Day 20: Piazzola to Padova

A Gate, Out-standing in its Field

After a warm night in Piazzola, we were ready to continue on to Padova and a well-deserved rest stop. Our landlady, Emmanuela, had very little English, and was quite happy that I could communicate, at least a little, in Italian. She explained that it was hard to learn another language, like English, but then proceeded to speak at a very fast clip (forgetting, perhaps, that it was also hard to learn and understand a language like Italian). In any case, she predicted that by the time we reach Rome, I will be speaking like a native.

It seems unlikely, but piano, piano -- slowly, slowly.

The Via set off on a former railroad track that had been repurposed as a bike path. The track made an immediate beeline for the river, and when we reached a bridge that was poised to cross the Brenta, I knew something was wrong. I checked the GPS, which confirmed we were no longer supposed to be on the elevated path, but rather, heading away at a ninety degree angle from it. Unfortunately, there was no way to get down to the road we were supposed to be following. We retraced our steps and found a path that left the elevated bike trail on the left, then passed through a tunnel under the old railroad line and went in the correct direction.

There was no waymark to indicate that we should have taken this path. The guidebook helpfully states, “200 meters before a bridge that crosses the Brenta, take the path to the left.”

200 meters before the bridge, you cannot see the bridge, so I don’t think this was the most helpful set of directions. A Via Romea arrow, pointing out the desired turn, would be far more useful.

Along the Way

Back to the Brenta. The trail curved sinuously across the fields. We were once again in farm country, and the tractors pulling their manure spreaders have been busy.

More Straight Roads

Here’s another caution that applies to the stages between Bassano and Padova: because the Via avoids towns and villages, there is really no place to fill up water bottles. I only noted two fountains in sixty kilometers of travel. If you are walking these stages in hot weather, you had better be packing extra bottles of water, for you will not find any on the way.

We rounded a corner and discovered an elderly man sitting on a bench. He was talking to a younger, middle-aged man. They were both very interested in us, and I had to draw deeply from my reserves of Italian. The older man explained that he had spent eight years living in Australia. Nevertheless, he demonstrated no interest in showing off his English skills. I explained that I had difficulty when Italian speakers spoke too quickly (and he was talking fast enough to dislodge his teeth). He dismissed this, arguing that my difficulty with comprehension was due to the fact that in the Veneto, everyone spoke the Venetian dialect.

This may be true, but I doubt if it is my main linguistic trouble.

Onward. The sun burned through the morning haze and the temperature began to increase. Red poppies flared among the golden heads of wheat. Sweat ran down from my hatband and soaked my face. I had rubbed a handful of sunblock into my exposed skin before the morning departure, but I am sure I had wiped most of it off, mopping up the perspiration running into my eyes, within the first hour.

Near Vigodarzere, a runner pulled up beside Mary and began talking. He had quite a bit of advice for us. For example, we should leave the trail to wander out into a nearby field to admire a tall oak tree. We declined. After a couple of minutes of chatting, his friend ran up, a bit of a wild man who had somehow managed to tuck the loose edges of his running shorts into his knickers. He was yelling about all of the wild cherries he had just eaten.

“Typical Italian,” said the first runner. “Insane, but he is my friend.”

“It was a pleasure to meet her,” said the cherry-eater, motioning at Mary. “Not you, or him,” he said to me and the first runner, “only her.”

“Go see the big tree,” advised the first runner as he raced after his comrade.

Sadly, we didn’t. However, we did see a large oak tree in the distance, and this was very satisfying.

Campanile in Vigodarzere

The last several kilometers were a long slog through the suburbs of Padova. Padova is the second largest city we shall pass through, and it felt as if it was making up for all the other cities the Via neglects. Long, hot work on hard pavement. Ultimately, however, we made it in, and tomorrow we shall explore the delights of Padova.

Daily Distance: 26.9 KM

Total Distance:   363.9 KM