05/05/2025

Some roads lead us both to our future and our past. In the natural transience of life, I’ve been on such a road for as long as I have been becoming myself. In my twenties I had an urge to be part of something much greater, the art world. Working as a journalist and translator in this seemingly social world of beauty, elegance and splendour, I soon realised what mattered most if you wanted to survive in this rat race: to pamper to people’s egos. There's no denying that we all become prey to our egos (in the sense of excessive self-centredness and attachment to one’s desires and beliefs) throughout the various hurdles we are obliged to overcome. Depending on which way you look at it, if we are lucky enough to be born in a place of relative peace and stability, we grow, and in time, become someone our younger selves would fail to recognise. I wanted to live in a city, I wanted to share my time with people, I wanted to work all day and go out to concerts and cultural events in the evening. Now, I find myself seeking pleasures previously unknown to me. What played a huge part in this transformation was the fact that I relocated so many times. Moving is heavy lifting for both the soul and the body. And when you relocate so many times, elimination gives way to consolidation. I know that in the coming years I won't be moving but I will be removing more from my life in order to make space for the things that I really need. Despite all the long, winding, forking roads one has to take, life always comes full circle; I have to try to remind myself of this no matter how much the world outside of my walls attempts to dupe me.

For me, life is a pilgrimage to finding the courage to be one's self. On my journey of winding and forking roads, due to respiratory illness, I happened to visit a town of just over 1000 inhabitants nestled in the Pellice Valley of the Cottian Alps. That initial encounter led me to move where I am now: Villar Pellice. As I have done in all the places that I have lived to-date, I have been dedicating time to studying, hiking and meeting local people in this new and verdant land. This pilgrimage to finding out whether there's more to life than what meets the eye which began when I left Istanbul at the age of twelve to study at boarding school in England, also constitutes the longest road I have walked; a bit like the Glorious Repatriation of the Waldensians when they undertook an epic alpine crossing in August 1689 to come back and fight to regain their lands from where they were exiled – with the exception that I have not been on forced exile and my journey has mostly been into the unknown. 

DAILY BREAD

When I started researching the history of Villar Pellice, I realised that all of the sources I would be relying on were in Italian – for me, a new and fascinating language with its own challenges. I have had to `eat 40 ovens of bread' as we say in Turkish,  in order to adapt and integrate to a new culture whilst learning a new language. One of the key books that lit my path to focusing on this strip of the valley that starts in Bricherasio to the north and Bibiana to the south and ends in Villanova is titled, Pane Quotidiano: Villar Pellice si racconta attraverso la cucina della memoria con 200 ricette originali written by Vittorio Chiafreddo Bruno and published in Italian, French, Piemontese and Patois by Alzani Editore in 2014.

Those who know me personally or follow my blog will know that I am not only fascinated by meeting new people but also by the conversations I have with new personalities. In fact, since I started Live the Questions Now I have mostly been publishing interviews with people working in arts and culture. Pane Quotidiano provides an extensive chapter dedicated to the geography, history, economy and social life of Villar Pellice, as well as further chapters that focus on the recollected and the present cuisine, interviews with locals, and recipes. The rich history of the Pellice Valley, and in particular, that of Villar Pellice pulls on my heart strings because of the great and repeated suffering endured by Waldensians on this terrain of chamois and chestnuts.

Translating the words of Bruno, “The original objective of the book was to document the habits and lifestyles in the territory, the seasonal cuisine, including the cuisine of the workdays as well as special days, methods of food production, animal husbandry and cultivation, the conservation and cleaning of various products and their components. Soon we realised that the conversations with local people went beyond our original intentions as those we interviewed were going astray from the theme we set out. They were documenting in all its detail the way of life once upon a time, some of which remains unknown to even those that are currently residing in the locality. Consequently, the investigation gained another fold, and it was transformed into research with anthropological and social implications” (p. 14). So it’s right up my street and has been my handbook for a couple of months now. 

50 kilometres south-west of Turin you are greeted with magnificent views of Monte Viso, the highest mountain of the Cottian Alps at 3,841 metres above sea level. With its peak glistening year-round, Monviso is my compass. When it disappears behind Montoso, to my knowledge the only mountain where you can go skiing in this valley, I know I’ll be in Villar Pellice in under twenty minutes. Behind my house which stands at 650 metres above sea level, Monte Vandalino (2,140 m.a.s.l) soars high into the clouds on an overcast day. Together with Pane Quotidiano various other sources inform me that there were permanent homes at and above 1200 metres above sea level in the past, and that in previous centuries most of Villar Pellice’s population lived at high altitude. Now, there are only a handful of families that live above 900 metres above sea level all-year round. Villar – as it is locally shortened; beware that there are other towns in the region of Piedmont that share the same name, such as Villar Perosa, Villar Dora and Villar Focchiardo – covers a surface area of around 6000 hectares. Looking up towards Vandalino from the rocky torrent bed, one can see the remnants of terraced vineyards. Numerous books include black and white photographs of the working vineyards in Saret, a quarter of Villar, but I have handpicked two more to share: 

1) La Pietra e la voce: Immagini della val Pellice (Claudiana, 1974) by Guido Odin - photographer, collector, author and costume designer who died on his 86th birthday in 2023 - is a moving book of photography accompanied by spiritual poems by Rita Gay, with an introduction by Giorgio Tourn – Waldensian pastor, historian, theologist and former President of the Society for Waldensian Studies. Sun-beaten faces, wrinkled hands, hand-sewn clothes, statuesque trees and endemic plants, the torrent running over silvery stones, women and men working the fields, places of worship, humble mountain dwellings called baita with snow-laden Luserna stone roofs, the fields of rye, bridges withstanding the test of time, hay-stacking farmers, goats and sheep, single-room Waldensian schools now in ruin. When I encounter these schools on my hikes around the valley, I wish there was a way to rebuild them, and to utilise them for various cultural purposes. What once was can be given a second life. 

2) Villar Pellice… si racconta: La nostra memoria storica in 185 fotografie dal 1890 al 1965 (Claudiana, 2004) is another interesting title co-authored by Bruna Frache and Giorgio Tourn, which sheds light on the way life once was here through photographs credited with the names of the places and people captured on camera. All three titles (including my trusty Pane Quotidiano) are worth translating into other languages because they encompass all the things that are overlooked, ignored and unrecognised in today’s super-paced world lulled to a coma by flicking through images, people and ideas.

While I am at it, I can also recommend La Cucina Valdese (Claudiana, 2006) as well as Supa Barbetta e Altre Storie: Cucina Delle Valle Valdesi (CDA & Vivaldi Editori, 1996) are two books by the celebrated chef Walter Eynard and sommellier Gisella Pizzardi who ran the Michelin-star Ristorante Maison Flipot from 1981 until 2011. Both are books on how to live life by means of enjoying the Waldensian way in both daily routines and the kitchen, a simple yet elevated and fine "cucina povera" carefully put together with local ingredients, meat, fish, vegetables, herbs and cheese. When I moved to the Pellice Valley in August 2023, the management of Maison Flipot as a boutique hotel and restaurant had been recently taken over by Patrizia Colombo, with Luca Tosello as head chef. In the last two years, I had the privilege of staying in their beautifully cared for accommodations during weekend trips to the valley as well as savouring their intricate and mind-blowing seasonal menus on a number of special occasions. I regret to inform you that the restaurant is now closed but they are still open as a hotel. As years pass by, the finer things in life seem to get rarer, but you can still find books featuring photos of these jewels, serving bygone times as witnesses. 

It goes without saying that to transcend the invisible boundaries of this haven and to open up to the world in order to bring in more opportunities for both the current residents and the future of the children of this valley, such great works of painstaking research should be made available to readers in all languages. I suppose this is a bit of wishful thinking on my part. 

MERE EARTH?

When I started primary school in Istanbul, my hometown on the sea, one of the first pieces of literature we had to memorise was the Turkish National Anthem penned by Mehmet Akif Ersoy in 1921. The sixth stanza left a great impression on my innocent young mind. “Bastığın yerleri ‘toprak’ diyerek geçme, tanı. Düşün altındaki binlerce kefensiz yatanı. Sen şehit oğlusun, incitme, yazıktır atanı.  Verme, dünyaları alsan da bu cennet vatanı.” A faithful translation could read as: “View not the soil you tread on as mere ‘earth’ – recognise it! Think about the shroudless thousands laying under your feet. You’re a martyr’s son, beware, do not hurt your ancestors. Even if you’re promised the world, do not give away this heavenly homeland.” For me, this deep-rooted sentiment turned into a sense of compassion for all the people and places of our planet. I nurtured a desire to learn about the history and people of the places I lived in starting with my birthplace, Istanbul, and in the course of living, I have been touched by the past of numerous places. I have become many different people and in all those people I became, I found another me. The new me I find here in this predominantly Waldensian town, the earliest written record of which dates back to the foundation of Saint Christopher’s Priory built by the monks of the Caramagna Abbey in 1228, is more profound than those that existed before my present self. For one, I never thought that someone who loves the sea so deeply could fall so head over heels for mountains. 

In recent years, I have grown to believe that we live in a paradise lost. One that is overwhelmed by wars (those that are in the news and those that are not), famine and suffering (those that are reported and unreported), global inequalities and discrimination as well as the stark generational abyss that has been tearing apart families and communities versus a world of peace, unity, compassion and respect... In a world of such strong antagonisms and historic recurrence (with the exception of tables turned in favour of those who once suffered great tragedy and who have become the inflictors of great atrocity), it is hard to find a place to call "my home" if you've had to withstand the pains of leaving your "home."

Home. A place where you feel safe, loved, understood, respected and not just accepted but held in high esteem because of who you are and who you choose to become. Home: a dwelling that becomes your castle despite its size or location. You strive to carry this desire for home all your life long, like a snail carries its shell, until you stop searching because you have found it. It’s the most dangerous search for many who die in search of home. As Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz put into words: “Home is not where you were born, home is where all your attempts to escape cease.” However, the process to find a home far from where you were born and away from the people that gave you life is often a mixed bag of sweets. Having lived in various towns and cities across three countries, I have often felt the crushing weight of a snail’s life, a life lived within myself. In most places, I felt the judging gaze of locals on my being, the pejorative smirk, being brushed or shrugged off, being told to know my place because this is not “my home.” I sometimes still feel it, it's hard to let it escape you. In upper-class intellectual circles, I felt the humiliating gander of old money aristocratism. I don’t come from a family of farmers but every time a city-dweller looks down on a farmer, I empathise with the man who works the land for a living. Every time a pedestal-dwelling academic or intellectual dares to state that our social problems are caused by suburban or agrarian cultures, I find myself on the side of those who are not misunderstood, but rather simply not understood. Against power, I continue my congruous walk alongside those who have been labelled as weak, stupid, coy, gullible, young, poor, useless, or described through any adjective with negative connotations. 

Many of those injected with a right-wing nationalist spirit, or simply outsiders to Italian history and culture, may consider my choice to live in one of the only three Waldensian valleys in a predominantly Catholic country as strange. To such dim-witted people, this is possibly “the least Italian corner of Italy” thanks to its multicultural and multilingual social fabric. The beating heart of 800 years of Waldensian dissent against persecution, perseverance and devotion to the teachings of the Bible (and for the translation of the Bible into other languages as well as every person’s right to read the Bible for themselves), Villar Pellice is also known for its crucial role in the partisan resistance against Nazism and fascism. Every time I walk 346 steps - yes, I counted them - from my house to the town square dedicated to the memory of Neapolitan antifascist, “partigiano” Guglielmo “Willy” Jervis (1901-1944) who was shot by the SS beside the perimeter wall of the piazza (which currently serves as a marketplace on Thursday mornings and car park), refused to impart information to the Nazis no matter how much they tortured him. They hanged him from a lamp post on this square as a warning to all others, but in the end, it was the will and determination of the brave people of this valley that succeeded in ridding these lands from the manic ideology that took Europe by storm. A pocket Bible was found near Willy’s lifeless body, on which he had engraved the sentences “Don’t cry for me, don’t call me poor. I die for having served an idea” with a pin during his six-month imprisonment at Turin’s Le Nuove. This is very poignant, because in its earliest days the Waldensian evangelical movement was referred to as “the Poor” because of their chosen puritan lifestyle. The lamp post is no longer there. 

I often sit on the bench by the fountain on the square and wonder, how many more people will be silenced by imprisonment and murder. I ponder, “View not the soil you tread on as mere ‘earth’ – recognise it! Think about the shroudless thousands laying under your feet.” 25th April 2025 marked the 80th anniversary of the Liberation of Italy from Nazi fascism. We seem to enjoy relative freedom and liberty, but the ugly face of the past is still alive and kicking all around the world bar none. 

A few days later, Dado asked me and my husband if we’d like to go to lunch at La Casa dell’Ape, and eat with him and other acquaintances, tagliatelle with the mushrooms that he had foraged. How could we say no? When they brought out the pasta, and I saw the true morels shaped like mini honeycombs I beamed with delight and devoured two servings. In Piemonte, it is rare to see fungi other than porcini or the famed truffle varieties on the menus of eateries. People are very wary of these miraculous gifts of nature. Dado told me that here in the valley most people do not forage for more than three or four varieties of fungi even though the woodlands and forests of these mountains are an eden for mycelia. I tag this occasion not only as one of the culinary highlights of my life in the Pellice Valley but also as the start of a long-lasting friendship. Of course, the only way I could return Dado’s benevolence and generosity was to give him a jar of my home-made bear garlic pesto.

After a couple of weeks of solid rain, Dado reminded me that we have yet to go out for a nature walk together. I met him on a clear Tuesday morning and after meandering in the woodland for a couple of hours, he quietly pointed to a group of yellow morels (Morchella esculenta) under the shade of hawthorn blossom, and striding over the crispy humus-rich ground we kept finding different clusters of the same mushrooms. Some of them were mere stumps, eaten by slugs and snails during the much-needed rains but others were untouched and magnificent. I saw sizeable areas of this woodland were also carpeted with milk-white bear garlic flowers. Dado is very mindful of his discoveries in nature; he does his best not to disturb the natural environment. He moves slowly and takes nimble steps. He points out medicinal herbs such as Plantago lanceolata (in Italian “piantaggine”) used to treat insect bites, and we collect Silene Vulgaris (bladder campion), the young shoots of which are edible raw in salads or can be added into stews, risottos and omelettes. On our walk we talk about the adverse effects of mass tourism and how the majority of people are increasingly disconnected from nature. We come across several plastic bags (some of which were half-buried in the ground and contained dog faeces) and a large plastic bottle, which we picked up and took to the garbage containers provided by the municipality at a stone's throw from this idyllic setting.

I know from my years of city-living that most people have not only forgotten about good manners but also of the importance of neighbourly relationships. Our next-door neighbours, Eliana and Riccardo, come from a long line of Waldensians. In all our exchanges, they have been more than amicable. Eliana’s hens lay some incredibly tasty eggs with profoundly sunny yolks, and Riccardo’s sheep’s and goat’s milk is processed into making some of the finest cheese in the valley. Without intending to make many friends, I now feel that I am building numerous meaningful relationships. Imitating the nature that surrounds us, our friendships are budding slowly and naturally.

Before moving to Villar, I lived in Luserna San Giovanni for a year. There too I was fortunate to forge strong friendships with my neighbours Ernesto and Loretta, and Romana. On the weekends we visit one another, sometimes for quick coffee and chitchat, and at other times for lunch. Ernesto is a retired welder. When we need his skills, he offers it willingly. Loretta happily took care of our daughter – playing at their house or going out for ice cream - on a number of occasions when we were neighbours. And Romana… Few words can describe the goodness of her spirit. Her smile, her warm-heartedness, her weekly messages… Every time we visit one another she bakes another delight. Her amaretto and peach tart is out of this world, her heart-shaped apple cake is heady, her ginger and orange crostata is gobbled by our daughter every time. Yes, Romana is prone to baking sweet goods and speaking kind words. Thanks to the women of my family, I too know that food is one of the greatest expressions of love.