Path of the Wayfarer, Lake Como
The Sentiero del Viandante has an important, almost legendary name. But today, as he tied his shoes with conviction and I wondered how long the walk would last, it sounded more like a polite way of saying: “We’re going up. No kidding.”
We started from Bellano, right by the Orrido. He pointed it out with enthusiasm: “Look, what a natural wonder!” I leaned out, sniffed the damp air and thought: what is this, a Halloween preview? Dark caves, rushing water, slippery rocks… all we needed was an owl and it could have been a film set. Fascinating, yes—but not if you have my sense of smell.
Leaving that spooky air behind, we entered the woods. Wet leaves, moss, and the clear scent of animals that had just passed. I caught it immediately. My two-legged companion was too busy checking the app that tracked his heartbeat. I can feel heartbeats right under my paws.
After a few minutes, the woodpecker.
Knock, knock, knock. Always the same, always there. He said: “what a relaxing sound!” and I thought: relaxing for whom? It sounded more like someone knocking for half an hour with nobody opening the door.
Higher up, we paused on a sunny bend. I had smelled fresh tracks. Deer. Two, maybe three. Surely they had come down at dawn to drink near the path. He was too busy photographing the lake peeking through the branches. “Look at that view!” Oh yes. But have you ever smelled it?
And then, there it was: a Roman mill in the middle of nowhere. Hidden in the woods, high up, far from everything. He stopped and murmured: “why right here?” I didn’t answer. Inside I thought: maybe even the Romans followed their noses, not Google Maps.
Soon after we found a flat stone, “the perfect bench” for him. He pulled out his sandwich, I found a fountain. Then, as if in a dream, a lady appeared with a trekking pole and a piece of focaccia clearly in danger. She looked at me, smiled, and gave me a bite. My human said: “you’re more popular than me now.”
Well, focaccia works miracles.
By afternoon the air had changed. Lighter, bluer. We stopped on an open stretch, with a postcard view of the lake and real silence—the kind that smells of wind and of things being just right. He took off his backpack and sat in silence. I lay down beside him, tail relaxed, ears low. That position that says: I’m fine. And yes, I’m thinking too.
Below us the lake was still and shining, as if it hadn’t noticed a thing. We sat above it, just watching in silence. He ate an apple. I closed my eyes.
Then he stood up and said, “Come on, not much left now.”
And I thought: yes, not much left to reach the end… but this part here, between the sandwich and the mill, between the woodpecker and the focaccia, I’ll remember for a long time.