Montefegatesi

montefegatesi

We drove towards Montefegatesi through virgin forests in western Tuscany one spring morning. A lonely cyclist was struggling along the swirling gradients, and songbirds were in full voice. Meanwhile, in the thicket hills, a forester was cutting down his favourite crop. I wasn’t aware of the village’s existence until today. It was just somewhere green on the map I cannot pronounce.

Since I can’t live outside the colony, I was astonished by its hilltop isolation – that it can survive without the phantom economy of tourism. The Tuscan village exists in defiance of the great acceleration. I wondered how difficult it must be to obtain the essentials over winter. It takes hours to get anywhere.

I lowered my northern head as we entered a tiny Catholic chapel – a bucolic cave that once married souls in black and white. Three rows each for bride and groom. It was a reminder of the smallness of our lives. That we are just passing through. We walked along its medieval slabs as two specks in an ossified landscape. One that doesn’t need to change as there’s nothing left for us to do.

Carrying satellites in our pockets and with sunshine on our cheeks, we departed into the electric green sea.

 

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