By:Simon Fuller
We were en route to Rome from Florence, Sam and I, and determined to break from the major tourist hot spots for a few days, if only to head to the slightly less tourist-crammed Perugia, in Umbria. At half past eleven in the morning, we sat like spoilt princes on a train that we thought would soon have us safely ensconced in our Perugian hostel. We ate mozzarella rolls, with rogue salami spilling happily from the sides, and thought we’d been sensible to book an inn.
We reached Perugia station. In the station bar, sipping coffee, we realised that the address we had for the hostelry wasn’t in the town, but in a neighbouring village. A quick call confirmed this, so from the haven of this Perugian bar, we uprooted to our new destination.
By half past six that evening, we were in a pizzeria (also a cafe and a bar, where a sparse group of locals huddled over immaculate plastic tablecloths to watch the Italian version of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire). We were in the remote and to us, the unknown Umbrian village of Torricella. From our accommodation, we had made it up the road to the first building that seemed to be open. The pizzeria had a staff of one; our conversations was limited.
"English?”
Sam and I nodded hopefully, happy to let our relative ignorance of the Italian language continue for a day longer. The pizzeria owner continued.
“Don’t know English.”
It was fortunate our linguistic skills ran as far as ordering two coffees. Caffeine in hand, we sat at one of the many empty tables (we were the only customers), and considered just how we’d ended here, and not in Perugia. In reality, it was a simple case of the hostelry stretching the truth a little in its description. They claimed to be in Perugia itself, when they were actually a twenty-minute train journey out. We were now paying for our skimming the website and our hasty booking.
Torricella is a pretty village, complete with rolling hills, and a lake created by God purely to complement picturesque sunsets. That day though, we could not confront Torricella’s alluring hills or its divine lake, for fear of being urinated on by the Heavens which had now turned squarely against us.
Sam and I stared at one another. We stared at the television, currently showing some bizarre European pop video, the kind that fails to pass the preliminary stages of Eurovision. We looked at our coffee, at the bar, and wondered if alcohol consumption would somehow make the rain go away. Finally we focused on the rain that was trapping us in the pizzeria with no name. A merry despondency settled upon the pair of us. We seemed to have gone on holiday by mistake.
It did not rain the next day; we explored the town and caught one of those amazing sunsets. We watched the sky blossom to all shades of purple, as an orange glow flooded the horizon above the lake. We climbed the Umbrian hills, and marvelled at panoramas we hoped only a handful of backpackers had gazed upon. This mistake began to transform into a blessing: after the bustle of Florence, Torricella was a welcome break. It was peaceful, sometimes eerily so, like a cemetery.
As dusk enveloped us, we saw another side of Torricella. Hunger had hit our bellies. We went in search of food. We had had a good pizza, now we were adventurous. Our initial explorations were bittersweet. Heading along the main road, we looked for any sign of eating. Sam joked that we might encounter a deranged serial killer on this darkening road, a killer who preyed on bewildered hungry tourists.
At this point we noticed a set of women’s clothing, discarded at the roadside, in a fairly neat pile. We threw each other anxious glances. Nervously grinning, we prayed that Torricella was a hotspot for afternoon lovemaking. As though to raise and compound our fears, Torricella’s dogs began to pipe up.
There are no animals in Torricella but dogs. I am not exaggerating. I saw not one other living beast except for the mongrel. Even the fish were dead (and usually on our plate at the time). The dogs called to each other across the hills, howling in unison. This night their barks were savage.
We were happy to be surprised again when we did get to a restaurant in one piece. In late September Torricella is devoid of tourists. We were impressed at how well the restaurant catered to the few customers it had.
The next morning we bade Torricella a farewell and moved on to Rome. By the way, if you find yourself in Torricella by mistake or otherwise, head to the restaurant near the lake. The dogs don't bite and the serial killer comes out on Thursdays only.