This peak of hell which towers up in the middle of paradise,” wrote Goethe,
“the Terrible beside the Beautiful...” He was describing Vesuvius, mainland
Europe’s only active volcano, the brooding presence of which, towering over
the Gulf of Naples, did so much to invoke a frisson of romantic dread and
make this part of Italy a fixture on the grand tour. From 1880 there was
even a funicular railway, managed by Thomas Cook and Son, to take passengers
in comfort to the very edge of the crater. Goethe himself took the long way
up, on foot, and sent home letters that bore scorch marks from the volcano’s
heat.
Nowadays, Vesuvius still plays host to visitors — more than two million a
year. But of these, all but a few only come to do Pompeii. They arrive, they
tramp the excavated streets for a few hours, and then they get back in their
coaches and return to Naples or Sorrento, little realising that they are
missing out on one of Italy’s most spectacular national parks.
The park extends for some 52 square miles around Gran Cono, the volcanic
crater, from Ottaviano in the north to Ercolano on the coast. Given that the
volcano erupts on average every 70 or 80 years, and given that Pompeii is
not the only place to have been taken unawares — the last eruption, 63 years
ago, destroyed five villages — you would expect it to be lightly populated,
and it is, at least once you get beyond the lower slopes. Then you find
remarkable countryside, alternating between forests of cluster pine and
meadowlike grasslands full of wild orchids, all of which makes for very nice
walking — the park authorities have recently marked out nine trails, varying
in length from two to nine hours, which take in some of the most dramatic
views. Occasionally, you come across great tongues of cooled lava that have
burnt their way through the forest, while under your feet is the distinctive
rust-red, crunchy clinker that once rained down on Pompeii.
But there is a good reason why those who have chosen to live here do so. It
has little to do with scenery and everything to do with one of the Italians’
greatest passions: food. Every time il nasone — the big nose, as the
mountain is affectionately known — blows itself, it covers its foothills
with an extraordinary natural fertiliser called potash. Together with the
unusual climate — at 4,200ft, almost as high as our own Ben Nevis, the
mountain is chilly enough to ensure that anything that does grow, grows
slowly — this makes it a perfect place for fruit and vegetables. Indeed,
there is said to be a distinctive mineral tang to everything grown here,
which is highly prized by foodies.
The uniqueness of the microclimate means that many species grow here which are
found nowhere else. Thus there are a staggering 26 varieties of apricot, all
of which have dialect nicknames, ranging from cafona (unruly woman) to
monaco bello (handsome monk). San Marzano tomatoes, now a DOP (Denominazione
d’Origine Protetta), are famous around the world as the essential ingredient
of a Neapolitan ragu, but the Vesuviani themselves rate even more highly the
tiny, egg-shaped pomodorini del piennolo, so thick-skinned and meaty that
they can be dried on the vine. Then there are the purple-green artichokes of
Castellammare, each one grown under a terracotta hat called a pignatella to
keep it tender, walnuts (often made into nocillo, nut liqueur), lemons,
blood oranges and persimmons. The last, elsewhere so often astringent, are
here sweet and fragrant, a midwinter mouthful of sunshine.
You can certainly taste the terroir in the wines — and now, thankfully, a new
breed of quality-conscious producers is bringing out the volcano’s inherent
flavours. The local red is the evocatively named Lacryma Christi, now
reinvented by producers such as Villa Dora and Sorrentino, while the whites
include Fiano and Coda di Volpe.
This being Italy, you are surrounded by good restaurants. Many of the walking
trails start and finish in Somma Vesuviana and Ercolano — where there are
also excavations to match Pompeii’s, but without quite such large crowds. In
the former, Lo Smeraldo restaurant is typical, although it may seem strange
that a restaurant on a volcano specialises in air-dried cod — in fact, it’s
a tradition of the mountain. In Ercolano, the restaurant Punta Quattroventi,
on the seafront, has fish dishes of a more conventional kind. And in Sant’
Anastasia there is a celebrated trattoria with just 10 tables, called E
Curti, which means tiny. It refers not to the size of the restaurant but to
its owners, who come from a family of circus midgets.
Pompeii itself has at least four good restaurants, the most famous of which is
Il Principe, sometime holder of a Michelin star, which specialises in
reinterpretations of the dishes of the ancient Romans. My own preference is
for the more homely Zi Caterina. From the outside, all you see is a takeaway
counter and an unprepossessing frontage, but in the back is a big, dark room
with a stunning display of fresh octopus and a proper wood-burning pizza
oven. Both restaurants are near to the relatively unused back entrance to
Pompeii — so you can leave the ruins, eat a good lunch and revisit the
excavations afterwards.
The Pompeiians themselves were no strangers to physical appetites — among the
buildings are dozens of restaurants and brothels, and even upmarket villas
were decorated with pornographic murals. Sadly, most of the more interesting
ones have been removed to the National Archeological Museum in Naples, where
they occupy a separate room, the wonderfully named gabinetto segreto, or
secret cabinet. Once, these artefacts were held up as evidence of the
Pompeiians’ decadence; today, they seem eerily similar to what you might
find in the pages of a lads’ magazine — although the statue of Pan with a
goat has the power to shock even today.
My own interest in Vesuvius began when I started to write a book set in Naples
during the allied occupation. It’s based on a passage in Norman Lewis’s
wartime memoir Naples ’44, in which he describes being ordered to stop
allied soldiers from marrying the beautiful Italian girls they met on leave
— an almost impossible task, and one rich with comic potential. But another
passage also caught my attention, in which Lewis records the volcano
erupting, just as the war was at its bloodiest.
The civilian population at that time consisted mainly of women — the Germans
having conscripted their husbands to fight in Russia — and many of them were
already starving. The clinker covered the vineyards and orchards to a depth
of four feet, the lava consumed whole villages and the weight of the falling
ash crushed roofs. Incredibly, thousands of soldiers gave up their leave to
evacuate locals, dig out the fields and repair the damage to property, in a
gesture of appreciation for everything the Italians had done for them.
You can still see the trails of lava from that eruption, particularly in San
Sebastiano, where a 40ft-high slag heap of burning coals pushed its way
relentlessly down the main street before coming to a halt just yards from a
church, where the villagers, armed only with a wooden statue of their saint,
were praying. It is said the statue still bears faint scorch marks from the
heat.
There is no doubt that living in the shadow of annihilation has affected the
character of the Vesuviani. They seem to appreciate the moment, to count
their blessings — and to be even more superstitious than other Italians:
some of the folk customs here date from pagan times. It’s also said that
their appetites are larger than life, whether for food, for wine or for
love. Certainly, wherever you go, you will be overwhelmed by their
friendliness. If you ask them the way to a restaurant, don’t be surprised to
find yourself being invited to lunch.
Of course, this is not a destination without risks. There are constant
warnings from seismologists that another eruption is long overdue, and that
the next one is likely to be a big one. The sensible thing would probably be
to avoid the area altogether. But that’s the remarkable thing about Vesuvius
— whether it’s food, fatalism or just the hope of witnessing nature’s
greatest show, once you’re here, you can’t help but hope it does blow, at
least a little. Certainly that’s what happened to Goethe, who stayed two
months. On the day he was due to leave, a small eruption sent a lava flow
racing towards Naples. While others rushed to evacuate, Goethe sat back and
enjoyed the spectacle.
Anthony Capella travelled as a guest of Italian Expressions. His latest novel,
The Wedding Officer, is out now in paperback (Sphere £6.99)
Getting there: fly to Naples with British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com
), EasyJet (www.easyjet.com
), BMI (0870 607 0555, www.flybmi.co.uk
) or Aer Lingus (0818 365000, www.aerlingus.com
). Where to stay: the Grand Hotel Parkers (00 39-081 761 2474, www.grandhotelparkers.it
; B&B doubles from £173) has lavishly decorated rooms and bags of
history. Or try Costantinopoli 104 (081 557 1035, www.costantinopoli104.com;
B&B doubles from £108), a stylishly converted palazzo in the heart of
the city.
Where to eat around Vesuvius: mentioned above are Punta Quattroventi in
Ercolano (Via Marittima 59; 081 777 3041; about £25 a head plus wine); Lo
Smeraldo in Somma Vesuviana (Via Costantinopoli; 081 893 2159; about £20 a
head plus wine); Il Principe (Piazza B Longo 8; 081 850 5566; about £30 a
head plus wine) and Zi Caterina (Via Roma 20; 081 850 7447; about £15 a head
plus wine), both in Pompeii.
Tour operators: Italian Expressions (020 7433 2675,
www.expressionsholidays.co.uk ) has three nights, B&B, at the Grand
Hotel Parkers in Naples from £510pp, including BA flights from Gatwick to
Naples. Or try Kirker Holidays (020 7593 2288, www.kirkerholidays.com
) or CV Travel (0870 606 0803, www.cvtravel.co.uk
).
Further information: for the National Archeological Museum in Naples,
visit www.marketplace.it/museo.nazionale
. An English-language brochure describing the trails through the Vesuvius
national park is available at www.vesuvioinrete.it
.
