It is already morning, and I get up reluctantly. I slept so well last night, on a real mattress! My tent lies crumpled between two bunk beds, an empty shell. Quickly I pack my things and compress them with mechanical movements into my rucksack. I load it onto my shoulder and open the door to the room. My mood suddenly changes: above the dingy inner courtyard of the hostel, where chickens and turkeys roam, a cloudless sky shines, and the mountainside is lit up by dawn. I go downstairs to the bar, where the owner is waiting for me with a delicious, home-made apple pie. I binge, say thank you, say goodbye and leave.
It's a typical Piedmontese day, I'm used to it by now: a straight, steep climb of more than 1,000 metres, on a path all stones and steps. I cannot say that I leave the village behind me, but underneath me. In fact, the further I go, the more San Lorenzo becomes a small dot at my feet, below but no further away. In front of me the mountains seem very close, I can see all the road I travelled the day before. I am in a small side valley of the famous Orco valley, where I spent a day of rain and rest in Ceresole Reale. Today is 23 June 2021 an important day, the thirtieth day of walking! I left exactly one month ago, leaving behind the Tyrrhenian Sea that washes the beach of Finale Ligure.
I have had a thousand adventures and overcome many trials. My nerves are a bit frayed at this point, the ever-present rain and the snow that still covers the highest passes have robbed me of the joy of admiring the beauty of the mountains, forcing me to take low-altitude paths, sleep in hostels and walk in the fog. My destination, the Tyrrhenian Sea in Trieste, is still a long way off, and as I continue to climb I think about how to face the next few days with greater enthusiasm. Meanwhile, today's day is no different from the others: after much effort to overcome 1200 metres of vertical height difference, I finally reach the pass and find myself in the fog. So I start the descent without even stopping, and arrive at Lake Eugio. The sky is leaden and does not promise anything good, but I stop anyway for a quick lunch at the top of the dam. Unexpectedly, a door opens behind me, and out of the watchman's house comes a smiling boy, who waves me in. He asks about me, what I am doing and where I am going, and most importantly, how come I am alone? I am used to these questions and to people's astonished faces, mixed with reproach, when I reply that mine is a choice: I am going to walk alone for four months. But this time it is different, Andrea and his colleague listen to me fascinated, while a moka is mumbling over the fire. Unfortunately, I can't stay, the sky is getting darker outside, so I say goodbye to them and start to climb again among mountain pines and sharp rocks. The first big drops fall on my rucksack, making me quicken my pace. I reach the pass in dense fog, follow the red marks painted on the stones, until I reach the Blessent bivouac.
This bivouac makes me think of Howl's Wandering Castle: a salvific shelter that emerges from the fog at the right moment, equally crooked and ramshackle. And equally magical. I climb up the ladder leading to the entrance, and as I close the little door, the heavens open with a mighty thunderclap, and begin to pour water mixed with ice on the earth, with irrepressible fury. I laugh with joy in my cramped shelter, filthy with mouse droppings and too low to stand.
I inflate my mattress so as not to lie on the filthy mattresses, and let myself be lulled by the roar of the storm, hermetically sealed outside my shelter. More than an hour passes before nature subsides. When even the last drops have stopped beating on the roof, I open the bivouac door and listlessly stick my head out. The cold air freezes my nose, while a ray of sunlight blinds me for a moment. When I open my eyes, I am breathless. The clouds let rays of light filter through, raining down on the wet mountains in golden beams, illuminating the peaks around me. I come out of the bivouac excited, and when I turn around I momentarily drop my camera in amazement: an enormous rainbow frames the valley. Its colours are so vivid that it looks like something material, a coloured bridge connecting the two sides of the valley, from where I left yesterday to where I will go tomorrow.
It seems to be a message that I read as if it were addressed to me, to celebrate my month on the camino, to tell me that I can continue, because even the rain will end sooner or later. With tears in my eyes I remain motionless until the colours fade to make way for the night. I slip into my sleeping bag with a new certainty: no matter how much it rains and how difficult it will be, I will complete my journey, because beauty is around every corner!
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