In the evening I almost miss my stop in Fornaci di Barga (the 'furnaces' of Barga). Hungry for English words, I had been absorbed into the very porous substance of a discarded Daily Mail. Fornunately, there to welcome me and signal to the conductor as I scrambled off where two of my three British uncles: Graham and Douglas... more family and friends are gathered at the rented farmhouse up the hill. We are having a little festa in Tuscany!
What happened at Barga? We regaled the birthday girls with gifts, we visited the picturesque, walled Lucca; we quaffed massive pitchers of cheap local wine. We ate fresh figs and aged cheese and salads with spelt. The boys attacked the Hungarian sausage I brought. We heard Uncle Douglas and Aunt Sarah blag their way through Italian conversations. We plaid the violence-inducing card game Racing Demon. We shivered in the mornings and sweated in the afternoons. We expolored a wild canyon and stared at dramatic skylines.
(Hillside Barga has two official claims to fame: having the second best shilloute and being 'the most Scottish' town in Italy. The first is due to its physical geography, the second, a history of 20th century migration to and from Scotland.)
It is great to have the chance to relax in the company of people I don't have to introduce myself to, to never once talk about day-jobs, and at the same time to be in this strange, beautiful, semi-wild landscape, with such an exciting culture and history.
And too quickly it seems, the week I spend there is over - it is almost time to leave.
I visit the duomo (town church) before I leave and note good signs for my future plans. The bas-relief above the door depicts the grape harvest, and inside is both a massive statue and painting of Saint Christopher - the patron saint of Barga, as well as travellers.
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