 Slow Sunrise over Parco Acquarossa |
 Long Shadows over Parco Acquarossa |
We spectated the frenzied activity of the balloonists flying this morning. Ralph laid out a red cross on the runway using material. He explained that a scratch match would take place. There had been a clear winner of the championship, but three teams were drawn second equal. These three teams had inflated their balloons equidistant from the centre of the cross. Upon a signal from Ralph, they were to take off immediately. The object of the exercise was for them to stay airborne for a minimum of ten minutes, and after that interval land as close as possible to that cross, or drop a marker streamer as close as possible.
I was mesmerised at the skill of these balloonists, who made best use of the fickle speed and direction of the breeze. They expertly hugged the ground, apparently weaving between balloons still being inflated with ease. It soon became apparent that despite their best efforts, they were gradually drifting up the runway away from the cross. After twelve minutes, Ralph realised it was futile, and awarded the placing to that team that was nearest the cross.
So, while other balloons floated high in the sky, the event was more or less over. But we still had work to do. We collared the assistance of a couple who belonged to an Italian crew, and with their help, transferred the Puffin envelope from the hanger into the back of the Land Rover. They seemed pleased to help us - we were highly delighted they did.
Then it was a case of attaching the rear light display board onto the back of the trailer, drive it back to Camiano Piccolo, and load it up with all the luggage and wines purchased by the two couples. Then we were done.
Now we could enjoy breakfast. Swimming, reading and sleeping followed.
We scaled the peak to Montefalco for a final evening meal. The Piazza was set up for a musical concert with a full orchestra. We settled for a full bottle of Sagrantino wine between us and steak in a restaurant in Corso Goffredo Mameli. The town was totally humming, afterall it was not only Saturday evening, but festival season too. Small children sat on steps, bleary eyed, some crying, but for the Italians it had to be a family occasion.
We left the din behind and headed down through the Camiano Gate. However, we had not escaped. Four young lads were beating out a rhythm on their drums to a small audience of youths sitting on a wall. I stood and watched, and when they were done, I applauded, shouting, "Bravo!" I was the only one who had shown any interest. C'est la vie.