"You are the first Englishman to rent a place in Aieta," Roberto told me.
"But some foreigners must have rented before," I insisted.
"Yes, a couple of Germans – they stayed somewhere in the countryside."
Together we flung open the shutters of the 300-year-old house that was to be my home. Through the open windows we could see olive groves, fruit orchards and vineyards plunging to the mottled, turquoise waters of the Mediterranean some 500m below. Little coves, bays and rocky promontories stretched across the Gulf of Policastro to the glittering lights of Maratea, Sapri, Scario and beyond.
It seems curious that this enchanting mountain village, so accessible to Italy's beautiful Tyrrhenian coastline, should be so unknown to tourists. But then Aieta is the end of the road. Further on are the wild, high mountains of the Pollino national park, where grey wolves and golden eagles roam. And the only way over the mountains is on foot.
I had stumbled across the village of Aieta the previous summer, while driving up from Maratea to try the food at Le Due Lanterne, hotel/restaurant in the village. Out of curiosity, I inquired about cheap village houses for sale. The waitress said there were many, but my holiday was almost over.
The charm of the Tyrrhenian coastline bites deep, however. All autumn long and during winter snow, the memory of the azure sea and green mountains stayed in my mind, especially the village of Aieta, where the idea of possessing a romantic retreat haunted me.
So there I was the following spring, driving in soft sunshine along the corniche from Sapri, a road that loops and winds on the brink of nothing high above the brilliant blue Tyrrhenian. Here the pine-forested Pollino mountains tumble in crags and cliffs to rocky coves and deserted, golden beaches. Dark spears of cypress, sleepy pastel-coloured villas, red geraniums, blue clematis and purple rhododendrons spilling over balustrades all herald the approach of refined Aquafredda, of chic Fiumicello. And then there's Maratea, one of Italy's best-kept secrets, cascading down the mountainside, watched over by a huge, cliff-top statue of Christ, arms outstretched. Onwards, the road clings to steep precipices before descending gently to Praia a Mare.
At Praia, I turned inland, climbing dusty hairpin bends until Aieta revealed itself, perched on a rocky promontory, grey and austere, its buildings clustered together against a backdrop of snow on the higher peaks of the Pollino. Arriving unannounced, I came across a well-disposed face in the bar. After a preliminary glass of wine I explained to my new friend, Roberto, that I was looking for a writer's retreat – somewhere humble enough but stunningly beautiful. After a few more glasses of wine, Roberto was organising a viewing of village properties for sale. I was introduced to Giovanni, a local pensioner who, along with six brothers, appeared to own large tracts of Aieta real estate, all of which he wished to convert (immediately) into hard cash. I was transported up the steep and narrow village lanes by miniature tractor, and even transferred to a donkey to ascend to the crumbling walls and fallen-in roofs of the highest properties.
Such beauty – but such decay! One village house, with terracotta walls, exposed beams and timeworn furniture, was in liveable condition. But the refurbishment required was daunting. Roberto, clever fellow that he is, suggested: "Why don't you rent the place, then decide?" So in the summer, I returned, renting with a view to buying.
In a remarkably short time I settled in. I adopted the local bar, where a great cappuccino cost €1, and the local wine – eminently drinkable – half that. Very few day tourists venture up to Aieta. Yet in August the place is buzzing. Former residents who left the village for Rome and the northern cities come faithfully back for the long holiday season. At the bar I bumped into an attractive Roman dentista. My social life was positively humming.
During my morning cappuccino, I invariably ended up sharing a table with a plump boy of about 12 with a fixed, intent stare. He sat beside me, observing everything I did with great interest. He had a whistle permanently in his mouth and used this instead of talking. He whistled in little bursts of conversation – short, affirmative bleeps. Sometimes I proposed treating him to an ice-cream, or challenged him to a game of table football, and was rewarded by an enthusiastic stream of happy whistling.
Every morning as I sauntered down to the main square, the Aieta policeman (was he the only one?) greeted me with a cheery buon giorno. Each evening, he was on hand to guide my car into a tight parking spot as I returned, weary, from a day on the beach. When I first arrived, I asked him if it was safe to leave my car there overnight. He looked almost offended. "We don't have those sort of problems in Aieta," he snorted.
Part of the attraction of Aieta (the name originates from the Greek word aetos, eagle) is that, at nearly 500m above sea level, it is cool in the evenings. There are no mosquitoes, just pristine, clean mountain air. But it is not remote: the descent, swinging around 25 hairpin bends to the fast coast road, takes precisely 13 minutes.
From there, you can head north to chic Maratea, Fiumicello and Aquafredda, or south to the characterful seaside towns of Scalea and Diamante. In any case, in less than half an hour you can be on the beach. And what an array of beaches! These are the caves and coves and bays of your childhood dreams, just much warmer. And there is so much to do ... yachting or windsurfing in the beautiful bay of Sapri, paragliding from the cliffs above Praia a Mare, snorkelling in the turquoise water of the reefs, exploring the caves, white-water rafting on the rivers, or simply hiking deep into the mountains.
But my time was fast running out. As the days slipped by, Giovanni anxiously tried to conclude the sale of the house. It was a three-storey, 18th-century, solidly built village house with extraordinary views of the valley and the sea. Great potential. Decent price. But it was sadly in need of investment. I excused myself, muttering something about the lamentable credit crunch. "Little by little," he coaxed me, "little by little."
There are, indeed, great property bargains to be had in Aieta – especially if you are prepared to take on loving reconstruction yourself. And there are a lot of local experts on hand to assist, for cash wages that will be, I suspect, lower than in eastern Europe.
On my last day, as I headed for a dinner date at Le Due Lanterne, I was waylaid by a woman. She insisted on showing me her cheeses, ushering me rapidly into her ancient house. Within seconds I was tasting the dry, pungent pecorino made from the milk of the mountain sheep. She pretended not to hear my suggestion about returning the next day; she was already speedily and definitively wrapping up an enormous cheese. Smooth salesmanship. But why protest? Then, as I passed the village shop, I was seduced into buying some beautiful sheets, decorated with hand-made lace – a centuries-old, but dying, tradition.
Finally I made it to dinner, which I took on the terrace. Directly below us was a precipitous gorge, at the bottom of which ran a small, gurgling stream. Beyond it the mountains ascended in glorious, green ridges of vineyards, orchards, oak and pine forests, and finally bare slopes. From the kitchen, I could hear joints of mutton spitting and sizzling. I sipped deep red and rich Aglianico – a wine with origins dating back to ancient Greece – devoured homemade ferruzzelli pasta with porcini mushrooms from the Pollino, and listened to the muted tinkling of sheep's bells as a full moon rose over an immense gallery of rounded peaks.
It was the evening of the prosciutto festival – an extravaganza of locally produced food and wine, starring prosciutto hams. Now, in the village square, a black-haired, tough-looking teenager with a backing punk band soulfully belted out the latest Neapolitan love songs. The heavy-hipped matrons of Aieta swayed indolently and children raced ever faster in excited circles as the sentimental music swelled and echoed against the austere 18th‑century church walls, ringed by stone benches on which sat black-garbed grandmothers.
I ended up back in the bar with Roberto and the dentista (again). My last night in Aieta, my last night under cool, mountain skies, listening to the cough of donkeys, the whirr of cicadas, the cracked church bells. But what I took away with me was the memory of these people: hard-working, gentle and good-humoured.
"How can I thank you enough?" I asked Roberto. He looked at me, a grin on his toothless face, and took my hand. "Come again next year. And bring your friends. And tell everyone how beautiful is Aieta. Promise?" Then, in the two words of English he knows perfectly, he cried, "More wine! More wine!"
