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After searching high and low for her ideal home in Castelantonio, Dutch writer Stephanie Pander embraces the relaxed rhythms of village life in the first article for our ‘Slow Travel and Living: Tales from Southern Italy’ series. But she soon realizes that simply drinking coffee at the local café isn’t enough to truly connect with her new neighbors.
When my husband and I finally decided to buy a house in southern Italy, the process unfolded far quicker than we had anticipated. That’s not to say it all went smoothly. Of course, we had to navigate tiresome notary procedures and viewings with opportunistic homeowners hoping our Italian dream would distract us from noticing gaping holes in the roof.
Fortunately, there was no shortage of options. Like much of Europe, the rural areas of southern Italy are experiencing a population exodus, with young people flocking to cities and leaving their homes behind. Castelantonio*, the village in Cilento we had set our sights on, is no exception.
Winding like a ribbon across a hilltop, Castelantonio is flanked by two rivers that remain dry most of the year but swell rapidly when the autumn rains begin. We spot this tranquil community from a high road, where it sits proudly between the mountains and the sea. From a distance, it looks like someone has been playing with wooden blocks. The village is an intricate tangle of houses and towers leaning into one another – removing just one piece might cause the entire structure to topple.
At the center of it all, towering over the village like a watchful guardian, stands the church of Saint Antonio. The Christian monk – who’s also known as Saint Anthony the Great and Saint Anthony the Abbot, among other monikers – is revered as the patron saint of butchers, basket weavers, brush makers, cemeteries and animals.
Several times a year, the villagers carry the saint’s statue through the streets, and on January 17, they hold an elaborate feast day, marked by a vibrant parade and festivities. Before the procession begins, villagers gather at the church steps with their pets and livestock – a lively assembly of goats, dogs, cats, chickens and canaries patiently awaiting the priest’s blessing. Then comes the food, music and a thunderous fireworks display, which has made the event famous far and wide.
Of course, we don’t know any of this while standing on that mountain road, snapping photos to share with friends back home. “Look! This is going to be our new village,” we gush.
We wind our way up the serpentine road and stop for a syrupy coffee at the bar by the village entrance. Curious, we ask the woman behind the counter if there’s a hotel nearby. Nothing in the village, she says, but mentions someone who rents rooms to travelers like us. One quick phone call later, and a man named Beppe arrives to escort us through the labyrinth of narrow streets. He stops in front of a large gate and waves us inside.
“Just leave your rent payment on the table, and when you check out, drop the key back at the bar,” he says.
That’s all it takes for us to settle in for a two-week stay. Each day, we stroll along the main street, looking for signs that read “vende casa” (house for sale). Soon, we realize that even homes without signs might be on the market. Whenever we linger in front of a palazzo, a window inevitably creaks open, and a neighbor leans out to ask if we’re looking to buy.
We view dozens of houses this way: a 21-room palazzo, an old fattoria (farmhouse) with its own olive grove, and a former shoemaker’s workshop, which, according to the cobbler’s great-grandson, could be perfectly livable with the addition of a shower, toilet and stove.
Peeking inside all these different properties – each a time capsule of a life abruptly left behind – is addicting. Most come with their original furnishings, from rattan sofas with striped cushions to chestnut linen cupboards and sturdy tables with worn marble tops. It feels as though the families who once called these places home left in an instant, never looking back.
Naturally, we start to dream about owning a grand palazzo with an impressive entrance gate, terrazzo floors and a pergola draped with bougainvillea and vines. Fortunately, we soon realize these romantic mansions come with equally grand maintenance costs.
Instead, our agent takes us to see a modest, recently renovated apartment. We walk through the small kitchen leading into a cozy living room and bedroom, while the covered terrace offers sweeping views of the village, surrounding mountains and the glimmering sea in the distance.
As we return to the street, the agent casually mentions there’s a garden, too. He guides us down a narrow staircase to the base of the building, where a stone wall draped in vibrant bougainvillea comes into view. Set into the wall is a small green door that opens only when you turn the key the wrong way. As the door swings open, we step into the garden, startling one of the stray cats that has claimed this serene space as its own. It smells of blooming roses and jasmine, while oranges and lemons dangle from the trees.
Though overgrown, the garden holds a quiet magic. We push through the thistles, making our way to a forgotten stone cottage in the back. The door stands ajar, letting the warm September sun stream across the colorful cement tiles. A large terracotta jar hints at its past life as an olive oil container. Iron bars on the ceiling once dried sausages and hams, while the cobweb-covered wooden shelves likely held pickled vegetables, liqueurs and jars of tomato sauce. As our imagination takes flight, a flustered bat sends us hurrying back into the garden.
The agent, clearly a master of selling dreams, hands me a freshly picked yellow rose. Three weeks later, we sit in the notary’s office, signing papers to make the house – and its secret garden – our own.
That winter, we harvest our first oranges and tangerines, savoring the fruits of our new home. Each day, we head downstairs to the bar for coffee and croissants, a ritual that quickly becomes part of our routine.
We’ve stood several times at the door of the local wine bar, Locanda Ma’uamma, nestled on the steps of a narrow street called Vico Cairoli, yet for some mysterious reason, it always seems to be closed.
Next to the village water pump stands Pizzeria Paìsa, where we dine at least once a week to get to know the locals. The villagers turn out to be helpful and curious, though mostly older. Despite not being particularly young ourselves, we’ve lowered the average age considerably. I’m constantly amazed by the vitality of the nonagenarians who spend their mornings doing laundry, fetching water from the pump and feeding the chickens that roam freely through the alley.
On Fridays, when the fishmonger arrives with his cart, the villagers climb the steps to the main road to buy cuttlefish and fresh anchovies. I’ll save their secrets to aging well – and the Mediterranean diet – for another time, but it’s clear that the slow pace of life here makes a difference.
The elders in southern Italy have a distinct advantage over us city-dwellers: they have time, lots of time. We do our best to adopt their unhurried pace, often reminding ourselves to relax on the bench beneath the tangerine tree, where a pleasant breeze offers relief during the warm summer months. Or to spend a few moments each day trimming the brown leaves from our tomato plant, allowing it to channel all its energy into growing fruit.
We make time for conversations, too. The castiglioni are naturally curious, eager to learn where we come from and why we’ve chosen their village as our second home. Even a quick stroll to the grocer for a forgotten bag of coffee can suddenly stretch into a whole morning of friendly chatter and unexpected connections.
In winter, we return to the village after a four- or five-day drive from Amsterdam. We could make the journey in two days, but we prefer to take our time, stopping at different places along the way. It’s our way of easing into the southern Italian rhythm, letting both our bodies and minds travel at the same pace.
When we finally arrive, the neighbors greet us with dried figs, nut liqueur and homemade cake. “You must be hungry,” they insist. But their real motive becomes clear – they can’t wait to ask their questions: How was the trip? Where did we go? What did we see and hear along the way? What strikes me most is that everything they offer us is homemade or plucked from their own gardens, a true reflection of their generosity and connection to the land.
Suddenly, the stroopwafels and flower bulbs we bought from shops in Denmark feel so impersonal. Do we really have nothing of our own to offer?
A bookseller from a neighboring village once told me he measures the authenticity of a place by the presence of memories that can’t be bought. Souvenir shops selling cheap trinkets are everywhere, but what if a place has nothing to sell, and the only thing you could take home were memories? What would those memories be worth if you could put a price on them?
Before long, we find ways to repay the generosity of our fellow villagers. Jars of orange jam from our garden and homemade fennel liqueur, crafted from the wild herbs growing by the roadside, become our tokens of gratitude. And when needed, of course we happily help with the olive harvest.
We spend our first winter and spring in the company of the village’s elderly residents. When summer arrives, the days grow warmer and the weekends livelier. With the school holidays starting, we can hear the voices of children echoing along Corso Umberto I, the main street that cuts through the village.
From the Corso, narrow staircases lead up to the church or down to the road. While it’s possible to drive along its length, the street is so narrow that only the brave – or the skilled – attempt it, typically in a trusty Fiat Panda or Cinquecento. For most of the year, the Corso belongs to stray cats lounging in the sun, but summer transforms it into a hub of activity.
In southern Italy, it’s common for children to spend the summer with their grandparents while their parents stay in town to work. On weekends, the families reunite by the seaside, and the whole village smells of tomato sauce with fried garlic – a glorious scent to wake up to. The ice-cream shop next to the bar is doing good business again, and the older residents seem happier, invigorated by having someone to care for.
The energy shifts noticeably, reminding us that while a village full of elderly residents may be picturesque, it lacks the continuity needed for a sustainable future. A thriving village needs all its generations. Fortunately, even here in Cilento, there’s a growing trend of young people returning to embrace a slower, nature-focused way of life. They are reviving old traditions, starting new businesses and bringing renewed hope to these rural communities.
In our village, there’s a young man from northern Italy who has become a shepherd, a couple from Salerno who renovated an old palazzo into a charming bed-and-breakfast, and a woman weaving traditional hemp shoes in a neighboring village. All of them hope that culture and nature enthusiasts will discover the beauty of Cilento, appreciate their work and support their efforts to create sustainable livelihoods.
On a warm Friday evening, as we stroll through the village, we’re surprised to find the steps in front of Ma’uamma, the wine bar that’s usually closed, bustling with activity. We observe a young woman arranging wooden tables and stools outside, while red and pink geraniums fill the window frames and fragrant pots of basil, thyme and rosemary line the door.
To brighten up the alley, she’s hung paintings, drawings and even a yellowed portrait of Picasso in his signature blue-and-white striped shirt. And after a year of nothing but goat and church bells, we’re taken aback to hear Pink Floyd pouring out of the speakers.
That evening, we forego Paìsa and instead dine at the reopened village wine bar with its new owners: young chef Fabrizio and his partner, Lucretzia, a sommelier, who relocated from Berlin during the pandemic. Fabrizio, originally from Naples, has family in the hills outside Castelantonio, while Lucrezia hails from Florence.
For now, the wine bar operates only in the summer, as there aren’t enough customers to sustain it year-round. But who knows? Maybe that will change in the future.
From then on, we dine almost weekly at the wine bar, where Fabrizio creates dishes with local produce, putting a contemporary twist on traditional regional recipes. There’s delicate whitefish ceviche, eggplant ravioli in goat’s milk and potato gnocchi with wild broccoli. The concept of small sharing plates, however, is something the villagers – accustomed to full plates of pasta – will need time to get used to.
In spring, as an homage to la cucina povera, literally meaning “poor kitchen”, a traditional cooking style commonly associated with southern Italy, the menu features an inventive dish made with the oft-discarded stems of the zucchini plant.
Building a foothold in this region isn’t easy, so young entrepreneurs often collaborate to support each other. Fabrizio, for example, bakes his sourdough using flour made from forgotten grains milled by a nearby co-op run by young villagers.
We also join Fabrizio on a trip to Orto di Torraca, an organic farm where the Antonucci family is creating their own version of “The Biggest Little Farm”. Not unlike the documentary, which follows a couple’s challenging yet rewarding journey to establish an organic farm, the Antonuccis – a family of five – gave up their city jobs to build the farm of their dreams.
Their goal isn’t about generating large profits but creating a self-sustaining venture that respects nature and provides enough for the family to live on. Little by little, they’ve acquired and revitalized the old fields and orchards above the nearby town of Sapri, bringing life back to land that had lain fallow for decades.
Today, 200 of their 500 olive trees have resumed production, joined by fruit trees and fields full of tomatoes, zucchini and peppers. Their barn shelters goats, a pig and a cow, while a small vineyard Mr. Antonucci’s dream – thrives nearby.
Though they shy away from running a restaurant, the family serves traditional Cilento lunches by request, offering a communal meal under the shade of their olive trees. The table is a feast of their own creations: cacioricotta (local pecorino cheese), soppressata (dry-cured pork sausage), pasta con ceci (pasta with chickpeas), roast pork and wild chicory with potatoes.
Wines made from the farm’s grapes flow freely, and the olive oil is a novello – meaning “new oil” pressed just a week ago. It’s cloudy and green with a delightfully robust flavor. “Before selling the oil, you should technically let it age for a while,” says Mr. Antonucci, “but we prefer it fresh and grassy, tasting of our own terroir.”
*We’ve chosen to use a pseudonym for the village to help preserve its quiet charm. We hope it encourages you to discover your own special place in this big and beautiful world.
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