Via di Francesco, Day 19: Spoleto - Ceseli

Monday, June 12
19.6 km
750 m

I can judge how far I've walked by the depth of tread on the bottom of my shoes. They're sturdy hiking shoes. They have grippy green rubber pyramids interspersed between deep, sturdy traditional tread. Or they did, when I bought them. Now, so many miles later, the tread has worn off most of the sole, and the green pyramids are almost completely gone, leaving only flat, mint-colored patches behind. The insoles are even flatter than the soles.

Miles and miles ago, as we neared Florence, I foresaw this problem. I researched sporting goods stores there but, after so many quiet days on camino, the crush of tourists, souvenir shops, lines, and general noise was just too overwhelming. Instead of finding new insoles, I drank Aperol, and ate too much gelato, and retreated often to my quiet hotel room on a rarely traveled back street. I never looked for new insoles. Now my insoles are so thin I can feel through them not only the road, but even bare remains of the tread on my shoes.

Today, we tried to rise early for the steep climb up Monteluco, but our alarm failed us. Then we were unable to find an open bar to fortify ourselves with cappuccino or cornettos, or anything else. With grumbling bellies and sinking outlooks, we climbed to the highest reaches of Spoleto, only to find that the aqueduct we were supposed to cross is closed due to earthquake induced structural instability. We retreated back into town to regroup.

The bar finally open and cappuccinos on order, I felt frustrated by the delay. Considering alternate routes, I was irritated that our day's route seemed to be heading east-- decidedly away from Rome. All our potential alternatives added distance to our day and, as we struggled to make a decision, degrees to the thermometer.

Two hours after our planned start, we finally started up the steep hillside. My shoes slipped often on the dry leaves and gravel. We stopped for coffee on top of Monteluco and walked on. Two hours after leaving Spoleto, the day was already hot, and we were feeling discouraged.

We crested and began to descend the backside of the mountain.  It was steep. Gravel was replaced by fist-sized rocks that tumbled down the rutted path before us. The way was frequently blocked by thorny berries or dense bushes of pollen-laden yellow flowers buzzing with bees, wasps, and hornets, all of which were deeply angered by the disturbance of their meals. Spider webs draped the path in profusion. No matter how I swung my walking pole before me, my arms, legs, and face were always sticky with threads.

I shook spiders from my glasses time and again. I swatted away bees, ran from hornets, dodged wasps. I slipped frequently, twisted my ankles repeatedly, and often heard the ominous echoing, clacking sounds of displaced rocks tumbling down the sharp drop on my left. It was slow going. For nearly three hours, I picked my way carefully down the steep, rocky mountainside. Though I could see a hamlet far below me, it never seemed to get any closer. Somewhere not far behind me, Rod was having no more fun than I. My patience evaporated in the hot air.

Eventually, our steep rocky path met a sun baked road. In the distance on that long, final, winding country road into Ciseli, we saw a meadow of purple wildflowers on one side of the road and oak trees arched over the other side. We heard buzzing. The buzzing grew to a hum as we approached. Then a low rumble. We found ourselves in a cloud of bees-- hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny bees. They surrounded us, zipped past us, hovered all around us, seemingly unperturbed by our passing.

As they washed over us I felt fear, but it didn't really touch me. The feeling was distant, unreal. After so many days of walking, everything feels both immediate and distant, like what separates me from everything else has worn thin. In fact, I have begun to feel thin. Not my body, but my very being, my soul. Like linen washed too many times and left to dry, forgotten in the sun and the wind. Stiff and sun-starched, I am beginning to fray at the edges, to lose patience with little things, to get lost in thought, in the scenery, in myself. Through me you can see the hills of Tuscany, the rocky crags of Liguria, the miles and miles of space, but my fiber is worn, and I feel soon the wind will begin to pull my threads apart and bits of me will blow away.

Is this what it is to learn about onesself, ones limits? Is this how one discovers the edges of ones soul? Do we see our outlines and our insides, our true selves, by wearing away the outside? Allowing our covers to fray and blow away like so many sun bleached threads in the wind?

I am thin, now, worn and frayed like the shoes on my feet. I feel each experience like I feel each stone through my worn away treads. Each stone is small and sharp. Each one shifts and moves beneath me and I cannot grip it. I can feel each one, but I only move over them, past them. Each step, each sharp feeling, each stone is one step closer to Rome-- even if today was difficult; even if today we moved east instead of south; even if I am worn thin and my threads blow away, they blow towards Rome.