Montalcino and the Abbey of Sant'Antimo

9/15 - Buonconvento to Castelnuovo dell'Abate - 19.09 miles walked


The first bottle of "fine" wine I ever purchased was a 1997 Brunello di Montalcino from Castello Banfi. I remember where I purchased it (Firenze), how much I paid for it (35€), when I drank it (Christmas 2004), and with whom (my family). Ever since that first bottle, I have loved Brunello di Montalcinos: the dark, earthy taste, the larger-than-life textures, the exciting delayed gratification that comes with an investment which has tempted you from the wine fridge for years. In my mind, I had imagined the vineyards that produced this majestic wine, along with the surrounding countryside. And it was on this dreary, dripping morning that I would see it for the first time.

Within minutes of entering the Comune of Montalcino, I soon found the names of several vineyards that I recognized and whose wines I had tasted, and silly as it sounds, I was giddy with excitement. These venerated villas, with cypress-lined driveways and row after row of manicured vines, were just what I had hoped they would be.

I wanted in. I wanted to walk these rows, sample the grapes as I snipped off thick clusters, eat soup and rustic home-baked bread with three generations of winemakers bursting with tradition and lively stories, and be as authentic a part of this process as possible.

So, walking in the misty sprinkling of rain, I decided to see if I could get myself the kind of opportunity I was searching for. Now, I will admit a weakness of mine, something that has held me back many times before: I have a dreaded fear of rejection, of putting myself out there only to be denied. This character weakness has kept me from having countless experiences, and there was absolutely no way that I was going to let it do so now. That being said, I want you to imagine the following scene: it's cloudy, with intermittent rain, but with the kind of overcast cover that looks liable to break at any moment, revealing a weakened but recovering sun. The landscape features rolling hills dotted with farmland in various stages of growth and cultivation, including the brown upturned soil of now empty wheat fields, yellow-green fields of fallow land sprinkled with flowering weeds, and row after row of green vines, pregnant with drooping clumps of dark purple grapes. A white-beige gravel road, wet but not soaked - after all, the ground was thirsty after months of dry, crackling summer - cuts through these fields, winding up a steep hill to the looming medieval town of Montalcino, whose towers jut out from the trees and centuries-old buildings.

Now picture a walker, saddled down with a large pack on his shoulders, taking long strides up that gravel road. He pauses, gathering his courage and silently repeating a mantra of his own invention, and turns onto a driveway. Men are working in the fields, hammering away and bantering back and forth with one another in what sounds like a local dialect, similar to Italian but barely intelligible to his foreign ears. Spying these men, he takes a step onto the dirt path separating two rows of glistening vines, feels the mud squelch beneath his hiking shoes, and takes a few more cautious, unbalanced steps into the vineyard. The men notice him, stand up erect and are immediately silent, in obvious anticipation. "Excuse me, are you the owner?" "Some might call me that." "May I have a few words?" Silently, and with a hint of macho apprehension (a contradiction in terms, but there you have it), the man approaches. "I was walking by, I'm a traveler/pilgrim, and think that this place is truly beautiful. I was wondering if I might be of service working on the harvest, and if you have already started."

Five times I reenacted this scene, or one very similar, and five times I was denied, each time a different variation of the same theme: it's illegal to hire workers without a contract, they're really tough these days on us after "the scandal," we outsource now, the harvest hasn't started yet, we don't need anymore help, team's full, we don't have enough grapes to require outside help.

While I was disappointed, and sometimes felt a bit sheepish, I realized that I had taken a major step in my growth as a person. I tried, put myself in a vulnerable position, failed, smiled, tried again, failed once more, and moved on. I can't win every time, this I know, but now I saw myself doing something I would not have done before this walk. And that's almost as satisfying, especially looking back as we all know I got the chance to harvest shortly thereafter, albeit in what is, compared to Montalcino, a wine making backwater.

This day held another victory of sorts for me, that of my arrival at the Abbey of Sant'Antimo. Rather than stay at one of the hundreds of overpriced bed & breakfasts in the area, I took advantage of my research from Volterra and had called the Abbey to reserve. They were full, the monk said, and, defeated, I said that I was on foot, and wondered if he knew of any other affordable options. "You're a pilgrim? We'll find a place for you, then." Two days later, at the end of a rainy walk that essentially crossed the entire zone of Montalcino, I was presented with the austere beauty of this Romanesque Abbey.

Man, was I tickled. I could not imagine a more beautiful place to sleep in this amazing backdrop. I entered the church, was told by the custodian how to find the monk that would show me where to go, and was informed that Vespers began at 7:00 PM. I found the monk, he showed me the kitchen, informed me that the food was mine to fix, showed me where to get the materials to make a coffee for myself, and then took me to a large multi-purpose room which would be my room for the night. He then scampered off to prepare for Vespers, leaving me dumbfounded at this stroke of fortune.

I made a coffee on the stove, sipped it down, and headed to the old church. There, as the evening sun played on the altar and nave of the Romanesque church as it set for the evening, I listened with joy and reverence as these monks, about twelve in all, sang Gregorian chant for half an hour. Nothing could be more serene, contemplative, authentic, and marvelous than that service was for me.

Quietly stirred, I respectfully left the church and returned to the kitchen, reflecting at how communal worship is a lot more acceptable and pleasant when the service is of such peaceful and undemanding quality. Reaching the kitchen, I met Enio, another guest at the Abbey. Enio, as it turned out, is an Alpine guide / electrician who once a year leads a group into the wilderness of Puglia, a region in Southern Italy, for a week of meditation and reflection. Since we had the walking connection, we immediately fell to chatting, and piling our collective resources into a magnificent dinner, we shared experiences. He told me all about Goum, this special journey, helped me brainstorm about stuff I could toss to lighten the load (he was way more intense than I could ever be, even suggesting that I get rid of my tent - "you will always find some sort of overhang or something"), and I found out he was the head electrician for Rifugio Sella, the refuge in Valle D'Aosta where I had cavorted with ibexes all those weeks ago.

Parting as friends and exchanging email addresses, I went to bed, happy once again for such a full, educational, and inspirational day.