Yesterday I mapped out a potential day ride for our layover in Bassano - an out and back to the northeast along the base of the pre-alps. Not too strenuous and not too busy from my reading of the map, it looks like a fine outing. However, I found no takers. Rachael’s keen for one last hike into the hills to the north, Suzanne wants to wander around town with her camera, and Janos wants to work on the videos he’s been recording over the last few days. So it’s just me.
It still looks like a great ride to be taken some day in the future, but it’s not the one I took today after all. I started out with that in mind, but four miles into the ride I decided to continue north to Valstagna, the riverside town we rushed through yesterday on our goal of arriving in Bassano before the rains hit. It looked worth a longer look, especially after rereading our account of our last pass through and being reminded of the Palio della Zattere, the annual contest where rafting teams from the communities lining the river compete with each other. The video of the race and associated pageantry make it look like an amazing spectacle to witness. This year’s race is in just ten days, and I’m thinking that rafters training for the event are the reason the town was so lively yesterday and there might be something special to see at the cost of a small detour.
My memory or map reading were poor though and Valstagna is actually five miles upriver, not just the one I’d been imagining. And it’s a slow detour, partly because of road/trail quality and partly because I find a lot to see and aim the camera at. By the time I turn around and head back south I’m thirteen miles into the ride already, so I to just head home.
Porta della Gracie, the northeastern entrance to the walled city.
The Rialto Bridge crosses the Brenta at Valstagna. Today it is decorated for the Palio della Zattere (Palio of the rafts), which takes place in ten days. The banners are the colors for the communities lining the river that will be contestants in the Palio.
Flags of the neighboring communities hang from lampposts and balconies, marking their boundaries. I was surprised that each of them is only a few hundred yards long.
The pedestrian and cycle bridge across the Brentana at Torre. I just stumbled across this, and didn’t know if it was even legal to cross it at first; and actually, I was just trying to get down to the river, not across it. I wonder what the bridge was originally used for, but it looks like it’s been repurposed.
When I get back to town I can see on the Garmin that Rachael is still several miles away on her walk. She has the keys, so I stop in at a birraria for some refreshment and a cool place to pass the time. Almost immediately after I place my order the phone rings, and it’s her. She sounds uncharacteristically shaken, and it unsettles me too when she describes the much steeper and more technical walk she’s been on, slowly easing her way down off the mountain on a hike that sounds more like a mountain scramble. She’s still about an hour away, but out of the danger zone so there’s nothing to be done but sympathize and take some extra time nursing my focaccia and beer.
For the second night in a row the four of us make it back to our hotel from dinner just as it starts to rain. This time is serious though - thunder, lightning, and an intense rainfall that keeps me awake late into the night.
