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3 It's Just Fluff In the hilly terrain we managed only thirty kilometers before stopping for lunch alongside Lago di Vico--another round lake of volcanic origin. A few puffy clouds marched across the sun's face totally obliterating any warmth it may have offered. I ruefully noted the other side of the lake was in sunshine. From all the steep hills Sharon complained of her usual bodily aches in her back and legs and added a new one- her stomach muscles. I stretched her back for her and she smiled weakly. She insisted she was bone tired and suggested we call it a day. So, at two in the afternoon, we camped beside Lake Vico. It turned out to be a wise decision. The weather turned nasty with violent wind shaking the tent walls. Spring was officially upon us and it was none too warm. The wind was having a festive extravaganza with our tent fly and when I poked my head out, the leafless treetops were swaying crazily like an out of control kaleidoscope. Tiny Lago di Vico had whitecaps. I quickly ducked inside for a couple more hours of shut-eye. When we left a couple of hours later it was a tough climb up the side of the crater and out. More lava, please. A smattering of snowflakes fell, but I managed to convince myself they were just blossoms being blown off trees. After climbing the Cimini mountains, it was downhill to Viterbo. In Viterbo a vacationing couple happened by. Incredulity strained their voices as they asked, "Is that a Canadian flag?" "Why, yes it is," I responded. They were originally from Vancouver, but had lived in Sydney, Australia the past two years. They had flown to Rome and were on their way to Barcelona to meet their daughter, who had been travelling around Asia the past year. After hitting the tourist office for information on Viterbo Province, I bought bread. The young fellow behind the counter said, in faltering English, "I am Italian boy." Of course, I responded with: "I am Canadian boy," which brought an instant smile to his face. The price of oranges had risen dramatically. Bruno said he was paid 200 lira per kilo; shops were selling oranges for 2500 lira a kilo at three oranges per kilo. A truck parked along the road was selling oranges off the tailgate. I stopped to buy a kilo, but he insisted he only sold them by the crate. Instead of breaking his case lot policy, he gave them to us free. We had lunch at the public gardens in Viterbo beside the pond populated with quacking ducks, squabbling geese and graceful swans. It was a lovely setting, but the wind was so bitterly cold we couldn't enjoy it. While standing around flapping my arms to keep warm, a flurry with enough flakes convinced me it wasn't merely blossoms. I stopped laughing at people in parkas. We took the scenic route to Marta, then doubled back to Montefiascone. Our cycling legs noticed the old towns were built on the highest vantage point around--the better to see one's enemies approaching I supposed. How did they get water way up there? Sharon wanted to see the churches and artworks in Orvieto. Bruno and Iole had told us Italy possessed seventy five percent of the world's art--most of it stacked, rotting, in the basements of churches and museums. Nevertheless, Sharon wanted to see what was on display. A round pool of water, Lake of Bolsena, leftover from a volcano, looked spectacular from the top of the crater's rim. As we climbed above Bolsena, and along the crater's ridge, the deep water took on an intense blue. Leafless trees provided an unobstructed view. We camped in a small forest with chirping birds. The bucolic surroundings made me again think I could be anywhere in North America. All the uninhabited land befuddled me. It didn't fit my preconceived notion of heavily populated Europe. |
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