We continue our stroll, following an itinerary rich in art and history, sea and traditions, that starts from Positano. (Click here to read the beginning of this travel guide.)
Amalfi
By contrast, the quieter town of Amalfi, a couple of contortionist-like bends down the road, feel a lot more real, perhaps because it is larger and has butchers, chemists and chilli-laden greengrocers, as well as the obligatory majolica, ceramic and lemon liqueur shops geared to tourists.
Back in the early Middle Ages, sleepy Amalfi rivalled Pisa and Genoa (and beat a nascent Venice) for importance. It was the capital of a powerful maritime state that traded with Arab Sicily, North Africa, the Middle East and the Byzantine Empire. Local sailors were among the first in the Mediterranean to use the compass, and it was through Amalfi that most exotic gems, fabrics and spices made their way to Italy in the 10th and 11th centuries.
But power struggles among Southern Italy’s Norman lords, the church and the Eastern Roman and Western Roman emperors inevitably put an end to the small state’s wealthy independence. First forced to ask for Norman protection, Amalfi was then invaded by Pisa and nearly razed to the ground in 1135. Just as it had started to rise from its ashes, a tsunami destroyed the harbour and a good part of the town in 1343, wielding a blow from which the town never recovered.
Miraculously, the 9th century Cathedral, perched high at the top of a long flight of stairs in Piazza Duomo, was spared by both Pisa and the sea, although a strong wind tore part of the facade in the late 19th century. Today, the church is a magnificent jumble of styles, with a neo-Gothic façade of slim, soaring arches, a medieval belfry 'embellished' in the 18th century, the marble and golden riches of a decadently baroque interior—and the peaceful Moorish garden of the aptly-named Chiostro del Paradiso (Paradise cloister).
The Cathedral is dedicated to Saint Andrew, Amalfi's protector, who miraculously saved the town from ferocious pirates in 1544. Story has it that the local people woke up on a fine June day to see the Saracen galleys of Khayr al-Dīn the Redbeard silhouetted against the blue horizon. Terrified, they gathered to pray and asked Saint Andrew to save them. The saint complied—a devastating storm of howling winds and roaring waves battered the pirate ships, forcing them to sail away. Amalfi was spared and its grateful citizens commemorate their patron's celestial help every June.
From the Cathedral, porticoed streets and narrow lanes meander up the hill, down to the harbour and the necklace of nearby beaches, and over to Atrani, a fishermen's borgo sandwiched between mountain peaks and an emerald sea.
Atrani
Atrani is one of Italy's tiniest municipalities—and one of the prettiest. Built in the Middle Ages, it is a maze of steep, secret steps, winding alleys and lemon-scented courtyards clinging to sharp hillsides.
Whitewashed palazzos with wrought iron balconies and green shutters—scruffy enough to be authentic rather than postcard perfect—line minuscule stone paved squares where elderly men sip espresso and exchange the morning news.
On the prettiest, biggest square, Piazza Umberto I, stands the church of San Salvatore de Birecto, whose white Neoclassic façade hides lavish Baroque interiors and a medieval origin. It is here, in this seemingly unassuming church, that Amalfi's dogi—the republic's leaders—were elected, anointed and buried. The curious descriptor appended to the patron saint's name—de Birecto—is linked to the church’s function, birecto being the beret that the new doge wore during the investiture ceremony.
The election of a new doge (together with any other event worthy of note) was then announced to the populace from the steps of another Atrani church—suitably, if slightly unimaginatively named Santa Maria del Bando (of the Proclamation). This tiny, whitewashed building was also the place where the names of people condemned to death were read out—and legend has it that once, in a remote past people have lost precise memory of, the Virgin Mary herself interceded for a man who had unjustly been sentenced to hang.
Alas saints are not always so vigilant and sometimes people have to take the matter of justice in their own hands. This is precisely what Masaniello, a poor fisherman whose mother hailed from Atrani, did in the 17th century, when he led the people of Naples against the oppressive rule of the Spanish Hapsburg.
The imposition of a new tax on fruit in 1647 was the final straw for the region's poor and destitute, who struggled to put food on the table. It sparked a popular rebellion, which Masaniello led as captain-general. The mob torched the customs office and forced the Spanish viceroy to seek refuge first in a convent then in a fortress, while Masaniello administered justice from a scaffold near his home.
So cornered, the viceroy eventually gave in to the people's requests. But Masaniello was not to have a Robin Hood-like happy ending. His sudden ascent to power (and, some murmured, a powerful poison slipped into his glass by the vindictive viceroy) made him lose his head and earned him the hatred of the populace that had once worshipped him. He was killed by some of his former friends, his body beheaded and dragged around the streets.
Soon after his death, the Spaniards promptly reneged their promises. As a result, the fickle mob that had raised Masaniello only to bring him down started worshipping his memory—and since they couldn't bring him back to life, they gave him a solemn funeral instead, and rioted in his name. He remains a popular hero to this day.
Atrani claims to be Masaniello’s birthplace, as well as that of his mother, but this is uncertain. The locals also say that a small cave carved on the golden rock on the Eastern side of Monte Aureo, close to the church of Santa Maria del Bando, is the place where he sought refuge from the Spanish soldiers that were hunting him down.
This is very likely a myth, although the house just below the cave belonged to Masaniello's maternal grandparents. Nonetheless, it helps make Santa Maria’s churchyard and the countryside around it into a symbol of justice of both the human and divine kinds.
But it is another church that has become the symbol of Atrani itself—the Collegiata di Santa Maria Maddalena, built in the 12th century by the local people as a tribute to the Virgin Mary, who had saved them from the incursions of Saracen pirates.
Its grand, majolica tiled dome, rich Baroque windows and square belfry captured the eye of Dutch artist MC Escher, who depicted them many times in his lithograph prints, which later became the archetypal view of Atrani.
My favourite panorama, though, is the one you see from the Collegiata’s own yard. One one side, the white houses of Atrani stand dazzling white against the verdant peaks of Monte Aureo and a vividly cerulean sky, On the other, the coastline twists and turns in tortured bends, sapphire waters lap the foot of golden rocks, and the sun sparkles on the crest of gentle wavelets. This may not be the land of forever summer—but it is the next best thing.
