On The Via Appia

Birds chirp, frogs burp, spring hits, and I quit.  Quit pretending to be a productive member of society, at least. I'm off to Rome and then to Minturno do Marina on the coast near Naples.  From there I'll walk north on the old Via Appia back to Rome.  Apart from having to leave my flowering dogwood tree and about-to-flower lilies of the valley, what could be finer?

End of a short walk

EDIT:  For some reason my blogging software deleted the text for this posting.  I am not going to retype it one-handed on the European keyboard of my hotel's computer.  Suffice it to say the wrist is broken, I'm off the Via Francigena, I'm a one-armed tourist in Rome with the other arm (my writing arm) in a sling for six weeks.  On balance I count myself lucky.  The business with the dogs could have turned out worse, and I was very lucky to get excellent orthopedic care in Rome on a Friday afternoon through the resourcefunless of my wife Susan, who orchestrated the whole thing in Washington.  On the other hand, a revolting development.  Twenty-five kilometers on the Via F. was barely enough to whet my appetite.  As the Brooklyn Dodgers used to say, "Wait 'til next year."

The Road Less Traveled

See any pilgrims on these medieval cobble stones? I saw three today, one more than the number of loose dogs I encountered.

As for pilgrims, I walked briefly with two men from Poland leaving Altepascio, until they shopped to have their passports stamped (our ability to chat with their limited English was about exhausted).

Then I later walked with a French woman, a four-time diplomate of the Camino who had left her home in France three weeks ago to walk to Rome. We instantly got lost because of some recent slashing of new dirt roads that disrupted our trail. Luckily, after backtracking from a path that deteriorated to brambles, we followed her "let's go right" instead of my "it must be left." (Defer to the senior pilgrim.)

As for the dogs, I handled that badly. The official Via F. route wanted me to leave the highway out of Fucecchio and double back to walk along the Arno a bit. I could see two dogs acting territorial about the concrete plant I had to skirt. So I picked up a handful of rocks.

Unfortunately, the smaller dog hurled himself at me with no preliminaries. Luckily, I got off two rocks and the second one hit him in mid-air a few feet from me. He yelped and pivoted in mid-air (don't ask me how) and they both retreated to bark at a distance. Unfortunately, I hadn't got my backpack balance yet and it pulled me over when I leaned back to buy time to throw the second rock.

I should have just stayed on the highway and away from the dogs. Junkyard dogs can't help being junkyard dogs (any more than lawyers can help. . .).

At first I thought the left wrist I landed on was just twisted. But pretty soon I couldn't bend it or do anything with my hand, and some localized swelling appeared that's sensitive to touch. So now we're doing ice and aspirin while I type this with my right hand. Sure hope it's better in the morning.