And on the 13th day, Dave rested. Sort of. I slept in, all the way until 6:44am! My alarm was set for 6:45, so it was with particular mirth that I read the time on my phone after returning to life this morning. I’d spent the previous evening with the proverbial angel and demon propped upon each soldier. The demon kept reminding me that my Levanto accommodation, the hostel established in the old medieval hospital, had notified me that check-in was possible before 12:30pm and after 4pm. It would take a good push, but if I charged out the door at 6am, as I’ve tended to do thus far, 12:30 might be possible. And the only thing better than one early finish is two consecutive early finishes. And yet, the angel kept prodding me with the pitchfork he had stolen from the demon, reminding me that breakfast was included in my stay in Sestri Levante, and the overnight thunderstorms were forecast to keep on dumping until 7 or 8am. What was even the point in sprinting through the day?
For once, the angel won, the slow morning won, and the bags under my eyes lost. It didn’t occur to me when I decided to devote six months to walking in Italy, didn’t even grab my attention on the spring journey, but there’s something hilariously incongruous about me spending so much time in a place known for la dolce far niente, or the sweetness of doing nothing. I can’t do nothing. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good sit on a bench, or an evening stroll, but my mind needs to be active in those moments, churning away at some task or goal.
Even having slept in, though, I had an hour to kill before breakfast, so I went downstairs in the mansion, plopped down in one of the golden upholstered chairs, and admired the frescoes of the Ligurian coastline. The same stunning views I’ve enjoyed on my walks are captured vividly on these walls, and somehow the duplicative nature of those scenes didn’t make them redundant or gratuitous. They were wholly complementary.
I didn’t take much time to savor breakfast, though I sipped my way through three coffees before hitting the road, but the ascent that followed continually halted me mid-step, goading me into turning back to take in the views back across Sestri Levante. The crisp, fresh air, so thoroughly reset by the evening storms, also seemed to imbue the panorama with a deeper, richer color.
Eventually, I crossed Punta Baffa and descended into Moneglia, the largest town on the walk. I made a wrong turn and found myself bypassing the Abbadia San Giorgio and its parish church, so I decided this was another good occasion to slow down, backtrack, and then have a seat. I had pocketed some biscuits from the breakfast buffet, so they served their purpose here, and then I strolled through the church’s interior, pausing to admire the processional figure of George slaying the dragon. Back outside, I drifted over to the coast. Moneglia has the nicest beach in this stretch, with at least a little sand mixed in among the rocky shore, and so I paused to listen to the crashing of water on land, while the early birds settled into the choicest lounge chairs.
I sweated my way through another ascent. While none of the climbs today exceeded 300 meters, there were four or five of them, and the later start meant I felt the heat as the day wore on. Again, though, it was essential to stop partway and turn back around, to see the full expanse of Moneglia’s beach behind me, along with the generous breakwater some hundred meters out, protecting that choice real estate.
I wound through a small village about halfway up the hill, Littorno, admiring the black and white striped church, and then pushed back out into the pine-covered hills. Who can lay claim to the best coastal walking? I’m partial to the Oregon Coast and the Basque Country, but I’m sure Hawaii would like a word, among many others. But Liguria deserves to be part of the conversation as well, with its perfect blending of valley towns, villages perched up above, and tree-covered hills in between, along with the beautiful architecture, of course.
I dropped back down into a narrow valley, passing through the small town of Deiva Marina, situated perpendicular to the sea along the small channel carved out by the Derva River. Near the end of town, I finally paused to admire the view back along the beach. That respite paid dividends; not only was the view worthwhile, but it also resulted in an older man coming up alongside me to ask about the route I was following. He warned me that the next trail was quite overgrown, and that I should backtrack slightly to take a more established track. As I huffed and puffed through a particularly steep section, I wondered if I had been punked, but in time the trail opened up into a broad dirt track with some of the finest views of the whole walk.
I descended into Levanto at 3:15. I paused on the beach, watching rows of surfers get pummeled mercilessly by the crashing waves. The swimmers weren’t even trying; they merely lined up on the edge of the water and tried to stay vertical amidst the churning whitewater. I strolled over to the park. 3:30. It was shady and cool; all around me were teenagers, mostly Italian, taking a break from an afternoon spent in the hot sun. 3:45. I drifted over to the church on the hill; like Littorno’s, it had the same black-and-white striped pattern. If it’s showing its age, I suppose that’s only natural.
I reached the hostel at 3:55. An unhurried day, a sweet day, spent admiring the beauty of Liguria. With only one more day to enjoy on this part of the walk, I’ll try to carry some of this forward–even if tomorrow requires a little more urgency!
