Buonconvento

I was going to go to the museum of sacred art in Buonconvento while Maurice did some sketching but the museum had an irregular schedule and was closed (so Italian).  So we sat on the piazza for a while, Maurice drawing outside the old city walls and me sitting on a bench in the shade under a line of trees with sweet-smelling little white flowers that must be related to ginestra.  On our walk into town the flower scent morphed into a restaurant’s aroma of garlic and olive oil.  I don’t know which is better.

We stopped for dolci and cappucino at the little bakery on the corner then went to find the pieve, perhaps a hidden gem of a little Romanesque church, that the sign said was only three kilometers away.  Ha.  Before we got to it there were signs for other little churches and pieves, so we thought maybe we’d do a circuit and see them all.  Ha again.  We went right past the first one because it was in a dark overgrown curve of the road and instead drove into somebody’s farm; the church was shut tight anyway.  Back on the trail of the Pieve di Salti, our lane was soon another white gravel road twisting through clumps of yellow ginestra.  Up and down we went through beautiful scenery until a brown sign announced Pieve di Salti.  But where exactly?  We proceded past the handful of gateways until we came to the back of another Pieve di Salti sign.  Maurice turned around and we tried again.  Was Pieve di Salti not a church after all but a town, a farm, a small business?  Was it a company selling organic products?  Maurice pulled over by a fence and through an opening in the trees spotted a bell tower.  The pieve?  He turned into the neighboring driveway where a sign in English gave us a choice of tracks for horse riding, reception or beauty farm.  We selected reception.  Maurice went in to inquire about the pieve and was directed to a little old lady who had just come out of another doorway.  She somewhat grudgingly went to get a key for the chapel but smiled as we thanked her.  And there was the pieve a few steps farther along, attached to what seemed to be a farm building in a little courtyard in the compound.  The simple interior had a faded country Italian look, whitewashed, with a big oil painting of the birth of Mary over a side altar.  The chapel is still in use for mass—but who attends?  Perhaps the horse riders and beauty queens.

So much for the country parish tour.  Another seven kilometers of dust and we were out on a main road.  I suggested we go back to nearby San Giovanni d’Asso and see the medieval churches.  It was close to noon and the town was silent.  Nobody was out except a couple smokers in the castle courtyard.  St. John the Baptist was shut tight and the road to St. Paul was barricaded as tree cutters were at work removing two tall cypresses next to the church. 

The restaurant in the castle was way too expensive for the “light lunch” its sign advertised, so we went home to have our picnic at the kitchen table, nap, paint, write and even dip our toes in the pool.  We were tired.  All of Tuscany was out there sparkling in art and beauty, truffles and pasta, and we were lazing in our capella-apartment and sitting by the pool.  Was this a waste of time and money?  We were resting and relaxing.  We were using God’s creativity within us, painting and writing, to engage with Tuscany and press it deeper into our spirits, receiving the gift of this place with delight.  It was the afternoon silence of riposo and the sweet summer of the year, with distant birdsong and fluttering grape leaves and ripe cherries glistening in the sun.  I loved this tranquil interlude, this sun-blessed peace, this foretaste of our heavenly home.  Isn’t this what vacation is for?  I am a worker and a doer, but I managed to convince myself that just being was OK.

Chilling with Wilma

The sisters who run La Canonica, Serenella and Donella, cooked a Tuscan meal for our group, serving us at a long table on a balcony overlooking the Tuscan landscape.  It was delightful.  There was a spread of little sandwiches and the surprisingly delicious panzanella salad made from stale bread. 

Then we had a butterscotch-colored soup of chopped up homemade pasta in a thick sauce of ceci (chickpeas), garlic, a dash of rosemary and olive oil.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.  It was another winner.  Many of us had seconds.  The main course was tasty stewed chicken and pork with a big pile of fresh spinach.  Dessert was flan, then out came the amaretti, potent and peculiarly flavored with herbs, not all that appealing but a nice thought.  It was 25 apiece (not ten as rumored) but worth every euro.

Penny modeling her new shoes (which look like cat toys)