8/28/11 Lander: Party in the Mountains

Each year in late August the townsfolk of Piano d’Arta hold a celebration in the mountains honouring the Virgin Mary at a place called Lander (Festa Della Madonnina del Lander).  The party takes place at an elevation of about 1500 metres and requires a climb of about 800 metres along a winding mountain path.  Since there is no access by road, everything required for the celebration must be carried up by hand.  The ascent takes about 1.5 hours for those who are relatively fit, but the fastest runners who take part in a race from the town’s centre can do it in about 25 minutes…insanity!

The mountain: no match for dad's old knees

Gabriele's knapsack demonstration

Halfway up the mountain we stopped at a piece of property owned by Gabriele’s family.  Years ago when farming was their practice they used to take their cows up into the mountain to graze.  Over time, farming ceased to be a way of life for most and forests came to replace the mountain fields.  Gabriele and his brothers still keep clear a small section of their family’s property on which sits a barn that has stood in the sample place since the mid-1800s; through the seasons, through the generations and through the earthquake of ’76 that people are still talking about.  We continued our climb, eventually arriving at our destination.  To celebrate and to warm ourselves in the cool mountain breeze, we opened the first of many bottles of red wine…at 9:30 am.

Piano d'Arta from a distance

Partners in wine

No Sunday in the mountains would be complete without a mass.  Before they could get started someone had to bring flowers out to the statue of the Virgin Mary that was perched on a rocky outcrop reached by a narrow ridge with a sheer drop of 100 metres or more on either side.  My father looked at me and immediately knew what I was thinking.  “Don’t you dare” he said.  Something strange happens to people when they get older; they become more insular and fear can slowly take the place of confidence.  I reminded my father that he taught me to never be afraid of anything.  He smiled in agreement as he told me to be careful.  It was a silent acknowledgement that although I was right, he was still worried.  I moved quickly and didn’t look down as I crossed the ridge.  Only when in the safe embrace of the Virgin Mary (your sarcasm detectors should be going off like crazy) did I venture close to the edge and stick a foot over.  Dad looked very worried.

After a few minutes and many photos I joined my father and a growing number of people for mass.  Once again I played observer, respectful observer.  Having been raised Catholic I still know all the words, and once indoctrinated one can’t help but follow along in one’s mind.  But apart from the universal message of “love thy neighbour” and “do unto others…”, the prayers hold little meaning for me.  Even so, there was a purity to this celebration the taking place on a mountain in the open air - a purity that could not be found in a church.  I appreciated that.



Dad wonders "Where are the church pews?"



After mass we descended to join the larger group that now numbered well over 100.  Bottles 2 and 3 of vino rosso were consumed along with sausages and pasta that were prepared in an outdoor kitchen.  Feeling half drunk and quite full I found a place in the sun and rested my head, first on a rock then on a knapsack.  The blue sky above me, the tickle of grass on my skin below me.  I could get used to this.

My rest was brief; the afternoon was upon us and dad was anxious to get going.  Our descent was decidedly quick even though dad admitted that his muscles were aching and my shoes had caused some pain in my shins.  Those shoes were deceiving since it wasn’t immediately obvious that they were built on the principle of looks first comfort second.  Back at my zia’s house I continued my nappus interruptus that I started on the mountain, but that quick nap turned into an extended snooze; the afternoon was shot and I was spent.