By Stephanie Pander
Illustrations by Lucia Vinti
Editing by Kate Springer
Dutch travel writer Stephanie Pander, 55, did what many only dream of – she bought a house in a sleepy mountain village in southern Italy. Since then, she’s been splitting her time between Amsterdam and Italy’s Cilento region, where she has embraced the joys of slow village life.
As a seasoned travel journalist, I am constantly on the move, exploring the world’s most beautiful places. During my travels, I often find myself wondering: “Could I live here?” Occasionally, the answer is a resounding yes – if only for a while. But more often, the thought fades by the time I’m back in Amsterdam.
When I first visited the Cilento region of southern Italy 26 years ago, it was different. It felt like coming home. In this scenic coastal area, life moved so much slower, leaving room for reflection and creativity. If only I could live here for part of the year. That was the moment I started dreaming.
How I first found my way to southern Italy is an amusing story. After school, I spent a year in Florence learning Italian. I returned to Amsterdam to study journalism, but my love for Italy never faded. Whenever my schedule allowed, I ventured across the country – from the Alps and charming art cities in northern and central Italy to the rugged southern regions of Puglia and Calabria.
Early in my career, a friend in Rome put me on the trail of someone he called the “Buffalo Prince” for a potential story. Intrigued, I followed the lead. As it turned out, the Italian aristocrat, who had acquired his noble title through wealth and land, owned a castle in Santa Maria di Castellabate, a quiet coastal town within the UNESCO-listed Cilento National Park about two hours south of the iconic Amalfi Coast.
In this rural region, water buffaloes graze among Greek temple ruins, their milk destined to become the famed mozzarella di bufalo. Curious, I planned to go there for a story on the area and, when I shared my plans, the Buffalo Prince invited me to stay at his castle.
I took an overnight train to Naples, then a regional train further south, where he picked me up at a small station. I was the only passenger who stepped onto the platform. As the train rolled away, silence descended, broken only by the hum of crickets and melodic clang of goat bells.
The sound of silence is what I have come to call these almost meditative, healing sounds that you only notice when it is truly quiet around you.
From the station, the prince drove along a winding road for roughly two hours until we reached his castle by the sea. Constructed in 1733 by a Spanish architect serving the House of Bourbon in Naples, the castle was originally a hunting lodge for the Granito Pignatelli di Belmonte family.
Upon entering through a grand gate, you arrived at a courtyard, with stairs leading to the prince’s private quarters on the first floor. These rooms were full of family heirlooms, with portraits of ancestors peering over long sofas upholstered in rich Venetian damask.
A long corridor lined with ancestral marble busts led to the guest wing. The prince showed me to my room, which was once his late grandfather’s. Before leaving, he gave me a cryptic warning: “Lock the door at night and keep the key under your pillow.”
His grandfather had died long ago, but still haunted the halls. Whenever the spirit was in a bad mood, he would try to reclaim his old room. To be cautious, I followed the prince’s instructions. I slept soundly during my stay, so either the spirit was in a good mood or simply didn’t make an appearance.
After the prince left, I threw open the wooden shutters and stepped onto the balcony. There it was: a small, scallop-shaped bay with a swoop of golden sand. It was like a Roman amphitheater with the sea as its stage – a theater without an audience.
Nothing is more appealing and exotic to us northern Europeans than the intense blue of the Mediterranean. It holds the promise of endless sunny days, lush blooming bougainvillea and graceful palm trees.
As the train rolled away, silence descended, broken only by the hum of crickets and melodic clang of goat bells.
For me, it feels like stepping into one of the postcards my grandparents used to send from their holidays. I can’t stop smiling whenever I see it. In the north, our sea is gray, and the sun rarely shines on the water. But in the south, the sea is a heavenly blue. It’s deeply emotional, almost as Goethe expressed in his famous poem: Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn.
You know that land, her lemon groves in bloom?
Dark foliage of the orange, gold in gloom?
So soft a blowing air, so blue a sky
So blue a sky, indeed. That day, the sun cast a pale glow on the coastline as the first striped parasols and sunbeds of the season were being set up. Sensing the anticipation and optimism in the air, I watched a shopkeeper hang inflatable dolphins and flamingos from his storefront, while two elderly women enjoyed gelato on a bench by the lungomare, a hopeful cat at their feet.
The scene was picture-perfect and completely peaceful. But why was it so quiet? I seemed to be the only tourist around, even with Positano and Capri just a couple hours north. Did I miss something, or did everyone else?
As I stood there, I promised myself two things: I’d return soon, and I would not write a word about this place.
Return I did, year after year. And I kept my other promise for many years. Eventually, though, I changed my mind. You see, for a long time, I wanted to keep this secret paradise to myself.
As a travel writer, I know how easily a destination can be spoiled. However, getting to know the locals made me realize how much they need tourism. This region isn’t wealthy, and its residents are working hard to attract sustainable tourism focused on nature and culture. I want to support them in this effort, even though there’s always the risk of attracting those who only seek a pretty picture of the coastline without truly immersing themselves in the area.
The first few years we visited, my son was still little, and we mainly stayed close to the beach. We got to know the pizzaiolo, the local grocer and the gelato vendor who made us fresh mandorlatte (caramelized almond gelato). We always had an umbrella reserved at our favorite beach bar and bought our wine and olive oil directly from local producers.
As my son grew, so did our adventures. We took long walks and discovered the unparalleled beauty of Cilento National Park, a place that remains unexplored even by many Italians. All too often, I found myself explaining to friends in Milan and Rome exactly where our little paradise was. La Costa Cilentana? They had never heard of it.
It feels like stepping into one of the postcards my grandparents used to send from their holidays.
In Castellabate, I usually stayed in a small castle, owned by a baron, right next to the prince’s grander palace. As time went on, I found myself wishing for small comforts – a cozier reading chair, a stronger lamp, sharper knives, proper wine glasses. Maybe, I thought, it was time to get a place of my own.
Could a freelance journalist like me afford a second home in Italy? The more we entertained the idea, the more it lured us.
We started driving around the area and staying in a few villages to the south, where prices were more affordable. Beautiful though it still is, Castellabate was slowly being “discovered,” and housing prices were climbing.
One morning, we stepped into a real estate agency, and the search began. What started as a sort of game soon became more serious, once we realized it was not mission impossible. We fell in love with one village in particular, Castel Santantonio*, which was full of empty houses begging for new owners and some loving restoration. Within six months, we found what we were looking for.
In the coming months, I’ll be sharing more about my journey – adventures in house-hunting, how we settled into our new village community, and what it’s been like to embrace the luxuriously sluggish rhythms of life – in this travel series on slow travel and life in southern Italy.
*We’ve chosen to use a pseudonym for the village to help preserve its quiet charm. While the story is meant to inspire readers to explore and dream, we also hope to encourage them to discover their own special place, whether in southern Italy or another corner of the world.
We’ll release a new installment of our “Slow Travel and Living: Tales from Southern Italy” travel series when inspiration strikes. Follow Fullup. on Instagram or sign up to our Fullup. newsletter via the homepage for updates.
