An account of a solo vagabond as he walked into Tuscan history.

The path itself was oddly stiff, unused. Cypress trees lined the white road leading into the gently unfolding Tuscan valley which spread as far as the wind went. The sky was uncharacteristically dark, clouds had spread out their kingdom and the journey was long. As the sole traveler, it felt slightly eerie to tread this pristine land, much like a guest tiptoeing across their host’s house in the dead of the night.

The road connected the Tuscan towns of Montepulciano and Pienza. It was a hike I had decided to undertake alone, yet the mind learns to keep itself company. Every step I took was a step into history, for this was a land as old as time. There was the Etruscan soldier, walking in sharp quick steps for he was in haste. The town of Monticchiello lay behind him, its walls and towers lit up in the dark night, the faint light igniting hope and courage within his heart. To what end did he walk, or for what purpose, I would never know for at that moment he stopped, turned around and looked into the distance. In the stillness of the night, a sound had made him pause - a strange whisper gentle and caressing. He screwed up his eyes as if to pierce the dark, willing to find the source. At once he smiled and continued on – it was the wind.

But the pause was enough for my fickle conscious to move on, and presently I stumbled upon the vineyards of the old king. In great oak casks, the carefully picked fruit was diligently kept until it was ancient and worthy of the royal family. The young farm boy kept his small sack down and took a deep breath. Slowly he crept down, and carefully sniffed the promising yield – the crop looked good this year. The king would be happy. He dusted off the front of his robe and looked in the distance at the hilltop at the town of Pienza.

The clouds had decided to make way as light twinkled in from fires lit many worlds away. The wind was gently whispering of a promise of magic, the kind which only centuries old cities can keep. I walked under the grand arch into the medieval town of Pienza. Undeterred by the lateness of the hour, lights shimmered from the graceful stone houses, one of which I proceeded to knock.

The wine tasted bitter – furious as if by the nonchalance with which I devoured it to quench my thirst. The lady at the inn smiled and asked me if I was travelling alone. I thought of the proud Etruscan soldier and the ancient king, of the whispering wind and the young farm boy.

“No.” I smiled back. “Not really”.