Florence to San Gimignano

Florence to Ponte a Cappiano 23 October


So we say goodbye to lovely Florence and our lovely 4 star hotel ( we can walk around the bed! soap and shampoo! eggs for breakfast!) and head for the train that will deposit us back on the track. An hour later we are unpacking our wet weather gear as the train nears the station and the grey sky turns to rain.
As we near Altopascio, our destination, two police officers board the train and bail up a group of three young blokes, 2 Italian-looking and one African. After filling in pages of forms and checking all their ID and papers they chuck them off the train at the next station, peering suspiciously at them as the train moves off.
Altopascio station is so small I don’t realise there is a platform. But we hop down, trot off and spend the next hour unpleasantly walking along a busy road before finally striking off into the bush. The guide book is less than perfect (how we long for John Brierley’s magic touch in his guidebook in Spain, I think he knows every pebble along the way) and we end up bush bashing a fair bit, being attacked by snakes (well...R saw one slither off) and snared by thorns from wild roses all along the way.
A week of soft living, swanning around as tourists, has taken its toll. We get tired, sore and grumpy. But we arrive at Ponte a Cappiano about 3. This is a one-horse town, its only feature being a little covered bridge over the river built by Cosimo de Medici, Duke of Florence as part of a system of sluices and weirs to control the marshlands and encourage more fish. It has buildings all along it on both sides and over the top. The Duke didn’t plan ahead very well though, it’s just one lane, which makes for busy through traffic even in a backwater like this. The little cars that Italy is full of (with names like Panda and Jumpy) scream through when it is their turn to go.
We see that the reception for the church hostel where we plan to stay - the only possibility in the town - opens at 4 so we go and get a coffee next door. We don’t think much happens here, the old blokes outside the cafe discuss us up and down and regale everyone who wanders by with everything they have found out about us. We hear pellegrino! Australiano! a Roma! a piedi! over and over again.
At 4 we knock on the door - no answer. Over the next hour and a half we try again and again, and we phone her (impossible to understand her answer). The girl in the cafe calls her for us  ( coming in 5 minutes). Another half an hour passes, she calls again (coming in 20 minutes). Still we wait, getting, I’m sorry to admit, a bit antsy about it.
Eventually, as darkness starts to fall and the chill sets in, I bang on every door on the bridge and try each one. One opens, I go in and start calling, louder and louder. Finally someone replies, I have clearly woken him up, but he gets it, calls the lady, tells her there are two people waiting for her, and she tells him to bring us in. We sit on a couch for another half an hour.
From the look of it, I am seriously underwhelmed at the high likelihood of bunks with no sheets, or blankets, or pillows. I threaten to go out and start hitching - no taxis in this dump.
But finally the Signora shows up, opens the door. We have a dormitory to ourselves, it’s clean and the beds have sheets, blankets and pillows. Okay, I settle down and adjust my attitude.
We go out to eat in the only possible spot, the same cafe, have a pizza and are now back in the hostel. It seems mainly to cater for youth groups and had a dining room for 20. We sit on the couch morosely, wondering what to do to fill in the time till bedtime. Demolishing a block of chocolate seems like a good start, which we are now doing.
The place does have fabulous beams, though, a fireplace that stretches halfway along one wall, beautiful stone staircases and it is warm. And it is certainly true that we have never before slept anywhere built by a Medici.


Ponte a Cappiano to San Miniato 24 October

What a difference a day makes la la la, 24 little hours lalala. Sounds like a song I used to know.
We have our dismal little breakfast of a tub of yogurt in the empty dining room of the hostel and set off. It is grey, chilly and soon begins to rain. Not hard, but hard enough to make us stop and put on our Goretexes. The scenery is starting to look decidedly Tuscan-esque, little ochre-coloured buildings backed by hills outlined in pencil pines.
It’s a short day - tomorrow will be a long, full day away from villages with nowhere to stop along the way, so we have to stop where we can. Oh darn it, it’s San Miniato, which just happens to be one of the famous hill villages. Oh well, we’ll just have to put up with it, haha.
As we walk we can see it in the far distance, a mediaeval town strung along a hilltop, and we head towards it all day. We realise we have made a mistake, we have booked to stay in pilgrim accommodation in San Miniato Basso, now we understand that Basso means at the base of the hill. The pretty part is up there and San Miniato Basso is a nothing little place. The pilgrim accommodation is cheap for a reason.
So we decide to cancel the booking, and go up and look for something in the picturesque village up the top. It’s a steep pinch to get up there, but well worth it, we walk into a little slice of history and find ourselves in the Piazza Buonaparte - lordy that man was everywhere and his name has now morphed into Italian!
Where to stay? There is supposed to be a huge monastery here but we can’t see it. There’s a restaurant open and we ask the Signor.
“You want B&B or hotel? ”
“Either. ”
“I’ll make a call...She’ll be back in an hour. 50 euros or 60 with breakfast, she does a good breakfast”. He looks like the right person to judge.
“Fine” We sit with a coffee (me) and wine (R) and the Signor brings us out a plate of complimentary bruschetta. He’s got a big paunch, a big smile and we are laughing and enjoying ourselves. Piles of garlic and tomatoes are nonchalantly arranged on the tables and there is a friendly waitress, Francesca, who has done the Via from here to Rome.
The B&B owner’s daughter Katya arrives, and leads us a few metres up a steep hill and into a house which is truly remarkable.  The landlady, Anna, has clearly never heard of less is more. For her, more is more. Every inch of wall and most of the floors are covered with decoration, artwork, objets d’arte, bric a brac, little details artfully arranged.
A pair of red dancer’s shoes on the chair just inside the door, a screen with scarves draped on it, lace, antique nighties, necklaces. There is stuff absolutely everywhere and a profusion of colours and patterns. Anna must be artistic because she pulls it off.
We go up three flights of steep narrow stairs and into our little attic room with a steeply sloping roof. We can stand up straight for only a couple of metres inside the door, then it’s bend down and scuttle around. How on earth did they get the chest of drawers up here? The bed?
We move some of the items back against the walls for fear of breaking our necks during the night. Then R says, “Oh, there’s a petal on the bed.” As we look we realise that silk rose petals have been strewn across the bedspread. It’s like that, not a square centimetre wasted if you could put something on it. Plain tiles in the bathroom - why not paint flowers on them? Why not indeed, and while you’re at it, how about on the cistern too? It is utterly captivating.
Then we meet Mumma. I’m into the sock washing ritual when R comes in with a blissful smile on his face. “I’ve just been sitting in the kitchen. The Signora is making the bread for our breakfast tomorrow!”
He also says, “Come down, I can’t understand something she is trying to tell me.” I go down, an elegant, warm and vivacious lady flings her hands out to grasp mine and insists I eat some homemade Italian baked cheesecake - oh, ok! I finish my slice, “Have more”, she cries, “have it all.” Tomorrow’s breakfast bread is indeed a little mound of dough set to rise under a white cloth.
Then  I set myself to try to understand her. She is inviting us to come with her to Vinci, birthplace of Leonardo da because there is a chestnut festival there today.  Will we go? Of course! Two other ladies appear and we all pile into the car.
The Signora drives with great enthusiasm, a few near misses and a constant lively conversation with the others, all talking at once. One of the women, Aida, speaks English (as well as Italian, French, German and Albanian) and is very chatty and interesting. It makes a great difference to have her talking and translating, which she generously does all afternoon.
We career along the road to Vinci, go and inspect the house he was born in, then the tower in this very pretty town, then we start the walk down the main street. Anna knows so many people, she has run restaurants and is famous for her recipes apparently, so it is a very pleasant stroll, stopping to chat all the way.
There are stalls of fabulous local salamis, cheeses, honey, sweets and the main attraction, roast chestnuts. It is obviously a popular little festival, crowds of people are walking, but as the street is small and steep it is very intimate and attractive.
We sample lots of produce, such interesting flavours. We’re watching a massive hunk of pork being sliced to order and a woman turns to tell us in great detail how her mother used to make bread from chestnut flour, put a slice of hot pork in it and roll it up like a crepe. Exquisito! Exquisito! A chorus of agreement goes up from everyone listening in.
When we have walked all the way down, we wander leisurely all the way up again. Back at the car, we need to fit another lady in to go back to San Miniato with us. No-one wore seat belts anyway, what for? The Signora hasn’t actually hit anything.  So we squish in, to cries of OK Signora? The noise of all those  Italian ladies talking at once is hilarious.
We tear back to San Miniato, it’s one way street loops around the crest of the hill with a heartstopping collection of buildings (oh, there’s the monastery) and then into the Signora’s house. Kisses all round and we say goodbye to all these lovely women.
We stroll up to take a closer look at the lovely little streets, arched stairs and walls, all highlighted by the golden light of the streetlamps. It starts to rain and we decide that history is all very well, but it’s time for dinner.
So we are back in the restaurant. We start with truffle pasta. This is a world renowned centre for white truffles as well as the more ordinary black ones, and everyone her says, “Just once in your life you should taste truffles.” Ok, twist our arm, we’ll try it. Oh my, that’s nice! This is followed by a surprise meal, the restaurateur tells us that this region is also famous for white pork, so we agree to try it. We then realise that we misheard him and what we are having is wild boar. I’m a bit nervous but when it comes it is very dark meat that tastes exactly like slow cooked beef, delicious. We finish, just for once, with a dessert each. What a great meal!

San Miniato to Gambassi Terme 25 October

Rain squalls and thunder all night and we set off in steady rain.
Hang on, back up, first there is breakfast.
The Signora has laid the table with doileys over the mugs, flowers, a jar of silver teaspoons, a tray with old silver cutlery and knick knacks on almost every inch. We sit down to a plate with a heart shaped pastry covered with a thick layer of soft caramel. Anna, a whirlwind of activity beside us in the little kitchen, then proceeds to bring out that bread, full of sultanas and with a little pot of home made jam, a thin pastry filled with warm soft ricotta and chocolate, herb bread with slices of salami, an egg baked to perfection in the oven, white firm and yolk soft.
We wash all this down with freshly squeezed orange juice and pots of coffee and hot milk. After such energy and generosity we pay the Signora a bit more, over her protests, and waddle out, clutching a bag of breakfast leftovers she presses on us.
Now we get to the rain. The town is slick and shiny and very steep. The first excitement of the day was R slipping down the steep and narrow staircase at the Signora’s, bump, bump, bump down on his back with me watching in horror. Ian’s definition is proving very useful - no ambulance, get up and play. He is a bit banged up on the corners but nothing really serious. I wonder how many people have fallen down those treacherous stairs in the last 500 years. Lucky it wasn’t the next flight, they’re stone.
Anyway the next little excitement was the sight of our path to get us off the street and onto the track - a very steep brick pathway leading down and covered in green moss. Oh dear. I hang onto the railing in teh middle and immediately my feet whoosh out from under me, leaving me hanging like a kid on monkey bars. I shoot a foot out and connect with an upright. Ever so carefully we hand over hand until we reach the bottom.
Did I say we are in Tuscany? Did they get the details right when they landscaped all this? Yep, from horizon to horizon it’s all rolling hills, olive trees in neat rows, earth-coloured farmhouses framed with pine trees. Light green, dark green, olive grey and gold. It’s just a photo from a book on Tuscany in every direction.
It should, however, be bathed in sunshine, which it definitely is not. It rains and stops just enough that we put on our jackets, then get hot when it stops, take them off, it starts to rain again, we wait to see if it will pass over and then put them on again. But we are now damp and start to steam. Before long we are as wet inside as out.
We are off-road, but the guidebook being a work in progress, we miss a turn and have to strike across country on our own, taking the long way around the hill instead of the short cut across it. It starts to rain steadily and the first of the day’s kindnesses happens.
We are sitting on a low wall with a handful of houses scattered around when a little van stops across the way and a woman delivering bread hops out. We ask her where there is a cafe and she starts to give directions then smacks her forehead and says, “But it’s Monday, so it’s closed.” (Of course!)
Then she suddenly bounds across to us and hands us a bag with a piece of thick crust pizza loaded with cheese, some baked flatbread, and a couple of deep fried sugary pastries, then drives off with a wave.
We are looking in the bag with delight when kindness number 2 happens. A man comes out of his house and calls to us. We gather up our things and follow him into a lean-to shed beside his house, full of wood and garden tools. He pulls out two chairs, motions us to sit, drags over a fruit box and puts a slab of wood on top to make a table. Then he gives us a wave and leaves.
We eat our picnic out of the rain, then off we trek. It’s a long day, made longer by the mistakes on the route, and by the increasingly gluggy paths of clay getting wetter and wetter. Every now and again we scrape our boots, but it’s slippery going and slow, and a boot  full of clay hangs like a dead weight.
We can’t find anywhere to stop so we sit beside a vineyard. I’m lying spreadeagled on the wet ground and it’s time for kindness number 3. A man comes out of his house and checks to see if I’m ok. We’d rather not have the rain, but it has given us some nice moments today.
We finally drag into Gambassi Terme, our destination, a very small town, and find the only place to stay. It’s shut tight, but we call the phone number on the door and the Signora tells us we can stay there tonight. We manage to clarify that she won’t be back for about an hour or so, and we sit outside gradually getting more and more chilled through and gloomily wondering just how long she might be, and whether we could find a way to get to the next town, and how we come to be in another Dogville.
However, she appears just when she said she would, lets us in, tells us to drop the key in the letterbox when we leave tomorrow and buzzes off. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s clean, the heater is on to dry our boots and the shower is roasty toasty. We put on clean dry clothes and the evening is looking up. We’ve there is even a laundromat, the first we’ve seen, and we decide to wash everything. “Well, lookee thar May-Belle, that thang can wash yur socks ‘n’all jest bah puttin’ a coin in that thar slot! “
Now to find somewhere to eat, or, if there’s nothing open, a pretty strong probability byteh looks, bread and cheese in the room.

Gambassi Terme to San Gimignano 26 October

Bye bye Dogville.
We wake up to overcast skies but a brisk wind blowing, which gets us off to a good start as it seems likely to blow away the clouds. Gambassi redeems itself as we leave, a coffee in a bar, a nice little bit of old town with all the normal sights - brown walls, shuttered windows, arches - and the most interesting thing about it, someone we meet.
We are hesitating on a corner and R sees a man standing in his garage beside a vintage car. When we show interest in it and ask to take a photo he backs it out, then opens some fine large gates into a spacious courtyard with views over the countryside to give it a proper setting. It is a 1949 Citroen, glossy black and perfectly restored. It would have been his pride and joy except that his eyes almost mist over when he talks about an Alfa he has spent the last 5 years restoring.
Then we notice the house behind the courtyard and ask about it. His parents’ house. A massive block, now occupied by him, with his sister, a doctor living in Florence, owning one floor and his brother, a lawyer, on another. What had his occupation been, and how is his English so good? He had been a banker, and gives exactly that air of culture and comfort.
The rest of the day is typical Tuscan, frequent pauses to drink in the scenery with a lot of exclamations plus lots of walking up and down hills. You can’t have those gorgeous vistas - the farmhouses perched on a hilltop with the orchards, vineyards, pine trees - unless you have the hills. And after our brush with the tedium of the rice plains we’ll never complain about hills again.
Because of the rain over the last few days, though, the ground has turned to soggy clay, everywhere there isn’t gravel or grass it is hard going. The guidebook says in summer this stage can be very hot and exhausting, but today there is a chill wind blowing. One particular hill we nickname Bog Hill and we drag up it, our boots getting heavier and heavier with every step as they add kilos of sodden grey clay to the bottom. There’s not a stick or stone in sight to scrape them so we plod on up until we reach a crest and get to work on them.
But all day we have been watching the towers of San Gimignano on the horizon getting closer and closer. It’s like something out of The Wizard of Oz. Magic towers from a fabled place.
By the middle of the afternoon we arrive, walk through the arch of the city wall and find a place to stay.
San Gimignano’s bad luck is now its good fortune. From being a thriving town for hundreds of years it fell into poverty and because of that its architecture and character have been fixed in time. It is absolutely beautiful, entrancing. It’s those Medicis again. During its heyday they built the lovely towers, churches, buildings, even throwing up a second city wall as the population expanded. So now it’s all there, and it is so easy to imagine life there in around 1300.
We are staying in a family owned hotel, the building was bought by their grandfather in 1990 and lay empty for a long time, but the family has now developed it and runs it. They have, however, maintained many of the features and the feel of the mediaeval structure. It even has the original well in the building, you can see water in the bottom of it and the pulley and chain which have clearly done a lot of work. I think about the women of the time climbing these steep stairs and dragging buckets of water up hand over hand with that chain.
We are sitting in the little downstairs bar where the computer is situated when a troop of American women bursts in, moving chairs, making themselves at home, and generally giving off an air of confidence and power. They are good looking, well-dressed, extroverted. They proceed to set up wine, cheese, olives, pesto, bread and settle in to having a good time.
They are very friendly and cheery and invite us to share their food, so we end up having some nibbles and conversation. They are interested in what we are doing, we are interested in them. Among the five, there is a psychologist, an international fashion consultant, an inventor, a captain for United Airlines flying 747s and a master sommelier. It’s like the opening to a novel.
What are they doing in San Gimignano? They were having lunch one day in New York and decide to come to Tuscany for week and visit a different vineyard every day. As you do. It sounds so exotic and they are having such an exuberantly good time.

In San Gimignano 27 October

Nothing to say, can’t describe it, look at the photos...
Oh well, OK. I’ll have a crack at it.
Just for the record, R has just come back from the shop and handed me a slice of panforte so good I feel like crying.
We have walked all day (does that sound familiar?). But we have walked inside the dimensions of a mediaeval city. First stop was a walk all around the city walls, it took a couple of hours (one hour for walking, one hour for photos) which was very interesting.
We saw the corner towers, the inner and outer walls, the old water supply (a series of arched reservoirs with water still running into them from a spring). We climbed up and look over the countryside.
We met a young couple from Normandy with kitted out touring bikes taking a year to travel to Istanbul. (We exchange blog addresses, theirs is www.grainesdepignons.blogspot.com).
When we have done all the walking we can think of and are chilled through we hunt down a cafe in the sun and have a coffee. We remember how the old town in Prague was so exquisitely preserved by its years of communism, no advertising, no crass buildings, now all changed apparently, but here they have realised the value of hanging onto the beauty, and it is stunning, interesting, picturesque and quaint all at once.
Having run out of adjectives we return to the hotel where I am trying to capture some of the feeling of it. And we haven’t yet got to Siena.