Buonconvento to Bolsena

Buonconvento to San Quirico d'Orcia 4 November

Get Van Gogh on the line! Or Monet, or Seurat. Or any of the Impressionists really, whoever you can get hold of. There's some scenery that really needs them!  If there are rolling hills with lines of golden grapevines and little farmhouses and pine trees and .... who you gonna call? It needs paint. Words just aren't enough, Have I mentioned the scenery before?

We start this day in mist, walking out of Buonconvento and up into the hills. It was truly beautiful, with sheets of mist blowing across the hills, covering the trees and then flowing on. Spiderwebs everywhere, glistening in the sun. 

Nothing's perfect, of course, and we are mildly concerned that this seems to be the morning when all the blokes decide to go hunting en masse. We've come across lots of hunters, but today they are out in force, looming out of the mist, blasting away, rather close by the . What concerns us is that if they are shrouded in mist so are we. We plug on, hoping for the best.

Apart from the hunters, we haven’t seen much that is dangerous along the way and the snake I see now isn’t dangerous either, because it is dead! But it is lying out into the path, long and yellow. I’m walking past its head when I spot it and shy away violently like a cartoon character.

Montalcino is a town everyone talks about around here, but for us it is the town we circle around all day. It is high above us with the usual set of walls, church tower and castle but far away. We see it from every angle and gradually, climbing, start to look down on it but it is still far away.

We had been invited to go to a famous abbey, San Antimo, on All Saints Eve to hear Gregorian chant but it was still 5 days walk away in Mediaeval walking time, so we had to give that a miss, although we can see the spire outlined against the sky.

There’s a wild boar somewhere around here, he’s been trotting along the track ahead of us, leaving clear footprints. I don’t like the thought of it at all but R says they are herbivores. A likely story, how can anything looking like that eat just plants?

We trudge up a long hill into San Quiroco d’Orcia hunting for the place we are to stay in. The town is asleep and the tourist office is closed (of course!) but we knock on the door of an office in the council chambers where there is a woman working at a computer and she tells us it’s just behind the building. In the old town? At 80 euros? Must be pretty crumby. My heart sinks. But what’s this? A great looking hotel, plastered with Michelin guide stickers and framed awards from the

The receptionist gets the key, walks us down the street and into a house and up the stairs.(R says, “It’s funny how you can climb all day up hills with a pack, but when faced with a flight of stairs, it’s so daunting”) and into a charming room. It’s overflow accommodation, cheap because it’s away from the hotel and cheaper still since we are pilgrims. 80 Euros for a room that is normally 120 and in the hotel itself the cost ranges from 140 to 200 plus. We’re so happy! There are 5 star toiletries in the bathroom 5 star hot water, and we get the high tea and fabulous breakfast of the in house hotel guests forking out big bikkies just a few steps up the road.

San Q is a very pretty little town, neat, antique, all it’s cobblestones just so. There are teenage boys playing soccer, kicking the ball into the mediaeval town wall. “They’ve taken worse than that,” says R, as another ball whacks into the stonework.

We have a simple dinner in a restaurant where they charge us twice for my bowl of soup. “Oldest trick in the book,” says R, and in a tourist town who would pick it up. I’m beginning to work myself into a state of righteous indignation but “give them the benefit of the doubt” says R and we settle for a refund.

Next day the guidebook says strenuous, and it is, although we are in good shape now and can keep going up long ascents. But it is relentless, climbing and descending, then a long climb again. We end up looking down at a lot of hill towns from a great height. There are castles and towns everywhere, dotting the landscape, every big hill has an ancient settlement on it or a lone tower.

We are very remote here, not a village, hardly a farmhouse, it’s so quiet. Occasionally a car goes past, accentuating the stillness as it disappears behind a hill. There is the faint sound of a tractor we can see in the far distance.

We stop for lunch near an old farm building. R finds a couple of old plastic chairs. Mine has a broken back, R’s has 3 legs. We prop them against a wall and sit down cautiously but they stay up. Eyes closed, warm sun, a light breeze, we munch our bread rolls with cheese and prosciutto.

After a few more kms along a gravel road, the path leads down between 2 fields. Unfortunately the farmer has ploughed the path as well as the field, the soft damp clay is almost impassable. We struggle along it, R cursing. He turns “Write about this damned farmer. He decided that he didn’t want the Via coming through here.” Those weren’t his exact words, they were a bit more colourful…

We know that we have a problem with where to stay tonight. Our only lead along the way is a marker point: agriturismo on the left. Now agriturismos are farmstays, accredited places, usually looking very spic ‘n span and attractive, so we are hopeful that we might be able to stay there. Otherwise, hmm, another 15 km would be a real problem.

We see the agriturismo, it looks lovely. The signor phones his wife. Yes! She arrives a few minutes later and leads us into a whole house. Pretty in a rustic way and arranges to cook us dinner. After zipping around with a broom getting rid of a few cobwebs and saying gaily, “it’s the country side. It’s normal”.

We can’t believe our good luck. It’s everyone’s picture of a holiday in Tuscany. The only snag is it gets colder and colder, and we put on all the clothes we have. She arrives later, we beg for heating, she laughs at us all rugged up but switches it on, then sets to making spaghetti with fresh tomato and basil sauce, tomato bruschetta and local farm wine, no label and a cork stuck in the top. She’s very proud of the tomatoes, the pasta, the wine “not like the ones you get at the supermarket” she says, wrinkling her nose with the contempt of shop-bought tomatoes. And they are an extraordinary colour, fluoro red and filling the room with the aroma of a warm summer afternoon.

She holds out the jar with the homemade tomato sauce in it for us to smell. We exclaim appreciatively.

When she piles the food on the table for us she sits down and we chat and share the wine while she urges us to et more, more.

Our little house is now warm, we’re well fed and the signora will be back in the morning to make breakfast and send us off with some lunch. And another bottle of that special wine.

It’s very dark here away from the town, there are lots of stars and each of the hill settlements is a little patch of twinkling light. Early today we walked for hours towards Rocco, a castle perched high on the horizon, then up to it, around it and away from it. Now it’s perched at eye level in the distance, the tower lit and a cluster of houses at its feet.

Everything is good except for one rather crucial thing. My right foot id very sore. The heel feels bruised and I’m quite worried that I may not be able to do the last couple of hundred kilometres to walk into Rome.

 

Agrotourismo to Radicofarni 6 November

Thought for the day: we are sitting at a table in the morning eating and R says, “It’s funny how different cultures have different breakfasts.” Profound! The impetus for this groundbreaking thought is that the signora is sitting at the table with us proudly explaining that she has made the breakfast food with her own hands, this morning, “Fresca! Fresca!” She rubs her fingers together and holds her hand out. She deserves to fell proud – what she has made for us are two memorable tarts, apple and berry, with soft, sweet buttery pastry, light and crumbly, just holding together. With coffee of course  - the signora wafts the aroma with her hand. It makes our usual muesli at home seem rather, mmm, I would have said anglo saxon, of course it’s not, but it’s certainly not this sensuous self indulgence.

And all the time the signora is calling me cara cairissma. I’m not absolutely sure what it means, but it’s definitely a term of endearment and it’s lovely.

After a round of kisses we head off down the hill across a series of streams, hopping from rock to rock. We climb 700 metres in altitude today, long steady climbs on back roads, quiet and remote. There is a town on top of every hill as far as the eye can see and one oddly shaped peak with a tall tower in the far distance high above.

We see it all day from far away. To our astonishment, that’s our final destination. We climb and climb until we are looking down on everything but that tower and we are in Radicofarni. It’s so high that all the surrounding countryside looks like a topographical map.

Our hotel is…well. In a country with stunning, heartbreakingly beautiful buildings, the modern age has produced some stuff that is truly pug ugly. I can imagine Michelangelo rising from the grave and pointing a bony finger at the person who designed the hotel La Torre in Radicofani.

We go to dinner in the only restaurant we can find, attached to our hotel. We are only two in the dining room when we arrive, but then about 60 middle aged people walk in and sit down at 2 tables and the place is full.

This is back country. The men sit stolidly, eating and drinking without saying a word. The women, mostly wearing various shades of purple and mauve, are talking like a tree full of birds. The television is on of course, with a quiz show, as usual. We debate trying to have it turned off, then decide not to bother, and to our surprise a news bulletin comes on showing the pope at the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. We nudge each other in excitement and point at the screen, remembering walking in 3 years ago after our previous long pilgrim adventure.

We finish our meal and leave. Every head in the room swivels to stare unblinking as we go, like a herd of cows as you walk by a field.

What did I like about Radicofarni? Just one thing, A statue by Andrea de la Robbia in each of the churches. I’d read about theses glazed clay statues that made this family rich and famous in my Lives of the Artists and to see them up close in these two empty little churches was oddly exciting.

Tomorrow is a long stage, mostly downhill, but with no place to           break it. We will have to trust to luck.

Radicofani to Acquapendente 7 November

Feet, don’t fail me now! I’m sitting on the bed staring at them, willing them not to hurt. The left one’s OK, but the right one, hmm. I can’t walk across the room, I hop and shuffle, holding the back of the chair, the edge of the table. There will be no walking today. We will just get to Acquapendente today and stay put for a few days to let whatever is wrong settle down.

The signor cheerfully tells us no taxi, no bus. This is a tiny village. And it’s Sunday. But the road below seems to have a bit of traffic, we’ll do our hitching thing again.

There is however a thick mist. Our room is on the second floor and even there we can barely make out the balcony rail. But it’s sure to clear, we tell ourselves and station ourselves at the tiny crossroads. Fifteen minutes later we are getting cold, damp puzzled. Only a few cars have gone by and they are locals. Where is the through traffic? We decide to walk a bit further down to a bigger road.

I’m hobbling along, determined not to limp for fear of setting off some new problem, but every step feels as though someone is hitting the sole of my right heel with a hammer, so it’s not he most elegant gait.

But once committed we can’t really withdraw. Nowhere to withdraw to. 5 km later we are on the busy road, signposted to Rome 150km to the south. To our dismay, no one stops. They wave, they stare, they indicate that they are turning off, but they don’t stop. We walk on to find a better spot. Still nothing happens. We walk on again hoping to find something that will make it work. There’s a lot of traffic, a long industrial area, but still we’re beside that road. We pass a lot of dead things, frogs, a snake, a fox, and some porcupine quills. Still we’re beside that road.

The signor at last night’s hotel had told us that a bus goes from Ponte a Rigo so we decide to make for that. As we get there we see there’s a bar, surely we can pay someone to drive us to Acqupendente, just 15 minutes down the road by car. But the bar is closed. The bus stop tells us that there will be a bus but not till tomorrow morning. Nowhere to stay. What to do? We have walked 14 km and my foot is protesting loudly. Another 15 km to Acquapendente seems impossible.

I have flash of inspiration. We could call hotels in Acqupendente, find one where someone speaks English, explain our plight and plead for help. R puts it into action and after a couple of false starts we strike it lucky. We have a bed for the night and the signora has despatched her husband to pick us up. R’s fearless attempt to explain in italo/anglo, my wife has mal a piede, has saved the day.

We sit at the bus stop waiting, it’s spitting with rain. A lone pilgrim walks by on the other side of the road.

We are ferried to the hotel, two bit, one star but we are way past caring. Our room has two little beds with a curious wardrobe built beside and above them. I lie down and manage to crack my head sitting up twice in the first ten minutes.

I knew there wouldn’t be a bath, we couldn’t be that lucky, but my sore foot as craving to soak in hot water. Ah ha! How about I sit on the toilet lid and put my foot in the bidet? Alas, one star hotels save on heating the water and it’s tepid. Sadly I let the water out and put on warm socks instead.

I stay in the room, reading, ironically, a book about the joys of Tuscany, while R goes out to forage. He comes back. “Have you got the place sussed out?” I ask. “Dogville personified” he replies succinctly. But he has discovered that there is a bus we can take to the little lakeside town of Bolsena, 22 km down the road. Surely we can find a nice hotel there, with views of the lake where we can hole up for a couple of days to recuperate.

R drops a plastic bag in my lap, “treat it with care, half your net worth is in that bag”. I peek in. Every possible over the counter medication that could help my foot is in the bag. Enough top strength Nurofen to fell a horse, a tube of Voltaren gel that could treat a footy team. Surely all this will sort it out.

R is looking out the window and he suddenly says “there’s that pilgrim again”. He has walked the 15 km since we last saw him and is heading up the hill into the old town. Seems a strange coincidence to have glanced out at that moment.

R goes down to the bar to get me a cappuccino. When he comes back he says “You’re missing a really interesting TV show down there – about milking cows.” It’s that sort of town.

It’s been a really taxing day (R puts it a lot more strongly), one in the eye for Pollyanna. And it just got worse. Now it’s pouring with rain. Of course we could very easily be standing beside the road right now, in the dark, in the rain, like two aging hippies, but we are at least dry and warm, I’ve got my foot up and somewhere downstairs someone is cooking dinner. Pollyanna wins again.

Acqupendente to Bolsena 8 November

We have crossed the border from Tuscany into Lazio with Rome at it’s centre. R says “That’s Umbria over there” pointing to a ridge covered in bushes in every Autumn colour off to our left. Maria says Umbria is even more beautiful than Tuscany. If that’s so, I definitely have to come back one day and see it.

We get off the bus at Bolsena. Where to stay? There’s the castle up the hill to our left, the mediaeval town. To our right is the lake. We’ve seen a lot of arches, castles, churches. I have a vision of sitting on a hotel terrace, overlooking the lake. We pass a couple of so places, we’re here for we don’t know how long, let’s see if we can do better. This is a resort town, there must be nice places on the water’s edge.

There it is, 4 star Hotel >Royal. Do they have rooms? Silly question really, it’s well into the off season for a beach holiday hotel. The room is nice, with 20 Euros sliced off the price for the pilgrim discount and a view out the window?

Well it is waterfront, that much fits the picture, the rain has stopped but there is a cold sharp wind whipping up the slatey water into whitecaps. The little waves sound freezing as they splash onto the pebbles at the water’s edge. The café in front is shut tight, chairs piled up. The yachts are all moored in the little harbour.

As I lean out of the window to look along the waterfront, the rain starts to pelt down again, slicing across the view. Another thick layer of autumn leaves falls sodden from the plane trees. I won’t need an umbrella in my drink, thanks. I think I’ll go for hot chocolate instead.