On a visit to one of Tuscany’s most iconic medieval bridges, in Borgo a Mozzano, a traveller finds herself on a quest through sleepy Italian hamlets, where everyone knows the legend, but no one tells it quite the same way.
I am standing in a cramped office along the main thoroughfare of Borgo a Mozzano, looking somewhat confused. The room has all the hallmarks of a local tourist centre—maps, pamphlets, faded posters on the wall—but the only tour guide in the room is a youthful lad called Sean, and he has an Irish accent.
“My family are Italian,” he explains. “They come from near here.”
I feel a bit embarrassed that he even feels the need to justify his existence to me. Clearly, I need to do better at masking my ‘confused face.’
“So, what brings you to Borgo a Mozzano?” he asks, trying to put me at ease.” Is it the bridge?”
“Of course,” I smile.
He isn’t wrong to ask, though.
Borgo a Mozzano is hardly the kind of town that naturally drips off tourists’ lips. In fact, say the word “Tuscany” and most folk imagine themselves buzzing along gravelly roads lined with cypress pines, prancing amongst blazing sunflowers, or sipping Chianti wine while savouring local cheese. But me, well, I much prefer a slice of figment with my pecorino, so instead, I am exploring the lesser-known Serchio Valley, a delightful, mountain region (an easy train ride from Lucca) threaded with giggling waterways, medieval hamlets, ancient chestnut groves, and abounding with myths and legends. None more intriguing than the Ponte della Maddalena, better known as the Ponte del Diavolo (the Devil’s Bridge).
This stupefying twelfth-century bridge spans the translucent blue-green current of the Serchio river while, seemingly, to mock gravity with its four grand, limestone arches—the most impressive of which strains a lofty twenty metres. It looks like a giant mouth gasping over the riverbed, and its construction seems improbable, supernatural even.
Originally commissioned by Countess Matilda of Tuscany in the late eleventh century, it is the legend of the devil that invites curiosity, with the main premise being that such an astonishing, almost unworldly, piece of architecture could only have been built with the help of a mythical force, namely, the devil. According to the legend, the devil did, indeed, help build the bridge but only in exchange for the first human soul to cross it, which–he had been promised–would be a beautiful, young woman. But then, when the time came, an animal was sent instead. Legend variations are plentiful, right down to the animal, with some swearing a goat, others a pig, and finally, a dog.
I have come to Borgo A Mozzano to find out which animal it was for sure, and Sean is adamant it was a dog.
“And the other animals?” I ask.
He gives a wry smile.
“I’m not sure about the goat, but people from Lucca like to say it was a pig!”
I can’t help but laugh. Regional rivalry in Tuscany is as much a tradition as flag-throwing.
Borgo a Mozzano slinks along the Serchio river’s edge, and the easiest way to reach the bridge is to follow the main thoroughfare—a narrow road brightened with bursts of pastel-painted houses, and tiny, caliginous archways playfully darting off to each side. Down one lane, there are colourful glass fruit montages set out in wooden boxes which bring a trancelike luminosity to the otherwise darkened space. I can hear burbling waterways, chattering sparrows, and little else.
I pass two ancient churches, San Jacopo and San Rocco, both of which make interesting interludes along my way. The former has a gorgeous altarpiece like a gold-plated wedding cake of six or seven tiers. It is also the home of the statue of Mary Magdalene, from which the bridge gets its official name. Crafted in the much-revered school of Della Robbia back in the 1500s, the statue was originally kept in a church by the bridge. Now it stays in San Jacopo, apart from when it is gadding off to the Louvre which is where it may be today.
As I leave this church, I encounter a woman walking her dog.
“Pig or dog?” I ask, pointing in the direction of the bridge.
“Dog,” she responds emphatically; her canine friend wags its scruffy tail in gleeful confirmation.
Closer to the bridge verges a railway line, and it is from under here that most folk like to take their first soaring glimpse of the devil’s handiwork. The tufty, stone curves, almost undulating, beg for constant photography as their facade changes colour with each shift in the valley light. Climbing across the bridge’s steep pavement stones, grooved deep from past pilgrimages, one can almost hear the pitter-patter of doggy paws as it trots to its fate. Rumour has it, come the autumn mists, you may even see the dog for yourself.
Nearby, I find the legend recounted on the wall of a now-defunct tourist office. It paints a dramatic picture of the devil clutching his pitchfork as he raises the bridge for the first time and then, later, flinging himself furiously off the bridge once he realised he had been duped. It also acknowledges there are several variations to the story before stating explicitly that the animal was a pig!
A what?
Confusion sets in (I can only imagine my face), but there is amusement as well. How can this be so when the now-functioning tourist office specifically assured me it was a dog? I stop for a glass of local red at the bar opposite the bridge to gather myself. All I can hear is the bleat of lambs on the hills, the hum of traffic passing nearby, and the sound of a thousand question marks scratching in my head. Clearly, my mission is not yet complete. Clearly, further investigation will need to be undertaken.
Fortunately, the area surrounding Borgo a Mozzano is swarming with medieval fortresses, monasteries, and wooded hamlets, so no matter which direction you choose, you will invariably be rewarded. The brooding atmosphere is also perfect for those in contemplation of the legend’s truth and is filled with amicable locals, all happy to give you their own take. I decide to head up to the ancient village of Corsagna, via a three-kilometre road patchworked with tumbling olive groves, trickling streams, and vine-clad trees. Here, the grass smells sweet, like camomile, and the only noise is birdsong and the hum of encouraging bees. Occasionally, a stone house appears with smoke puffing out of its fairy-tale chimney, and I spy cheery folk collecting firewood among other things. I don’t bother them with my mission; they have their own task at hand.
At around 400 metres above sea level, Corsagna commands an all-embracing view over the fertile valley with a soaring belltower presiding from atop. It feels like a place that has been undisturbed since medieval times, except for a blue moped I observe bumping up some steep, stone stairs—a sweet reminder of that Italian juxtaposition between the very old and the very new, with the rider of an age somewhere in between.
He stops to let me pass, and I cannot help myself.
“Dog or pig?” I shout above the roar of his purring bike.
Perplexed at first, and fair enough, too—not everyone is obsessed with the legend as they go about their day—the man lets me persevere as I draw the bridge with my hands, followed by a couple of devil’s horns.
He smiles and answers ‘dog’ or rather ‘cane’ since he is Italian, and I can almost hear all the valley angels sigh with relief at his confirmation.
Later at my hotel, though, I cannot help myself, and I ask Marcello, my waiter, his view on the legend.
“Pig,” he says with an emphatic wave of his arm.
I gaze down at my locally sourced porcini and sigh. Part of me wants to believe him as he has just recommended a superb red wine from the nearby Villa di Fubbiano, and I am easily bought.
“So, are you from here?” I ask to keep the conversation flowing.
“No,” he answers proudly, pouring me another glass. “I am Lucchese.”
In the end, I suppose, no one will ever be able to confirm the animal’s true identity, but this probably doesn’t matter to anyone except, perhaps, the said beast. It certainly doesn’t steal from Borgo a Mozzano’s mystical setting and, of course, its masterful bridge; all quaintly paradisiacal, and quite lovely to behold.
No wonder the devil chose to visit this place all those centuries ago.
