Wat about CambodiaPre-Novi
Some months before I had re-united with Phil when he had slipped into Fitzroy unnoticed, along with several other clandestine accomplices, to surprise me on my birthday. Surprised I was! As ex-sailor boys Phil and I go back many years to when men were made of steel and ships were made of wood. Granted, we were aircraft engineers and spent most of our time on an air base but don’t let that interfere with a good story. We partied and surfed and partied every now and then, again and again, in the fine tradition of sailors. But that life is all but a distant memory – we are older now, moderated and mature, wise and worldly …*cough.*
As a result of that unplanned liaison and raucous night stumbling to the Old Bar and then the Night Cat (…perhaps?) a vague plan was hatched. I didn’t remember a lot of the early hours of that morning but I did remember a pact to meet up in Italy in the middle of a European summer. The prospect of joining Phil and his family in the sleepy hillside village of Novi Velia for two days of rest and relaxation, lazing amongst the grape vines of southern Italy held more than a pizza of appeal.
As I was to find out, Novi offered all of that and more but ‘sleepy’ however, was definitely the wrong choice of adjective!
Where is Novi?
Novi, for the uninitiated is hidden well off the ‘Italian beaten track’ in the Campania region of southwestern Italy, roughly 100km South of Salerno. Just short of 650m above sea-level, it commands the surrounding villages with Monte Gelbison cradling its back and a clear view of the Mediterranean, some 20km out to the west. The highest of ten villages scattered amongst the mountain foothills, it borders the National Park of Cilento and Vallo di Diano.
Why is Novi?
A good question. From my research (before you query that, more than two ‘Googles’ qualifies as research), as I was saying…Novi Velia can be roughly translated back to its Latin derivative of ‘concealed star’. As Novi sits quite a way up the slopes of Monte Gelbison, which in turn is regularly concealed by cloud it seems reasonable to deduce an association for the purposes of a likely origin of its name.
Regardless, Google revealed that the Ionean Greeks arrived on a holiday somewhere around 600BCE, partied then never left. It took them a while but eventually they sobered up enough to climb the very steep slopes of the mountain (I can attest to its steepness, I rode up the bastard – but that’s another story to follow). Once on the summit the Oenotrians (NB: A fancy Greek name for ‘people of vines,’ i.e. People who drink large quantities of red wine!)…anyway, they built a temple. If my short immersion in the southern Italian culture, socialising with the descendants of said Oenotrians was anything to go by, my guess is that ‘temple’ was a euphemism for bar!
What happens in Novi?
August brings not only mid-summer heat but with it the return of Novelians who have been scattered across the globe. They trek on a web of family ties anchored deeply to the hillside, following their heart on pilgrimage in return to their sense of place. During our evening strolls Phil and Peter introduced me to locals and their family including the discernible accents of New Yorkers, Canadians and Melbournians. Their warmth and smiling faces betrayed their hearts, it was a spiritual home for them, a bond with Novi that pulsed through their generations and now for me to share.
The height of summer also brought with it festivities, a different event hosted on the piazza each evening; singing, dancing, talent quests and a religious parade on behalf of a visiting cyclist…it was, honest!
What really happened in Novi?
The pattern of village life was one that was as comfortable and familiar to me as my lycra. Late morning rises, then the hospitality of Peter, the uncle of Estera, Phil’s wife. I was welcomed into the delights of village life by Peter and his family, with long rambling lunches, courses of pasta and prosciutto, olives and salamis, marinated tomatoes, sumptuous local cheeses and an easy on the palate vino rosso; de-stemmed, crushed, fermented and bottled right there in the garage below from grape vines that descend from thousands of years of harvesting. Peter’s elderly Auntie joined us for lunch where she and Nonna (grandma) entertained us with old songs of heartbreak and love while Peter translated. The joys of Italian family coming together over food and wine and song.
Later, while the late afternoon sun-baked the rooves we moved outside to drink and talk in the shade, and while others ‘siesta-ed’ Phil and I meandered to the piazza where the nonnos (grandfathers) and boys of Novi where playing cards with all the animation and enthusiasm you would expect. The Novi piazza was shaded on the western side of the narrow lane which circled the central castello, flanked by the church and the usual Italian combination of cafe, shop and bar all in one. A cooling ale or two was the order of the afternoon as we stood on the steps of the bar soaking up the atmosphere.
When the sun set over Novi
It was evening when we settled into the local tavern – a spacious but spartan family affair featuring without a doubt, the most brilliant green table coverings I have ever had the privilege of eating pizza from. Not just ordinary pizza, delicious and authentic straight from the wood fired oven. Perfect for cold winter’s nights but at the hight of summer it became a good reason to down more of mugs of frosty cold beer.
That night Phil and I kicked on finding a magnetic attraction to a lively bar further up in the village. We mingled outside on the piazza with views out to the twinkling universe of villages in the distance and shared stories of what brought us to Novi with a group of young Canadians. I do remember drinking heartily and consistently until our new Canadian friends departed happy, dazed and confused well after midnight. We knew better however and stayed the distance in shouts and song with the barman as the midnight oil was replaced with more flammable liquids in shot glasses which were drunk quickly to avert the risk of fire.
My phone battery must have died at about that time, in sympathy with my condition some might unfairly say.
New daze in Novi
The next day…
Phil awoke with a sprained ankle and I regained partial consciousness just a little after midday…with a sprained brain!
Once orientated, I assembled the shattered phone cover I found scattered on the marble tiles of my apartment and pressed my forehead against their coolness, as a precaution against falling any further. Phil later claimed I carried him home – how I managed to carry myself home, let alone Phil remains a mystery, one lost to an alcohol terrorist who self combusted with our brain cells.
Following a ‘quiet’ day we enjoyed a leisurely stroll amongst the crowds to watch the religious procession featuring a statued saint held high, balanced with a low monotone of prayer from the habit wearing monk. His perfectly oversized girth was surely ordered online as a pre-requisite for his role.
It was then that we happened upon the couple who return from Melbourne each year to their family home, just along the piazza adjacent to our newfound ‘party’ bar. They reported with a smile that they saw us in a rather happy and animated state earlier in the day …4am earlier. Whoops! I grimaced but they just smiled at our antics.
The ancient Greeks called them ‘People of the vines’. I believe we may have passed the honorary entrance exam with high distinction.
, his uncle Pietro (Peter) and his friend Gerry. My bike was apart in a flash while the non-English speaking and enthusiastic Gerry attempted to slam the hatchback on my Precious! I intervened before further damage to the frame and with my bike now protruding from the back of the car, we sped off to the motorway.
