MY BOOK GREEN HILLS - THE BORN

MY BOOK "GREEN HILLS" -  THE BORN

In this story I summarized the almost magical holidays I did in the mysterious Britain, especially in Wales where the first idea was born on my novel 

GREEN HILLS

LONDON - CORNWAL - WALES: 

THE MOST INCREDIBLE ADVENTURE

THOMAS - LONDON 

AND THE WEST GROUNDS OF THE UK

May 1992.

"Are you sure we're in London?" I blurted looking at the satisfied expression of Thomas as if for months he had not seen a ray of sunshine, nodded his head, I laughed while walking fast in tracksuit we had approached Wellington Road, passing near the Humana Hospital . Then turning left we ran on the Prince Albert Road and after traveling half a kilometer, we took a path on the right that passed over the Grand Union Canal and after that we ended up on the Circle Outer finally inside the Regent's Park.

How wonderful, and how green, I have always been amazed by the huge parks that the cities of northern Europe held within them and I thought of the Sempione park in Milan that was at least a fifth of its size.

"It's marvelous here ..." I said to my friend as we slowed down the run by walking under the warm sun that illuminated that vast green and flower beds.

"Of course," he replied, taking me by the arm and dragging me down a lane, so we found ourselves in front of a small drink stand, and we took some natural water.

Shortly after sitting on a bench, we watched people strolling through the park and I really felt like I was in heaven.

In a rough Italian, Thomas told me, "You'll love visiting Queen Mary's Gardens ... It's a little bit of a step forward there." I laughed at that funny accent "Be a seei-ziro-ziro-ziro yards from here." I really laughed and he slapped me in the head and answered "Tommy you speak Italian as a Dutch cow" and ran away chased by him. Later, sweaty and hot we found ourselves in the Inner Circle and from there I could clearly see the Regent College.

Really I felt like I was in a sort of Eden and not in the center of London, we were walking peacefully while some old ladies with the bonnet carried their very well-behaved dogs on a leash, then going south, practically towards Madam Tassaud's, I saw a row of houses semicircle, from whose sight you could enjoy all that wonderful green. I was enchanted, I thought I saw Peter Pan flying over it and I swear I would have expected a Mary Poppins to come down with her umbrella to help some lonely child.

"Hey dreamer, look here." Tommy's voice brought me back to reality, two squirrels running toward a plant on the green lawn and a fawn walking slowly on the grass. I could not believe it, where was the register for residence in this beautiful place?

Thomas put his arm around me with his arm, it was a nice way to make me move, I felt like an embalmed doll in observing the surrounding landscape. I looked at his arm on my shoulder, Thomas smiled "You relax, there is nothing bad if I embrace you .... London is not Italy hahahahah You italians many problems do."

Actually I felt a bit 'silly, the Italian classic full of prejudices while there was everything, shortly after while we were on a bus back to Carlton Hill where he lived my friend, smiles at seeing a punk guy kissing a girl decorated like a basket of roses, on the sidewalk in front of the lights where we had stopped. Really in that city nothing amazes, we should not be surprised by that mixture of humanity, the bus stopped shortly after Malborough Hospital and we descended towards home.

I still had six days of vacation and staying in London was the best, the next day Thomas would take me to his brother in Amersham, not far from the city and we would have spent two days in the country.

"Please Tom," you would let me know Aunt Betty-the Queen, "I asked my friend.

"Stupid!" he answered me as Stan Laurel did in Italian, in the comic and we ran up the stairs of his house, the door opened before we played and his mother (typical English lady with round glasses) smiled at us in the doorway: "Oh my God, Thomas is now a perfect Italian, "he said to me, looking at his son, and as soon as he entered the house he threw his shoes up," Are you crazy Tom? " she continued, closing the door, watching my face in amazement, I wanted to tell her that I do not throw my shoes at home every time I come back, but I think it was the lady's one.

Tom looked at me with a left-looking and bischero eyes, and started with a "Want to give you a shower before me, maybe I wash first, or do together?

I burst out laughing, her mother, even though she had a smile on her face, glared at him "Tom!"

But laughing he went over to her and hugged her saying that it was just a joke about the fact that we Italians had a bit of prejudice, then shot into the bathroom, Betty looked at me, shaking her head and went back to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I sat in the armchair in front of the bookshelf and closed my eyes as the image of Regent's Park made its way past me with its immense green and its flower-filled flowerbeds.

WALES (Wales), June 1993

Looking at this photograph, my memories wander in the distant past, when I made my first holiday in Britain; the previous year I was a guest of my friend Thomas with whom I had so much fun in London, our young age had allowed us to combine each and it was a fantastic holiday full of fun.

Then with another friend from Milan, I decided to return the following year, Thomas was from some relatives in Australia, so we tried to change the program a few days after our departure for the British Isles.

I do not know why planning the trip with Marco, we had only decided to make a stop in London for two days and then in Cornwall for another three days and finally, intrigued by a report on the "mysterious" and a bit 'wild region of Wales and a partly because I "felt" the desire to visit it as if it were an ancient call, we had opted for a week in that place.

Arrived in London and then visited Cornwall, we had rented an old car from a nice and freckled gentleman owner of a dealership that took care of tourists, and so from the Celtic and magical Land of Avalon, in a beautiful morning in mid-June we had set off from Taunton to Bristol, then from Newport to Swansea and then up north to Cardigan.

From Taunton, the Motorway No. 5 made us cross these green lands furrowed by very simple and beautiful villages, then passed Bridgewater, within an hour we had already passed Bristol and placed in the M4 that with a huge bridge made us pass on the river Severn, which was already at the end of its course, on the left you could already see the Bristol channel, as huge as a small sea that divides two lands belonging to the same state.

We stopped to have lunch in Newport, typically Anglo-Saxon city but with modern buildings, located on a river called Usk ...

We did not stop much and in the late afternoon we had already passed Cardiff too, ending shortly after Porthcawl, a town on the Bristol Channel. I do not know why but we had decided to avoid the big cities, as if a strange curiosity pushed us to find quiet and solitary places, wild and ancient.

The town had turned out to be beautiful, with white houses on the sea, where very high waves were going to break on the walls that divided the road from the beach. A wonderful place so much so that we decided to stop and sleep not before having seen a wonderful sunset over the sea.

In the night there was a strong storm that made me wake up with a start, feeling next to Marco sleeping with a light snoring, I reassured and at that moment I had a kind of story came to mind that immediately I hastened to write on a sheet in the pages of my travel diary, I finished writing and went back to sleep.

The next day we were already a while 'ahead, we had passed Swansea that I thought much smaller than it was really, Marco almost always led him, I felt I was sitting on the left, every time we crossed a car I seemed to go there to crash into.

Marco told me that the M4 was about to end and we had to decide whether to go inside with the A48 and then get into the A40 to get to Cardigan, otherwise we could do alternative roads on the coast, but it took a lot longer, at least two days, not to mention the fact that we were not very wealthy to afford gasoline every time and to sleep at least two other times in hotels or travel all night.

Then we had taken the two Primary Routes, the 48 and the 40 and within a day enjoying the green scenery of those places, falling in love with two towns like the colorful Narberth and the romantic Haverfordwest where we then stopped really passing a wonderful evening , where he had a very good dinner and slept a little less well, in a small Hotel near the river where I dreamed of a blue sea and a storm.

The next morning I went downstairs to go to breakfast without waiting for Marco, I knew he had to take care of his body after the shower and it would take a lot of time, in fact, when he arrived a little later he saw me writing in the diary.

"What are you doing?" he asked me, I answered him seriously serious ... "But maybe I'll write a book." and we laughed.

About ten-thirty, we had resumed the journey to Cardigan, past Fishguard, a town called funny on the sea, surrounded by nature, from where the boats departed for a trip of about three and a half hours to the coast to the west. We stopped for lunch and then after a little over two hours we finally arrived at Cardigan. I was afraid that the town was not beautiful or interesting but the place was really nice, pleasant, its colorful houses were in Welsh style, much simpler than the most elaborate English house but just as magnificent.

The Hotel that we had booked from London, was slightly higher than the country from which the river was dominated in the green that then almost immediately entered Cardigan Bay, a very nice course where boats and motorboats could travel to Cardigan Island, a little islet out on the sea.

A strange green-blue sea, with golden beaches at sunset, and a sky that often changed its color. We had spent four days to visit the surroundings, ending up falling in love with that wild and ancient place, I wanted to live there forever, Marco was not of that idea, but he also admitted then to feel better in that place away from Milan. One afternoon thanks to the advice of a gentleman who had a distillery, he had convinced us to make a quick visit, to Newcastle Emlyn, a small town in the hills, there would have been a nice surprise, he told us that man robust with green eyes, winking.

The next day we were there ... I was amazed: the ruins of a castle fascinated me in a particular way, I saw an estate where there were many sheep and the village with its typical houses really suggestive, surrounded by green hills and a bend in the Afon Teifi river that descended towards Cardigan, which everyone here called Aberteifi, the true Welsh name of the city where we were guests.

After a walk in the afternoon we stopped in a pub, to say that it was the classic English or Welsh pub was not exactly correct, it was much more: breathe old air, charming and atmospheric, it looked like a local of yesteryear all very strange; we sat on the tufted chairs of red cloth, around us, planks, benches and other chairs, heavy ebony wood furniture and many paintings on the walls.

The owner arrived smiling, we had ordered a drink and two well-filled sandwiches, shortly after we had served a beautiful girl with long blond hair, Isabel who knew a bit 'of Italian. From a radio on, in the air was released a Celtic music beautiful, almost dreamy, I looked at Marco that he siped that sandwich with gusto then smiling turned to look at the open window and green hills were before my eyes ...

An unstoppable impulse had made me open the backpack and taking the diary, I started writing something again. Marco, astonished, had opened his eyes in front of me: "Even here before this good of god?" he had been saying, whimpering while he was swallowing that sandwich ... I had mentioned a yes with my head and the pen ran through my fingers.

After a while Marco's voice had distracted me from what I was doing "The book eh?" ... I had looked at him with a short laugh.

"Of course, when an artist has the inspiring vein he should stop ...". after drinking a little beer, he looked at me strangely, I think he was impressed by the seriousness with which I had replied.

"But will you tell us about our trip?".

"I do not know ... I do not believe Marco, maybe it's something that will go beyond a trip made by the two of us." Marco had hinted at a half-smile, his blue eyes and long black hair framing his hard-faced face, but his expression had always been good-natured. I was observing that inn, the beautiful blond girl named Isabel and that green landscape outside the window, I felt the need to do it.

The same evening in Cardigan, in the room while my friend was reading a book, I instinctively turned to look at him, was so taken by reading that he had a strange look, his eyes seemed fixed and cold on those pages, I had come to mind at that moment something and I wrote it down on a white sheet always on my diary.

"Another inspiration?" Marco realized that I had fixed him.

"Of course and I must say that you helped me a lot in this case." that jumped to his knees on the bed "Wow if you publish it and become famous I want rights ..."

"Yes, no ..." my answer was sarcastic.

"Mmmm, since it's not our adventure in Wales, what will this mysterious book talk about?"

At that moment I realized that I was in trouble, I did not know what to say to him, I only wrote some pages that had nothing to do with each other. I described landscapes, two figures, a blonde woman and a dark-haired boy with no ties to each other. Then short sentences on an inn and on its owner, a big man with green eyes.

"Then Paolino?" Marco continued, reaching my position, putting his hand on my shoulder, and with the other he had patted my hair, which ruffled on his feet. "Ahahah you look like someone who has seen a ghost with those hairs standing upright!" he had laughed with gusto, while I narrowed my eyes, turning to the diary, I had taken the pen again.

"And no, do not tell me that the slap has given you another inspiration ..."

And yet something had moved inside of me and while he was talking and grumbling, I no longer felt it, and the pen in my hands ran fast on those white sheets. Then stopping, I had turned to him that, that moment was in his underwear while he was "dancing" following the rhythm of a very popular disco music then coming from the radio that had just turned on in the room.

"If I called it Verdi Hills?"

Marco had stopped abruptly, and turning to me he had twisted his mouth, sighing and with his eyes closed to slit looking at my hair still ruffled in a lugubrious voice had said "And why not - The ghost of the hills of Wales?"

It was too stupid at that time, yet I was well entitled to that title "The green hills" and writing those three words at the beginning of the written pages I thought "The rest will come by itself".

The next day we were waiting for the return, we still had a week's vacation, but I do not know why I never wanted to leave that place, I almost felt that those green necks wanted to hold me back for some reason.

The next morning we were already on the A40 and I watched the hills go further and further away, I had the diary in my backpack and it almost seemed that he was calling me, but I managed to resist that temptation. I was still thinking of the title - The green hills -

"I wonder if one day this dream will come true ..." I thought continuously while Marco accelerated the car by increasing speed and passing a curve between two hills, the sea had suddenly appeared next to us ... "I will come back here again." I remember thinking, "I'll see the green hills again."

In the distance the town of Fishguard was on the horizon as a warm sun and a warm wind accompanied us throughout the journey.

Summer 1997, Cornwall.

When I saw him appear before my eyes in that green and damp earth, with a light blue mist that licked the ground around, I had a moment of strong emotion: the feeling of being returned from a distant past. With my mind I saw the Beltane fires, natives dancing and moving through the fires and the chants, an animistic atmosphere, strong and full of energy. Marco touched my arm. "Well? ... Did you fall asleep?" I smiled at him with his head and went on with the party to the hill, the "Holy Celtic Hill".

The Tor was now there before me, the atmosphere of the morning was almost magical, full of mystery and charm. After the explanations of our guide, we walked up the path that led us to the top of the remains of the tower at the summit. Yet while the sun was radiating in the plain below, highlighting a wonderful landscape, I felt myself going through an energetic current, always growing, the more I approached those remains.

A force coming from the depths of the earth below and when the whole party reached the tower, I moved away a little and hid on the opposite side where my companions were. I concentrated and, as in a dream, I felt a blue current almost crossing my body, and with my mind I could see the feet running over the grass, I felt people's breath for fatigue, and not so far a sing-song that flowed into various masculine tones.

A low but almost deaf music, in addition to the feet I saw muscular legs running and a hand held a bronze dagger and a sign on the right, equal to what I have on my hand. Then, still with the thought I saw a circle formed by men dressed in white and around them kneeling, female figures dressed in blue while with their hands they used water near the feet of the first ones. Suddenly I heard a voice call "Yynswy ... Yynswy ..." I turned and smiled.

Suddenly a ray of sunshine I get straight in the eye almost blinding. "Paolo ... But you're here then ..." I saw the stains in front of my eyes, caused by the ray of sunshine, my friend Marco who was smiling inviting me to go down with the others. Later on the path that led us underneath, I turned back to the Tor, what a strange feeling, I saw it immersed in a silvery light and thought of that name Yynswy, a strange but almost familiar name.

I gave myself to the dreamer and went down with them until I reached the bus that took us to the hotel. On the way, behind us, two women talked dense in an English I think dialect and one of them said some strange word including "Ynais Ertoys Winis" intrigued I turned and crossed the eyes of these, the older one with light blue eyes smiled at me and he said, staring into my eyes: "Welcome back, sorry I wanted to say Yinis Witrin or rather Avalon." I smiled with the doubt printed in my eyes in front of those typically English faces.

The blonde next, looked at the other then again me: "Sooner or later we return to places we know or ... or ... somewhere in the past where he lived Do not you think?". I was puzzled but I made a sign of yes with my head not understanding what it alludes.

Marco nudged me lightly "But you're just going to attack everyone?" He laughed. As we got off the bus, I waved goodbye to the two nice ladies who were guests in a kind of cottage near our hotel, the blonde came up to me and gave me something wrapped in yellow paper, peeked in the bag had at least ten inside. "Consider it a lucky charm", I thanked her and put the small package in my pocket.

I took a shower, I changed for dinner and before going down I opened the envelope and I found a round copper pendant in my hand, the edges were embroidered like little petals and in the middle a "Y". I thought of that name Yynswy ... I remained uncertain and strange, put it in my pocket and went down to the dining room. A strange coincidence ... Who knows ...

GIAMPAOLO DACCO'

(P.S. = Forgive my bad English, I hope I managed to express my adventures well and the birth of my book. Thanks GD)