Panicale is a town with secrets. Like an Italian Midsomer, it seems cursed with more than its fair share of murders – each one a murky web of deceit for Emilia Fox’s Signora Volpe to unravel. But the biggest mystery is Panicale itself: how can a town this lovely exist in real life, yet remain largely under the radar, less than ten miles from the holiday hotspot of Tuscany?
The answer is Umbria. Tuscany’s neighbour has all the soft-edged sown valleys and plump, wine-bottle-green hills of its more famous cousin – but without the “brand name”, it’s quieter, cheaper and arguably more charming. Just 20 minutes off the autostrada, in fact, my hire car is on haywain-wide country lanes that seem to wind back on themselves like linguine. Soon sat-nav-defyingly lost, I nose the Cinquecento between unnamed hamlets and villages so picturesquely unpeopled it looks as if nobody’s stirred since the Renaissance.
When I eventually open the car door in front of my villa – barely another building in sight in the whole widescreen valley vista – the smell of sun-warmed lavender envelops me as I reach for a bottle of the local Montefalco. It’s as if the old converted farmhouse I’ve rented has la dolce vita baked into every honey-coloured brick and terracotta tile.
Panicale itself dates back to the tenth century – and looks it (in a good way). Its ancient lanes wind up, down and round the hill it’s built on, mostly too narrow for cars, which means the central square and surrounds are naturally pedestrianised, with cafés and bars spilling prettily out onto the piazza. Most of what we see in Signora Volpe is real, including the sighingly good views out across the photogenically farmed plains towards Lake Trasimeno. True, Tuscany has beaches, whereas Umbria is landlocked; but Trasimeno has a sort-of-seaside where you can kayak, windsurf or simply sun yourself like the locals. By the time I get there, the last traghetto boat has already left for Isola Maggiore, the island in the middle. But, if I’m honest, I’m not sorry to miss what my guidebook describes unencouragingly as “a one-room Lace Museum… remembering a vanishing craft” or the church of San Salvatore, “which is always closed”. Instead, I sit on the shore, watching men fishing in the lake with their sons, until sunset turns the water from forget-me-not blue to sheening silver.
An hour’s drive brings plenty of other hilltop medieval towns into range, and the larger ones have art collections to (almost) rival Tuscany’s, too. Perugia may not be Florence, but it’s a big enough draw to require parking lots on the edge of town, complete with moving walkways and escalators that whizz you through a catacomb of vaulted chambers and subterranean streets that were simply built on top of in the 1500s. The history here feels like it was made with Horrible Histories in mind: papal poisonings, flagellating medieval cults, and a sort of warlord/mayor/Popeye figure called Braccio Fortebraccio (“Arm Strongarm”), whose heraldic insignia featured a helmet and spinach, and whose allies included a genie (which must have been helpful). The art is arresting, too: in the city’s Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, I’m pulled in by some thumpingly beefy 1281 sculptures by a bloke called Arnolfo di Cambio, and lose track of time until, three floors later, I emerge into the 19th century.
That said, I’m even more excited about Perugia’s other claim to fame. For reasons I’m too hungry ever to investigate properly, it’s the capital of Italy’s sweeties and chocolate industry:home of October’s annual Eurochocolate festival, HQ to the country’s biggest producer, and with confectioners scattered around the town like hundreds and thousands. I wander the main drag, Corso Vannucci – pedestrianised as if built with the express purpose of la passeggiata – weaving between the hipster beards and tanned midriffs of the city’s student population. And I stare, wide-eyed as a child, at the clever, city-shaped cakes, and piles of primary-coloured bonbons in the sweet-shop windows, before devouring an ice cream – as blissfully soft and crisply cool as fresh white pillowcases. Arezzo, Gubbio and Cortona are similarly cultured, but my favourite days were those sat outside my villa or pottering around the countryside. Here, the vineyards of Tuscany segue into the olive groves of Umbria, and the land looks as if it’s upholstered in a soft green felt, faded with age and sunlight, thicker in some (laurel-forested) places than in others – and dotted with rows of emblematic cypress trees. Bright wildflowers adorned the meadows, and when the breeze was right, the smell of pine drifted down from who-knows-how-far-away. The only noise was birdsong and church bells – and, one morning, the soft putt-putt of another Fiat, forcing its way at walking pace through a waist-high shrub forest with a shotgun pointing out of its window. (No need to alert Ms Volpe; they’re simply hunting for boar.) Honestly, if a few bit-part actors have to die to keep this place a secret, I’m fine with that.
Panicale is a town with secrets. Like an Italian Midsomer, it seems cursed with more than its fair share of murders – each one a murky web of deceit for Emilia Fox’s Signora Volpe to unravel. But the biggest mystery is Panicale itself: how can a town this lovely exist in real life, yet remain largely under the radar, less than ten miles from the holiday hotspot of Tuscany?
The answer is Umbria. Tuscany’s neighbour has all the soft-edged sown valleys and plump, wine-bottle-green hills of its more famous cousin – but without the “brand name”, it’s quieter, cheaper and arguably more charming. Just 20 minutes off the autostrada, in fact, my hire car is on haywain-wide country lanes that seem to wind back on themselves like linguine. Soon sat-nav-defyingly lost, I nose the Cinquecento between unnamed hamlets and villages so picturesquely unpeopled it looks as if nobody’s stirred since the Renaissance.
When I eventually open the car door in front of my villa – barely another building in sight in the whole widescreen valley vista – the smell of sun-warmed lavender envelops me as I reach for a bottle of the local Montefalco. It’s as if the old converted farmhouse I’ve rented has la dolce vita baked into every honey-coloured brick and terracotta tile.
Panicale itself dates back to the tenth century – and looks it (in a good way). Its ancient lanes wind up, down and round the hill it’s built on, mostly too narrow for cars, which means the central square and surrounds are naturally pedestrianised, with cafés and bars spilling prettily out onto the piazza. Most of what we see in Signora Volpe is real, including the sighingly good views out across the photogenically farmed plains towards Lake Trasimeno. True, Tuscany has beaches, whereas Umbria is landlocked; but Trasimeno has a sort-of-seaside where you can kayak, windsurf or simply sun yourself like the locals. By the time I get there, the last traghetto boat has already left for Isola Maggiore, the island in the middle. But, if I’m honest, I’m not sorry to miss what my guidebook describes unencouragingly as “a one-room Lace Museum… remembering a vanishing craft” or the church of San Salvatore, “which is always closed”. Instead, I sit on the shore, watching men fishing in the lake with their sons, until sunset turns the water from forget-me-not blue to sheening silver.
Request a brochure and get inspiration for your next holiday
An hour’s drive brings plenty of other hilltop medieval towns into range, and the larger ones have art collections to (almost) rival Tuscany’s, too. Perugia may not be Florence, but it’s a big enough draw to require parking lots on the edge of town, complete with moving walkways and escalators that whizz you through a catacomb of vaulted chambers and subterranean streets that were simply built on top of in the 1500s. The history here feels like it was made with Horrible Histories in mind: papal poisonings, flagellating medieval cults, and a sort of warlord/mayor/Popeye figure called Braccio Fortebraccio (“Arm Strongarm”), whose heraldic insignia featured a helmet and spinach, and whose allies included a genie (which must have been helpful). The art is arresting, too: in the city’s Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, I’m pulled in by some thumpingly beefy 1281 sculptures by a bloke called Arnolfo di Cambio, and lose track of time until, three floors later, I emerge into the 19th century.
That said, I’m even more excited about Perugia’s other claim to fame. For reasons I’m too hungry ever to investigate properly, it’s the capital of Italy’s sweeties and chocolate industry:home of October’s annual Eurochocolate festival, HQ to the country’s biggest producer, and with confectioners scattered around the town like hundreds and thousands. I wander the main drag, Corso Vannucci – pedestrianised as if built with the express purpose of la passeggiata – weaving between the hipster beards and tanned midriffs of the city’s student population. And I stare, wide-eyed as a child, at the clever, city-shaped cakes, and piles of primary-coloured bonbons in the sweet-shop windows, before devouring an ice cream – as blissfully soft and crisply cool as fresh white pillowcases. Arezzo, Gubbio and Cortona are similarly cultured, but my favourite days were those sat outside my villa or pottering around the countryside. Here, the vineyards of Tuscany segue into the olive groves of Umbria, and the land looks as if it’s upholstered in a soft green felt, faded with age and sunlight, thicker in some (laurel-forested) places than in others – and dotted with rows of emblematic cypress trees. Bright wildflowers adorned the meadows, and when the breeze was right, the smell of pine drifted down from who-knows-how-far-away. The only noise was birdsong and church bells – and, one morning, the soft putt-putt of another Fiat, forcing its way at walking pace through a waist-high shrub forest with a shotgun pointing out of its window. (No need to alert Ms Volpe; they’re simply hunting for boar.) Honestly, if a few bit-part actors have to die to keep this place a secret, I’m fine with that.
Signora Volpe Thursday 8.00pm U&Drama
Request a brochure and get inspiration for your next holiday