12 km — 28oC and cloudy/sunny — We met 5 more pilgrims on their way to Rome and 1 pilgrim heading towards Canterbury.
(By Jim)
Our day begins in earnest at 6:30. We are sitting in Bar Pergola on Via Roma in Acquapendante waiting for a bus. Laurel is having café latte with a sandwich and I am drinking café doppio. We are pleased with ourselves. The day before, in the same bar, we had worked out a logistical problem with the barkeep and a patron who was bilingual (Italian and French). Now, we were patiently waiting for it to unfold.
We had a beautiful walk up to Radicofani, never needing to refer to the map or guide as the fortress tower above the village was alway prominent in our view. Radicofani is a beautiful village perched near the top of an imposing hill and constructed uniformly of stone. It has been awarded a designation as one of the most beautiful villages in Italy. We had a wonderful brunch, alfresco on a terrace beside San Pieto’s Church, overlooking a valley below. After dropping our luggage off at the hostel beside the church we walked another 1.5 km up to the fortress above town. The fortress ruins were well preserved with one of the four original towers still standing.
When we returned to town, hundreds of cyclists had taken over every bar, restaurant, park and shady area in town. The Tuscany Trails bike event was in full swing. Over three thousand cyclists, staggered over three days, travel a 600 km route through Tuscany and Radicofani was a scheduled stop. The town was full to busting. While cooking supper in the hostel, out the window I could see cyclists everywhere. We were very grateful to have a bed that night.
If you are at all curious as to what transpired at the bus depot, you can read about it after the pictures below.
The trail between Acquapendente and Radicofani is daunting. It’s not so much the distance — it’s only 23 km. It’s the long stretches of busy highway walking (6 km) combined with a 500 meter increase in elevation that has motivated us to find an alternate route. After consulting our guide book yesterday, we decided we would take a bus and bypass the highway section of the trail. We now had to determine where to catch the bus?, at what time to catch the bus?, and what destination to catch the bus to? The answer to the first question was Bar Pergola, and was cheerfully provided by a lady working at a tobacco shop, then reconfirmed by a barista after we got lost following the first set of directions.
Hot and sweaty, we arrived at Bar Pergola to buy a ticket. The barkeep was a kind angular man in his fifties who could only speak Italian. Unfortunately, he spoke it very fast and I could not keep up with Google translate. He was patient and specific but no matter how many times he repeated himself we could not understand exactly what he was saying. He seemed to indicate that it was not possible to go to Radicofani by bus but we should come here at 6:50 tomorrow morning and catch the bus to Siena. A bar patron offered to help by speaking French. Excellent I thought, I don’t need Google translate for this — I was a solid “B” student in high school French 50 years ago! It was soon apparent that I had set my expectations way too high. Every time I tried to express myself in my best unconjugated, present-tense French, the irritated patron replied “non, non, non, parle français!“ I felt a little insulted and wanted to reply with a well-rehearsed chestnut like “ le ciel est clair sans nuages” or “ Où est le toilettes” but neither were relevant so I bit my tongue instead. Besides I don’t think her French was that good, because Laurel understood me perfectly!
After 15 minutes, we all agreed in three languages that we should catch the bus to Siena and ask (the French patron said demande) the driver to stop and let us off at bivio Radicofani (the crossroad or turnoff for Radicofani). The barkeep sold us the tickets for 3 euros apiece.
So now you can understand why we were feeling so proud of ourselves as we drank our coffees and waited for the bus this early morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another middle-aged backpacker or at least I thought I did. When I looked back, he was gone. Then I saw him again on the other side of the street. Back-and-forth from side to side he went chasing buses in both directions chipmunk style.
When we went out of the bar to wait for our bus, he came over to talk to us. It turns out he is walking the Via Francigena backwards to Lausanne, the same as us. What a coincidence. He was also trying to catch a bus to bypass the same stretch of tense highway walking. We told him the bus was coming soon and he would have to buy a ticket inside the bar. When he emerged, he had two tickets and neither was the same as the tickets that Laurel and I had purchased the day before. Just then, the bus pulled up. What transpired was a bit like a Fellini film starring Don Knotts. First, our star, Don presented his two tickets neither of which was for this bus; the driver waved him off back into the bar to get a ticket for Siena. The driver then inspected our tickets and Laurel presented him with a piece paper requesting to be dropped off at the crossroads. He visibly reddened and told us in Italian the bus does not stop there, it goes to Siena. Laurel’s forlorn look worked and he waved us onto the bus, just as Don returned with his third ticket and tried to get on the bus. Don did not plead his case well and although he was to naturally look forlorn, the driver had seen it before. He turned around and told us to get off the bus and took all the tickets into the bar. The driver and ticket seller emerged from the bar and chastised us for having tickets that requested stops on the bus to Siena, stops that were clearly not scheduled. After repeating this a few times, they stopped to let it sink in. Another passenger shows up to buy a ticket and the driver seems to be indicating that he’s late, the bus should have left by now. The passenger, a young twenty year old, insisted and won round one — he got a ticket. When he tried to board, the driver, who was wearing a mask, as were Laurel, Don, and I, insisted the passenger wear a mask. The passenger indicated that he didn’t need one and the discussion went to another level — this little bus driver had fight and won round two! The passenger relented and went to buy a mask in the bar. The driver, who was very much a company man, now realized the express bus to Siena was 15 minutes behind schedule and quickly waved us all back on the bus.
The bus cruised along with immunity from speed limits and after a few kilometers abruptly pulled over and motioned Don to get off, which he did. A few kilometers later, the bus swerved into a gas station where Laurel and I got off. I don’t understand the economics of bus tickets. Don had to buy three tickets for a total cost of 7 euros to travel 4 km less than Laurel and I did for 3 euros each.
It was such a coincidence to meet Don and I wonder if we will ever cross paths again. It’s unlikely, given our different paces. He started the trail two days after Laurel and I and had already over taken us in ten days. I do know that it will be hard to look at chipmunk darting about and not think of our chance meeting.
Your bus story is very amusing and reminds oneself of the power of language! Hope the rest of your walk that day was as entertaining.
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