After yesterday’s tantrum, the sky wakes up pretending it has always been well behaved. The vineyards look scrubbed clean and lined up like they are waiting for inspection, and then Redipuglia arrives with its quiet, brutal reminder: names, stone, and that stubborn word, “presente”, spoken into the air like it can hold people in place.
Later, the Adriatic finally shows itself, calm and indifferent, while we rattle along whatever road will let us keep moving. An old railway line turns into our private corridor of tunnels and bridges, smooth as a promise, until it ends mid sentence. A small post says “confine di stato” and Slovenia begins. By dusk we slip into the trees, and the thermal underwear gets its long overdue starring role.
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