In Devil's Kitchen

The search for the postcard Tuscany leads us by chance to the Valle del Diavolo. For now, we are somewhat surprised by thick pipelines and various cooling towers booming in the landscape.

I quickly find information on the internet: underground volcanic magma brings the groundwater to a boil in this area, it is pushed to the surface where it shoots out as steam and is used to generate electricity. The whole region smells like sulfur, winding pipelines shape the pretty crazy picture.

Hiking trails lead through a landscape where it boils out of countless cracks and crevices, the ground is very hot in places and the aroma of rotten eggs accompanies us every step of the way. This must be what it's like in Devil's Kitchen when you want to steal his three golden hairs.

Unfortunately, a thunderstorm once again ends our exploration tour. We set off without rain protection and the big raindrops soon become abundant, heavy, persistent, and more.

At the end of this extraordinarily spectacular excursion into a surreal, fantastic, almost utopian world, we are soaking wet down to our underwear. We stand in deep puddles in the parking lot, the bedding slowly smells like a wet dog, and the rain keeps pouring down on our heads. Otherwise, we would have taken the opportunity to dry our things on hot stones.

Zappa discovers a thermal spring on the map and the all-knowing data highway informs us that the residents of the small town in Tuscany are opposed to their hot water being completely commercialized. To this day, bathing in the 36°C warm water is free. It flows over stones in cascades, under which you can sit and let the warm water run down your back. In some places, it boils so violently that you are shaken, stirred, massaged, and walked through, and it makes a cracking sound. It is indescribable, relaxing, invigorating, beneficial, edifying, and ensures that the body, senses, and hair are holistically filled with the scent of sulfur.

We master the path from the also free parking lot barefoot, as we witness people transporting kilos of heavy, centimeters-thick clay soles from their flip-flops to their vehicles and desperately trying to get rid of the mass there.

After several heavy rains, the entire free parking area has turned into a muddy mess. The stubborn material sticks to the soles, seeps through the toes, and clings relentlessly everywhere - a mud pack for the feet before a nice hot bath including a massage.

The next morning, we repeat the whole process with the result that the smell of sulfur sticks to our hair for the rest of the trip.

But the experience was definitely worth this incomparable perfume.