But it was beyond Prato Vecchio that the most characteristic part of
our ride began. The hills, into the folds and gullies of which we
plunged almost immediately after leaving the walls of the little town,
are of the most arid, and it is hardly too much to say, repulsive
description. It is impossible to imagine soil more evidently to the
least experienced eye hopeless for any purpose useful to man, than
these rolling and deeply water-scored hills. Nor has the region any
of the characters of the picturesque. The soil is very friable,
consisting of an easily disintegrated slaty limestone, of a pale
whitey-brown in prevailing colour, varied here and there by stretches
of similar material greenish in tint. For the most part the hill-sides
are incapable of nourishing even a blade of grass; and they are
evidently in the process of rapid removal into the Mediterranean, for
the further extension of the plain that has been formed between Pisa
and the shore since the time, only a few hundred years ago, when Pisa
was a first-class naval power. All this, with the varied historical
corollaries and speculations which it suggested, was highly
interesting to my fellow-travellers.
But the ride, nowhere dangerous, though demanding some strong faith in
the sure-footedness of Antonio's steeds, is not an easy one. The
sun was beating with unmitigated glare on those utterly shadeless
hill-sides. It was out of the question to attempt anything beyond
a walk.
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