Campervan Therapy

We drive through Vallelaghi’s mountains striped with rows of golden and red delicious apple orchards, through the narrowest gap in Terlago’s ancient town, its sturdy houses resembling fortresses.  

There’s a walking trail around Lago di Terlago beneath limestone cliffs, shaded by holm oaks and willows, wildflowers growing out from the rocks. Around the lake there are information boards about this glacially formed lake, about the frogs, pike and other fauna. There are smooth rock pavements, formed by the weight of glaciers, alpine flowers growing out of them.

We spend some contemplative minutes watching the tiny fish swarming in the clear water, water boatmen row and dragon flies dart. A woman paddleboards, two swimmers enjoy an isolated cove, the small picnicking crowd confine themselves to the one beach bar. A water skier is winched over ramps and across the lake by an ingenious hi-wire set up.

The end of the lake has been rewilded to its marshy origins – we have it all to ourselves except for the heron who seems to be following us around it. On the opposite bank sits the humble chapel of San Panteleone, built in honour of the saint who apparently protected the residents from maladies caused by the lake’s once fetid waters. Today’s meadows and orchards seem a long way from disease ridden marshland.

We drive along the Val di Sole to Camping Civedale at Ossana, its bucolic, cobbled village only 300 metres away.

The village clings to 12^th Century San Michele Castle which tops the rocky outcrop. For centuries it kept watch over the valley’s travellers. The old stone houses have basements which are opened up to the public.

There’s a Medieval festival on as we arrive. Each basement has a different themed nativity crib, the aeroplane crash from the 1950s, the hardships suffered by this border area in WWI, the local foresters and firefighters.

But I love the cave-like basements themselves, dug out of the rock, with packed earth floors.  You can imagine their cool larder temperatures storing cheese and dairy throughout the winter.

The town is full of wonderful woodcarvings of owls, gnomes, birds of prey. The river Noce tumbles down from the high mountain peaks in a series of cascades. Giant oak wine barrels wait for revellers, wooden chutes send drinking water spilling into fountains.

There are great wooden carts filled with hay bales and flower displays.

Walking trails spiral out from the centre, there’s so much to choose from: forested walks, mountain walks, cycling trails by the river, through verdant meadows, even a gnome walk.

But this evening , we’ve time travelled to the Middle Ages, the town square’s long table laid with fustian cloth, flower crowns, scroll menus and wooden spoons. The air vibrates with beating drums and horses’ hooves on the cobbles, the riders in velvet tunics and hose, and long flowing gowns. 

As we all follow the standard bearers up into the castle, we pass a display of birds of prey, the hawk looking keen eyed perched on a wooden bar, the barn owl sleepy.

I step backwards from the Eagle owl’s orange eyed stare. He’s got me in his sights and suddenly I feel as vulnerable as a field mouse. It’s certainly time to join the revellers.