Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXVII. Summer
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bundle of torches of resinous wood, such as
fishermen use for night fishing. A moment later we
hoisted sail for the most stirring adventure of my
life. The following night we dropped anchor in a
lonely cove, unknown to all but a few fishermen
and smugglers. Gaetano was to wait for me
there with the yacht for a week and to run for
shelter to the nearest port in case bad weather
set in. We knew this dangerous coast well, with
no safe anchorage for a hundred miles. I also
knew its wonderful inland, once the Magna
Graecia of the Golden Ages of Hellenic art and
culture, now the most desolate province of Italy
abandoned by man to malaria and earthquake.
Three days later I stood on the same lonely
plain strewn with broken masonry and huge
blocks of travertine and fragments of marbles
half hidden under ivy, rosemary and wild
honeysuckle, cistus and thyme. On the crumbling
wall of opus reticulatum sat the old shepherd
playing on his pipe to his flock of goats. I
offered him a little tobacco, he handed me a slice
of fresh goat-cheese and an onion. The sun had
already gone down behind the mountains, the
deadly mist of malaria was slowly creeping over
the desolate plain. I told him I had lost my way,
I dared not wander about alone in this wilderness,
might I stay with him for the night?
He led the way to his underground sleeping
quarters I knew so well from my dream. I lay
down on his sheepskins and fell asleep.
It is all too weird and fantastic to be translated
into written words, you would besides not believe
me if I tried to do so. I hardly know myself
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