I already knew in early January 2020 that something was afoot. As we ate breakfast one morning in our kitchen in Rome, I commented on the unfolding reports of a pandemic in China - “when it arrives in Europe, we’re going straight to the country and staying put”, to which my wife rolled her eyes with the friendly contempt she reserves for my habitual outbursts about the state of the planet.
“You’ll see. This is going to get very interesting.”
Two months later, precisely 4 years ago today, Italy imposed the first national lockdown in Europe as Covid 19 exploded first in the northern region of Lombardy and quickly spread. By that point, I had already been prepping for a number of weeks at our small farm in the Maremma, southern Tuscany, where I proudly hold the title of imprenditore agricolo, and produce a modest amount of olive oil, as well as a bit of food for the family. It is primarily an escape from work and school and the noise of Rome, and where we go to feel alive. It would soon become our isolated enclave while the world went mad.
By the 4th March, I was already in Tuscany, bulk buying household items in the cash and carry, getting logs in, filling in gaps in the vegetable garden, when I heard that the schools were closing. A few hours later, and after a few over-excited “I-told-you-so” phone calls with my wife Isabella, she was on the Via Salaria heading north from Rome with our three children (10, 8 & 5 at the time) and her elderly mother Elvira, who was possibly even more excited by this sudden unplanned escape than the children. Even when they arrived, the feeling was still that this was a temporary pause, probably no more than a week’s interruption to normality. A nice, unexpected, bonus break in the country.
That warm feeling of a surprise windfall gradually diminished over the next few days as more and more dramatic reports of disease and death flowed in, regional lockdowns were imposed and the alarm grew. The culmination was Sunday night with the whole family around the TV, watching the Italian prime minister Giuseppe Conte announcing the start of the national lockdown. I sent a message to my parents back in the UK and to my chatgroup of old school friends “That’s it, we’re pulling up the drawbridge. See you on the other side”. They themselves were two weeks away from their own lockdown.
I tend not to bring up my experience of lockdown too much, as it was an uncommonly joyous and fulfilling time for our family, in a period that was utterly miserable and tragic for a huge number of other people. It feels callous to celebrate it too openly, so for the most part I carry it as a warm private memory. We were exceptionally lucky to have the farm, space to roam, some foresight on my part, and children who still had the enthusiasm of a young age when they were happy to be trapped with their parents for an extended period of time. With two of them now teenagers, I’m not sure it would be the same experience if it were to happen again today.
A month into lockdown, with online lessons now established and a sort of bucolic rural routine in full flow, my son and I made a discovery which would influence my life right up to this day. We made the most of our freedom in those spring days to explore all the remaining corners of the land around us which we had never fully reached before. The farm itself is about 10 hectares in total size, of which a bit less than half is taken up by 500 olive trees and the rest is forest and what’s termed pascolo cespugliato , literally bushy pasture. I’d grown to love our woodland areas comprised of Mediterranean maquis plants and trees - arbutus, erica, juniper, cork oak and wild asparagus everywhere - a particular joy this time of year.
On the 4th April we were poking around in the seasonal stream that passes through the steep valley between our hill and that of the local village, Pereta. This area was largely overgrown, unloved and had become a bit of a collection point for rubbish falling from the habited areas above. There was even the rusting carcass of an old Fiat 500, either having plummeted through calamitous accident or quietly disposed of - no-one in the village seemed to know or remember. Despite this, we loved coming here, especially after rain when the various pools swelled and the timeless joy of dam-building would consume hours of our attention. I made a point of collecting and disposing of as much detritus as possible and it became one of our favourite places, lured by the water and the sense of being partially off-limits.
Despite many hours over several years spent searching, we had never found anything of particular interest by way of fauna. Everything changed that day. True to David Attenborough’s advice, sometimes all you need to do is stop, sit and wait - be it in a field, a forest or in our case, by a river. Sure enough, as time slowed and our senses sharpened, we began to notice details, life in many forms above and below the water, things you wouldn’t register unless you press pause. It was Franco, with keen 10 year young eyes who first saw the dark form resting on the bottom, in the shadow of river rock. As we both trained our eyes, the unmistakable form of a reptilian creature of some sort became clear. With the help of a discarded glass jar found nearby, we managed to gently wave it forwards and scoop it out, and we were able to finally able to see this remarkable creature, black on top but it’s underside painted red and flecked with white, with little white markings above it’s eyes and under it’s mouth. We’d never seen anything like it, I guessed it was some sort of newt and tried my best to sound knowledgable to my wide-eyed son. We took some photos, attached here, and gently eased it back to it’s position where we’d found it.
Little did we know then, we had been looking at a true relic of European fauna. A creature that had diverged in it’s lineage while the dinosaurs still roamed the planet, and had also witnessed their demise. A creature that can only be found in Italy, this particular specimen in the more northern range of the Apennines and hills of central Italy. As I read the Wikipedia entry on the Spectacled Salamander later that afternoon, my curiosity turned to fascination and I delved deeper on the internet, on both hobby websites and published academic papers. I was hooked. But this was only the start of an incredible journey, still ongoing today, into the incredible unique endemic fauna and flora of Italy, a country which I have called home for 14 years now, and which still continues to surprise me to this day.
The purpose of this Substack, is to begin to share some of what I’ve discovered and marvelled at, and to hopefully become a place where I can continue to document this story, this natural history of Italy, through the eyes of an amateur naturalist and, by training, art historian.
