Italian Adventures

A group of burly Italians walk side by side, their leaden steps landing in unison as they approach the hushed crowd; over the silence, the chanting of monks is just audible, setting the scene for their solemn approach. Each man has a leather strap wrapped around his thick wrist, the immediately identifiable leader is positioned in the middle. He carries a large wheel of pecorino cheese in his chalked hands.
It is the monday after Easter, and having eaten a heavy lunch composed largely of carbohydrates and chocolate, the entire Panicalese population congregates at the main archway-entrance to the hilltop town. The panoramic view from this point is all-consuming, valleys littered with olive groves and vineyards spread out below like a tapestry woven with only the richest green thread - but this is not why we have gathered.
Each year, on this day, at this hour, we meet to witness the time-old tradition of cheese-rolling, what the locals call ‘Ruzzolone’. In the most simplistic terms this sport is comparable to golf, only with a higher concentration of dairy products. The aim, other than an aggressive show of masculinity, is to roll the cheese around the ramshackle town, the champions being the team who complete the circuit in the fewest goes. The wheel of pecorino is wound tightly into the thick forearm of the roller, and then spun out, like a oversized yoyo, the strength and skill with which it is flung will determine success.
It does not always run smoothly: the four kilos of cheese are rolled directly into a parked car, slamming against the rear door with the force of a bowling ball mid-strike. The loud din made by cheese on metal stills the once bustling horde, they take one joint intake of breath, the silence is only interrupted by the sniggers of one of the town’s matriarchal figures, excusing everyone else to join in with hearty guffaws. Once in a while the cheese leaves the road altogether, bouncing down the steep hillside, weaving through the groves and gaining speed as it hurtles down the valley. Yet moments after one cheese is lost, another appears, carried by a young boy driving a moped, basking in the cheers of the momentarily desolate rabble.
As the competition is drawn to a close, and one team is crowned victorious, we stand in the in the dust filled streets. Though later we will scatter, the promise of more food in the main square too tempting to resist, for now we remain together, bound as one by the leather strap of the Ruzzolone.