The Porta Buligaia was certainly the most beautiful point we had yet seen, and we felt very grateful to the great artist who, knowing every street of Perugia, had so kindly told us how to take this walk; for the little narrow street opposite the Porta Augusta had hitherto escaped our notice, although we had spent so many weeks in Perugia.
PORTA BULIGAIA.
Just before the old wall reaches the Porta it curves into a trefoil, and goes down steeply to the fertile valley. Through the open, green doors of the gate the road winds beside the grand wall, which, covered with greenery, strikes forward to the north, tall grass atop waving like pennons among the trees above it.
The inner wall sends out a long flank to reach the gate, and above, level with its top, is a vine-covered pergola with quaint gabled houses behind it; these command a grand view over the hills which circle round in shades of exquisite blue, fading at last to opal. Plots of maize glow through a grey mist of olives; the vines, swinging from tree to tree, are golden-green. As the road goes down beside the wall beyond the gate, it passes a white-walled cottage nestled in trees. The view tempted us along this road, and soon a path, bordered by a black handrail, mounted on the left beside a caper-wreathed wall of stones: following it, we crossed a sort of farmyard, where an enormous gourd vine lay atop a brick wall; huge pumpkins were sunning themselves among enormous leaves.
Beyond this, towards Perugia, the land was richly cultivated; maize and vegetables, fruit-trees and vines, covered every scrap of ground. Here and there a tangled bit of hedge served to prop the luxuriant vines; there was no primness anywhere, and yet the ground seemed well cultivated.
Going on, the way curved, and the view became still more extended; at last we found ourselves in the road again, and went on till we reached the extreme northern point of Perugia—Porta San Angelo.
