Via degli Dei – From Bologna to Florence, step by paw
There are trips that are decided at a table, with maps, guides and highlighted paragraphs. And then there are those that begin in silence, with an insistent look, a harness between the teeth and a dog that has already decided for you. It was him, that time, who took me to the Via degli Dei. I simply followed him.
It was late May. Bologna was stretching in a gentle light, the porticos still half asleep, and the air already filled with the scent of freshly baked bread. The backpack was full, but not too much. Only the essentials: a water bottle, some biscuits, a spare shirt, his bowl, his blanket and the booklet with the stages marked in pencil. And then the two of us, as usual. United by that invisible thread made of walks, improvisations and blind trust.
We left Piazza Maggiore, leaving behind the chatter of those who had just begun their day. The dog, who for the occasion was wearing his “great adventure” harness, walked ahead with a determined step, sniffing every corner, every manhole, every little crack in the pavement. We climbed the porticoes toward San Luca like two ancient pilgrims, out of breath but also with a certain lightness in our hearts.
The trail actually began in Casalecchio, beyond the Reno. From there on, the city melted into woods, rocky climbs, the scent of wet earth and good silences. The first stretch was a lesson in rhythm: not too fast, not too slow. The dog dictated the pace, every now and then he stopped to look at me as if to ask: “Hold on, human?” I responded with a nod and he continued, always forward, always confident.
We crossed Talon Park, where the branches cast long, cool shadows. We passed silent villages like Badolo and Monzuno, where time seemed to have sat on a bench and stayed there. Every now and then we encountered other walkers: couples with large backpacks, hikers with telescopic poles, and every now and then another dog, greeted with wags and polite growls.
We slept in small shelters or farmhouses where he was always the first to be welcomed. There were those who brought him a bowl of water before even welcoming me, those who petted him as if they had always known him. We spent one night in Madonna dei Fornelli, in a room that smelled of wood and wool, with a window that looked out onto a flowery field. He settled at the end of the bed, with his nose on my ankles, and slept without moving until dawn.
The next stretch took us to the Flaminia Militare, the ancient Roman road rediscovered under the vegetation. Walking on it was like placing your feet on something eternal. The dog seemed to understand: for a while he didn't sniff anything, he simply followed me in silence, almost solemnly. We stopped on a flat rock to eat. I took out the sandwich with pecorino and rocket, he was rewarded with some kibble and a pat between the ears.
At the Futa Pass the wind found us. It cut the tall grass and moved the clouds like light curtains. The military cemetery, with its white crosses arranged like thoughts, made us walk slowly. He stopped in front of a tombstone longer than the others and sat down. He stayed there for a while, with that look that dogs use when they sense something we can't.
We then descended towards San Piero a Sieve, between brooms and narrow paths, and finally towards Fiesole, where the city began to whisper in the distance. The last climb towards Monte Ceceri was slow, silent, almost melancholic. As if the path knew it was ending and did not want to.
We arrived in Florence in the late afternoon. The sun filtered through the houses like a final applause. We entered the city passing through San Domenico, descending towards the heart of stone and domes.The dog stopped in Piazza della Signoria, crouched down right under the statue of Cosimo I and licked his paw as if to say: “I have walked here. I have smelled stories and eaten wind.”
I sat down next to him. My legs were tired, my shoulders were sore, but my heart was full. He closed his eyes, for a moment, then opened them again. He turned to look at me. And in that look there was everything: the path, the meadows, the shelters, the meetings, the coffee drunk standing up, the stones under his paws, the freedom that you only feel when there is no need to explain anything.
He understood that it was time to go. We stood up. Florence was looking at us. We looked back at her. And the journey, even though it was over, seemed not to want to leave us anymore.
