Some people may think that Umbria hasn’t got the same good looks or popularity as its flashier Tuscan cousin, but its rolling hills and scattered lakes do have one clear advantage over what’s rightly known as Chianti-shire – you won’t find hordes of braying toffs unloading hampers of champers from the boots of their Chelsea tractors out here. You’re more likely to find some crumple-faced old farmer humping crates of olive oil out of the back of a battered Fiat, whilst the silence is broken only by the chirrup of unidentified birds, the gentle stir of olive leaves and poppies nodding their heads in the breeze.
At Camping Il Falcone you get the olives and poppies, but it would simply be uncharitable to describe owner Carlo Valeri as a crumplefaced old farmer. He’s far too young and chipper. Mind you, he does harvest the olives from the trees that are planted along the terraced rows of the campsite, though he claims there’s only enough of the resulting oil for ‘family’.
The site at Il Falcone is a lasso-shaped slice of hill, terraced between youngish olive trees and dotted with crimson poppies. Caravans and camper vans are mainly confined to the outer reaches of the site, leaving the steep terraces for the canvas crew.
You have to ditch your wheels at the top and clamber down the hill with your gear to pick a pitch on grass as thick as sprigs of spring onion. If you choose the left-hand side of the site, there are sumptuous views down to the lake and across to the village of Civitella del Lago; one of those ancient shadowy villages populated by nothing but old folk and kittens.
If you wander over to the village and look west over Corbara lake (Lago di Corbara) you can just make out, through the heat haze, the outline of another hilltop community – Orvieto. It’s a larger version of Civitella del Lago, but houses one of the most visually stunning of Italy’s many cathedrals. In candy-stripes of grey and white stone, the massive duomo and its ornate mosaic front look good enough to eat. Inside is that marvellous church smell of old pew and cold stone mingling with centuries of burnt incense and evaporated candle wax.
Back at Il Falcone, you might – as you sip your olive-garnished martini – wonder about the name. The image of the falcon adorns the walls of the village and there’s a weather-washed old stone falcon at one of the village’s viewing points over the surrounding countryside. What does it all mean? Well, this mountainous region was once a medieval hunting ground. While our Norman ancestors were busy breeding racing pigeons and stick-thin whippets, the Italians were pulling on long leather gloves and feeding bits of minced-up field mouse to beaky birds of prey. You’re unlikely to see any now, though, as the locals have taken to the more sedate pursuits of growing olives and raising kittens. As evening falls and the suns sets directly behind the village, sinking through the smoke from BBQ fires, you’ll spot little geckos darting around your feet, looking for a warm rock for the night, and thanking their lucky stars that all the hungry falcons have gone.
