VIA FRANCIGENA - EMBRUN TO PAVIA - SEPTEMBER 2023
This is a picaresque and mostly true account of the sixth stage of a pilgrimage from Canterbury to Rome, which follows a meandering version of the ancient pilgrimage route called the Via Francigena. I started the trek in 2015 with my son, Mike, and hiked for roughly three weeks each successive year until interrupted by the Covid lockdown.
The current stage resumes where I left off in 2019 – in the village of Embrun in the French Alps. It covers some 350 km and crosses the Alps
into Italy through the pass at Montgenevre, ending in the town of Pavia. It will take two more stages to reach Rome,
which lies about 750 km south of Pavia.
Here is a rough map of the entire route so far. It doesn’t correspond to the actual hiking path but at least shows the start and end points for each year of the hike:
(2015) Canterbury to Reims via Dover & Calais
(2016) Reims to Vézelay
(2017) Vézelay to Le Puy
(2018) Le Puy to Aix-en-Provence via Nimes & Arles
(2019) Arles to Embrun
(2023) Embrun to Pavia via Turin
Day 1 – Thursday, 7 September: Embrun to Chateauroux-Les-Alpes – 8.5 km
There are three basic rules when backpacking. The
first and most important is never to leave anything behind. Hardly less
important is the second rule – bring lots of water with you. And finally,
when you stop to rest along the path, always look carefully before you sit
down.
I had these rules in mind as I trudged with my pack through
the deserted streets of the village of Embrun, having slipped out of my B&B
by the cathedral at 7.30 am. My plan was to have breakfast at the Hotel
de Mairie in the main square – the only place open at this hour – and then head
off on my hike. Although the temperature was a chilly 13 degrees, the
predicted high would be a scorching 30, so I wanted to get started as early as
possible. My destination for the day was the village of Chateauroux-les-Alpes,
only 8.5 km distant but across a range of mountains that circled Embrun to the
north.
The breakfast room at the hotel was packed with middle-aged
French men, all wearing rugby shirts evidently bought when they were a bit
younger and slimmer. The explanation, as I learned later, was that the
World Cup of Rugby would be starting on Friday, with the host country (and
favourite to win) being France itself. So I was definitely the odd man
out as they eyed me curiously in my hiking gear. At the end of
breakfast, I stood up, checked the straps on my pack, studied the table to make
sure I hadn’t left anything behind (Rule #1), set my wide-brimmed hat at a
rakish angle, and left the room. Moments later I was pursued by one of
the rugby lovers. “Monsieur,” he called brandishing my hiking poles, “You
left these behind!”
So much for Rule #1.
But anyone could make a mistake like that, I told myself as
I embarked on a search for a second bottle of water to supplement the one I was
already carrying (Rule #2). I finally found a small bakery that stocked
such a bottle, and paid for it in cash.
This involved opening the pouch slung around my neck, extracting a
sandwich bag, and fishing inside for a 10 euro note, much to the suppressed
amusement of the young woman behind the counter. I carefully took my
change, placed it in the correct pocket of the pouch, rolled up the sandwich
bag and tucked it away, and with a friendly “Au revoir” set off for the
door. “But monsieur,” the lady called, “Your water. You left
it behind!”
Yikes! A near-violation of both Rules #1 and 2.
Ah well, it’s an early-morning thing, I muttered, as I
started up the steep road out of the village, whose posts were marked with the
characteristic red and white symbol of a French GR (Grande Route) hiking
trail. Two hours later, and 500 metres higher, I stopped by the side of
the farm-road for a rest. I took great care to find a rock in the shade,
used my hiking poles to clear away some spiky plants, and sat down to remove my
boots, giving my feet the chance to get some fresh air. I knew better
than to place my feet on the ground, because my socks would pick up all sorts
of bits and pieces, but rested them on my boots. Yet when I started to
re-boot myself a bit later, one of my feet slipped and landed in the layer of
dirt at the edge of the road. And not just dirt – as I soon
discovered. An ancient layer of dried manure.
Rule #3 bit the dust, or something worse.
What more is there to tell you about my first day on the
road? Well, the initial part of the hike was all up-hill, nearly three
hours of it. And the gradient varied from merely steepish, to very steep,
then crazy steep, then a-cliff-in-everything-but-name. Yet the
countryside was extraordinarily beautiful – with views across the valley of the
Durance River to the rugged mountains on the other side. A hiker’s
paradise.
The sound of water accompanied me much of the way, as brooks bubbled and gushed through channels at the side of the path, or spilled across the way. Though the day grew quickly hotter, with brilliant beams of sunlight flickering like strobe-lights through the branches as I moved along, there was plenty of shade on the path, except for the final descent into the village of Chateauroux-les-Alpes, where I found my B&B in a wonderful rambling Alpine-style house – located nearly at the bottom of the valley.
As I gazed northward toward the
mountain range where I’ll be heading tomorrow, I wondered if I’d have to climb another
500 metres to get out of the valley. Only time will tell.
Day 2 – Friday, 8 September: Chateauroux-les-Alpes to Eygliers – 18.5 km
There are a couple of backpacking rules I forgot about
yesterday, but which are worth mentioning here.
The first is to have a hearty breakfast.
And the second is not to fall off any cliffs.
Breakfast is pretty fundamental if you plan to walk in the
mountains for an entire day under the hot sun.
So why did I leave my B&B this morning with only a single croissant
and the rump end of a baguette in my stomach?
It doesn’t make much sense – particularly since the young landlord was a
trained chef and had set out a nice spread for me – his only guest for the
night. The explanation is that I’d eaten
a tremendous amount of food the night before – he’d served up an assortment of
local specialities: various meats and sausages, cheeses, salad items,
preserves. And I’d somehow managed to devour
the entire lot, while downing most of a bottle of a local red. So I was contrite – deeply so – and anxious
to set off into the wilds to atone for my sins.
Which only goes to show that an Irish-Catholic upbringing is no
preparation for life on the road.
So, to reprise the question I posed yesterday, did I have to climb 500 metres to get out of the valley? Not really, though there was a stiff ascent at the start which took me up to the village of St-Marcellin, perched on a rocky summit overlooking Chateauroux. But once there, I was launched onto a hiking trail that threaded its way along the side of a steep mountain slope, some 150 metres above the Durance River, with astonishing views up and down the valley. The path was tiny and often only inches from a ragged and eroded edge, where a stumble could become a tumble to eternity – or at best to the local emergency department.
But the sun was shining and the air was still cool, so I walked with a lighthearted step along the path, watching the weird folds in the mountains across the valley shift as the light changed. The exposed rock faces have layers and layers of strata, curving and writhing, giving one the sense of enormous stretches of time. Which was somehow appropriate, since the hike for the day was going to be pretty lengthy – some 22 km, more than double the distance covered yesterday.
Eventually the path left the Durance valley and took a sharp
turn to the left, plunging into a deep side-gorge. This wasn’t so much fun. The route takes you three kilometres all the
way along one side of the gorge, across a little wooden bridge, and than
another three kilometres all the way back the other side of the gorge – leaving
you hardly any closer to your destination, and proving once again that GR
hiking routes represent the longest possible distance between any two points.
By the time I emerged from the gorge, my stomach was telling
me what an idiot I was not to have stocked up more at breakfast. But luck was with me! When I finally limped down the trail to the
valley floor once again, I discovered a small restaurant-bar by the side of the
highway in the ancient village of St-Clement-en-Durance. It had a pleasant outdoor terrace where they
served me the dish of the day – a ham omelette with ratatouille and a green
salad on the side. Never in the history of humanity has a restoration of energy
and spirits been so rapid and complete.
Better still, when I showed the proprietor my hiking map, which directed
me to climb back into the hills along a hot tarmac road that looped crazily upward,
he laughed and said there wasn’t any need to do that. As a runner, he knew of a small service road beside
the railway track that led directly to my destination in the village of
Eygliers – a mere three to four kilometres alongside the river, as opposed to double
that distance, wandering like a drunken monkey through the hills.
So the railway service track it was, and here I am now at my
small auberge in Eygliers, sitting in the bar with a local blond (a blond beer,
that is) and feeling pretty good. Dinner
will be served soon in the dining room at the side, and the air is cooling off
as the sun sets behind the mountains.
On that happy note, I bring this blog to a close …
“But wait!” you say.
“What about the fall off the cliff?
Didn’t you promise us that?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” I reply. “I only told you about the rule against
falling off cliffs.”
“But why tell us the rule if it has nothing to do with the story?”
“Because there were many points at which someone might
have fallen off a cliff. But not
me! Did you really think I’m so silly as
to fall off a cliff?”
No need to reply.
Day 3 – Saturday, 9 September: Eygliers to L’Argentiere-la-Bessée – 21.5 km
I should have known something was up the moment I saw the
dog. A great shaggy white beast, standing as high as my hip, with a
strange bothered look about his eyes. He came around the bend in the road
ahead – an asphalted minor route winding up the side of the mountain – and he
veered vaguely toward me as I panted up the steep incline, hugging the
cliff-side to avoid the occasional vehicles that hurtled unexpectedly around
the curves. I kept a close eye on the dog, which seemed troubled by the
oppressive heat, and pushed onward, my hiking poles ready for combat.
Unleashed dogs in France are not the hiker’s friend.
Still eyeing me rather oddly, the dog continued past.
As I turned around to make sure he was actually gone, I saw him stop, as if
deciding whether ripping me from limb to limb was worth the trouble and the
mess. Then two men with small backpacks appeared from around the bend,
talking to each other – not unfriendly, but not paying me much attention
either, even when I called “bonjour!” They seemed to be the owners of the
dog. Problem solved.
But not so. A few more steps, and several sheep
trotted around the bend. I moved closer to the cliff to let them
pass. But then more sheep emerged, then even more, then more and more and
more – an enormous herd of sheep, at least two hundred strong, filling the
entire road. It became obvious that pressing to the side of the cliff was
not going to save me as the tide swept disconsolately toward me, their bodies
packed tightly together, jostling and bleating.
So I beat a hasty retreat and scampered (as best one can
scamper with a twenty pound pack) across the front of the mob to the safety of
the grass verge on the other side of the road, where the cliff dropped into the
valley. At the very back of the herd was a second dog, much like the
first, only black in colour, pacing back and forth, keeping the sheep in
order. The white dog had been the leader, scouting for obstacles.
No wonder he’d looked bothered.
And as I watched them disappear around the next bend I
wondered what happened when vehicles came speeding down and encountered them
blocking the road. In fact just minutes later, two cyclists in full
racing gear came tearing past. If I’d had my wits about me, I would have
shouted “Attention aux moutons!” But no doubt they’d have thought me a
half-wit.
Such is a hiker’s life in the mountains. And you may have noticed, dear reader, the reference to a steep road. Today was meant to have been a 20 km stroll by the Durance River, shaded by leafy trees, ducks bobbing in the eddies, the path as flat as a prairie pancake. That, at least, was what I’d figured from my small-scale map, photocopied from the GR hiker’s guide. How could I have been so naïve? The day featured not one but two separate steep ascents, the first at the start, perhaps 200 metres up into the hills on the east side of the river, the second in the early afternoon, to the west of the river, a good 400 or 500 metres up the side of the mountain, with the sun at its height and very little shade.
Once I got to the top, of course, the views were
magnificent, and I was rewarded by a lovely shady café in the tiny alpine
village of Poulons, where I downed a coffee and a half-litre of sparkling
Perrier with ice! Refreshed and reinvigorated, I renewed my march, down a
long winding road back into the valley.
Yes, in GR world, no sooner does one arrive at the top than one goes
down again.
Three or four kilometers along a nice flat stretch brought
me to my B&B in L’Argentiere-la-Bessée, a long shower, and an animated
dinner with three French couples of varying ages, also guests at the place,
along with my host, an outgoing lady with spiky blond hair.
My spoken French is improving in leaps and bounds, but my
comprehension lags behind. And so I struggled to follow the free-flowing
conversation around the table. The funniest moment came when, in the
midst of an exchange I couldn’t quite grasp, the man beside me turned and asked
if there was much cannibalism in Canada. “Cannibalisme?” I
inquired, somewhat taken aback. The whole table burst into
laughter. Turns out he was asking me about cannabis usage.
But misunderstanding is the spice of travel, as I’d learned
the previous night in the bar at my small hotel in Eygliers, which was filled
with a mix of tipsy locals and tipsy hikers, along with singularly harassed
landlady and her meagre staff.
It all started after I came down from my room for a drink
before dinner. As I sat there writing my blog, I noticed a group of
tallish, big-boned Brits, men and women of a certain age, who stumbled into the
bar in hiking gear, clearly exhausted and ready for a drink. After
talking to the landlady, they gave their orders and found a place on the
terrace outside. Some time later, I asked
the landlady if I could carry my unfinished beer into the dining area, or
perhaps pay for the drinks and the prix fixe dinner in advance. The
landlady, quite harried, gave me one glance and rather curtly quoted a price of
58 euros. I thought this was rather steep but figured the meal must be something
special. So I paid with my card and went outside on the terrace to
wait.
Nothing happened for quite a while – no menu, no waiter, no
food. But I wasn’t in any rush and continued sipping my beer and writing
the blog. Then I noticed a commotion at the English table, with various
individuals popping up and running back and forth from the bar. Something
to do with paying the bill. Eventually the landlady came out with one of
the Brits and, looking around, pointed me out and asked him if I belonged to
their group. He shook his head.
And it dawned on me that the 58 euros I’d paid was actually their
bill!
Hilarity on the part of the Brits and consternation on the
part of the landlady. But as I stood at the cash while she sorted things
out, I received my reward. One of the Englishmen (who’d observed me
talking to the landlady in my best French) asked me if I lived in Eygliers.
“No, no!”, I said, “I’m a Canadian, just hiking through.”
“Where to?” he asked.
“Into Italy,” I said.
He stared at me, eyes widening. “You’re going across
the mountains?”
“Through the pass at Montgenevre,” I said with my best
attempt at a Gallic shrug.
I was in a great mood the rest of the night, even though dinner was late.
Day 4 – Sunday, 10 September: L’Argentiere-la-Bessée to Briancon – 23 km
“Don’t take the route that goes along the river,” my
landlady urged me over breakfast, shaking her head. “It’ll be so
boring! Take the GR route that climbs into the mountains. The views
are just spectacular!”
She was right of course. It would have been awfully
boring to crawl along like a worm beside the river. But she was also
wrong. We all need a bit of boring in our lives.
Well, I thought to myself as I stepped out the door, I don’t
have to decide until I reach the place where the route forks – which was in the
village of L’Argentiere proper, a couple of kilometres away. Then I’ll stop
and take a look at the GR mountain path for myself and see how my legs feel.
Smart, eh? Just use your own eyes! Listen to
your body! What could possible go wrong?
As it turned out, plenty. For what I’d failed to do
was consult the detailed itinerary I’d drawn up earlier, where I’d painstakingly
calculated the length and elevation of the GR mountain route and come to the
conclusion it was not for me. Nor for anyone with a grain of sense. Sheer insanity.
So when I reached the point in l’Argentiere where the GR
route took a sharp turn to the left and climbed into an inviting pine forest,
the enthusiasm kindled by the fresh mountain air and brilliant morning sunshine
got the better of me. Forget the river, I said. It’s the mountain
route for me.
And how lovely it was for the first couple of hours, as I
climbed through a tiny village that clung to the lower slopes, admiring the
views that unfolded back into L’Argentiere and the vast mountain valley around
it. And how delightful it was to feel my legs responding to the
challenge, as I bounded along. I’m really getting back into the groove, I
thought. Just a couple of days into the trek and I’m almost in peak
condition.
Oh, the vanity of man! Oh, the sin of pride! Oh,
the cupidity of uninformed enthusiasm!
It was already mid-afternoon when I finally got to the route’s highest point at 1165 metres, some 700 metres above my starting point in the valley below, and some 50,000 calories expended getting there, or so it felt. I was totally exhausted as I dragged myself into the village of Bouchier, which thankfully boasted a café, where lean rock-climbers lounged about in the sunshine on the terrace. I was reminded of the fact that this area is a climbing mecca, with a multitude of well-known ascents, identified by name and signboard as I’d moved along the base of the cliff toward the village.
The frosty Perrier and strong coffee dispensed by the café perked up my spirits a bit. But I still had most of the hike ahead of me – some 11 kilometres to my destination in Briancon. And, as it transpired, the first section involved a slow tortuous descent to the valley floor. So when I staggered into the little town of Prelles beside the flowing waters of the Durance, it was already 6:30 pm – with 8 kilometres to go, and no gas left in the Slattery tank. But God, in his infinite wisdom, had placed a food truck at the entry to the town. Oh glory! A food truck selling pizza.
Two hours later I flew into Briancon on wings of pepperoni
and Emmenthal cheese, after an evening passing through fields above the Durance
river. Still starving, I found an
Italian restaurant open in the darkened lower town where I devoured an Insalata
Capricciosa, washed down by a huge mug of beer. In a state of zombified inebriation,
I marched up the long steep route to my Airbnb apartment in the ancient upper
town, where I fumbled in the darkness for the keys hidden on the balcony, and
finally made my entry at 10.30 pm.
Curtains. Zzzzzz.
Days 5-6. Monday-Tuesday, 11-12
September: Briancon to Montgenevre – 9
km
Trust the French to figure out how to make the world’s best cheeseburger. A deliciously crusty bun with a soft, almost flaky interior, the whole crammed with a hearty beef patty, topped with a slice of genuine non-plastic cheese, small tasty tomatoes, a pickle or two, and some kind of unidentifiable but flavourful sauce.
This is what I ate for breakfast at the boulangerie which,
after a long search, I’d finally discovered at the top of the steep old town of
Briancon, in preparation for a march up the Alpine pass that almost defeated
Hannibal.
Remember backpacking rule number – uh – whatever it is. Anyway it goes like this: Always have a hearty breakfast. But in France, dear reader, the gastronomic
capital of the world, this is not an easy task.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
Everything from croissants, to brioches, to tranches of baguette
slathered with butter and jam, to quiches filled with imaginative combinations
of exotic legumes. Nothing really does
it.
But in the boulangerie this morning I cast an eye on the
display of three different kinds of burgers.
They looked good. They looked
hearty. They looked like they could last
me the day. So I ordered the meatiest
one, along with a nourishing café au lait.
And it was everything it promised to be.
All my to-ing and fro-ing to secure a breakfast took up a
lot of time. So I was a bit late in
departing from my Airbnb apartment in a set of freshly laundered clothes,
courtesy of the washing machine crammed into the bathroom next to the toilet.
But no worries, I thought, today is not a long day. Yes, probably a difficult day. Every GR day is a difficult day if it is
within 100 kilometres of a mountain. But
not a long day. Moreover, I’ve had the
benefit of a full day of rest in Briancon.
I’m ready for anything.
And for once I was right.
It was only ten kilometres up the valley of the Durance to its source in
the pass at Montgenevre. Nevertheless, there
was also a total ascent of some 900 metres, if the figures on my Garmin map are
to be believed – a record for me.
So it was a slow and arduous but attractive day. I passed over an amazing single-arched bridge
spanning the gorge at Briancon to the eastern side of the river, then up and up
a rocky trail through a pine forest, with glimpses of the highway on the
western side, wending its way, switchback after switchback, up the gorge.
Other than the silent but eloquent protest of my hamstrings and glutes, a great silence prevailed in the forest. For the first time, however, I encountered several groups of day-hikers coming from the other direction – one group indeed surprised me in a private moment at the side of the trail. But eventually the path led me right into the pass, where the trail and the river and the highway all converged. At this point, the mighty Durance is nothing more than a brook, tumbling happily down the valley, unaware of the great destiny that awaits it below.
And so here I am now in Montgenevre, which, sad to say, has
all the attraction of an abandoned strip-mall. That sounds harsh. But it’s true. No doubt at other times of the year, it’s
different. But not now, in
September. For the village of Montgenevre
is first and last a ski-resort, with a side-hustle in summer outdoor
sports. Every building strung along the
highway is either a hotel, a restaurant, a sports-shop, a trinket store, a spa,
or a ski-rental place. And most of them
are closed. The place is dead.
Fortunately, my little hotel is the liveliest place in town,
like the manager’s office in a funeral parlour when they break out the Scotch
after-hours. My room has a huge double
bed along with two single beds – “so you can invite all your friends,” jokes
the manager. And the hotel has an expansive terrace, where I’m now drinking a Koenig Ludwig Weiss (Blanche) beer, with a
slice of orange floating on top. Don’t
ask me why.
Everyone in the village (all ten
of them) come by the terrace, along with numerous groups of motorcyclists that
roar into the parking lot opposite the hotel.
But now it’s almost 7 pm and I’m just about the only one left in the
place. Time, dear reader, to call it a
day and go off in search of one of the few restaurants that the hotel manager
assures me is still open. If he’s wrong,
there will be hell to pay.
Day 7 - Wednesday, 13
September. Montgenevre to Oulx – 18.6 km
The story goes that a young curate, new to the diocese, was
invited for breakfast by the bishop.
Somewhat nervous, the curate managed to get through the meal without
mishap. At the end, the bishop glanced
at the curate’s half-finished plate and inquired: “How was your egg?” The curate paused, then said brightly: “Parts of it were good.”
That about describes my day.
It started with a light sprinkling of rain as I left Montgenevre and set
off down the road for the Italian border, which I passed at some indefinite
spot before reaching the companion village of Claviere. There I turned off the road and took a track
with a big sign saying “Via Francigena”.
It was the first such sign I’d seen since the early days of the trek in
northern France, while we were still following the standard Francigena trail
and hadn’t succumbed to the allure of Mediterranean shores. It felt good to see it again.
I was looking forward to the Gorges of San Gervasio, about a
half-hour distant, which feature a Tibetan suspension bridge as well as a
spectacular walk though the narrow cleft carved by Piccola Dora river.
But when I finally reached the point where the trail plunged down into the gorge (which was indeed spectacular), I encountered a barrier with a sign saying that the trail was closed for repairs. I briefly wondered whether I shouldn’t go ahead anyway. But then I thought what a nuisance it would be to find the trail washed away and have to climb all the way back up. So after nosing around for a path to regain the road without retracing my steps – there wasn’t one! – I regretfully returned to Claviere and set off down the highway, which I would then follow for the rest of the day, all the way to my destination in the village of Oulx, some 18 km distant.
It was a long, anxious trip, hugging the left side of the
road while the traffic roared past.
Fortunately, there was a verge about a meter wide, demarcated by a white
line. And while the traffic wasn’t very heavy,
it wasn’t exactly light either. Most
drivers swung away to avoid me, but they couldn’t always manage to do that when
there were vehicles coming the other way.
And I quickly learned to press myself against the side whenever a large
truck approached, to avoid being sucked in by the vortex of air. The worst part came at the start, when the
road plunged into a tunnel – about 2 kilometers long – which I had no choice but to
enter. Luckily, the meter-wide verge
continued all the way through, but the noise was deafening.
The other good point was that, although walking by the side
of a busy road isn’t much fun, it also has its advantages. It was downhill all the way, a drop of almost
900 meters, and a hiking trail could have made the trip quite demanding – with
lots of ups and downs on steep stony paths.
On the road, the gradient was perfect for my knees – so that I covered
the long stretch from Cesana to Oulx in no time at all. Now I’m looking forward to some
straightforward countryside hiking, as I gradually leave the mountains and make
my way down the valley of the Piccola Dora to Torino.
The town of Oulx itself is a jumbled, decrepit, unevenly
modernized, busy place – not at all like
some of the touristy, nicely preserved villages encountered along the way. People actually live and work here, and the
place is bubbling with energy and life.
There are motor repair shops cheek by jowl with tiny supermarkets next
to actual clothing shops next to actual sports shops next to actual pharmacies
and cafes.
Big posters emblazoned on the walls describe various types
of Via Ferrata located in the mountains above the town. These are climbing routes of differing levels
of difficulty laid out for people who aren’t really climbers. They feature ropes and cables slung along
pathways that follow tiny ledges across the face of cliffs, as well as iron
rungs fixed into the rock to elevate you to the next level. The idea is that if you follow the prescribed
route with a certain amount of sangfroid and care, while managing to hang on
tight, you will be delivered safely to the end. Not for the faint of heart. Nor for a hiker with dead legs.
As for that hiker, once again I’m sitting in a local bar
drinking beer – Leffe Rossa – while I write this blog. There’s a lot of activity and noise in the
place – with a small dog barking vociferously at the table in the corner, while
his owner repeatedly shouts “Basta!” at him in a shrill, ear-piercing
voice. I’d go over and strangle the
little brute (the owner too) if I didn’t feel so tired. It seems that fatigue is the key to virtue. All the best saints kept themselves very busy.
Day 8 – Thursday, 14 September. Oulx to Exilles – 13.9 km
Never stay in a village that doesn’t have a bar. Restaurants are fine, of course. As Napoleon observed, armies march on their stomachs – and hikers are no different. Food – plentiful food – is a necessity. But as Napoleon must have known, restaurants in France and Italy only open after 7 pm. And what did his armies do when they arrived in a place, tired and dusty, in the late afternoon? Did they lay down their packs and play boules on the village green? No, dear reader, they repaired to the bar.
This revelation came to me during a rest stop along a trail high in the mountains this afternoon, as I prepared myself for the rigours of the long descent into the valley and eventually to my B&B in the tiny village of Exilles.
I was thinking how nice it would be to sit down and have a beer when I arrived. And then I was struck by an awful thought. Did the place even have a bar? I’d taken the trouble to ask my B&B hostess if there was a restaurant. But I never inquired about a bar. Out came my phone, and a frantic search on Google set the world aright again. Yes, there was a café/bar, right in the centre of the village. And, as we shall see, what a place it turned out to be.
The first indication that something odd was afoot came as I approached the village, a jumbled collection of stone houses with slate roofs on the side of a gorge, with a huge ancient fort looming on a bluff beyond. As I crossed the stone bridge over the gorge an old woman coming the other way stopped. She looked me directly in the eyes and, while smiling, asked me who I was and where I was coming from and whether I was walking all the way. I answered as best I could in my shaky Italian, and she continued looking at me as if trying to make up her mind about something. I said farewell and turned to go, and then spotted, just on the other side of the bridge, a remarkable waterfall tumbling down a wall of black rock into the ravine. I expressed surprise, because I was sure it hadn’t been there before. The old woman nodded and, still smiling, said “it’s beautiful isn’t it”, and went on her way.
It was only four o’clock and my B&B wouldn’t open for another hour, so I headed down the narrow cobbled street searching for my promised drink. The place was almost deserted, with only a couple of elderly folks returning my greeting from their doorways as I passed. And there, prominently situated on the tiny main square beside the church, was the bar, a splendid old place dated 1895, with two archways in its façade, one devoted to the bar, the other to an all-purpose grocery store.
I entered the bar to order a coffee and a beer, then went out and took a seat at one of their tables across the way, beside the church. The golden beverage that was delivered to me came in a goblet marked Moretti, but one sip told me differently, dear reader. This was no ordinary beer. It was the elixir of the gods.
I sat there for an hour or more, observing the life of the village, which seemed to proceed at an almost magical pace. When I’d gone inside the bar to give my order, it had been packed with men, all talking at once in loud voices from table to table. But when I glanced inside again, not much later, the men had mysteriously disappeared without me noticing. Meanwhile a cabal of elderly ladies had gathered on a long bench on the other side of the square, where they sat in the fading sunlight and gossiped, throwing covert glances my way. A little girl with long silky hair came by on her bike and circled around, then went to chat with the old ladies. A garish gold-coloured car crept up the street and parked, and the skinny driver disappeared through an ancient archway. A middle-aged couple made several trips up and down the street carrying a strange collection of things in a wheelbarrow. A white and grey cat with a long feathery tail came by to make my acquaintance and play with my hiking poles. A young woman smiled and greeted me like an old friend as she entered the grocery store. It was as if I had been transported back some sixty years, to the Italy I’d encountered in my teens, when we’d made a family trip to Europe.
Then I thought back to my meeting with the old lady on the bridge – who’d acted like a gatekeeper. And it dawned on me. This was no ordinary village, dear reader. It was an enchanted place – an Italian Brigadoon.
Day 9 – Friday, 15 September. Exilles to Susa – 14 km
G.K. Chesterton says somewhere that the rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. But I’m not sure how anyone, no matter how drunk, could have made the paths I’ve been following this past week.
“But wait,” says a reader. “Aren’t you tracing the route of the Via Domitia, the first Roman road constructed outside Italy? And aren’t the Romans famous for the straightness of their roads?”
It’s good to have such picky readers. They keep you honest. Yes indeed my path does roughly follow the Via Domitia, which was as straight as a road could be when passing through the mountains. The problem is that the actual route of the old Roman road is now fully occupied by the highways and the railway, leaving no room for hikers, save only on the strip at the side of the road, which you follow at risk of interacting so intimately with motorcyclists leaning into a tight turn that you can smell the marijuana on their breath.
So, to be fair to the nameless drudges who designed the path of the Via Francigena, they probably had little choice but to opt for some blatant insanities. Given their mandate to avoid busy roads, and given the nature of the terrain – a tight mountain pass, with the hills on either side riven by deep gorges every kilometre or so – what else could they do but jerk you this way and that – up and down, back and forth, round and around? But it would also seems likely that these drones carried out their mandate with a vengeance, chuckling to themselves as they imagined you drooping with fatigue as you climbed yet another steep stony path, or rounded yet another meaningless curve.
“Enough of this whining!” someone mutters. “Tell us something interesting, upbeat, funny, unusual.”
Hmm. Does it have to be true?
Actually, I have to say that the past two days of walking have been pretty good. Though the routes have been anything but easy or logical, they’ve also been extremely beautiful, sometimes breathtaking. This morning’s route from the magical village of Exilles led me up past the immense fort that squats on a hill like the castle of Jabba the Hutt, a mountainous pile of grey stone with angular walls and wings.
The route continued along the northern side of the valley on paved but virtually empty secondary roads, so high that even with a sturdy barrier at my side I got dizzy just glancing down the 500 metre drop to the foaming waters of the Dora Riparia, at the bottom of the gorge.
Noontime brought me to the village of Chiomonte, where I was seized by the scruff of the neck and dragged into a small restaurant. Struggling valiantly, I was strapped into a seat and forced to eat a dish of pollo al limone on pain of death, while a glass of white wine was poured down my throat by an Italian acolyte of Dick Cheney. I escaped from this culinary dark site an hour or so later, and was led by some fanciful Via Francigena signs through a bewildering maze of woodland paths, no longer caring where I was going or where I ended up.
Surprisingly enough, I did actually make it to the town of Susa, where I must have intended to go, because the people at the hotel desk recognized my name.
So here I am, dear reader, winding down yet again in a sidewalk café, filled with chattering students and families, all eating and drinking and calling out to passersby and jumping up to exchange kisses. The light is fading and the pollo al limone has worn off. I think it’s time for dinner. I promise to eat prudently. I say nothing about the wine.
Day 10 – Saturday, 16
September. Susa to Chiusa San Michele – 30
km
Today was a long, long slog through the rain – all 30
kilometres of it, from the town of Susa to the village of Chiusa di San
Michele, in the shadow of the ancient monastery – the Sacra di San Michele –
perched like an immense dungeon on the crag above. I left town a bit later than usual and
arrived only at 7:30 pm, tired and damp, with the beginnings of a blister on my
left foot. I looked at myself in a road-mirror
along the way and thought “You are a soggy sight indeed”!
The good thing is that the path was almost entirely level
from start to finish. The mountains were
receding on either side, so that the valley was much wider now, with room for
secondary roads and paths on the river plain.
Fields and vineyards were more frequent, and my route was lined with
small villages and farms and residential properties much of the way. My hike had an almost continuous sound track
of barking dogs, and at one point a concert of alpine bells from a herd of cows
in the field at my side.
The rain wasn’t so bad really – more of a slow drenching
drizzle than a downpour. And my Goretex
rain jacket and pants reliably kept out the wet, even if they upped the sweat
factor, so that I was drizzling from within before long. The dogs are a nuisance – they rush at you,
barking ferociously, teeth bared, some even throwing themselves suicidally
against the fence, just to show that they’d rip out your throat and play with
your severed bits and pieces if given half a chance. Fortunately, most of them are safely
contained or secured. And for those that
aren’t, it’s good to have your hiking poles at hand and your best drill-sergeant
voice in good fettle.
The larger population meant that there were cafes in several of the villages, so that I was kept nicely caffeinated and calorized throughout the day. And there was entertaining street art along the way, encouraging weary pilgrims to persist in their journey, because in truth “viatores sumus omnes” – all of us are travellers.
The route was varied, sometimes following paths or gravel
tracks, other times dirt roads or paved secondary routes with little
traffic. There was a longish trek along
a highway at the end, but that was my own choice. It was getting so late that I feared the more
meandering hiking route wouldn’t get me to my B&B until 8:30 pm, when I’d
be walking in the dark. I was late
enough as it was – having texted my hosts several times, each time extending my
expected time of arrival. They’d already
gone out for the evening by the time I arrived, well after the check-in
deadline, and I had to struggle to open an enigmatic key-box, as tricky as a
Rubik’s cube, in order to enter the combination I’d been given.
But once I was inside, the world was restored to order. The B&B was not simply a room but a large
suite, with a spacious living room, ample bathroom and shower, and a bedroom as
big as a barracks, not to mention the balcony overlooking the main street of
the village.
Outside my window now (as I write the following morning) they are setting up stalls for a market the length of the street. And my host, a young red-haired giant named Alessio, has carried my breakfast on a tray down from their apartment upstairs, with a hot cup of cappuccino, croissant, brioche, sweet bun and fruit. There are bottles of juice available in the frig and a coffee machine on the sideboard, so any thought of a healthy breakfast has been banished from my mind. Carbo-loading is what it’s all about – the technique that powers track stars over the finish line in record time. I’ll be happy if it helps me limp out of the village with a modicum of dignity.
DAYS 11-12 - Sunday-Monday, 17-18 September: Chiusa San Michele to Rosta – 25 km; Rosta to Torino – 17.5 km
As it turned out, Day 11 was another very long day. It wasn’t meant to be that way. But it was all my fault. I can’t blame the gnomes that designed the hiking
route, much as I would like to. It all
started while I was having my evening meal in Charlie’s Place, the only
restaurant open near my lodgings in Chiusa di San Michele, where I’d dragged
myself after the 30 km marathon the day before.
As I worked my way through a quarto of red wine, my mind turned to the
question whether I could possibly scale the crag tomorrow where the Sacra di
San Michele is located.
And my answer was definitely not. It would mean a climb of what looked like 500
metres, and then (more seriously for my knees) a climb all the way down the
other side of the mountain, before continuing to my next destination in the
village of Rosta.
Yet, as the evening progressed, and I was served with an
immense platter of affettati misti, followed by a delicious agnolotti with meat
sauce, I came up with a plan, which seemed entirely sensible at the time. Maybe I could persuade my B&B hosts to let
me leave my pack at their place while I made a fleet-footed ascent up the path
to the Sacra, a quick visit, then a skip down the path again to reclaim my pack
before resuming my journey. A brilliant
plan, I thought. It would be a terrible
shame not to visit the Sacra, reputed to be one of the leading architectural
sites in Europe. And, unencumbered by my
heavy pack, I could make short work of the ascent and descent and set off for
Rosta in a flash.
And that, dear reader, is what I did. But when I made this brilliant plan it was
dark at night. And I hadn’t had the
chance to take a good hard look at the hill.
I imagined that the pathway up would be a lazy looping trail, dappled
with sunlight, trod by the feet of a thousand pilgrims into a soft powdery
soil. And indeed, by any rational
measure, the path should have been exactly that. But it wasn’t. It was a trail so steep, so difficult, so
strewn with boulders of every size and shape, that many a pilgrim must have
toppled to the wayside, to be interred where they fell. My only question, as I toiled up the hill,
was whether I would be the next victim.
And if I managed to make it to the top, how in God’s name would I get
down again? For I had foolishly left my
hiking poles at my B&B, thinking they wouldn’t be needed. And I could imagine myself tumbling headlong
during the descent, as I tripped over a rock or slipped on the rubbly surface.
Nevertheless, when all is said and done, the trip was well
worth it – even if next time I will take a taxi. For the Sacra must be one of the most
extraordinary edifices of its kind. Built
on the top of a rocky precipice, the massive building rises through several
levels linked by steep staircases, from the monastery at the bottom to the
soaring church on top. The crag where
the Sacra rests has been incorporated into the construction, so that even near the
building’s highest point one encounters spears of rugged rock in a staircase or
massive granite shoulders bulging through a wall, as if nature could not be
kept at bay.
And the church that crowns the site is an oasis of tranquillity, where even the droves of chattering tourists are reduced to awed silence. It perches on top of the monastery like a gigantic piece of flotsam – a medieval Noah's Arc come to rest on the peak of Mount Ararat.
A pamphlet tells me that the Sacra di San Michele is one of a series of religious sites devoted to the Archangel Michael, running from the Skellig Michael in Ireland through St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, to Mont St. Michel in Bretagne, then to the Sacra itself, onward to Monte Sant’Angelo in Puglia, and finally to the Monastero di San Michele in Greece. All these sites are strung along a perfectly straight line, says the pamphlet, which features a map illustrating the point, even showing how the line can be extended to end in Jerusalem. I wonder if this can possibly be true, dear reader, given the diversity of the sites and dates of construction. But the map looks convincing. Ireland doesn’t seem to have been towed out of its normal location, nor has Italy been tilted at an odd angle, so I’m willing to suspend my disbelief.
I was so bewitched by the Sacra that I spent much more time
there than I’d anticipated, and my slow tortuous descent down the
killer-of-pilgrims path didn’t help much either. So it was already mid-afternoon by the time I
regained my B&B in the valley, grabbed my pack, and set off for Rosta, some
15 km distant. Fortunately the route was
fairly flat and meandered through several interesting sites along the way,
affording me parting views of the Sacra.
These entertaining speculations were somewhat deflated not
long afterward, as I followed the grassy track skirting the village and came
across an historical plaque indicating that an early Nobel dynamite factory was
located in the ruined building at the side of the trail. Another mystery solved! But still, dear reader, I stand by what I’ve
said. An annual Nobel prize for the best
bar in the world would not only right a grievous wrong but more importantly
improve bar service throughout the globe.
It was well after dark when I dragged myself up the long
hill to my B&B in the village of Rosta, arriving at 8:15 pm. Note to self: remember to check the elevation
of accommodation. But my host, Giorgio,
was welcoming and my rooms were comfortable and there was a lively restaurant
not 100 metres down the way. So all was
well in the world.
But I was tired the following day. Very tired.
And my hiking route took me some 17 km through the outskirts of Turin
into the centre of the city along the highly urban and unattractive Corso
Francia. Of this, the less said the
better. Fortunately, the blister that
had been developing on my left foot had been caught in time, and the
miracle-working Microspore tape seemed to be keeping it at bay. It started to rain about an hour before I
reached my Airbnb, so I was dripping from every point of extremity (my nose
being the most prominent) when I finally arrived at my destination.
But tomorrow is a rest day!
And the next couple of days after that are relatively short. So my feet, my legs, my hips, my back, my
shoulders, and most importantly my head will have time to get back into good
working order – or as good as they are ever likely to be.
Days 13-14 – Wednesday-Thursday,
19-20 September: Torino to Gassino Torinese – 18 km
During my free day in Turin, did I take the time to tour the
famed Egyptian museum, or view the exhibition devoted to the Holy Shroud (the
Shroud itself is safely tucked away in a church somewhere), or visit the astonishing
cathedral, or stroll about the many fine squares and shady avenues? I did not, dear reader. I did absolutely nothing. Even the word “did” in the previous sentence
suggests a level of activity far higher than the actual state of affairs.
“What then did you … er … not do?” asks a sympathetic
reader.
I sat in my Airbnb flat resting my legs as the washing
machine whirred and rumbled in the corner.
I caught up with my emails and blog.
When my stomach told me it was time, I ventured outside for 100 metres
to eat at the same local restaurant two nights in a row. When I was thirsty in the afternoon, I
repaired to the bar at the next corner, where as it turned out, a group of
rowdy students had gathered to celebrate a friend successfully passing his
doctoral exam. He arrived a bit late,
still dressed in his formal blue suit, but crowned with a laurel wreath. A red satin banner was draped across his
chest like the victor in a beauty contest with words announcing that he was now
“Dott. Ric.” – the equivalent of a Ph.D.
The entire group broke into repeated choruses of “Dottore! Dottore!”, while he grinned and passed around
the wreath for people to try on.
Now a word about my flat.
I have to say that, although it was well-situated in the downtown core,
and decorated in the almost-latest Milano style, with a view of a handsome
street below, the place was genuinely creepy.
For one thing, despite many communications back and forth about my
precise time of arrival, the owners, “Angela & Roberto”, did not give me a
clue about how to get into the flat until well after I’d arrived. I waited in the rain for some time outside
the iron gates of the massive old apartment building, before repairing in
despair to a local coffee shop. Then
finally came the instructions. “Press
number 13 on the list outside, turn right and come up to the first floor, where
we will greet you.”
At last! I did what I
was told and watched while the huge gates made a sort of groan, then after five
seconds swung ever so slowly open, like the gates to the underworld. Inside, I discovered that the building was
actually hollow, with an immense courtyard.
I turned right, was buzzed through yet another door, and went up the
stairs. A young man was standing by the
door to flat #1 (not #13 as I’d expected).
He looked at me curiously as I passed.
“Roberto?” I asked. He gave me an
embarrassed smile to indicate that he was not in fact Roberto, nor was he Angela. He was just someone they’d sent along to do
the honours.
He gave me a quick tour of the flat, then a set of three
keys, one for the outer gates to Hades, one for the inner doorway to the realms
above, and one to the flat itself, then made his departure. It was only later that I discovered that the
key to the gates of the underworld worked just fine, and the key to the flat
did too. But the second key, the crucial
key that admitted me to the upper echelons, did not work at all. Or so I concluded, as I stood outside the
door somewhat later attempting to get back in, trying the key every which
way.
I stood there panting, wondering what to do. Maybe I’d have to bed down in the vast
courtyard. At least I’d be out of the
rain. Oh dear God! Had it come to this?
Perhaps the key was just finicky. Let me try again.
And try again I did.
And again. And again.
It was then that I discovered that the key worked if you
happened to have the fingertips of a safe-cracker. You just have to move it very slowly back and
forth, listening for tell-tale clicks and sensing minute vibrations. Then you
turn it ever so gently and – wonder of wonders – the door opens.
Not long afterward, I received another email from “Angela
& Roberto”, instructing me to watch a YouTube video that explained the many
features of the flat. Once again I did
as I was told, dear reader, and watched as a man purporting to be “Roberto”
walked vaguely about the flat, gesturing at this and that, and offering
basically the same shreds of information as the young man had done before.
Do “Angela & Roberto” actually exist? I have my doubts, dear reader. “Roberto” was a trifle too slick, in my
opinion, to be the actual owner of an actual flat. He was like one of those guys you see on TV pretending
to be a doctor or a dentist, trying to sell you something. I guess I don’t really care whether Roberto exists. I just wish he’d told me about
the key.
All right, that was my day in Turin. Today was another thing entirely. If my arrival in the city along the acne-pitted corridor of the Corso Francia was depressing, my departure this morning along the elegant Via Mazzini could not have been more uplifting. I loped along, spirits high, having escaped from my bizarre flat at 7.30 am. The avenue brought me to the left bank of the River Po – a river I’ll meet again in my travels. And this, dear reader, is a river! Not so impressive as the Amazon or the St. Lawrence or the Nile, perhaps, but even in its infancy majestic. My route led along an elevated terrace by the side of the Po, then across a bridge, and down a well-signed bike and hiking path, which was furnished with some whimsical benches for weary pilgrims.
I passed through lush countryside with views of the broadening river, all the way to the village of Gassino Torinese, where I discovered a roadside restaurant filled with local workers. I grabbed a lunch on the terrace out front, while a dizzying array of cars and trucks and motorcycles roared by at breakneck speeds, as if auditioning for Mad Max. Then I climbed a long steep winding road into the hills above the village to reach my accommodation in an agriturismo, a working farm that offers accommodation and meals.
And welcomed I was, with open arms by the smiling hostess,
who sat me down in the courtyard and brought me chilled sparkling water, a
double expresso, and a whole plate of miniature cookies, which I ate with
unceremonious abandon.
I’m now in my room overlooking the courtyard and the valley beyond, writing this blog as I await dinner. The storm that my weather app had been promising all day long has materialized, and hopefully will rain itself out overnight so that I can set off in sunshine again tomorrow. In the meantime, dear reader, glancing from my balcony, I can see lights agleam in the dining room across the yard, and thoughts of sugarplums dance in my head.
Day 15 – Thursday, 21 September: Gassino Torinese to Chivasso – 15 km
How do these things happen?
After I’d arrived at my family-style hotel in the town of Chivasso and
been ushered to my room, the proprietor came knocking on my door to tell me
that my reservation was actually for tomorrow, not today.
“Non c’è problema!” he said, waving his hands, which I
suppose was true because I seemed to be the only guest in the hotel (though more
arrived later). But it gave me a good
scare. Had I actually skipped a day in
my carefully planned itinerary, throwing off the entire schedule? This would not be the first time, dear
reader, that I’ve royally screwed things up.
I rushed to check my booking.
The man was right. My
reservation was for Friday. And today
was definitely Thursday. Oh rats! Did that mean all my subsequent bookings were
off a day? I could feel the sweat
prickling on my back as I contemplated what a fine mess that would be. I hastily reviewed my reservations for the
ensuing days and …
The sun broke through the clouds. Everything else was fine. And I realized what had happened. The next few days of hiking cross an area
where I’d had enormous difficulty finding any accommodation at all – a sort of
black hole in the Italian landscape – so much so that many pilgrims throw up
their hands and take the train. As a
result I’d changed my itinerary several times as I struggled to find a way of hiking
across this no-man’s land. Eventually
the problem was solved when I sent an email to a restaurant located in the
middle of the desert and they agreed to put me up in one of the rooms they kept
upstairs. But in the course of all this
pother, I’d somehow forgotten to update the booking for Chivasso. So I’m not a total idiot after all. A bit off-kilter, I grant you.
Today was a relatively short day. I’d left my agriturismo overlooking the Po valley just before 9 am, with the mist draping the hills and a firm prediction of rain sometime in the afternoon.
Once I reached the floor of the valley, it was smooth going, as flat as a fritella all the way. And the route was also well-marked, which was a blessing given the confusing web of farm roads that criss-cross the fertile valley. Interestingly, many of the Via Francigena markers point two ways – south-eastward to Rome, my own destination, but also westward to the shrine of Santiago di Compostela in Spain, at the terminus of the famed Camino.
The markers gave me the sense of being part of a larger
enterprise – a very ancient one – as untold numbers of pilgrims have moved back
and forth between these two destinations for more than a thousand years. And as I walked along the muddy trail
skirting the fields close to the Po River, I wondered how many other misguided
folk had done as I was doing, placing their feet in exactly the same spot to
avoid the same pothole in the track.
Do not think, dear reader, that I am without reflective
qualities, that I am completely unaware of the idiocy of what I’m doing. I think back to the first time I encountered
markers for the Via Francigena while on short hikes in Tuscany with Mary Ann, some
fifteen or twenty years ago. Eventually
I looked the name up and learned that it was a long trail leading from the pass
at Montgenevre to St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome – then later discovered that in
fact the trail started at an even more distant remove, in Canterbury, England –
the destination for the pilgrims in Chaucer’s tale.
I remember thinking what a crazy, wild, wonderful thing it
would be to walk the entire trail, from start to finish. I never really thought I’d do it. It was just an insane idea, a pipedream. But gradually the notion took root. Others had done it. They’d even written guidebooks describing the
path in detail – its many glories and pitfalls.
And my son, Mike, seemed interested.
That settled the deal. So in May
of 2015 we set off together from Canterbury, having received the blessing given
to pilgrims at a candle-lit altar in the dark crypt of the Cathedral. We then wandered in a circle in the suburbs
of Canterbury for an hour or two, having missed a marker pointing the way to
Dover. A presage of things to come.
When Covid forced the cancellation of the hike in 2020, and then
again in 2021 and 2022, I wondered if I’d ever complete the pilgrimage. I knew that this section of the route was
probably the most difficult of the entire trip – climbing through the pass at
Montgenevre and then plodding for endless days across the Po valley. But if I was ever to reach Rome, it had to be
done.
So here I am, with the tough climbing all behind me and the
dreaded traverse of the Po valley still ahead.
It’s a long day tomorrow – 30 km to the restaurant/hotel in the middle
of nowhere. And it’s another long day
after that, at least 26 km to the town of Vercelli, where the western and
northern routes of the Via Francigena converge.
When I awoke from my nap in the hotel at Chivasso with my legs still
aching, I wondered briefly whether the train wouldn’t be a good idea after
all. And then I pictured myself sitting
in the railway car dumbly watching the rice fields of the Po valley speed by. And I decided no. Not as long as I could still hobble
along. And I’m nowhere near the hobbling
stage, even if I no longer have the naively confident stride of the early
days. A glass of Barbera wine in the
café where I’m writing this blog has only reinforced my resolve. Wine has that way with me.
Do any of these meandering reflections answer the question
why I’m doing this thing? It doesn’t for
me, dear reader. Perhaps it does for
you.
Day 16 - Friday, 22
September. Chivasso to Tenuta Colombara (26 km)
During the previous stage of the hike, my buddy Kent and I encountered
two French pilgrims while we were hiking along the Via Domitia toward the
Alps. Both men were coming from the other direction – from their home
town of Briancon – and both were heading for Santiago di Compostela in Spain,
although they seemed unaware of one another. Interestingly, both of them had
also hiked along the Via Francigena from Briancon to Rome, and they offered
very different accounts of their travels through the Po valley. The first
one – whom we dubbed the Grumpy Pilgrim – said it was a dreadful place: totally
flat and hot, nothing but rice fields day after day, ridden with mosquitoes,
little of historical interest, little of any interest whatsoever. Hell on
earth, in short. The second fellow – inevitably dubbed the Happy Pilgrim
– had a very different take on the place. He said it was a lovely,
tranquil pastoral setting, and best of all totally flat.
I’m only one day into my traverse of the Po valley – which will last basically all the way to Pavia and beyond – so it may be premature to offer an opinion. But based upon my journey today, it looks like I’m going to be in the camp of the Happy Pilgrim. The hike from Chivasso to Tenuta Colombara, while some 30 km long, was delightful from start to finish. Yes, the land is flat. Yes, there are fields as far as the eye can see – first mainly corn and now arboreal rice. Yes, there’s relatively little of historical interest. Yes, there’s a certain monotony to the hike, since the landscape changes only slowly and than only in slight gradations. But even in late September, the area is bursting with life. The fields are still mainly green and there are tractors and all sorts of improbable agricultural devices rattling along the roads and coursing through the fields. There is a wonderful freshness to the landscape, with lots of interesting things to notice – the elegant lines of poplars between the fields, the plethora of canals and streams and irrigation channels that crisscross the entire area and often run alongside the road, the succession of small well-kept agricultural centres and villages, with at least one bar or restaurant where you can rest your legs and quench your thirst with something cool.
And after struggling up and down many a steep path all the
way through the mountains, I can’t say that my legs are objecting to a bit of
flat. The kilometers seem to melt away beneath your feet as you stride
along – and yes, you really can “get into your stride” on these long straight
roads, without all the twists and turns of previous days of hiking. It
feels good as you swing along without a care in the world, the sky wide open
all about you, a line of blue hills to the south, and steeples and towers visible
in the distance. In fact I was able to see my destination, a rambling old
inn in the middle of the rice fields, almost an hour before I actually reached
it. So I virtually galloped the final
six kilometers from the farming village of Lamporo along a track beside a
gushing agricultural canal.
This final sprint, I should add, was a mistake. I did
it because I’d promised the landlady to get there by 5 pm and I was an hour or
so late. In the end, of course, it didn’t matter at all. Yet the
gallop took a toll on my poor legs, which ached and complained so much after
I’d gone to bed that I finally got up and took a Tylenol – the first of the
trip – which allowed me get to sleep.
And, wonder of wonders, my legs actually feel pretty good
this morning – enough to get me through another long hike to my next
destination, the town of Vercelli, where I’ll have a rest day and the chance to
do some laundry. Badly needed laundry. I sweat so much when I’m
hiking that I try to avoid eating in the interior of restaurants, convinced
that I’m stinking the entire place up. Even if I start with fresh clothes
in the morning, within an hour or so I’m dripping with perspiration, my shirt
clinging to my body, my pants glued to my thighs. And I can’t always
start the day with fresh clothes. In fact, this is my third day of
wearing the same stuff, so my imminent arrival must announce itself to villages
many hundreds of metres before I actually get there.
Days 17-18 – Saturday-Sunday, 23-24 September: Tenuta Columbara to Vercelli
(30 km)
The hike to Vercelli turned into a 30 km marathon, to match the 30 km I covered yesterday. It rained a good part of the way, as I kept pace with the fringes of a storm-front that was moving slowly eastward at roughly my own speed. Just behind me I could see blue skies and fluffy white clouds, but immediately overhead it was grey, with sheets of rain hanging from the dark clouds ahead. To the north, the foothills of the Alps brooded darkly in an unbroken chain, like an army poised to invade the plains below. It was only when I reached the village of Lignana, about two hours before Vercelli, that the skies overhead cleared and the sun burst through.
“You’ve brought the sun with you,” smiled the barman in the
village, where I stopped for a coffee and a sparkling water. When he
heard that I was hiking along the Via Francigena he wanted to charge me only
one euro for the lot. I thanked him but demurred, insisting on paying
full price. But when I checked
my change later, I found he'd given me a hefty discount.
Vercelli turned out to be a lively and interesting town,
with crowds of students and people of all ages thronging the pedestrianized
centre of the place, which boasted a multitude of cafes and restaurants.
And the locals are friendly.
Almost immediately after I arrived in town, a man stopped his car to ask
if I was a pilgrim. I was indeed, I replied in my best Italian. Ah,
he said, and proceeded to direct me to the nearest pilgrim hostel. I
didn’t need to go there, of course, because I’d already made reservations at my
B&B. But I appreciated the interest and the gesture.
As I may have mentioned earlier, Vercelli is the place where the branch of the Via Francigena coming from the north converges with the western branch from Montgenevre. From here on, I’ll be following the classic route, all the way across the Apennines into Tuscany – but that’s for next year, with the following year taking me through Umbria and onward to Rome.
Day 19 – Monday 25 September:
Vercelli to Palestro (11.3 km)
“Anything to eat?” I asked, casting an eye about the
bar.
The young barmaid shook her head.
“How about for dinner?” I persisted, thinking of the sign
outside that advertised a prix fixe from Monday to Friday.
Another shake of the head. “The kitchen is closed
today. It’s Monday.”
This wasn’t what the sign said, but I wasn’t going to argue
the point.
The bar was a sleekly modern establishment, all glass and
polished steel, located by the highway outside the village of Palestro, where I
was staying for the night. The bar was
my best hope for finding somewhere to eat this evening.
A man standing near the cash, pitched in.
“What about the Bar Centrale in the village?” he asked the
barmaid.
She shrugged.
The man turned and called to someone playing the gambling
machines in the corner. I couldn’t hear his response, but it must have
been discouraging, because the first man raised his eyebrows and turned back to
tell me that everything was closed.
This was going to be a problem. It seemed as if my
options for tonight were either starvation or fasting. There’s a subtle difference between the two, dear reader. Starvation is thrust upon you,
fasting you own. But either way you don’t eat anything.
This called for a beer – a nice cold Grimbergen served in a
goblet with a gold rim to match the colour of the beverage within. I sat
down on the terrace outside and took a few sips, thinking that if I just waited
long enough, something was bound to turn up.
No sooner had the thought passed through my mind than the
barmaid came hurrying out and asked whether I could do with some bread and
sausage.
Could I do with bread and sausage? Si, si, si!
And a white-haired bloke I hadn’t seen before served up a
basket of fresh bread and an enormous chunk of savoury bologna. I pushed
back my laptop and devoured most of what was laid before me, as if it were my last meal – which indeed it could well be, at least until tomorrow.
I had spent most of the day trudging from Vercelli along
elevated farm roads through an expanse of rice paddies, with the snow-capped
mountains of the Alps hovering in the sky to the north.
Along the way, I came across a post that, in addition to the
standard Via Francigena marker, featured one proclaiming “The Jerusalem
Way”. And that started me thinking. I’d already contemplated
continuing my trek southward once I reached Rome. The official route of
the “Via Francigena nel Sud” has been demarcated and a guidebook issued. The path runs south of Rome for over nine
hundred kilometers, passing through a series of ancient ports along the east
coast – Bari, Brindisi, Otranto – before reaching the heel of the Italian boot
at Santa Maria di Leuca. But somehow I’d never seriously thought of going
all the way to Jerusalem. Of course, that’s where pilgrims of medieval
times would be heading. None of this fancy hiking for the sake of
hiking for those practical folks. Jerusalem or bust!
Well it would be wonderful indeed to walk the entire way
from Canterbury to Jerusalem – with a few minor stretches of water in between
of course. And Jerusalem is … well, what can you say about
Jerusalem? The name itself conjures up all sorts of wonderful
images. When people ask me where I’m headed, I answer Rome, which evokes
at best a polite interest. What they really want to know is whether I’m
going the other way – westward to Santiago di Compostela. That’s the
place where virtually everyone I meet dreams of hiking, somehow, someday.
But were I to say, I’m headed for Jerusalem – now that might push me a few
notches up the prestige scale!
In mid-afternoon I reached the ancient village of Palestro, located
in a clearing at the end of a forest track and dominated by a medieval brick
tower that I recognized as my B&B for the night.
Although today’s hike wasn't long, and yesterday was a rest day, I felt a kind of weariness in my bones that testified to the cumulative impact of weeks of hiking. I was glad to be there, and glad for the warm welcome from my youthful hostess, who ushered me up a steep external staircase to my bedroom in the tower, which dates back to the year 999, the lone survivor of once extensive fortifications.
I unpacked and showered, then set off to find something to
eat, for I was ferociously hungry. As I
walked through the deserted streets of the village in a blaze of sunlight, I was
swept by a strange sensation. Perhaps it
was the effect of fatigue, or hunger, or the flawless blue sky. But as I gazed about me, I felt as if I’d passed
into another dimension, such was the depth of the silence, the slumber, the sense
of time suspended. The brilliance with
which the houses and roofs and balconies were delineated seemed unnatural, or
rather super-natural – elevated to a clarity beyond the realm of ordinary
experience. Nothing moved. Not a leaf, not a particle of dust. No door opened or closed, no stray cat
appeared from an alleyway or slunk into the shadows. No voices drifted from a courtyard. All was profoundly still.
The sense of timelessness was only sharpened when I came
across a sports-field at the edge of town, where some teenage boys were playing
football with all the raucous intensity of a World Cup final – the eternal struggle
of shirts versus no-shirts. It was as if
I’d stepped across an invisible frontier back into the realm of time. I stopped to watch the boys for a while, struck
by their raw passion and energy, their uninhibited love of the game. And it occurred to me that if heaven really
exists, it must have room for this boisterous sports-field and not just the supernaturally
silent streets on the other side of the temporal divide.
The story of my search for food has a happy ending. That evening, on heading back into the village, I discovered that the Bar Centrale was indeed open. As I sat at a rickety table outside the bar watching the light fade, they served me some very tasty tosti with cheese and ham, topped by another beer and some chocolate gelato for desert. I guess heaven has tosti as well.
Days 20-21 – Tuesday-Wednesday,
26-27 September: Palestro to Mortara – 21.9 km; Mortara to Gropello Cairoli – 27.9
km
The hiking has become a bit tougher recently, because the
blister on my left foot that I thought had been nipped in the bud reared its
ugly head once again during the rainy day on the way to Vercelli, when my socks
got wet, causing abrasion. Every morning
I bind up my feet with Microspore tape until I look like I’m being mummified
from the soles upward. This stratagem usually
solves the problem until the afternoon, when my feet become increasingly sore
and sensitive, registering every small pebble and bump in the road as if I’m a mobile theodolite.
One thing that has come home to me is that hiking for 30 km
in a single day is courting trouble, even when the land is perfectly flat. And doing it for several days in quick
succession is a death wish. “Never
again!” I say bravely. “Nothing over 20
km!” But sometimes the scarcity of
accommodation doesn’t leave you much choice.
And the flatness of the terrain, as my sister Patsy tells me, does not
shield you from wear and tear. In fact,
the opposite seems true. When you’re walking or
climbing on uneven ground you’re placing stresses at differing angles on
continually shifting parts of the body, so that the impact is diffused. By contrast, when every step forward is
exactly like the step before, as is the case when you’re striding along a
straight road, the same joints and muscles are being stressed over and over
again.
Yet it has to be said that the hiking has been beautiful all
the way through the Po valley, with the dew on the rice paddies sparkling in
the morning sunshine, and great warehouses for storing the precious arboreal
rice punctuating the landscape like agricultural versions of the palace at
Versailles.
So, asks a reader, has the valley of the Po river turned out to be as dreadful as the Grumpy Pilgrim made out? Not at all. It’s actually quite a lovely pastoral setting, with neat fields separated by elevated farm roads and occasional shady paths along agricultural canals or rows of windbreaks.
The area features many varieties of storks and cranes (including the ibis), which dot the fields like clerics in cassocks of white and black. This time of the year the plain is also populated by armies of agricultural machines of wondrous size and complexity. You realize how massive these things are when you confront one on a narrow farm road with deep ditches on either side. The monstrous wheels roll past your toes as you squeeze onto the miniscule shoulder, trying to avoid toppling into a muddy stream of water.
No, dear reader, I did not topple into a muddy stream. Near-misses don’t count.
Day 22 - Thursday, 28
September. Gropello Cairoli to Pavia –
18 km
The past couple of days have involved long hikes and late
arrivals, giving me just enough time to shower and set out in search of refreshment. But this afternoon I finally reached Pavia –
my destination for the year – and, after quite a long nap, I’m now sitting in
an outdoor café in the cathedral square, around the corner from my
apartment. The swallows are out in force,
swooping about the square, and
the café is full of people, chatting and laughing, while children play tag around the tables.
I had a great send-off this morning in the little town of
Gropello Cairoli. On learning that this
was to be my final day of hiking, my landlady gave me a handshake so hearty
that I think several bones were permanently fused. And no sooner did I cross the street and
pause to switch on my GPS than a middle-aged man on a bicycle stopped to wish
me courage in my pilgrimage, shaking my hand while giving me a searching look, as
if I had some special power or insight to share. Unfortunately, my Italian is not up to
imparting words of wisdom, so I just thanked him as best I could and started on
my way, turning to the left at the next roundabout and heading into the
countryside. An elderly man on a
bicycle, who was keeping a young runner company, paused to steer across the
road and inquire about my pilgrimage, wishing me god-speed with a smile.
I began to wonder if I was looking unusually shaky – as if
the mere fact of putting one foot in front of the other and propelling myself
along was such a feat that it should attract incredulity and admiration. But no, the people were just being
friendly. The awareness of the Via
Francigena is remarkably high in many of the Italian villages and towns along
the route. And the fact that I’m
obviously no longer in the bloom of my youth may have a bit to do with it.
Okay, probably a lot to do with it. My age is a constant object of curiosity, although
people are usually too polite to raise it in conversation. Only once, in a tiny café in a small nameless
village, was the question put to me directly.
A man at the next table shifted the wine-glass in his hand, glanced at
the others who were listening, consulted Google Translate on his phone, and
then asked “How old are you?” in halting English, which he then repeated in
Italian “Quanti anni hai?”
“Ochenta anni,” I replied.
Instant turmoil! My
listeners threw up their hands and gave each other looks of astonishment and disbelief.
“No, no! Non is
possible!” they shouted.
“Si, si!” I insisted.
“Ochenta anni!”
More commotion and much consulting of Google Translate.
Turns out there is no such number as “ochenta” in Italian – I’d imported it from the Spanish. But to my listeners but it sounded as if I
was claiming to be “cento anni” – a hundred years old. They were relieved to find out I was a mere
“ottanta anni”. And having dropped twenty years in the bat of
an eye, I felt remarkably young again.
I was blessed with good weather on my final day of the hike, and the countryside was as bucolic as ever. I passed through a number of small farming villages and once again had to dodge gigantic farm machines trundling back and forth along the track, with agricultural canals my continuous companions, snaking across the landscape.
After a while, I spotted a couple ahead of me on the track,
carrying large packs – the hallmark of the long-distance hiker. I
overtook them and asked in Italian if they were pilgrims on the Via Francigena.
“We are”, said the first woman, responding in fluent
Italian. “Where are you from?”
“I’m Canadian,” I replied.
She gave a start and immediately switched to English.
“But I’m Canadian too!”
It turned out that the woman, named Joanne, though born in
England, had grown up in British Columbia. She had married an Italian man
and moved to a coastal town east of Genoa, where they’d raised a family.
And as she talked, a memory bubbled up from the depths.
“Do you happen to write a hiking blog?” I inquired.
“Why yes,” she said in some surprise.
“And did you write a blog about the hiking route that runs
west of Genoa along the coast?”
“I did!”
“I’ve read it!” I said. “And it’s terrific!”
In fact her comprehensive account of the difficulties of the coastal route influenced my decision in 2019 to turn inland at Aix-en-Provence and head up the Via Domitia toward the pass at Montgenevre. So it was a delight to meet Joanne and her hiking companion, Mariella, an Italian woman from the same town. We kept one another company the rest of the way into Pavia, chatting and exchanging experiences, and sharing a beer at a café by the Ticino river – which joins the Po a few kilometres beyond Pavia.
Take a look at Joanne’s blog on blogspot, called Joanneslongwalk, which, by the way, is a far more detailed and reliable account of the Via Francigena than the guff on these pages.
Our route led us to the grand covered bridge leading across
the Ticino River into the town of Pavia.
In the distance you can see the six-sided
brick dome of the cathedral that still dominates the town, which has had the
good sense to keep new construction to a reasonable height.
I crossed the bridge to look for my lodgings near the cathedral, and my new hiking friends headed for more spartan pilgrim accommodation at a hostel nearby.
Tomorrow is a rest day, and then I’m off to Milan by train the day after that, with my plane to Toronto departing the following day. I still have a few stories and reflections stored up, so I’ll be writing a final instalment of the blog before leaving.
Days 23-24 – Friday-Saturday, 29-30 September: Pavia to Milan by train
“Sei un pellegrino?” the young waiter inquired, as I
stumbled into the village restaurant at noon-time, tired and sweaty.
“Yes,” I said, struggling out of my backpack and trying not
to trip over the chair. “I’m a
pilgrim.”
“And are you going to Compostela?” he asked, eyes shining.
“No,” I said, “I’m going the other way – to Rome.”
“Ah,” he said politely.
“Good for you.”
But I could see the light already dimming in his eyes. Rome was, so to speak, just down the
road. Compostela was something else, not
only more distant in physical terms, but located in another realm altogether –
mystical, holy, unattainable save through hardship and fortitude.
Ah, the allure of Compostela! It first came home to me in the early days of
the hike, when Mike and I were tramping alongside a field in northern
France. On spotting us, a farmer stopped
his tractor, wiped his brow, and asked where we were going. We explained, thinking he’d be intrigued to
learn that an ancient pilgrimage trail ran through his own backyard. But he had no interest in that. He’d always wanted to go to Compostela, he
said. And he gazed out at the horizon
with a longing that was almost palpable.
All roads lead to Rome.
But all pilgrimage routes seem to lead to Santiago di Compostela – the
great shrine at the far north-western corner of Spain, just short of
Finisterre, where the rocky shores of Eurasia give way to the immense expanse
of the Atlantic. In fact, the Via
Francigena – or at least the version of the route that I’ve been travelling –
passes through some of the traditional gathering places for people setting off for
Compostela – first Reims, than Vézelay, and then again Le Puy. And as we’ve seen, the Via Domitia, the
ancient Roman road that I followed up to the pass at Montgenevre, runs westward
as well, into Spain. It’s the route that
many Italians would take to reach the Camino Frances, the well-travelled path
that starts at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France and extends across the full
breadth of northern Spain until it reaches Santiago.
So what does Compostela have that Rome lacks, I asked
myself, one hot day as I trudged through the fields of the Po valley. Surely it can’t be the fact that the relics
of St. James are reputedly located there.
Perhaps that was true in the Middle Ages. But not now.
Anyway, on the relics side, you’d think that Rome would beat Compostela
hands down. No, it’s something else.
Perhaps it’s connected with the unique character of the
place. There’s only one reason to go to
Compostela and there’s only one proper way to get there. If you tell someone you’re setting off for
Santiago, it must mean that you’re going on foot and that you’re going for
broadly spiritual reasons – not necessarily religious, but connected somehow
with the human spirit. By contrast,
there are many reasons to go to Rome and many ways to get there. Not only is it the capital of Italy, it’s the
renowned playground of the rich, one of the most popular tourist destinations
in the world, and the home of the Vatican, with all the weight of its chequered
history. Most people go to Rome by car
or train or bus or plane. You have to be
a bit crazy to want to go there on foot.
But some people have always been a bit crazy that way. Foremost among them is the English writer, Hilaire
Belloc, who in 1902 published a book called The Path to Rome, a
chronicle of his efforts to walk in a straight line from northern France across
the Alps to Rome. The book was in my
great-uncle’s library, which our family inherited when he passed on, and for
some reason I read it when I was a teenager.
It is a great, rambling, irreverent work, filled with pen and ink
sketches from Belloc’s own hand. He had
almost no money and often slept rough.
He had a habit of drinking too much and of expressing ill-judged
thoughts and of walking at night. He had
none of the fancy equipment of the modern hiker. He looked like a homicidal tramp, someone who’d
knife you for a crust of bread. In the
course of the hike, his boots gave out and he developed awful blisters. By the end he could hardly walk at all and
had to finish his trip by train. It was
this book that made Rome a kind of mystical destination in my own mind. Perhaps not so much for the place itself, but
for the sense that the road there was something marvellous and mysterious – and
treacherous.
Well, dear reader, I’m not there yet. But Pavia feels like it’s within striking
distance. The great massif of the Alps
has been … I was about to say “conquered”.
But that would be a lie. The
mountains tame you; you don’t tame them.
Still, they’re a part of me now, and when I look at the map and the road
ahead, I see the pleasant hills and valleys of Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany and
Umbria stretching into the distance, on and on.
As Ulysses says, in Tennyson’s great poem:
Yet
all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams
that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
I don’t suppose Rome really is my destination after all. It’s the horizon.
Or at least the bar around the next corner.
Comments
Joanne
I haven't looked at my blog for some time, but luckily happened to open it today and found your welcome message from yesterday. Many thanks for the kind words. The blog is more than a bit over the top but if it makes people laugh it will have served its purpose.
I didn't know that you were located (at times?) in Buonconvento. I'll certainly get in touch when I'm passing that way on the path to Rome, hopefully in 2025. It's a beautiful and memorable little place, which I stayed in some years ago while hiking in Tuscany with my wife, Mary Ann.
My hike from Pavia to Lucca, originally planned for May, has now been postponed until September. Just too many things going on! But September is a good time for hiking, so it's all for the better.
I'll also post this message on your Facebook page, just to make sure it reaches you.
Cheers,
Brian