Following the Bray

This morning, I went in search of a donkey.

I could say I went looking for an ass—but that felt a touch too biblical, or perhaps too American. In Italian, the word is asino—or asina if she’s a she. There’s also a slang word I remember from childhood, something like choo-chool, used to describe a fool, a pushover, someone too soft-headed to keep hold of their wallet. A bit harsh, really. Still, in the end, “donkey” felt like the kindest choice—for both of us.

You see, most mornings, as I sit at the back of the house with a cappuccino (crafted by my own unpredictable hand—no need to envy), I hear two very distinct voices: a rooster with an ego problem, and a donkey who sounds heartbreakingly misunderstood. Sometimes he pleads, sometimes he sulks, and sometimes he’s just plain furious. Whatever he’s trying to say, it’s loud, and it’s right nearby.

The thing is, I live in the middle of town. I can’t see any farms from here, not close enough for barnyard declarations to carry with such clarity. Which is how I came to set off on a donkey hunt. A quest of sorts.

It happened to be the Festa della Repubblica—the day Italy officially declared itself a republic and rewrote its future after the fascist years. The town was hushed. “Tranquillo,” my neighbour had sighed this morning, looking pleased about it. A good day to go exploring.

I wandered towards a part of town I rarely visit, the quiet stretch just before the road to Bisenti. I usually drive it, never walk. On foot, things shift. Distances stretch. Details emerge.

Italian hill towns defy logic. Houses spill down slopes and wedge themselves into impossible corners. Before I’d even left the last of the houses behind, the landscape opened up, and there it was—a steep garden clinging to the incline, a rooster parading its edge like he owned the place. We locked eyes. He puffed up to near double his size, then crowed, shrill and gloating. My rooster. No doubt about it.

But no donkey. Not even an echo of one.

Still, I was convinced they lived in a duet. I’d heard them so often together—his strut, her sorrowful wail. Had I imagined it? Had I mistaken some other sound entirely?

So I pressed on, out past a pseudo-castle—one of those overly confident builds erected by a man with more concrete than modesty. Up a dusty hill, down another. Into wagon-rut paths that barely deserved the name. Somewhere along the way, I started to feel like the donkey myself. Or worse, the choo-chool. A hungry, grumbling fool on a fool’s errand.

And then I stopped. Not walking—but rushing. I stopped charging forward and started looking. Really looking.

From high on a hill, just below a crumbling ruin I’d never noticed before, I saw my valley spread out in unfamiliar angles. Eleven summers I’ve spent in this place, and somehow this view has eluded me. I thought I’d seen it all. But no. It was breathtaking.

I walked home and made myself lunch. Afterwards, I wandered through town, slowly this time. No mission, no goal. Just watching.

I ducked into narrow vicoli, where sun-faded doors kept their secrets and windows held the glint of lives still lived. One small, dark kitchen still cradled a dish rack of delicate floral plates beside a rusted sink—quietly forgotten. Another stairway led up to a hidden garden bursting with geraniums. And there were pots of basil, and cats sprawled like emperors, and doors painted turquoise and lemon yellow—behind which I imagined people lived poetic, slightly mad, deeply romantic lives.

All of it had been there all along. Eleven summers’ worth of possibility, waiting for me to notice.

I never did find the donkey. Maybe I never will.

But I found something else. A new edge to the map of this town I thought I knew. A reminder of why I came here in the first place. It felt like falling in love all over again. Or like the first time someone you fancy reaches for your hand and actually holds on.

So, by all means, go looking. Follow the bray, the voice in the distance, even if it turns out to be nothing. Even if you end up lost, sweaty, and vaguely ridiculous. Follow it anyway.

Because in the end, even a wild donkey chase might lead you somewhere you truly need to be.

This article was adapted from my original blogpost published on Casa da Carmine.