Our next stop was a chapel up the hill. It is small and charming, and there is a little cemetery. Some walked up the hill, while Arnie and I moved the cars. I pulled in to the parking area under a magnificent old tree, got out, and went to open the gate. It would not open. It has always been open.

A car came by, and I flagged them down. An English couple, they were staying at a small inn up the road.

“Yes, my husband tried it, too,” explained the lady, “which was a surprise, because our host said it was always open.

Well, not today. Quickly, we scrambled to head to another location.

“You want me to turn down there?” Arnie exclaimed with a few other choice phrases.

“Yes. Clearly it is used a lot.”

“But by what, and where will we turn around?”

“If the farm trucks can get back out, I am sure we can. Besides, you’re an excellent driver. You’ll manage just fine.”

We were intending to head out into the country for some Tuscan landscapes, but the skies turned inky black, and I don’t know about you, but the idea of being the tallest item in a field when lightening strikes is not an appealing prospect. ZZT! ZZT!

And so, we headed to a monastery in