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Published: July 15th 2013
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"Pacentro". For as long as I can remember, during my life, my father's hometown remained to me a fabled mystery. The tales of himself supporting his family as a child, by walking high up into the mountains and collecting and selling firewood served to create the beginnings of his past in my mind. There were stories of witches and ghosts, of children scuttling around through stone streets adorned with arches and cobblestones, barefoot and laughing, relatives, family and friends. Castles, chapels, church bells and piazzas coming to life after dark. Winter time would isolate the village for months, snow covered the mountains and blocked the roads, denying access to the world outside. They would need to accumulate food and gather firewood during the year to see them through.Times were grim, but the stories of adventure and childish fun seemed to surpass the hardship, and lessen the struggle.
My face pressed upon the glass window of the bus as we ambled through the countryside from Rome towards the elusive and mysterious village of Pacentro. With eagerness and a sense of excitement I watched the passing scenery, trying to relate to the stories of my heritage, to the stories of my father's
past. We travelled onward, the landscape slowly changing as we headed upward where lush, green valleys were beginning to appear amongst the outcrop of steep rising hills. In the distance I caught glimpses of villages perched precariously on the side of the formations of mountains. I wanted to ask the bus driver to stop, so I could savour the moment, to absorb the view, but they flashed by, just like the lurking memories from stories that loomed in my past.
The journey continued, and a strange and exciting feeling of familiarity began to emerge, as the descriptions during my childhood hazily came to life. Stone villages appeared more regularly now, with winding roads of access twisting their way up into the mountains. We travelled on, eventually arriving at the train station which would take us to our final destination, which would take me to a place that would impact my life, and satisfy a thousand unfulfilled puzzles. The train lurched forward and I stood in the doorway to feast upon the beauty and richness of the passing of nature. Lilting brooks with the clearest of water cascading over glistening, mossy rocks ... beautiful old and historic bridges passed overhead,
thick, lush and vibrant vegetation, almost luminous in green flew by as we rattled onward. This glory unfolding before me was almost surreal. I watched in awe, I absorbed in wonder, and I felt the rise of such happiness and excitement that spread through my very being.
Pacentro. Finally I had arrived. Taking a deep breath I ventured into a dream that had been forming all my life. Steep cobblestoned streets spread before me, beckoning in so many directions. We walked, we discovered, climbing hundreds of precarious steps towards a hundred hidden nooks and crannies. I stood amidst a medieval village, perched on the edge of a mountain, in all its absolute glory and beauty, exuding such pride and honour, I was here and I was walking amidst my father's past, walking in his footsteps and seeing exactly what he saw as a child so very long ago. I felt an incredible surge of belonging, a deep contentment as never before. Awestricken, I wandered about, feasting upon the splendour and the secrets each alleyway portrayed. Ancient rustic stone arches graced each street, supporting the years of time, so strong and so proud. Only the remnants of my memories and
the actuality of being here made it real. I spent hours that day, discovering, searching, frolicking. I walked every street, climbed every step and touched every stone.
The dramatic back drop of the mountains that seemed to stretch on forever loomed all about, embracing the village, pacifying the ruins whilst the very tips of the snowcaps stood forbidding and observing. Cats scuttled about, inquisitive and darting into invisibility. Church bells rang loudly across the land, echoing constantly and whisping about the mountains until they subsided, until the next bout of clanging chimes, waiting to resound yet again. Each piazza sat quietly, awaiting nightfall to engulf the locals, to bring chatter and laughter, to bring familiarity and gossip, to bring wine and food, to ignite stories and memories, life and love.
I felt a deep sense of sadness for what my father had left behind as a child, all those years ago. I seem to understand him even more now, to know him within his mind and his heart. When the piazza comes to life I look forward to meeting old relatives and discovering even more about our history, learning truths and filling the gaps of time. I look
forward to revelling in this beautiful moment and treasuring it for the rest of my life, to share and to ponder. I am thankful I have finally come home.
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Kate
non-member comment
Absolutely a must to see
Described perfectly. Completely as captivating as it sounds. It was a magnificent day