Ceresole Reale to Frazione di Fey

7/22 - Ceresole to Frazione di Fey, between Noasca and Locana
Permanent Population of the Area between Noasca and Locana, not just Fey but all the surrounding villages included? - 40
10.87 trail miles


My heart is filled with such joy as I write this. When I woke up this morning in my empty bunk room, I was so thrilled to have a hot shower, not to mention free, unlimited (well, mostly) warm water. After a quick shave, which was also much more pleasant with hot water, I had a wonderful breakfast which had been thoughtfully laid out for me a few hours before.
Since I had spent most of my cash by this point, I had to reach an ATM, and since I did not know where I would end up next, and whether they would have an ATM, I decided to walk back into town. Simple errands such as going to the ATM can turn into events when you're on foot, and so it was a pleasant 90 minute jaunt that started my Tuesday.

By now it was already 12:30, so I headed out, but not before filling up my water bag. Little did I know, but I had slept at a locally famous site, where healthy mineral water springs naturally from the earth. Bubbly (like San Pelligrino), rich in calcium, iron, and a host of other minerals, this water is said to have curative effects, and here I was getting two liters of it for free from a constantly running spigot. Italy is truly the land of plenty...

The walk lasted about 6 and a half hours, and included another mountain climb, this time up to about 6,500 feet. I've noticed a change in the vegetation since I have arrived in Piedmont: there are more deciduous trees, and the undergrowth is lush and overgrown to the point of obscuring the walking path (can you find the path in the picture?). Still, I made my way up and down the mountain, stopping at various abandoned mountain villages to wander and take pictures. I pictured another human or other being happening upon these villages, which were already eerily empty, and tried to imagine what they would think of the houses deep in the mountains, with their randomly placed shrines to the Virgin Mary. For four hours, I did not see a single soul on the trail, so this imagined scene was not too much of a stretch even for me.

After descending at Noasca, I made a quick stop at the tourist information center, where I received detailed instructions about how to reach a picnic spot that offered free camping and facilities. I was told that there was also a trattoria in a nearby village half a mile away, so I set off in that direction.

When I made it to the village of Fey, I turned off the main road and headed for the trattoria. Outside were an older man, and a woman about my mom's age. I asked if the trattoria was open, and the lady replied that they were not, but that there was a restaurant about two kilometers back in the direction from which I came.

She must have seen the weariness in my face after my long hike, because she said that all she could offer me was a sandwich. I eagerly accepted, thanked her profusely, and she made a seat for me on the outside patio, which was bathed in late evening sunlight.

One sandwich of ham (Speck, wonderfully similar to prosciutto yet a little more seasoned) and cheese (need I say that it was local?) turned into another, this one of mozzarella, tomato, and basil. Then came the quarter liter of red wine (Barbera, a local wine), and, as I wolfed down the two huge sandwiches, out came the bowl of spaghetti with fresh tomatoes, garlic, and basil. By this point I was beaming like a little child, hardly able to contain my joy, and four or five elders from the village had stopped by to hear my story, each one giving the newcomer an ever grander introduction (this guy, an American, has walked all the way from Switzerland, and loves Italy so much that he's walking all the way to Sicily with just a tent!, etc.) Lots of jokes, laughter, village-specific dialect, and story-telling ensued, and so I passed a wonderful dinner.



Meanwhile, the mother-figure and owner of the restaurant was so excited to have fed me, and was so happy to see me obliterate the food she cooked, that we soon became close. As I sipped an espresso that she insisted I have, she absolutely glistened with pride as she told me about her 3 children (a beautiful 26-year-old world-traveling pro snowboarder - pity for me she's not here, I said, to her delight - another snowboard instructor, and an air quality plant specialist, who was also present and an expert soccer player). We talked for another half hour or so, and as I got ready to leave, I asked for the bill, whereupon I was told that there was no bill. I went through the back-and-forth of insisting, but when I saw she was serious, I could have cried at her sincere generosity and purity of spirit. Exchanging information and a mother's hug and kiss, I set off for my campsite, promising to come back for breakfast.


This day, which turned out to be completely free, was one of the best so far, and I will always remember it fondly.


Can you find this in small town America? Almost certainly; it could be found in small-town anywhere, for that matter. But there is something about Italy that makes it all the more meaningful to me, and I will be truly fortunate to experience it again.
Something tells me I will.