Tuscan Secrets off the beaten track

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I love seaside resorts out of season. Glistening seas, bright sunshine and rows of umbrellas all have the  energy  youth and summer love but it is out of season that you see the bones, the face of resorts without makeup, when you discover their true identity. 

A lone swimmer in a wet suit and fins lazily ploughs his own lagoon in Marina di Pisa
Coffee and cornetti for us stranieri wimps, triple shot morning cocktail of Aperol, Martini and Sambuco for the hard as nails village elders.
We had  my final post-disastrous-tennis appointment with the chiropractor, before he goes on holiday. Dr Bones was running late. Another patient started chatting telling me all about the delights of Livorno- the historic Jewish community and its three cemeteries, and Livorno libraries. After my skeleton had been  detached and reassembled  it was still early for lunch so I suggested to GS that we mooch towards Livorno. The coastal road which separates Marina di Pisa from its sea is lined with Liberty villas, its short beach piled bleached white rocks, (sea defences or defence against attack?) The rocks frame a shallow lagoon in which a lone swimmer, in wetsuit and fins, was lazily ploughing up and down. Beyond the sea spat spray over  another bank of rocks. A cormorant stood sentinel half watching the lagoon swimmer, half watching the waves land. Marina di Pisa had a Sunday morning vibe. Stiff shots and then, maybe a short sail after lunch? The road narrowed as we entered Tirrenia and the sea disappeared hidden behind shabby ‘Happy Campers’ Retro  beach lido clubs. Shrubby overgrown gardens revealed  narrow  paths leading to slices of  sea as bright as stained glass windows in a dim church. The vibe was 1950s , teenage love stories and juke box music. There is a song that inspired my first (unpublished) book ‘Crushing Nettles’ its by Claudio Baglioni – ‘Questo Piccolo Grande Amore’  It’s a delicate song of first love, set on a beach. I imagine those paths to the sea are well trodden with an uncountable number of  first kisses witnessed by the stars and broken hearts buried in the sand.

And then – boom – it all changed again. We had gone back further to a darker vibe.

The road became a wide and straight, a boulevard. Facist architecture appeared – big, bold and unmistakable. One one side appeared huge ruined fascist era buildings built on dunes just set back from the sea, all wrapped in ‘keep out’ wire fences. They were too big to individual villas. On the other were more ugly, if perhaps later, buildings. 

Intrigued we pulled over. Parking was easy – the whole area derelict and abandoned.

‘We can’t go in – It’s all barricaded up’ said GS hopefully

‘There’s a gate open’

‘It says Calambrone – isn’t that the word for ‘hornets’ maybe that’s why its all derelict

There was a gap alongside the perimeter fencing. It fed alongside side the barracades before spilling out onto a beach. The sea was obstructed by a bordered up shack and upturned boats smothered by sand so fine it whispered. The hulls reminded me of Dickens ‘Great Expectations’, the deep dusting of sand, Dr Zhivargo’s summer palace full of ice and drifts of snow.

Texture even in flat light
Disappearing under sand
A lone man, large, heavy, barefoot and his dog.
Holding back the sands of time

The deserted beach was grey and moody. Notices warned of dangerous under currents and rips.

Out to sea, islands appeared and disappeared lit or obscured by rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. There are seven islands in the Tuscan archipelago. Legend has it that Venus emerging from the Tryrrhenian broke a pearl necklace and each dropped pearl became one of the seven islands. Venus, Goddess of Love, is everywhere in this part of the Tuscan coast, but she seemed absent, hiding her islands, the moody sea surly and restless.

I followed the footsteps of a barefoot man and his dog who had walked on the damp sand. Even they seemed to have a narrative of loneliness not love.

We went back to try to climb the shallow dunes bordered the ruins. Away from the sea the sand was dry, as fine as talc, crumbling underfoot. Around us bushes with jagged thorns warned of wounds to come if we persisted. Instead we looked over into the vast, imposing ruins and back tracked away.

When I got home I researched them. Originally the site had been used for treating children with diseases like tuberculosis, but then under Mussolini, they had become a propaganda tools – huge places for children to swim, march and salute Il Duce, places where maidens danced in white removed from the horrors of Fascism building on the horizon. The children in their 1930s matching swimwear rushing for the shallows reminded me of something but I couldn’t place it, not yet. And the Jewish community so close in Livorno-what happened to them? Then after the war they had housed Allied troops, a US hospital sprang up, prisoner of war camps. The shadow of the Second World War stretching into the 21st Century embodied in near by Camp Darby and its fences topped by razor wire curls that are not intended to confine the deer or wild boar.

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There were no seagulls, they aren’t as common as in England but if this place had a sound track it would be ghost children and the low throb of war machinery.  

GS paused to read another of the notices. ‘Turtles’ he said ‘What?!? ‘Turtles nest here’ Then in an instant everything changed and everything made sense again. We were within sight of heavy ships of Livorno, a port that might discourage day trippers with prettier alternatives without the dark shadow of Fascism looming over them. Elba and her sister islands were teasing, playing hide and seek on on the horizon, the tourists might look for turtles there. But here? Here the sand as fine as talc, the dunes shallow, the area derelict and quiet. What a perfect place for turtles to nest, of course. As surely as the powder sand was burying the shack, its boats and first love broken hearts, so Venus, the Goddess of Love was claiming back the dunes. I suddenly knew what those children had reminded me of. Venus was displacing hatchlings that once ran to sea in matching costumes with her own baby turtles, symbols of Venus, symbols of love. Because, in the end, hearts might get broken and promised written in sand whisper away but love conquers all. https://www.infoelba.com/island-of-elba/tuscan-archipelago-national-park/sea-turtles-nest/

Greetings from Tuscany, this 22 November 23. I hope you have enjoyed my blog! I look forward to reading any thoughts and  comments.  If you enjoy the blog, please do follow and share. 

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