Cadastral maps, ‘rose camune’ and identifying marks

‘Of course, the Teresian Land Registry – that certainly worked; everything that’s accurate comes from there.’ So says the surveyor as he places the photocopies of the document he’s brought me – *Mondonico* – on the table. Appendix A. The house is clearly visible within that cluster of closed lines that stands out from the rest of the built-up area. The street name has remained the same, Via della Cà; the stream is clearly marked: Valle. The round stamp reads: ‘Milan Land Registry Administration 1905’. ‘It was a geometric cadastral survey based on expert assessments.’ The surveyor explains to me that this is where what we have in our hands comes from: back then, in 1722, they carried out detailed measurements, even of small properties, and drew up up-to-date maps – a painstaking process. They were surveyors from outside the region, not Lombards, because many of the local officials were corrupt or complacent. ‘They completed it in a year – not like today… Naturally, the nobles objected: it would have meant taxing their properties, which had never been properly surveyed.’ The bundle of photocopied sheets contains a precise description, as if the drawings were not enough. Written in elegant yet somewhat difficult-to-read handwriting, with flourishes and curling letters, they describe the route step by step in words, complete with measurements.

I asked the surveyor to retrieve this document to find out whether the path that runs past the house and then goes round it falls within the council’s jurisdiction or not. On the map, the group of houses – the two farmhouses – are outside the actual built-up area. All around is white, which represents the rising hill and the surrounding woodland. Hic sunt leones, as it was written on ancient maps. I read aloud: “The Strada della Cassina Cà, which begins on the western side of the village of Mondonico and, running between the west and north, crosses the Vallone di Campsirago stream…”. All the plots are geometric in shape: rectangles and squares of various sizes, and each has a number to identify it.

“Mappa” is a word of Punic origin, the surveyor explains to me, and in some regions it refers to a tablecloth or napkin; its meaning was probably “cloth” – made of linen – but it later came to denote a graphic representation of a territory or piece of land, as it was drawn on canvas. ‘Nowadays we call it a topographical map, and topography was a subject when I was at university.’ ‘So this isn’t a geographical map, but a map?’ I ask. ‘Yes, that’s what it’s called… it’s the basis of my profession.’ Speaking of the map drawn on canvas, the story of Dido comes to mind: the king told her to take as much land as could be covered by an oxhide, and she cleverly cut it into many very thin strips, then joined them together to form a rope, stretched it around a hill and founded Carthage there. ‘Yes,’ sighs the Geometrist, ‘it’s the famous “Dido’s problem”, which concerns isoperimetry – the technique for determining which geometric shape has the greatest area for a given perimeter. Usually it’s a circle.’ Here on the map, there are no circles. The only things that don’t follow straight lines are the stream and the roads: the former winds its way like a little snake. ‘Doesn’t the geometry of geometers favour straight lines?’ I ask him. ‘Have you heard of the Map of Bedolina?’ ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it,’ I reply. ‘Well, that’s the oldest topographical map in the world. It’s survived because it’s engraved in stone.’ The Surveyor pulls out his tablet and shows me an image of a rock; marks are visible, highlighted in black. I recognise it. I’d once caught a glimpse of it in a book by Emmanuel Anati about the Camuni people. The Surveyor searches for further information on his tablet.

He adds that it is a flat Pleistocene sandstone slab, 9 metres long and 4 metres wide: the hands of Bronze Age and Iron Age surveyors carved it out to create the equivalent of the map we now have here on the table. ‘These,’ he points out, ‘are topographical patterns, dotted squares and zigzag paths, but there are also warriors, animals, huts, dwellings, and cup-marked motifs, just like those found here in the woods around Monte San Genesio and on Monte Barro. Over there in Bedolina, on the rock, the famous Rosa Camuna is also engraved.’ The Rosa is the symbol of Lombardy; it was proposed by a group of graphic designers led by Bruno Munari. On the viewer, the stylised version of the Bedolina map, highlighted by the researchers, shows a design that resembles the one depicting the surrounding area. Cultivated fields and registered properties, and then the paths running from one of these rectangles to the next. ‘It was drawn 3,500 years ago. Our topography lecturer showed it to us once in class to help us understand what a map is, and how people need to represent the land in order to claim it as their own. First and foremost, it’s a mental exercise, a form of order… I’ve never forgotten it since. I’ve pursued this profession – which may seem dry to some – because I take great pleasure in looking at maps, more so than at geographical charts. I don’t like travelling; I like getting to know the area where I live and exploring it on foot, measuring it out, even if it’s just a small section, like here where you are. I realise it sounds like an obsession, but for me maps are something concrete, not just abstract. I find myself in them. I am right there in them as I look at them and follow them.’ Using my laptop, I look for more information on the Bedolina Map. It is located at Capo di Monte, halfway along the Val Camonica, in the rock art park. An encyclopaedia entry we peruse on the illuminated screen explains that it is in fact a topographical map complete with cadastral details, similar to the Teresian map; it also indicates the productive capacity of the various fields – those densely packed dots. For other scholars, however, it is a map of another world, intended to aid the tribe’s shaman on his magical flight. According to yet other scholars, its carvers created a three-dimensional map, in which the contours of the mountains can be seen through the raised sections of the stone: it is a landscape within which human activities take place, something halfway between a cadastral survey and a painting – or rather a sculpture, given that it is carved into the rock. It’s far more detailed than the one the surveyor brought me, which is flat. I tell him so. ‘True,’ he replies, ‘but this one’s enough to work out whether that road is a local council road or not, and at the end of the day, that’s what you need, isn’t it?’