Markets, Shrouds and Mummies, Turin

Zagan the motorhome’s again sleeping in the custom-built motorhome sosta on the southern outskirts of Turin, at Parcheggio Caio Mario (N45.02851, E7.64053). The sosta is right next door to Fiat’s giant Mirafiori complex, but as the Ducato isn’t made here, Zagan can’t be bothered going to look it over, shame on him. The €18 a night is proving well worth the cost to us, as the sosta feels very secure, and is a cricket’s leap from the number 4 tram, which rumbles you straight into central Torino.

7:40am this morning, which counts as the crack of dawn in Team Zagan, and we were up and at ’em! The markets of Turin called, and with Charlie walked and fed, off we pootled to sniff ’em out. Held in the whacking great Piazza Della Repubica, the Porta Palazzo markets are a fabulous display of the raw ingredients Italian wizards chuck in pots when conducting their dark food magic. Edging about between the stalls, inside and out, we eyed up the fresh fruit and veg, recognising most but not all of it. The camera came out, making an attempt to capture the freshness of it all, and failing magnificently. Locals pulled trollies and swung bags, olive-skinned stall owners hawked and we attempted to keep out of the way! Some of the cheeses may have won the ‘most wonderous’ grub competition, beautifully rounded and hanging like boxing speed bags. The meats didn’t fail to deliver a punch either, as hacked pigs trotters battled with still-headed lambs and unspecified offal for grimmest grub award.

Porta Palazzo, Turin

I **think** Zampini are pig’s legs?

Right, right, pig’s feet, that’s Zampini, pig’s feet. Yum.

Wonderful (looking) cured sausages

The biggest pieces of parmigiano I’ve ever seen

All this fresh stuff had us thinking maybe we should eat some of it?

Pastas and bread presented so well you could, ah, eat it?

Old fellas down the market

Shamefully, we bought nothing. Must try harder. And with empty hands, we headed to a nearby church, the welcomingly named Santuario Della Consolata. The Rough Guide mentions the place, describing pictures drawn by folks grateful for being spared a grisly end. As we walked in a mass kicked off, the latin chants filling the massively-gilted interior with a thick, sweetly atmospheric rhythm as we tip-toed about, counting how many nuns we could see. Finding the drawings, we were fascinated by them. People saved from goring bulls, Nazi abductors, moped and car crashes (many, many moped and car crashes), falls from balconies, a head-on collision between a pedestrian and a train, you name it. The varying quality of the images spoke of their touching authenticity, well worth a detour.

Santuario Della Consolata

Santuario Della Consolata

And that was just the start of it! Next up: the Turin Duomo (cathedral), home of the Turin Shroud. Claimed to be the cloth Christ was wrapped in after his crucifixion, carbon dating claims otherwise. Supporters of authenticity then claim carbon dating was done on parts of the cloth repaired after a fire, and on and on goes the testing. Personally, I’d find it quite wonderful if the cloth were the real thing. Unfortunately, whatever the case, the Chuch only displays the cloth every 25 years, so we had to make do with looking at the box it’s in, behind glass thicker than Benny Hill’s specs.

The Turin Shroud. Is in this box. Probably.

The following three and half hours were spent walking through 4000 years of history in Turin’s Museo Egizio – the museum of Egypt. I’ll make no attempt to try and explain quite what’s in this magnificent collection, other than to say it really is something. From tiny combs to tonne-up sarcophagus, the rooms are packed. Over 30,000 pieces have been bought, donated to, or fetched directly through early 20th century expeditions to Egypt. Sadly (for me), I couldn’t quite get the buzz I got from the likes of Delphi or Olympia, as walking from downtown Turin into this spectacle of North Africa was just too jarring an experience. It didn’t feel like they were real, like the millennia-old carvings a breath away must surely be made from plastic.

Tramming it home to feed and walk Charlie, we made a final foray back into the city to slurp a couple of home-made gelato. The ice cream here in Italy is like nothing elsewhere on the planet. Quite how they do it, I know not. Something to do with using full-cream milk and fresh eggs I hear, but the result is beautiful; a thick, sticky and intensely-flavoured mixture not unlike cake mix, smeared onto a cone using a spatula. Yummo!

Phew. We’ve back in Zagan, and are planning out next moves. Watch this space. Current thinking is to head east. And maybe a bit south, or maybe not. Nail-bitin stuff eh?

Cheers, Jay

P.S. Bonus pics of chap who’d set up the world’s smallest shop in Turin. If you’re broad-minded, and interested in what he was selling, click here.

Tiny shop in Turin

The shop’s inside a column like this!