The human had said “Tuscany” with that tone of a promise, and I had already imagined endless meadows and sandwiches to snatch on the fly. You know the kind: finocchiona salami with its fennel aroma, and pecorino cheese that melts slowly on the tongue. Just thinking about it made my nose wag with hunger.
The road to Val d’Orcia was like traveling through the set of a film: hills swelling and dipping like slow waves, cypresses lined up like gentle soldiers, and a sky painted with a giant brush. The window seat was all mine, and every curve brought a new chapter: the smell of hay, a breath of lavender, then suddenly the aroma of prosciutto hanging in a portico.
The first stop was Pienza. A village so beautiful it almost makes you feel obliged to walk more gracefully. Narrow lanes, balconies bursting with geraniums, and shops that looked like treasure chests. The air was a mix of warm stone and pecorino in all its forms: fresh, aged, with truffle. The human explained the differences in a tour-guide tone, and I nodded without interrupting… until I saw a finocchiona sandwich in front of a delicatessen. I stared at it with my best “perfectly seated, starving orphan” look. It half-worked: she got the sandwich, I got the crust. I swallowed the disappointment along with the crumbs.
After Pienza we followed the path to Bagno Vignoni, a ribbon of earth through golden fields where the wind told stories of ripe grain and sulfurous water. The human said it smelled like boiled eggs; I’d call it “a warm cloud with character.” While she took pictures by the big thermal pool, I discovered a bush that was basically the local canine newspaper: headlines, announcements, maybe even a crossword puzzle.
Before heading back to the car, the human decided on “a little detour.” Little, yes… like the distance between the couch and the Moon. We ended up on a dirt track winding between vineyards and olive groves. Each row carried its own scent: sweet, sticky grapes, olive leaves rustling softly, and every now and then the wind carried the call of a lit grill. I tried to convince the human it would be an act of civility to stop and greet whoever was cooking those sausages. She smiled, I memorized the exact spot to return to—maybe alone, in another life.
Evening found us on a bench among the cypresses. The human sipped a Tuscan red, I kept an eye on two pigeons that looked up to something shady. The sun turned orange, the bells rang in the distance, and the air smelled of wood and freshly baked bread. In that moment I realized Val d’Orcia isn’t just beautiful to see: it’s a place where nose, heart, and stomach all agree.
