Halfway Over the Hill #1

Belated blog from the Italian Jungle (denoted as such by a friend from the sophisticated North) 

Seven years on....

from first being parachuted into the green wilderness of Abruzzo, hoping to be redeemed by the solace of nature...

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,  mi ritrovai per una città oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.*.

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Shooting Sunday

Mid-June 2021 - It's the start of my second summer in my hillside home. I'm sitting on my favourite spot between the great oak  and the cherry trees.   I have a niche view of hill and valley. Spread before me is a perfect picture of rustic charm, artfully lit by the the Italian sun. Exquisite  birdsong. A caressing 23 degrees. Everything looks, sounds and feels right.  

 I can even breathe,  which I couldn't in the city.

And then...

I have taken refuge inside the house because I heard some muted shooting.
For a while, we were plagued by constant shooting at the weekend and even Monday from the outdoor shooting range somewhere low in the valley. From dawn to dusk. Some pows were louder than others.

Some used no end of cartridges so you would have an endless flurry of gunshots. 'It only takes one for your brain', I screamed.

Thankfully, someone has complained or the hunters have come to their senses (unlikely - rabid hunter gatherer types) and they have limited their shooting sprees, although, the hours are still unclear. The hunting season is limited to October to January and these boys must play with their guns.

We have been spared the cannons this year. There, ostensibly, to ward off the wild boar from ravaging open crop fields and the numerous wild boars are also why the hunters 'need to' practice shooting. 

Only a few weeks ago, I witnessed my neighbour (this guy is known to his friends as 'the wild one' il selvaggio) drive his blue Fiat Panda slowly up to a nonchalant female boar with babies grazing by the side of the road below. (I'd alerted him to the presence of this prowling menace who had rammed my dog with his tusks just days before). I saw his big rifle resting in the open window. The car pulled up a couple of metres away from the boar who looked up dully and seemed unfazed.

I heard the gun cocking (the muzzle was out of sight at this stage) - a pause - I clamped my hands over my ears - a longer pause - the boar was still staring out the neighbour in what felt like a short eternity and then she skipped off into the woods with the babies at her heel. What a dud! Not to get a sitting target from close range! (And he is one of the shooting party set)

There was one cannon going off every minute last year, night and day, and it seemed it would be the case again at the start of spring, now we only have one every half an hour, mercifully.

 Last summer, I followed the sound trail of the noisiest one (in the hope of switching it off) but the location eludes you.
The official cannon from the village above me creates a ricocheting boom effect all along my leg of the hill like a mini- earthquake. In fact, when I first heard it I threw myself flat on the ground.
That's only once or twice a year. A hilltown on a peak opposite has frequent, interminable firework festivals, more so than the other little hilltowns. Yet there is no budget to fix eroding hill passes, some have gaping edges where big car-size chunks have tumbled into the valley; I'm just surprised that a car hasn't followed.
But as they say here, with an indulgent shrug and beaming eye, their palms thrown up in adoration, 'This is Italy!'

And as if on cue, the town opposite explodes

*Halfway through this life,

I found myself in a dark CITY

And the straight path had been lost

(The city is Paris; not my City of Light)

I have dared to tamper with the Dante original which has 'selva' = forest/jungle instead of 'città'.

Perché è la selva che salva secondo me 'salvation is in the forest'

Therein lies the bliss of solitude and plenitude.

Think: Plumb your psyche; is it more hunter or gatherer?