Dawn breaks across the sky over the sleepy mountain hamlet of San Nazario, nestled in the midst of thick oak forests and grove upon grove of olive trees.
We are in the lower half of the Cilento National Park, midway between the coast and the highest peaks of the region. From the balcony of our host's farmhouse I look over a clutter of higgeldy piggeldy rooftops and a red stone church spire. Hens cluck, a rooster crows, somewhere a tractor is already furiously at work even though morning mist has yet to rise and unveil the true beauty of the view before me.
Giovanni, who owns the agriturismo we are staying in, has already given us the grand tour. We arrived yesterday just as the sun disappeared behind the hills, weary and shocked by the unexpected cold. Twenty minutes further downhill, on the seashore, men were still bathing in the balmy waters. Up here 500 metres above sea level it's another story, thick daubs of cool fog and spatterings of rainshowers mean its wellies and scarves for the next couple of days.
The land around San Nazario is known to locals as the Valley of Water mills. They are dotted all around the countryside up here, wherever there is even the smallest stream. On Giovanni's land alone are three old mills, one for grain, and two for pressing olives into oil. The Cilento National Park trust has bought most of them up, with the intention of restructuring them as a means of preserving both the traditional structures but also the antique methods of production and regenerating the land from an eco-cultural point of view. So far, however, many remain in a poor state of repair, most have been reclaimed by nature itself, buried under tree roots and landslide mud.
Persimmons, olives and chestnuts are the main fruits of the region. Towards Pisciotta along the coast, small bitter black olives - the "pisciottana" variety produce a rich nutty oil, whereas the olives further inland are plumper, sweeter and produce a fruitier, more highly-prized oil. Goats roam the steep hills and can often be seen being taken to pasture along the windy mountain roads. Where GIovanni's land ends and the village of San Nazario begins are connected by a "mulattiera", a narrow, cobbled walkway which would have formed one of the two original thouroughfares through the town along which grain, oil and any other goods would have been transported by mule (hence the name).
Small towns like these testify to the hard life endured for decades in these mountain towns. There's no warm, cosy pub where villagers gather around an open fire. The village bar, usually doubling as a fruit and vegetable store, butchers or storeroom will have one table inside, or just out the front at which men (and only men) will gather in the evenings to play cards, or simply sit in silence and watch passers by with shameless stares and emotionless expressions. This is not to say that the people are cold or unfriendly - on the contrary, you don't need an excuse to be invited into someone's house and be offered food, shelter or a drink. The silence, the reservedness of the older generation speaks volumes in terms of the history of the region, of the south of Italy in general. Devastated by poverty, especially following the world wars after which most people left and ventured north, or abroad, life here was one of survival and struggle.
The medieval town of San Severino, perched perilously on the peaks of a barren mountain with sheer drops into the "Devil's Gorge" below is the perfect example of a way of living that in this case remained intact for centuries right up until the last thirty years. Now abandoned and left to ruin, the last inhabitant left here in the mid-60s joining the rest of the SAn Severini in the new town of Centola, on the lower flanks of the mountain to be near the modern train line.
Dominated by the ruins of a Longobard castle, archeologists have dated the origins of the settlement back to 400 B.C with the crypt, ossuaries and central pulpit of the cathedral dating back to the 11th century A.C if not earlier. THe houses built around the castle and the cathedral are rudimentary constructions of stone and wood, each two storied house would have held up to four families, including animals. Rafaello, our guide, shows us the house where his mother was born and lived up until the fifties. Only the structure remains, a few wooden beams and the stone oven for baking bread, heating the house and drying and preserving fruit for winter. A cold wind rushes through the gaps between the stones and the gaping doorway and grey clouds rumble above this ghostly, still village of spirits and memories.
In its heyday up to 11,000 people inhabited San Severino. It was one of the most prosperous villages for miles around, with several churches, hundreds of houses and trading across the region. NOw a handful of buildings remain, the cathedral, dramatically split in half and clinging to the edge of the mountain almost by some invisible spiritual force casts a shadow over what was once a bustling market square.
The second generation of those who abandoned life up on the hill and who were raised below in the village of Centola are slowly reclaiming the land and the houses of their ancestors and parents. With determination and tremendous will a handful of volunteers have battled against rampant bureaucracy and with wit and resourcefulness to bring the village back to life thrugh a series of cultural projects which in the last year have seen SAn Severino's medieval hilltown host a lights and music show, a jazz festival and a live reenactment of the nativity which involved all the inhabitants in traditional costume. THis last event, a common tradition across southern Italy, was used as an opportunity to shed light on the old way of life in San Severino and to revive ancient artisanal methods, weaving, basket-making, blacksmithing and masonry as part of a new trend of didactic tourism slowly taking hold in the region.
SEE THE PHOTOS HERE...
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