The first weekend of October started with a cloudy, windy, undecided Saturday after a drenched, gloomy and cold Friday.
I left Milan, early in the morning, resigned to discover under a pelting rain some of the most beautiful private gardens hidden in Venice, extraordinarily opened to public eyes just for those three days.
Gardens in Venice always surprise you: sparkling glimpses while you are sailing long the canali, top of trees that appears behind high, crooked walls while you are strolling among a calle, or a sudden, exquisite perfume that covers for a while the annoying smell of still water while you are resting at a caffè.
Their story began a long time ago when cattle pastured on chiovere, large meadows surrounded by fences where, after tincture, woollen clothes hung up to dry on chiodi, Italian for nails.
Simple, practical, with vegetables and fruits for today life and medicinal herbs for the chemists, by the end of the 17th Century they turned into scenographic, privileged spaces dedicated to pleasure and beauty.
I left Milan, early in the morning, resigned to discover under a pelting rain some of the most beautiful private gardens hidden in Venice, extraordinarily opened to public eyes just for those three days.
Gardens in Venice always surprise you: sparkling glimpses while you are sailing long the canali, top of trees that appears behind high, crooked walls while you are strolling among a calle, or a sudden, exquisite perfume that covers for a while the annoying smell of still water while you are resting at a caffè.
Their story began a long time ago when cattle pastured on chiovere, large meadows surrounded by fences where, after tincture, woollen clothes hung up to dry on chiodi, Italian for nails.
Simple, practical, with vegetables and fruits for today life and medicinal herbs for the chemists, by the end of the 17th Century they turned into scenographic, privileged spaces dedicated to pleasure and beauty.
Unexpected details enchanted me, as I guess, amazed and amused the guests of those fabulous parties, lightened by candles, lit in blown-glass fruits hanging on the trees, and disturbed by the creaking steps of satin shoes on the broken shells spread on the paths.
But entering the gates, just the words spoken by polite women with tinkling bracelets made that world live again.
But entering the gates, just the words spoken by polite women with tinkling bracelets made that world live again.
In the pearl light of the Saturday morning, I discovered a noble garden large enough for horses to play in greatly admired tourneys during the 18th Century, and after around two hundreds years, decaying enough to draw the attention of a famous Italian writer, who wrapped in its neglected and wild atmosphere a sad love story.
Today a small pergola – bower - covered with wisteria, raises opposite to the existing one hidden under luxurious vine, at the end of a rectangular lawn framed by crawling plants and tall cypresses. Entrusted beauties full seasons of colours and perfumes, and following the Venetian tradition, walls disappear under climbing roses and jasmine. Venetian gardeners appreciated exotic climbing plants such as the mysterious flower of the Passiflora coerulea but did not ignore spontaneous species as Convolvulus or Clematis, this one used by wise peasants to protect melons from the sun.
An old, weeping and gnarled Sophora japonica pendula stands alone in the middle of the lawn; its simplicity captures your eyes and your heart more than hundreds of capable brushstrokes.
- to be continued
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