Italian Olive Groves- Article.

Italian Olive groves
Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

The essence of Trentino evokes the memory of the “Old Europe” of the mittle europa of a Germanic central Europe, with a flourishing culture bounded in two central empires. A romanticism is felt, almost spectral, almost dead and yet still alive in the bountiful and plentiful gazes, the structures of the Alpine passes and the sloping valleys beneath them. From lakeside Riva up to Bolzano, from the Southern Tyrol across to the Brenta Dolomites, the continuation of these snowy-capped peaks brings breathless delights of inner fascination and pleasure for which words fail. From my experiences I drew up a rustic, romantic and peaceable environment from the little Alpine villages that stole our gazes on the road to the Val di Genova. Cypress trees and Olive groves evoke the image of the Mediterranean amidst the Alpine counterparts.

It took about three hours of meticulous driving and precise navigation- along with strain and stress on trying to catch every sign post for the Adamello Brenta National Park- along a series of unfamiliar roads, for which 

we both had to be decisive in an instant.

The meadows are filled with wild Alpine flowers, coated often with violet foxgloves and inhabited by giant yellow butterflies. The whole eco-system is alive and in vibration, a sort of splinter of utopia or paradise is felt in these parts, in these remote regions of the world, where the city has not conquered nor corrupted its virgin nature. The mountain villages are filled with arching wooden houses –in a stereotypical Swiss style- in the centre of each little village there is a little piazza with a fountain at the heart of it. The water trickles to the sound of silence. Both me and my friend stopped and photographed the unique intricacies of the little village with its quaint shops and bars.  At our arrival the daily siesta had begun–as it occurs throughout Italy in whole-  and this village really did bare the resemblance of a sleeping little mountain village. 

 We stopped about halfway on the road to Madonna di Campignola, turning right through many narrow twisting roads, avoiding collisions with coaches. The road twisted on and on, without the confirmation that we had found a decent parking spot. The pallid river flowed with a life renewing intensity fed from the mouth of many plunging cascades. The force of the river was exploited for good use by the locals at the hydro-electrical station that was closed off to pedestrians, but still miles and miles of forestry, land unclaimed by man, beautiful vistas that pierce the heart expose the soft underbelly of a hardened traveller.

Over Lago di Garda the Cuckoo called in the din of the evening mystery, where faded brown melted into a spillage of amber in the water below. Bats circled and whizzed over the verandah while we chatted about life and the challenges we would face when we returned from our holiday. I must mention that it was a wonderful sight to behold the Hoopoe bird, that came and went like a mirage to an avid birdwatcher like myself, who was as enthralled and stunned as a boy to have beheld the prize conquest of his hobbie or collection. Equally true the Green Woodpecker in the olive groves above our Villa went unseen but I did attribute its call with a faint memory of having hear its highly audible, "laughing" call before.

Germans, French -we English speakers- and of course our Italian host spoke together in a mish-mash- tower of babel- a concoction of languages, gestures and awkward expressions where I spoke a mixture of French, German and a pinch of Italian to my host, to which there was much laughter, raised eyebrows and confusion.
The little hostess was a generous and vivacious woman, who provided a hearty breakfast every morning and who was willing to go out of her way to provide me with a plethora of Gluten free products for my breakfast.

Verona to me makes me think of a Florence in miniature with its many impressive bridges, its gardens and its castle (the Castle Vecchio) with its mixture of monastic splendour and medieval militancy. Old Baroque era side streets lead to crammed piazzas as tourists hover around the main attractions. The pietro Vecchio was one of the most impressive parts of the old town for me, a meeting point for lovers to embrace over the renaissance style arch that lead into the old City. All along the long-grassed banks an entire army of Sand martins, Swallows and Swifts flew in motion, letting out there screeching sounds while a balminess touched my skin and reminded me that it was summer in full force and that the day was full to the brim with life and a romance that made me secretly happy