Our balcony overlooks
the square in front of the church.
Swifts are screeching
overhead while, down in the piazza, people are hammering together a grandstand.
The sun hasn't reached the balcony yet, and the coffee mug feels pleasantly
warm in my hands. We pack our bags and find a sunny table at a café. Second coffee,
first breakfast.
This is where the walk begins. To the edge of town, across the river, and into the fields. Black locust trees are in bloom along the roadside, while poplar fluff drifts through the air like snow. There are little woods and meadows between the vineyards, with Eurasian blackcaps singing from the bushes. Blue hills stretch all the way to the horizon. We see a couple of hares, lots of dogs, a few chickens, and one donkey. We pass a handful of tiny villages and even tinier roadside chapels. Hazel trees are everywhere. Every shady stretch of road feels more welcome than the last, and our morning urge to sit in the sun is becoming harder and harder to understand. We hear both a common cuckoo and a great spotted cuckoo.
We'd been counting on Mongardino for our next coffee, but it turns out to be deafeningly quiet. Not a soul around, and the bakery door is firmly shut. At least the view is lovely, and the roses are in bloom. We keep going until we find a picnic spot by the road and finish off the airport chocolate. More like lick it off the wrapper, really. It's that warm already. We lie under a tree, air out our toes, and look across the vineyards. Every hillside has been cultivated into neat stripes.
In one tiny village, we finally find an open door. The kitchen isn't open yet, but they do have cured meat. That'll do. Along with coffee. And water. We're almost out of water. A pair of black redstarts are busy flitting around in a nearby tree.
Back through the fields, we come across a herd of white cows. Somewhere nearby, a golden oriole is singing. After one last climb, we arrive in Tana. This is where we're staying.
Our accommodation smells of cigarette smoke, and the limping hostess isn't especially enthusiastic, but she does bring us a bottle of rosé.
We head out to explore and stumble upon a winery. The man there tells us they won't be serving food until July, but he'd be happy to show us the wine barrels. We look at the barrels and taste the wine. Before long, breadsticks appear from the kitchen, followed by a plate of salami and cheese. We leave with a bottle of wine and a bag of hazelnuts. We definitely have enough wine now.
We sit on a bench by the door, eating hazelnuts and trying to figure out what's wrong with the courtyard. Everything should be nice enough—the potted plants too—but somehow it just isn't cosy. Maybe it's the expanse of asphalt. Maybe it's the basketball hoop that feels like it belongs somewhere else. Hard to say. A cat darts up the steps of the neighbouring house.
Distance walked: 21 km.
This is where the walk begins. To the edge of town, across the river, and into the fields. Black locust trees are in bloom along the roadside, while poplar fluff drifts through the air like snow. There are little woods and meadows between the vineyards, with Eurasian blackcaps singing from the bushes. Blue hills stretch all the way to the horizon. We see a couple of hares, lots of dogs, a few chickens, and one donkey. We pass a handful of tiny villages and even tinier roadside chapels. Hazel trees are everywhere. Every shady stretch of road feels more welcome than the last, and our morning urge to sit in the sun is becoming harder and harder to understand. We hear both a common cuckoo and a great spotted cuckoo.
We'd been counting on Mongardino for our next coffee, but it turns out to be deafeningly quiet. Not a soul around, and the bakery door is firmly shut. At least the view is lovely, and the roses are in bloom. We keep going until we find a picnic spot by the road and finish off the airport chocolate. More like lick it off the wrapper, really. It's that warm already. We lie under a tree, air out our toes, and look across the vineyards. Every hillside has been cultivated into neat stripes.
In one tiny village, we finally find an open door. The kitchen isn't open yet, but they do have cured meat. That'll do. Along with coffee. And water. We're almost out of water. A pair of black redstarts are busy flitting around in a nearby tree.
Back through the fields, we come across a herd of white cows. Somewhere nearby, a golden oriole is singing. After one last climb, we arrive in Tana. This is where we're staying.
Our accommodation smells of cigarette smoke, and the limping hostess isn't especially enthusiastic, but she does bring us a bottle of rosé.
We head out to explore and stumble upon a winery. The man there tells us they won't be serving food until July, but he'd be happy to show us the wine barrels. We look at the barrels and taste the wine. Before long, breadsticks appear from the kitchen, followed by a plate of salami and cheese. We leave with a bottle of wine and a bag of hazelnuts. We definitely have enough wine now.
We sit on a bench by the door, eating hazelnuts and trying to figure out what's wrong with the courtyard. Everything should be nice enough—the potted plants too—but somehow it just isn't cosy. Maybe it's the expanse of asphalt. Maybe it's the basketball hoop that feels like it belongs somewhere else. Hard to say. A cat darts up the steps of the neighbouring house.
Distance walked: 21 km.
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