Celebrated, not discovered

Author: By Alison Arnett, Globe Staff

Date: SUNDAY, October 19, 1997

Page: M9

Section: Travel

Yet, when we drove down its dusty roads and into its agricultural towns in May, we seldom saw tourists and never an American. Puglia may be celebrated, but it's still not discovered.

American travelers, however, have an insatiable lust for Italy, and eventually Tuscany will pale a bit, its golden tones grown too familiar. For the next wave, perhaps agrituristica Italian will be the rage.

But I'm jumping ahead of the story. We had traveled for several days in Puglia, tasted its amazingly fresh and simple wonders of the sea, sampled the olives, enjoyed the pasta, viewed the myriad dome-shaped truilli -- small buildings made of unmortared stone with conical roofs, which are said to have been made to be torn down quickly to thwart tax collectors and then rebuilt. The white buildings dot the flat countryside, looking as though trolls might come walking out.

We had driven too long and needed to stretch our legs. So we journeyed to the northernmost part of the region, called the Gargano Promontory, looking for hiking trails. This bulge of mountains hugging the Adriatic shoreline joins disparate sights. One minute, we were driving through swampy fields where men were harvesting onions, the scent of them making the air positively tingle. The next minute, we were climbing high above the sea to Monte S. Angelo, a welter of white buildings clinging to a mountainside with an underground shrine to the archangel Michael.

Then around and around and down again to the shore to Mattinata, a sleepy little town almost swallowed up in olive groves. The hiking trails eluded us, though. The Michelin guide described forests and a national park, but no entrance was clearly marked on the Italian road map.

So we set off driving up a steep road, marked now and then with squiggly signs we didn't pay much attention to. The road climbed quickly, doubling and tripling back onto itself, the afternoon shadows growing on the valley and mountainsides, all covered in olive trees. We could see the next mountain peaks, where we thought we wanted to go, looking as though one could throw a very long rope across to them.

Suddenly we rounded a hairpin turn, and my husband hit the brakes. The squiggly signs, with the red line through a roadway, meant that the bridge was out, crumbled into the valley. The signs had been clear, if one had paid attention.

Crestfallen, we turned back. Then along the road back I saw a small sign pointing up another peak, marked Monte Sacro, azienda agrituristica. In Monte S. Angelo, I'd bought jars of tomatoes and preserved cherries in a shop featuring locally made food products from the Monte Sacro farm. A young man had pressed a brochure about the farm into my hands, which I'd puzzled over, his command of English matching mine in Italian (essentially nil). The brochure obviously advertised lodging and a restaurant.

So here was the farm -- or rather way up there was the farm. Our rental car climbed up and up a steep roadway, punctuated now and then with signs advertising a restaurant and the residence for guests. Along the way were flocks of goats watched over only by madly barking dogs, wildflowers galore, and more groves of olive trees.

Finally, we topped the crest, and there it was -- a sturdy whitewashed stone building surrounded by enclosures for animals and steeply terraced fields. The air was heavily scented with wildflowers, the sun shone valiantly, the only sound a few murmuring insects and wildly clanking bells.

We parked the car and began to explore, the only person we saw a farmer who smiled bemusedly at our interest. The farm perched in the mountains was bucolic heaven. Below us stretched patches of silvery gray olive trees, interspersed with lemon trees, fields of newly planted green beans and lettuces and, beyond them, a limitless horizon of the blue Adriatic.

All around were pens full of several varieties of chickens, a small pen of ducks, a few turkeys, and some guinea hens. The bell-sounds were from the cows, giant pale brown cows with their smaller calves, each one with its own bell. We walked along the enclosed pasture and then stopped short. Onone end of a low barn sat a man milking a water buffalo, its long, curved horns gleaming in the sunlight. He sang plaintively to the animal, then stood up and shooed it into the corral. Immediately, he made a guttural call, and another animal, apparently knowing her own call, ambled slowly over to be milked.

The beauties of Monte Sacro were seductive, and it was easy to see that a stay would be restful. But there seemed to be no one around; the restaurant was shuttered and dark, and the main building also closed. By the time we returned to the car to leave, the only person we saw was a dusky-haired young shepherd carrying wild greens in one hand, trying to restrain goats that had jumped gaily over a fence and were gamboling down the road.

The name agritustica and certainly the brochure I was clutching indicated one could rent rooms, even ride horses, but how was a mystery.

That evening, we dined at Trattoria Della Nonna, in the midst of olive groves at the edge of the sea. There was the provole di bufala, slightly tangy semihard cheese, from Monte Sacro. Beef, so gently and simply pan-fried that the quality was what one tasted, was grown at the farm. The greens, the asparagus, and other early spring vegetables were also grown there, as well as delicious limoncino, a lemon liqueur produced there from lemons grown at Monte Sacro. Yes, the restaurant was connected to the farm, our waiter told us, but the language difficulties kept the conversation to a minimum. We had gone to della Nonna from a guide recommendation, but now all roads seemed to be leading back to Monte Sacro.

We puzzled over the mystery the next day as we hiked wonderfully groomed paths through deep woods heady with the scent of pines at the top of the Gargano. We wondered as we crossed the mountains of Abruzzi on our path back to Rome. We were still intrigued by Monte Sacro when we got back home.

Finally, a colleague's Italian boyfriend obligingly called the office in Mattinata for me (it had been shuttered closed the times I'd tried to go there) and unraveled the details of Monte Sacro. Rooms can indeed be had at the Monte Sacro farm, owned by Pasquale Latino, who also owns Trattoria della Nonna. The rates are quite reasonable, ranging from $25 (40,000 lire approximately) for room and dinner in low season, January through end of May, to $35 (55,000 lire) in August. There are also apartments available for $450-$580 a week.

Although Monte Sacro is a working farm, where cheeses, liqueurs, and other agricultural products are made for the restaurant and for retail sale, guests are not invited to do farm work. They can ride horseback, though. There have been Italian and German tourists, the employee in the Monte Sacro office said, but so far no Americans.

Donna Franca, who owns Donna Franca Tours in the North End, Boston, says that agritourism is a ``new concept'' all over Italy, not just in Puglia. Italians and foreign tourists ``would rather go back to the roots,'' Franca says, choosing to stay on farms or farms converted into inns.

For information on Italy in general: Italian Government Tourism Council; telephone (212) 245-4961; or (212) 245-4822.