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Pocket Cheese
In San Leonardo de Siete Fuentes - Saint Leonard's of Seven Fountains - we filled our six reserve water jugs at one of the seven springs. I hoped the green fingers of algae wavering in the flow were a healthy sign. Our water bottles full, we left town on a back road towards the fishing village of Bosa. Sharon lagged behind. Either she was enamored by the forest scenery, or the weight of our extra water was slowing her down. I glimpsed an opening into the forest and thought it would make a good spot to spend the night. I stopped at a convenient driveway and waited for Sharon to catch up. Less than five minutes later, I watched a police car cruise towards me. It drew parallel to me, and halted in the middle of the road. The police officer rolled down his window. "What are you doing?" he demanded gruffly in Italian. Maybe he was worried I was attempting to rob the house beside me? Was he thinking I could haul off a tv set, or a piano maybe? "Waiting for my wife," I responded in Italian, and chatted with the officer like an old pro, telling him the answers to questions that people usually asked us, before he could ask. He even understood some of my words. We conversed until he spied Sharon coming down the road, then he said goodbye, waved a pleasant good afternoon, and carried on his way. "I was thinking of camping here," I said to Sharon when she pulled up. The area was well forested, and since it was already late afternoon, we really should have been easing ourselves into a camping spot. We liked camping in forests because once we pushed our bikes in a short distance it was difficult for passersby to see us. "But it looks like we're under police surveillance," I said, observing that the police car had slowed to a crawl, dawdling, waiting for us to leave. "Move along," Sharon said in a husky voice. "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along, please." So, instead of ducking into the forest as planned, we moved along. And before we knew it, the trees ended and the coast came into view. "Oh, oh," Sharon murmured. She knew that it would be more difficult to find a hidden camping spot along the exposed coast. From the edge of the forest, all the way to Bosa, we didn't see one suitable place for tenting. We continued past Bosa, following the coast north. To our chagrin, the land on both sides of the road was fenced, severely limiting our camping options - we didn't like to trespass. As the sun set, we pedalled on anxiously. The wire barrier stretched onward without interruption. In the last rays of dusk, we came across a gate. We didn't like to intrude on private land without permission, but there didn't seem to be any other choice. After a short debate, we decided to make an exception. Feeling sheepish, I untied the gate and we let ourselves into the paddock. Hiding our tent as much as possible, we set it on a chunk of land overlooking the sea, strategically positioning ourselves between sheltering rocks. I hoped the landowners wouldn't mind having impromptu guests for the night. I snuggled into my sleeping bag, and lay on my stomach, propped up on my elbows to write in my Journal. Usually it was a comfortable enough position, but on this occasion I was distressed. There was a huge lump near my thigh. Fearing something was wrong with me I felt the lump. That was when I realized it was Francesco's shepherd cheese! I had forgotten it was still in my pocket. I removed the nugget - still wrapped in a napkin. Then I made a mistake. I opened the napkin. Yuck! The cheese was completely alive, swarming with an infestation of tiny wriggling white worms. I wisely set it outside the tent without telling Sharon. |
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