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The Tour de Farce team cycled through Roman history during September 2004. The details are difficult to capture. Once you’ve visited four picturesque stone village fortresses on three hilltops and glanced at half a dozen medieval frescoes, the details start to merge, then blur. |
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And it is impossible to describe adequately the landscapes, the light; the aridity and lusciousness; the vineyards, the cypress and olive groves of Umbria and Tuscany. The locals have attempted it, with Italianate lyricism, and their efforts – translated into strained English – are a disaster. Still, it is the best we’ve got.
Close your eyes. Think of a 15th century work by Fra Filippo Lipi and listen to this:
“(Tuscany) is an example of the fruitful union of the classical Greek “fusis” and “sofos” of nature and logic. Their marriage has given rise to a sort of divinity: the nymph of the Chianti, the soul of this land. Brambles and grape vines make up her hair, the wind is her breath, sparkling streams reflect her eyes, wine flows in her veins, and rolling hills are the contours of her body. Her smile shines like the sun, and she is as proud as a castle and gentle as an abbey.
She is simultaneously earthy and ascetic, older than time while elegant in her youthfulness. She is endowed with mysterious magic and loves to be on display, to express herself, to welcome visitors and be an object of desire . . .”
Yes! Six cyclists, older than time, are pedaling furiously to meet her. Tuscany, here we come. Breathe not a word to our spouses. And we know that this luscious land has a different, deeper beauty. The poet Mario Luzi describes, in ‘Terra di vento e di deserto’, the high Orcia valley beyond San Quirico where ‘the wind turns into the planet’s enigmatic breathing . . . the heart passes from a state of melancholy to one of universal generosity born of an acute perception of the frailty of humanity, life and beauty – of all that is hoped for and promised.”
Enigmatic is the word.
But its cculture we seek, and we know that Tuscany has plenty of beer and the best of Brunello wines. The guide book says: “In the heart of the Sienese countryside dwells an essential, yet perfect landscape. It is made up of hills, ravines a winding riverbed and cypress trees that crown hilltops in perfect isolation or run along country roads with geometrical precision. Oak woods, olive groves and vineyards, where great Tuscan wines are born, watch over enchanting hillsides, villages and historical monuments. To the west the view takes in Monte Amiata, Italy’s highest extinct volcano. But it is the hills that impress you first.”
O my god, the hills! We’ve been trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid them ever since our first Tour de Farce down the Danube three years ago. James Clarke promised on that first occasion that our thousand-kilometre ride to Budapest would be a piece of pie. “Just get some-one to give your bike a push in Germany, and hang on to the brake so that you don’t fall into the Black Sea.” He was wrong, of course. The only thing our L*E*A*D*E*R has been right about in all our travels is his proven theory that if you have eight hills between you and your destination, you will spend eight hours of the day slowly climbing, and just eight minutes whizzing down the other sides.
The uphills of Tuscany are the one thing of which I have an absolutely clear memory. But research produces the following record of our experiences in crawling around on Italy’s thigh.
August 31. After huge debates about the duty-free liquors we should take to Italy, the six of us boarded the Emirates flight to Dubai, each carrying his own choice of precious bottles, and our bulky cycle helmets. James distributed the sponsored helmets as we handed in our luggage at the airport, after explaining: “They’re so streamlined and vented, they’ll sing as you whistle down the hills.”
Hills. That swear-word again.
The latest Tour de Farce team now consisted of five founder members – the Star editors, James, Richard Steyn, Rex Gibson, and me, plus Alan Calenborne. To qualify for the journalistic team, Alan had to become ‘the Official Photographer”. His experience went all the way back to 2003, when he took his first official photo after inquiring: “Aperture F11 . . . is that a small hole or a big one?”
“Just kidding” we all shouted to the photographer’s subjects. But he wasn’t. Now he’s an erratic master of the digital camera.
Our new sixth team member was Peter Sullivan, editor-in-chief of Independent Newspapers – 20 years younger than the Oldest Member (me) – bringing our average age down to a point where we might be capable of chasing the legendary Nymph of Chianti.
Five of us found ourselves upgraded to Business Class on the flight to Dubai. Rex remained huddled midst the mob in Economy, and the thought haunted all of us for the entire trip. What if one of us had to surrender his ‘Upgrade’ to Rex on the return journey? It was only fair. But the five of us each secretly asked ourselves: what’s fair about the Tour de Farce? No-one gives up the best bedroom, stolen each night under the noses of the other thieves.
We finally got to Rome, to Florence and to our starting point: Corteldo.
TUSCANY
Sept 1. Corteldo’s obligatory stone-fortress-on-the-hilltop is reached by funicular – or up a long, steep, winding road. The village below has a marble-paved main pedestrian-way leading to the village square, lined with shops and bars. The old men sit on the pavement watching astonishing numbers of really pretty girls parading by. We disdainfully join the lecherous old gentlemen, and sit in the street, nursing large beers and expressing our surprise at how attractive these Italian girls are compared with all the female tourists. But – at less than half our own ages – we tell ourselves that these girls will suddenly turn into waddlers with moustaches. Carpe diem.
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We dine on the hilltop, (Certaldo Alto) looking over a wide valley. The village folk are dancing under a white tarpaulin below us, celebrating the birth of Boccaccio four hundred years ago.
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(I haven’t read his tales since I was a teenager, seeking knowledge on sex)
Our rooms have views over Tuscan-tiled rooftops, over the city walls, and to vistas far to the east. Our hotel’s breakfast terrace has even more majestic views, stretching, it would seem, over morning misty hills as far as Perugia.
Sept 2. We catch the train to Firenze – little more than a half-hour journey – and make our way to the museum where almost all our party wants to view the famous statue of David. The place is crowded with women, apparently staring up at its genitalia.
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We argue about whether the statue’s hands are disproportionately big. Having seen the statue several times before, I win the argument. (Some don’t think so – they still think the hands are in correct proportion). We look at countless more statues, but as Alan says, when you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
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“Beer time”, says Rex, and there is instant consensus. Our limited capacity for absorbing culture is already dwindling.
Returning to base, we decide to dine at a recommended ristorante in the lower town, Certaldo Basso. Actually it is outside the lower town, we discover, after walking three kilometres. And it doesn’t have much to recommend it, least of all the price.
Sept 3. Girl from A. G. Oxford arrives at the Vicario Osteria (our hotel) with six bikes. We listen impatiently to her briefing about the itinerary, about recommended restaurants, etc, then go to grab bikes. This is more important than picking a mate. It must be a bicycle of docile but steadfast character; with gentle saddle and – vitally important - of precise and peculiar personal height.
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One’s toes must just be able to touch ground, enabling a full-length leg-stretch on the pedal with heel downward. Inspection showed our bikes have no blemishes. We manage to adjust the bikes so that they fit even Richard and Rex – whose heights differ by 30 cms. |
Bikes adopted, adapted, and
ready to go
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They (the bikes) even have little bells, for heaven's sake.
We start late, but are cycling– or rather pushing uphill mostly – for only 13 kms.
In the heat of the day (“Avoid traveling under the Tuscan sun in the siesta hours”) we come upon a garden of Eden on top of one of the highest of the countless hills. We sit under tall cedars, surrounded by lawns and singing birds, drinking copious drafts of Moretti beer, and salami-enhanced paninis. Some of our intrepid cyclists sprawl on the grass and ‘siest’ a little. Then onwards once more – and downhill for a glorious stretch of fast freewheeling. We are spread out across the landscape, and I have one long slope all to myself, picking up speed until my hat starts to flap and attempts to fly. The others are wearing strapped-on helmets, and look like paunchy space-men. I refuse to wear one, on the grounds that if I fall off, it’ll kill me anyway. This time – like so many other times - I am wrong. As I reach to catch my flying hat at top speed, I fall off. To my surprise, I’m not dead. While in the air I stretch out to reach the grassy verge, but land full-length on the tar, and trace the path of my watch as it breaks loose and sails into the ditch. Time, paradoxically, seems motionless, so it requires no haste to crawl off the road as traffic arrives. A car stops and I give it a thumbs up, and soon Richard arrives and helps me remove the bike. I find my watch and we ride up a very, very long hill to our destination, San Gimignano. I don’t remember much about it. Rex asked me quietly if I was hurt and, with no attempt at humour, I said, “Only if I breathe.” My meaning was that, as I gasped from lack of fitness on the hillside, I felt a sharp pain in my chest. I feared it was heart trouble from over-exertion. Not much chance of that. It turned out to be two broken ribs.
However, it did not prevent me cycling - and it allowed me never to carry my heavy suitcase throughout the three-week tour!. Thanks boys. Had I thought fast enough, I might have parleyed my fractured ribs into getting the best bedroom in each hotel, sometimes to myself. But probably that is too ambitious.
September 4 We are accommodated in Hotel Leon Bianco, with rooms overlooking the main square of San Gimignano.
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The town is about 2,500 years old, but changed its name in 450A.D. when (Saint) Geminianus saved the town from Attila’s Huns. It has been fortified ever since, to little avail. At one time it looked like Manhattan, with 72 towers on a hilltop island.
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Medieval Manhattan in Tuscany
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The towers were places of refuge for the warring Guelph and Ghibelline families whose feuds dominated medieval Italy. Today the fortress bristles with museums, artworks, fiestas, concerts and culture.
While half our team climbed the highest tower to count the frescoes in it and to admire the view, the rest of us devoted our time to real culture. We visited the famous Leonardo da Vinci museum where 35 “unbreakable” working models of the genius’s mechanical, flying and war machines are on show. You are allowed to touch them and drive them, but after creating a record by jamming up the first two we handled, we merely stood around with our mouths open, expressing astonishment and disbelief. So, da Vinci invented the glider, the helicopter and the automatic water pump. Everyone knew that – but the bicycle? Never! The bicycle-chain could not have existed 600 years ago, and the Penny-farthing, with its chainless big wheel, was invented only 100 years ago. . . Then we saw Da Vinci’s drawing of a bike, and the wooden life-size model replicating it - with a wooden chain.
No point in wasting time on medieval religious art, after that. Rex and I persevered on the cultural trail, however, by visiting the famous Museo della tortura which provides such gripping evidence of mankind’s cultural advance. The gripping devices range from an ancient, crude rack to an advanced and highly sophisticated machine which stretched and broke human bones to measure. Then there was the elaborately decorated metal “chastity belt” designed for males – with a devilishly devised screw which could slowly squash, singly and individually, all three pieces of their manhood. Another interesting modernization and mechanization of torture was the nineteenth century thumbscrew which could inflict pain in a dozen different ways. A book of instructions on how and in what degree to apply it for interrogation or punishment is displayed with the Empress of Austria’s signature below the set of rules. Five rooms are devoted to a hundred more elaborately conceived torture devices, and we were able to describe most of these to the rest of the cycle team for days afterwards. We came to two conclusions: In the 21st century, only the bike saddle comes near to rivaling any of the historic tortures. Yet, judging by the natures of the men of the Tour de Farce team, mankind’s capacity for cruelty and selfishness remains as unrestrained as it was in medieval times. These cyclists would not hesitate to abandon the crippled and the weak on any hill. Or steal the last of the wine from any companion not constantly alerted to his equal rights.
Sept 5. An easy ride this Sunday, mainly off-road according to our itinerary, but I remember only long hills, and following the route directions “left at shrine onto cypress-lined avenue” and “ignore all turns into field and continue into forest.” We’re good at turning into ploughed fields. And instinctively we opt for the shortest route every time. Thus we end up taking a shortcut and pull into our night’s destination, Colle Val d’Elsa, soon after our first morning beer!
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The old town, Colle Alto, is perched on a volcanic ridge behind ramparts sheltering just three narrow streets.
There is an international fiesta in full swing in this three-street town thatg has been perched on a knife-edge for hundreds of years. Yet, unlike Gimignano, there seem to be very few tourists here. |
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This is a celebration for those who are conscious of the significance of the town’s reputation as a producer of crystal glass. Italy produces a third of the world’s cut lead-crystal, and this village produces 90 percent of it.
Any thoughts of taking a second “scenic ride” in the afternoon soon evaporate. Instead, siesta beckons the majority, while fiesta attracts Peter and me. We spend an hour wine-tasting and grappa-sampling, and buy some of the good stuff to take to the boys.
We have no inclination to buy glassware – unlike our inexplicable urge to buy porcelain ducks while cycling in France. Instead we wine and dine on a terrace outside our hotel and retire early to rooms that look down on walls built in the twelfth century, and onto distant hills and a landscape reminiscent of a medieval painting.
Sept 6. Another day, another ride. Fortunately the weekend is over, so there are no more athletic young riders brushing past us as they practise for the Big Race. They ride too fast uphill and are a source of irritation as well as a danger to gentlemanly cyclists. (James Clarke nearly wrote off a few on our first day, by tacking across the road very, very slowly on his way up, just as they came screaming down at 50kms an hour.)
We cannot find a place for the day’s first filling-station – we are averaging only about 7kms per litre of beer in these conditions – so in desperation we visit the nearest farmers’ Co-op. There we enjoy the cheapest and biggest bottles of beer on our whole tour of Italy! And it’s all (nearly all) downhill from this point. In the long swoop into the valley my special cycling glasses fall off my hat – their absence discovered too late to go back for a search. I mourn their loss even now, as they lie uncared for in some forgotten foreign field.
In no time we have reached the point of ascent to our next destination, the castle of Monteriggioni. It stands above us in bright midday sunshine, in contrast to Dante’s view as
I pierced the thick and murky atmosphere
and came closer and closer to the brink,
uncertainty fled and fear grew in me:
for as on the circle of its walls
Monteriggioni is crowned with towers,
so on the bank encompassing the pit (of hell)
towered with half their bulk the horrible giants
whom Jove still threatens from Heaven when he thunders . . .
He must have been smoking something from the East.
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We were only a couple of hours into our tour of Tuscany when we came upon this!
It is at such moments - when you're half way up an unclimbable hill - that you wish you were back at the office, or in a crowded tourist bus. Instead, try pushing your bike backwards up the ascent, and enjoy the view of medieval splendour. |
Monteriggioni is a dinky little castle with only 65 inhabitants and no activities except a gentle stroll around its 590-metre-circumference walls. The fortress was built in 1213-19, which makes it nearly half a millenium older than our dear old Cape Town castle.
It is worth remembering that we pedaled through familiar history wherever we went in Italy. There’s the path which that cheeky fellow from Carthage took with his elephants. There is the route that Charlemagne took when he came to beat up the Pope. And the passage of Desiderius with his ‘Longobards’ marching through in 758. And the sword of San Galgano, plunged into the rock there as a sort of King-Arthur-and-Excalibur test. Or Barbarossa, meeting with the papal delegates of Adrian IV. Not to mention all those Roman ruins and Estruscan bones. . .
I remember Monteriggioni for two things: Firstly, our shuttered-window rooms shared a great living room with much welcome space, and our modern bathrooms were multo piccolo, as usual, with a shower too small to soap yourself in. Secondly, this tiny fort had a hugely expensive restaurant. I think it was here that a lengthy table packed with nuns made all the noise.
September 8 and 9 These were “rest days” in Siena. You could write a book about Sienna’s culture, or a chapter on the antics of the Tour de Farce team, but I shall merely remind myself of the man in the red beret who, in front of the crowds on the Campo, harassed passersby; picked pockets, flashed open his raincoat in front of young women and groped at the crotch of several men. Then, taking a bow to prolonged applause of his performance, he came round and collected money from the voyeurs packing the pavement tables. A hazardous way to earn a living.
My other memory is of finally obtaining a medical opinion on my ribs from some-one who could speak English. The Siena Tourist Bureau guided me to a pharmacy on the Campo. A chemist? Would a chemist do a medical examination? Yes, I was assured. Or I could go to the hospital in the lower town and wait for half a day. The chemist conducted me into his consulting room and invited me to remove my shirt. “Cycling around Italy?” the middle-aged chemist asked, delighted. “I too am a cyclist. I have seven bicycles. Two for racing. One for town. One for home. One for the road (“Thanks”, I said). One for off-road. And one for my yacht.” (“My god, think of what the bill is going to be” I thought). After an examination he said, “Yes, you have damage there. No one can treat you. You must just take care. For the pain, I shall give you an ointment for ladies’ legs. Rub it on your chest each night.” The cost was about the price of two beers . . . which I suppose, given the price of Europe’s beer, is the same rate as a visit to a South African doctor.
TO PISA AND BACK
Sept 10, 11, 12. Through Alan’s contacts and good offices, we picked up two Avis hire-cars for use until our second cycling trip began.
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There's a lot to worry about when you're cycling. The wheels might come off. You might come off. And then you come upon a leaning tower.
Do you need to tell anyone ? Tourists are going to fall off in a minute. We'll pretend we never even noticed. |
On the first day some of the boys wished to watch the tower of Pisa leaning. It meant a long day in the hire cars, particularly as we got lost hopelessly outside Siena on our way back. Not our fault. Italy is always building new freeways, and negotiating the temporary spaghetti junctions can change north into south, at least for cultured gentleman like ourselves who countermand each other’s directions automatically.
We finally arrived in Val d’Orcia about three hours late for an appointment to study the culture of olive oil, and to drink wine.
Leonard, our host at the olive oil factory in San Quirico d’Orcia, turned out to be the local scion representing the union of two noble families who trace their coats-of-arms all the way back to yore. (Did someone say 27 generations?) He concealed his irritation and haste under impeccable manners and carried out the scheduled 4pm tour quickly before dinner.
“Do you have plans for dinner tonight? No? You shall dine at our hotel!”
Without awaiting an answer, he turned to his staff and said: They pay nothing,”
His hotel is the Hotel Palazzuolo, located on the mountain side at the edge of San Quirico. With its three adjoining swimming pools, air conditioning, mini-bars and satellite television it is not as picturesque as the ancient and piccolo b&bs in narrow streets across the road- but its a great deal more comfortable. And better value for money. It offers horse-riding and personally tailored tours [see brochure ‘Tuscan Treasures’] among some of the most historic villages in Italy. These include San Quirico itself and nearby Montalcino – with its petite and pretty policewomen - and Pienza the “ideal city” created by Pope Pius in 1400A.D.
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Did I mention the Italian police?
We had no trouble with them at all, unfortunately.
We couldn't even get this cop to issue us with a parking ticket.
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Later that day, after our customary procedure of getting thoroughly lost on dead-end dirt roads, we motored to Campagnatico, about 20 miles from the sea. At the elegant Villa Bellaria we found apartments in the villa’s private park, centred on a lawned and colonnaded terrace with a full-size copy of ‘the other’ statue of David. The tiny village was bedecked with flags, for we had arrived in time to see the local version of the world famous Palio. Instead of race horses dashing around the cathedral square to the shouts of tens of thousands of tourists, this event has two donkeys carrying the colours of two historic noble families in a race on top of the city walls.
“I hope we don’t win this year,” said our host. Victory entailed paying for the celebrations of the entire village.
Our third day saw us at the Meremma Park (a great disappointment compared with even the lowliest of African Nature Reserves) and to an adjoining beach on the Meditteranean (an even greater disappointment for anyone who has sunbathed on any southern African shore). We dined at Casteligioni (I still have to confirm whether this is the Casteligioni famed in WW2, or merely one of the dozens of villages so named.) We stayed two nights at an interesting hostelry known as “The Farm” on the outskirts of the large industrial town of Grosseto. [I seem to have mislaid the bumff on details of the farm]. Then we headed to Perugia to drop the hire-cars. We hardly got lost on the way – but we lost the train that was supposed to take us to our next cycle-ride beginning in Todi.
“There are no trains to Todi” we were categorically informed. This despite the fact that we had the time-table details. At least five of us questioned every official, local passenger, and tourist in sight. No. No trains to Todi. Aah! But! If you go by taxi to ‘other station’, you can catch a privately run train. Which we finally did, ending up on another hilltop, looking out over another cluster of ancient tiled roofs.
UMBRIA
Sept 13. Leave Todi (pronounced ‘Toady’ or ‘Toddy’ depending on which local you ask). Pedal to Giano dell’Umbria. That’s what the itinerary says. Frankly I have no recollection of ever visiting such a place and must now delve into the bumff.
Ja-a-a. This was the four-star hotel accommodating a mob of very serious American cyclists in red shirts trying to cover 150kms a day. Also in the hotel was another group - young couples doing limbering up exercises before leaping into the saddle. But we were the best dressed - in our canary yellow livery and shirts jammed with sponsors’ advertisements. Rex tried to disguise the ludicrous professional look by wearing lo-ong khaki shorts to breakfast. Richard pulled a Harvard jersey over his cycling gear. Alan hid his under a white T-shirt. The rest of us braved it out. None of us avoided the smiles and suppressed laughter in the breakfast room.
One of the friendlier team said, “We’re going to Overtia. Where are you guys headed?”
Rex and I looked at each other in wild surmise. “Actually, we don’t know.”
He and his partner smiled politely and hurried away.
“We’ll catch up with you later,” we called.
We left last, and promptly got lost. Or rather I got lost, because our team all ducked around a corner and I shot down a steep incline for nearly a mile. I had to pedal flat-out back up a hill I would normally only consider walking up. Then down again on another road to begin our usual stop-start journey, arguing about which way to go at every cross-road, every farmhouse, shrine and village. Fortunately we were on strada bianca, the white, unpaved roads with v irtually no traffic. Terrific views at every turn on every hill, allowing us to stop and pretend to soak up the scenery, breathing heavily.
We came upon one four-kilometre climb which all of us actually enjoyed! The road surface was smooth tar; the incline upwards ever upwards; steep enough to stop us talking as we pedaled, but not steep enough to allow us to dismount with any semblance of dignity. We conquered the challenge without pain!
But a truly vicious hill came next, snaking up to the sky to reach yet another Castiglione. I made the mistake of stopping at an ice-cold spring to collect pure mountain water. The others dashed on up another mountain., leaving me miles behind. Chasing codgers from a long way back is a depressing and salutary experience, and it left me dizzy with fatigue. Just when – on a last gasp climb – I decided I was done for, I see the team, strung-out ahead in the blazing heat, suddenly accelerating up a monstrous incline. They have spotted a ristorante up above, perched on a prominent viewsite. The prospect gives me the strength for a final uphill “sprint”.
We sit gasping on the hotel’s veranda, looking down on central Italy. With a cool breeze drying our sweat, we imbibe grande vessels of ice-cold beer which cool our overstressed minds and comfort our thumping hearts. More beer. Twice more beer, but piccolo, to wash down giant sandwiches and delay the forbidding necessity of riding again, into the burning, siesta-time sun.
“Well, it’s only five kilos more,” I suggest, “even if it is all uphill as the guidebook warns.”
Others argue about the distance, but in our hearts we all know that the gradient will be even worse than the one we’ve just managed to negotiate.
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There are times when you know in your heart that you've only just made the hill. Not only your heart says you can't go higher - so do your lungs, and your aching legs, and your chastened bum.
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“I’m not sure I can get on my bike right now,” says Alan.
He’s one of the fittest and strongest of us. I baulk at throwing a stiffening limb over my saddle. Instead I try to scooter along with one leg on the ground. Peter shouts at us to stop.
“Your keys! Rooms one, three and five.”
He’s gone mad, clearly.
“They’ve just pointed out," he shouted at the slowly departing group. . . . This is the hotel we’re booked into. Our destination!”
James hadn’t mentioned it, because he didn’t know. We are too tired to hug and kiss him. But he deserved it for being such a (happy-go-) lucky navigator and L*E*A*D*E*R.
In the evening we walk back downhill and round a corner to the tiny stone village of Giano dell’Umbria. We drink beer in the cool twilight outside the only bar in town (where bocci is played on a court which boasts its own miniature grandstand.) We dine at the only ristorante, the Villa Buengustia – and a very buene gusta it is too. After some bella vino, the two kilometre walk uphill to our pensione is a piece of pie.
Sept 14 route is described as ‘easy up-and-down day’ by our guidebook. Well, it has to be downhill from Giano. But we are on bumpy, winding strada bianca, fortunately covered in olive trees and forest, yet hard work until we reach the tar. Then we coast seriously downhill for five kilometres – the second longest unbroken downhill run in three years! About 15 English and Australian boys and girls, in ones and twos all along the pass, come pedaling up – none of them pushing their bikes on this formidable incline. As we freewheel effortlessly down, we offer advice and encouragement to the sweating climbers. The exhilaration of it calls for beer at 10.30am in the town-square of Castel Retaldi. The sun is already blazing down on our street-café chairs, forcing us into the inches of shade against the wall. Then we move on, down the ‘Avenue of the Resistance Martyrs’, to the junction in the valley where two volunteers stock up in the local grocery with picnic food, while we sit outside eating figs stolen from the roadside. After losing our way again, we finally ‘pic-nic” under an oaktree on a farm road. The rest of the journey is memorable for a five kilometre uphill slog in blazing heat to reach Montefalco. The heat is killing, and we arrive at the top on foot, uncaring of our dignity, and more exhausted even than yesterday.
Sept 15 The little fortress of Montefalco is known as “the verandah of Umbria”, for one can look down any cross-street and see a distant and spectacular view of Italy’s mountains and plains.
But our hotel rooms are hardly big enough for hunch-backed mice. Rex and I cannot find space to open our suitcases. One bed against each wall, less than a third of a snore apart – his against the shuttered window where we hang out our sweat-soaked cycling gear “to dry”.
After a good dinner James and I go quietly into the late night with a couple of beers in different bars. Hardly in bed when the town shakes with thunder, emblazoned with bolts of lightning. Hail bashes our window and washes our drying clothes. The storm rages all night, filled with threatening grumbles and loud explosions.
The clouds were low, but all seemed calm in the morning. And then it happened.
James Clarke has already reported in the press the incident in which we feared we had blown up the bank in Montefalco, but I believe some background to this ominous event is required. Firstly, it should be known that we are innocent. We are innocent Luddite pastoralists, trying to survive in a world of wicket machinery. For instance, we prefer someone – preferably a pretty milkmaid – eliciting from the cow its product and handing us a jugful, still warm, rather than getting it from the supermarket in a chilled cardboard box. We prefer a bicycle that has no chain (they’re always jamming) to a motorbike or car that maliciously runs out of fuel at critical moments, or shoots hot oil at you, or drops sprockets. As for computers, well, we have hundreds of pages of mistyped evidence to show that they are the work of the Devil. So it was with a caution bordering on paranoia that we approached a brand new computerized bank, stuck in an ancient stone wall in a narrow, cobbled street. We knew that these latest machines calculate the exchange rate of euros in dollars, pounds, rands or rupees then spit banknotes at you at a speed which does not allow you to catch your breath. James pretended to read all the instructions then, standing well back, stabbed at some of the keys.
“Don’t let go of your credit card until that machine promises to give you money,” I warned him.
Nothing happened.
Noticing a second, minor pad of keys, I stepped into the breach. Holding in a vice-like grip the edge of my card inserted in the slot, I cautiously touched one of the smaller buttons with the tip of my left index finger.
BOINNGGG!
The stone banking house – the whole street, even the cobbles – shuddered.
When our feet returned to the pavement, and while re-tying our shoelaces before fleeing, we realized we were standing below a bell tower, just five paces away. The bell must have been triggered, we figured, by some evil force when I touched the bank button. And it peeled only once!
We asked not for whom the bell tolled. We knew it was for us.
As we retreated from the grey-stoned walled fortress, James and I made sure we rode in the middle of the pack, going cautiously over the dangerously slippery cobbles. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed as we escaped into the countryside through the medieval gates.
The Tour de Farce team took cover in a half-built house perched on the side of the hill, and watched rain clouds flying in several directions. Eventually we opted for the short, direct route to Bevanga. It is a main highway, almost all down hill, and we coasted through the rain to our destination, arriving many hours early. We had the good fortune of staying at the Hotel Palazzo Brunamonti; a splendid place with a splendid receptionist who negotiated separate rooms for a surcharge of only twelve euros each. What bliss! We spun for the biggest rooms. I won one of them from Rex and was soon ensconced in an apartment about triple the size of the accommodation we had shared in Montefalco. The hotel is four-star, built on the foundations of a Roman villa, while medieval art and historic frescoes decorate the walls.
Absorbing all the culture was thirsty work so, even though we could not claim to be dehydrated from the efforts of riding, we maintained our routine of beers in the village and lunch in an upmarket ristorante where spumanti is offered free. In the afternoon we went our own ways – James to the dentist, Peter and I buying a two-euro ticket for guided visits to several museums. My chief memory is of a strikingly different, but badly damaged painting of Christ on the cross. Just visible on the peeling canvas are two other figures: a young woman weeping, and the anguished face and expressive hands of St Francis. The painting is by a 16th century artist, Ascensidonio Spacca, known as “Il Fanino”. Despite the damage over the ages, the picture seems extraordinarily modern.
Our el cheapo ticket also took us into an 18th century theatre built in a church, which we visited only because it was “on the route”. But it was so intimate and elegant that it prompts you to clap with joy as you enter it. Finally, we forced ourselves to complete the tour with a visit to the local Roman baths and marine-theme murals and mosaics. This Roman art was discovered only in the 20th century.
Funny, though, how absorption of culture is so much more enervating than drinking beer.
Sept 16 Bevanga is surprisingly short on restaurants for such a cultural town. James hardly cared, for he had a dentist problem. We found him in the morning sitting in a bare yet formidable waiting room full of shouting Italians. He waited for an hour.
“I read all the Italian magazines in 14 minutes,” he said.
With the aid of an Italian/English dictionary and careful finger-pointing, James and the dentist almost sorted out his pain problem. We set off before noon on the road down the valley to Spello.
Spello? Don’t remember Spello. I remember pedaling gently through autumn fields, ploughed open for sowing or bearing the last brown crops of sunflowers, maize and sorghum. We rode by dozens of gardens laden with apples and figs and rows of vegetables and flowers. James had some stolen figs for breakfast and we sampled a few of the first green grapes we had encountered. All the other vineyards were heavily loaded with thousands of bunches of blue-black grapes.
Now I recall Spello. After that bucolic and peaceful ride, we suddenly had to cycle fiercely up steep, cobbled streets, pushing ourselves harder than we wanted to, because elderly sightseers were walking up the abrupt incline almost as fast as we could ride. Puffing badly, we stopped at the second square in the hilltop town and walked into a wine shop. Beer and draft wine, red and white, flowed. I ordered an antepasta – a variety of salami sausages – that proved to be the best I’ve had since Rome (in the company of an expert gourmet, the Minister of Culture) many years ago. Excellent lunch, small café, loud and jolly company filling the room. A fond memory. At our Trattoria up the road, Rex and I found we had drawn a room under the eaves – but so large, it seemed like two expansive apartments, with an enormous bathroom. For the first time in Italy our accommodation boasted a bath as well as shower. Our balcony looked onto a view which imitated yet another Renaissance painting.
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It looks like a terrible smash.
Instead it was an irresistible, unanimous, snooze. We had just learned that the Italian summer demands siesta between noon and four. We lay down for a moment - and went out like bicycle lamps. |
Sept 17. This was billed as our longest, most arduous ride. But the weather was cool, and we all rode up and over – or rather around – the mountain as if it were a molehill. Once more we arrived long before the expected time at our destination, Assisi. Here the cycling was supposed to end. But Assisi was so crowded with tourists, and the surrounding countryside so flat and inviting, that we did what we should have done throughout the tour: we cycled to neighbouring villages, avoiding churches, even St Francis’s famous one. At night, for the normal reasons of confusion, I cycled the valley again in search of Rex who had somehow got lost after a good dinner. When I finally got back to our trattoria, I found the missing cyclist sitting in the middle of our group, enjoying another nightcap.
“Were you lost?” he asked.
Sept 18 – 21. Assisi – Rome- Dubai – Johannesburg – Cape Town.
The last two named cities ending this tour are easily remembered, the others deservedly forgotten. Two things remain in my mind.
One is the replication of our departure from Vienna on our first tour (when we strolled onto our waiting plane and discovered we were only an hour late). In Assisi on a peaceful Sunday morn, we taxied down to the railway station to catch the 8.45 train to Rome – to discover there was no 8.45 train, as promised in the timetable. Next train hours later – but we could hurry to some other town to catch a Rome-bound express. And so we piled into another taxi – six men, a driver and 12 bags of luggage – and rushed to where trains were still running. Of course we made it. As usual.
The other memory is of Silvio Amelio’s “Continuita”, a modern bronze work given space among all the Renaisssance treasures of the Basilica Superiore di San Francisco. It is a unusual figure of Christ on the cross, blessing a kneeling supplicant.
Moving yes. But it reminds me of our anecdote about the tourist among all those cheap crucifix stalls saying to the shopkeeper, “No not that one. I want a cross with a little man on it.”
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