THE (FAILED) ASCENT OF ROCCA D'ARCE

Rocca d'Arce greets me every morning: tall, angular, and imposing in the early Italian light. It's only about twenty minutes from our house. Everything about it is deceptive. From my bedroom window it looks distant and wildly majestic, somewhat dwarfed by the mountain range behind it. The closer we get to it the taller it becomes, and frankly more suburban.

At the foot of Rocca d'Arce lies the small town of Arce, a pocket -sized watering hole for visitors travelling through the Liri river valley on their way to the A1 trunk route from Rome to Naples. There are many shops, cafes, and bars in Arce, modest and accommodating. But as you pass through the town there is a constant impulse to crane your neck and peer upwards towards the top of the ragged peak.
It's actually impossible to see the summit of Rocca d'Arce from the valley floor. It shoots upwards and then leans back on itself, shielding the upper third of the mountain behind scrub brush and cliff-hanging apartment blocks.

When our London friends came to visit we challenged them with a visit to, and ascent of, Rocca d'Arce. From the relative safety of our terrace, over a glass of Campari and orange, this seemed like a splendid idea.

Our Sat-Nav has two voices. One we have dubbed the rather diffident "Clive", and the other, of the long-suffering "Amy". Clive has  a rather dubious hold on the Italian language, and announces "Make a U-turn and proceed to the route" whenever we go wrong. Amy, on the other hand, goes to great lengths to avoid criticising us when we take a wrong turn. In fact, she never corrects our driving choices, but amiably takes us miles out of our way in search of an alternative route, no matter how scenic or long-winded it may be.

On the occasion of The Ascent  of Rocca D'Arce Amy was in charge. We did in fact go wrong somewhat early into our journey, blithely sailing past a blue road sign very clearly pointing to ROCCA D'ARCE off the the left. True to form, Amy did not ask us to go back on ourselves but took us on a breath-taking journey up into the foothills of the Rocca d'Arce slopes. Sheer rainwater gullies were sliced into the cliff on either side of the road; hairpin bends led us straight into the path of oncoming, road-hogging Minis. Impatient non-descript European cars tail-gated us from behind. Which was worse: carrying on up the ever-diminishing mountain tracks towards the summit (and certain death), or making a hair-raising three-point-turn in the middle of the tiny road, avoiding gullies and oncoming cars, to descend again to the valley floor?

Some of us clutched the arm rests. Some of us clotched the seat backs in front of us. Some of us closed our eyes. Amazingly, we began to descend, to the dulcet tones of Amy, gently urging us onwards.

We blindly followed Amy into a gentle, fertile valley, edged on either side with half-finished holiday villas and acres of verdant farmland. There were mountains behind us, mountains in front of us, and miles of farmland in between. We passed villages with delightful names like Colfelice ("happy hill"). The tall craggy peak and radio masts of Rocca d'Arce slowly disappeared behind us. Getting lost never seemed so appealing.

At last we shut down the Sat-Nav, and relied on common sense and intuition to get us back on track, ascending again up the sheer slopes. After several red- herring roads and cliff-hanging moments, we curled around one final bend and suddenly the road opened gracefully onto a long, wide, sunny piazza, lined with shady trees, fountains, a softly fading avenue of shops, and an enormous church. We seemed to have been travelling ever-upwards and I expected to see the radio masts and the summit at every turn. When we finally got our of our cars and looked up we discovered that we were barely one third of the way up the mountain side. Never had so much effort accomplished so little.

I'm uncertain how such a steep cliff could afford space for such a generous town centre, but you would never know from walking down the centre of the street how high up you were. It was tranquil: a shady cafe offered tables and espresso, the commanding church offered solace through enormous doors, a rather incongruous silver Bentley gleamed in the hot sun.

Chiesi di SS Pietro e Paolo dominated to piazza, confident, stern, welcoming. Inside, a feast of graceful and delicate sculptures vied for my attention with works of art and architectural filigree. It was incredibly moving.

As is so often the case, getting lost whetted our appetite for lunch, but the cafe didn't serve food and there didn't seem to be anything else available in the street. Our friend flagged down a local youth and asked him for a lunch recommendation. Having no English at all, and our Italian being just as non-existent, we were very grateful when he hopped in his car and drove us down the hill to show us a local restaurant.

Each morning I still wake up to the pastel vision that is Rocca D'Arce. I squint to see the spot, one third of the way up the side, where we were foiled in our ascent. I have plans to go back; the gauntlet is still thrown down. But I will be older, and wiser, and in possession of a map and a sedative. It is my personal Everest, and it remains to be conquered.