Seven days – Postcards from Cinque Terre

In just 7 days I’ve….

Indulged in a five-course Ligurian feast followed by warm, freshly plucked cherries reverently proffered by Chef and complemented with a robust Limoncello. Luxuriated over while unravelling rapid-fire Italian between my hosts Umberta and Mary and their restaurant owner friends Rosaria and Giovanni. Io amo (I love) Google Translate!

Descended the winding 179 step pathway to the village and wandered through the tunnel connecting old town with new, yet to truly distinguish the differences for both display softly decaying peaches and cream-toned villas, bars and tiny shops tucked into cave-like spaces, all a hodgepodge tangle alongside narrow, winding cobbled alleyways.

Admired pots of vivid red geraniums, purple and white petunias, nasturtiums and wild roses, hot pink bougainvillea and lush ivy meandering over window sills, archways and the rough drystone walls. Bicycles, the odd languid cat and elderly folk with well-thumbed newspapers under arm chattering on steps under eaves; vying for path space with the more adventurous tourists, most of which are prostrate on the pebbled beaches or frequenting the waterfront restaurants and gelateria.

Taken a seat in the back pew of  St Johns the Baptist parish church (1282-1307), its green and white striped painted facade simulating that of the Duomo in Florence. The church, one of three, is filled with cool, musty air and eclectic homages including a wooden model of a ship suspended between two of the six sets of chandelier candelabra. A nice respite from the heat outside. I’ve put a euro in the box and lit a candle for Kent, a ritual that follows me everywhere and contributes to the maintenance of buildings such as these.

Noticed the cool updraft of the rushing waters beneath the grills across the major thoroughfare. The same that delivered the devastating mudslide that all but destroyed the village in 2011. Experienced an emotional jolt while viewing the chaos the mud landslide caused in the church alone. Photos depicting pews thrust against the alter, supplicant against the relentlessness of the torrent. A car on its side partway in the door. Statues tumbled from their plinths. With thoughts cast back to our Brisbane floods of 2011, I admire the stoic attitudes of both the Italian and fellow Queenslanders as we joined forces to restore our respective villages/city to former glory.

Felt a 7.1 earthquake, one of three that day, apparently, a ho-hum occurrence in these parts but enough to now have emergency items – iPad, iPhone, Kindle and Camera (sad!) a small glass angel a dear friend gifted to watch over me, a water bottle (for wine natch!) and lipstick (vanity will always prevail) – permanently at the ready by the door.

Stuffed my backpack with fleshy red truss tomatoes, fresh Mozzarella cheese, bunches of basil, olive oil, rock salt and juicy nectarines at the market while basking in the robust fragrance of the cured meats and huge wheels of cheese vying for attention alongside wooden utensils and kitchenware. Pronunciation gleaned from absorbing the clatter of Italian bartering and greetings. Buongiorno! No! Meno! Prego! Si! Si! Grazie! Ciao! Arriverderci! Softer, less speed and blended enunciation than that of my recent sojourn in Florence.

Sipped wine at a bar in the square in order to steal an hour of WiFi. Wandered up the ocean, cliffside to better view the harbour, the water clear and still, a deep aquamarine and dotted with Ferries travelling between Portofino and the Cinque Terres, the five cliffside dwelling towns, once only accessed by mule trails or by boat.

Created and savoured fresh Pomodoro pasta and Caprese salad, complemented with a chilled Rose, from my little terrace, looking down on the village, my soundtrack the harmony of children singing, laughing and chanting in the school below, their joy for life calling forth nostalgia for home. Or maybe that’s the wine.

Identified that if I sit in a particular spot, the lemon tree shading me won’t drop its burgeoning fruit on my head. Grapevines intermingle with the tree, its tiny buds due to produce around September. Almost within reach just below spreads an apricot tree, just one bough heavy with fruit barely noticeable to begin with, now blushing pink and ripe for the plucking. I’ll find a way!

Marvelled at how the rich green foliage of the seemingly random fruit trees scattered across the slope between my villa and the village provides a sharp and colourful contrast to the soft silver of the olive trees tenuously grasping the slopes leading down to the translucent waters of the Tyrrhenian sea below. Postcard scenes that result in goldfish moments spent snapping the nuanced colours of a sky and terrain that displays four seasons in a day; from the crispness of dawn to the subtlety of twilight.  Then that magnificent, glittery moon spreading her light in an arc across the blackened water.

Smiled out loud when the church bell that chimes on the half-hour, actually played a tune at 5.30 on Saturday eve and again this morning.

Welcomed my firefly companion who moved in on my second day, intriguing with his incessant night time exploration of my little studio, his light so bright it’s hard to sleep, so I don’t. Instead, immersing myself in my beloved authors as the cadence of the restaurants below spill sated, laughing patrons into the steadily emptying laneways in search of their lodgings or the last ferry to La Spezia. The night is long.

Next week the monuments, the other villages, a Ligurian cooking class and…stay tuned!

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