Via di Francesco, Day 4: Stia - Camaldoli

Friday, May 26
17 km
1023 m

We yawned as we climbed the hill out of town, bellies gurgling from too much coffee that seemed to have no other affect than amplifying our indigestion. Near the top of the first rise, the visage of Santa Maria della Poggia smiled benevolently down at us, unperturbed by the noises our belies made.

Less than a kilometer outside of town, we reached our first challenge: a map and GPS route that seemed to indicate one of two parallel paths: a driveway or a gravel track barred by a chain and sign reading "Danger: Access Prohibited." We peered past the road block. We weighed our options. We consulted several maps. Then we blithely hopped the chain and continued on our way, fairly certain this was a local farmer's unsanctioned attempt to keep any more walkers from using the public easement that traversed his back stoop. 

We tiptoed quietly behind the farmhouse and down an overgrown path, thorny berry vines catching at our socks. Our brazenness was  soon rewarded with a close-up view of a roman ruin made of repurposed Etruscan stonework. The path continued beneath oaks and wild cherry trees, over ground fleeced in cottonwood fluff, and curved around a cool green hillside, before emerging on an upward winding road now bright and hot with the midday sun.

Just around the next bend, we were surprised to see people clamoring down the edge of a steep bluff, their legs lost in the tall golden grass. More and more people appeard, maybe 20 in all, sweating under the weight of their day packs. The apparent group leader shouted encouragement in French and waved them down, whereupon they spilled over the edge, running, slipping, and often yelping, grabbing at the grass to slow themselves.

Bemused, we asked if they were on their way to Rome. The leader laughed and said no, only a two day walk in the Tuscan country. "And you?" he asked, the daytrippers now gaining interest and gathering to listen. "We walk from Monaco to Rome." They looked puzzled. They clarified. Their eyes grew round. They whispered to each other. They seemed not to know how to respond. We walked on. We took the next dirt trail, and a stray Frenchman fell out of the bushes. We laughed, pointed him towards his fellows, and turned our efforts to the steep hill ahead, wondering if they knew how difficult a climb they faced.

Another 500 meters we labored upward in the sun on an exposed hillside, crushing fragrant thyme in the gravel beneath our feet. When we finally reached the deep shadow of the forest at the ridge, we were drenched in sweat, and collapsed on a fallen tree to devour a picnic lunch and a kilo of strawberries I'd hauled up the mountain with us.

From there, the walk became a beautiful stroll on a narrow forest road through towering evergreens, the air rich with the smell of dirt and sap and mulch. A generous view of big-antlered deer in a meadow flooded with sunlight. A brief glimpse into an aging Camaldoli hermitage. A pair of small orange butterflies dancing in a shaft of light. Taking snapshots in my mind, we wound downward into a shadowy fold in the mountain.

A rambunctious creek lead us down toward Camaldoli and our monastery home for the night, where our growing camino family, whom we had walked all day without seeing, was reunited for an evening meal. The table was noisy with clinking glasses, clattering flatwear, and  caminoish: the mishmash of languages that characterizes a conversation among pilgrims. We wondered briefly what had become of the French daytrippers, but our table was full, and they were soon forgotten.