MerryMoon was barking this morning. It was the coldest day I have ever experienced since I have been living in Tuscany and I decided to have a read in bed. As the barking went on I thought of hunters; but it was getting more & more excited, so finally I got up and looked out of the front window. Onedo, my neighbour and friend was standing in the yard - his fur hat and heavy coat made him look more like a Cossack ready to fight the Russian winter than a Tuscan farmer. Lilla, his little black and white dog was standing near him. She's MerryMoon's mother. Onedo was passing by on his way to the fields; he was going to look for Tartufi (Truffles).
"May I come?" I asked, well aware that hunting for truffles is a serious business, and "Tartufai" are very secretive of their spots, their dogs and their hunting techniques. It was the first time I had ever asked Onedo to go along with him on one of his Truffle expeditions and I have known him for more than 30 years. "Come along," he said, "but be aware, we may find nothing." Quickly I dressed up and put on my heavy boots.
This year, besides being the coldest winter in 30 years, it has also been one of the driest summers on record. At least in our area, we had not a drop of rain for more than three months and we had to water our newly planted grapevines with canisters.
Going anywhere with Onedo is always an experience. For me, Onedo is like an Aborigine of the Australian desert; he is one of those farmers that truly loves and respects the land. Onedo is also a living record of things of the not-so-distant past that unfortunately have almost disappeared overnight, and the chance of going for a walk with him is the chance to revisit places and customs of which there are almost no traces left.
His knowledge of the woods is so intimate that in his younger days he would go truffling at night, moving around in pitch dark as if he was walking around his bedroom. He used to go at night for the simple reason that no one would be able to see where his secret spots were, switching on his pocket torch only to gather the tuber from the hole dug by his dog. He always covers his holes so as not to leave traces of his passage. "I can always tell if someone has been here," he says. "These buggers never cover their diggings".
Onedo & Orfella have a truffle reserve on their property for which they pay a licence to the Comune, but clandestine hunters come anyway and Onedo recognises each one of them by the tracks of the tires their cars leave around.
Once I had some Australians staying at the farm with us and Onedo, a year later, recognised the tracks left by a car. "This car has been here before," he said, pointing to some marks on the dirt left by a vehicle. It was true. The lady friend that had brought the Aussies at the farm had returned for a visit from Rome.
Since I have known Onedo and his wife Orfella their dogs have always been females. "They are better in finding truffles but a good dog is rare. One pup in one hundred can have the qualities of a truffle dog," he says.
As we walk he shows me which are the trees that I should cut for timber and which ones for firewood. We own a couple of hectares of woods, plus all along the fields there are oaks, poplars, acacias and cypress to mark the borders of the property or to save the soil from erosion or just to sign a path or an ancient dwelling. In Tuscany, no one can chop down wood when he pleases, not even the owner of the land. There are strict regulations about when to cut and how to cut protect the woods from indiscriminate logging.
As we walk along La Trove, the creek from which our property derives its name, Onedo points out a few spots were there are water springs still running. "It is here that in the old days women used to come and do their washing." He then points to another pool. "And here is where "the contadini" used to soak hemp to break down the fibres to make cloth from, or ropes." He winks at me: "I've got some seeds left you know."
As we keep walking along the gully that somehow reminds me of parts of Australia, Onedo urges Lilla to search and dig where she stopped having smelled something. "The marking left by other dogs" he says sighing, he then points to something in the bushes. "You see," he says in a defeated gesture, "they have been here." I look, but it takes me a while to notice what he is pointing at, a couple of little holes in the middle of the bushes, the traces of previous visit by a "Tartufaio".
Later on he shows me a circular spot where farmers used to burn stone to produce lime. Petroio, the nearest village to us, is now famous for its terrecotte but in the old days it used to be a very important centre for the production of lime.
As we keep on walking he points to a clear area amongst the trees. You see here there was a "Carbonaia"; farmers used to gather piles of wood cover it with soil and then burn it to produce coal. "When I was five years old, before going to school it was my duty to take the pigs out in the woods."
The pigs in question can still be seen in the Lorenzetti's fresco at the Palazzo Comunale in Siena "The good & the bad government". These smallish pigs, called "Cinta Senese" because of a white marking like a belt around the shoulders, would have become almost extinct if it wasn't for a very stubborn farmer that kept the race going. Today the Tuscan Regional government helps farmers to raise these autocton pigs that roam in fenced woods in a semi wild state.
Well, we didn't find a truffle even as big as a pea, but what an exhilarating experience! By the way, this year at the local Truffle Festival of San Giovanni d'Asso, 100 grams of truffles fetched the fine price of 500 Australian dollars!
Ciarea
Ugo
