancient clause in the deeds, regarding an ecclesiastical livello attached to one of the sections of land, something similar to a tithe agreement. It appeared that this land had once belonged to the church and via a half-tenancy, half-freehold arrangement had probably been let out to a local peasant, contadino, who worked the land. In return he was bound to give a share of his produce to the church. After a certain period of time the tenant had the right to acquire the land and pass it on to his heirs. The church and parish no longer existed, however the clause had still remained in the deeds, so it was possible that the church still might still technically hold an interest. We were told that this agreement would have to be legally cancelled by the current owners. Giampiero, the estate agent, said that this would only take a couple of months, however talking to our geometra Rocco, we learned that this could in fact be a long drawn out, complicated task. The local Church Committee apparently only met once a month, and if the proposal was brought up at the first meeting, the matter would not be considered until the following month. If there was some problem or opposition to the cancellation of the contratto di livello then this matter could take six months or even longer to resolve. This concerned us deeply, as TIME was the one thing we did not have. We were anxious to get my parents relocated here in Italy, so that we could all be reunited. Being an only child, I had no brothers or sisters to keep a watchful eye out for them. Since we had left them behind in the UK back in April, they had been left somewhat “in limbo”, anxiously waiting news of developments as the months were steadily ticking by.
However, there is one thing you have to accept in Italy – here things just cannot be hurried !!! “Italian time” greatly differs greatly from “British time”, and not just because the Italian clocks are set one hour in advance of good old “Greenwich Mean Time”. If a shop displays its opening hours on the door, this does not in any way mean that it actually sticks to this timetable. Most shops tend to re-open after the lunch break, siesta or riposo, at around “4…ish” in the afternoon. However this may depend on: the day of the week, the length of a snooze after consuming a huge Italian lunch, what’s on the TV, a game of cards, or other possibly more or less important engagements, to mention but a few. Then there is the time concerning appointments. Normally when setting a time to meet they say verso, meaning around, whatever the intended time of the meeting. Verso can be anything from a quarter of an hour, half an hour, even three quarters of an hour or more after the scheduled hour. If you are a punctual type, like my husband, you are said to be preciso, and to keep to “un orario tedescho” – a German / Swiss timetable!
Then there is “Rocco time”. Rocco, we have learned through bitter experience, is always late for appointments, come hell or high water! So many times we have been left waiting, shuffling our feet, outside an estate agent’s office, 15, 25, 45 minutes after the set time of the appointment. While making small talk with the agent Paul apologised profusely for the delay, in a very British manner, whilst I desperately kept trying to make contact with Rocco by mobile phone. Eventually we would succeed in speaking to him and he’s nonchalantly say “sto arrivando” which translates as “I am about to arrive”. Don’t you believe it !!!
5 minutes later, 10 minutes later ….. 15 minutes later ….. he’d still not turned up. “Sto arrivando” in “Rocco speak”, in reality means, “I’m just leaving”! 20 minutes later he’d finally arrive, to our great relief. But seeing that he had often been willing to give us his services for free, we couldn’t really grumble. He seemed to be able to solve many of the problems we were encountering in about 5 minutes flat, and if he couldn’t sort it out, then he always seemed to know someone who could. Therefore his unpunctuality was a small price to pay, and after all – it was the slow pace of life that had attracted us to move to Italy in the first place !!!
Rocco advised us that the casale and its vast olive grove offered plenty of potential, and would be an investment for the future. With the huge size of the land this gave the possibility of building another house or some smaller chalets or bungalows that we could let out to holiday makers. Or perhaps we could do Bed & Breakfast or even turn it into a campsite, if we could get permission from the local council or comune. It seemed that the council of the province of Latina was keen to promote tourism in the area, and grants were available to help local farmers to combine traditional farming with tourist ventures – in Italy this is known as agriturismo.
However, there still remained the piccolo problema of the livello. How much would the legal work cost to get this clause taken out of the documentation? How long would it take to get the church to cancel this ancient agreement? We learned that it was usual to offer a donation to the church in compensation. I joked with Giampiero, the estate agent, that if we paid the church a handsome donation, we would expect St Peter to supply us with “keys in hand” to enter the pearly gates of heaven. This resulted in much laughter and frivolity, but Paul was concerned that the church might expect a larger donation, perhaps for something like a new church roof. However, having taken advice from various professional sources, we thought that in reality the livello would not be too much of a problem. The parish church to which it was that it was linked apparently no longer existed. In the last 50 years the owners had never been asked to pay anything by the church, and many pieces of land come with such livellos.
Rocco also advised us to go to the Technical Department of the local Comune, and ask exactly how much extra we could build on the land and whether we would be allowed to use it for agriturismo purposes. We held our breath as the official at the town hall checked though various old documents and worked out calculations. From the horse’s mouth we were told that, as the law currently stood, we could build another ample property, and the possibility of adding more agricultural storerooms / barns. There were big sighs of relief all around.
After considerable thought we finally decided to start negotiations with an opening bid, as the asking price was supposedly trattabile, a low offer as we thought that we might have to pay to get the Livello clause annulled. The vendors had 5 days in which to accept the offer, or turn it down, so some patience on our part was required. After some to-ing and fro-ing through the agent an acceptable price was established for both parties, which we formally backed up with a proposta, a written offer accompanied by a cheque of a thousand or so euros, to confirm the seriousness of our intent to purchase. Historically, this cheque was held by the Vendor, but more modern laws now state that it must be held by the estate agents.
We arranged to view the property with the elderly Signora who looked after the property for her niece and nephew. She showed us the downstairs part of the house, which had previously always been locked, it had simply been used for storing tools and equipment for olive farming.
Eventually we managed to negotiate a price with the vendors, and Giampiero set about preparing the documents for the first stage of the purchase contract known as the Compromesso. We were aiming to complete the purchase as swiftly as possible.
We went up to visit the casale several times, to measure up and see the lie of the land, and we began to make plans for the renovation. We took Salvatore and our fellow camper Vittore, the builder from Rome, to take a look around. Vittore said that the building itself seemed to be sound enough, however he advised us to put in a damp-proof membrane downstairs. The roof also needed water-proofing under the tiles. There was a small existing bathroom with some very basic pipe-work leading to just outside of the property, however there was no septic tap or sewage system at the property. Thus any waste products literally plopped out of an open ended pipe. Perhaps that was why the olives trees behind the house seemed to grow so well!
So … we’d needed to get a new septic tank, as well as new plumbing, electrical wiring, central heating system, gas tank. Apart from that it was fine! We had thought that the work we’d done to our last house back in the UK was a big enough DIY project ! Vittore said he would prepare a modest quotation for the work that needed to be done. We also needed to think about organising the connection of water and electricity, and a perhaps a phone line as soon as possible.
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So our house hunting started once again in earnest ……..
It is clear that Italian builders have a “passionate love affair with all things concrete“. In fact it was the Italians who had invented cement over 2000 years ago, when the Romans combined slaked lime (derived from limestone rock) volcanic ash (known as pozzolana) with sand and water. The great architectural masterpieces of the Pantheon and the Colosseum in Rome were all built using this type of mixture.
Nowadays, in Italy, it is nigh on impossible to find any modern buildings not constructed of concrete, indeed Italian building techniques vary greatly from the typical wood and brick constructions commonly seen in the UK. In Italy there is also legislation that all new edifices must be built to anti-seismic specifications, using a reinforced concrete framework to provide strength to the structure.
As building was now strictly controlled near to the coast, Itri being situated slightly inland was becoming an up and coming area. A few years before the local council had announced that they would permit some limited new development in the Itri area. Immediately many of the Itrani folk realised they could be on to a very good thing here, and readily jumped on the bandwagon, selling off portions of agricultural land for handsome profits, especially those who had successfully procured the required building licences. Small property speculators keenly moved in with bulldozers to level off building sites, some required excavators to pound and chisel through stubborn limestone bedrock. The local roads were buzzing with huge, lumbering cement mixing lorries, and new villas, both large and small began springing up, like mushrooms, overnight.
We calculated that during our various trips to Italy over the last eight months we had viewed over fifty properties dotted around the country outskirts of Itri. Numerous estate agents had taken us to view an array of newly constructed properties that were generally approached by rough dirt tracks and exceptionally steep inclines. However it was still not proving easy to find just what we were looking for: an affordably priced property to suit all our family’s various requirements. Eventually we short-listed two possibilities and contacted the relevant estate agents to re-book appointments to view them again.
The first property was a deserted casale or farmhouse, which had not been inhabited for over 10 years, even before this it had not been a true family home. The facilities were very basic and left much to be desired, as it had only served as a place to camp at busy times of the Italian farming year, particularly during the autumn grape or olive harvest. It was situated in a secluded little backwater in an unspoiled valley, with mountain views and a glimpse of the sea.
The building itself seemed to be structurally sound, however was in need of a great deal of work and renovation. This would involve the installation of a new electrical system, plumbing, heating, windows, doors, bathrooms, kitchens, and so forth. However the property came with a large piece of land measure 33,000 square metres, which equated to between 8 and 9 acres. Of that 23,000 square metres was olive grove comprising around 600 trees, and the remainder was a sizeable piece of wood and scrubland. However, this property did have a great deal of potential, as with the size of the land came the possibility of building another house or some small bungalows, and the possibility of setting up a small farm holiday business or Agriturismo.
On the other hand the second property was a grezzo, a basic concrete shell of a new house, measuring a spacious 300 square metres, with a most scenic outlook of the mountains and valley. It came with an olive grove of 4,500 square metres and a sizeable agricultural store, which would have been ideal for our son to convert into a little studio. The grezzo lent itself to be converted into three or four holiday apartments. The slick, designer clothed estate agent was more than eager to inform us that there was the possibility of purchasing two adjacent plots of land both of about 5,000 square metres. On one section there was a tiny ramshackle cottage, a perfect place for an artist’s studio I thought. The other had a small rustic structure comprising two rooms.
The three separate pieces of land were individually owned by various brothers of the same family. It was here that the fun and games commenced. As soon as the brothers realised we were showing some interest, they began to put the prices up. They felt that they had hooked a potential buyer, who was a foreigner into the bargain, no doubt with copious amounts of ready cash to spend. We decided that we would only be interested in purchasing this property if we could procure all three plots of land, and vowed that there would have to be some serious bartering on our part to knock the asking prices back down to an affordable level. It seemed doubtful that we would succeed in getting all three brothers to agree.
In any case, further investigations revealed that the local council had in fact only granted consent to build an agricultural store house or barn, all on one level, measuring 150 square metres. The reality was that the proprietors had built something twice the size on two floors, therefore it was abusivo. You may ask how did they get away with it? Where were the building inspectors at each stage of the build? Why wasn’t it stopped or demolished, as would no doubt be the case in the UK? Well, the answer is simple. This is Italy !!! Here illegal building is commonplace, sometimes, literally, houses spring up overnight. In fact, a few years back when Berlusconi’s government was a bit strapped for cash it brought in a new law offering an planning amnesty, known as a Condono Edilizo, to encourage offending parties to come clean about any building irregularities in exchange for a reasonably small fine, that could be paid over a couple of years in easy instalments. You could compare it to how things are done in the Catholic faith. You commit a sin, you go to confession and your repent and say you won’t re-offend and are sent off to say an “Our Father and 10 Hail Mary’s” and then the slate is wiped clean. Thus all is well (especially with regard for government’s coffers), all parties are happy and nobody cares a fig. The only possible hazard with illegal building work is if a nosey or vindictive neighbour tells on you and notifies the local authority of your illegal work with a denuncio, before you get a chance to own up to the local council.
So we found ourselves to be in something of a dilemma. We generally preferred the casale, recognising the potential of the size of the land. However, I must say I had some reservations about the amount of work that would be involved with the renovation and the upkeep of the grounds.
The grezzo had less land, but was still quite sizeable. However, we did not know if our resources would stretch to purchasing all three pieces of land, and leave sufficient funds to finish the building and convert it into apartments. Both properties required connection to basic utilities such as water, electricity, and telephone. With each of these properties there was the need to find some temporary accommodation for us all to live in while the building work was getting underway.
We decided we needed some good, sound advice so we organised a long session with Guido’s geometra friend Rocco. We sat anxiously as he did several complex calculations. Finally he told us that the grezzo was not going to be so much of a “bargain” as the estate agent had led us to believe. Indeed there were several grave problems. As we had already ascertained the construction had been built abusivo, being twice the size detailed on the architect’s plans. In addition, only a small portion of the top floor had been granted a permit for civile abitazione – i.e. living accommodation. To get the property fully licensed would cost us significantly more. In order to obtain this permission, it would mean knocking down both the small farmhouse and little cottage. As the law currently stood, it was no longer possible to get planning permission to construct any additional structures on any of land. After doing more calculations it soon became clear that this property was turning into something of a liability, so we decided to exclude it from further thought.
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At our new abode there was ample space to erect the caravan’s awning to provide us with some valuable extra living space, and to make things feel a little more homely and orderly. Nonetheless 3 people and 2 dogs residing together in such a confined space could be described as an “interesting experience”, but generally we managed to rub along pretty well. Everything was something of a challenge, even the simplest of chores.
Feeling a little sorry for myself one day as I stood at the stone sink laboriously washing and rinsing out our laundry by hand, I recalled how my mother had described my Nonna’s hard life as teenage girl back in Atina. On washdays she and the other women folk would have to walk several kilometres carrying their dirty laundry down to the river bank in large baskets, which they skilfully balanced on top of their heads. Subsequently they would kneel down by the water’s edge and commence scrubbing the soiled articles with a large bar of soap, pounding and pummelling the clothes against the large flat stones to help displace the dirt. The washing then had to be rinsed by swirling it around in the icy flowing current before it could be arduously wrung out by hand, hung up to dry. Finally the women had to carry their heavy loads all the way back up the steep hill to the village. How we take so much for granted in these days of modern appliances !!!
Each morning Salvatore would arrive and immediately disappear to change into his “work clothes”. He would emerge sporting a sleeveless vest, tatty shorts and some plastic flip floppy shoes that seemed to be a few sizes too small for his bare feet. In addition he would don an old canvas hat, pulling it down tightly over his balding pate to protect it from the burning sun. From under the brim his kind eyes twinkled. The compassionate Salvatore seemed truly concerned for us, being “all alone in this strange new country” and was eager to take us under his wing. We were soon to become firm friends.
He was keen to share with us some of his valuable pearls of knowledge, offering his personal tips on gardening, cooking and keeping chickens and life in general. It was obvious, that over the years he had learned to be thrifty and was very reluctant to throw anything away, in case it might turn out to prove useful some day. He busied himself preparing for the arrival of the demanding summer visitors, as were many similar establishments right along the coast. We were informed that the Italian summer season started off gently in June, and accelerated into July, reaching a dramatic peak in August, when virtually all Italians habitually take their annual holiday.
We tried to help him out here and there by doing some odd jobs around the site: tidying up the grounds, whitewashing walls with lime, splashing a lick of paint here and there, putting up shading and numerous international flags, erecting tables and benches, airing the little chalets and taking the parasols and deckchairs out of mothballs. “Lavoro, sempre lavoro, ma……. piano, piano” he used to say.
* photo by gaetan lee
At the weekend a couple of families turned up at the campsite, to prepare their plots for the summer season. A family from Rome were very sociable and sometimes, occasionally of an evening, invited us to eat with them. We soon learned that Vittore, a gentle, bronzed giant of man, was a muratore, a builder who had done some work for Salvatore over the years. His wife Maria Angela gave us more tips on Italian cooking, especially on how to prepare artichokes, aubergines, and peppers and an array of other vegetables that we are not so familiar with back home.
They took us to a local small holding or orto where they often purchased their fruit and vegetables. Here nothing was weighed out, there was nothing precise about it, quantity was just roughly gauged by the handful. For just a few euros we would leave the market garden with bulging bags of fresh produce. Somehow in Italy everything seemed to taste so much more flavoursome, we were sure this was because everything is grown or produced locally and is still very fresh when it comes to the table.
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Next day we eagerly pressed on southwards on the “Autostrada del Sole”, by-passing Rome, to Frosinone. Then we headed off the motorway towards Priverno and Terracina and on to our final destination, the beautiful seaside resorts of Sperlonga / Gaeta.
Sperlonga, South Lazio
We had nowhere pre-booked to stay, so we drove up and down the coast road until we eventually succeeded in locating a campsite, positioned next to the sea, which was willing to accommodate campers with dogs. As it was still April, the large site was virtually uninhabited – a ghost town of parked touring caravans, yet the price for a plot was rather expensive none-the-less. Here we made camp for two nights to give us time to consider our future options. During this time the weather was proving to be very changeable and one night we weathered a terrifyingly turbulent thunderstorm. “Thank heavens we were not just sheltering under canvas” we declared as we huddled together for comfort, still feeling a tad vulnerable as the deluge of rain battered down on the caravan’s tin can roof.
Mercifully, by morning all the leaden rain clouds had been whisked away by the blustery wind. We had decided to “up sticks” and drive along the coast road to a smaller campsite near to Gaeta, which had been recommended to us by Guido. The owner, Salvatore, warmly greeted us and generously invited us to remain there, at least in the short term, since his site didn’t officially open until the month of June. The scenic backdrop to the site was the steep rocky cliff face of Monte Moneta that dominates the bay and just a short stroll across the coast road was the vast expanse of golden sand, Sant’ Agostino beach. That evening, after a day’s work, Salvatore returned home to his family apartment in Sperlonga, leaving us to have the place just to ourselves.
Sant' Agostino Beach
Early each morning Paul and our “olde sea dogs” enjoyed going for a romp on the deserted sands and would return dripping wet from retrieving sticks and doggy paddling in the sea. By day our son enjoyed lazily basking like a lizard on the golden shore.
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The following morning, feeling much regenerated, we set off on the next stage of our journey, bypassing the busy commercial metropolis of Milan, crossing the flat fertile plains of the Po Valley, passing Parma and the university town of Bologna. We pressed on traversing Reggio Emilia and the rugged Upper Appenines, benefiting from the newly constructed sections of tunnel and elevated stretches of motorway that now slice through the mountains.
On into the quintessential landscape of Tuscany, with its stone farmhouses, olives groves, cypress trees, gently rolling hills and lush wild flower meadows. Soon we saw signs directing us to Florence, a place I had always longed to visit. It had been a pleasantly easy journey down, but once again we found it difficult to locate our campsite, and we found driving through Florence rather un-nerving towing the caravan. Eventually a kindly local gave us good, concise instructions, and before too long we were camped up.
The site was situated on south bank of the River Arno, indeed a very beautiful camping location, and very conveniently placed for walking down into the heart of Florence. Nearby was Piazzale Michelangelo which provided spectacular panoramic views of the medieval city and the surrounding landscape.
The Roof Tops Of Florence
The next day the weather was not too promising, with heavy thundery downpours and a fresh breeze. We set off to do a little site-seeing, but found the city was thronged with groups of tourists from all corners of the globe. There was a long queue to get into the Uffizi Gallery so we headed instead to La Piazza della Signoria. Here we admired at the imposing ramparts of the Palazzo Vecchio and its lofty clock tower, the replica of Michelangelo’s David, the gallery of statues in the Loggia dei Lanzi and the Fontana di Nettuno by Ammannati. We eagerly continued on our quest to find the magnificent domed Duomo dedicated to Santa Maria del Fiore with its intricate green and pink marble façade, and Giotto’s infamous Campanile and the bronze Gates of Paradise of the nearby Baptistry.
Then to Piazza Santa Croce, with its beautifully frescoed Palazzo and to the church itself, which bears the tombs of many famous citizens such as Michelangelo and Galileo.
Ponte Vecchio and River Arno
Lastly we explored the characteristic Ponte Vecchio which spans the Arno with its three wide arches. It is lined with a quaint row of little shops which nowadays house mainly jewellers, artists and antique merchants.
Later we strolled up, once again, to Piazzale Michelangelo and viewed the Florentine skyline by night. As I took one last look before leaving, I vowed I would return again sometime soon to further explore this truly remarkable city.
Then, the final leg of our long journey – our destination being Sperlonga / Gaeta on the Riviera di Ulisse.
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