Autunno in Umbria

 I have, on more than one occasion, written about the period of time between the end of September and the arrival of Christmas. It’s a time slot that I love with all my heart and it’s the one in which, if we’re going to be in Italy and there’s no global pandemic stopping us, we will be.

So, here I am again, early on a November morning in Umbria, examining my heart at the tip of daybreak, thinking about all that makes time so precious and days so worthy of the time and effort required to commit them to memory. Because, this is after all, my memoir. I write for me. I know that my memory isn’t always going to be sharp but I also do know that my memories will always be important to me. That’s why we travel. There are lots of empty pages to fill.

So, an autumn day in Umbria moves with grace. Slowly. The mornings and afternoons are chilly. Sunsets are spectacular. As the evening approaches, along with the smell of fallen leaves, wood burning in the first fireplaces lit for the season delivers an aroma that lights a fire in my heart. Home is where the heart is. I make it no secret that Italy is my true home. 

“Nebbia” is the word for “fog” or, in that which is observed at the start of nearly every morning, “mist”. For those who choose to travel during sultry summers, my sympathies for missing out on so many wonderful sights, this being one. The Valle Umbria is rich and fertile. It’s the stretch of land from the city of Perugia to the hilltop town of Spoleto. Rolling green hills, tall cypress trees, olive groves and vineyards dot the landscape. The region is actually crossed by two valleys, with the Tiber Valley running northward. So, it’s from these that the morning mist is born, rising up and lying in a dreamlike wisp that can only be compared to the work of angels. 

By late morning, the sun warms. The hills light up, each showing itself off as the earth ever so gently rotates and causes individual pockets of radiance of amber, rust and the deepest of greens. Dampness permeates the air. The tour groups, though far fewer than those of the summer, gather in the piazzas or in front of the major churches here in Assisi as they prepare to capture one last glimpse before heading back to their origins after a day of climbing up, up, up. We often wonder if they came with the understanding that a day in an Italian hill town is akin to a week at their local gym. Maybe if they were told this, they wouldn’t come? 

Throughout the day, gentle sounds, and oftentimes, the not-so-gentle gongs of church bells, can be heard. No need for a watch. From seven in the morning until evening, the hour and its divisions, are clearly announced. 

When evening returns, the magic edges are softened further and it’s time for aperitvi with friends. Perhaps the same ones who shared morning coffee in a favorite cafe. Maybe a little group of kindred spirits, or a one-on-one. For me, an Aperol Spritz is always on that menu. It’s a delightful custom and it’s one that is found in every part of Italy. The welcome to the day coffee and the time for saying goodbye to the day. Rituals, neither rushed by those who have time. Aperitivo is peaceful and grounded, a time that allows one to take it all in.

Locals dine at home for the most part. Dinners are, in my case, painfully late in the evening. It’s a tradition that I will never be able to embrace. My physiology will not allow it too often. But, if you grew up here, eating dinner before eight o’clock is sinful. So, we cook. That means that we shop a lot.

And that means that another blog post  will follow one day soon. But not now. Morning is calling. I have two sets of shutters to open and my Wordle to complete.