Tutti i Santi Ognissnati

Tonight we are holed up in an Agriturismo (farm-stay) in Campofilone, Le Marche. There is a thunderstorm raging outside, stretching its vast electric fingers of far out across the Adriatic. The rain has been heavy; sporadically we have to mop the tiles by the door to stop it from creeping into the bedroom.

We’ll head out in about an hour to hopefully find some dinner. The majority of our afternoon was spent driving along the coast road searching in vain for an open Supermarket. We couldn’t figure out why they were shut. We now know enough Italian to know the days of the week, times, open/closed etc and all signs (literally) suggested they should be open. Hungry and confused, we wondered whether they just have extreme lunch breaks locally. A “normal” lunch break for Italy is midday to four-ish, the stores close up shop- most inconvenient!

As it turns out, when we returned from our fruitless hunt, today is a national public holiday. All Saints Day or Tutti i Santi Ognissnati in Italian. Why didn’t anybody tell us? Hang on, they probably did, we just didn’t know what they were rattlin’ on about. Today is also the first of the new season, making the storm very befitting.

On Saturday we left the West Coast and the region of Campania and drove north east to the East Coast and Le Marche. We started out early (painfully), to avoid the traffic and to cram in a four hour stopover in Pompeii before the five hour drive.

Pompeii was magical; it was like someone picked us up, shrunk us down and matrix-ed us into Age of Empires or Civilization. Not wanting to tackle the crowds we didn’t join a recommended tour group but chose to semi-wing it. Map and iphone in hand we had a wonderful morning adventuring through the roman ruins. Roman history, Pompeii included, falls into the category of things I don’t seem to know enough about. I am hungry for information!

The city is so well preserved by the volcanic ash that it isn’t at all difficult to imagine it in all of its glory. There are still many layers unexcavated, we even saw archaeologists on active digs at the site; one scrubbing down a clay vase in a city fountain. Fascinating.

A note to the squeamish: stop reading now.

Before leaving Atrani we ferried and walked our way to a few other destinations; Capri, Positano and Amalfi. In Positano we had a wonderful meal at a beachside seafood restaurant. One of us ordered the squid ink risotto, jet black, gloriously flavoured with Parmagiano and threaded with squid meat, it was devilishly good. Frighteningly though, it had a similar effect on ones digestive system, that eating too much beetroot at a summer BBQ might. 

Jelly legs.

Last night we set the smoke alarm off in our apartment. It was quite a surprise, as we think this is the first place we’ve stayed in that actually had one fitted. As the screeching beast drew our attention to the charred steak on the stovetop, we frantically waved tea towels (in the fashion of my dear mother) at it, opened the doors and windows and tried our darndest to placate it. Nothing seemed to be working.

As it continued bleating, panic set in. We are staying in Atrani, a minute (possibly Italy’s smallest) village perched on a cliff top in the Bay of Salerno (Amalfi Coast) and I’m sure the wailing monster could be heard as far away as Naples. We wondered whether it needed to be reset by the fire brigade or perhaps it was malfunctioning.

Almost defeated, I turned the aircon on while Mick prodded it with broom handle. Then as we turned to each other, looks of exasperation spread across our faces, me on the verge of tears (lie), it stopped. Just like that. If not for the buzz of the air conditioner, the hum of the range-hood and the gale force ocean winds battering our worldly possessions around the apartment, I’m sure a sense of calm serenity would have washed across us.

As I mentioned earlier, we are staying in Atrani on the Amalfi Coast. A spectacular coastline where mountains, ravines, lemon orchards, white washed towns and terraced vineyards all meet black pebbled beaches and the inkiest blue ocean I’ve ever seen.

Our research prior to arriving was minimal and although Mick has proven himself a very capable driver we were not at all prepared for the hair-raising drive along the coast road. It follows the curve of the coast and is two lanes wide. Not Australian lanes, small Italian lanes, which to my eye appear about 70% of what we are used to. Adding to this, people park their cars all along the road, in the curves, lengthways, sideways or anyway that fits; making a tight squeeze even tighter. If you are ever offered a free upgrade for a hire car in Europe- politely say “No thank you, that is unless it comes with a complimentary prescription of Valium”.

Our knuckle-whitening experience went like this. We turned a corner and saw a coach stopped in an upcoming bend. It seemed to be parked, as all of the cars on our side of the road were driving past it. As we got nearer, the space between it and the opposite cliff face shrunk before our very eyes. It seemed impossibly small for our luxuriously sized Citroën C5 Exclusive (Thank-you very much!). So much so, that I pointed out the obvious to Mick “Babe, we ain’t gonna fit through”.

By this time we were blocked in, the coach on our left (it was now painfully obvious that she wasn’t parked, she was stuck), a queue of cars behind us and a merciless looking stone wall out the passenger side. Even after folding in the side mirrors the space was still gut wrenchingly tight. I was envisaging a gaping tear down my side of the car, much like when the iceberg hit or when an alien, in an alien movie decides it’s high time he meets his prey.

We got through, like Destiny’s Child we survived. We didn’t give up. At one point, my side of the car was so close to the cliff my hand could not have squeezed through the gap. Fo’ realsies. A saintly ambulance driver (one of the growing audience) helped guide us through, millimetre by millimetre. We only started breathing again once we were well past the growing line of traffic on the other side. I wonder what became of the coach.

There are a lot of stairs here. That’s why this blog is called jelly legs.

Peace out.

Chanterelle, what a nice name.

Our long drive yesterday took us to Mendocino. A very quaint (read- so cute it hurts) seaside town. We found shelter and bedded down for the night.

Up early this morning we made our way to the Sub-Surface Progression Dive Shop where we met our host for the day. Ryane Snow is a sixty-something localtarian (only eats food from within a 100 mile radius). An ex-chemist and school teacher he is now a retiree who makes his way in the world by foraging the local forests, diving for abalone, surfing the coast and travelling the world (most recently China) hunting for mushrooms. Not a bad way to get by if you ask me.

The plan (in our minds) was to have Ryane guide us through the forest, collecting wild mushrooms along the way. Having only been in contact with him via email up until yesterday evening, we were a little unsure of what exactly to expect. My sensible girl alarm bells started ringing when he said "we might have to be a little sneaky... I'm a bit of an outlaw" but, i'll admit, the thrill of adventure was enough to get us up and out of bed before midday.

From the dive shop we excitedly followed Ryane in our car inland to our first stop. Now I'll stop for a second and warn you. This next part could get gushy. It could develop into spontaneous bouts of sacchariferous prose.

My heart skipped a beat at our first sight of the Red Wood Forests. The trees were majestic and the scent of the forest uplifting.

As we started out he warned us that the recent weather on the coast (summer heatwave coming late in the season) meant that the forests would most likely be crisp and not very mushroom friendly. We remained optimistic.

It turns out Ryane doesn't really like paths, so for the next four hours we traipsed along behind him, up hill and down dale. All the while he regaled us with his knowledge of the local forest and it's bountiful harvest.

And bountiful it was, we ate huckleberries (both red and black) and dogberries along the way. Both tasting somewhat like blueberries crossed with currants. We wondered what link there might have been between Huckleberry Hound and the two different species... My post-adventure research came up blank.

But where are the mushrooms? Well he had been right, there weren't many around. Chanterelles were the only edible mushroom on offer this soon after summer. The "potato chip" crackle of the forest floor his give-away of a too-dry location. We did hunt them out however and a hefty three pound (guestimation) sack of them was our reward.

He told us (teased us) that if we'd been out there in a month or two's time the forest would be "popping" with mushrooms. Morels, Pine, Beefsteak (which when you cut open looks like a bloody piece of meat) and Porcini to name a few.

I could go on, but I must cut this long story short. We farewelled Ryane, a little disappointed we hadn't been asked to do anything too illegal (trespassing is okay, right?) and jubilantly took our prize to a local picnic ground for our lunch. We cooked the chanterelles in a little butter and enjoyed their sweet nuttiness with salad, cheese etc for lunch.

Epic day, epic blog post. I feel all conquistador-y.

We now find ourselves in the heart of Californian wine country. Until next time.

xo

Taken' it easy.

Today we picked up the car. Mike braved the streets on his own, while I packed up our lives. Somehow our two packs and one backpack have multiplied into an assortment of bag-"rooms". A bag for kitchen accoutrement, a sack of laundry and an assembly of un-catergorisable "stuff" that was jammed into every other available gap.

Mick picked up the car and successfully made it back to the hotel to get me. A significant feat for his first state-side (left hand drive) driving experience. Working out where we were in the space of the universe was suddenly a challenge. Everything was front to back and we weren't helped by a road map that unfolded to the size of a bed sheet.

I can't speak for Mick but the fantastic feeling I felt of finally "arriving" when we hit the post "Golden Gate Bridge" HWY was overwhelming. This was what we had been looking forward to. The wind blowing through the windows, American pop-rock on the radio, the sun streaming down on us and views of eagles riding drafts of air high above the valleys.

We liked the romantic notion of taking the coastal road but we weren't quite prepared for the consequent journey time. The planned three hours dragged on and on as the road hugged the coastline.

We stopped early in the trip at Muir Beach. A small coastal community centered around the beach and it's adjoining creek system. Not perturbed by the signs warning of bobcats, coyotes or the occasional mountain lion we stretched our legs and gathered our bearings.

Upon returning to the car I promptly passed out. I suspect it was a side effect of my anti-nausea medication. Our tale continues much further down the road. *zzzz*