Just back from a wonderful trip to the Dolomites; and exploring early XIV century frescoes.
The cloisters at Bressanone Duomo.
Walking into the mountains on a fine afternoon after a great visit to Johannes Church in Bolzano – the pearl of Bolzano.
I met the caretaker, a very passionate teacher, who told me all about the frescoes, all the stories and legends. There was St. Oswald from Lindesfarne, the healer, and the spring beneath the spot where the preacher would speak. Apparently in days of old the clever builders knew where springs were, and they positioned the altars so that a Spring would inspire and vivify the words of those who spoke. (It does also mean that many old chapels are damp).
According to the town booklet Santa Maddelena Church would be open on Friday afternoons… so a long walk on a beautiful hot afternoon led us there (after a visit to Sarentino and San Cipriano Church). Santa Maddelena was locked. I went to the house of the caretaker, and spoke to a frail old lady at length in my broken Italian but she was a German speaker. She refused to give me the key. I waited and hoped she would relent. I peered through the large windows, and then another person arrived- a German speaker – who went and found the woman’s daughter, who was the caretaker, and after some discussion got us the key. It was such a wonderful moment to enter that beautiful little church. The frescoes were so tender and beautiful and in good repair. I spent around an hour there making drawings and taking photos.
The following afternoon we set off for the mountains. The weather promised to be interesting, with mists, rain showers and possibly storms. The tops of the mountains swirled with water vapour. The first part of the walk up was good, sunny, bright, beside a rushing mountain river. Wild flowers decorated the pathways; clematis climbed the spindly trees. As we walked higher the weather closed in. We passed enormous wood ants nests, over two feet high and several feet in breadth; the ants had closed their doors and gone indoors. The path became more rocky, precipitous, and the views became obscured by light rain. Blue sky had gone. We were climbing all the time, legs grew tired, felt like jelly. Brief respites came when we encountered two meadows and their lovely occupants, the native blonde Haflinger ponies.
Eventually, after hearing thunder and worrying about the failing light, we saw a solitary building perched amongst the peaks. No road there; only narrow tracks. At first no sign of life, then through the dusk we saw a faint light and smelt faint whiffs of smoke – reassuring in this context. We arrived completely soaked to the skin, and were shown our little room, all clothed in wood. The stove in the dining room was huge and hot. We hung all our wet clothes around it and settled in for a meal of goulash and apple cake – most welcome! Our clothes dried overnight. I was disturbed in the night by severe cramp – my legs were very sore indeed. The next morning we walked up through snow and along via ferrata to the corrie – where several valleys met. It was all rock- whites, skins watery, hard, silent, no sign of life; as if there had been some kind of planetary destruction – or as if the world was just beginning. These are young mountains, and subject to change; the river beds move, the mountains shed their skin.
