The boats were in, the nets were still wet, but the fish had gone. I'd walked the mile or so north of Gargnano that hot Sunday morning, past the imposing Villa Feltrinelli, where Mussolini spent several years during the war, past the old lemon greenhouses now bereft of lemon trees, looking for... well I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for exactly, except that they were called Franz.
I'd read in a book at the hotel where we were staying that there was a fish market in Gargnano, and thought that, like most fish markets, it would be photogenic. The young owner of the hotel explained that 'Franz' fished Lake Garda each evening, when the weather allowed it, and that their most prized catch is a member of the salmon family called coregone, more prosaically known as common whitefish. They sold the catch each morning beneath the arches of the town hall in the village. He told me where I would find them and even offered to ring them to tell them I was coming. I told him that wouldn't be necessary.
It turned out that Franz was the nickname of the Dominici family of fishermen. I don't know why. I found them in a cluster of old stone buildings tucked away down by a tiny church on a little inlet to the lake, the trappings of their work strewn around. By mid-morning their working day was over, and there was nothing to photograph but their nets.
It was blisteringly hot as I walked back to the village. The earlier mist over the lake had burned off, leaving the water deep blue and the air gin-clear. It was silent, apart from a distant church bell and the occasional scuttle of lizards at the roadside as I passed. Gargnano, which had been quietly drowsing in the sun when I passed through earlier in the morning, had now sprung into life as villagers strolled the streets and met and chatted, or stopped for coffee or drinks, in relaxed Sunday tradition.
We decided to have lunch. From a handful of restaurants directly overlooking the lake we chose Al Miralago, because the place looked spick and span and friendly, but also because their menu offered lake sardines, which I wanted to try. Comfortably seated in the shade of a huge canopy we watched the gentle Sunday activity of the little town over cold beer and prosecco and a basket of bread. The lake sardines were plump and juicy, and grilled to a crisp on the outside. Like sardines from the sea, only earthier.
I wonder if they were caught by Franz?
Al Miralago, Lungolago Zanardelli 5, 25084 Gargnano BS
Tel 0365 71209
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