Foxes Hill

Foxes Hill

(...the son of Gina)

It is three o'clock in the afternoon, I remember it very well, and we are in the middle of June 1955.

School has just finished two days ago, and I am leaving for a vacation, which I expect will be very long: all summer.

I go to Rocchetta to find my maternal grandmother Filomena; Dad accompanied me by car, a Fiat 500C, to Trani: at the bus stop for Cerignola, in Bisceglie square.

It is hot and, where we are, there is no shade under which to shelter from the sun, there is not even a shop awning folded down.

We are in Apulia and in this period, here with us, it cannot be otherwise.

Meanwhile, while we wait for the bus, Dad continues with his advice and recommendations as he had already done from Corato.

My mother, on the other hand, when I left the house, hugged and kissed me several times: a few tears ran down her face.

This is my first time traveling alone; I am only seven years old, and I have not even made them.

My father Antonio is really a good person, it is neither naive nor inexperienced, but I understand that he is a little worried; he knows very well that I would have listened and followed his advice.

I understand it well: after all, I am still a child and it is not usual for children to travel alone.

************

The journey, perhaps for those times and for the means in circulation at the time, would have been quite long even if it had have been just a hundred kilometers.

It will, however, be a journey with too many stops, too many bus changes and, above all, too many drivers to recommend.

************

I have the feeling that at the last moment he can change his mind and never let me leave.

The journey is long, and he had already explained this to me before. It is a vacation, which they have promised me for some time, and the arrangements with grandmother have already been made.

How many nights have I dreamed of this travel!

At the beginning my parents, like last year, had decided that they would accompany me but, a few days before my departure, my mother told me that, perhaps, I would not go to Rocchetta because my father could no longer accompany me: he would have done it, but he had more to do than usual.

I look my father in the eye, showing him all my fear; but he senses and looks at me: he understood that maybe I am about to cry and immediately reassures me by stroking my hair.

However, we wait for the bus; Dad therefore continues to give me directions; "Be careful that, in Cerignola, at the cathedral stop, you have to get off the bus and wait for Candela who will arrive after a while!

Then when you arrive at Candela station, get off and wait for the Lapalorcia company bus, which will take you to Rocchetta; there, go straight to grandma's house!

Be careful with the suitcase, do not make your grandmother angry, and be good, please!" he continues as I nod briskly, wanting him to understand that he can rest assured.

Finally, the bus arrives: a screech of brakes, a puff of compressed air, and it is stopped; the doors open, and the driver gets out.

End of advice and recommendations, one more caress and I go up; I am only one, there is no one else going up.