Riding Around

Over into Umbria

“Stone dead. Dead as the day after Judgement Day,” my father would say when facing a long Sunday. Our town, Fitzgerald, Georgia, devoted itself to church activities on the sabbath. Since he had no interest in those, in the long afternoons, he’d often suggest that other local Sunday ritual, to “ride around.”

I’m happy. I love the white country roads. My mother is only interested in looking at farmhouses she might want to buy, though one she would like is never spotted. Restless and bored, she rolls down the window and lights a cigarette, and I roll mine down to blow the whirling smoke away from me. Elbow out the window, Daddy drives slowly; he snaps off WBHB if they start playing country music or gospel. My face is fully out the window, like a dog’s, scanning the alluvial sandy roads for wild plum trees and blackberries, or a creek. “Stop,” I shout, if I see any of the above. I’m out of the car, testing the small yellow plums that are so ecstatically sweet, sucking out the juice and spitting away the skin, then staining my shorts with blackberry juice. But the creeks—so many in south Georgia—are my spectacular joy.

I wade in, almost slipping on the smooth rocks. Tannic water, but clear to the bottom. Scooping up a handful of pebbles, I spot bright quartz crystals and, once, a tiny flint arrowhead carved for hunting birds. On the banks, satiny green moss covers fallen branches and stones. A slithery black snake undulates along in the slight current, paying me no mind.

Impatient at last, Daddy blows the horn and I squish out of the mud into the back seat.

This was called “riding around” and was not only my family’s Sunday, but many others with a blank afternoon ahead. “There’s just so much of Sunday,” my mother said.

This brings me to now. The old habit: riding around. I still love it. Get in the car with no destination in mind. Just go. Not ever as a cure for boredom. No smoking and sighing! I like riding around for easy exploring. I’m looking to see what I haven’t seen in what I’ve seen many times, or looking to get lost on little roads, or—what?- seeking rainbow’s end.

This July in Italy was really too hot for traipsing through baking stony towns, but we took a long leisurely ride, among villages near Lago Trasimeno (or as one visitor of ours called it Lake Tiramisu). From Bramasole, our house, we can see the curving end of the lake. The largest body of water on the peninsula of Italy, it’s calm and flat, and hardly anyone uses it for boating. The few beaches seem lonely. If it were in the US it would be ringed with docks, houses, cabins, shops, but no. Why, I don’t understand. Here’s a water wonderland hidden in plain sight.

Favorite stops: Castiglione del Lago, Passignano, Monte del Lago, San Feliciano, Torricella. Farther back from the water but with views and sunflower fields and vineyards: Paciano, Città della Pieve, Panicale. Each has its treasures. Città della Pieve is worth a drive just for its Peruginos. But all are delights to wander through, take a ferry to the lake’s islands, seek out the fabulous doors and window boxes and sleeping cats, and eat at one of the waterfront restaurants, many of which feature the lake’s yellow eels and perch. E-bikes are so popular in these hills now. Away from the highway, they’re a great way to explore.

A few highlights:

Panicale—Annunciation by Masolino and a very small baptismal cabinet showing John the Baptist being annnointed—both in Collegiate di San Michele Arcangelo. I love the olive trees flanking someone’s door, and the colored chairs holding geraniums. A tempting trattoria and a 15th century fountain in Piazza Umberto. I’m always amazed to find small, exquisite, tiered and velvety opera houses in tiny towns. What that says! Panicale’s is the Teatro Caporali. Restaurant rec: the atmospheric Lillo Tatini.

Castiglione del Lago, a lively castle town with ramparts to explore and the lake all around.

Notable to us olive growers: the magnificent old trees around the castle walls. I’m one of those people who are always photographing doors and locks! (Ferro battuto, beaten iron, is a major craft and there are still blacksmiths with thriving practices.) Another craft, kitchen objects made with olive wood. Restaurant rec: L'Aquario.

Passignano is the jumping off place for many ferries to the islands. Fun to ride out to Isola Maggiore with a picnic, take a meandering walk where St. Francis used to visit, and to wonder at the remains of a castle. Traditionally, the island craft was lace making. When I went years ago, there were still women sitting outside their doors making beautiful lace, while the men nearby mended fishing nets. Passignano has several terrific restaurants and shops selling the traditional pottery of Deruta at low prices. Right on the lake, it’s a pleasant place for a stroll and a gelato. Or dine at the excellent Da Luciano.

Riding around, I often think of Frankye and Garbert, those shooting stars of my childhood. In their most far-fetched dreams, they’d never imagine that their feral child would forever continue their drives down lost roads in a country unknown to them. Still, I wonder, what if they were in the back seat, the hot Italian air blowing summer in their faces?

Note: Part of the fun of riding around:

Our brand new Grande Panda, a happy new Fiat modeled on the vintage Panda. Lots of playful retro touches and a gleaming pistachio color. Panda is named not for the bear but for the Roman goddess of hospitality (open gate) and travellers. That’s us. We sold our ten-year-old Alfa, with some regrets, but have taken to this energetic little gem, perfect for narrow lanes. Fun to drive.