Quite a strange destiny, that of Apulia in general and of the Murge in particular. During the golden ages of the Grand Tour to Italy – seventeenth and eighteenth centuries – painters, poets, chroniclers and travellers visited the regions of Campania and Sicilia, the islands, the low Tyrrhenian sea and the Ionian coast. These were considered the places of sun and remains, of brigands and taverns, of pictorial poverty and of wild folk dances. The ancient Norman domains, the Swabian castle and cathedral, the wonderful grottoes, the Neolithic remains and even the Trulli were ignored. That is why the myth of Italy, the beauties that still now do attract tourists to Italy, did not involve Apulia and the Murge (unfortunately or – probably - fortunately).

Here, a traveller in search for sensations will discover how the region is a coherent whole, the less meridional and bursting out of the southern lands: the «Puglia piana, la magna Catapana» regretted by king Enzo, when he was imprisoned in Bologna. But soon after he will discover an unpredictable land, whose variety is exemplified by the extreme easiness of an extraordinary cohabitation: here the past subsists with the pragmatism and the utilitarianism, thanks to a common denominator made of clarity and symmetry. If it is true that each region has a place, a locality that best resumes its qualities, in Apulia this place is the Murge of Trulli, that strip of land stretching between Martina Franca, Alberobello, Locorotondo and Selva di Fasano, an area full of the enigma and the charm of the Italian civilization.

The old tourist guides suggested to reach it by train, along the railway Casamassima-Putignano. Even nowadays the best way to approach the area is coming from the sea, from Bari or Monopoli, and then entering slowly, as in an initiation rite, the realm of the Trulli – or "caselle ", another name of the concentric rings made of "chiancarelle" (limestone shivers). It is really a realm by itself, an island with no time. This wavy plateau - made of red soil, covered with small vineyards, made green by holm oaks and locust trees, furrowed by endless dry stone walls – could resemble the Carso because of its sharp geological composition. But here the outlines are smooth and the landscape is similar to the English countryside, with a softness brightened by the shine of the Mediterranean sky. The parcelling out of the estates scattered Trulli everywhere: they stand in groups or isolated in the wonderful Valle d’Itria, between Locorotondo and Martina Franca; they aggregate around farms whose high walls resemble the Scottish ones; they arrange in a line along the curving roads in the suburbs of Alberobello. The historical events, the wars, the economical and political reorganisations, the Levantine influence and the Reign of Naples, the annexation to the Reign of Italy, the emigration, the neo-capitalism, all these events have not been able to alter the genuine and untouched antiquity of this fairy world.

It is thought that the Trulli originate from the Greek tholos; someone will tell you that there exist a magic-esoteric substratum, that these buildings are not only houses but also monuments; myths made of stone – emblems, as shown by the rough but powerful graphic symbology painted on their stony roofs: the villagers will show you the tidy interior of their houses, the ethnologist will explain you that the buildings in themselves are not very old, but that the tradition behind them is really remote. Maybe in ancient times the single-celled trullo was not a dwelling: it was at the same time an aedicule and a storehouse for agricultural tools. But the once rich Apulia has impoverished during the centuries, plundered by greedy settlers, and the farmer went to live here, in these small temples, enlarging them in order to fit the family growth. That is why today the trulli look like the thick grapes of a patriarchal bunch. But, first of all, they are a lesson: a visit here is like drinking the lively teaching of traditions, rediscovering the peacefulness relationship between man and earth the myths ascribe to the Golden Age. For the visitors, coming from the swarming towns, this is an unpredictable, unique, unforgettable experience, increased by the unusual landscape. The soil is dug-out by ravines and caves (those in Castellana are the biggest and more spectacular geological system of Italy); the green and red countryside is a mathematic sequence of perfect ploughings, vineyards, olive groves, copses; and Locorotondo is a solid ring of houses, a white maze; Martina Franca is a milky tangle from which stand out the Baroque style made of grey volutes, wrought iron, pink veils; Ostuni, on the borders of the area, is crammed of white houses within the ancient round ramparts. These are the towns of an ancient past, in which man dominated the expressive substance, so different from the proliferating disorder of the modern urban conglomeration. That is why the Murge can be considered lucky. They are settled apart from the benefits of today’s life but at the same time they ignore its disadvantages and humiliations. The Murge are eager to forget the secular burden of poverty and rhetoric that lyricize the implacable sun, the black flock, the dry cistern. Nevertheless they are able to not devour themselves. Not even the consumer society has succeed in adulterating the "dry white" that somewhere else becomes first choice sparkling wine, or the frankness of the genuine food, or above all the benevolent cordiality and availability of the people who inhabit the Murge.

Francesco Saba Sardi