The black Alfa Romeo hugged the winding road as we whipped past misty grey-blue hills, meadows ablaze with yellow flowers, and clusters of grapes from rows and rows of espaliered vines. Olive groves, trees clothed in silver leaves and brimming with luscious fruit whizzed by. A delicate scent of pine and cypress lingered in the air. Around us trees formed lines on the horizon like tall, dark sentinels — very Tuscan, very Italian.
In the midst of so much beauty, a sound like a gunshot pierced the warm September morning stillness.
We were heading in the direction of San Gimignano (pronounced, “san jimmi-nan-o”) from Pisa, on a route that went back to Paleolithic times. In medieval times, it was a well-traversed pilgrim route connecting the mighty Rome at one end and holy Canterbury in the North. The crossroad that we had passed was where the Tuscan heartland connects with the bustling maritime city of Pisa and the Adriatic Sea coast.
In the Middle Ages, the route, known as Via Francigena or Via Roma, saw pious men undertaking the long journey by foot, and some, on donkeys. The bigger rush though was on the road westward where traders and farmers on animal-drawn carts took the local produce — olives, maize, wine, and saffron — to ship them to lucrative overseas markets.
Interrupting the thought was a second shot. It was gunfire from somewhere down below in the valley. Was someone trying to warn us? Were we in danger?
For, in times past, the area was notorious for bandits, rough terrain, feral creatures, sword of barbarians, and the crossfire of feuding factions. So much so that travellers in medieval times generally performed a series of rituals before setting out — clearing debts, preparing wills, obtaining consent from priests, asking forgiveness of anyone whom they might have offended before bidding ciao! to family and neighbours.
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