From Ferrara to Mesola
1 July 2019
From Ferrara to Mesola, where there isn’t much to see, except the Po, which is immense, majestic and silent. But if there’s anything that has to break, it’s right here that it probably happens. And indeed.
The start
Today I set off from Ferrara fairly early, to limit the excessive heat. Unlike the arrival, I found a quicker and more pleasant road to get out of the city, except for the last stretch in Pontelagoscuro where, apart from the long cycle-path straight, you have to keep a bit of an eye on the cars.
I set off with good feelings, also thanks to a very beautiful house just outside Ferrara, with a splendid working sundial. I asked the young owner if I could take a photo, and he replied “of course, no question.” He had the air of someone who lives surrounded by simplicity and beauty. No small thing these days.
All fine, for now
After a few kilometers I find a structure that looks like an open-air bar. It was actually the place where one of the many mills on the Po — of which the area was rich more than a hundred years ago, and which the writer Bacchelli made famous with the novel that bears the very name “Il mulino del Po” (“The Mill on the Po”) — has been faithfully reconstructed. I found the access closed and also the bar closed — a pity, I didn’t have the impression of a work and a context valued as they would deserve.
I keep going; I feel good and I realize that my physical resources are holding me up. I didn’t take it for granted, given that this is, after all, the first time I’m doing so many km all together.
Along the route I find lots of pretty little villages, where generally there is always a beautiful church, a sign of a traditionally strong presence of the Catholic religion. I’m particularly struck by the Church of the Assumption of Mary Most Holy in Ro, built in 1192, which has the particularity of facing towards the Po, which is just a hundred meters away.
Right, the Po. On this stretch the great river is almost always very visible from the cycle path on the embankment, and there are points where the riverbed is so wide that it seems more like a lake than a river. I let myself be accompanied by this silently majestic presence, imagining drawing calm and peace from it. And yet something is off. I feel strange and I can’t fully enjoy the obvious tranquility and beauty that surrounds me. It must be the heat, I think. But it isn’t the only thought. I notice that my mind is grinding away on memories, reflections, images, and the more sparse the villages become, the more the thoughts increase. I realize I am tired.
Then something breaks.
Something broke
It’s hard to say what triggers a major emotional collapse. Would it have happened anyway? The fault of the heat? Some mental association? It’s not important. What I know is that I was waiting for this moment, when the pain, the anger and the sense of guilt become overwhelming, and nothing can control them. There’s only one thing I can decide: do I stop? No, I won’t, because this stuff has to be crossed through, always remembering that the bike stays balanced as long as it keeps moving. I unconsciously cling to this balance, and, somehow, I come out of it.
By now there are only a few km left to Mesola. I’m happy to go back — the last and only time I had been there I was maybe 11 or 12 years old, we were guests of friends, and everything I saw stayed carved in my memory. I arrive in Mesola tired, but with the strong sensation of having conquered an important piece of additional lightness.
This evening, having no other option, I rode a few km from S. Giustina (where I’m staying for the night) to Mesola, where I had dinner at the Locanda Duo, already tried at lunch, where you are literally at the home of a family who welcomes you and cooks the meals for you.
Then, on the way back, I rode the bike at my leisure, enjoying one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen.
