Siena and the Palio

“A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.” – Moslih Eddin Saadi

The next day dawned hot and bright (of course!) and we were off to explore the crete sienese (literally means sienese clay) – an area mainly characterized by pure and untouched nature: hills, woods, waters and a semi-desert. The colours are unique to the Sienna area as it was covered by sea about two and a half million years ago. On the way we stopped at a mediaeval fortified village. Up on the old original wooden fortifications we could see all around to the Tuscan oak tree forests and the villages in the distance. “Look, I promised you more bells,” Martin said and just then the bells began to ring in two belfries. 

We then drove to where Barry and Martin were to begin their cycle and Jesse and I drove off into the Sienese hills. I was fascinated by the type and colour of wheat in the fields – so different from my Canadian prairie experience. Jesse managed to find a place to pull off the road and he and I took cameras in hand and explored. I waded out into a wheat field and stood still – and breathed in the silence. Then slowly it dawned on me – it was so very silent. There was no traffic noise, nor conversations. But neither were there cicadas with their constant, temperature inflected chirr, nor were there birds, of any sort, of any song. It was just so very, very silent. By each of the villas there were the swallows, the cicadas, other birds and their different song languages. But here, up to my waist in golden, soft-headed wheat, not a single insect alighted on me (unlike the grasshoppers in the Canadian prairie wheat fields), not a bird sang nor flew across my vision. Other-worldly. Was this silence part of the Tuscan magic, or the result of too much pesticide. I hoped with all of my heart that it was the former.

As we drove on we circled back over some of the week’s previous roads and saw again some Chianina cattle (a very large breed of cattle, formerly used for draft work). There had been a small herd as we had driven up to our fortress villa. They were together on a small knoll that was just large enough for their number. There were about ten of them, including some calves. When had first seen them they had all been laying down in the last rays of the dying sun. Today, they were all standing, all facing out in a circle like they were their very own crop circle. Jesse told me that in all the times they have driven past that place, the cattle seem never to have moved from that knoll. They stared at us with that bovine look that is so very enigmatic.

That evening we went to the town of Siena, a town said to have been founded by the sons of Romulus and Remus. As it turned out it was the eve of the Palio, Europe’s most famous and frantic horse race. Seventeen different neighborhoods hurl themselves into traditional revelry and medieval abandon, each supporting a horse in the race. Neighborhood pride is evident in the parades, the childrens’ choirs, the flag throwing, the banners, the singing, the wearing of colourful scarves signifying their neighborhood. We found a place against a stone wall and just watched – it was fantastic. Each horse is led, surrounded by the citizenry that it represents, to the cathedral where they are led up to where the priest stands by the altar. He blesses them with “go and return victorious”. The jockeys themselves are considered hired guns . . . paid mercenaries. The race is a no-holds-barred affair,  a bareback race held in the Piazza del Campo and it lasts all of seventy-five crazed, chaotic seconds. First horse across the line wins, even if it doesn’t have a rider by that time. Then one-seventeenth of Siena goes berserk for the next 365 days. This is not an event put on for tourists, it is instead the yearly competition for the pride of identity. The whole experience was wild – and we didn’t even see the actual race.

A little later, after several detours and back-tracking (whole sections are blocked off for either victory or sorrowful feasts), and exhausting ourselves pushing through the crowds we arrived at our restaurant for the night – the Antica Osteria “Da Divo”. It was unique in that it is in ancient Estruscan rooms cut out of the ‘tuff’ – the soft volcanic rock on which Siena is built. The murals and mosaics on the walls were truly beautiful and the food fabulous. Late that night we were driven back to our villa – all of our senses sated with fantastic food, Etrucan history and the Palio.

Chants and Sunsets

“When a turbulent mind and wounded heart surrenders to grace, breathing is easy” – T.F. Hodge

Later that afternoon the guys returned to take us to the Abbaye of Sant Atimo, where resident monks engage in Gregorian chant. The monks are a community of Canons Regular of Premontre (also called White Canons). They are dressed completely in white and were founded by St. Norbert. The church itself is of Romanesque style, and the monks live in surrounding buildings leading the ‘common life’ as set out by the rules of St. Augustine – keeping their own bees and maintaining olive groves and food and lavender gardens.

Jesse made mention as we drove there that the monks had just recently turned the soil in their olive tree grove and that the colour of the soil was beautiful against the grey/green of the olive trees and he felt lucky that we were able to see the contrast before sun and heat turned the soil grey.

We arrived early. Indeed, the sienna brown of the soil made a very nice contrast to the trees. The monks would not be chanting for another half hour so we took advantage to muse about the grounds and look at the silent gardens – silent except for the hundreds of bees, of course. The church was massive and entering it was like walking into a cool cavern out of the heat.  The bells chimed and seven monks came silently in and took their places. The beautiful chanting began. The acoustics of the high ceilings and the stone walls lent itself to magnifying the sound and harmonies all the more so. We felt quite privileged. The monks don’t sing for the tourists. They chant six times a day (lauds, terza-mezza, sest, nones, vespers, and compline) whether there are people there or not – it is part of their common living. We were honoured to have shared in such beautiful music.

Afterwards, we were driven back to the fortress for dinner. Both Jesse and Martin made me promise that I would get some shots of the Tuscany sunset, especially as we would be able to see it setting over Monte Amiata.

We were seated out on the veranda for dinner. From where we sat we could see the inevitable evening feeding of the swooping swallows. Hawks still floated far above on the breezes. As dinner progressed the sun started to fall behind the mountain in the distance. And I took the promised photos.

Of Fortresses and Bells

“The Creator made Italy from designs by Michaelangelo” – Mark Twain

The next morning we said goodbye to Villa Cicolina. We drove a little ways to Montalcino. At a point that we were able to pull the car over (very, very rare spots along those narrow roads) Jesse and Barry took their bikes off of the rack and prepared for an invigorating ride to Rocca D’Orcia, a little hamlet considered the ‘capital’ city of the Orcia Valley for about 200 years. This whole area is famous for the production of Brunello, a very tasty wine. We were to lunch at a trattoria there. Martin and I would follow and look for good photo opportunities along the way.

        Note Stan is NOT one of the biking awaiting a rider!!

Rocca D'Orcia in the distance

 

As we followed the bikes hurtling down at speeds equal to what we were doing in the car, I was able to see the torque that the riders had to use to wind first one way and then the other around the curves. The shake in the legs and the muscles bulging in the shoulders. I was so relieved not to be riding. Though I did envy the breeze that Jesse and Bar were generating for themselves because the temperatures were now in the mid-30’s. It was fairly early so there wasn’t much traffic and at a point we were finally able to pass them. 

We stopped at several points along the way to the hamlet for ‘scenery’ shots, and at one point, through a parting in the forest of trees, we saw a deer sedately looking out at us, posing wonderfully. However we were on a stretch of road with no turn-out and were being pressured by traffic behind, so despite the deer being so photogenic I was unable to get a shot. Martin was so very excited to have seen the deer, a big grin on his face the rest of the way. I have to bring this man to Canada, I thought.

At one stop, way off in the distance we could see the hamlet we would be stopping at high up on a distant hill. Martin and I got to the hamlet first and took the opportunity to look around. The hill to the hamlet was quite steep and we had agreed that Jesse would text us when they reached the bottom and we would go down and bring them and the bikes back up to the village, rather than their cycling up. As we wandered about the cobbled streets, again the casual communal feel was pervasive. Over by an 11^th century well, two men played chess. Down a lane a woman washed the cobblestones with buckets of water. Martin and I were taking photos of the valley from a stone wall when suddenly the village was cacophonous with the peals of bells. Pigeons flew up in front of us as the bells proceeded to toll the noon hour. I looked to the source and saw great iron bells swinging in and out of a belfry.

“Real bells!” I cried. Martin looked confused until I explained. When we had been in Nuremburg last year, there had been a beautiful cathedral on a plaza. It was a Sunday and the bells pealed almost all morning. It was quite the disappointment when it was told to us that it was a recording and that the bells up in the cathedral bell tower stayed still and silent.

“I’ll find you more real bells,” Martin swore.

Real Bells!

Just at that point, Jesse texted that they were at the bottom of the hill and we drove down to fetch them.  The trattoria we lunched at opened specifically for us as we were early (noon is early for lunch in Italy), but by the time we left if was busy. We asked the guys to join us again and ordered bottles and bottles of water – the thirst was almost unquenchable after riding in that heat. All the trattorias we frequented on this trip were very popular with the locals. That was one of the criteria the cycling tour used for choosing them – that they be authentic - proven by how popular they were with the local people.

After lunch, there was a brisk downhill coast for Jesse and Barry. There was then a fairly challenging uphill stretch, at the end of which we would arrive at our lodging for the night, the Castello di Velona. Originally this hotel was an 11^th century fortress. It has a spectacular 360-degree view of the surrounding landscape, including Monte Amiata, Tuscany’s highest peak. Martin left me there to go meet the others at the bottom of the (very steep), where the hotel staff had me sit in the gorgeous lobby, all large Roman doors thrown open to the air, with swallows flitting and hawks soaring on the thermals. They plied me with cold water with lemon slices.

The bees. The bees are what I have really noticed in Tuscany. One sits on the toe of my sandal now as I sip my lemon water and stare out the open floor to (very high) ceiling doors to the lavender gardens beyond. The sea of lavender moves and sways in the breeze. But there is no breeze. It is, instead, the plants bobbing and weaving with the weight of hundreds of bees swarming over the plants. Jesse and Barry arrived. The guys said they were off to scope out great places for the next day but would be back later to take us to hear Gregorian Chants.