When seven o’clock rolls around in the morning it doesn’t matter if I am in bed at home in Washington, DC, or waking up to a cool sea breeze while the not so distant sound of waves lapping up on a white sandy beach soothes, or rubbing the sleep from my eyes as the sun rises over majestic towering mountains. And it doesn’t matter that the air is filled with the gentle clanging of church bells or the high pitched chirping of songbirds that mark the coming to life here in Umbria. The fact remain that I do not like to get up in the morning and dread even more the thought of taking a morning stroll.

But many, if not most mornings I overcome the forces of inertia, fatigue, indifference or downright hostility and do just that, throwing open the large metal door of the ground floor bedroom called Perugia and stepping into the light.

And I am always rewarded for this effort.

* * *

As difficult and unpleasant it is to rise from a perfectly good sleep, there is something special about having the first impression of the day be shaped by the enormous mulberry tree that sits just outside our bedroom door (and which gives the Fattoria del Gelso its name), the state of its foliage instantly announcing to passersby the season of year. The soft crunch underfoot of the chalky gravel that stretches from the main courtyard to the main road, the towering cypresses that line the drive and allow glimpses of the fields that stretch from the Gelso to the hills that surround our cozy valley. At this early hour all is calm. All is quiet. All is still.

We stagger from the driveway across the rough paved road, crossing to the cemetery that sits quiet and empty at that hour but which hours later will remain hushed as ancient stooped local folk, their skin wrinkled and tough from a lifetime working on the land bring fresh flowers in a sign of respect to their lineage. We continue hugging the side of the road, a tiny path worn along the edge where no sidewalk exists, our course littered with refuse tossed from the occasional car that buzzes along the road on its way from Cannara to Bevagna.

The tidy, neat houses that dot our route, alongside the road and tucked away in the fields that define this bountiful breadbasket are immediately recognizable as Umbrian. Perhaps it is the angle of the roof that gives it away, perhaps the windows, perhaps the hauntingly beautiful earthy colors. In their courtyards dogs yap at us, some snarl, but all take notice of the two foreigners who are walking past with no other purpose than simply walking past.

At the end of the road we cross to da Gennaro, the recently remade coffee bar that now looks like a gleaming modern disco, with a new high tech serving area for the homemade gelato that has been Moreno’s pride and joy since he opened Gennaro years ago. We take two cappuccinos at the minimalist bar as the weathered locals take their coffee along side us, not a word spoken, not a glance exchanged. It is early, both in the day and in our life in this village.

We pay and begin to retrace our route back to the villa, passing more dogs, a few farmers tending to their gardens and a growing volume of cars heading into and out of Cannara. The day is beginning.

And alone in a field, set crookedly and an interesting distance from the road is a solitary stone building, short, squat, with just a few openings and a beautiful round apse built onto one end. Alone it sits in the field, hardly noticed by the cars that roar past or the buzzing three wheeled farm trucks. Was it here that St. Frances took refuge from the rain? From here that he emerged and began his sermon to the birds? At that early hour in the morning, before life enters your uncluttered soul and limits its potential, possibilities such as this are not only imaginable but certain.

It is a lesson I relearn every morning I take the magical morning stroll in Cannara.

Ci vediamo!
Bill and Suzy