Written and Photographed: Trotting Through Tuscany

LOS ANGELES TIMES:

TROTTING THROUGH TUSCANY

A Rider from the Big City Discovers the Rustic Pleasures of the Chianti Region, Explored at the Speed of One Horsepower

Story and Photos by LESLIE FRATKIN
Rendola, Italy – The brochure promised breathtaking scenery, exquisite home-cooked meals and willing, courageous horses – but nobody warned me about saddle sores.

When my friend Diane Cooper suggested I come along with her on a horseback ride through Italy’s Tuscan countryside for one week last October, her enthusiasm was so catching that the inevitable consequence of such a long stint in the saddle was the furthest thing from my mind. So I called Equitour, a Wyoming-based riding company that was organizing her trip, only to be told participants needed at least one year of English- style riding experience. Living in a big city, I don’t get many opportunities to ride a horse, but I swiftly swept aside their concerns that I might not be qualified, regaling them with tales of learning to ride during summer camp as a kid. Suitably convinced, they added me on, and I spent the next couple of weeks in a frenzy of preparation, gathering up all the gear I thought I would need for the challenge ahead.

After arriving in Florence and touring the city for three days, Diane and I headed to the Florence train station, where we had arranged to meet Jenny Bawtree, founder of Rendola Riding and host of our upcoming adventure. Our fears that we wouldn’t spot her in the busy station crowd quickly proved unfounded when we saw a woman standing along, waving a horseshoe enthusiastically in the air.

We introduced ourselves, handed over our bags and boarded the train for Montevarchi, a town about 20 miles south of Florence. Along the way, Jenny, who is originally from England, told us how she came to this part of Italy for a visit more than 20 years ago – and never left. She impressed me at once as both serious and passionate about her horses, and it was plain to see that they were her primary concern, with the riders coming in a distant second, at best. Clearly, I would be expected to hold my own. Pushing all thoughts of cowardice and injury aside, I silently vowed that I would not let her down.

As our train pulled into the Montevarchi station, we could see Pietro Pinti – driver, cook and guardian angel for our journey – quietly waiting alongside the cherry-red company van that would take us to our new home. Twenty minutes over winding, narrow roads, through the tiny village of Rendola, population 49, brought us to Jenny’s beautiful 17th- Century farmhouse and stables. We were given our rooms – nicely furnished in a country style and with a private bath – and left alone to wash up, unpack our things and meet with the other riders as they drifted in.

The dinner bell rang, and all nine of us sat down to a typical Tuscan spread: fettuccine in a fresh tomato and cream sauce, a delicious veal dish cooked with wild mushrooms picked earlier that day from the surrounding woods, fresh green salad, crusty bread and as much of the local Chianti wine as we could handle. It was a fabulous feast, and as I reached for yet another helping of everything, I wondered whether by the end of this week I would be trimmer from all the exercise or as wide as my horse from all the good food.

The next morning we gathered at the stables, eager to embark on our first ride. After much initial checking on Jenny’s part to ensure the safety of both horse and rider, we set off. The first day we rode near Rendola so everyone could get used to the horses and, I suspect, allow Jenny to make sure we all knew what we were doing. We worked our way through the olive groves, tangled vineyards and lush, green woodlands of the Arno valley. Although it was all quite beautiful, I must confess that the bulk of my attention was dedicated to staying on top of my horse. As my muscles made hundreds of tiny adjustments in an attempt to find peace with all this new pain, I wondered if my illustrious summer-camp riding experience was ever going to kick in and help get me through the long week ahead.

After nearly five hours of riding, we returned to Rendola for hot showers and clean clothes. Feeling pretty good about myself for having survived such a long day in the saddle, dignity intact, I was soon brought down a few notches when Jenny pointed out over dinner that much longer, tougher days lay ahead.

Turning my attention to the other riders, I asked what had led each of them to sign up for this trip. I was most intrigued by Stanley Craddock, a slight, gray-haired Englishman with a deceptively non-athletic style who, at 72, was the oldest member of our group. He seemed kind of shy at first, but when I asked him why he came on this trip he turned to me with a grin like the Cheshire Cat and said, “I always wanted to be a singing cowboy when I grew up.”

The others were all from the United States, which I’m told is unusual; typically the tour groups are a mix of Americans, English and Europeans. Despite bouts of jet lag and the wariness of our first long ride, the dinner conversation became a whole lot livelier as the Chianti continued to flow. It was the perfect opportunity to get to know more about my ad-hoc family, including Stanley, a retired schoolteacher and skilled horseman who has taken numerous other pack trips internationally. He would serve as our unofficial guide during the trip – offering advice about our horses and background on places we visited.

After that first day, we set off on the route that would wind through three provinces and eight villages in the Chianti Classico wine region – a distance of roughly 100 miles traveling on dirt paths, on an occasional paved road and cross-country through fields and forest. Any traveler passing through would be hard-pressed not to see the commitment and passion the Tuscan people have for their wines. It was harvest time, and everywhere we went we saw people working their vineyards and presses, and when we stopped, they offered us samples of their wines with great pride.

Each day became another breathtaking variation of the last, as we steadily worked our way through vineyards and olive groves, up the forested slopes of Monte San Michele, the highest point in the Chianti Mountains, and back down through the wooded hills and ancient villages visited so long ago by Dante, Boccaccio, Machiavelli and da Vinci. We passed so many medieval castles, churches and abbeys that I soon began to feel almost hypnotized, as if the scenery was swirling all around me and I was standing perfectly still.

Every now and then we would take short breaks to enjoy the views and learn a little of the history and traditions of Tuscany. We stopped at the ancient village of Volpaia, with its castle, medieval hostel and famous wine shop. The horses took a break while we stretched our legs and counted the cats that seemed to be posted at virtually every window and doorway.

One night our horses were put up in the stables of a long-abandoned medieval villa called Torricella, where the renowned astronomer Galileo was welcomed in his exile by the Baron Ricasoli, descendant of the famous powerful family who owned all the surrounding land. I looked up at the million or two tiny stars, imagining what he might have seen from the same spot.

The next day we rode on, passing endless rows of grapevines. All around us were the remnants of an era long gone – ruins of homes, farmhouses and castles built when Florence and Siena were bitter feuding city-states that played out their battles on Chianti soil and where horses carried well-armed soldiers, not camera-wielding tourists. We encircled the 800-year-old Castle Brolio, home of the Ricasoli family, whose ancestor Baron Bettino Ricasoli invented the method for producing Chianti wine in the early 19th Century.

The woods of Tuscany are thick with wild boar, the evidence of which we saw not only in cloven-hoof tracks but also in the unending stream of hunters, rifles at their sides, who closely followed them. Jenny had effectively quelled our fears about trekking through this area during hunting season by instructing us to sing loudly as we passed through the more popular hunting grounds.

Because it had rained a few weeks earlier and the roads were muddy, our pace was slowed, preventing the frequent canters promised by Equitour’s brochure. Indeed, Jenny’s usual route had to be altered on a couple of occasions to circumvent washed- out bridges and knee-deep mud. Luckily, most of the rain had passed through by the time our trip began, and the one afternoon that found us riding straight through an unavoidable cluster of rain clouds also brought with it some of the most breathtaking landscapes we had witnessed all week.

Our usual routine was to ride for three or four hours in the morning, by which time we would be quite hungry – and sorely (literally) in need of a rest. Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly go another step, we would spot white-haired Pietro standing proudly beside yet another grilled lunch or picnic spread, red-checkered tablecloth laid out, Chianti uncorked and espresso pot steaming. One day when the temperature had dropped fairly suddenly, leaving us unprepared and shivering around the fire, Pietro rummaged through the van and pulled out a big bag of woolen sweaters, which he silently, almost paternally, distributed all around.

Evenings found us a various inns along the way. We stayed for two nights near the town of Radda at Podere Terreno, an Italian-style bed and breakfast built around a magnificent 400-year-old farmhouse. Our hosts, Roberto Melosi and Sylvie Haniez, excelled at both cooking and conversation. Meals were served family-style at one long table in front of a gigantic fireplace, surrounded by paintings, antiques and the many different types of wine made on their farm.

Riding on, we spent the next two nights on the outskirts of Siena at Il Poderaccio, a private villa with apartments offering spectacular views of that ancient medieval city. One morning had been set aside for strolling, horseless, through the walled confines of Siena. Although I had been looking forward to the change in our routine, I found myself growing impatient with all the other tourists and missing the pace that only riding along fields and trails on horseback can deliver.

On our last night back at Rendola I felt a mixture of melancholy and relief: the former because the trip seemed to end too quickly, the latter, saddle sores aside, because I had lived to tell the tale. We spent a busy evening swapping anecdotes and addresses with the other riders and writing last-minute postcards.

Back home, where friends check their date books before committing to a cup of coffee, it’s easy to lose sight of how the rest of the world lives. In Tuscany, with its more relaxed pace, there was time to get to know the local people, eat at their tables, drink their wines and weave our way, at one-horsepower speed, in and around their turf.