Bova And Condofuri Are Now The
Head-Quarters Of Mediaeval Greek In These Parts.
From afar we had already descried a green range of hills that shut out
the seaward view.
This we now began to climb, in wearisome ascension; it
is called Pie d'lmpisa, because "your feet are all the time on a steep
incline." Telegraph wires here accompany the track, a survival of the
war between the Italian Government and Musolino. On the summit lies a
lonely Alp, Campo di Bova, where a herd of cattle were pasturing under
the care of a golden-haired youth who lay supine on the grass, gazing at
the clouds as they drifted in stately procession across the firmament.
Save for a dusky charcoal-burner crouching in a cave, this boy was the
only living person we encountered on our march - so deserted are these
mountain tracks.
At Campo di Bova a path branches off to Staiti; the sea is visible once
more, and there are fine glimpses, on the left, towards Staiti (or is it
Ferruzzano?) and, down the right, into the destructive and dangerous
torrent of Amendolea. Far beyond it, rises the mountain peak of
Pentedattilo, a most singular landmark which looks exactly like a molar
tooth turned upside down, with fangs in air. The road passes through a
gateway in the rock whence, suddenly, a full view is disclosed of Bova
on its hill-top, the houses nestling among huge blocks of stone that
make one think of some cyclopean citadel of past ages. My guide stoutly
denied that this was Bova; the town, he declared, lay in quite another
direction. I imagine he had never been beyond the foot of the "Pie
d'Impisa."
Here, once more, the late earthquake has done some damage, and there is
a row of trim wooden shelters near the entrance of the town. I may add,
as a picturesque detail, that about one-third of them have never been
inhabited, and are never likely to be. They were erected in the heat of
enthusiasm, and there they will stay, empty and abandoned, until some
energetic mayor shall pull them down and cook his maccheroni with their
timber.
Evening was drawing on apace, and whether it was due to the joy of
having accomplished an arduous journey, or to inconsiderate potations of
the Bacchus of Bova, one of the most remarkable wines in Italy, I very
soon found myself on excellent terms with the chief citizens of this
rather sordid-looking little place. A good deal has been written
concerning Bova and its inhabitants, but I should say there is still a
mine of information to be exploited on the spot. They are bilingual, but
while clinging stubbornly to their old speech, they have now embraced
Catholicism. The town kept its Greek religious rites till the latter
half of the sixteenth century; and Rodota has described the "vigorous
resistance" that was made to the introduction of Romanism, and the
ceremonies which finally accompanied that event.
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