Category Archives: Abbie’s column

Abbie’s newspaper columns

Postcards of Italy

The reflecting pool at La Torrecchia

While the visit to Ninfa was the reason that took us to the area around Latina, south of Rome, we were also fortunate to get to the nearby garden of La Torrecchia. It, too, is created around the ruins of a medieval village, though a smaller one than Ninfa. It is a much more recent garden, dating back to 1991, and it remains gardening on a private, domestic scale. Much of the design can be attributed to the English landscaper, Dan Pearson, whose style interests us a great deal. While this is early Pearson (dating back almost 25 years now), the reflecting pool above is his work. Surrounded by a riot of self-sown seedlings, it was a delight.

The cork oak, Quercus suber

In New Zealand, it is rare to see a wine bottle with a cork these days and most of those will be plastic. This is the land of the stelvin screw top closure. But I give you the curious cork oak, Quercus suber. This fine specimen is in the garden of La Torrecchia. The switch to screw tops has done much to relieve the pressure on these trees which had, apparently resulted in too many inferior corks. It is a curious fact that many restaurants here still pour a mouthful of wine to be sampled by the patron when, as I understand it, this tradition came about because of wine being tainted by the original cork.

The cork dog kennel stood by the gardener’s cottage at La Torrecchia. Whether a resident dog lives in it remains a mystery but I can tell you that we saw a big as, bigly even, huge hornet fly into the cork. We don’t have hornets at home, let alone these scary specimens. If I was a dog, I would be refusing to share my quarters with a hornet like that.

It is always a slightly strange feeling to encounter one of our plants across the world so I made Mark pose by the specimen of Magnolia Atlas in La Torrecchia. This one was bred by his father, Felix, and it felt very personal that there was a little bit of Tikorangi even in an Italian garden.

Mark beside Atlas at La Torrecchia

Kiwi fruit (actinidia) may have originated in China but we pretty much claim them as our own in NZ. And the commercial product now bears little resemblance to the wild species in their native habitat. It is one of our horticultural stars and a linchpin of our economy. So we were more than a little surprised to see the extent of kiwifruit plantings in Italy. Apparently it is now greater than in this country and a fair acreage of it was in the area around Cisterna di Latina. It is all irrigated which may prove interesting in the future if water becomes an issue.

Vast kiwi fruit plantations in Italy

At the local supermarket in Tivoli, we saw fruit being sold. So I can tell you that the green kiwifruit imported from Chile retailed at 2.99 euros a kilo (Haywards variety). The Zespri Green variety grown in Italy retailed at 4.99 euros a kilo while Zespri Gold sourced from New Zealand was 5.99 euros a kilo (which is a little over $9NZ a kilo). We did not buy any, preferring the big beautiful cherries we could buy at the morning market in Tivoli for a little less than that price.

 

Gardening in the old town of Tivoli

We used Air BnB on line to book most of our accommodation and this proved a huge success for us. In Tivoli, we had a charming one bedroomed, full self-contained apartment with a large garden, right in the heart of the old town.  All this for just over $70 a night which seemed astonishingly good value to us. Just down the road from us was this apartment which clearly lacked any outdoor space so the owner could only garden around her door. I always find the urge to grow plants in the most constrained circumstances affirming. At the same time, I felt a twinge of shame and sadness that I doubt such a publicly exposed private garden would even survive in the country I call home. It is more likely that the pots would be smashed and the plants vandalised within days. Or stolen. Sometimes I wonder how civilised we really are.

I give you the inquisitive man to whom I am married. He does like to look closely. In this case, he was interested in the construction of the bamboo door to the tool shed that he spotted at Ninfa. The bamboo will have been harvested from their own plantations in the garden and are a creative solution to crafting a door to fit a non-standard entry which likely dates back to the Middle Ages when the buildings of this town were largely constructed. I hasten to add, the door was left open. Mark may inspect but does not usually pry.

The bamboo grove at Ninfa, not unlike our own one.

Looking back at the entrance way to La Torrecchia, also built around the ruins of a small medieval village

A gardener’s pilgrimage to Ninfa

“You must go to Ninfa if you are interested in romantic gardens,” I was told very firmly by One Who Knows. So I obeyed. That was the prime reason we went to Italy as part of our trip just concluded. And because Ninfa has very limited opening days, the entire itinerary was organised around one of those dates.

In the event, that became irrelevant. For reasons too complicated to explain, we ended up on a hot Thursday afternoon entirely alone in il Giardino di Ninfa with the run of the place. We were shown how to operate the exit gate in order to let ourselves out and left to it. To understand the nature of this privilege, I should explain that Ninfa is only open for 17 days a year for a grand total of 111 hours and that casual visitors like ourselves are generally accommodated by a one hour escorted tour.

Herbaceous planting in the rock garden was a delight

Ninfa is often referred to as “the world’s most romantic garden” – a phrase first ascribed to UK garden writer, Charles Quest-Ritson and latterly also taken up, I think, by leading gardening broadcaster, Monty Don. It would not be exaggerating to say that it has achieved international cult status and there aren’t too many gardens in that particular basket. Dating back to the early 20th century, the garden is continued these days by a foundation set up by the originating Caetani family.

It is not your classic Italian garden full of intersecting axis and formal spaces. Not at all. Indeed, it is described as being English in style – a descriptor I have met before in a northern Italian garden described to us as being in the “romantic English style”. By this is meant soft edged, informal design with more focus on plant variety, seasonal change and groupings of plants – more frou frou, as I call it, than the heavily clipped and controlled style of the usual Italian gardens of stature.

The garden of Ninfa is built around the ruins of an entire town that was sacked in 1370 after being occupied since Roman times. The scale of the ruins is nothing short of astonishing to a New Zealander unaccustomed to centuries of visible occupation. To create a garden around such imposing structures is a dream situation. In a hot dry climate, water is even more important and the abundance and sound of flowing water is integral to the magic of Ninfa, blessed as it is with the river of the same name flowing through the garden. Irrigation is necessary to achieve the lushness and growth in what is a harsh, dry environment.

A late blooming rose – most were over

I knew we would be too late for the roses and if you plan to visit this garden, if it is possible to time it right, that would add a great deal. But I imagine in these conditions, peak rose season is measured in a few weeks of May and any garden needs more to it than a short peak season based on a single plant family. And that was the case. Ninfa has a feel of its own. The water views are beautiful. We loved the soft herbaceous plantings of the area called the “rock garden”. The structure of the ruins gives a breath-taking framework. To be alone in this garden was a grand experience.

Most of Ninfa is truly romantic. This new path, not so much.

Is it a romantic garden? Yes, without doubt it is. Is it the most romantic garden in the world? I would not go as far as that but others clearly think it is. Is it flawless? No, but what garden is flawless except a static one? And that is a contradiction in terms. We were disturbed by the new lavender walk which, while well executed, was rather too amenity in appearance compared to the gentle naturalism of the rest of the garden. We weren’t too sure about the blue haze from copper spray on the ruins behind every climbing rose. If the roses had been in bloom, we probably would not have found our eyes zeroing in on that blue background. It adds a certain patina to history if you don’t know that it is caused by spraying.

The blue patina

In terms of planting, Ninfa has a much wider plant palette than most Italian gardens which tend to rely on the repetition of about 10 key plants. By international standards, it is not a hugely remarkable plant collection but in an Italian context, it is and it shows a measure of gardening skill that is not often evident in many of the famous gardens of that country. These are harsh gardening conditions which is why so many Italian gardens rely on structure, design and space for their impact, rather than plants.

The view out to the surrounding countryside

It amuses me that the Italians credit this romantic, naturalistic style to English gardening while the British (and other nationalities) flock to Italy for its romance. It is such a beautiful country. I kept thinking I was in an E. M. Forster novel (though A Room With a View was set in Florence, not nearby Sermonetta). Ninfa sits like an oasis of soft green lushness within an age-old landscape rich in history and possessed of its own natural, harsh beauty. Even the light is different in Italy.

If you want to know more about Ninfa, the official website is http://www.fondazionecaetani.org/ but a general search on Ninfa will bring up a wealth of material. It is located in the area of Latina about two hours south of Rome and requires either hiring a car (!!!!)  or sorting out a taxi transfer.

Look! Just look at the centuries old wall panels in the roofless church which may even be the one where Pope Alexander 111 was consecrated in 1159

The modern orange rose beside the moat worried me but not Mark so much. I just felt that the softer shrub and climbing roses fitted the environment better than this one.

Despatches from Camembert

This! This really is the village of Camembert. It exists and it is the origin of the cheese. It is picturesque but small these days containing a church, a carpark with two charge stations for electric cars, a museum to honour Camembert cheese that has limited opening hours and a tourist shop. And some houses, but not many.

The tourist shop sells cheeses and I am not sure that they were much dearer than the same local brands at the Carrefour supermarket in nearby Vimoutiers. European cheeses are so very good. And it is interesting that most of the local market appears to be supplied by small, local producers. We would call these artisan or boutique producers at home and pay a huge premium for their products. Our mass market, such as it is in little New Zealand, is supplied by an indistinct, pretty average range of cheese, most of which comes through Fonterra, our near monopoly dairy company.

At the crossroads, leading up to Camembert, there is an obelisk commemorating Madame Harel, or Mrs Camembert as some may call her now. That is a pretty major legacy to leave.

Mme Harel’s obelisk faces but in no way equals the startling rendition of Christ. We have seen many other statues of both Christ and the Virgin Mary in this area, reminding us that this is a Roman Catholic country. But few statues equal the grandeur and prominence of that in little Camembert.

I like travelling with Mark because he is observant so of course he spotted the bees congregating around the nether regions. What is more, be cast his eyes around the base until he found a dead bee, in order that he could determine that these are small, dark French bees of a sort we do not appear to have in New Zealand.

The roses were finished last week in Italy, still blooming beautifully in Normandie this week and we may even catch them at their peak in England where we cross to today. We saw a most interesting contemporary French garden near Rouen and a not so great garden near here, but more on gardens later. Our arrival in Camembert on Wednesday was, apparently, the hottest June day since 1945. 38 degrees Celsius. That is very, very hot. We are not expecting a repetition in England.

 

The old and the new. Roof tiles in Italy.

We have moved on from Italy and are now hanging out in Camembert in Normandy – and yes, Camembert is the original home of the cheese that bears its name. But that is another story still to come. Back in Italy, looking out over the mellow tones of the tiled roofs is part of the landscape.

I can understand that not everybody is as interested in roof tiles as we are. This is because we live with a fragile concrete tile roof that needs Mark’s constant monitoring. Italian fired terracotta tiles seem altogether more romantic, especially with the tonal variations. These are laid in the classic over and under construction – alternating face up and face down.

I will admit I had not really thought about the shape and the laying pattern of this classic terracotta tile until I can across this little bundle of replacement tiles on our hotel “balcony” in Sermonetta (where the roof top views were also photographed).

Alas, there is nothing like modern suburbia to cause a rethink. And modern suburbia in Fiumicino gave a different view. These tiles have the gully between the tiles attached.

Coming from a climate where torrential rain in combination with high wind is not uncommon, we were unconvinced that the overlap of these modern Italian roof tiles would be sufficient to stop the water getting blown over the ridge in our conditions. Besides, where is the romance, La Bella Italia? But then, where in the world is there environmental romance in modern suburbia? It is just an interesting aspect of travel to see beyond the picture postcard scenes, sometimes.

A rental car in Italy

No filters. Just the fading lights as we walked back from dinner

While the main purpose of our current travels is gardening, it takes time to process what we have seen and the photos – the many photos – are best sorted on my home PC with its big screen. So the gardening content will have to wait. But allow me to tell the tale of renting a car in Italy. And because cars are so dull, I did not bother taking a single photo of our little Peugeot. Instead, I give you the unrelated glory that is the hillside village of Sermoneta.

We could not get to Sermoneta, or indeed to the gardens of Ninfa and La Torrecchia without a car. I said I would drive. Not from Rome. I have seen Rome traffic and I do not have a death wish. The town of Latina looked more manageable and I booked and paid for a car on line, even doing an advance check-in, to save time when it came to collecting the car, the company site told me.

We transferred by trains from Tivoli to Latina Scalo. I say trains, plural, because it took three, though the distance is but short. We have learned how to manage the Italian rail system with some confidence. I bought the tickets for the local bus from the railway station to the centre of Latina, thereby saving what seemed an exorbitant taxi fare.

But pride comes before a fall. Getting onto a local bus is easy. Getting off in the right place is something else entirely. We should have been able to alight a few hundred metres from the car hire company. By the time we actually alighted, we were 3.8 km away. Latina is a charmless 1930s city, built by Mussolini and off the tourist trail. This means no taxis to be seen and very – very, very – little English is spoken. I never criticise that. After all, we do not speak Italian so why should we expect them to understand English? But it can make life challenging.

This IS a road in Sermoneta. Cars went up and down it. But we just parked our car and left it by the city walls.

No taxis, no rescue, the temperature was over 33 degrees Celsius, maybe 35 or more, and we were standing by the road with a trolley case and day pack each. Fortunately we travel fairly lightly. Mark grimly declared the distance of 3.8 km as “do-able”. As in walkable. We had no other options. We trudged the 3.8km in about 35 degrees of heat.

Never have I been so pleased to see a destination as the car hire place. Rarely has my relief been so misplaced.

The hire place was staffed by two men. The senior man was tattooed and utterly disinterested in us. The younger of the two was startlingly good looking and claimed to speak English (trouble was, he did not actually understand English and could not read English) and we could only assume he had just started work there. Not only that, when the gods annointed him as the Adonis of the car hire world, they decided to ensure that he not become conceited by removing any vestige of cerebral capacity. 

Remember, I had a confirmed booking number for an automatic car, pre-paid, pre-approved, level of insurance cover selected, my driver’s licence verified and approved. It should have been a 3 minute task to copy my credit card details, get my signature and hand over the keys. Or so I thought.

It took an hour and twenty minutes to break me. An hour and twenty minutes of me standing at the counter while Adonis sat squinting at the computer screen, brow knitted in puzzlement. Repeatedly, I supplied my documentation, gave our physical address in NZ, my mobile phone number, refused exorbitant additional insurance (they tried to tell us that my pre-paid 70 euros did not include any insurance at all), refusing to authorise them billing all the car charges to my card a second, third and fourth time. At the end of 80 minutes, I cracked and lost my temper. This happens about once a decade. I shouted, I swore.

It worked. About 10 minutes later, I got the car keys. It was not an automatic but I was beyond caring. Adonis wanted me to smile and say that all was fine but I was past playing by his rules. It wasn’t okay at all.

Two days later, when we returned the car, Adonis was waiting. All I wanted was the insurance excess hold lifted from my credit card. He tried to charge me yet again the 70 euro charge I had pre-paid. Of course he did. But I am made of sterner stuff. I did not yield. He did try a weak attempt to make us suffer by refusing to call us a taxi, just handing me the number instead but a kind Italian gentleman helped us out and called the taxi for us.

We are not likely to ever try renting a car in Italy again. But tomorrow we fly to France where a rental car should be waiting for us in Rouen. It could not be worse that Latina. Truly, it could not. Sometimes travel can be difficult.

But look at Sermoneta! And the countryside of Lazio and gardens of Ninfa and La Torrecchia will follow.