September 18, 2007
Sunday, I went north along Lake Garda to a tiny village named Campione, the Italian word for Champions, to watch a regatta. (Leah pretended to be sick and stayed in Desenzano, reading.) Campione is low to the water and squeezed between the lake shore and a set of massive, shear mountains. Wind from the Alps blows down the length of the lake and, due to the geometry of the mountains and narrowness of the lake near Campione, the wind speed is faster here (if you've special ordered the physics workbook that accompanies this website, this is Bernoulli's principle); it's a wind worshiper's paradise. I have friends who love to sail, or as the Italians would say, are sick for sailing. When I lived in the area, I enjoyed sailing on their boats, but yesterday I planned to just watch with a vague notion to hike up a gorge that splits the mountains for a better view of the race.
Almost the entire village which I remember was razed. Only the church and a handful of buildings remained. I found the sailing club and chatted with a friend. I was told the village factory, which was closed 40 years ago, actually owned almost all the buildings in the village, and decided a couple of years ago to level them to build modern apartments and a newer, bigger port. Before the race began I wandered around construction fences, backtracked several times, and finally, near the pedestrian bridge, found and started up a trail.
Two spruce trees were grown into an arch, framing the trailhead. Quickly, the path was steep and switchbacked, and several turns were punctuated with Catholic icons, statues and crosses in colored glass. On my left was a waterfall and a natural swimming pool in the gorge. Abruptly, the path disappeared into a long tunnel, which forced me to crouch as I walked. On the other side of the tunnel were the remains of a hydroelectric station. Metal catwalks networked around and over the dam. I picked a steep, rocky trail on the left. After some time, I was lead to the village of Tignale, which I skirted toward Monte Cas, a destination I chose randomly.
I'd been walking mostly up for two hours and the whole time I had the idea that I would suddenly appear at the edge of the cliff directly over the Campione port and sit and take the whole race in one view, but it was now clear that if I did find this spot it would be too high to see anything but moving dots on blue. Despite this I was in a great mood. The air was clear and sweet and the view: superb. So, I walked back and down to only about 20 minutes from the start and, next to a small, white statuette of the Virgin Mary watched some of the regatta.
Most of the competitors sailed skiffs called Laser 4000. Although, a few, including some friends, used a dinghy called ISO. Honestly, it was impossibly for me to understand the flow of action. I understood that boats sometimes seem to be going around yellow buoys, but each boat seemed to be in its own race, meandering back and forth. I loved it--sailing is a very peaceful sport to watch from a distance. And, big surprise, I took pictures:
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| Regatta |
I have to admit the sailing sickness is now starting to infect me. So much so, we have agreed to come back to Italy next summer for the sailing course taught in Puglia. (If you think of Italy as a boot, Puglia is the province which could be labeled the heel.) Of course, it's not just about taking the sailing class, but we get to see our friends again, enjoy the food, spend time on the sea, and (insert expansive Italian hand gesture here.) Ironically, vacationing on the Mediterranean Sea in the summer is commonly considered a cure, but in this case it may feed the disease.
