Has the “din of town and city” worn you down?
You walk every day down those narrow streets, and from both sides the rusticated, eighty-foot prison walls of Medicean Renaissance lean in on you, iron rings and iron bars and iron-hinged wooden doors. The pulsating beep of taxis, the rumbling echo of the garbage truck lifting its cube of steel out of the stone street, and oh god the people! The smart-dressed woman, stick and pennant held aloft, leading a bus load of gawkers who snake off and on the curb behind her. People on the narrow strips of sidewalk staring at their phones and walking slower than you. People smoking in clusters in the trattoria doorway. Garish tee shirts and shorts sit on the steps and pant in the shade of San Lorenzo. Mopeds swooping like squadrons of birds in that old video game, Galaga, and you with one life left!
The “din and town and city” have chased out peace, and you thirst for “that serene and blessed mood,
. . . take the #7 Bus to Fiesole
You’ll find it on the north face of the Stazione (S.M.N.), and in ten minutes you’re winding your way to heaven. Up you go, like Dante ascending Mount Purgatory. Gradually, the city sinks. Buildings shrink from the street. Green lawns spread out. You’ve still got the red-tiled roofs, but the towers now are trees. The soul is waking up. It’s emerging from the heavy blankets of city life.
In thirty minutes, the bus lets you off on a little hill-top piazza, neat and swank. You’re not entirely free of tourists–among the few other people dotting the square were an American couple older even than me. But it’s . . . quiet.
We had a leisurely lunch of the best pasta I’ve eaten in Italy–pici in a simple cream sauce–at the Bistrot al N.5. I swear my tastebuds seemed keener, like my tongue could feel the pleasant sting of each particle of pepper. The senses were waking, noticing small things.
Knowing that a strenuous hike lay ahead, we resisted the temptation of cool white wine. But that American couple, which had sat at the next table, ordered a second bottle as they decided to spend another hour on the square.
A quick espresso shot lifted us from lunch and sent us climbing up a narrow road for about a hundred yards. As we passed the last house on the right, it felt like a curtain opening on a stage: Florence. The photo doesn’t do justice: you feel like you’re perched on eagle’s aerie. If you look close, you can see the Duomo on the left. The sounds of traffic drift up on the thermals, the police sirens and the car horns and the distant drone of ten thousand mopeds.
You plunge into the woods. The sounds of the city fade further. Vespas buzz about as loud as the hum of a few bees in the wild flowers.
Back in the day it wasn’t silent here. Hammer and spike chipped away at the mountain, and your walk brings you past stern VIETATO! signs warning you away from the dormant quarries. The man-made caves are overgrown and silent now: great yawning mouths of quiet.
The hike is not strenuous, and it’s pretty well-marked. Take your time. Bring some water. Bring a bar of dark chocolate and an orange so you can sit on the low wall of an olive orchard. Relax.
Are the views worth the hike?
You keep Monte Cecini always on your left, rounding its shoulder, until you notice Florence is gone all together. You’re in the woods. You might as well be a hundred miles from town. That’s when the best views come. You find yourself in one of those ten thousand mini-valleys that make Tuscany so famous. This is what it looks like.
The scene is more serene than sublime. You are not struck by awe. But you are happy. You are content. You hear the sound of your own footfall on the pine-straw track or on the gravel. You hear birds. The breeze that stirs the branches and carries the warm scent of autumn from the olive groves whispers in your ear: Forget the city. Listen to me. Look at the colors of things.
You pass one village too small for a store but not too small for its own chapel and dome. You contemplate the blue sky, the rusty terracotta tile, the ochre stucco, the gray stone, and the livid red of dying leaves. Five colors. Beauty.
The last mile is harder. Parts seem like you’re climbing down the dry bed of a mountain creek. Even that stretch has its comforts. You catch glimpses of your destination, the town of Settignano, cradled in the slopes of Tuscan hills.
After maybe three hours, you make it into town. The main square is small, with a cafe and not much more, but there’s a bus stop, and you can step on the #10. Twenty minutes brings you’re back in the heart of the metropolis, the hustle and bustle, but you’re soul is OK. You’re restored.
Website
If you want to hike from Fiesole to Settignano, I highly recommend you consult this website. I don’t know why it’s called “Art in Tuscany” when the website has an extensive “Walking in Tuscany” page. I guess it’s a mistake. But we found the directions were incredibly accurate. Only in one place did we almost get lost–which is pretty darn good for trekking in the woods.
When can I go?
You’ll want to finish your hike at Settignano in daylight, which means leave Firenze no later than 4 hours before sunset.
Where is it?
You can pick up the #7 (towards Fiesole) right near the Stazione Santa Maria Novella–look at the pin below.
