73 years and 1,176 meters: Finding my limits in the Tuscan mountains

Lucy asked me recently to name my favorite moment from our last two months here in Montecarlo. It’s a deceptively difficult question. How do you choose? Often, the “best” part is simply the quiet rhythm of Tuscan life—the  way the light hits the stones as I walk the streets, the ritual of a morning cappuccino in my own living room, or watching the sunset dissolve over the hills from my terrazza.

But if forced to pick a single highlight, yesterday’s trek would be a front-runner. I set out to summit the Penna di Lucchio with my friend and cousin, Davide Seghieri. There is a specific kind of magic found at that altitude—the deep, rhythmic clanging of cowbells, the scent of damp earth in the silent forest, and the bite of crisp mountain air that stays with you long after you descend.

From here, we could see at least seven of the ten castle cities of the Svizzera Pesciatina.

Here's where the trail divided. We 
chose to go up the direct route.

Davide picked me up at 8:30 a.m. for the 45-minute drive through the valley above Pescia. We wound our way past Pontito, the highest of the legendary “Ten Castles,” until we reached the Oratorio Madonna delle Grazie. Shortly after the landmark, the asphalt gave way to a rugged gravel track scarred with ruts and embedded stones. Not wanting to test the limits of Davide’s car, we decided to park and continue on foot. Though a few brave souls had managed to nudge their vehicles further toward Croce a Veglia, the walk was exactly what we needed to wake up our legs.

Here I am on the steep part.

Our path led us through lush, emerald meadows with grazing cows before diving into a dense canopy of beech, oak and chestnut trees. For the first hour, the trail was a gentle, rocky road—perfect for a mountain bike or a 4x4. However, the final thirty minutes transformed into a steep, narrow scramble. While it wasn’t a technical climb requiring climbing gear, it was a vertical challenge for my 73-year-old frame. Davide, fifteen years my junior and in much better shape, became my advance scout, pausing frequently to pick the best route and let me catch my breath as the trail tilted upward.

When we finally crested the summit, every ounce of effort was repaid in full. At 1,176 meters (3,858 ft), the Penna acts as a panoramic balcony between two worlds. To the west, the jagged, marble-streaked teeth of the Apuan Alps tore at the sky; to the east, the sprawling spine of the Apennines stretched away, dominated by the high, sentinel-like peak of Monte Rondinaio. Looking south, the green, velvet hills of the Svizzera Pesciatina rippled toward the horizon, and to the north, we had a bird’s eye view of the borgo of Lucchio.

A view to the west, toward the Alpi Apuane.

There's Lucchio, down below.

We sat at the top for forty-five minutes, swapping stories and snacking while a gentle breeze drifted past the summit cross. For the descent, we chose a longer, more circuitous route that dropped down the opposite side. It was a kinder grade for the knees, sparing us from the possibility of bruising our shins on the steep route we had taken for the ascent.

By the time we returned to the car, we had been on the trail for three hours. Google Maps had estimated two, but Google doesn’t account for photo ops—or the reality of a septuagenarian’s pace. Today, my muscles are reminding me of every vertical meter we gained, but there’s a deep satisfaction in the ache. I’m just grateful I can still chase these views and experience the wilder side of Tuscany.