A Sunday Pilgrimage

Today our plan to drive to Castellare was quickly disabused.  Rob’s initial assessment of a walk of about ten metres, became a full-on, foot pilgrimage up the switchback route to the tiny hilltop church near the town of Vicopisano.  Castellare was a military outpost in the time of the Etruscans (about 500 B.C.) because it provides a viewpoint all the way along the valley of the Arno River towards the port city of Livorno (where we were a couple of days ago).  In the times following the Renaissance, a small church was built on the site and it became a place of religious significance, with a special wooden painted crucifix being installed within the church in 1723.  The church was structurally damaged during WWII, and again in 2017 by an accidental explosion!  But a hardy band of local volunteer historians have restored and maintained it since.  And, once you have made your way up the hill on foot, its a lovely place for a rest and a cool drink.
We then went to see the town of Vicopisano and called in, on spec, to a trattoria called DiVizie, run by Nicolo who claims to be named for St Nicholas.  He was true to the spirit of giving because, despite being busy with the night’s pre-dinner preparations, he brought us - completely unbidden - four samples of his delicious tiramisu while we were sampling a bottle of rosè.  He’s obviously a canny operator, because his generosity and friendliness led to us making a booking to go back for dinner tomorrow night.  Reports will follow.
Our day ended with a lovely dinner with Gordo and Mitch at La Nonna Clara in Lucca.  They are moving on tomorrow to Bologna, and it has been a real pleasure to spend some time with them here in Tuscany.  So that was a special thing, and the food was wonderful, but the highlight of the night was when our waiter asked me quietly if I was Italian!  I modestly assured him I was not.  There were people sitting quite close to me who loudly suggested that he was demonstrating the kind of top level sarcasm that Italian waiters save for pretentious twats who think they can speak the language.  To that, I say, Che mucchio di spazzature!