Page 7 of My Lemon Grove Summer
As we career along, the jasmine-like scent wafts into the car, along with dust from the roads. I look up at Etna, in our sight the whole time, as if watching our every move.
‘And over in the fields, wild fennel. It makes great pesto,’ he says, pointing to the stony mounds in the fields covered in brilliant green and more yellow. And despite my delicious breakfast, my mouth waters at the thought of wild fennel pesto.
We drive through towns – I say drive; more like a constant dodgems ride, or a game of chess, each driver determined to keep their game plan secret as they negotiate roundabouts and junctions – and along narrow streets where cars are parked with their bottoms sticking proudly out into the road, letting other vehicles negotiate around them. Outside the towns, there are fields of orange and lemon trees in straight lines, neatly tended, making the whole area shine like gold.
As we wind our way higher and closer to Etna, away from the coast, the road signs become more and more dilapidated. Finally, after an hour or so, we reach an ancient-looking town. The walls are crumbling, the lemon groves here as dilapidated as the roads and houses. Left to fend for themselves, by the looks of it, overgrown and abandoned. Pine and palm trees grow happily side by side, along with huge fig and walnut trees, spreading their branches over the faded salmon-pink walls of the houses. No one is stopping to park here in this town perched on the side of a mountain. Everyone is driving on through. Except, it seems, us.
‘Benvenuto!’ the mayor beams. ‘Welcome to Città d’Oro!’
Lennie and I look at each other, both of us wondering if this is some kind of joke. It’s certainly a far cry from the photographs we’ve been sent. And I’m sure even the mayor’s smile slips as he looks for our reaction in the rear-view mirror. We watch other cars pass us and carry on through the town, along the narrow cobbled street and out the other side as fast as they can.
‘They go to visit Etna, and the vineyards higher up,’ the mayor tries to explain. But I can see no one is interested in stopping in Città d’Oro. Why would you? I think as I get out of the car and look around the street we’re parked on. It’s dark and cool. There are houses with overhanging balconies on each side of the road, and at the far end is Etna herself.
‘Our grocery store,’ the mayor announces, indicating the lone shop, under a battered green and white awning. A woman with long, wavy hennaed hair comes out and stares.
‘Ciao!’ I call, and raise a hand and smile.
She glares and ushers someone else back inside, to the sound of protests and disagreement. A single canary sings out from the dark interior. I lower my hand slowly and turn around. The occasional net curtain twitches, but no one comes out of their house.
I can tell the mayor is looking around for other points of interest to show us. ‘Straight ahead is our town piazza,’ he says, ‘and above that our church and town hall.’
My gaze slides further up the hillside. At the top of the town is a big red property, standing tall and proud, gazing down over the rest of us.
‘And a market?’ I ask hopefully.
‘No market, sadly, not any more.’
‘Oh.’
‘These cobbles look to be lava stone,’ says Lennie, inspecting the worn street and the walls.
‘Yes, indeed,’ says the mayor, grasping for positives. ‘And we have a restaurant. It’s very good. Just not many customers, but he opens if we book . . .’ He tails off and shrugs, seemingly running out of enthusiastic energy. ‘It’s about all we have these days,’ he adds, and I wonder if he knows he’s said it out loud.
I look at the town’s dilapidated state – the worn walls and terracotta roofs, the peeling green shutters and listing gates, the neglected, overgrown lemon groves – and wonder what I was expecting. Everyone said it was too good to be true. And it looks like they were right. Everything is sadly neglected; presumably the mayor has brought in people like us to introduce new life to the place. But with the best will in the world, I’m not sure you could revive this town. It looks like it has been dead for some time.
‘Come, I’ll take you to where you are staying. It’s my family house,’ he says as we get back into the car. ‘Il Limoneto. You can make yourselves at home.’
I look around the silent streets, the crumbling buildings, the closed-up shops and wonder if I could ever really make this my home. Maureen and all the others were right. This is possibly one of my more stupid, impetuous ideas. I’m tired, hot and wondering what on earth we’ve let ourselves in for.
Chapter Four
As we get back in the car and set off over the worn cobbles. Lennie places his hand over mine. It’s more reassuring and brotherly than anything else, but it’s welcome either way. We pass the piazza on our right, with stone steps so worn they have indentations where feet have trodden over the years. They lead up to a huge church with a big brass bell overhead, and next door, the town hall.
We make a really sharp U-turn at the end of the high street and go back in the direction we’ve just come, heading out of town. We pass a row of houses, completely deserted but with amazing views across the town falling away down the hillside – quite literally by the looks of it – and out to sea.
Finally we pull off the potholed road onto a track. The car bumps and sways, as do we, and I grab hold of Lennie’s hand tightly for support. Either side of the track are more overgrown fields of what I think are lemon trees. In amongst them are wild flowers, and there’s a beautiful wisteria growing over one tree that must have been there for years. These lemon groves seem a far cry from the ones we passed on the journey up here from the coast. Maybe it’s some kind of organic farming, I think, but I’m too busy clinging onto the handle above the door to ask about it.
We stop at some large rusting gates, and the mayor gets out, looking a little anxious, to unlock them and push them open. As we carry on up the track, I notice that the lemon groves on either side are surrounded by electric fencing, with small stickers on the posts, though we’re going too fast for me to work out what they say.
Eventually we pull up outside the farmhouse.
‘Welcome to Il Limoneto!’ says the mayor, waving a hand. Clearly the house was once a bright and sunny yellow. Now it looks like the rest of the town, faded and neglected, like an ageing movie star whose star has lost its shine, her heyday a thing of the past.
Slowly we get out of the car. My joints are shaken by the journey and feel like they’re trying to slot themselves back together again.
The mayor goes to the boot and insists on carrying my case to the farmhouse. Inside, it’s fantastically cool on the worn but very clean terracotta tiles. In front of us is a big wooden table laden with cakes and tarts, cheese and cold meats, along with a bowl of oranges and another of lemons, fat and bright yellow on a bed of green leaves. But mostly it’s cakes and tarts. The Sicilians certainly do love their desserts.
‘Please, pour yourselves a glass of wine and have some food. I have to go to some meetings.’ He flattens down his hair again nervously.
