I’m based in Assisi this week, an hour from Isola Maggiore, because the island’s albergo Da Sauro is still closed until April, but I headed over to say hello and round off a few arrangements for the May retreat.
About five of us got off the train at Passignano sul Lago, including a couple of young guys from Japan, with camping gear on their backs. The one with a Nikon camera thudding against his chest asked me in Italian if I knew where the best place was to take photos? In my creaky Italian I explained that I was English but that I could definitely tell him the perfect place – Isola Maggiore, no contest. ‘Just follow me!’ We swapped our Italian for English and headed off to the jetty together, with me feeling like I should be holding up a sunflower on a stick.
They were studying Italian language for six months, Nikon guy told me (his friend spoke little English) and had been told in Perugia that they should head to Lago Trasimeno, because it was so beautiful. They’d never heard of it. No surprise there … Like most other people I’ve spoken to, they’d heard of Como and Garda, and probably been, but Lago Trasimeno? I told them about its quiet magic, about its absence of cars, its tiny population, and how I’d come across it completely by chance eight years ago. (A very long story, involving a monastery.)
It was my destiny, Nikon guy said, some of the best experiences were found tucked away in the smaller places, in the history of a landscape, in the stories of its people. Absolutely. This young man was on my wavelength. And now, he said, I had passed the destiny on to them, because they would never have known about Isola Maggiore and would have stayed on the mainland. Yet my own destiny would continue to grow, he went on, because as a writer I needed somewhere beautiful to write the most beautiful words. He wasn’t to know my writing was more bleak than beautiful, but still.
When we reached the jetty we said goodbye, because I was heading for a cappuccino and they were off to ask about camp sites. I sat watching the lake, waiting for the ferry and thinking about our few minutes’ chat. Who would they be passing the baton to? And where would it be? Back in Perugia … Japan? It could be anywhere. And it could be tomorrow, it could be eight years.