Le Marche Archives - Page 2 of 2

Owning a Little Piece of Italy

I saw the house advertised in a magazine about Italy. Restored country home on eight acres with olive trees and grapevines. Recently reduced in price by one-third. Stunning views of the Sibillini Mountains and hilltop towns. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms, 2500 square feet, comes furnished. Restorable ruins on the property and room to add a pool. I showed it to my husband Matt. “What’s the catch?” He asked. “There has to be something wrong with it for that price.”

Kevin, the real estate agency owner, emailed the GPS coordinates, floor plans, photos, and the estimated fees and taxes. Two prior sales had fallen through and the British couple that owned it was ready to sell. “By far, it is the best value on my website,” he wrote in one of his many replies to our questions. He mentioned that the neighbor’s dogs sleep in the road that the house was built curiously close to.

View of the house through vines and olive grove

We arranged a trip to see the house and explore Le Marche in February. I had dreamed about having a home in Italy and this house checked all of my boxes. Our original plan had been to fall in love with an area, rent a place for a couple of weeks every year until we could retire. By then, we would get to know the locals and hear about a great opportunity. The night before we departed for Italy, my fortune cookie said: “Don’t be afraid to take a chance when the opportunity of a lifetime appears.”

We visited six other properties before arriving at the one we had traveled 5,000 miles to see. I got out of Kevin’s car and got the goose bumps. It wasn’t from the view. Thick heavy clouds in the grey sky portended rain and obscured the hilltop towns and the Sibillini Mountains. My feet, standing on the gravel driveway, felt connected to the earth in a way they never had.

The interior looked better than the pictures. We loved the wood-beam ceilings, the open floor plan, the many windows. Mild humidity damage in the walls was easily fixable for €2,000. Matt and I returned to see the exterior over the weekend. Two dogs slept undisturbed on the road, no cars passed by to disturb them. We walked through the house again Monday morning and I emailed our offer at lunch. It was accepted that evening.

Before we flew home, we met with our English-speaking lawyer Fabio. With one signature and a photocopy of our passports, he would obtain our codice fiscale, the identification number required to do almost anything in Italy. He would open a bank account for us across the street from his office. He would draft our compromesso, the binding contract written in English and Italian, signed by the sellers and the buyers.

While we had pre-qualified for an Italian mortgage, Kevin had told us “avoiding the mortgage would really help,” and Fabio described a mortgage as “a really big headache.” Thankfully, the day after we returned from Italy we sold our Florida rental property.

The weak dollar was hurting us, with €100 equal to $123 at the time. I obsessed about the exchange rate. I checked it on my phone, (even adding a widget), watched for market fluctuations, and created accounts with four registered currency exchange providers to see which one had the best deal for our situation.

Traditional Le Marche farmhouse exterior stairs

One month later Fabio watched on Skype as we signed the compromesso the required 52 times. We wired a deposit directly to the sellers. We would send the balance to the notaio, the public official responsible for property sales, prior to signing the deed. Fabio said, “Next time you come to Italy, you will own a little piece of it.”

Read my introduction to Le Marche here.
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See a map of the area here.

Searching the Sibillini Mountains

The Sibillini Mountains reassure my orientation as I get my bearings. But Le Marche’s southwestern border disappears often. Morning fog and afternoon clouds obscure not only their Stegosaurus summits but also any hint of their foothills. I peek reflexively from our house.

Part of the Apennine Mountain chain, the Sibillini are protected by a 270-square mile National Park (70,000 hectares). Twenty of its peaks are more than 6,562 feet (2000 meters) high. Inhabited since the Neolithic era, the Sibillini became known in the Middle Ages as the kingdom of fairies, mystics, and the prophetess Sibyl, who lived in a hidden cave near the top of Mount Sibilla.

Knights seeking adventure, writers seeking stories, and travelers seeking answers all ventured to the Sibillini. A dozen towns scattered around the park and a system of shelters has long provided hospitality in this mysterious area. Today, ambitious hikers can trek the “Great Ring,” a 124 – kilometer long path that encircles the park. The rest of us can bike or walk the dozens of signposted trails; visit museums and old churches; bird watch; eat local food; view wildlife; and admire rare wildflowers.

In February my husband Matt and I drove up into the mountains. It was snowing, dissolving in lower altitude, accumulating as we ascended. Nine particularly wicked switchbacks were numbered ominously. After the ninth we parked at a closed ski resort. Empty chairlifts stuck in midair.

A van parked next to us and children dressed head-to-toe in snow suits bumbled out, grabbed their sleds, and trudged to the edge of the hill where they disappeared. Families had taken over the ski resort to go sledding. Never had I wanted so badly to wear a giant snowsuit.

When we return in May the summits are less snow-capped and the snowmelt creates waterfalls along the road. We stop at one and I take a picture of Matt touching the icy water. It flows too fast to fill a water bottle. A driver passing by notices what we’re doing. He slows, smiles broadly, and nods in approval.

The Fiastra Lake is ethereal aquamarine when we reach it and walk the pebbly shore. Birds soar overhead, the only visible sign of life. The mountains’ reflection ripples on the surface, the air smells crisp.

Small manufactured buildings line the main street of Fiastra. Temporary structures installed to house businesses until the buildings damaged by the earthquakes two years ago are restored to anti-seismic standards. Down an empty cross street, wood braces support still-beautiful pastel buildings. We wait in the car, stuck in a one-way street behind a gentleman who has gotten out of his car. He is looking for a place he cannot find. A man emerges from one of the buildings. They speak. The man shakes his head, points his finger. The driver nods. He walks back, not to his car but to ours, and apologizes for our delay.

Just outside of Fiastra, we follow a sign and drive up a steep narrow path I’m not certain was intended for vehicles. Tree branches slap our car. We park at the top, near an old church. A path lined with purple and blue wildflowers leads to the remains of the ninth century Castello Magalotti. Two of the original 7 towers still stand and a long stone wall runs along a walking route.

Driving deeper into the park, we pass alpine meadows, beech woods, wildflower gardens, limestone mounds, trees with cascading yellow flowers, and the same wild Sibillini Orchids that grow on our property. They are deep purple, almost burgundy on the top of the plant. As they open, they lighten to a creamy white with purple spots. They look like angels with a purple halo.

We reach a crossroads. The way left is blocked, earthquake rubble strewn in the road. Taking a right, we pass through a mostly deserted town. Walls collapsed, roofs missing, buildings torn in two. My camera sits like a privileged weight in my lap. I close my eyes as we pass; I don’t want to feel like a gawker.

That evening from our Le Marche home the Sibillini summits catch the last light of the setting sun. Pink clouds halo above the peaks. Two months later I read that the resilient residents of the Sibillini, who for centuries have excelled at and relied on tourism, are reopen for business. Ninety percent of the tourist facilities are ready to receive the travelers who come the Sibillini, searching for something.

See a map of the region here.
Read my prior story about Aperitivi in Urbisaglia here.
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Aperitivi in Urbisaglia

It was dark the first time we went to Urbisaglia, a partially walled hilltop town. My husband Matt and I walked toward the piazza, following dubious GPS coordinates. To our left a tall round tower was illuminated. I deviated down the side street to approach it. Behind it loomed a massive castle.

We couldn’t stay. We had dinner reservations—as it turns out, down the hill on the main highway. The enchanting village of Urbisaglia would have to wait.

Urbs Salvia was an important Roman city, likely founded in the first century BC at the crossroads of two major routes that spanned the region. Roman walls still stand guard along the main highway at the bottom of the hill, now an archeological park. Remarkably preserved ruins include temples, a theater, and an amphitheater that held gladiatorial events. Every summer, actors perform classical plays in the amphitheater.

The Amphitheater at the Parco Archeologico

The Visigoths destroyed Urbs Salvia in 409 AD, and the citizens fled up the hill for safety. The lower city’s prosperity was preserved under a landslide for future discovery. Dante writes about Urbisaglia’s demise in Paradiso: “…Seeing that even cities have an end.”

The castle on the top of the hill was finished in 1507, built on the site of ancient Roman remnants and hints of a twelfth century fortification. It is an asymmetrical trapezoid with four towers at the corners. We had passed the largest one.

Built by the city of Tolentino, who ruled Urbisaglia at the time, the castle’s layout was designed to not only defend against outside threats, but also to repress internal rebellion from the resentful citizens of Urbisaglia who wanted autonomy. They would not obtain it until 1569.

Called La Rocca, the castle overshadows the city’s main Piazza Garibaldi. An adjacent church faces the piazza. On the opposite side is a bakery we go to for an aperitivo. Matt always orders a spritz. He says the guy there makes a good one. I always order a prosecco. We sit outside, always at the same table, the one closest to the church. It’s become “ours.”

Waiting for my drink, I go to the cash machine across the street to my right. It’s molasses slow but reliable. The pharmacy, a post office, and a clothing store are on the left side of the piazza. A good restaurant is down the block. A gelateria and another bar is on our walk back to the car.

The waiter carries our drinks with the reverence of an offering plate. Or it could be that he does not want my prosecco to tip over. His tray is laden with small pizza triangles, focaccia rectangles, potato chips, olives, peanuts, and breads of all sorts. I picture him looking at what he has on hand and deciding what freshly baked goods we should try this time. He plates it just so. It’s his work. That and Italians never drink alcohol without food.

We arrive after school is out and before dinner starts. We can smell it cooking. Young kids play soccer in the square. They make up rules Matt understands and he explains them to me. The ball hits the church frequently. It flies our way often. Once, the ball hit the bakery’s facade and I thought the door would break. One time, the ball went through the open door and into the store.

Men gather and talk politics. I try not to eavesdrop but pick up helpful phrases. Mothers arrive, yelling “ragazzi, ragazzi,” to collect their children. One evening a woman apologized to me (in Italian!) for the noise. I replied that it was fun for us. At least that’s what I hope I said.

A grandmother and her cat peered out from a balcony window in the same pose and I could not bring myself to raise my camera. It would intrude. I realize now I have no pictures of this piazza, our favorite aperitivo place. In Urbisaglia, despite my huge camera, I am not a turista. I am a non-local.

Our country house is technically under Tolentino’s jurisdiction, although we are equidistantly 15 minutes from Urbisaglia and Tolentino. We do our shopping and business in the higher-populated Tolentino. But Urbisaglia is where we relax under the fortress that protected a city worth fighting for.

See a map of the region here.
Read my prior story about Le Marche’s Small Town Treasures here.
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Small-town Treasures Found in Le Marche

San Ginesio is a fortified hilltop town and is named one of the borghi più belli d’Italia, (the most beautiful villages in Italy). At the bar in the piazza there, my husband Matt ordered us sandwiches and wine for lunch. I was emailing our real estate agent Kevin our offer to buy the house that we had traveled to see. We had left him less than fifteen minutes prior at the main city gate.

Kevin had told us that San Ginesio was hit hard by the earthquakes that struck the region in the fall of 2016. The clock on the tall tower in San Ginesio’s piazza was stuck at 7:29. The Collegiata church, a treasure of the city since 1098, was braced with steel bars and fenced-off, closed for repairs. It is said that Charlemagne’s parents, King Pipin the Short and his wife Bertrada are entombed just inside the entrance.

The florist across the church was open. Flowers and plants spilled out into the walkway, a display of undaunted beauty. The heat of the February sun was an antidote to the cold.

Part of its accessible charm, Le Marche has no large cities. Its many cultural, historical, gastronomical, and natural gems are spread throughout the region, scattered like Carnevale confetti. Ancona, the Adriatic port transportation center and capital of the region tops population lists with about 100,000 inhabitants. Yet only one in four of all municipalities in Le Marche have more than 5,000 residents.

You might think that all of these beautiful-medieval-walled-hilltop towns look alike. That they are nondescript, that they would blur into each other after seeing maybe, two. You might think they are tourist traps filled with souvenir shops. That they are contrived for our visiting benefit. You would be mistaken.

Not far from San Ginesio (pop. 1500), the ‘balcony of the Sibillini Mountains,’ with its enviable views, is Ripe San Ginesio (pop. 800). A jewel box of a village with public sculptures displayed everywhere. It even has a huge chessboard with tiered seating and panoramic vistas over the valley, should your attention wander from the match.

Amandola (pop. 3500), to the south and west, another gateway to the Sibillini, is a labyrinth of narrow zig-zags up a steep hill. Through the city gate barely wide enough for a Fiat 500, the lovely piazza is above a church reached by descending steps. Too cold to try the local gelato, at a gourmet shop just inside the city gate we sampled, then bought, local cheeses (one aged in a cave), truffles (a local speciality), and wines (at bargain prices).

The Marchigiani themselves voted the Piazza del Popolo in Ascoli Piceno as the most beautiful of the piazze in Le Marche. With 49,200 residents, Ascoli Piceno is the fourth-largest city in the Marche, but retains a small-town feel. Two football (soccer) nets stood on opposite ends of the large piazza and children were playing. Decorations hung overhead to celebrate the upcoming Carnevale. Made of shimmering travertine, the piazza is fronted by a church, cloisters, and Caffè Meletti, justifiably famous for its anise liquor made on site (really good in coffee). Every August, Ascoli Piceno holds a medieval reenactment festival and a jousting tournament in the piazza.

Tolentino (pop. 20,000), along the Chienti River, was a settlement of the Picenes who came to Le Marche in the early Iron Age (ninth-century BC) after being guided here by a woodpecker (picus in Latin). Accessed by a 13^thcentury, one-lane bridge (yes it’s scary) called Ponte del Diavolo (Devil’s bridge), Tolentino is a town with intact fortifications, a continuing heritage of pilgrimage visitors, and a thriving leather making industry.

Tolentino’s clock tower is worth driving over the bridge for.On the north side of Piazza Libertà, the 16^thcentury bell tower of the church of San Francesco has five elements. The top circle indicates the moon phase, the second shows the hours for prayers, the third gives the time, the fourth the day and the month, and barely visible at the bottom is a solar meridian line.

Loro Piceno (pop. 2400) is perched on a hill and dominated by a Norman castle with a large shaded park. Loro, as it is commonly referred to, is known for its Vin Cotto, cooked wine, made by heating it to concentrate the flavor and is often served for dessert. (Or with dessert, it’s that good, and no one will judge you.)

We returned to San Ginesio three months later, in May. We had closed on the house and went to the weekly market there. Our bag of potatoes, onions, and peppers was only €0.80. Matt brought our haul down to the car and we walked up to the piazza, to where it all started. The church was still boarded up behind the chain-link fence. But this time, the clock accurately displayed 12:35.

See a map of the region with the cities mentioned click here.
Read my prior story about Le Marche and its founding myths click here.
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Finding Hidden Italy in Le Marche

A founding legend of Italy’s Le Marche region says that in the early Iron Age (Ninth century BC), a group of the Italic Sabines headed west, over the Apennine mountains. They were part of an ancient ritual, ver sacrum, or sacred spring, whereby all the babies born in the spring after a year of hardship were consecrated to the god of Mars. As children, they lived under Mars’ protection as sacrani. When they reached adulthood, they were sent away from their community to establish a new one elsewhere, guided by a spirit animal sacred to Mars. Strabo tells us that a woodpecker (picus in Latin) guided these sacrani to their new destiny in southern Marche.

Another legend relates that some Pelasgians, ancient Greeks, coming from the North, asked Mars to give them a sign after not finding a suitable place to stay. A woodpecker appeared. Following it, they were led to a fertile place to settle in Le Marche.

Le Marche, the Italian plural word for the Marches, means borderlands, and served as a buffer zone between the Papal States and their northern neighbors. This diverse area bordered by the Apennine mountains, Umbria and Tuscany to the West; the Adriatic to the East; Emilia-Romagna to the North; and Abruzzo to the South, is worth seeking out.

Medieval hilltop towns overlook the rolling countryside of patchwork farms and woods. A heritage of high-quality craftsmanship permeates the area known for its ironwork; shoe manufacturing, (Tod’s is headquartered here); and papermaking, (Euro bank notes are printed in Fabriano); to mention but a few. Twenty-five villages have been designated as borghi più belli d’Italia, (the most beautiful villages in Italy) and host frequent festivals and reenactments.

Le Marche has fewer tourists, friendly locals, 400 museums, 200 Romanesque churches, 150 castles, and 33 archeological sites. Ten percent of the territory is protected as parks and preserves. Excellent local meats, seafood, cheeses, pastas, produce, truffles, and wines add to the allure.

A complicated history; competing and changing loyalties; mountainous terrain; rivers that challenged north-south travel; a tenant farming culture that encouraged independence; and ingrained humility; all combine to make Le Marche today: Italy’s best-kept secret.

My husband Matt and I went in off-off-season February. We were not there to visit Urbino, the UNESCO World Heritage Renaissance city in northern Marche, or to swim in the dazzling Adriatic, or to hike in the mountains. We had planned to do all of that in the spring but pushed up our trip because I had seen an ad for a restored farmhouse on eight acres at a reasonable price and we wanted to see it.

Savvy travelers rent vacation homes in Le Marche lured by the peaceful countryside, relaxing atmosphere, and incredible views. We prequalified for an Italian mortgage in case we found a home that we could enjoy in our spare time and rent out to visitors.

Online pictures of Le Marche showed impossible blue skies, paper-white clouds, and vibrant sunflowers. I assumed they had been photoshopped. Thick gray clouds threatened rain as we drove the two-and-a half hours from Rome to our Airbnb in Loro Piceno in south-central Marche.

Below us, wispy fog wafted in the valley. On either side, sloping squares of green and brown fields were bordered by olive trees. Smoke curled upwards from chimneys. A neighbor’s dog barked occasionally. Magpies darted about, landing on nearby trees. The cold, clean air carried the promise of the nearby Adriatic.

During our week in Le Marche we encountered no other tourists. We found generous residents, resilient and recovering from three earthquakes that struck the region in 2016. We found hilltop villages with medieval secrets. We found an almost reverential respect for the environment. We found ancient Roman ruins right by the main road. We found honest, delicious food and unpretentious wines at affordable prices. We found warm welcomes. The guys at Saputi, a winery where we showed up unannounced, who made us sandwiches and taught us about local wines. Gabriele at Osteria Scherzi a Parte who made an international toast to us with his entire restaurant. Palmira at Ristorante Casa Mia who, after a four-hour lunch, hugged and kissed us goodbye and ordered us to come back.

Three months later, in early May, we returned to Le Marche. It was almost evening and Matt and I were unpacking in the farmhouse we had initially traveled to see, having bought it earlier that day. We heard a noise from outside. Rhythmic and insistent, almost urgent. I looked out the window. A stubborn woodpecker was pecking away at the eave above our bedroom.