Orange Flags, Bandiere Arancioni, are awarded to villages deemed especially attractive, historic, and interesting. I’ve listed these small places, most of which I’ve never heard of, in my travel notebook. Tuscany has thirty-eight, Piemonte twenty-six, and Le Marche twenty-one. What a quest—to see them all.
THAT’S HOW I found Mercatello sul Metauro, right down the road from Sant’Angelo. What a good place to stay for two months, working on a novel, paintings, or an opera. Peace and quiet, a still point on the spinning world. On this late October day, hardly anyone is out, though they must have been earlier, since this is market day. The large piazza, grand enough for a city, is a gift for the fourteen hundred inhabitants. Church, arcaded loggia with shops and cafés, grand and imposing town hall. Branching off, streets are lined with upright palazzi. How such a rural market town became so prosperous, I don’t know. Sheep? Herds clump on many hillsides. Wheat? Probably.
THE USUAL COMPLEX history from Etruscan settlement to a small coin in the Papal States coffers, and lots of action in between. Across the ages, the town somehow remained intact: clean and proud streets, houses with interesting doors, an arched and pleasing Roman bridge over the river. I keep saying the word idyllic.
It’s quiet. The two museums are closed. No cars to disturb. We walk every street, making up stories about the lucky residents of the palazzi. Which one belongs to Francesco and Maria Grazia, the couple from Venice we met at our B & B? I wish they’d lean out a window and call us, “Come up for a drink.” Would the rooms hold old chests of drawers stuffed with parchment printed with music, photographs of dead babies with cotton stuffed in their noses, wills with names angrily scratched out? I’ve been in many old places where nothing has been disturbed in certain rooms for generations. Hunting clothes in the armadio, stiff nightgowns folded in a chest, a mangy toy elephant on a windowsill.
WE WIND OUT of town on country lanes through bucolic countryside, wondering if we’re on the wrong road. How can a restaurant be so far from anywhere? But Osteria del Boscaiolo, recommended by Maria Grazia and Francesco, is everyone’s destination for a traditional Sunday pranzo. Boscaiolo is packed. If it were warm, we’d be sitting along the river under a pergola. Instead, we are stuck at a table by the kitchen door. We’re fine. Lucky to be here! A party takes up half a room. Children run outdoors, play on the lawn for a few minutes, then dash in again. A family-run place; the staff seems calm as they race around a capacity crowd.
Much to choose from. A liter of house wine appears as we try to decide what comes after the pasta with truffles. But wait, here’s gnocchi di patata rossa di Sompiano, the red potatoes I saw in the market yesterday. The server says they’re unique to this area, grown in the nearby village of Sompiano without any chemicals. He recommends the town’s festival celebrating this local favorite the last weekend in August, with all the traditional foods of this area and a big emphasis on potato tarts and pastas.
We must try this gnocchi, and, yes, we can have truffles on top. We both think the stuffed pasta with ricotta, ginger, and bacon sounds interesting, so we order that to share, too. Boar, guinea hen, pigeon, duck, hare, veal—I opt for the guinea hen and Ed for the pigeon, one of his favorites. I partially kill my appetite because the bread is too good. Should we have chosen the ravioli with pumpkin and chickpea filling? We continue to go over the menu, speculating about the sweet-and-sour boar, and anticipating the desserts.
Guinea hen, faraona, is fantastic to roast. You hear “tastes like chicken” about everything from frog to rattlesnake. No, faraona doesn’t taste like chicken. It’s richer, more savory, with a hint of the wild, though the birds usually are farm raised. My neighbor keeps a flock and always has one turning (along with pork liver and sausages) in his fireplace when we go over for Sunday lunch. He knows I love the crispy skin and herb-infused taste. Guinea hen was never popular in the South when I was growing up, but it wasn’t unheard of, either. My mother insisted on serving these birds at my older sister’s wedding dinner. Enormously popular and normal in Italy, guinea hens appear in every butcher shop. Compared to plump chickens from good markets in the United States, the guinea hen looks skinny. What they lack in quantity, they compensate in flavor.
This one is tasty. So are the special roasted potatoes that come with it. I liked the gnocchi, too, but couldn’t detect anything particular about the special potato in either. To appreciate the nuance, I’d probably need to taste one simply boiled, served side by side with a common potato.
Not a bite left of the cinnamon gelato with pear and wine sauce.
AFTERWARD, WE DRIVE a few kilometers to almost-deserted Castello della Pieve. Up, up, an aerie with sweeping views of the river valley. We planned to hike in these verdant hills, but the pranzo knocked out that idea. We stroll the tiny stone village instead. It actually has an inn and restaurant but no one is in sight. A plaque says that here in 1301 Dante Alighieri was sent into exile by Charles of Valois. Who knows why the king of France’s brother was in residence and what this hidden place had to do with the poet. The up-and-down buildings look like a setting for a tale with goblins and fairies and a magic child somehow raised by an ancient woman who casts spells. I twist my ankle. We sit on a wall drinking fizzy water and taking pictures. Then we see a couple, quite normal looking, shaking out a tablecloth and setting out glasses and wine. Maybe everyone is just asleep.
WE WALK INTO town just after dark but still too early for dinner. Seeing a glow at the end of a street, we find the cemetery on this night of All Souls’ Day. Every grave is lit with a votive candle, both the graves on the ground and the stacked ones like square drawers in walls. Flowers, everywhere. Mostly yellow chrysanthemums. (I learned long ago never to give that flower to the living.) White cyclamen lit from below glow cold and perfect. On each grave—here and everywhere in Italy—a framed photo of the person below stares back at you.
I’ve never, even on a Halloween dare, been in a graveyard at night—but this one, warm with candle glow and vibrant with flowers, seems friendly. A large moon, gold as a Roman coin, shines down on all. I try a few lines from “Blue Moon.” Ed isn’t sure the dead need my serenade and we walk quickly back into town.
Another meal. We are heroically capable, but even we falter after such a pranzo. “Let’s order sensibly,” Ed says, glancing at all the tantalizing choices. Most Italians enjoy a feast with family or friends on Sunday at lunch, then order pizza, or make an omelet or something easy at home. But here we are. We decide on ravioli with—what else?—truffles, and salad.
Ristorante da Uto, part of an inn, is two small rooms. The owner’s young daughter, about ten, periodically glides through on roller skates, providing us with a Fellini moment. She looks neither right nor left as she sails past like a spirit. The weirdness doubles as the owner shuffles through in slippers. Scuff, scuff, glide, glide.
OUR ROOM NOW is toasty warm. We set the alarm. Up early and onward to other towns in Le Marche.
WE SKIP THE large breakfast, wave good-bye to the friendly owners and their dog.
We’re heading to Ancona on the coast. En route, we make several stops:
Fermignano, also along the Metauro. We enter this pale brick town over a three-arched Roman bridge with a medieval tower perched nearby. We stop for a cappuccino and a little wander, then move on.
Fossombrone. A sprawling market is in progress. I find two sweaters for my daughter, and a scarf. The long town with arcaded sidewalks along cobbled Corso Garibaldi also spurs the shopping instincts. This town is incredibly rich in archeology, Baroque churches, handsome palazzi, and lively cafès. I’d hoped to see the Nativity by Federico Zuccari, our discovery in Sant’Angelo in Vado. But Sant’Agostino is closed, as are other churches and galleries. Everyone must be at the market. Fossombrone deserves at least a day or two.
Mondavio. This is a spur-of-the-moment stop, and a lucky one. Hugely fortified with brick walls and towers, the town also owns several wooden catapults, huge launchers of whatever they once flung at approaching enemies. I’m surprised to see that they, and the imposing castle, La Rocca, were designed by Francesco di Giorgio Martini, who was the architect for one of my favorite churches in Cortona, Santa Maria del Calcinaio. The earthquakes terrorizing Le Marche recently have shut down the museum and the Teatro Apollo, whose floor rises to meet the stage and form a dance floor. The bakery, however, is open and we get to sample polenta biscotti and other cookies made with fava bean flour.
WE’VE BEEN TO Ancona before. It has treasures but it’s not an easy place. A port town. Confusing to drive in, confusion heading toward frustration and perhaps some sharp words about turns that should have been made. This is an improvement in travel: With all the navigation prompts, the curses get directed at the disembodied voice that steers us astray. Not at each other.
Finally, we are checked into the super-serene SeePort Hotel overlooking the Adriatic. A few hours to unwind, take notes, read. The in-house Ristorante Ginevra shocks us out of our country ways with its glamour and finesse. Ah, the pea and garlic risotto, the succulent langoustines.
News is that earthquakes are shaking the area where we are going. Onward early tomorrow.