They have begun in earnest. The swoon of summer is upon the land, the
grass is cut, cicadas are chirping overhead. Despite its height of a
thousand feet, Castrovillari must be blazing in August, surrounded as it
is by parched fields and an amphitheatre of bare limestone hills that
exhale the sunny beams. You may stroll about these fields observing the
construction of the line which is to pass through Cassano, a pretty
place, famous for its wine and mineral springs; or studying the habits
of the gigantic grasshoppers that hang in clusters to the dried thistles
and start off, when scared, with the noise of a covey of partridges; or
watching how the cows are shod, at this season, to thresh the corn. Old
authors are unanimous in declaring that the town was embowered in oak
forests; as late as 1844 it was lamented that this "ancient barbarous
custom" of cutting them down had not yet been discontinued. The
mischief is now done, and it would be interesting to know the difference
between the present summer temperature and that of olden days.
The manna ash used to be cultivated in these parts. I cannot tell
whether its purgative secretion is still in favour. The confusion
between this stuff and the biblical manna gave rise to the legends about
Calabria where "manna droppeth as dew from Heaven." Sandys says it was
prepared out of the mulberry. He copied assiduously, did old Sandys, and
yet found room for some original blunders of his own. R. Pococke, by the
way, is one of those who were dissatisfied with Castrovillari. He found
no accommodation save an empty house. "A poor town." . . .
Driving through modern Castrovillari one might think the place flat and
undeserving of the name of castrum. But the old town is otherwise. It
occupies a proud eminence - the head of a promontory which overlooks the
junction of two streams; the newer settlement stands on the more level
ground at its back. This acropolis, once thronged with folk but now
well-nigh deserted, has all the macabre fascination of decay. A mildewy
spirit haunts those tortuous and uneven roadways; plaster drops unheeded
from the walls; the wild fig thrusts luxuriant arms through the windows
of palaces whose balconies are rusted and painted loggias crumbling to
earth ... a mournful and malarious agglomeration of ruins.
There is a castle, of course. It was built, or rebuilt, by the
Aragonese, with four corner towers, one of which became infamous for a
scene that rivals the horrors of the Black Hole of Calcutta. Numbers of
confined brigands, uncared-for, perished miserably of starvation within
its walls. Says the historian Botta:
"The abominable taint prevented the guards from approaching; the dead
bodies were not carried away.
