High up on the hills of Salerno, overlooking the southern section of the Amalfi coast you will find, if you are lucky, or lost, like I was, the Gardens of Minerva. The gardens date back to the 14th century and are home to a large collection of medicinal plants. Today the garden rises over several terraced levels, accessed by stone stairways. It is all neatly arranged into sections, each section representing the four elements: Air, Earth, Fire and Water.
The morning rain had already cleared when I found a spot on the top terrace with a view to the ocean below, where the specks of day-tripping boats carved white foamy lines on the gun-barrel grey of the ocean that extended west. A cat walked nonchalantly across an overhead beam, seemingly unaware or unconcerned with the steep drop below it, found a column to rest upon and attended to some morning grooming. An intricate system of viaducts transported water throughout the gardens and the sound of the water trickling through the cement threw a pall of serenity over the whole morning. I could have stayed there amongst the plants for centuries, listening, soothed, floating away in contemplation.
Seated in the gardens, I felt an affinity with the natural world that is unfelt within the built world. We are not so different us and the plants. We rely on the same things; sun and water and shelter. The plants provide for us but can also sting and poison and scratch and with that comes respect. There was a calmness there in the Gardens of Minerva, a sense of belonging, being part of something greater, an ecosystem of which I'm but one part, insignificant to everything but myself.
Water has always held a special fascination for me. It was a large part of the happiest moments of my childhood. Camping on and fishing in and exploring along the big slow-moving rivers of western NSW, rivers imbued with mystery and magic. Wondering always what was just below the surface, or around the next bend, prepared to sacrifice the skin of my knees, hands and elbows to burrow over, under or through whatever obstacles prevented me from finding out.
I was intrigued by creatures that called those rivers home, or relied upon them for their survival, creatures that appeared only at the dawn or the dusk, to dip their tongues into the waters that were slipping down to a distant, unseen ocean.
I would sit on the banks waiting for a baited line to go taut, to watch it cut through the waters, and contemplation came naturally. Where my thoughts went to I cannot tell you now. Maybe to the future, maybe to the past. Most likely to whatever was up around the bend; a better snag, a better pool, a better tree. But they were moments of calm that have been difficult to recapture as childhood transformed into adulthood.
Visits to the ocean were less frequent. Usually, only once a year to the NSW south coast to visit my nonna. Those trips were eagerly anticipated for the outings on the ocean, to feel the rise and fall of the swell beneath the boat, to taste the salt spray on my face as we raced from one spot to the next searching for garfish and whiting and tailor, or racing dark clouds back to the safety of the harbour. I learnt to fear the ocean, its immense power, its unpredictably, its varying moods, its supremacy, but from that fear came respect and admiration. I loved its ability to make me feel small.
Dams and man-made lakes have never held such interest for me. Captive, restrained they seem forlorn to me, their walls and shores holding all the sadness of the caged animal. And this thought leads me to maybe the real reason for my love of the rivers and oceans. The river, continually questing toward something bigger than itself, from a trickle, dreaming of a larger place, the freedom of the expansive ocean. And the ocean, that rhythmic breaking of wave against the shore, always trying to expand its place, stretch itself, conquer new ground, never thwarted, never deserting its task, never failing, just a constant persistence.
Or maybe I just love the sound of water whispering through the viaducts like words through my mind.
In the evening, after coming down from the Gardens of Minerva, I bought prosciutto and cheese and strawberries from the Salumeria Del Corso Di Villari Giovanna. A friendly nod as I entered made me think that the man behind the counter recognised me from two days ago. It was nice to watch him slice the prosciutto, one hand pushing the machine, the slices landing in butcher’s paper laid out in the open palm of his other hand. The bell above the door tinkled and a well-dressed lady came in with a toddler, all brown curls and green eyes to match her green jacket. She held in her hand the lead of a small dog, all tail and tongue. The man stopped his slicing and came around from behind the counter with a torn piece of bread for the toddler. She grasped it with fresh pink fingers and a smile. Outside it had started to rain, fat drops hit the cobblestone of the streets but it was the silence between the drops that caught the ear, and for a moment we all stood and watched and listened.
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From the Gardens of Minerva