Roccamorice, Prince Charming and a Grisly Martrydom

Believe you me, persuasive salespeople can be trouble. Take restaurants for instance. All it takes is an eloquent waiter to sweet-talk me down the slippery slope of the pudding menu. And that’s what happens in Roccamorice.  Only this time it is not a restaurant but a shop – a ‘shoe boutique’, as it happens, and the only store open on the main street, now baking in the August sun.

It has just opened for afternoon trade and we duck under the awning with the excuse of admiring the colourful array of trekking shoes in the outdoor display. Out comes the owner, who just happens to be charming and good-looking. And tall. I sense trouble brewing.

He invites me to pick up a shoe and admire its lightness. Light indeed, a mere feather.  I already see myself flying up and down the hills of Abruzzo like Hermes. The shop owner  – did I mention he was good-looking? – informs us that these particular shoes are in high demand, that just this week he has sold several pairs to visitors from all over the country, that they are without doubt the best on the market and they are, to boot (sorry!) made entirely in Italy.

Why don’t you try one on, says Prince Charming, just to see if it fits?

Let it be known that just for a minute I hesitate.  The shoes cost considerably more than even the fanciest dessert. Still, they are sturdy and yet … light. I need to try them. No strings attached mind. Inside, the shop is tiny, dark and cool. I am handed a black and red trekking shoe that pulls on like a sock and feels like a massage. And so it is that a only few seconds later I find myself saying, I’ll take them and I’ll keep them on. Can you wrap up my sandals please?

(And by the way, some sleuthing later reveals that his name means Holy Angel.)

Later that afternoon, as I trip effortlessly up and down the Holy Stairs of the Santo Spirito Hermitage, I have reason to appreciate my purchase.  But we still have to visit this small town.

Lightness and Space

Roccamorice is mostly mentioned in guidebooks for its proximity to two of the most beautiful hermitages in Abruzzo, Santo Spirito and San Bartolomeo. But it’s well worth a restorative visit, even if you are not inclined to buy expensive trekking shoes. The town’s origins go back to mediaeval times but don’t let that conjure up images of narrow lanes and forbidding architecture. Here there is only lightness and space. The main street is straight and well-paved, and lined on either side by pristine houses, many with French windows and narrow balconies on their upper floors.

Le Conche

Every hill town has its day and for this little town it is 25 August, the Festa di San Bartolomeo. Pilgrims from all the surrounding areas flock to the Hermitage to attend Mass and process back to Roccamorice, carrying the statue of Saint Bartholomew to the parish church, where it will stay for a month. In the procession are little girls in traditional dress and women bearing conche, copper water jugs, the traditional way – on their heads.

St. Bartholomew’s Martyrdom

Macabre is how I would describe the statue of Saint Bartholomew that we now view in its special place in the church of St. Donatus. Tradition has it that the apostle met with a grisly martyrdom – one of the worst:  he was skinned alive.  It takes us a minute to work out that what seems like a pinkish string belt draped over the saint’s shoulder is no fashion item but actually his own discarded skin. This way of depicting the saint, we later learn, became common after the Renaissance and it was Michelangelo himself who in the XIV century first presented the skinned St. Bartholomew in his Universal Judgement in the Sistine Chapel.

Turning our back on this gruesome representation of the saint, we cross the little park behind the church and head for the lookout, which offers a fortifying and enchanting view of the leafy green valley below. Restored and refreshed, we decide it’s time to visit the Hermitage. As we exit the town, we pass some elderly fellows playing cards and enjoying a beer under the awning of the local bar. Called – what else – the Hard Rocc Cafè.