Gli Abbandonati

Lining the hillside, connected by terrazzo and terracotta filled pathways lie ‘gli abbandonati’. Abandoned farmhouses, stables, and estate houses who unobtrusively pepper the landscape in varying states of decay.

The largest assortment, the estate house and various outbuildings sits at the farthest outcrop, towering over the valley basin. The last bastion before the hillside drops away. There it looms, seemingly beating back a growing onslaught of glowing lights below.

Totems of times gone by, ash still lingers in the kitchen hearths and doilies on the cabinet shelves. Counter tops are bedecked with full, untouched coffee sets and the ubiquitous matted locks of Barbie and her topless frame lie face down in one hallway. Belfast sinks sit on balconies now housing chancing ‘Old man’s beard’ and creeping vines. One day, a beam bends too far and falls making way for a seed to fall into or a new home for a dormouse. A far cry from complete abandon; the rooms have innocent, ready visitors.  

Softening their outlines, a frequent morning mist creeps up the valley, over the roofs and into the house’s vacuums. Condensation seeps in through the growing fissures. When the cloud eventually lifts, afternoon light is permitted in through the many empty or shattered windows, casting lengthy shadows across the mottled surfaces of the house’s fabric.

Colour matched in autumn, their turrets and terraces nestle in, mimicking the hillside. The tones of terracotta tile and pale plaster sits reconciled between the orange of a November oak and the punctuation of a window void as sharp as the darkest emerald cypress. ‘Mr Panda’, the sole resident amongst the ruins pootles past; more colour matching. The sage of the olive groves offsetting the mint of the Fiat Panda. The trees absorb it all.

Families and many lives once existed in and around these houses. Produce from the farms filled the barns and livestock sheltered in the vaulted lower levels. Now, as vacant standing stones, the circadian rhythm is dictated not by those sitting out on loggias but by fallow deer wandering past at dusk and the boar feasting on fallen fruits. October the season for pears, November, the saccharine Kaki. This deserted human landscape, a boon for many.

Over time, objects have vanished, and belongings have eroded. A loss is felt but another world has emerged. Of faded hues, life clinging on in a minute crevice, and a sense of intrigue for those who stumble upon them. Their lives have been set an originally unintended pace and it has been gracefully accepted.  

It is now a serene, continuing pace that hosts other lives; many other, near silent lives.