VEROLI MARKET DAY
On a mild, sunny October morning I sauntered down the narrow street that is Veroli street market. At first we couldn't find it. The only online guidance I had was that it was in the centre of the town. But, as is true in many of theses Italian hilltop towns, geography wins out, and the narrow streets at the bottom of the town become even more narrow higher up the hill, and if you can't read the warning signs in Italian, common sense will tell you that if you proceed any further you will pay the price of admission with one -or even two-smashed wing mirrors. The streets are so pretty near the top: breathtakingly tiny, geometrically and artfully decorated with multi-coloured cobblestones. If you're really lucky you may happen upon a camponile, or perhaps a monastery, at the top of these hills; sometimes you may find a vista point, or a terrace with benches. Sometimes you just find the other side, and a steep descent.
Having staggered to the top of the town in our rather large 4x4, and finding no sign of the market, we backed shamefully down again. My husband parked temporarily, and I made my way down the hill outside of the town walls, towards a promising collection of canvas umbrellas and jersey knit items dangling in the breeze. The entire market was situated down one particular main road, edged on one side by precariously perched homes, and fringed on the other side by glorious views out across the valley. One or two ambitious and wiley stall holders had pitched camp inside the town walls, hoping to catch customers as they parked their cars, but for the most part the market ambled slowly down a gently sloping hill, tree-lined and paved, with a treacherously deep gutter slashed through the thoroughfare.
A woman with currant buns perched in solitude at the top of the hill; a jaunty display of boys' Italian football jerseys, and camouflage trousers was next, flapping in the breeze. After a small gap, the market continued in earnest. Huge stalls filled with kitchen equipment and linens gave way to childrens' shoes, playclothes, and virulent lingerie. A cool, refreshing block was given over exclusively to fresh vegetables, fruit, and a myriad of lettuce seedlings, destined for allotments and greenhouses all over the town. A stout, well-stocked stall had an incongruous selection: boiled sweets, thick chunks of salted fish, and an impressive collection of unmarked cheeses.
Traditionally, food tastes better out of doors. I have to say, I think pretty much anything you might consider buying on market day sells better out of doors. Plastic tubs and bowls, tureens, metal canteens, scrubbing brushes and brightly coloured dusters, all looked like much more fun to use when purchased from an outdoor stall. Washing up bowls which I would have passed by in a shop without batting an eyelid suddenly sprang to life and looked incredibly tempting: swimming pool blue, larger than life, endlessly cheerful. Slim jersey knit jumpers, when folded neatly and tucked away in a clothing store window, look sedate and sensible. But let them loose, on a plastic hanger in the Italianate breeze, and they dance joyfully, carefree, with a hi-viz handwritten label proudly announcing "10 Euros only"!
My husband appeared, triumphant, the proud owner of a second-hand whistling kettle, knocked down viciously from 20 Euros to a mere 8. Bartering and haggling make me shrivel shyly inside, so my husband took over the negotiations with all the ruthlessness of a City trader. I carried the bags.
We finally got down to business at a large deli-style stall, displaying large trays of shiny, brightly coloured dried fruit, fresh nuts, and nearly a dozen different types of green and black olives. Behind the stall was a truck crammed to the rooftop with meats and cheeses of all kinds, and slicing equipment. A kindly lady stall owner offered us samples of anything that caught our eye, and we left, laden down with kitchen foodie treasures to last us the whole week.
Soft blankets, bright white cotton sheets, table linens, shoes and toys, all were out on display in the warm sunlight with incredible confidence. Packing this lot up during a quickfire thunderstorm would have been a major operation, but the stall holders had the confidence to know that it wouldn't dare rain on Market Day, and they displayed accordingly, with panache.
I can't imagine how long it takes to unpack, and pack up, all of this merchandise, but it must be worth their while to visit Veroli every Tuesday to set up shop and trade for an entire day out-of-doors. There are markets scattered all over our part of Lazio, each no doubt with their particular style, flair, and personality. It's a social activity, a community commitment, a small slice of history each week, and it can just be good old-fashioned fun. I thank the stall holders of Veroli for their courage and their industriousness, and I wish them well. No doubt we'll be back. I think maybe I really need a washing up bowl....
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