Evans Experientialism         Evans Experientialism

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The plane descends in sudden, sharp, stomach churning lurches.  Within what seems moments of circling high above the wide beige panorama of the Neapolitan bay, we are suddenly skimming in at housetop level at an increasingly crazy speed in our final approach to Naples Airport.

Faster and faster we sweep on - houses, buildings, then factories and the traffic-choked roads of Naples whizz past the portholes of our aircraft, clamouring for our fleeting attention.  We look down incredulously, as only yards beneath us, a boy throws a can for his dog to retrieve; a woman framed in an apartment window squeezes a plastic bottle into the sink.  We are overtaking busses and streetcars in our mad descent towards terra firma. 

Unlike in a movie, the pedestrians don’t dive for cover, but instead glance skyward incuriously at the plunging silver monster dropping from the sky, with the same disinterested equanimity they'd accord the passing of a laundry van or an ice-cream cart.   We come to rest in a dusty oil-streaked landscape.

The usual airport arrival melee distracts me from the ever-present fact of my wife's approaching death.  I watch her sparse frame from behind as she guides her case onto the Custom's counter.   Absorbed in the ritual of arrival, she busies herself with the impedimenta of necessary but worthless bureaucratic detail.

A lump comes to my throat.  My love for her almost chokes me.   In the face of encroaching oblivion – why even pretend this ritual has any value or significance?

A minibus lifts us over the mountains – past the sullen slopes of Mount Vesuvius.  Lemon orchards and groves of olives parade past the streaky windows.  Higher and higher we drive – winding up and up and along the serpentine roads that lead to the Amalfi coast.  It was on this sloping track that the ancient Roman patrician classes journeyed in their escape to the seaside for their annual holidays.  This was the prehistoric wandering way from the hot Italian plain to the cool delights of the shores of the Tirranean Sea. 

The arrival at Ravello is spectacular.  A ribbon of road leads to the summit of the mountain, then, suddenly peters out and we putter into a lively market square.  Spread out below is the Mediterranean Sea, stretching away into the distance, the colour of a dolly blue.   Half a mile down, toy cars speed along a notch-like road, which has been scraped, from the cliffside.

Our room is cool and functional.  A TV spews Italian soaps.   We busy ourselves with pots, pans, and vegetables.

The town of Ravello is draped casually over the mountain top with curtains of white-painted habitations covering the almost vertical drop to the winding corniche road far below.   To the locals, height above sea level is a significant factor – an ever-present constituent of their social lives.  To have a business or a job below or above a certain elevation presents problems – logistical uncertainties.  A young man's question: “Can I walk you home?” takes on a far more important dimension to the girl that dwells up on the mountain.   The potentiality of masculine interest and commitment are different when measured against the height above sea level of the admirer's/admiree's residence. 

A narrow artery hacked from the rock zigzags down to the small village of Atrani below.  This is the only decent road for vehicular traffic and provides an hourly bus service to the town of Amalfi and beyond.

     Our hotel is positioned about a quarter of the way down the mountainside, a fact not highlighted in the holiday brochure.  Although it is accessible from a feeder road, there is no bus service to Ravello centre.   We make the exhausting ascent to the town for shopping or sightseeing using the flight of three hundred steep steps cut from the granite.  The local people were brought up to the hardships of the terrain.   As Sue and I slowly climb the never ending stairway that stretches above us like some torturous Jacob’s ladder, we are rapidly overtaken by a kerchiefed crone in widow's weeds, who soon disappears out of sight above, leaving us panting and labouring below.

The stepped pathways are obviously very ancient.  The high dry-stone walls are constructed from hard granite stones and small boulders.  Crickets chirrup between the cracks and crevices and leap about in the hanging fronds of wild flowers that grow there.  The pungent aroma of lavender and thyme cloys the nostrils. Clumps of wild marjoram and fragrant oregano fringe the steps.  Small black ants scurry about their endless tasks amongst the red soil.

In the evening we roam together arm in arm in the lush gardens of the Palazzo Rufolo, with its exotic plants and flowers.  There is a spectacular view of the sea. It had been a favourite haunt of Richard Wagner.  Each year there's a Wagner Festival, when among the palm trees, lavish performances of the German composer's works are staged before a glittering international audience.

Holding hands, we explore the narrow lanes that lead off from the square that forms the centre of Ravello.  Languidly we look in the shop windows at the pottery and other local products.  There are meals in romantic restaurants with ruby wine glinting in the candlelight. It is a pretence of happiness, a sad charade, for the haunting reality of my wife's terminal condition eclipses the brightness of those moments and throws a dark cloud across our joy.

Three months earlier the physicians had confirmed her breast cancer had metastasised in her chest.  The cancer had spread from the original site.  People say the female is braver than the male.   Sue is no exception.  She knows she is living on borrowed time, but displays no self-pity.

One sunny day we decide to descend by the steps to the very foot of the mountain itself and visit the sea girt town of Minori far below.  Our maid at the hotel has told us there are four thousand steps, and we must allow a full day for the excursion.  We leave early after breakfast taking a bag with food and wine.

As the morning progresses, we continue our slow descent down the mountainside.  The blue sea glitters invitingly below and the sound of goat-bells tinkle in the distance.  By noontide the Italian sun is hot.  Somnolent bees hum around the rocky walls. Immobile lizards frozen in time, populate the rocks recharging their solar batteries, their sideways-blinking eyes yellow with black slits for pupils.  My wife walks ahead of me. Her breathing is heavy with the exertion of the journey.  Periodically she stops and looks around anxiously as I catch up with her.  Then she smiles and turns again and continues down the hill.  The fact of her impending demise bears down on me like a crushing leaden weight on my chest.   To experience these moments together - precious irreplaceable moments surrounded by this unbelievable beauty – is almost unbearable.   Soon it would all end in loss and loneliness.  'Is she thinking the same?'  I wonder. She looks flushed. Those brown eyes shine with happiness.

In the early afternoon, half way down, close to a wayside religious shrine, we come across a seat for weary travellers. Gratefully we stop for refreshment.  Quietly we sit together eating our meal of sandwiches, delicious tomatoes and green olives.  We flush it down with dark red country wine.  The fragrance of the herbs and wild flowers which surround us is an overpowering and heady mix.

Sitting closely together, my arm around her thin shoulders, we gaze out at the stupendous views of the sea and the coast  which spread out below us in both directions.  We can see the ribbon of the coastal road that winds its way between Sorrento and Salerno in the distance.   These moments there in the sun are electric. They are charged with a rare and special potency. We are caught in an immortal continuum.  It is as if time has stopped and snared us in a continuous nonspatial whole or extent or temporal succession in which no part or portion is distinct of distinguishable as single experience.  I am enwrapped with my lovely wife in an ever-redeemable present. We'll never leave this place. Time has suspended us there together in an immortal duality.

 Perhaps one day you'll tread that path down to Minori.   You may chance upon that traveller's bench. You'll see us sitting there together, as we always are and as we always will be, gazing silently out to sea.  There we'll remain always, until the warm winds and gentle Mediterranean rains have completed their work of erosion and Ravello and the mountain are no more.