On leaving the hermitage we had intended ascending to the _Prato al Soglio_, from where there is a splendid view, and from there crossing the mountains by a path which led to Badia a Prataglia. But owing to the snow that lay behind the Eremo this was impossible, and we found ourselves instead on a grassy road skirting the mountain always at about the same level. From one point of this road we looked down on the huge monastery of Camaldoli; further along and the outlook was over apparently limitless masses of pine forest; further again and the slopes below us were clothed with beeches, their leafless branches just touched by the first tinge of red. Finally we were out again on the bare mountain, with the panorama of the Apennines about us, and Serravalle with its tower hanging far below in the blue mist like a bird. The road now became a rough path over uneven, mountainous ground, such as we had crossed on the previous day, but we were at a higher elevation, and the surroundings of sky and scenery were proportionately grander. I have often thought that the sky of different mountainous regions is different, just as the sea along different lines of the coast varies. Whether we have seen the Mediterranean in sunny weather or in rough, we carry away with us the impression of its restless readiness to run to froth be it counter to a breeze or against a jutting headland. Similarly the North Sea stays with us in its glassy reluctance to break, and the Atlantic in the mighty inherent roll of its waves. As great a difference in character belongs to the sky of different mountainous regions, though it is less easily fixed in word and thought. To me heaviness and sullenness seemed to characterise the sky of the Apennines; once it sank into the mountains, there it stayed. The obvious reason was the poor clothing of the soil and the want of running water; there were none of those surface currents which carry down and dissolve the mists of thick weather elsewhere. For once outside the forest region of Camaldoli, there was a marked want of trees and a marked want of water. The denudation of the soil is something terrible, and already in April many streams were running dry. The path we followed had many beautiful outlooks, but there was a good deal of snow, and we had come far out of our way. We were glad at last to catch sight of the white line of the driving road into Romagna winding in and out among the mountains below, for the days in April are short. In this case a shower of rain caused us to put on additional speed; we were down in the road before dark, and soon afterwards established in comfortable quarters at the Casa Rossi. This is no inn, in the ordinary sense of the word--the family let the upper part of their house in summer--but they took us in for a couple of nights and made us welcome.