. .
Meat being forbidden, the godly brethren have a contract for fish to be
brought up every day by the post-carriage from the distant Soverato. And
what happens, I asked, when none are caught?
"Eh bien, nous mangeons des macaroni!"
Such a diet would never suit me. Let me retire to a monkery where
carnivorous leanings may be indulged. Methinks I could pray more
cheerfully with the prospect of a rational dejeuner a la fourchette
looming ahead.
At the back of the monastery lies a majestic forest of white
firs - nothing but firs; a unique region, so far as south and central
Italy are concerned. I was there in the golden hour after sunset, and
yet again in the twilight of dew-drenched morning; and it seemed to me
that in this temple not made by hands there dwelt an enchantment more
elemental, and more holy, than in the cloistered aisles hard by. This
assemblage of solemn trees has survived, thanks to rare conditions of
soil and climate. The land lies high; the ground is perennially moist
and intersected by a horde of rills that join their waters to form the
river Ancinale; frequent showers descend from above. Serra San Bruno has
an uncommonly heavy rainfall. It lies in a vale occupying the site of a
pleistocene lake, and the forest, now restricted to one side of the
basin, encircled it entirely in olden days. At its margin they have
established a manufactory which converts the wood into paper - blissful
sight for the utilitarian.
