The Cliff Remains Unmoved
The storm had arrived in the night, stretching itself across the Isle of Wight like a dark, omnipotent spectre. The windows shuddered under the weight of wind and salt, and the sea—drained of all colour by the absence of moon or sun—churned with an erratic violence, striking the rocks of the harbour with a fury that made no sound, a fury ancient and impersonal. Raindrops tapped upon the roof as the couple began, slowly and without ceremony, to loosen the knot that bound them to all that had always been—to the familiar normality of things, yes, that very normality which, over time, does not nourish but sedates. Or so they told me.
Their departure from the Channel was not marked by any theatrical gesture. Rather, it resembled the slow and deliberate unravelling of a thread that had been knotted for an entire life, and such a gesture inevitably gives rise to impossible thoughts—the very impossibility that coincides with dreaming, the utopia that lends breath to courage and vitality. And it is never too late to imagine the impossible, nor to reach toward it. As long as there is life, there is a place for hope.
The years had passed with a measured dignity—between the house, the children growing, the studies, the grandchildren needing help—until, quite unexpectedly, a window of terrible freedom had opened in the life of Roger and Daphne. Retirement had not come as a rupture, but rather as a fading of noise, a silence in which long-dormant thoughts, buried beneath the weight of responsibility, began to resurface.
At first, they spoke of Liguria. The choice seemed obvious—close, civilised, reassuring in its geographic proximity. Yet the impulse that had driven their search was not born of reason, and would not be appeased by convenience. They were not seeking logic; they were seeking the exotic, the different.
The early exchanges were polite, as such things tend to be. A handful of properties were proposed—some pleasant, others less so—but none sufficient. Not because they were lacking, but because the couple had not yet encountered the name of the place that was truly theirs. It was then that an alternative was suggested. It represented something of a stretch, as they might say, and it bore the sound of unfamiliarity in their mouths. Calabria. More precisely: Joppolo. A name little known even to most Italians, who, as is often the case, flow year after year into those familiar places already certified by the machinery of mass tourism—Puglia, Sicily, Sardinia, Tuscany.
Yet Italy, in truth, has far more to offer in terms of landscape. It is no lie to say there are regions forgotten by God, whose charm lies precisely in what once made others great—those very traits now diluted into brochures. The suggestion, perhaps because it bore the tone of conviction rather than persuasion, took root. They began to study the area, the logistics, the transport, the services. A map took shape from which a path might be traced.
A visit was arranged. They packed their suitcases and set off toward the ferry, reached Gatwick, then ascended by degrees—first to Rome, then to Lamezia Terme. From there, in a modestly rented Fiat, they drove toward the hills that rise above the sea, to the house that waited.
The structure made no boasts. It offered two levels, each accessible from different elevations due to the natural slope of the land. From the upper floor extended a platform that overlooked hills and sea, and far across the hazy blue water, the volcanic island of Stromboli stood immobile. The surrounding land bore fruit with a suspicious generosity—cherries, figs, tomatoes, peaches—that seemed to grow not through care but by calling.
This time, it was no longer about photographs or calls. The sun fell directly on the earth, without metaphor. The questions were precise, technical—as they always are when one is attempting to discern what is real and what is not: how the house had been built, in which year, with which materials, for what original purpose, and then the boundaries, the legal responsibilities, the permits. But beneath this rational surface stirred something older, something bare—the unease of dependence, the anxiety of having to rely on strangers in a place where one does not understand the codes, where gestures escape translation. It is no small thing, the realisation that one does not comprehend the rhythm of a land.
The matter of the land emerged early. The house—or rather, the former stable—sat on a hillside, with nothing but cultivable ground between it and the sea. Their concern was not with the structure itself, but with what might someday rise around it. Could someone build? Would the view remain?
The land, it was explained, was agricultural. And while it is true that converting such land to residential use is, for the foreseeable future, next to impossible, it cannot be guaranteed that it will remain so forever. Yes, in theory, an agricultural business might one day erect a small building—a tool shed, a storehouse, a caretaker's hut. But it would not be a tower, and more to the point, it would likely never arise at all. If the land is composed of centuries-old olive groves, the probability drops further still. For this is a game of probabilities—never zero, if we are honest—but in practical terms, who would tear down a grove of ancient olive trees? It is not my task to persuade, only to illustrate. It was a question that could not be answered with absolute certainty. This was admitted. Yet the admission did not land gently. It bred anxiety. The couple asked for guarantees—or else, they suggested, it was all a fraud.
The reply was offered without flourish or flattery: to engineer a fraud for so modest a commission would not only be improbable—it would be absurd. If one allows paranoia to guide decisions, then no place will ever be safe enough, and no future ever worthy of being lived. And it is a tragedy, surely, to let dreams spoil for lack of calm.
The agreement was signed. The property became theirs, though several months passed before they could return. In the interim, the deed was executed via proxy by our local agent. I found myself managing the renovation works on their behalf, and during a brief visit we met with the surveyor to shape the plan. What occurs in the office of a surveyor is not easily summarised, but one might describe it as the attempt to render a vision technically real, to measure and certify imagination. The construction firm was coordinated accordingly, a fair agreement struck, with three instalments linked to the phases of work, and a third-party supervisor to prevent conflicts of interest.
And yet, standing there, one could not help but feel that the place demanded nothing. The ancient Greeks had longed for it, fought for it, colonised it—and they called it the Coast of the Gods not for poetic flourish, but for its generosity. The cliffs rose with stern defiance, and the sea below remained so transparent that the sand appeared suspended under turquoise glass.
The works began without delay, spectacle, nor assertion. No one seemed to expect gratitude as what was offered was craft—sober, concrete and rigorous. In contrast to every stereotype, it stood as proof that Calabria still shelters artisans who are capable, honest, and swift. Communication, of course, required patience: emails were ignored, hands spoke more than phones, and time moved by gesture, not by clock. Yet when the agreement is clear and respect mutual, the work flows with a grace that needs no supervision.
From this mutuality, a quiet familiarity emerged. The foreman’s son offered to tend the garden during their absences, in exchange for its fruit—a gesture welcomed and later sealed by a simple meal, unforgettable in its clarity: fish caught that very morning, grilled upon the terrace, while the sea—indifferent, ever present—breathed quietly beneath them.
The house, in time, became something else. It was rebuilt with local stone and slowly disappeared into the garden that gathered around it. It had a way of holding the light. The view remained; in the distance, the volcano still stood. Winters passed without winter. In their place came a shy spring, fragrant with jasmine and salt. One might be tempted to speak of freedom. But the truth is less sentimental. What they found was not freedom, but permission. A permission not granted by systems or societies, but by a land so indifferent to human presence that it allowed those who arrived to forget themselves—and in forgetting, to begin again.
