We grew up together, Wrath and I. Albeit with understandably different fates. I toward increasingly burdensome and gray seasons, the country in the furrow of a now hallowed notoriety. We had met by chance, in a May of many years ago (forty and counting), when Neapolitans were beginning to move in seventeenth-century cars for the first trips (they were still called that) out of town. A timid and discontinuous phenomenon, after the dark years of the war, which nevertheless heralded a turning point in the habits of managing the holiday.
And to Arturo Assante, a consummate reporter before he was in charge of Il tempo di Napoli, this could not have escaped his notice.
Aim for lesser-known countries. Let's broaden the discourse. There is not only Amalfi and Sorrento. But I want stories, curiosities, characters. People have to move around knowing why....
Thus began my tour of those minor realities of Campania that presented some vocation for this petty tourism. Already widely credited by its thermal baths, Castellammare was the knot to untie. To continue along the Coastal centers, or abandon them for the benefit of the hinterland, perhaps following the ancient Bourbon route that twists and turns, tormented and unpredictable as far as Agerola?
I chose the route up to the Monti Lattari, to fatefully find myself in Furore. I had been intrigued by Mayor Camillo Villani's quick remark on leaving the town hall in Pianillo: - "From here to Amalfi there is nothing. Only vineyards and terraces. The tip of Bomerano is our Eboli. Only in these parts there was no Levi."
I reached that boundary of civilization that was the Punta, and never did the term panorama seem more appropriate: I could truly see everything. The endless sea that seemed within reach and is instead miles away, the few houses scattered in an orgy of green, the play of roofs, a few isolated bell towers clad with leftover majolica. And, all around, accompanying the progress of the road, the majesty of the Dolomite rock, striking and looming. I looked for the village. And I looked for it in vain. Furore was just a battered Anas plaque. No town hall, no school building, not even a shadow of the most modest space that served as a meeting point. No bars. I retraced the road at least twice to the Conca junction on my uncertain Mickey Mouse, but no trace of the village. Then the discovery of a wooden character sign.
With elementary geometrism it said Bacchus.
My story could end here. And, instead, this is where it begins, because entering Bacchus' marked the beginning of my connection with Furore, which in spite of the years, interests and tastes that also change, has known neither relent nor uncertainty.
Bacchus: an indoor room, the vaults with simple decorations the work of a master who dabbled in painting ( fortunately still there to testify to the House's matrix), and a large terrace half-protected by a canopy, a few tables and at the back the chicken coop. I had no choice, and never did this limitation prove more fortunate. Don Andrea suggested a spaghetti "grillo" ( which for him meant al dente), and a half fried chicken. Meanwhile, I asked about the village (but it was all there, on that road leading to Amalfi), about the people, about something worth seeing, telling.
A little girl, she must have been around ten years old, set and served with great care. I was struck by her grace and the cut of her eyes. "My name is Angelina. And you?"
For Don Andrea it was not necessary to ask questions. He exploded into an unstoppable outburst in which at every pause he only repeated. "Write, write." Only to resume, "Nothing, there is nothing. Everything is missing here: the water system, the light for the streets, the school, the town hall, the cemetery." Of the long list, I was struck by the absence of the cemetery. Of countries in the South lacking almost everything half a century ago, it was almost the norm. But at least they had a cemetery. Instead, in Furore, that was missing as well. I thought they probably used the cemetery in Agerola, or the one in Conca dei Marini, a municipality to which Furore had been united until 1947. No, no," Don Andrea pointed out, "here we have the carnaie pits.
The expression had its own rawness and did not fail to strike me. I was discovering a type of burial that predated the establishment of cemeteries and that famous edict of Saint Cloud that Napoleon extended to Italy in 1808. At this point Don Andrea Ferraioli had no more room to claim all the needs of the country. The carnaie pits became the main topic, even after the arrival of the mayor-teacher, Vincenzo Florio, who like every day had schooled in a private house running multiple classes in one room. Tempo's center-right position, very close to Florio, favored the start of a chat first and a friendship later, kept alive for years over the course of my frequent visits to Furore.
Because the existence of the pits carnaie a few kilometers from Amalfi and ungo one of the most popular tourist routes, was for a young reporter a kind of small treasure. So I returned to Furore several times, including with Pino Castronuovo, a reporter of great skill, and met a very young Raffaele Ferraioli, fresh out of school and thirsty for experience. The friendship that was born and the affection that has bound us for years I think has benefited both of us in no small way. Especially to me.
And here, for the second time, this amarcord of mine could end, but it would be an incomplete testimony. Vincenzo Florio ( the thick myopic lenses, the accentuated, reddish nose, the country gentleman's manners, an unconcealed nostalgia for the roaring years) would not forgive me this mutilated depiction of Furore.
More than 30 years at the helm of the municipality certainly did not see him inactive. The town had a water supply, its beautiful school building-which had been the mark of his entire life as a teacher-street lighting, cemetery.
As it happened for me, Furore grew up and Florio grew old. Not so much in the physical sense as in an attitude of renunciation in looking far ahead: a kind of fulfillment for what he had accomplished, perhaps even complacency for his long administrative leadership that had now become mythical in the belligerent Amalfi Coast town. Instead, Furore's destiny moved precisely from the birth of these structures. It was from here that the town was to depart toward legitimately more ambitious goals. But Florio considered achievements and utopia any further conquests. It was inevitable, therefore, that he would pass the buck to those who instead firmly believed in the potential of an area destined to turn long years of isolation and backwardness into a trump card. On the impetus of a conviction ( which it is no exaggeration to call faith), in 1980 it was Raffaele Ferraioli who won the electoral round. First a pupil, and then a longtime alderman in the various Florio juntas, he won the torment of a decision that broke a fellowship of custom and deeply felt affection. Even on that occasion I did not desert Furore. The election campaign had textbook steps, projects, priorities and deadlines to help the country take off more quickly.
Meanwhile, it was necessary to come out of anonymity. Natural beauty is a common heritage of the entire Coast. To think of characterizing oneself in that environment is almost impossible, given the notoriety of other centers, from Amalfi to Positano to Ravello. Hence the search for an initiative that would give Furore an identity, without violating its original physiognomy as a hillside village. Thus were born the "Muri d'Autore," a gallery of outdoor works created by Italian and foreign artists, in each case of certain renown. And then the long battle against the pollution of the Fiord, the construction of the Municipal House with the first social gathering area, the extension of the road to St. Elias, the layout of the "Via dell'Amore," the road leading to the "Picola."
The list could go on, but it would be sterile if one did not take into account that each of these realizations in turn triggered others, often more complex than the first. Worthy of note is the case of the Fiord, which upon its return to its original purity was followed by the recovery and restoration of the charming village, already a favorite setting for various filmmakers. Or again the birth of the sports center with tennis courts and Olympic swimming pool , an alternative or rather supplementary proposal to the various offers made by the more accredited coastal centers. An initiative, again, that did not end with the realization of the Center, but involved the birth of Futura, a mixed capital company to manage the various services.
In fact, each project has ended up generating others, to the point of giving rise to an articulated system of interventions that can be traced under a formula very dear to Mayor Ferraioli: " Not only sea, not only summer, not only hospitality," which is then the winning strategy of tourism on the Coast and the only one that the hill towns can implement.
Until the 1980s, people passed through Furore without realizing it. Today the town stands out for attention even in the most distracted tourist. There is a care for the places and a constant concern to want to improve them, to be the envy of the entire Amalfi Coast, mayors included, of course.
Nino D'antonio
