Eloise Riggs
This is the harvest fog, a deep haze, which descends over the mountains at vintage time each year. With a bottle of Barbera and a notebook on the table, Juliet stares out over the inky-sapphire waters of Lake Como. Below, the small conservative town of Bellagio straddles the fork of the Y-shaped Lago di Como. The snow-tipped Italian Alps stand strong in the distance. Shadowed in shades of green, grey and violet, their peaks are caressed by the fog. Not once since Juliet has been camping here have the mountains been free from this veil.
She is intending to write, planning to load her journal with stories and memories and meals relished during the past few weeks camping and cycling around Italy. Juliet feels an urgency to capture these moments—the holiday is nearly over and days are flicking by. It is not just the end of this journey she is lamenting; it feels like the dénouement of an entire life-chapter. Three thrilling years in London have already been packed, summed up in a few tea-cartons and shipped back to Australia. This is the finale.
She pours, swirls and sniffs. Black fruity liquor skims down her throat. The campsite owner, Angelo, is trudging in his work boots at the other end of the farm. His little blind dog skits along beside him. She watches them absently, as her thoughts travel back over Italy: spaghetti vongole on the Cinque Terre coast; wild-boar salami and pecorino panini in Siena; sun-warmed grapes plucked from a Chianti vine by the side of a road in Tuscany; bigoli with sardines and a bottle of prosecco at the most ancient wine bar in Venice; gnocchi, porcini and truffles in San Gimignano; parma ham and mozzarella di bufala in Bologna; fig and pistachio gelato on the streets of Florence …
Juliet sees Angelo striding in her direction. As she waves and smiles, Juliet notes his kind and weathered face. He stops to chat. Noticing her journal, Angelo stands at a respectful distance. Pippo, however, is comfortable sniffing around an unfamiliar set of toes. Banter about the weather and surrounding fog spills quickly into conversations on food and Angelo, now with wine glass in hand, takes a seat at the table. He tells Juliet of a campsite in Tuscany, where the owner will sell his guests oak from hundred-year-old wine barrels to use as cooking fuel. He promises the barbecue experience of a lifetime. As Angelo’s stubby fingers dance around like flames, Juliet can taste the charry, Chianti-infused meat. She imagines a barbecue of mallee roots steeped in Barossa shiraz. Not quite so romantic.
Pippo yaps. Angelo occupies her by scooping up stones and throwing them for her to chase. Pippo waits, listens to them land, and races off. He cannot sit still. Tales of the summer truffle season, which opens in a few days time, turn into a performance. Angelo springs from his chair, re-living his annual pilgrimage to Alba. He hunches over, becoming the tired gatherers as they emerge from the dark, damp woods; stooped forward, elbows bent with a laden sack slung over one shoulder. ‘I only have this—a little one,’ he says coyly, open palm extended. He describes the swarms of white-shrouded Arabs as they descend on Alba from their grand private jets—all vying for the largest, priciest truffle. It is a risky game, the gatherers withholding their largest find, waiting and hoping to trade with the wealthiest suitor.
When the truffles are sold, the Arabs disappear into the sky and the show is over. Two cyclists arrive at the farm, pushing their encumbered bikes up the steep gravel driveway. As Angelo bounds off to greet his new campers, Juliet turns back to the lake; melancholic, romantic … wishing she could stay in Europe forever.
It has all passed too quickly.
Now, she is hurting. Her legs burn as she rides solitary, climbing through the Adelaide Hills. The leaves have turned to reds, ambers and yellows—almost ready to let go and carpet the ground for the winter. Juliet can see the bursts of her laboured breath in the crisp May air. She stops at Mount Lofty to rest; weaving her bike through the crowd of tourists to the lookout. Through a screen of grey morning mist, the city is barely visible. Juliet is thrown back to Lake Como. She smiles quietly as she recalls the afternoon shared with Angelo and the vow she made. Juliet must return to Italy one October, when the mountains are heavy with harvest fog. She will knock on his door, and together, as promised, they will travel to Alba and bargain for her own prized truffle.