I keep thinking I’ll have time to write about the markets in Varigotti and Noli.
But not yet.
Sunday proved to be an interesting day.
Impressed with our English Setter’s recall during the previous day’s walk, I thought it would be fine to repeat the same route. With the dog’s GPS switched on and working (yes, we have a GPS for him), the two dogs and I set out for a Sunday morning walk.
The first hurdle came quickly: realising that the GPS doesn’t fully work in the Ligurian mountains. This wasn’t entirely surprising — my husband had warned me in advance not to panic if the signal dropped. Still, deep under trees and thick brush, common sense should probably have told me that technology wouldn’t be much help up here anyway.
Undeterred, onwards and upwards we went.
Five minutes in, with the dogs coming and going successfully and no one lost, the Golden Retriever stopped. In the middle of the track, he let out a low warning growl. I raised my head from the steep path and caught sight of a man in a trench coat, standing silently on a stone balcony above us, staring down.
A flood of dramatic thoughts followed.
First step: leash the Golden Retriever.
Second thought: where is the English Setter?
The next glimpse of the trench coat man revealed that the English Setter had already decided he was his best friend.
I took this as a sign that I might survive the encounter. Trying to break the ice, I gathered enough breath to mutter a confident buongiorno, all while concluding that the only reasonable option was still onwards and upwards.
Then came the third glimpse.
Propped against the tree beside him was a large rifle.
Cue a fresh wave of thoughts: Do I go back? If I scream, who would hear me? Would the dogs actually protect me? And what exactly do I do now?
In my experience, signs are posted to warn walkers that a hunt is underway and to avoid the area. There were none here on this Ligurian hillside on a Sunday in January. Just a man in a trench coat, a stone balcony, and a rifle.
When I finally focused on what he was saying — all in Italian, of course — I realised I had walked straight into a hunt. In my admittedly broken Italian, he confirmed that yes, a hunt was ongoing, and yes, it would be a good idea to put the dogs on the leash. They were hunting wild boar — cinghiale in Italian — and they had their own dogs out as well.
After retrieving the English Setter, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked about hunting in Liguria. Hunts take place on Sundays and Wednesdays. There are a lot of wild boar in the area. It was fine to continue walking, he assured me — they don’t aim for dogs or humans, he added quite seriously.
As I tried to wish him a successful Sunday hunt, he offered one final warning:
“Attenti ai lupi.”
I stopped, my brain scrambling to translate lupi. I concluded it must mean wild hares. When I mimed a small bouncing animal, a smile crossed his face.
“Wolf,” he said.
My heart stopped.
I’d had fleeting thoughts about what kinds of wild animals might live in the hills around us, but not wanting to dampen my enthusiasm for exploring, I’d decided that ignorance was bliss.
Departing — still onwards and upwards — I passed more hunters along the way. Radios crackled, short messages passed between them, and it became clear that this wasn’t a casual gathering but an organised group.
Returning home now felt like an excellent idea.
As our cottage finally came into view, two more hunters appeared. By then, I wondered whether the first man had been exaggerating for effect, so I asked them directly. They confirmed it without hesitation: yes, wolves are present in the area, and yes, I should be careful with the dogs.
Any remaining ignorance vanished. I hurried home.
I’m fairly sure my husband believed me when I arrived flustered and breathless, recounting my Sunday morning adventure. He definitely believed me after lunch.
We decided to try the only local osteria open in the mountains near us. Over a pumpkin and cheese flan, followed by farinata — the local chickpea flatbread — grilled lamb chops and duck à l’orange (yes, Italians serve this classic French dish too), my story was confirmed by the locals.
Yes, there had been a hunt.
Yes, there are wolves.
Safely back home, Sundays and Wednesdays are now firmly marked in the family calendar: hunt.
Ignorance, it turns out, may not be bliss after all.
Living in this part of Liguria means learning that the hills are not a backdrop — they are alive, with wildlife and hunters included, and they don’t adapt to you. You adapt to them.
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I’ll write more in a later post about the food but here is a sneak peak of farinata for the more food oriented readers:
