Mud Path

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.

Siena to Buonconvento

The Campo Siena

 

At last, I’ve heard someone say “Mumma Mia!” Not in a cartoon, or a musical, but just say it like…for real.

We are standing at the tourist office in Siena, and the very helpful man has made yet another phone call to try to find us somewhere to stay, but “Mumma Mia” there’s no room at the inn.

We walked into Siena deciding that we would lash out a bit, but if we were going to grace a place with our presence it had to come up to our full wishlist: can walk around the bed, good water pressure, really hot water, can turn around in the shower recess, wool blankets, soft pillows, in the centre of the old town, access to a computer.

We had briskly rejected the first room we were shown as we walked into town, a tiny stinking room with filthy carpet. Then there was no availability at all at the next two hotels we checked out so, puzzled, we headed to the Tourist Information Office.

Aha, it is Halloween tomorrow night and a big public holiday on Monday, All Saints Day. Like Thanksgiving, and Chinese New Year, this is the big one here, and all Italy is on the move. November 1 is the day everyone visits the family graves in the cemetery, so they all go home, or if not, they have a long weekend away.

Siena is packed, but not with tourists. It’s Italians wall to wall and the atmosphere is great. The problem is, all the hotels are full. After the helpful man has rung five with no luck, our wishlist has shrunk to, “Does it have a roof?”.

We are offered the last room in a place just a few steps outside the mediaeval town wall. We sigh, head there prepared to be stoical and undemanding and…step into a little charmer.  We’re thrilled, a hotel with so much character, pretty, individual,  and our room even has a mezzanine. We can’t believe our luck. It reminds us of one of our most favourite places in Spain, Costa Vella, a little family run hotel in Santiago de Compostella.

It has hot showers, wool blankets, oh, who cares about the rest of the list. We explore the place, there is a gravelled garden out the back, an ancient well with a pot of herbs and a terracotta cherub perched on top, a view out to the hills.  R says he’d like to stay forever.

Now here’s the thing about Siena. It is without a doubt one of the prettiest towns in the world, the mediaeval walled part, that is, which is an absolute masterpiece.

Like some other places we’ve seen, it has been preserved because of circumstances that would have been rather unfortunate at the time. The plague hit it and killed half the population, which stopped progress in its tracks, and then , no I won ‘t spoil it…

We walk up the flagged street and in through the huge gate with the big (guess whose) crest on it. Yep it’s those Medicis again.  Now this is puzzling because Siena and Florence were enemies, so why is there a Medici crest here? Because they won, that’s why, and annexed Siena, and whacked their crest all over it. Of course, you can understand it, if you were called, let’s say, Lorenzo the Magnificent, you’d think a few crests were de rigeur.  When it was taken over by Florence it was at first intentionally suppressed. Then the Medicis (during their 300 years of rule) got into their building, arts, sciences, painting, sculpture kick here, just as they did everywhere they were in control.  So it was more and more beautified during that time.

There are lovely buildings everywhere, but what makes you gasp and stare is the Campo, the huge shell-shaped piazza, with the palazzo and the tower, famous from every book on Italy. It’s the pearl, it’s one of the postcard memories I have of Italy from all those years ago. It is just stunning.

It’s getting dark, we sit at a restaurant with a clear view of the circle of graceful, elegant buildings and just drink it in. Finally we wander home, eating a gelato.

It buckets down with rain during the night. The next stage is 30 km, we can’t see how we can break it, and it is a daunting thought to contemplate walking in torrential rain for a very long hard day. So we make a snap decision to stay here for another day, let the weather have a chance to settle, and just enjoy Siena.

We do a few tourist things:

• Check out the museum, recognizing some of my new friends from The Lives of the Artists
• Climb the tower to look at the amazing view, after waiting in a queue for 45 minutes.
• Visit the cathedral with   a) an altar by Michelangelo    b) an altar painting by Bellini   c) a library of a local boy who became pope   d) a stained glass window by the stained glass guy Buoninsegna and 5 Sibyllas in tiles in the floors  e)coloured tiled pictures in the floors by Niccola Pisano  f)a façade by Niccolo’s son Giovanni
• Visit the crypt with frescoes only discovered in 2001

We think we now have had enough culture for one day, it’s still raining and we are hungry. So home, a bite of lunch, and the perfect way to spend a wet afternoon, a siesta.

When it’s Italian time to out to dinner we wander up the street, thronged with children in witches hats and masks and sit down to eat in a little trattoria in a back street. After scanning the menu we pass on the Warm Spleen Sauce, the Toasted Bread and Lard, the Sienese Tripe, even the Pieces of Stewed Wild Boar. We opt for spaghetti and soup. But R just can’t resist the Cooked Whipped Cream with Fruits of Wood for dessert.

Siena to Lucignano D'Arbia 1 November

If you're going to lay some paving, or a stone floor, and you want it to last, say about 800 years, you'd want to do it once and do it right. The Campo is in 9 sections and they've been having the famous horse races there for that long, as well as hordes of people tramping over it for centuries and it looks pretty damn intact. And a floor I saw today in a palazzo simply stopped me in my tracks, so to speak. Smooth, shiny, still perfect after all this time. La la la, I reckon Simon and Garfunkel could do something with that.

We trot around Siena all morning, filling up with culture despite the weather until, coming out of a museum into the Campo and seeing the rain coming down in sheets we decide that we have done everything in Siena that needs to be done and we retreat back into our warm dry hotel.

The Museo Civico had been a treat, though. There were two frescoes so different from anything we have seen. Both were painted in about 1330. One shows a horseman between a couple of castles, but what's special about it is that it is the first ever painting of a naturalistic landscape. I think it's worth about 5 out of 10 on the naturalistic scale but I guess he gets extra marks for thinking up the idea.

Then in the next room, on two walls facing each other, something else never done before. I wonder what the thought process for that is? You're lying in the bath watching your rubber duckie float around and suddenly you get a flash of inspiration..."How about I don't paint another Annunciation pic, sooo bored with them, how about I try something new, could I get away with it? What the hell ('scuse me) I'll do it."

It wasn't quite like that actually (rubber duckies hadn't been invented yet, baths either, really). There were 9 councillors in Siena (and because of that the Campo is set out in 9 sections) and they decided to break the mold. They asked for a pair of paintings  representing the effects of good government and the effects of bad government (to reflect what on them, I wonder...).

But the painting on good government shows, for the first time ever, a secular scene, with people dancing, buying shoes, farming, leading loaded donkeys, building houses. And (I loved this) it shows the exact spot on which our little hotel now stands, just outside the city gate and leading down the hill.

The city with the bad government has met a bad end, and with a lot of the fresco falling off the wall, serves it right, just a few creatures with horns and people in dire straits to make its point.

I think that's enough culture, don't you? Tomorrow we'll stir our lazy backsides and hit the road again, but (sigh) it really does look like this wet weather is setting in. R treats himself to a cigar and we stand in the garden looking at the lights.

Siena to Lucignana d'Arbia 2 November

"Too Pollyanna", says R, reading the instalment I had written yesterday during dinner, "All good news, nothing bad". So I say, "But all the interesting stuff is awful while it's happening, but I'll work in some tired feet or something." Now, I reckon a conversation like that is just asking for it, don't you?

The morning starts well, a bit overcast, but not raining, and as we walk out the sky clears and blue starts to spread all over, with little puffy picturebook clouds. We walked into Siena (who does that?) and we walk out again. Exit through the bookshop. Our hotel is on the Via Roma and just through the Porta Romana, so we reckon we are definitely on the right track. But the Via sign is right beside our hotel and it leads us away from the busy road and straight into countryside. All those rolling hills, dotted with farmhouses and hardly any traffic. It gets quieter and quieter. (In the distance there is a freeway cutting across the landscape and R takes a photo, just to remind us that it's not all picture perfect all the time.) Actually the Frenchman Alain was fascinated by the factories. I always tip my hat down to avoid looking at them when we have to pass one, but, "I am a man from manufacturing", he says and loves to look at them.

He did pose a very interesting question, though. Why are the Medici towers square? It is cheaper to make a round tower of the same height and strength, so why did they choose to make them square. Flaunting their wealth and power, or some other reason? Note to self, ask Andreas, he'll be sure to know.

We walk and walk, it's going to be a long day, even though we have found a place to stay to break the stage. There is a bit of confusion with some of the waymarkers. Actually, it's pretty funny, apparently there is quite a bit of politics and feeling between the two main Italian Via groups, and one of the results is that there are either two waymarkers or none. Like, if yours is up, we have to make our mark too. It's not very saintly! But I guess the history is there, Siena and Florence were at each others' throats for centuries, while at the same time spending a fortune on churches and religious art. The Guelphs and the Ghibellines, Siena backed one, Florence backed the other, the Pope was involved too and they spent hundreds of years, fighting, besieging, plundering. I can't remember which one backed which, and, strangely, those names sound more Dutch than Italian to me. But I digress...

We sit beside the road in the sun, the ground is wet and everything is steaming in the sunshine and have our first little picnic of the day. The countryside is lovely, golden autumn trees everywhere. It looks rather like lots of the folds in the hills around Bathurst in Autumn.  

But somehow we miss a turn, and we don't realise it for a long time, although we are looking at the map and at the gps quizzically from time to time like a pig looking at an armchair. It is becoming clear that all is not well, but the road is a nice quiet backcountry road, hardly any traffic, rising and falling enough to be interesting and very pretty all around. We are sort of heading in the right direction, so we assume that we will meet up with the route sooner or later as it emerges from a track. But we gradually get more and more pessimistic, and the sky is getting darker all the time, with definite signs of rain in the distance and occasional warning shots onto us.

When we reach Radi we have to accept that we have stuffed up. We are several km away from where we want to be, it doesn't sound like much but after walking 20km or so already it is, "Oh darn it" or words to that effect. We are lost, not lost like someone will find our bleached bones one day, but lost like, how to find our way back to where we want to go without walking half the night. So we stop for another little picnic and then change direction, onto a busier road, deciding to see if we can hitch a ride. The first couple of cars whizz by, and R says ,"We might as well accept that we will have to walk it." Around a corner, another car approaches, it's far too dangerous to stop there, no-one would, but, after all, this is Italy, who knows. I stick my thumb up, the car screeches to a halt, perched in the middle of the road, in the middle of a tight corner. We bundle in, the driver is a Professor of Medicine at the University in Siena, he is going near where we want to go.

Up the little hill and into our hotel.

Lucignano d’Arbia to Buonconvento 3 November

It rains a little bit on and off all night, the day dawns bright and blue sky, but the damage is already done.

We set off, perfect weather, hot even, and lovely scenery. The road leads out of pretty little Lucignano d’Arbia and after a brief tricky passage on the wrong side of the Armco, suspended on the steep side of a field, but out of reach of the trucks thundering by in both directions, we find our way down a little path and into the quiet of the countryside.

The track might be fine in summer, baked hard, but with last night’s rain it is slick and slippery. On one side a ploughed field, on the other a railway line. We skate and slide, then as the track gets lower and the grey clay gets wetter, we struggle along, our boots gathering mud until they are covered with a thick clog of mud.

I look at the field, and try it. No, that’s a mistake, I sink even deeper into that soft wet earth, back to the path which stretches out far ahead. “It’s going to be a long 2 kilometres,” says R.

Maybe we will be stranded like a hippopotamus in an African drought, up to our knees in mud and not able to take a step. I’m laughing to myself, thinking of a helicopter sent to rescue us, lifting us up. Our boots pull out of the mud with a sucking sound. The pilot says, “No way, they’re not getting into my helicopter with those boots.”  So we hang on the cables until we are deposited in a carwash and we get the pressure hoses onto it.

I look thoughtfully at the railway line. It looks rusty and disused but I don’t dare try it. For a while I amuse myself imagining walking along the tracks, a train comes suddenly, I don’t have time to get off, I’m knocked over, my feet are cut off, at least I’m free of these boots, but I bleed to death there. It’s very entertaining.  Suddenly a train comes flying past as I watch, startled.

After dragging myself along for an eternity, the track rises a little, there’s a shard of rock and a tuft of grass to step on, then it dries out enough to make it possible to walk, or trudge rather, dragging the weight of my boots along.

After about an hour the track rises, there’s gravel, a little bridge over the railway line. I find the perfect boot scraper, one of life’s little pleasures, a bit of broken pot with a long side and a pointy end. I haven’t seen R for a while and I watch him come into sight.

When he reaches the rise, he says, “Wow, that was tough. I ended up walking on the railway line. It was going well until the train came along.” I check him for missing feet and blood. Neither, all seems in order.

We stop for a little snack and then walk on to the next village. There are sheep all through these parts (that’s rural speak, did you like it?). They are picturesque of course, but the interesting thing is that the flocks all seem to be in the sole care of sheepdogs. They are large white dogs who blend in perfectly and suddenly detach themselves to bark at us enthusiastically as we go by.

Now we have noticed something all along the way in Italy. No-one disciplines their dogs. They bark, no-one takes any notice. They hurl themselves at the fence, there’s never a shout of, “Settle down”. And yesterday one that was not on a chain or behind a fence actually went for us, fangs flashing, with its owner watching impassively, showing mild amusement. R beat it back with his trekking pole and it retreated. They do seem to understand a stick. After joking with each other about catapults we have actually seen them for sale once or twice, so tempting.

Now, another mystery. When does all the building get done?  Everywhere there is scaffolding, and signs of activity, but the only time you see any actual work on these sites is early in the morning, when occasionally you can spot someone throwing a rope up. Then…nothing. Of course, you have to have siesta, mate. And after that it’s hardly worth starting, it’ll get dark too soon. Or it’s Saturday afternoon, or Sunday, or it’s wet, or hot, or… In a country full of fabulous and magnificent buildings, how on earth did they get built?

We arrive in Buonconvento early in the afternoon, take a stroll, looking at the so familiar town walls and gates with the Medici style. Buonconvento had the dual good luck in times gone by to be at the confluence of two rivers and on the route of the Via, so it prospered, but this also made it vulnerable to attack, hence the walls, which still seem to contain most of the town. It’s easy to imagine it in times gone by.

I’m immensely diverted by the fact that the hotel tonight is the Hotel Ghibellino. So easily amused. I check with the receptionist. Were the Ghibellines with Siena or Florence? She is visibly shocked…Siena, Signora

San Gimignano to Monteriggioni

San Gimignano to Colle Val d'Elsa 27 October

Italian parking rules: "Just put 'er anywhere." We still laugh when we see cars just sort of poked in towards the kerb. Or left running with no driver. "Mate, don't be so uptight, no probelmo, si?"

We thought we had said farewell to San Gimignano but it didn't work out that way. We first realise that it will haunt us for hours when, fifteen minutes outside the city gates, I see a woman filming us walking towards her, then pan to the horizon. I follow the camera and gasp at the sight. There it is perched on the top of the hill.

The woman is an artist from Milan, making video art, it's a good place to do it, plenty of material! We walk off and hear footsteps running, she is chasing after us to get our email address to send us some of the photos she has taken of us.

For most of the day, every time we crest a rise San Gimignano is still in sight, getting gradually smaller and smaller, its towers making it look weirdly like a tiny skyscraper city. 

It's a short day today, due to lack of accommodation options at a better distance. Quite a nice feeling to wake up with only 11 km to walk, leisurely start to the day, stroll off and start on the set of rolling hills that will take us to Colle Val d'Elsa. Perfect weather, cool and clear.

We've been off-road for a couple of hours when two jolly German men stop us for a long chat. They are on a group tour, where their luggage is taken from place to place, and they wander in between. Out little backpacks fascinate them and we end up having an enthusiastic philosophical discussion about life, material possessions, trekking, life, the universe...they are so full of joie de vivre that I almost expect them to break into a hearty German song.

In no time we are at Colle. We've (almost) spent more time taking photos than we have spent walking. The first sight of Colle is very uninspiring. Someone had told us it was a pretty little ridge top town, but it looked grimy, gritty and flat. What's going on? We find the tourist info place and aha, the pretty part is definitely ridge top, up......there. The Signora explains that it is very panoramic to walk up but very (she searches for the word, then puts her hand at a sharp angle) "Steep" we suggest. "Si, steep". So steep that there is a lift. But it is broken this week (of course!). We set off, but feel rather smug to be able to climb this supposedly impossibly steep slope quite easily.

The mediaeval town is a little strip of buildings, originally controlled by two families, one part each. Plus the Medicis, naturally. Their stamp, and their crest, is everywhere in this entire region.

I found a book in English in Venice, The Lives of the Artists Vol II, which I thought at first was bit stilted until I realised that it was written about 1500. The author, Georgio Vasari, was an artist and architect but became rich and famous by writing two books about artists who had been recently alive, and one, Michelangelo, who was still alive and with whom Georgio had worked.

We now keep finding buildings designed by Georgio, and mentions of him in information leaflets. It is ridiculously appealing to stand in front of a building designed by him, it feels very personal.

Apart from the normal gaggle of mediaeval buildings: a few merchants' houses, a couple of churches, a Medici palazzo or two, an arched bridge, Colle's only claim to fame is that it produces 15% of the world's crystal. So there are lots of shops with startling window displays.

When we go to dinner we almost need sunglasses. Last night the glasses we had were so scratched it looked at first glance as if they were grubby. Tonight they are Rosenthal, very fine and as clear as ....

We had looked for somewhere to eat, and go back to a place that looked nice. It is pretty funny. We open the door and there is a rock behind it to stop it swinging open. So our first words, thinking we have knocked something over are, "Scusi". The owner rushes forward, bends down to pick the rock up, explains profusely that everything was fine, the rock is there on purpose. (He must have to do that for every diner.) He then shows us to a table and puts the menus down.

Three seconds later La Signora is beside us with her notepad. We send her off. Thirty seconds later the Signor is there. R puts his hand on his heart and looks plaintively at him, "I'm sorry, I just need a minute to look".

We order, get our simple meal (we only have one course, which the Italians must find very strange), and while we eat the Signor roams the empty dining room, staring out the door, circling back, asking if everything was ok, bounding back to look out the door again. But the room is warm, the food is good and those glasses are something special.

What do we eat? R has lamb chops cooked in red wine and rosemary, with a sprig of rosemary on the plate, I have minestrone soup.

There's a school group on exchange with the local high school staying at the hotel (whatever happened to billeting?) and the place is full of teenagers, sitting on the stairs, dashing in and out of rooms. We thought we would have to chuck them off the computer when we got back from dinner but they have now disappeared.

So another lovely day draws to a close. Tomorrow Monteriggioni, it looks like something really special, if you're into ancient walled towns. But it is funny how you start to take things like "built in 1200" for granted after a while.

Colle Val d’Elsa to Monteriggioni 28 October

No, stop, don’t read another word until you’ve Googled Monteriggioni…

Ok, back with me now? Can you understand what All the fuss is about? We walked for a few hours, looking for it, knowing it would just pop up and be instantly recognizable. Every hill has a fort, a farmhouse, but no, no, no, then we walk over the crest of a hill and, Oh my, it stops us in our tracks.

We start the day by getting a lift from the hotel owner to take us out through the lower part of Colle with its busy scary roads. He drops us right where the Via heads off into farmland and forest. In the far distance there are snow-capped mountains – it’s lucky we crossed the alps when we did, there must have been some heavy snowfalls right behind us, and it is true it is getting colder, we’re racing South ahead of the vicious chill of winter.

We’re walking along and are whisked back to Spain, a big grove of Holm Oaks. We saw these beautiful lush rounded oak forests in one part of the Camino and we are surprised to come across them again here until it dawns on us that it is probably about the same latitude.

We spend most of the day on forest paths, stepping carefully over rough white stones and boulders when suddenly we stop, poke at them and exclaim, “That’s marble!” Need a bit of polishing, but then, call in Michelangelo, let him have a crack at them, see what he comes up with.

Now we are, as you will undoubtedly recall, following the ancient route of Sigeric, appointed archbishop of Canterbury in 990 who walked to Rome to get his official stole from the Pope (couldn’t he have had it posted to him?).

Well Sigeric walked back again and documented his journey, and presumably that of a pretty hefty retinue, valets, advanced party, cloak carriers and so on. That’s how it became one of the three big pilgrimage routes in the middle ages. In our guidebook the places he wrote about (I can picture a little scribe with robes and a tonsured head scratching away with a quill on parchment by the light of a tallow candle) are shown and today we come to one of them.

The Abbey of Isola was a stopping place for pilgrims for hundreds of years, but it all started with Sigeric stopping off for the night there, and it gives me a shiver to think that his feet had walked in through the gate on this exact spot.

But enough of that, we need lunch and for that we have to get to Monteriggioni.  Up a steep path, through the gate and into the town.  It’s very cute, but there isn’t much of it, just big enough to hold a garrison and the people to feed and house them.  It is very picturesque, shame about the people in the shops and cafes. They are so very off-hand. Is it inbreeding, or lack of manners or too many rude tourists, or just too many tourists that has shut off their smile reflex? Something has. But it is a pity, because seeing the photos of it before the tourist trade, falling down and impoverished, you would think they would be oh so grateful for the river of gold that flows through there day after day.

We walk past the nice looking little hotel and ask about somewhere to stay, hoping for a cheaper night and are directed to the pilgrim hostel, special rate for pilgrims with a credencial, the pilgrim passport we get stamped every day. Monteriggioni looks up, it is pretty basic, bunk beds, but a room on our own and a wonderfully nice and helpful woman doing a few days volunteering there to take care of us.

We have probably the worst shower yet, in a strong field. The water is freezing, then after a long time it spits out a dollop of boiling water, just enough to trick you into soaping up and lathering your hair, then back to freezing again, while it heats up another little bucketful. We get clean and adjust our attitude.

Then we walk out to walk the walls, the only attraction here.  It is free to pilgrims with a credencial. Yippee, we save a whole 3 euros, but it feels like a win. We do the circuit with the jaunty air of people with more right to be there than just your ordinary tourist.

Having done that, we sit in the square and there is nothing else to do in this teeny tiny place, so we go in to the hostel and get ready for dinner. Delfina, the volunteer, has offered dinner cooked by her (the price is a donation) and it seems like a good option. We have a good family style meal, around the kitchen table with Delfina and another pilgrim, Alain a Frenchman, who used to run factories in Poland and is now doing the Via in sections, two weeks at a time. 

Delfina has done the Camino as well, twice, once on foot and once on pushbike, and has just spent two weeks cycling through East Africa, so we had lots to talk about.  I asked the question that has puzzled me for weeks. Why is it that French people do so well on their diet. Alain says, “We eat exactly the opposite of what they say we should but yes, somehow it works for us.” Delfina chips in, “In Italy we are slim because we eat a lot of pasta. It’s the pasta.” R says, “Maybe the problem is not the food. People are fat in England, America and Australia. Maybe it is speaking English!.”

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.

Photos Aosta to Florence

Bard Forte, near Aosta, Italy

Aosta Valley

Pverone town square, Italy

 

Venice

 

Coffee in Piazza del Signoria

 

Ravenna to Florence

Ravenna 19 0ctober

"So", Andreas says, "if you have to choose, go to Ravenna instead of Florence." Now there's no way I'm going to  miss Florence, so it looks like we have to go to Ravenna. And here we are.
 
The big lure of Ravenna is not its pretty piazzas and graceful streets, although it gets a tick for both. But it's still just a pleasant small town. What brings people to Ravenna is the mosaics.
 
We've seen a lot of Roman mosaics, and they are nice, very nice, very interesting, with great vignettes of daily life that bring history to life. People dancing, shepherds, cooks and butchers at work, people lolling about having a good time, children playing. These are not the mosaics of Ravenna.
 
The first difference is that these mosaics are from the early Christian church. Like around 400 a.d. And they are incredibly vivid, some gold, but mostly bright blues and lots of green. There are all the usual suspects that show up in paintings later - lines of apostles, baptism in the River Jordan scenes. But, as well, really  interesting pictures of the court of the time, Justinian and Theodora, and another ruler Theodorus. And scenes of the sky with stars. And one mosaic with 99 different birds faithfully reproduced.
 
There's a mausoleum built by Galla Placida who was a daughter, sister, wife and mother of emporors and who ruled Roman Western Europe for many years. A mosaic of her in Brescia (we bought the postcard) shows a very beautiful woman with pearl earrings and necklace who could be walking down any street around here right now. Except that she happened to be that well-connected.
 
There are 8 world heritage sites for these mosaics in Ravenna, and you could spend hours staring at them, except that most of them are on the ceilings and you'd get an awful crick in your neck. Art appreciation only goes so far. There are chapels and churches with long lines of mosaics down the sides, and ceilings full of them, shining and sparkling as the light catches them.  Paint fades, but mosaics keep their colour, it is stunning.
 
It's all very clever - in a museum we saw one close up and getting the detail right so a face looks like a face ain't that easy. What looks just right from a distance, like from the floor of a massive church looks quite different close up. Lips a ragged line of tiny different coloured tiles transform into a realistic mouth. Those guys knew what they were doing. It is astonishing just how vivid they still are, and how lively. It is awe-inspiring to think of these being done 1500 years ago.
 
We tick the sites off one by one, each one an absolute delight, lovely graceful plain buildings on the outside, then astonishing inside. After the first one we knew what to expect. Was it worth it (cost of train trip, two nights in hotel, two days not walking)? Oh absolutely. We are eager to get walking again, but we wouldn't have missed Ravenna. We're going to love the photos.

 
Ravenna to Florence 20 October

This is the thing about Florence – it's still there after all this time. This is the other thing – despite the fact that those buildings have been there for upawrds of 500 years, I remembered it all completely differently. Clearly we needed to come back just to set things straight.

We have an early start in Ravenna, breakfast then trot down to the station. It is another very easy transfer from there to Florence, despite the fact that the train we were going to catch was cancelled, you just don't pick up small details like that in the announcements. This was going to make us miss our connection in Bologna, but, as usual the ticket office lady was very helpful and sorted it all out. Then, zip, like magic we arrived in Florence.

Something nice happened on the way – that flat, dreary landscape emerged into lovely rolling wooded hills. Woo hoo, we can't wait to get back onto that track.

But first we're going to have the Florence moment. There's a phenomenon here that we have noticed before. In France we read that there was a particular bloke who in about 1300 designed lots of castles, two in France that we know of, and Carnarvon in England. And we thought, maybe it was like this – when you wanted a castle designed you'd say to your courtiers, “Get the castle guy, will you.” And we think maybe there was a mosaics guy, too. And now in Florence there was for sure the palace guy. But working just for the Medicis, whipping off mansion afer mansion all over the area. He didn't flit around Europe, he just rolled 'em out here. Every time you turn around here, there's another one.

Now the Medicis were an interesting lot, immensely wealthy and powerful, but with a huge interest in the arts and the sciences. They were not just out hunting and jousting, as patrons they were creating museums full of fabulous art – Donatello, Della Robbio, Michelangelo, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, Giotto. They were also developing libraries of the most advanced learning of the day. They were responsible for creating the beautiful towers, churches, statues. Their legacy is everywhere in this city, the old town is a beautiful jewel of a place.

The cathedral is a wedding cake masterpiece of white, green and pink marble, with the huge campanile (bell tower) beside it, 400 steps up to the top. Infront a baptistery with a ceiling full of gold mosaic.

How did we decide where to stay tonight? The guy on reception at Ravenna (who speaks 5 languages and has an African parrot he has had for 27 years which speaks English) was very friendly and helpful. He was curious about our walk and wanted to read the blog, and says he has a blog himself (thetalkingparrot.com). Anyway, to cut a long story short, he got us a great price on the Best Western here, where we are now ensconced, happy as larry and feeling in the lap of luxury compared to some of the places we have stayed.

These interesting twists happen all the time, and we are never sure what our next few days will bring. After Florence we are back on the road and on the first night will be staying in the only place available at a suitable distance, a convent, one star (but that was all that was needed over Bethlehem...)

Florence 21 October

We set out today to have a tourist day around Florence. We decide not to see museums, but just to wander around the major sights and enjoy the city. Great decision. First big surprise – I found the sight I had remembered from Florence, the Piazza dei Segnoria, an open piazza with the Palazzo Vecchio, a particular colour of the buildings and a particular tower on the palace. There it was! I was so delighted that we had to take a squillion photos and go and have a ridiculously expensive coffee in the piazza to sit and stare at it for another half an hour.

We wander up to the fort on a hill at the top of the town, no tourists around, just steep little streets leading up to huge fort walls and down again with snippets of views of Tuscan hillsides. By then it is peak hour – it's hard to remember that people actually live in these towns and go about normal lives until you see them racing home from work. But there they are in their little cars, zipping up those cobblestoned streets.

Eating in our room tonight, we've bought a picnic, so easy in Italy – cheese, olives, bread, salad, pickled capsicum, bottle of wine.