cuanto costo un chilo de spaghetti?

 We head west from Foligno towards Montepulciano.  The weather has improved and the days are drawing out.  We begin to look for cycle routes or farm roads, anything to keep us off the busy roads.  Italy sometimes reminds us of England, with its crowded and busy roads.  And here there's an extra rush hour just before lunchtime.

Panicale

Panicale - this is the basic layout for nearly all Italian hilltop towns

dike no. 2

We try to avoid the hills but it's impossible.  Eventually there is a climb, short and steep, followed by the inevitable descent into the next valley.  We spend an inordinate amount of time looking for somewhere to camp and just as we think we've found a reasonable spot along a track a couple appear with their huge dog.  Just like England - dog walkers coming out in the early evening.  We detour along a riverbank dike that has waist-high grass to avoid them.  The following day we also camp on a dike, this time in plain sight of the railway.  The road to Montepulciano drags us uphill.  I guess the clue is in the name.  After a morning rain shower which we sit out in a cafe, we thread our way up country lanes and dirt roads through vineyard estates.  It gets steeper as we get closer to the town.  For some reason arriving is enough for me.  Once we pass through the old city gate of the old town and find ourselves pushing through the hordes of tourists I lose interest.  So I wait with the bikes while Gayle wanders off taking photos.  We camp behind a very bushy hedgerow on the other side of the hilltop.  

the view from Montepulciano's walls

Another day, another hilltop town.  First off is Monticchiello, a small but very pretty little village with a ruthless approach.  A lot of folk are out and about this Sunday.  Quite a few cyclists.  Hang on a minute, that young couple are on electric bikes!  We descend a small lane and head straight up a farm road for the direct approach to Pienza.  We are passed by this same couple and some mountain bikers with a guide.  The road is brutal.  The ultimate road to reach the city walls is just a plain slog, but the views are great.  Gayle pushes the final stretch and mutters "No more. No more."  But after a good sit down, a chat with some American tourists and a picnic lunch in the park we're ready for the next leg.

Pienza

The next leg is a footpath.  It's not meant to be.  It's a track on our map.  But it really is just a footpath.  We bounce down into the bottom of some fields, beyond renovated or abandoned farmhouses, and then push up to a road.  Lots of folk are parking up to visit a chapel and lots more are taking advantage of the afternoon sun and massing rainclouds to take photos of the wheat fields and rows of cypress trees in the dramatic light.  For this is Umbria.  The Val d'Orcia to be precise.  After some scouting we find somewhere to pitch our tent just as the rain starts.  We are shielded by two bushes from a couple of farmhouses that are doing the agri-turismo thing.  It will do.

the Val d'Orcia

cosa si fa di sera?

Our camera is broken.  Probably dirt or sand in the mechanism.  Gayle is quickly on a mission to replace it.  The problem is that it's Easter and there's not a lot of choice.  At the hostel we use the kitchen to cook our dinners.  We meet Monica, a mum from the north, who chats to us while we cook.  She is surprised to see us preparing courgettes with tortellini.  Who'd have thought it?  We comment on how good her english is and she is pleased.  She's a history teacher who teaches in english as part of a six-year EU project in northern Italian schools.  The project is about to end because the new government doesn't approve.

I can't imagine why this shop closed down

Foligno was a Roman city on one of their trade routes.  The current city centre was shaped from the 1400's when it fell under the Poe's control and formed one of the Papal States that lasted until Italian unification in the late 1800's. It's great to go about the centre which is now predominantly pedestrianised and very pleasant to walk or cycle.  It's also rather handy for visiting nearby Perugia and Assisi.

We take the train to Perugia and then a funicular up to the old town.  It's teeming with tourists over the holiday weekend.  Walking down some of the streets we are stunned by the height of some of the old buildings - 5 or 6 storeys high - and wonder how they've survived the earthquakes that plague this part of the country.  

Perugia

 We cycle up to Assisi where the tourist level has upped a notch or two.  St. Fancis' basilicas are teeming with visitors.  We join the queues to look around.  It's all a little too much for me.  I much prefer the lovely back road route to Spello, another hilltop town, and the narrow streets of tightly-packed houses there.

On reflection though, I prefer Foligno above all because it feels like a normal lived-in city.  It also has lots of visitors, but it plainly has plenty of locals still living and using the centre.  It has a life of it's own.  And it has bike paths.  And not a cement works in sight.

Foligno

 

my favourite shopfront

c'e un poste dove sedersi?

At last we are on peaceful mountain roads. The sun is out and the landscape is wonderfully dramatic.  We skirt a large low reservoir and pass through the little tourist village beside it before beginning to climb more.  Following a small road we climb into a wide valley running north-south and gradually gain altitude.  There are farmhouses converted into agri-turismo holiday lets and fields of cows and sheep, some woodland.  We collect water in a village where we see only one local.  And then the road brings us to a castle-like monastery and church complex.  It is closed, with "danger - keep away" tape strung up around everything. More earthquake damage.

As we climb to a pass a collection of snow-capped peaks loom into view.  They are breathtaking.  We're crossing the Apennines, the mountain chain that runs like a spine through Italy, and these are the Sybilini mountains.  At the pass is a refuge for shepherds and walkers.  Rain clouds are drawing in so we take a peak.  It's a dosshouse inside and judging by all the wine bottles someone actually might be sleeping here.  So we instead stick on our waterproofs and get soaked as we descend a series of hairpins down into the valley below.  Our map is a blur of squiggly lines that seem to criss-cross.  It sort of makes sense as we descend past the first village.  Some barking dogs and a couple of farmers using machinery, but otherwise the houses look empty.  We round a corner to another village.  Buildings are boarded up, pinned and buttressed as we have seen before.  This whole village looks empty.  Continuing downhill we finally arrive in a village with small shops and people.  The main street is closed to traffic as buildings look about to collapse or are being demolished.  There's a large estate of single-storey prefabhouses.  This is where the locals are now living.  

We camp just out of town and the next day continue down the gorge to the village of Visso.  This is in a similar devastated condition.  We had no idea there'd been an earthquake here.  We stop at the prefab police station to ask for information about the road south.  The carabinieri are friendly. ( "Manchester? Oh, I'm so sorry you lost last night. I watched the football on TV." I looked disappointed.  "Barcelona were too good"  I smiled broadly "Ah, you mean United lost! Ha! Ha!" )  They tell us the earthquake happened in 2017 but there were luckily no deaths.  Meanwhile the locals are trying to rebuild their homes, their communities and their lives.  Another local tells us that it may take five, eight, ten years.  There is a brand new primary school but all the shops and cafes are in temporary structures.  And the road we want to take south to Norcia is closed.

 

closed off centre of Visso

 
We check our map and revise our route.  And head north.  The main road takes us along the lower reaches of the same valley we came south along.  There's a smaller accompanying road that takes us through more damaged villages.  It's hard to describe the effect of seeing the destruction close up.  Some of the villages are how I expect war-ravaged villages look.  In Pieve Tonna there's a whole new village been built beside the old one.  Once again there is a brand new primary school but the only work in the old village looks like demolition.

 

Pieve Tonna

There's a beautiful valley leading us westwards with a manageable gradient leading to a pass.  The sun is shining all day and we camp in one of the last empty fields before the woods take over.  

The next day we cross the pass and descend to a motorway that shouldn't be there.  At least, it's not on our map.  But it doesn't interfere with our route along small farm roads that take us into the wide flat high valley of Colfiorito. We spot a peloton of cyclists but we would never catch up with them.  Another climb takes us on even smaller roads avoiding a higher pass and bringing us into yet another high valley.  But this time we are only descending.  The road should spit us out of the mountains at Foligno, which we imagine to be an ugly modern industrial city of chemical plants and cement works.  The descent is dramatic and leads into a narrow gorge where all roads merge to twist and wind downwards.  We literally gasp when we emerge at a very high point above the plain with views into the hazy distance stretching to Perugia.  Hairpin bends help bring us closer to the plain and once again we find a side road to escape the busy traffic.

It's Good Friday.  Foligno turns out to be a beautiful old medieval city which, unusually for Italy, is flat and bike-friendly.  There's a youth hostel in an old palazzo.  We take a room for the Easter weekend.  After these mountains we need a break.

a typical cyclist's view from the bed

si puo bere l'acqua?

We can see the rain coming.  We've sat down on the side of the empty road and eaten our picnic lunch whilst marvelling at the views.  The landscape is a rolling countryside of green ridges and valleys full of hedgerows and fields and woodland.  We've enjoyed the morning ride up onto this ridge but now we're wondering whether to call it an early day.  Behind us is a copse of trees dropping down the other side of the ridge.  We have a look around and find a spot to pitch the tent.  There are signs of deer passing through.  The rain is starting.  We get the tent up quickly and jump in.

The morning began with us getting off the main road as soon as we could.  We join a side road that climbs up along a ridge through a couple of villages.  In the first we find a cafe selling tempting pastries for a snip.  We carry on through the trees and pass the church in the next village just as the morning service is about to begin.  It's Palm Sunday. The local congregation are carrying olive branches in to the church in a procession led by the priest.  We've spotted a few road cyclists up to this point, but then they turn around.  We soon find out why when we start yo-yoing up and down along the ridge.  The gradients remind us of cycling around Hebden Bridge.
 

On a cloudy morning the next day we ride into San Ginesio.  It's another classic Italian hilltop village with portals and steep cobbled streets.  But this one is badly damaged.  Some buildings are strapped together in steel straitjackets or propped up with scaffolding and buttressing.  Earthquake damage.  The streets are very quiet.  There's a feeling that people might have moved out.

San Ginesio

After descending back to the main road we are keen to turn off again and finally begin the climb into the mountains we've been looking at for over a week.  The road follows high up on one side of a narrow gorge, way above the river tumbling down below.  We edge up higher to a village where we hope to find water.  From here there's a track to a ski resort.  But in April there is only the sound of some building work going on somewhere.  Not a soul to be found.  I cycle up to look for water and notice a chapel tucked below the road.  And then a hand-written card with an arrow saying "fonte".  I can hear it before I see it - an ornate stone surround for an old-fashioned free-running spring with mountain-fresh water.  This is priceless.  Literally.  We camp nearby in an unused grazing field with magnificent views over the deep valley before us.  Before the sun has set we have seen the full moon rising in the sky.

morning sunshine

quando fa buio?

After our lethargic start in Italy we are chomping at the bit to get out of lovely Loreto.  Straight up the hill, take a side street to avoid the top, then rejoin the road along the ridge to Recanati.  This town is also perched on a ridge.  It's busy with tourists wandering the pedestrianised and cobbled streets.  A street market is in full flow down the main street.  The town has a medieval market town feel to it.  We half-expect farmers to be pulling their livestock into the main square for sale.  But there's only cheap clothing stalls and cafes.

We descend southwards into a valley with the prospect of another straight up climb to a viilage on the next ridge.  The climb ends in a push as the gradient gets the better of us.  The surrounding farmland is green and peaceful and the all-too-familiar rain clouds begin to gather above us as we tuck into our lunch in the main square.  

Happily the rain holds off and we head off along the tops towards the city of Macerata.  At one point we opt for a minor road which takes us down into a deep valley and right back out again.  Another crawl.  It brings us to the edge of Macerata and in the mid-afternoon sunlight it looks rather dramatic.  It too is perched on a hilltop.  Mmm, there's a pattern developing.

We wander through the cobbled streets but it's the wrong time to visit the old city centre - siesta o'clock.  Everywhere looks closed up - a zombie disaster movie in the offing.  We roll out through a grand arched gateway into the new town.  Down again heading southwest in the late afternoon rush hour.  We pause at a petrol station to top up our cooking fuel.  The garage is unmanned.  A man is filling his motorbike up.  I try to catch his eye to ask if he would fill my bottle if I give him some money.  Before he listens to me he hangs up the nozzle.  The minimum payment is 5 euros and I don't even need one.  So we push on and at the foot of the hill find one with an attendant.  Here I can use my bank card and I only get charged for what I take.  A driver comes over to chat with Gayle.  The attendant is an African, Ghanaian it turns out, and he comments that he's never heard so much English spoken since he arrived here.
 
It's after six when we finally pull off the road and backtrack into a field that drops away below the road at a 90 degree curve.  We camp at the edge of the field and only then realise that there's a farm road at the bottom of the field.  We are in plain sight but only if someone actually looks upwards.  The evening light is not really appreciated.  After dinner and nightfall I unzip the tent to have a pee.  I'm just about to step up and out when a man walks close by using his phone as atorch.  He must've seen us - we're in his path - but he said nothing.  We're momentarily freaked.  But then we reflect - so is he probably.

When does it get dark?

e una tradizione locale?

We carefully plot a route to Loreto via a Decathlon store to replace some out clothes and take a wrong turning at the second junction of the day.  We are pretty sure we've gone wrong.  The ride should have been downhill all the way and we are climbing a steep little road beside a small football stadium.  See, the stadium should be on our left.  It is on our right.  Typically we don't turn around.  We hate going back.  The hillsides are criss-crossed with country lanes and over there is the large valley coming south out of Ancona which we will eventually come to one way or another.

At Decathlon a young couple chat to Gayle while I trawl the aisles inside.  Where are we going?  Do we need any help?  Here's our phone number if you have any questions.  How kind and thoughtful.   Our route follows the main valley and it's difficult to avoid the busy roads.  At one point we decide to turn off at the next opportunity but when a junction appears we see a road climbing steeply and our resolve to get off the busy road diminishes rapidly.  Suddenly the shoulder doesn't seem that narrow after all and listen to those hissing airbrakes?  See, the truck drivers are very careful before they overtake us.

Lunch in a children's playground whose main appeal is the sign at the entrance: "No introducire i cani".  Thunderous clouds drift closer overhead.  We are still on the coast which is fairly built up and we want to climb westwards into the mountains.  But not today.  After climbing the road into Loreto we stop outside a hostal with vaulted ceilings in reception.  It's cheap enough and cheerful enough.  The man shows Gayle some of the rooms.  Berlin, Paris,  and this one is just for you...London!  An armchair furnished with the union jack, Big Ben and red phone box photos.  Home from home really.  A narrow balcony which we can cook on.  We unload everything and go for a walk in the dying light.  

There's a pleasant and quiet old town surrounded by walls, keeps and other fortifications.  At it's heart stands the impressively huge gothic Chiesa de la Santa Casa - the Church of the Holy House.  Not one for nibbling the pastry around the edges, we go straight for the cherry on the top.  Inside, the church is impressive in it's size and decoration.  Laid out in the familiar shape of the cross, at its centre stands a small structure decorated on the outer walls with finely carved marble reliefs of expressive people.  A ramp leads you to a side doorway and we are transported to a dingy red brick room with an altarpiece on which stands an ebony Virgin Mary.  This room is the Holy House and legend has it that when the crusaders were ejected from Jerusalem some of them brought with them the house of Mary, Jesus' mother.  Of course, they didn't have fridge magnets back then. 

one of the reliefs telling the story of its removal?

 A few faithful come in to say a prayer to the statue.  There are some ornate chapels radiating off from the house.  Back outside we can see the huge stone buttresses and the distinctive and unusual wavy stone design.  Below the church is a wooded park with a Polish war cemetery for the servicemen who'd fought here with the Allies.  The soldiers were drawn mostly from prisoners held in Russian gulags in what is now Uzbekistan and when released had to walk to Iraq to meet the British Army.  It's a sad and beautiful place to be, amongst the pines and olive trees.

 The rain threatens but stays away until the next day.  We decide to sit and wait it out.  We can't see the mountains obscured in the black clouds and we have no appetite for cycling into thunderstorms.  The next day is the same.  We amuse ourselves by wandering the small town when it isn't raining.  Groups of schoolkids and pensioners are hered through the old town.  The gift shop beside the church is heaving.  Next to the fountain in the plaza a chalk artist touches up his copies of the artworks inside.  They are fabulous.  They remain there each night and seem to withstand the rain.  And each morning the artist crouches down, cigarette hanging off his bottom lip, and makes as if he has just completed the drawing anew. 

che tempo fa?

Rain.  We get directions that help us find the road out of the city centre and into the countryside where we've booked an Airbnb place.  From the port the road climbs, and climbs, and climbs.  It drizzles, it rains, it drizzles.  We ask a woman about a supermarket and she directs us to a mini-market in the village centre up ahead.  But it's just after three in the afternoon and the shop doesn't reopen until 4.30.  Stupid siesta.  At least there's a seat under the awning to wait it out and practice some phrases.

Che tempo fa?
Piove, bloody piove.

While we're waiting a car pulls up occasionally and the drivers wind down their windows to ask us if the shop is open, when will it open, why isn't it open?? They all drive off disgruntled.  So it's not just us who think the siesta is silly.  One man pauses to ask, stalls his car and can't get it started again.  The village is quiet but the main street soon gets a tailback.  The driver is befuddled.  He can't get the thing started and tells everyone that it's all the fault of FIAT.  Another man appears and tries to help.  While suggesting things to the driver he begins directing the traffic to go around the stalled car.  It is a classic Italian scene as the man becomes more and more demonstrative and the other drivers slowly realise that they can actually get past.  He looks at us in despair, throws his hands up in the air and wails "Italianos!!" We help to push the car up the hill and to the kerb so that the road is clear again.  And then, after words with another passerby, the man walks off in a strop.  Italians indeed.

The next day we bus it back into the city for a wander around.  

Che tempo fa?  
C'è il sole.

We enjoy a wander up and down the city streets.  The duomo sits up on a hill overlooking the port.  The streets around the port are narrow and packed tightly with grand buildings.  We bathe in the sun.  It all looks so much better than the day before.

what everyone wants - democracy and toilets

graffito

from the dockside