A true Renaissance mirage appears surprise among the olive trees

Montalbano Vecchio, seventeenth century village, between Torre Canne and Ostuni.
 
Frankly, we do not know whether to present the village of Montalbano Vecchio like a mirage that has materialized, or as a Renaissance rural architecture model perfectly preserved.
In any case, this is what happens: the spigot Torre Canne exit highway 16 South from Bari - Brindisi, following the signs for the hamlet of Ostuni, cross two columns that open the way to "Montalbano Old sixteenth century." S 'take a dirt road right through which vanish by some miracle five centuries of history as if they were water.
farmhouse glare of greatest of our times, Masseria Montalbano perpetual within its walls the architectural styles and ideals of the Renaissance. A legacy that the group of entrepreneurs who faced the challenging work of restoration, has been careful not to contaminate well.
At the moment the village is open to the public for receptions, meetings, conferences, cultural and musical events, entrusted to a chef staff, set designers, banqueting experts.
But it is also a hotel in Puglia unparalleled, with 28 rooms including 6 suites located in as many houses in rows on two wings separated by a stone road shaded by palm trees.
The village of Montalbano Vecchio, in which 5,000 square meters have followed the Counts of Conversano and gentlemen of various ilk, develops in golden proportion according to the principles of centrality and structural clarity at that time professed. Everything revolves around the courtyard, beautiful, charming, who looks at dusk in Ostuni and lit the fire of the sunset on the other side. Cooled by mulberries greenish, bordeggiata from olearie presses in similar stone bowls for giant, illuminated at night by yourself candles and torches, with a central well, it is made up of uneven paving stones that are followed for thick and large leaks, polished by the footsteps of the 317 inhabitants that the heyday resided in the rural complex. It can almost see parading, damn, the brown rags of the villagers, the guests of the house with coats per day on calzebraghe, veils and brocades adorned the ladies, curls calamistro, the grim administrator and sussiegoso chaplain.
On the court looks at the main floor of the manor house, the courtyard watching the loggia and arcades, the square of the church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin of the Rosary, brooding in her breast in the pulpit and a choir, statues, a confessional removed from the mouth of the years .
Around this core they rise the barrel vaults of the various rooms, delimited by thick walls two meters and passes: the stables with cribs to the stables, the mill, with its frangitrici mole on display, baked, ice house, the presses underground that are revealed through crystal gashes in the pavement in "chianche". And everything is circumscribed, almost ordered by 20 hectares of ancient olive trees.
From the reception to the recreation area and the reception rooms to the garden cloaked in velvet plant, another place of speculative beloved for the civilizations of the past, from the kitchens hid from fanciful chandeliers fashioned in white lime in cascame fruit, everything is almost indistinguishable from the original. so much so that stopping here where we've come you do not have the impression to spend hours in a tourist accommodation embryonic pearl, but as Humanism, in rural variant, has germinated.
In accommodation of the ladies, which gives access to a wide staircase, and through that maze to get lost is likely, a towering brick kitchen that spread moods of brodaglie savory, sweet and sour spicy vapors of meat topped with almonds; maybe - we imagine - for themed banquets, ceremonial that both the master in those days like these were known. In the study of amateur painters s'affaccendavano family of turpentine oil, pestles of pigments to be pulverized. From the frescoed hall rose bursts of flute and vibrations of virginal: a progenitor of the piano, fortepiano eighteenth century, is still there to swear that music, like every ideal city at the time courted, was art of the truth.
Alberto Selvaggi
(From "The South" Journal)
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