The longest walk yet

9/8 Peccioli to Volterra – 19.44

Lorella’s husband dropped her off at the Agriturismo, and we were soon pounding the pavement with our trekking poles. I heard a bit about Lorella’s past, her family, her decision to take up walking, and a bit about the region and its history. As this was the first time I had walked with someone since my first day walking, it was good to have some company, share technique, exchange philosophies, and just chatter a bit.

Lorella and I walked a good six miles together, about two hours, and then she turned back home, as Monday was her one day each week to spend with her family. She left me on a breathtakingly sparse stretch of road, away from the din of cars, in the midst of large expanses of farmland; as a parting gift, she gave me her own rubber tips for my poles, since mine were worn through. She’s just that kind of person, you see.

Having once again proven the fact that there is no such thing as a mean-spirited walker/hiker, I walked down a road bursting with blackberries on both sides. Foraging as I walked, I soon met the grand character Fausto, from Castelfiorentino, who with his wife was gathering blackberries by the kilo. We chatted for a while, he told me to look him up should I head to Castelfiorentino (they all know me there, he said, and I believed him!), and I smiled as I walked away at this chance encounter in the Tuscan countryside.

This piece of my walk was like a trip to Mars, as I walked past acres of barren land, with the soil turned over after the wheat harvest. Once again I was strongly reminded of Giorgio di Chirico, that pioneer surrealist, and promised to give him a closer look when I was back to unlimited internet time. From what I have seen, he really nailed the mid-to-late summer stillness of rural Italy, with deep blue skies and mile-long shadows.

Fumbling in my pocket to take another picture, I heard a jingle jangle, and suddenly it hit me that I had carried away the keys to my room at the Agriturismo. Feeling horrible, I availed myself, and not for the last time, of Lorella’s assistance. Undaunted by my predicament, she directed me toward another Agriturismo she knew along my path, and soon I reached it, but found it closed. However, a young man in a tractor was watching over the land while the owners took a quick vacation, and was happy to take the keys, and even let me use the hose to refill my water sack. Samuele, who had also been to many of the places on my walk and had recently bought a little piece of land with his wife, showed me around, and obligingly taught me a bit about grain, and the differences between types. We talked farming for a while, increasing my desire to work on a farm at least a little here in Italy, and soon my break was over: time to move on.

The walk up the hill to Volterra was long and difficult, as the town rises like a “punishing fist of stone” (Fausto’s words, poetic and prophetic) from the countryside. I powered through, utilizing my handy trick, the one I use when I need just a little respite from the weight of my backpack. This trick works in the following way: I put both trekking poles in one hand, swing them under my pack, and with the top of the handle supporting one side, and the bottom of the handle supporting the other, I gently lift the poles so that they take the weight off my shoulders. Of course, this just redistributes the 40+ pounds to a different muscle group, but psychologically it provides a brief but vital rest for my tired shoulders. Anyways, that’s my trekking pole trick, and I’m surprised I haven’t talked it before, since I use it at least once a day. So, using the trekking pole trick, I made straight for the hostel with my last bit of strength, only to find it closed. The campground was a mile and a half back where I had just come from, so I retraced my steps.

On the way, however, I saw out of the corner of my eye the announcement for a newly opened hostel. As it was a real estate office window, I asked the agent standing in the doorway about it, and we fumbled together to find it on my GPS. 10 minutes into our search, she suddenly said “you know, it’s pretty far away, and there’s a seminary right down the road where a lot of young people go. I heard it’s really well priced, too.” Twitching with every muscle of my face as I stifled the overwhelming urge to spew sarcasm from every orifice (gee whiz, ma'am, thanks for wasting my time. How about you wear the backpack next time we do this?), I politely thanked her, and walked to the seminary. After having walked my longest day ever the day before, I topped it just one day later, by a half mile.

The man in the seminary was certainly a character, and made me walk all over the place as he took care of all sorts of business before showing me to my room. As he showed me the Luca della Robbia terracotta from the 15^th century, he said “your Christopher Columbus wasn’t even born yet when he created this, ha!” What could I say?

I asked him about a piano, and he said “strange request, but I like it.” He promised me fifteen minutes, heard me play for four, told me with a big smile on his face that he had just seen me reach ecstasy, and then slammed the keyboard shot on my hands: now we were ready to go to my room.

Not quite: we were stopped one last time by two girls about my age, and I saw him put on another show. “Is there any way I can be of service to you ladies?” They struggled to ask him something in Italian, but getting nowhere, switched to English. Since he spoke no English, I immediately switched into translator mode, brimming with pride all the while. “Where could we find a good place to watch the sunset?” “Sit over there, and face West.” Laughing on the inside at his answer, I translated for the girls, who resigned themselves to this unsatisfactory response to their question.

I was struck by the beauty of these girls, and one of them in particular, but I was in a seminary, after all, so I had to behave myself. Finally shown to my room, I stared dumbstruck at my fabulous view, and smiled as I fondly remembered Silvia, the doctor and mother of Anna. She had given me a useful tip, which was now proving quite true: “if you can, stay in religious lodgings, as they are usually cheaper than the rest and occupy the best pieces of land.” Wise words from a wise woman.

Like the recapitulation of a classical period piano sonata, the rest of my night was pretty formulaic and expected, and needs no detailed analysis or interpretation: dinner, gelato, sleep.