Almost Wordless Wednesday: Between Here And There

I took this shot during the Pelleginaggio Artusiano in the spring of 2011. The mirror is somewhere between Castrocaro Terme and Portico di Romagna (on the road from Forli to Florence), and I would never have noticed it if I hadn't been walking -- driving or otherwise riding is fine for vistas, but is much too fast for details like this, which was tucked away where only people emerging from the driveway across the street would normally see it.

Leonardo has organized another Pellegrinaggio this fall that I won't be doing. It'll be from Modena to Florence going through the quake-struck parts of Emilia, and though it does beckon the distances are more than I can cope with: 42 km, a marathon, one day, 39 the next, and so on. Also, wife Elisabetta, who has been dealing with health problems since April, is still not well. I will go -- hesitantly -- to food or wine events, but going to walk my feet off doesn't seem right.

Next, we're still working on how to set up the revised Cosa Bolle in Pentola, so no new recipes quite yet, though I do have an interesting Halloween idea. In the meantime, I have posted notes for Michele Chastellani's wines, pleasant Valpolicella wines in a rather modern key.

Finally, some sad news: Angelo Rocca, the man behind Rocca Albino, one of the more innovative (and critical) winemakers in Barbaresco, died this week when his ultralight crashed in the fog. I didn't know him well, but did like him, and will miss him.

Il Pellegrinaggio Artusiano, Day 5

It has taken me a few days to get to this, and I apologize. Day 5 was different than the others, because for the first time we had a schedule: Elisabetta Cianfanelli, Florence's Assessore al Turismo, was to meet us by Artusi's grave at the Cimitero delle Porte Sante next to the church of San Miniato at noon, and this, for me, posed a problem:

The walk from Stefano's locanda in Pontassieve to the cemetery was comparatively short, 20 km, but to be certain of making it in time given the pace I had been setting, I would have had to set out at about 5 AM. So with considerable regret I decided to go with Stefano's sister, who was driving our bags up to the cemetery. Roy Berardi, who had missed the previous day's walk, joined us at about 8 and we set out shortly thereafter following route on the left bank of the river, which isn't as narrow. An odd day, with very low lead-gray skies and no shadows at all.

After a few km we caught up with the walkers, in a town with a bar, and joined them for a coffee.

Roy walked on with them, while I chose to continue by car. Stefano's sister left me and our bags at the cemetery, and I found Artusi's grave, with a bronze bust put up by the town of Forlimpopoli (he willed his fortune to the town, to provide dowries for poor girls), and a wreath from the city of Florence.

Pretty, and since I was quite early I took advantage of the opportunity to wander about the grave yard. Le Porte Sante is Florence's Cimitero Monumentale, where the famed and respected as well as citizens of means ended up, and the headstones, especially those from the Art Deco period, are quite nice, displaying a wonderful sense of pathos that many more modern headstones don't quite manage. Much to photograph, and I did.

After a time I called Carlo, who said they would be coming up the stairway to San Miniato, so I went to wait for them there, in time to see a Chinese wedding party that had come to the church with a photographer. The groom looked very young, while the bride, who was beautiful, surprised me by lifting her wedding gown to her knees to keep it from getting dusty as she walked. Sensible, I suppose, but I didn't expect her to be wearing odd heelless black leather tennis shoes.

A few other reporters and a couple of television crews joined me, and then the gang appeared! Stopped, too, to unfurl the Artusi banner we had carried, and came up the stairs, while everyone else in the piazzale in front of San Miniato peered curiously at us. Paolo Zoffoli, Forlimpopoli's mayor, joined us, as did Elisabetta Cianfanelli, Florence's Assessore per il Turismo (among other things) and a Standard Bearer and several trumpeters (dressed in Renaissance garb). They blew, the notables talked, we gave Assessore Cianfafelli the copy of Artusi's book and the banner, and took lots of pictures -- Artusi's descendants, one of whom walked with us today, were there too -- and then it was time to say good by and go back to life as usual.

A sad moment with some tears and thoughtful faces, and we'll be thinking about our adventure for a while. Leonardo had a wonderful idea, and we all owe him a tremendous debt for following through on it and inviting us along.

Il Pellegrinaggio Artusiano, Day 4

Considering the sun that had set, beautifully red, the night before, the misty drizzle that greeted us when we arose was a definite letdown. Fortunately Emma's breakfast was as lavish as her dinner, with all sorts of tasty morsels to nibble on. I'm afraid we didn't do it the justice it deserved, but one can only eat so much in the space of 12 hours.

In any case, after eating we donned our rain gear, I opened my umbrella, and we set out for Pontassieve, a 28-km walk. Considering that it was all down hill I would have expected it to be easier, but for me it was the toughest day of the trip, and I found myself going a slow, steady pace while everyone else pulled inexorably away. Tried going faster several times, but slowed down after a hundred yards or so each time, and finally simply walked along, while the rain stopped, allowing me to close my umbrella and start taking pictures of this and that, the mountains, the spillway of a mill, a guy riding his bicycle (a weird one) lying down, and so on. It was quiet, the sound of my shoes on the road and the occasional whoosh of a car, and after a while I reached Dicomano, about when everyone else was setting out from Dicomano (after a meeting with the authorities) along the stream -- Leonardo said it was muddy, and I decided to stick to the road.

Rufina is a lot farther from Dicomano than I had realized, and the miles passed with excruciating slowness, also because the river had grown enough that the valley was flatter, while the road was straight -- much less opportunity to discover something neat around the bend.

In the meantime the clouds broke up and the sun came out. Beautiful skies and vistas, and as I was entering Rufina I came to one of those "you are now going" meters, which was flashing at people going way above the speed limit. As I neared, it started jumping between 3 and 4 km, and I kicked myself for not thinking to take a picture before another car whooshed by.

The nice thing about Rufina's being far from Dicomano is that it's close to Pontassieve, and shortly before reaching to town I left SS67, the route we had followed, to take an older much less trafficked road along the river. Pontassieve owes its name to its being the site of a bridge (ponte) over the Sieve river, and while the bridge I crossed is new, the ones a little upstream of me are much older and quite pretty.

This evening we were the guests of fellow pilgrim Stefano Fassineti, the only professional cook among us, who has a Locanda in the old part of town called Toscani da Sempre. It took us a bit longer than it had other days to get showered and cleaned up, and then we went to meet the local authorities -- a several people dressed in Renaissance garb, including the bearer of Pontassieve's standard, and the Assessore alla Cultura, who escorted us into the town hall while people looked and TV cameras rolled. Speeches inside, a diploma for each of us, and then we went back to Stefano's for some bubbly before dinner.

Good bubbly, and we were decidedly merry by the time we squeezed into our table (with Artusi's descendents and their wives). Dinner was very nice; we began with baccalà Montebianco, creamy baccalà with crusty bread, followed by passatelli in broth and pappardelle (broad tagliatelle) with rabbit sauce, then stewed castrato (castrated lamb) with beans and baked eggplant, and then latte alla portoghese, a delicate crème caramel, and Artusian biscotti. All washed down with wines from Chianti Rufina (while Leonardo read aloud from Artusi), because all the Sangiovese di Romagna we had been given was gone, and when we were winding down Stefano brought out two threatening looking bottles, one filled with a creamy yellow liquid with orange threads, and the other with just creamy yellow liquid.

It turns out Stefano is fanatical when it comes to hot peppers, growing all sorts of kinds (and worrying lest a kid who comes to the restaurant eat one during the summer), and uses the habaneras and other central American varieties to make the shot-with-read liqueur, which he advised those who are hesitant about heat try. The other is instead made with naga and ghost peppers, and it was something. A touch of sweetness followed by a blast of napalm, and then an electrical zing as the endorphins kicked in. Most impressive, the sort of thing to sip a teaspoon of, by the drop.

It was the perfect close to a delightful evening.

Pellegrinaggio Artusiano Day 3

Before talking about today, a few words on Yesterday's dinner. We were staying in the Vecchio Convento, a nice hotel/restaurant in the heart of Portico di Romagna that has wonderful rooms with turn of the last century furniture. For dinner we were joined by about 20 Artusian devotees, some who had driven all the way from Florence, and I have to say the meal was worth the trip.

We began with Cacimperio, what is essentially a fondue, though Artusi takes digs at a French cook in presenting the recipe, and then says it will work well as a starter, but is a trifle. Ours had some truffles in it, which made it less trifling, and then we had Rifreddo di Lepre, a duck paté en croute, which was followed by zuppa di cipolle, onion soup -- Artusi warns that those with frail digestions should avoid it -- and tortelli, pasta with a ricotta and greens (just a tough) filling in a butter and sage sauce. We then had the umido, or stew, anatra domestica con polenta, stewed duck with polenta, and as a side dish, stewed fava beans, which have a bitterness to them one will like or not. Dessert was biscotti, chocolate and almond, and what Artusi calls Latteruolo, which is essentially latte alla portoghese, a delicate variation on crème caramel.

Returning to day three, this was -- on paper -- the most difficult day of the trip: 27 km, the first 20 uphill to the Passo del Muraglione (907 m) from a starting elevation of about 300 meters, and the last 7 down to San Godenzo -- the first town on the Tuscan side of the divide -- at an elevation of about 400 meters. To make the day even more interesting, the weather people for once got it right, and we awoke to steady rain and lead-gray skies. The others all packed extra pairs of shoes in their back packs and donned ponchos of the sort that have a hump with which to cover their packs,

I instead switched shoes, putting those with leather uppers into my suitcase and donning shoes with Goretex-lined uppers and, since my rain jacket didn't have a hump, added my pack to the baggage to be carried forward, slung my camera bag over my shoulder (just one lens), and got out my umbrella.

Which everyone else laughed at as we set out, but I found the steady drumming above my head to be rather comforting, and was quite happy that it provided enough cover to keep the camera bag dry, and to let me take the occasional photo without soaking everything. Then the rain started coming down in earnest and I just walked. Beautiful colors, deep greens and muted browns, with occasional gray stone houses in the fields. The road changed pitch repeatedly -- and there were a few downhill sections that were vexing indeed, because altitude lost must be regained -- with the result that at times I was quite close to the river, and at others was far above it, and looking down into the rushing whitewaters from sheer cliffs was quite impressive.

At one point I came to an abandoned house whose roof had mostly fallen in; the wet and the ruin made for a remarkably melancholy atmosphere. A few more miles, mostly uphill, and I caught up with Roy Berardi, the lone Romagnolo of our party, who told me the roofing of the abandoned house was Ardesia, the traditional Romagnan roofing material that is no longer anywhere near as common as it once was. When we got to a hamlet he stopped to change his shirt -- water was filtering into his poncho -- while I slogged on, eventually reaching the border between Tuscany and Romagna, which is not -- as I had always thought -- at the pass, but rather well before it.

The restraining walls in Tuscany aren't as well kept as those in Romagna -- there are places one could sip through them and in some of them it's a long way down -- so I was glad motorcyclists are a weekend phenomenon. There was snow by the side of the road in more sheltered spots -- old snow, but snow just the same, and eventually I came to a flat, followed by a series of switchbacks, during which -- Miracle! -- it stopped raining. It's surprising how much shade an umbrella casts, and it felt rather nice to be able to fold it up; more light means more energy, I was feeling quite happy when I got to the Passo del Muraglione, which is literally marked by a wall that divides the two lanes. Alas, the happiness was short lived; our leader Leonardo, who -- with the others, had preceded me, and was getting ready to continue while I attacked my sandwich -- told me there weren't 7, but rather 9 more km to go.

Beautiful views over Tuscany, and the mountains facing us had snow at our elevation, and then I started the walk down, which was considerably steeper than the walk up had been. Pretty countryside, with evergreens that gave way to deciduous trees as I descended, and at one point while I was taking a picture of a milestone I noticed something gray about a hundreds yards below -- it was the side of a car. Food for thought, and a bit further down I came to chestnut groves, and after that the countryside opened out to pastures in the flatter part of the valley, and there was San Godenzo, with the abbey where Dante met with other Florentine exiles in 1302 to discuss a strategy for reentering Florence. The meeting was ultimately unsuccessful -- Dante died in exile -- but that didn't stop me from entering the Abbey to leave an offering in the basket before entering our hotel (Eredi Agnoletti, which is also a restaurant, right next to the Abbazzia).

We were once again greeted by the Mayor, who gave us a tour of the Abbey and then invited us for an aperitivo in the porticoes below the Abbey. Which was quite nice; a woman had excellent olive oil, there were finger foods and fine castagnaccio made from local chestnut flour, there was some tasty pinot nero, and I met a guy from the Microbirrificio Conte di Campiglia who was pouring an excellent lager and a frankly impressive porter.

Dinner was prepared by Emma Agnoletti, and we were joined by several dozen Artusiani, who made a wise decision to come: All sorts of antipasti, including cold cuts, giardiniera (pickled vegetables, which fellow Pilgrim Serena looked at with a critical eye and pronounced freshly made), crostini with liver paté and polenta crostini with wild mushrooms, followed by ravioli with greens and cheese seasoned with butter and sage, potato-filled tortelli with a tasty meat sauce, and, since Emma was afraid that wouldn't be enough, tagliatelle with mushroom sauce, and one of the pilgrims ate an entire tray of them. Then mixed grilled meats with fried artichokes and (if I remember right) potatoes, and, to make certain nobody would leave hungry, cinghiale in dolce forte, wild boar with a savory chocolate sauce, which is an ancient dish that's extremely hard to find now. Very good, too. And then dessert, zuppa inglese, English trifle, and frittelle di riso, rice fritters. All washed down with all sorts of wine -- we finished all the Romagnan wines we had and drank lots of Tuscan too, and I was glad it was just a flight of stairs to our bedrooms.

Il Pellegrinaggio Artusiano Day 2

Made it, and as before I'll add photos when I get home.

Picking up where I left off, last night we had a very nice Artusian dinner, which began with cappelletti in broth, followed by boiled fish -- another pilgrim said trout, but it seemed more of a sea fish to me -- with home-made mayonnaise, followed by a stew, filetto alla finanziera, made with castrato, which is a castrated lamb, served in a sauce with finely chopped liver. The sauce translates roughly as "industrialist's sauce, and dates to the late 1899s, when it was popular in financial circles. The stew was followed by roast rabbit (Artusi decries the aversion his dinner guests had to roast rabbit more than once) with potatoes, and finally Torta Manovana. All served with a couple of Romagnan wines, a red and a white, and a Chianti Rufina Riserva,

Very nice, and this morning we assembled at 9, and set off following the Montone valley, which climbs steadily towards Tuscany. At first we were passed by a steady stream of cyclists and motorcyclists (the latter bent upon reaching the pass as quickly as possible), and also saw a few people on horseback Pleasant, easy walking, and after about 7 km we reached the town of Dovadola, which draws its name from "two fords," which is what distinguished the hamlet before the bridges were built. It's a pretty town, with an imposing medieval fortress (largely scaffolded), which is also known for a fall white truffle festival, and herein lies a tale.

Dovadola is tiny, about 1500 people, and despite the quality of its truffles can't compete with the likes of Alba or San Miniato. So they hired Edoardo Raspelli, an Italian critic whose press kit says he has insured his nose and palate for an exorbitant amount, to publicize and preside over the event. Raspelli did assemble a pamphlet of truffle recipes (with his picture, not Dovadola's) on the front, but come time to preside, told them he was sick, and would they kindly pay his fee anyways, thank you.

As you might guess, they are not pleased, and are trying to avoid paying someone what for them is a large amount for not showing up.

After Dovadola we continued up stream, and in another couple of hours reached Rocca San Casciano, which was the local center of Government when this section of Romagna was under Tuscan rule (until 1923, when Mussolini redrew the maps, assigning Romagna Toscana to Emilia Romagna), and as I entered town I beheld a sign inviting me to visit where they worked pietre dure, semi-precious stones, and also the Medici prisons. One advertises what one has.

I found the rest of the party lunching (and in some cases rubbing or bandaging their feet) by the river, and after we went to the town hall, where they mayor offered local foodstuffs -- there's a guy who makes a variety of thick fruit drinks, for example apple-grape, which will be perfect for hikers /of which there are many) in the summer, while they also have someone who makes excellent salami, and a Sardinian family that settled 50 years ago, began herding cattle rather than the sheep more common in Sardegna, and now make an excellent pecorino-sardo-style cheese from cow's milk.

Rocca San Casciano's irregularly shaped main square has pretty porticoes that bring to mind the porticoes in the square in Greve in Chianti, while there are Medici coats of arms on more than one building. After admiring a Della Robbia in the church on the square we set out for Portico di Romagna, another 8 km up the valley.

On the way we passed a bizarre sculpture garden assembled by a guy who retired and then began overtones make and put on display sculptures from whatever he found, Interesting to look at, and after that it was one pretty view after another until I reached Portico di Romagna, where the mayor greeted us with considerable enthusiasm, and Champagne was poured.

Portico is a pretty town, perched on a hill with fortifications at the top of the hill, and -- I am told -- a pretty bridge in the valley below that dates to the year 1000. I should go, but my feet are complaining, and tomorrow 27 km (about 17 miles) await us, including a mountain pass, and it's supposed to rain.

Departure is schduled for 8 AM. Wish us luck.

Il Pellegrinaggio Artusiano Day 1

Our walk to Florence begins at Casa Artusi, in Forlimpopoli, which is not, as one might expect, Artusi's home, because that was raised at some point after he moved to Florence. Rather, it was the seat of the Servi di Maria, a Florentine monastic order that was quite powerful and quite active in the Papal lands beyond Castrocaro and Città del Sole, which were the final Tuscan outposts on this side of the Appennini. Photos, you wonder? I'll add them when I get back to Florence.

The Servi di Maria's facility had been abandoned and was in disrepair when Forlimpopoli decided to do something to celebrate their foremost Native Son; they purchased it at great expense, renovated it, and set up a cooking library with Artusi's books and more recent editions of his cookbooks (including translations, and I was happy to see mine on the shelf) and other books on cookery too. And Artusi's sitting room furniture, with matching sofa and chairs, and his desk, with another high-backed chair that was too small for me to fit into.

Forlimpopoli's mayor gave us a copy of an anastatic reprint of the first edition (Dedicated by Artusi to his two cats), an Artusi flag, and we wet off, all 12 of us. But perhaps I should backtrack. The logical thing would have been for us to come together to Forlimpopoli, but we aren't logical, and last night 6 of us -- me, Carlo, Rossana, Serena, Stefano and Marco -- set off from Florence's station, armed with bags and back packs and sandwich meats and pecorino cheese and bread and… 4 bottles of bubbly and 3 bottles of still wine. It was a happy trip to Forlì, during which we drank the bubbly, attracting the attention of our fellow passages, and put a serious dent in the cold cuts. We reached Forlì on schedule, but were greeted by the announcer saying our connection was 20 minutes late. So we set up on a bench and continued to eat, while the announcer periodically told us our connection was later. By the time it arrived everything was gone, including the cheese, so its lateness wasn't that bad a thing.

We spent the night in Bertinoro, a pretty town perched on a hill overlooking the plains of Romagna, with the coast line quite evident in the distance -- it was where the lights stopped. It's an interesting town with all sorts of plaques -- one dedicated to Garibaldi, and another to the Christian Democrats who governed Italy until the 80s, elevating corruption to an art few others have matched. Odd to honor the corrupt, but Bertinoro did.

And this brings us back to Casa Artusi; after shaking hands we set off at a good pace, walking along the roads, which were agreeably flat, and in just a little longer than we waited at Forlì's station last night we arrived in the main square (note the fascist symbols on the lamp posts, a reminder of a not too distant past), where the Mayor was waiting to greet us, with her tricolored sash, and Ciocofest, a chocolate festival, was getting started. We tasted all sorts of things, and I was especially impressed by the chocolate from Modica, in Sicily, which has a sandy texture derived from sugar crystals that's unlike that of any other chocolate I know of. It's very nice, and they had some that was al sale -- salty --in which as the sugary sweetness faded delicate salty accents emerged. Captivating.

From the heart of Forlì we set off for Castrocaro, cutting through a new park that was full of young lovers lying on the grass, and crawling with rabbits that showed no fear at all of us. Emerging from the park, we started up the valley to Castrocaro, which was one of those gently sloping things that allow you to walk and walk, and if you turn around realize that you have also been climbing. At one point we cut across the valley and turned up a dirt road that was much more pleasant -- no motorcycles zinging by at insane speed, and after several miles reached Città del Sole, a fortified town built by the Medici, who designed it both as a military outpost, and as an ideal city, with precisely laid out streets, which are as wide as the buildings are tall. The gate facing Romagna is called Porta Romana, because it faces the Papal lands, while the gate facing Florence (and Rome, which is a few hundred miles further south) is called Porta Fiorentina.

We got to Castrocaro's town hall a few minutes before the Mayor, and while we waited for her the Assessore del Turismo told us that when the Medici ruled this area, it was extremely active, with a steady stream of spies and reporters coming to tell what was happening in the Papal lands, Venice, and points further north. 8-10 runners bearing reports set out daily for Florence (their reports are now in the archives of the Biblioteca Comunale), while as many runners came back in the other direction, with instructions and requests of all kinds that are now in Castrocaro's archives; among other things one of the Grand Dukes asked about a hunting dog, and another asked for 2000 barrels of red wine (it would have been Sangiovese). The local magistrate answered the question about the dog, and, considering that sending 2000 barrels of wine over the mountains would entail assembling a 1000-mule train (2 barrels per mule), asked the Duke to send soldiers to protect the mules and their drivers from bandits.

Very interesting, and then we went to our hotel, the Grand Hotel Terme, which also has hot springs and with pools and such, and smells vaguely of sulfur. Alas, I didn't think to bring a suit, and they didn't have one in my size. So here I am writing. Today we walked 20 km, and tomorrow will be walking 24, up steeper slopes. We'll see how it goes!