Not the most original statement but one that you can't restrain from bursting forth when faced with the golden light, intoxicating smells and general aesthetic explosion of joy and colour that is one of my favorite countries in the world.
A marvellous antidote to the inevitable tedium of the daily grind (no matter how interesting it might be). Out came the passport, on went the backpack and I skipped out of work on a Wednesday lunchtime with a light step and a glad shout.
Swift pints of Kronenburg at Stanstead and on to the tortuously musical Ryanair flight to be sold extortionate beverages by brown-faced Italian air stewards. I tried a 'gracie' on for size and found that 'gracias' slipped out in its place, sign of much linguistic confusion to come...
Three girls, 2 cities, 4 days. Squealing excitement, purring contentment, brow furrowing debates, eye-prickling heart to hearts and much laughter all with a back-drop of extravagant baroque architecture, golden Italian sunlight, olive groves, wild flowers, white-washed churches and accompanied with as much delicious wine and amazing food as we could manage. Which is a lot. In a companionable haze of happiness we floated around Puglia, delighted to be back in Italy which is the setting for so many of our shared happy memories.
Bari had been given a luke-warm press so I prepared the girls for bland city-scapes and uninspiring streets with a hint of crime lurking in the back streets. We were all much cheered, therefore, when Bari's Centro Storico turned out to have all the marble paving, windy narrow streets and twinkly pizzas lined with umbrellaed restaurants that we could ever wish for. A good place to start and, appetites whetted, we set off for The Florence of the South: Lecce.
Built with an ornate flourish of such enthusiasm, Lecce boarders on the ridiculous. Where Florence maintains a cool restraint and masculine authority, Lecce is its flouncy-skirted little cousin kicking up its heels to reveal lacy petticoats and luxuriating in an abundance of frills. The architecture is elaborate and (I've used the word already but it is a good one) extravagant. Lacking the Italian composure it resembles more the Spanish inclination: An orgy of stone carving adorning facades.
A little silly but totally gorgeous and our Imperial Suit in the B&B Centro Storico certified (if there was any doubt in our minds) that Lecce was a magical place and we would all be happy to drop all and come and live here at the slightest encouragement.
The history of Puglia is partly what makes the place so extraordinary. Greeks, Romans and Normans have passed through here leaving their mark in one way or another and to drive around the area is to drift from one remnant of ancient civilisation to another, scattered amongst endless olive groves and nestled in sandy bays.
It seemed wise to let Ellie do the driving and so Posy and I were able to sit back and enjoy the scenery while Ellie skillfully negotiated her way through the Italian traffic almost always remembering to look the right way when pulling out on the continental side of the road...
Coffee in Gallipoli overlooking the clear blue Mediterranean waters, lunch in a vaulted-ceilinged trattoria in a little rural town, brought to us by a proud owner, fluent in English and dictatorial over the correct selection and consumption of his food, wine and coffee. Ice cream in Otranto, where lies a magnificent Norman mosaic, and back to Lecce for another dreamy evening of scrumptious food, mucho vino and much world righting. How the days could just drift by in that manner forever...
But alas no! Back to Bari, farewell Posy (back to Madrid) and another lazy day for Ellie and me was we wandered, loosing ourselves amounts the labyrinth of twisting winding streets of the Centro Storico absorbing the sedate post-lunch Sunday atmosphere. Children kicked footballs in little courtyards, women bustled and scrubbed and every so often a tinny cheer and an enthusiastic yelp would echo out of one of the open door-ways as the men watched football in the their pants in the gloomy shade of their apartments.
Suddenly there was a colossal cheer and the streets went from being empty to full of football shirted Italians delirious with joy, leaping onto their vespers, charging about with flags, crying, hugging each other and letting off enough fire crackers to convince someone listening that it wasn't so much a celebration but a vicious riot. Ah the passion of the Latino!
Back to London with a light tan, full tummy and itchy feet again...
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