Travel to Puglia: A conspiracy of beauty, myth and light

Amid the frenzied clang of tambourines and squealing violins, the women would glide on the ground like tarantula spiders. They would then slither furtively and twist their bodies into pretzel-like shapes. The Dance of the Tarantula in the old days in Puglia, a region in south-eastern Italy, was believed to be an antidote to the potentially fatal bite of the tarantula. In the finale, which could happen after a few hours or even days, the women would fall in a drained heap — cured. (Strangely, there are no tarantula spiders in Puglia.)

In modern times, the dance has been rationalised as a liberating experience that helped repressed women back then to purge their inner demons and frustrations. Unfortunately, we did not get to witness a modern-day performance, though young women still tramp in a hypnotic state to the clanging of tambourines, skirts a-swirl, at music and dance festivals held in the summer. We were there in autumn, and savoured instead the allure of this region, which one must uncover slowly, with the persistence of a fond friend.

Puglia, we discovered, over a whistle-stop trip is an unspoilt paradise of 65 million olive trees, lush vineyards, groves of almond trees, hilltop castles, gold baroque cities, white-washed towns and conical dwellings called trulli located in the town of Alberobello. (Roll the ‘r’ and the ‘o’ when pronouncing the name of the town). We relished the region’s hearty cuisine and tasted only some of its 200 types of pasta, and unique creamy cheeses.

Admittedly, Puglia has neither the pulsating throb of Rome nor the overwhelming romance of Venice. It’s a shy-violet kind of region that is loved by the Italians but largely overlooked by the international traveller who has yet to unravel its hidden charms… spun-sugar beaches (the peninsula is hugged by the bluest of blue seas — the Ionian and the Adriatic) and sunny picturesque getaways where one gets to unwind slowly as one takes in the most stunning sights. We revelled in time-honoured traditions like the afternoon siesta, which is taken seriously here. Homes and shops are shuttered and no one stirs till the evening stroll happens. That is when the scene is daubed with bursts of colour — olive-skinned beauties and muscled Romeos walk around arm in arm, licking mouth-watering gelatos as they watch a flaming sun glide off the sky.

We flew into Naples and from there drove south to Lecce, our first stop. The most baroque city in southern Europe, Lecce is the Florence of the south where facades of honey-coloured churches, balconies and the Basilica of Santa Croce are intricately carved and chiselled. Lecce was a charming town of narrow alleys and tiny piazzas studded with cafes, where we relaxed across from a Roman amphitheatre that could hold 20,000 spectators, baying for the blood of do-or-die gladiators.

Eighteen kilometres south of Lecce, Galatina is yet wrapped in its Greek past. There, old timers still believe in tarantism (the bite of the tarantula spider transports young women into spells of wild dancing). Indeed, the dance originated in Galatina and legend has it that outsiders frowned on the town because of this somewhat bizarre ritual. In order to make Galatina famous for something other than the controversial tarantism, a chef at the Pasticceria Ascalone invented the pasticciotto. We tasted this typical short-cut pastry brimming with cream and felt like indulging in some abandoned dancing ourselves.

In Puglia, we felt like we were being followed — by mysterious myth, a shifting pearly light and colour that our words and cameras could not quite capture. Otranto, the easternmost city in Italy, turned out to be another photogenic town, a seaside resort with a small fishing harbour and a tree-lined promenade outside its 15th century walls. Indeed, Otranto has some of the best beaches in sun-stunned Puglia, where one can snorkel and swim or picnic on an outcrop enveloped in gorgeous vistas and feel cooled by a soft salt-laden breeze.

Puglia continued to hold us in thrall when we drove down to the southernmost tip of the region, Santa Maria di Leuca. There, two oceans, the Adriatic and the Ionian, swirl and crash throwing up huge breakers that spray mist into the air akin to a transparent veil.

Every Puglian town was enchanting and different — Ostuni cascaded down three hills, a white slash in the Puglian light which God has sprayed on the region in such abundance. Alberobello, further up north, was peppered with over 1,000 conical-shaped homes called trulli, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Restaurants, shops, boutiques and art galleries nestled in the trullis though some of these houses are inhabited by families even though they seemed more suitable for elves. Everything around the trullis looked like it was built for small mischievous fairies and gnomes rather than humans. These beehive-shaped homes were built so that they could easily be dismantled and were the owners’ ingenious way to avoid paying taxes to the king.

The seafront town of Bari with its air of Italian exuberance was an antithesis to Alberobello. And there we met the real Santa Claus ... in its basilica dedicated to Saint Nicholas, the original Santa Claus. Swarthy and slender, Saint Nicholas was born in Turkey (then part of the Roman Empire) and bore no resemblance to the red-cheeked plump gift-giver we know today.

Later, we walked along Bari’s lamp-lit seafront promenade and felt the mysterious pull of the region once again.

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