As soon as we arrived in Assisi, I understood something immediately: scents move slowly there. I’m not sure humans really understand what I mean. You look at churches, windows, landscapes. We dogs understand a place by the way the wind travels through it. And in Assisi, the wind doesn’t run.
It walks.
My human mom kept saying how peaceful everything felt. Meanwhile, I was busy trying to figure out where that smell of warm bread was coming from, mixed every now and then with the scent of onions sizzling in olive oil — the kind of smell that makes you feel like something important is about to happen somewhere nearby.
We started the olive tree trail just outside the town center, and almost immediately I slowed down. Not because I was tired, but because every single thing there deserved to be sniffed properly.
The olive trees were huge, twisted, full of knots and strange curves. Some smelled like dry earth, others like damp leaves, and one — I’m absolutely sure — smelled like cat. But not an anxious cat. One of those lazy cats that flatten themselves in the sun like lizards and only move when they truly feel like it.
Humans probably never think about it, but for us dogs every tree tells a story. It’s a bit like reading a newspaper, only much more interesting.
The best thing about that trail was the rhythm. Nobody was in a hurry. Every now and then someone passed by: a couple with hiking backpacks, an old man greeting everyone he met, a girl on a bicycle who slowed down just to say, “Hey handsome.”
I thanked her in my own way, wagging my tail gently without interrupting the important work my nose was doing.
The higher we climbed, the more scents arrived. Wild rosemary, warm dust, sun-dried grass, old wood and even tomato sauce. Somewhere behind an open window someone was cooking, and the wind carried tiny pieces of lunch all the way up the hill.
I honestly think that in Assisi even food walks slowly through the streets.
Halfway along the trail my human mom sat on a small stone wall to look at the valley. I kept exploring nearby. Around the roots of the olive trees there were all sorts of fascinating things humans usually ignore: very busy ants, feathers hidden in the grass, mysterious little holes beneath rocks and lizards disappearing the second I got too close.
I stuck my nose everywhere until my human mom told me to stop looking for trouble.
But I wasn’t looking for trouble.
I was looking for information.
At one point we found a bowl of fresh water outside a stone house. Next to it was a handwritten sign that said:
“Fresh water for those who travel with their nose.”
Now that, in my opinion, is someone who truly understands how the world works.
I drank a lot while listening to the church bells ringing softly in the distance and the wind moving slowly through the olive leaves above my head.
By the time we walked back toward town, I was tired in the best possible way. Not the kind of tiredness you get from running too much or playing nonstop. It was that calm, full feeling that arrives after crossing a place where even silence seems to have something to say.
Humans usually visit places with their eyes.
We dogs carry them home in our noses.
And trust me — Assisi smells like real peace.