If you can call it a joy, the ‘not knowing’ of what to expect from one camp site to another is all part of the delight of MOHOing. Or, then again . . .
Today’s very rural Poppi site would be better suited as a winter shelter for the local goat herd. A series of terraces, interlinked by one in three inclines, test the strongest of thighs. We’ve left our grappling hooks at home. To add insult to injury, we haven’t experienced facilities such as these since being in Morocco.
On arrival we are informed (although hardly any English is spoken, exchanged, or understood), that the site is closed, yet get allocated a top tier terrace pitch. If this was a theatre setting, then you could say we were up in the Gods. The family are busy getting ready for the season. According to the book, that started today. Ancient mother with daughter, on hands and knees, scrape weedy growth out from between the poolside slabs. The wizened father is on patrol duty. Uses his mini mini-moke to do the donkey work. Finds no sign of number 6.
On leaving , the offer “12 euro? OK?” is fair. Mrs S gives 15€. She obviously gave them a high score for effort.
The Italians just love slopes. It’s in their blood. Given the choice between living on top of a hill or on the flat, they go for the former every time. Our route through Italy’s central Apennines is pitted with hill-top and hill-side communities, that often seem precariously perched. Stuck limpet-like. Huddles of beautiful barnacles on the landscape. Left out in the sun drying. Waiting for the tide to turn.
Castles, high in situ, are not in short supply, either, so before leaving this area, we go take a look at its impressive Castello di Poppi.
Our steep cobbled walk, with the advantage of our super spongy Skecher soles, a cinch. How did the medievals cope? – we soon find out . . .
We stop off at this impressive monument. Built to honour the fallen in WWII.
Then it’s onwards and downwards . . .