I wasn't exactly herding hundreds of rowdy cattle across cowboy country, but as I crouched down to milk Lilith, I had that rush that only a city slicker can get when he's exposed, even briefly, to that bucolic life he suspects he should be leading.
First tentatively, then with increasing confidence, I pulled, pinched and squeezed to get Lilith to part with some of her milk. Nothing happened, unless you count the annoyed scampering of Lilith's hind legs, which made it hard for me to keep my balance on the milking stool. Then suddenly, as if by divine intervention, the milk started to flow—first onto my legs, then onto my shoes, then onto the floor of the stall and eventually into the bucket.
Thirty minutes later, I had enough milk for the ten cats milling about, as well as for my own breakfast and the afternoon cheese-making session, but before I could eat, the horses, chickens, peacocks, geese, ducks and donkey had to be fed. I gave Lilith a pat on her flank, thanked her for the milk, brought over her calf Romeo so he too could have breakfast and then filled buckets with organic spelt and oats for Lilith and the horses.
This wasn't a conventional Italian holiday but an excursion into the rustic Italian regions of Umbria and Le Marche (Lilith's home), where you can find lovely towns, spectacular landscapes, kind people, excellent wines and simple yet delicious food, while also getting your hands dirty working on a farm, picking olives or harvesting grapes. Though the two regions are small—Umbria and Le Marche together are smaller than New Jersey—their appeal is hard to match.
My foray into central Italy began in Umbria—"the green heart of Italy"—several days before I met Lilith. Lush with vineyards, olive trees and medieval villages, Umbria has no need to envy the beauty of Tuscany, its famous neighbor to the west. Italians will tell you that the region resembles Tuscany twenty five years ago: less trafficked and more mysterious.
Amid the green hills of northern Umbria, I discovered La Cerqua, an agriturismo (roughly translated as "farmhouse lodging") a few miles from the town of Pietralunga.
Outside the big cities, one of the best ways to enjoy a more authentic Italy is to stay at an agriturismo like this. Don't expect the polished services of a fancy hotel, but do expect to become part of the family and to be invited into the kitchen to see the gnocchi being prepared by hand. Don't expect a restaurant serving continental fare, but do expect to eat vegetables and fruit grown on the premises, meat raised on the farm and pasta and jam made by your hosts. Don't expect satellite television and wireless Internet, but do expect to sink into a bygone era where you'll have to make an effort to remember the problems you left at home.
"My grandmother used to say that until you learned how to make pasta and gnocchi, you couldn't get married," Giuliana, the cook at La Cerqua and herself a mother, tells me as she carefully forms gnocchi from potatoes just pulled from the ground. "It's not that we didn't have cars; we didn't have roads, and since you couldn't go buy food, you had to be able to cook or you risked dying of hunger."
No one would be complaining of hunger this night at La Cerqua. The gnocchi, served with a creamy black truffle sauce, were followed by a dish of farro with tomatoes, corn, cucumbers and carrots, all grown in the organic vegetable garden and fields just down the road. Rabbit was next, garnished with black truffles, and, then, the simplest of salads.
The cuisine of Umbria is hearty and delicious, if not particularly refined. There are many soups and meats—often game and fowl—as well as porcini mushrooms and black and white truffles. Most everything is garnished with at least a splash of local olive oil.
Between courses, Gino Martinelli tells me that the farmhouse he converted into La Cerqua fifteen years ago has been in his family for so many generations that nobody can remember when the former fourteenth-century monastery was first passed to his ancestors. My bedroom is perfect in its simplicity, with a large steel-framed bed, enormous fireplace, private bathroom and small balcony.
The next morning, after I have my fill of figs from a tree just outside, Gino's wife Silvana takes a few of the guests and me down a dirt road to the stable. Along the way, she points to the surrounding fields and rattles off a long list of grains they grow and animals they raise, which include ducks, chickens, pigs, horses, rabbits, geese, turkeys, sheep, pheasants, goats and a donkey.
I ask her why the ducks and other fowl don't fly away over the four-foot fence that surrounds the small lake where they drink, converse and posture. "I'd never raise an animal that's unhappy; when they're happy they don't escape," answers Silvana. "I could have a hundred pigs in there," she continues, pointing to a pen where four pigs frolic. "But why would I do that?"
As we head toward the stable to take a horseback ride around the hills, Silvana's comment hangs in the air, and I'm left to reconsider the profit motive that I'd been taught ran the whole world's economy. I'm still mulling Silvana's words over and reflecting on the wonders of slowing down to enjoy life at an agriturismo like La Cerqua when I'm jolted back to the present.
"Sit up straight!" Fabio, the horse trainer and son of Giuliana the cook, shouts to me. "You're not in a lounge chair, that's a horse."
Taking Fabio's advice and treating Fragola like the horse that she is, we quickly become friends and she carries me up and down the hills surrounding La Cerqua.
There are many reasons to stay right where I am, including Giuliana's cooking, but the desire to explore pushes me further afield. My next stop is Gubbio, a gem of a town with a well-preserved historic center surrounded on three sides by woodland. It is tucked right up against a hill fifteen miles south of La Cerqua.
Gubbio spreads from the base of the hill upward. After climbing steep medieval streets and passing under many arches connecting the town's buildings, I reach the Piazza della Signoria. This main square acts as an oversized balcony and affords a stunning view of both the city below and the nearby hills. The Loggia of the Palazzo dei Consoli, which flanks the square, affords an even better view and has a picture gallery and relics from the town's past. The Romans conquered Gubbio in the second century BC, leaving one of the largest Roman theaters in the world, and the town rose to prominence during the Middle Ages, a period filled with battles fought with other Umbrian towns.
As I leave Gubbio and head northeast, the landscape gets greener and wilder with every mile until I have left the rolling hills behind and find myself immersed in thick forests and low mountains. Just as the road sign tells me I have entered Le Marche, Umbria's neighbor to the east, I am again surrounded by soft, rolling hills.
If Umbria is similar to Tuscany twenty-five years ago, then Le Marche would be Tuscany thirty-five years ago. The first thing that strikes you is how similar Le Marche is to the version of Tuscany romanticized in movies and photographs. Were it not for historically poor roads, the beauty of this area would have been discovered long before now.
Le Marche's most famous spot is the jewel-like Renaissance town of Urbino, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the home of Raphael, the great Renaissance painter. A walk through the steep streets, a gelato in the main square and a visit to the ducal palace, which houses many important paintings by Raphael, are lovely introductions to Le Marche. The region is similar to Umbria in many ways, but its long coastline on the Adriatic Sea has added fish to its cuisine.
Still far from the sea, up in the hills, I arrive at Villa dell'Agata, the agriturismo that is home to Lilith the cow. Three miles up a winding road from the town of Sant'Angelo in Vado, Villa dell'Agata lies one mile from neighboring Tuscany and ten miles from Umbria. Two abandoned houses and a crumbling church on a hilltop nearby are the only structures in sight. Riccarda Beisert, today's version of a Renaissance woman, bought her house and surrounding land a decade ago.
Riccarda—who has raised three kids; makes extraordinary pizza, jam, bread and cheese; paints and has a third-degree black belt in karate—runs the farm by herself and welcomes guests to help out with the farm work during their stay if they're not off mountain biking, hiking, horseback riding, lounging around the pool or visiting a nearby town. Those who want a break from everyday life can work on the farm for a month or longer in exchange for room and board, which is what genealogist Iuri Silvestri was doing when I came to Villa dell'Agata.
Riccarda grows, raises and prepares almost everything consumed at Villa dell'Agata. Amble into her kitchen anytime, and it smells and looks like preparations for a Thanksgiving dinner. The homey rooms have queen-size beds, wooden furniture, private bathrooms and small kitchens. Through the windows you see hills and the two abandoned houses in the distance; otherwise, there is no sign of civilization.
I'm staring at the abandoned houses wondering if they are for sale, when Riccarda calls my name. With all the animals fed, now is the time to walk Lilith and her calf Romeo to a large wooded area where they spend the day grazing.
"They'll be back at this gate at 6 p.m. sharp, expecting to be taken back to the stall, and if they're kept waiting for more than five minutes they'll let you know with some vigorous mooing," says Riccarda with a laugh.
Although I'm usually late for everything, I already know I'll be there waiting for Romeo and Lilith, to get a glimpse of his sweet, drooping eyes and to thank her again for supplying my breakfast.
