Barga’s Back Door

It feels like we are entering through the back door of the old town, uninvited, and no one is home. We do the only thing we know to do.  We walk. Up. Up. And up. Twisting our way on ancient stones to the top of the town and the church that towers above it.  Austere and forbidding, there is no one here. There is no one anywhere.

Turning we walk down, taking another path.  Somewhere there has to be a piazza.  A town center.  People.  All we want is caffè and pasticcino.  We woke early to catch the bus to Barga, and the ride was ninety minutes long.

Michael sees a sign “ti” and “Centro Historico.” We follow the steps down. Hearing voices, the sounds of a speech echo around us.  We immediately think political. I wonder why?  Like a siren’s song, we are lured by the voices and turn the wrong way. Passing an ancient aqueduct, we arrive at the source. Something is going on, although we can’t determine exactly what.

A Pause for Refreshments

Uninvited guests, turning, we stroll down a tree lined street and eventually find ourselves on a busy corner of the “new” town, Barga Giardino. Stopping at a tiny outdoor café — I remembered seeing it from the bus window — we have that needed bit of rejuvenation before carrying on.

Back on the street, we are determined to explore the old town — Barga Vecchia or “Castello.” Finding another way through Barga’s walls, we climb a steep flight of steps.  We walk, winding our way up and down, in and out, around and through tiny passages, dodging cars by standing in doorways, occasionally seeing a few — very few — individuals on foot.  Passing by a small palazzo, we wind our way down another street and find ourselves outside the ancient city walls one more time.

The Brit’s Advice

Following a crowd of British tourists, we sit ourselves down in the middle of the road and offer to take their picture. They take ours.

 Advice is given for lunch with a view, and when we arrive at the restaurant, we find ourselves following them in through the main dining area and out to the tiny terrace beyond.  They look at us and laugh, saying, “We seem to have pinched your table with the view.” 

There are five small tables in all, we find one in a corner and have a lovely lunch — with a view.  Bresaola with Parmesan and arugula,  pasta carbonara, veal saltimbocca, and a lovely pizza-like bread drizzled with olive oil and dusted with oregano and salt.  Of course, there is vino rosso.

Back on the Streets

We continue to explore, small twisting streets — not big enough for one car, much less two — and there is two-way traffic! Not much, but when it occurs it is interesting to watch the maneuvering.  Michael can almost touch both walls as he holds out his arms.

Looking for diversity we walk again to the newer part of town investigating the park that descends into the valley.  Unquestioning I follow Michael, thinking about the trip back up.  At street level we walk down a road with sounds of the suburbs—someone is mowing their lawn.  The steep return trip is through a  closely spaced alley, which leads us once again into the old town, and up more steep steps and tiny streets. We truly wonder as we wander.

Barga is a place of shadows, beautiful doors, secret alleys, narrow streets, and steps. Lots and lots of steps. Reading about Barga, the article said this was a place that deserved more than a quick trip in and out—I agree—and if you just wanted to check off a tourists box, “stay at home.” Then  the next paragraph began, “There are not many hotels in Barga…”

Barga deserves more than we can give it, but I’m oh so glad we made the effort to come here. And Michael is glad we took the bus.