In the northern most reaches of Umbria, rest the beautiful agriculture village of Castiglione Fosco. From a half dozen miles away, the 12 story brick clock tower guided us through the valley to this small borgo of 200. The area looked vaguely familiar, in part, because we traversed this land looking for a place to live in 2004. About half way between the hilltop villages of Paciano and Tavernelle, our destination is the annual Sagre (festival) that serves as its annual fundraising dinner and dance to benefit their local soccer teams. This isn’t the only festival we’ve been to. In fact, during this time of the year, nearly every mid-size village puts on some kind of community celebration that includes local food, music, and games of chance. With Jill, Rosy, and Daniela jammed in the backseat of our Renault rental, Ame is to my right as navigatore. The country roads in Umbria and even rural Tuscany haven’t made it on the annual maintenance list for at least a decade. If there ever was a white line separating the narrow byway, the sun and tires have erased it long ago. Most of this driving is by feel, clutch, and a bit of momentum.

Today’s driving challenge is keeping up with Paolo, who spends his road time working off the day on his feet at a news stand in Camucia. Although his Nissan compact SUV wasn’t built with standard equipment found on a Formula One race car, Paolo is able to get the most from his wheels. Gratefully, Ame is able to give me a heads up before the next hairpin turn that Paolo peeled around 15 seconds earlier. One thing Jill isn’t good at is riding in the back seat. Either she is genetically predisposed to car sickness or having Daniela (12 years ago) has changed the center of her equilibrium. I am sensitive to this whenever we set out on a car ride in Italy. As much as we like having Ame and Rosy aboard, it’s a recipe for disaster if our itinerary includes backroads of which most of Italy grew from. Like Paolo, I try to use all of my lane and two thirds of the oncoming lane to lessen the effects of tight turns and lots of manual shifting. Jill’s physical wellbeing stays in the front of my mind while I do my best keep pace with the middle age newsman. Ame isn’t necessarily fond of high speed driving but he’s concerned about parking situation at our destination so he’s giving me the “let’s pick it up” look. Meanwhile, I’m eager to get to Jill there while she’s still hungry. Putting the windows down for fresh air isn’t an option at the moment because the outside mercury is north of 90F. “You good Jill’? She always says yes and then adds, “I’ll be better when we get there”.
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Parking in a uniform manner isn’t a strong desire for festival goers, this one included. Leaving my passengers at the top of the hill, I back under a tree in parched grass field. Reconvening near the soccer field, I was relieved to see Jill’s complexion was its proper tone. Ame had told us this would be an event heavy on local meat including wild boar, a half dozen varieties of pork, and maybe a rustic version of deer. He did not disappoint at first glance of the paper menu. This being a rural area, there was also a rustic soup and chicken liver paste on unsalted bread. Although Jill and Daniela’s palate doesn’t stretch as far as mine, they gladly ordered the familiar pasta, meat, fries and a fruit option. I couldn’t help myself and with Ame’s nod, my desire for meat and liver was met. $3.00 bottles of red wine and gassata completed our tableside delivery. These community gatherings are all volunteer run. With a team cooks in the kitchen, the youth serve, and another group handles the money. It’s evident that pride runs deep. On more than one occasion, we’ve seen family members serving side by side. Sitting at 10 foot communal tables running six deep, this Sagre was serving dinner to 500 at the same time. Paolo’s wife Katia is our go to for information on the best festivals in the area. During our three week stay, she directed us to several gatherings including one that benefitted a cancer treatment program and recovery charity. With plates clean and bellies full, we wandered and tried our luck the Italian farmer’s version of country roulette. 100 numbers are quickly sold 1, 5, or 10 at a time. A large wood wheel, used 150 years ago to cart everything from grain to olives has 100 spikes that makes a loud clicking noise as it spins. With five numbers in my hand and the same for Daniela, we had great anticipation that one of us could win. The first and second spin earned the winner a good sized artisan salami. The big prize was the third and final spin. What I would give to win a Prosciutto. I imagined myself bringing an entire aged and cured pork hip to Sunday dinner. Although my dream fell short, the host was greatly intrigued that an American family had made it to their village festival. Based on his comments, this was a first.

After a gelato and some wonderful dance music by a six piece orchestra, it was time to gather my oddly parked car and get on the road. I asked Ame if there was a more direct way home, hoping for a road with fewer elements of a race track like the one we arrived on. Pushing Jill’s limits after a good sized meal was not my objective. He affirmed that he knew a route that would get us to the main road faster. Five minutes into our trip, and several 90 degree turns later, I realized what I asked Ame wasn’t what I needed. “Sempre Dritto” he kept saying. Just keep going straight towards the main road. Now pitch black, I wasn’t able to anticipate the next turn sharp turn without lots of braking and copious gear work. Turning around wasn’t an option so I tried to carefully move through each corner with grace even though the cars behind me left just two feet between us. I was so happy to see the intersection that took us back to the highway that intersects Umbria and Tuscany. Fortunately, Jill was still alive when I opening the rear passenger door in Montanare.