Strada romana

Four degrees at 8am. Damp with the occasional drizzle of rain, and clouds straggling through the trees.

The 'Roman road', buried in the woodlands near Carmine Superiore. A truly ancient path, laid by the hands of Roman workers? Or a later construction? It doesn't really matter, I know I tread where many, many travellers have trodden before. I pass through the whisps of their ghostly stories, carrying my own, living tale with me. As I set my foot where so many and so diverse must have set theirs, I try to imagine the rich tapestry of their lives intertwined over the centuries. The illiterate peasants, the grim-faced pilgrims, the determined merchants, the lost travelling souls, the criminals dragged here to the gallows. And did San Gottardo really walk this way? Perhaps also San Carlo Borromeo on a pastoral visit,  or the piratical Mazzardi brothers, fleeing their nemesis...

I think if only I can walk softly enough, all these ghosts will resolve themselves out of the mist and I will overhear their stories, their Canterbury tales, whispering in my ear, the words made gentle by time, shivering like leaves falling.