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— and I was just too tired to keep on writing —
— when I suddenly found myself in front of a sign that said "Il Vecchio Granaio";º stupidly, when the Hotel Lauri made me my reservation I didn't bother remembering the name of the agriturismo; but this rang a bell, and I climbed the hill: and sure enough, it was the place they'd reserved me at. Well, I thought I was further from Passo di Treia than I was; and I thought Passo di Treia would mean the place marked on my map, due S of Treia, that would save me some walking today — but it was in fact 1.6 km E of the crossroads, and at first I thought that was too much, so I thought I'd cancel my reservation, so started to do so; then convinced myself otherwise — the easiest won out, I took the room, freshening up and dropping most of my stuff in the room, reëmerging with the bare minimum camera bag, plus instructions for a shortcut up to Treia, since the drivers' road takes you first to Passo, then a circuitous route around back, about 5 km.
After listening carefully to the shortcut, I took the car road. . . . More nasty traffic to Passo, then a circuitous road, and none too pretty, but less traffic at least, up around the W side of Treia, that did, however, give me a good idea of the topography. Finally into Treia.
Now Treia was a place I'd got an idea about from the DeAgostini guidebook, and really from one phenomenal photo in it: somehow walking from Macerata I got my directions tangled and I labeled "Treia" the extraordinary views of Pollenza for miles and miles from Macerata; Treia less impressive, and often even invisible from that unpleasant road — but the Vecchio Granaio straightened me out. Anyway, given the circumstances, I realized I might be letting myself in for a disappointment, that Treia was in all likelihood a sort of nothing of a place, etc.; and from the back entrance, it pretty much looked like it.
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Pollenza, not Treia.
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But in fact coming into the town I warmed to it; OK, so it's all brick, and by now I know myself well: I don't like brick; all these basically dingy places with brick belfries, mmph — gimme stone, for God's sake.
But Treia is different. Two things about the brick: it's clean, and most of it yellow rather than dark red and dirty; and it's structural. The Duomo for example on Piazza della Repubblica has one of those brick façades just like umpteen other Italian towns — except it's not in fact incomplete: look carefully and the brick façade is intentional and decorative, and beautiful (despite alas the restoration work and the construction equipment in the piazza). The Pro Loco: open; and a helpful pleasant gentleman there with good advice, who read me well. Map.
In sum, I spent an afternoon in Treia, prepared to be disappointed, and warming to it. The town is unusual in its use of brick, sober but there seems to be a tradition here of ornamental brick construction I haven't seen anywhere else, and it's a beautiful little place.
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My calcione. |
I told him how old stone does something for me that no Perugino can: he took me into his cantina, mostly carved out of the live rock of Treia; and upstairs, a vaulted space with a small round skylight, which was, he said, the hole thru which food was dropped into the prison cells —
After my calcione (a tendencyº now to call them calzoni, but Maurizio said the proper form is calcione) my original idea of a cappuccino and a sweet pasta felt vulgar, but slosh out the mouth with a bit of fizzy water and I did have my cappuccino — I always miss the coffee when I go back home! — and a sweet pastry, a horn full of a mix of ricotta and raisins and a tiny bit of some slightly sweet alcohol —
In the course of what turned out to be a long conversation, I told them how I'd fallen in love with Umbria years ago and have slowly been extending it to the Marche since 2000, walking etc.; worried about today's projected walk to the Abbazia di Fiastra, with my last possible train back to Umbertide at 1348 — rather tight to leave the Vecchio Granaio at 8 and walk 21 km by then and see Pollenza and Fiastra too, I was worried about it.
The voice of God spoke from Carla, who asked me — she collects coins — if I had American coins with me. Well I didn't; they were, are, back at the house in Umbertide: and suddenly I realized I had to come back, and that that solved the problem today as well; if I come back, I don't have to run myself ragged to get to Fiastra then the station at Sforzacosta today: I'll do it then. I told her that God usually talks to us by kicking us in the but that's only because we don't listen to the other. To my horrific peril I now know better; and professional listener that I am (what else? of all people an interpreter ought to listen well!), I'm learning: I'll come back to Treia with her quarters: I have 4 quarters in Umbertide.a And our conversation took a different turn after that; I can now see the frescoes at Maestà, the church at Rambona — they found out that it should be open in the afternoons 1500‑1830 giorni feriali — etc.; and they gave me a copy of the bus schedule from Macerata. So I should go back to Treia before I leave — the first excursion on this trip that I unambiguously enjoyed despite the awful road and the cold — and I'll now be able to see the SS. Crocifisso with the Roman lapidary remains; I'd inquired on arriving, but 2.5 km away, i.e. 5 km round trip on foot — I need to go slower.
Warm, good people — what else could they do but treat me to the calcione and white wine? and what else could I do but accept? And I left, regretfully, at around 6, out the Porta Roma with instructions how to do it the pedestrian way, cutting out maybe 2 km from the drivers' way.
Natch, I got lost — dark found me somewhere, starting to head towards Macerata rather than my agriturismo. Slightly panicked call to the Vecchio Granaio from a dark road in the middle of nowhere; Rossano did his best but just couldn't figure out where I was — I finally made it back, mostly on instinct — after the phone call though I decided I couldn't pass the diningroom by (for one thing Rossano specifically asked me to let them know when I got back); at 7:45 I was sitting at a table in the diningroom.
An average meal, although maybe I didn't give them much of a chance: I had two primi, two contorni, e basta. Tagliatelle in rosso, B-; risotto ai funghi, C- (commercial-tasting and far too salty). Broccoli, with a fair amount of hot red pepper, peculiar but not bad, B; greens (of the kind old ladies go picking along highways), C- there too. House red, a glass: said to be della zona. Limoncello. 23E and I was, for the only time so far this trip, a bit full. Slept.
1 The obligatory sagra del calcione (e del raviolo) is the 3d Sunday of June: used to be in the spring, but moved to insure good weather.
a And I did return to Treia: see diary, May 23‑24.
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Page updated: 7 Dec 20