Si– and –rolo. The break, hiss, roll of waves. Sirolo, what an evocative word for this jewel perched above the Adriatic, a pastel, leafy town where the main order of business seems to be gelato. Everyone else is strolling around on this warm October day, gelato in hand, so we follow. Coffee and hazelnut for Ed, plain vanilla and melon for me. We find a bench and gaze through the trees at the sea. The town may be medieval in origin, but the new and old blend so seamlessly that the place seems timeless. For Ed, gelato calls for espresso afterward. We light at Caffè Centrale, surely the heart of this town, for a chance to watch fellow travelers and dogs and babies in strollers already displaying their bella figura clothing.
SIROLO IS ONLY a half hour and a world away from Ancona, the ancient Greek port, now a convoluted town where we were lost more often than found. Ancona has important monuments and museums, as well as the stunning Trajan arch, built in A.D. 115, a veteran of millennia of war and earthquakes. Since we’d been here before, we surveyed port activities from our windows overlooking the docks at the cool SeePort Hotel and spent the afternoon reading, then taking a long walk. Sometimes, while traveling, the greatest luxuries are the quiet hours spent with a notebook and a companion.
Last night, we were thrilled by Ginevra, the hotel’s ambitious restaurant. Arched windows overlook tankers, ships, cranes, and fishing boats, but I was glued to the interior. I took pictures of the distressed walls and layered paint, thinking of our bedroom at Bramasole that I want to revise—something more interesting than white walls and white linen.
WE EXITED EARLY this morning, ready to see Monte Conero and the Conero peninsula. We’re only passing through Sirolo, en route from Ancona to Loro Piceno in Le Marche, but I’m checking out Sirolo’s hotels for when we can come back. At the end of a street of artisan shops, I see Locanda e Ristorante Rocco. It looks secluded and I imagine a room overlooking the sea.
We’re off, driving to the coast before heading inland to Fermo and Recanati.
A FEW KILOMETERS from Sirolo and we’re in another seaside town, Numana, whose charms must not be apparent—we didn’t see them as we made our way down to the beach at Portonovo. The Adriatic can be green-gray like the Atlantic, but today shades of blue and aqua layer out to the pencil-drawn line of the horizon. Although they’re hell to walk on, I love white stony beaches. It’s as if millions of little moons have fallen. Who can resist taking home one of these smooth white rocks, perfect paperweights? I pocket one that looks like a round of pizza dough. We have the beach to ourselves: another checkmark on my pleasures-of-off-season travel list. Flocks will swarm in warm weather but today no one is out. We can walk the edge of the strand and look back at the Napoleonic fortress (now a hotel) and marvel at the limpid water.
I DID NOT expect this morning to see one of the most magical objects I’ve ever encountered. I did not expect it to be inside one of the most soulful buildings I’ve ever entered. Leaving the beach, we look for the church I’ve just read about. We follow an arrow to La Chiesa di Santa Maria di Portonovo, but we almost turn back because we’re walking a path through fenced residences with private property signs. I’m glad we pressed on because soon we face a white stone Romanesque church of such pleasing proportions and grace that we fall silent as we walk around it. It seems that only ascetics in long robes should be here. Pine, scrubby bushes, and olives surround the area, cutting the church off from views of the sea just below. We walk twice around the exterior. Such sweet curves and shadows cast by deep-cut windows and blind colonnades.
This is holiness living in a form. Three naves, three apses, three domes, a low bell tower. (I would like to hear them ring.) The interior is all curves. Compact as the space is, there are two side aisles, both arched. Here is the argument for less is more: I’m spinning from the beauty. The church is unadorned, silent, and luminescent. Easy to imagine the eleventh-century Benedictines chanting in the nave, the dove of the holy ghost flapping against the dome, even if you don’t believe.
I’m indebted to Ellen Grady, who wrote Blue Guide: The Marche and San Marino. If I hadn’t opened the book to the page on Monte Conero, I would not have known about the unusual object in the narthex of the church. It’s hidden behind a standing bulletin board announcing church activities. With no one to stop me, I squeeze around the notice board. Embedded in the wall, I see a smooth marble disk with a carved Maltese cross and mysterious letters arranged around it. You can find disks of Saint Benedict in religious shops and on the Internet, protective medals with letters and symbols. But this one is ivory-colored marble rubbed to the sheen of wax by centuries of hands touching it as they entered Santa Maria.
Ellen Grady says this is “a talisman used by exorcists.” The letters on the disk are the first initials of the words Crux Sancti Patris Benedicti. Crux Sacra Sit Mihi Lux. Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux. Vade Retro Satana! Nunquam Suade Mihi Vana. Sunt Mala Quae Libas. Ipse Venena Bibas. IHS. (The Cross of our Holy Father Benedict. May the Holy Cross be my light. May the dragon never be my guide. Get behind me, Satan! Never tempt me with your vanities. What you offer me is evil. Drink the poison yourself! In the name of Jesus Christ our Saviour.) Rubbing the plaque is part of reciting the prayer.
Of all my thousands of church visits, I’ve never seen anything like this. I rub it. Exorcism! Drink the poison yourself!