I woke in Pavia having not slept well. Perhaps I had become accustomed to beds and my sleeping mat no longer felt comfortable. I spent the morning blog-writing and then caught a bus back into the city.
Pavia is beautiful. It is effortless in a very Italian way. I did a few circles around it, visiting as many of its churches as I could manage in an afternoon. I visited San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro which I had no idea housed the tombs of both St Augustine and Boethius: both worthy of their own pilgrimage.
And yet, I found myself surprisingly unmoved by both graves. There was a flicker of curiosity but nothing of the excitement that I have felt from reading what they have written. Perhaps I wasn’t in the mood.
I bumped into a couple of pilgrims I had met along the way and told them about my aborted attempt at camping. They told me the mosquitos bad been dreadful for them too.
Returning to my campsite I found four girls had set up camp next to me. We spoke for a while and they gave me some wine. It had recently been a birthday of one of them and the camping trip was an extended party. Then they started talking about the drinking age in Italy and the U.K. and I realised I was probably a few critical years older. I went to bed.
The next day I set my alarm early but managed to turn it off swiftly in a half-waking state. I didn’t start walking till 8:30. My previous day of 47km made me think that the 27km I had to do would be completed in the space of a breath. Pride cometh etc etc.
It was, in fact, closer to 30km because I had to trek back into the city to return to the route. I had a coffee in a bar and by the time I was walking properly it was hot and much later than I would have liked.
The path continued through the suburbs of Pavia for a good while. I walked past play parks and wide pastures of long grass. The number of kilometres to go remained persistently high and the scenery changed little. There were occasional rice fields, undrenched by water but in a late stage of growth.
Further and further, often along small country roads that were easy but became relentlessly monotonous. Eventually, I reached Beliogiosio, which was about 10km from my stopping place, where I bought a cold can of coke and ate my lunch. I sat on a curb in a chunk of shade offered by an apartment building and watched as the heat made a mirage of the road in front of me.
I walked on. In Pavia, I had succumbed to years of mistrust for sunhats and had bought something wide-brimmed. I was very glad of it that afternoon.
Occasionally, there was a light breeze that rustled the air and gave a few brief moments of respite from the stifling heat and humidity. I was keen to arrive.
In a tiny village there were a group of lines in the side of a building. It showed where the Po had previously reached during the flood. One was as recent as 2000. The expansive flatness had other consequences.
There was another small village a short way from Santa Cristina where an elderly couple told me I had 4km to go. It felt further than I would have liked. I always regret getting up late. The path wound round three sides of an enormous rice field and was frustrated at its circuity.
Finally, I reached the church which provides a hostel for pilgrims. Inside, René, Louise, Fernando and two new faces: Ernesto and a French-Swiss priest I never learnt the name of.
I was an equal mix of happy and trepidatious to see Fernando. We began discussing when we’d arrived. I admitted I’d had a late start.
Fernando replied that my problem was that I was always having a late start: “whenever we stay in the same place, you are always the last to leave. Yesterday I woke up at 5 and was walking by 6. You just need to get up earlier.”
I smiled and nodded politely. I thought to say one of two things:
a) Yes, you’re right there Fernando.
b) Fernando, my dear fellow, I am glad to hear you are well rested. I was, however, well acquainted of this fact: your body has announced it quite audibly to me each night. Indeed, my friend, it would not surprise me if NASA were looking to get in touch regarding the possibility of extra-terrestrial communication. I do wonder, brother pilgrim, whether our fates of the morning might not be entirely unconnected. In fact, whether your rest might actually be my unrest. Whether my slovenliness is caused by your sprightliness. Of course, friend, I cannot possibly know. I expect that the effects of a spectacularly loud noise source on sleep probably needs further scientific testing. I should, indeed, wake up earlier.
I chose option A.
Santa Cristina is a small town built on a crossroads. It has a bakery and two bars and a shop. I bought some pasta and cooked it for my dinner. Then I went to sleep, determined to prove Fernando wrong.
The next morning I hadn’t planned to go far at all: 16km to a small town called Orio Litta with an apparently beautiful medieval pilgrim hostel. Still, wanting to avoid the heat of the day and perhaps to disprove Fernando I was walking by just after six o’clock.
The path was much the same as the day before and passed through small villages on tarmac roads. The Apennines began to appear on the distant horizon, taunting the flat land with marked peaks. I passed the last of the rice fields, the low sun appearing for a second time in the murky water.
Another friend of mine, Emily, was joining me in a couple of days. We had planned to meet in Piacenza but I was concerned that the plain would make for fairly uninteresting walking so was considering trying to push on to the start on the Apennines, in Fidenza.
After Orio Litta there are two ways to get to Piacenza. You either walk round the northern bank of the Po and enter the city by bridge or, you take a small river ferry across the river. There is good evidence that travellers and pilgrims have been crossing the river by boat for centuries. The ferry is manned by one man who ships pilgrims every day. It says in every guidebook that you must call to book the day before.
At 9am I broke the caps-lock/bold-face rule and called the ferryman to see my chances at crossing that day. After 13km of perambulatory rumination I had decided I’d had enough of the flats and wanted to reach the hills sooner rather than later.
Danilo, the ferryman, answered my call and in stumbling Italian asked if I could make the crossing today. “Where are you?”, he asked. “Near to Orio Litta.” “Okay, we’re leaving in half an hour or an hour.”
Oh dear. I was a bit further away than that. I stepped up my pace and after about 20mins could see Orio Litta. The ferry was another 4km.
A man on a bike rode up to me. He introduced himself as the mayor of Orio Litta and explained that he organised the hostel for pilgrims. Apparently the BBC was coming next week to film part of a new docu-series on the Francigena. “They’re not walking, though.” I chatted briefly but was conscious of the ferry, fairly certain I had missed it. I said goodbye to him and walked on.
As the town got further away I was filled with a sadness. In that hostel was a day of rest and a story I will never know. I had turned to the right and could only see it from afar.
I continued to walk as fast as I could manage along a dusty embankment. It took me too long and I had already exceeded even the hour that Danilo had said would be his maximum.
I was just approaching the riverside village from which the ferry departs when I saw a man with a backpack walking the other way. “They are waiting for you,” he told me. And I hurried on, breaking into a jog.
I descended a slope and saw Ernesto talking to Danilo. I apologised for my lateness but was told everything was fine. Ernesto looked cross; he had left at least half an hour earlier than me. Two other pilgrims were already waiting on the boat. All the bags were loaded and we departed swiftly.
After two months of progress by foot, the ferry did feel a bit like cheating. The eighty-horsepower engine shot us over the river and blew wind through my hair.
In the Pantheon of Francigena characters, Danilo exists in the highest tier and it is easiest to see why. He is energetic and talks away in Italian for the whole journey. He was the confidence you would expect from a shepherd of the water.
We arrived further east down the river about fifteen minutes later and jumped off the small vessel. Danilo showed us a pillar that had Roman origin. He explained that it showed that the ferry had been a route over the river for many centuries. He was maintaining an ancient tradition.
Danilo led us to his house where he stamped our credentials and asked us to write in a thick ledger that records all of his passengers. He had a spreadsheet with the statistics compiled from the ledger.
Coming from Canterbury, Danilo ranked me highest of the four pilgrims and required I signed the ledger first. Then he showed me a statistic of how many pilgrims had gone all the way from Canterbury to Rome since he began his record in 1998: 399. He told me that the pilgrim I had met just before reaching the ferry was walking to Canterbury.
As I was leaving his house, he answered his mobile to take another booking. He said goodbye and told me it was a good thing to see a young pilgrim.
On the next side of the river I continued to walk along a similar dusty embankment. The sun rose higher in the sky and burnt with increasing intensity.
I passed through a couple of towns and a cyclist who pointed me on my way. The roads became busier and the final approach into Piacenza was about 3km down a busy highway passing countless depot shops.
I arrived in Piacenza at about 2pm. It was the height of siesta time and everything worth visiting was shut. The hostel in the town was booked so I was going to have to walk another 6km to a suburb. I considered waiting for the churches and cathedrals to open for the afternoon but I was hot and wanted a shower. I bought some lunch and ate it on some steps before pushing on through the heat.
The exit from Piacenza mirrored the entrance. It was on the same road with some of the same shops.
It took me a while to reach Montale but I eventually pressed the buzzer of a hostel next to the church. An Italian man opened the door. I was glad to be in the cool; I’d done another double day and it had been 35km+.
He quickly explained that he was also only a pilgrim and wasn’t sure where I could get a key of my own. I told him not to worry. I’d just stay in the hostel after nipping out to get some food.
After a while, one of the other pilgrims, Ludwig, arrived. I ended up cooking for both of us. Ludwig is 70 and a little quiet. When I offered him a beer he told me he didn’t drink. He walks 30km each day and will probably arrive in Rome before me. We talked a little and we spoke about our family. Then, silence settled and we excused ourselves.
The next morning, a Sunday, I went to mass at 7am in the adjoining church. It was zipped through in Italian and over in half an hour. The church had its foundation in the Knights Templar and still bore some of their crests.
I left just before 8 and continued for a while along the long straight road that I had exited Piacenza from. I hadn’t slept well in the nightly heat and was tired. I was bored of the flats and even though the morning was still very young it was already uncomfortably hot. I had about 26km to get to Fiorenzuola and had decided to try and complete it as fast as possible, without stopping.
The route turned away from the road and took an elaborate detour of 10km to avoid its traffic. It was a little dispiriting, but I kept my head low, bowed against the sun, and tried to maintain a quick pace.
Relentless endurance is a terrible state of mind to engineer whilst walking for a longtime. There is no way to tune out of your thoughts so thinking of the walk as something to be got through as quickly as possible inevitably makes it more difficult.
I walked for four hours, tired, frustrated and miserable but adamant with myself that I would not stop. I passed through small villages and was counting down each bend in the road.
Then, I passed through the small village of Chero. Outside a bar there were three walkers who I figured must be on the Francigena. I slowed down as I past them and one of them began talking to me.
“You are a pilgrim?” She asked “We are putting up the signs to show pilgrims the way. We’ve walked from Fiorenzuola this morning.” I told them I had come from Canterbury. I thanked them: the signs had been guiding me for many days.
They bought me a Fanta and made sure my glass was full of ice. We sat in the shade for a while and talked. They told me that they had taken on the responsibility of marking a section of the route. “We can do it whenever we like but we have jobs so it has to be evenings and weekends.” “The pilgrims are starting to come this year so we have to try and finish soon.”
They told me they were walking back the same way as me and I was glad to share their company for a while longer. As we were readying to leave Andrea grabbed my rucksack and put it on his back. “I’ll carry yours if you carry mine.” I think his was less than 3kg.
For the next few kilometres I couldn’t stop laughing and smiling. Walking felt effortless without the rucksack. One of my worst days had been turned on its head in a moment. I called them ‘gli angeli’ (the angels).
We continued to talk and Dani told me that she booked ferries for haulage companies. She was in charge of the English Channel.
They were also involved with the ostello in Fiorenzuola. They told me there was a washer-drier there so I could have clean clothes. “Last year, we raised money for it.” I was overwhelmed with broad gratitude.
We parted ways at a river. They went left to collect their car and I would walk on, across some stepping stones, to Fiorenzuola. Andrea offered to take my bag and drop it off to me at the hostel. Then, he suggested, we could go for dinner. I agreed: it sounded perfect.
I balanced my way over the stepping stones and began the final few kilometres to Fiorenzuola, still unencumbered. My transformed mood remained. I caught up with Ludwig who must have passed me whilst I was sipping Fanta.
I walked alongside him for a while. I asked if he was okay; in my mind, he looked a little tired. He replied he was fine. I thought perhas he wasn’t really fine. I asked again if he was okay. I really wanted to know. It suddenly felt my responsibility to pass on some of my cheer but I had neither shade nor Fanta. I offered to swap bags for a while but he politely declined. I wished him well and walked on.
I was more inclined to see beauty. I stopped to photograph some flowers that were growing amongst some wheat.
Soon, and without further difficulty, I arrived In Fiorenzuola. There was a square in the centre of town near the church hostel and Fernando was sat a one of its tables. I was surprised to see him. I had done two long days to make it there. “I arrived in Piacenza and there was nowhere to stay so I took the train.”
Soon, Dani and Andrea arrived in a beautiful old Renault with my bag. They tried to persuade the ostello to open early and then apologised that they couldn’t. I told them, quite earnestly, not to worry. They had done more than enough. I was very happy in the piazza.
After a while, we were allowed in. I tried to take a siesta but was unsuccessful. I washed my clothes and dried my clothes in the machine that was there thanks to Dani and Andrea.
Soon it was time to meet them for dinner. They drove me a short way down the road to see a nearby village built around a castle. It was very beautiful and they explained that it had been fortified that protect passage through the mountains. They showed me the stone that much of the village had been built from. It had countless fossilised shells peppered all through it.
We walked round the town for a while, taking in the views and then went to a pizzeria a little further away. Andrea told me about how he collected Porcini mushrooms and about how once Dani had come along and found only some very poisonous varieties.
“So,” Andrea asked “what would you change about the pilgrimage if you did it again?” I thought for a while. I thought of some moments I hadn’t enjoyed. I thought of that morning. I thought of the missed hostel in Orio Litta. I thought of the mosquitoes before Pavia. There were plenty of uncomfortable moments. “I don’t know, nothing, I think.” I replied. “There’ve been some bad days but if I changed them who knows what I would have missed. Like today: there was a shorter route and I probably could have taken that and arrived earlier but then I wouldn’t have met you both. Yes, sometimes something goes wrong but you’re just as likely to get something else back.”
It was getting a little late so we drove back to Fiorenzuola. Dani and Andrea were going to Edinburgh soon and I gave them a list of some of my favourite places. We talked a little bit more about the pilgrimage and why I had done it. I still said I wasn’t sure why I had. “I don’t think you would have walked all this way if you didn’t want to change something in yourself.” I couldn’t disagree.
The next day was the final day on the plain. I was walking to Fidenza which was 22km away. Emily would be joining me later in the afternoon.
I followed a small road out of the town and walked for an hour or so to the town of Chiaravalle della Colomba. It has a 12th Century Cistercian monastery but it didn’t open until 8:30 in the morning. I sat and had a coffee, waiting for the doors to be unlocked.
The monastery had a vast church and some impressive cloisters. The Cistercians are the same foundation that built the monastery at Clairvaux. I have always loved cloisters. They have always seemed to me like places of immense safety. St Bernard said that they ought to be unadorned but I wasn’t sure I agreed.
I left the monastery and kept moving, feeling like I was in competition with the sun. I continued on roads and gravel tracks, crossing and then re-crossing a motorway. I remained cheery and met a pilgrim walking north from Rome. We wished each other luck and moved on quickly.
I passed through flat fields that had been used to grow grass for hay. Some had cut been cut and tractors were pulling machines that turned it so it could be thoroughly dried. “Make hay while the sun shines,” I thought. I tried not to feel like a piece of grass, being parched by the sun.
I turned a corner and curled my way into Fidenza. I naturally made my way to the cathedral but, again, it was locked for the early afternoon rest. I went to buy lunch and found a bench in the shade to wait for Emily.
A man came and sat next to me on the bench. Then he went away and then came back again. He asked me some water. I didn’t have any. He asked me for five euros, saying he needed to get the train back to Piacenza. I gave him the five euros. He asked me where I was from and when I answered him he burst into a wide smile and started speaking in English.
His name was Felix and he was from Nigeria. “I’ve lived in Italy for four years,” he said, “I’ve been looking for a job, sending emails and letters but I haven’t got anything so I have to beg.” “Nigeria,” he said, “has more money than Italy but our leaders are eating it. We have minerals and oil but there is nothing left for the people. It is terrible there.”
He said he wanted to move to London to find work. He thought that all English people were nice. He wasn’t so sure about Italians: “Why do they heap insults on you? I am not stealing. I did not come and steal your bag. I asked if you could help me and my family eat.” He had a child and a wife back in Piacenza. She was pregnant. “I hope they are twins.”
He asked me what London was like. I was worried it wouldn’t be what he hoped and I told him this. He was undeterred. “The English are good people. I want England to buy Nigeria so then Nigeria is England. Only the white man will give us our money back.” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t tell him that the history of Empire didn’t agree with him. He thanked me again and told me my money would come back to me a thousand times. Then, he returned to the supermarket exit to try and find some more money to eat.
At 4:30pm, I went to collect Emily from the train station. We are friends from university and it was very cheering to see her get off the train carriage. We had booked a couple of nights in an Airbnb to have a day in the town before heading into the Apennines.
We spent the evening sipping spritz whilst watching a surprisingly lively game of basketball in the town’s main square until 11 o’clock. The next day, we found Fidenza a little too small so caught a train back to Piacenza to the afternoon to tour some of the churches I had missed when I hurried through. I’m trying not to lose the wonder of ancient frescoes.
I explained to Emily that it was going to be hot and we should start the next day as early as we could to try and get as much done in the cool as possible. It was going to be twice difficult because we’d be heading into the hills and was a slightly daunting 34km.
We were walking by 6:30am and agreed that it was, at that time, a perfect temperature. We left the town through wide streets and were quickly in farmland. The landscape began to gently roll and I told Emily that these were the steepest hills I had seen in days.
By 10 o’clock the heat was uncomfortable but we had a long way to go. There was a small hill we had to climb and the lack of shade made for a sweaty ascent.
We passed vast fields of wheat that looked ripe for harvest. Almost good enough to eat. There was more hay, frequently rolled into parcels of the land.
We trekked on through the land and talked easily for the hours. Emily has returned to university to do a postgraduate course in medicine and we spoke about a pressure in our generation and peer group to hurry on into our next stage of life. Something we were both struggling with in different ways.
At around 12 noon we reached the town of Medesano and bought lunch and ate it in the shade. We had another 12km to go in the afternoon and moved on, returning to the hills. The afternoon sun was draining and our pace slowed.
We descended to another small town and met a couple of Dutch pilgrims walking back home to Holland. They had walked down to Rome a few years ago and then completed many more pilgrimages in Italy over the years. This was, they said, their last hurrah. They told Emily she was brave joining me for a short stretch; they said it was hard to keep pace with someone who had become so familiar with walking.
We continued along a river that seemed to be very dried up. The path forded a few small streams and stretched for longer than seemed comfortable. Emily told me she could very acutely feel the skeleton of her foot. Not enough skin, she thought. She has been studying anatomy. I told her that for the first three weeks I had bandaged my feet every day. Now, I think my skin is about half an inch thick.
We slowly crawled up to Fornovo but soon were crossing the bridge into the small town. We made our way up to the church which provided a hostel. It was attached to a small bar where we ordered a beer and then another.
In the hostel we met an extraordinary assortment of people. A man from Coventry who had left Canterbury eight years ago and had been walking ever since. He said he was finally going to Jerusalem. “I’m tired of these European pilgrimages. They’re just tourist trails now. Nothing religious about them.”
He said he never wanted to return to England and that he thought the gas in the hostel had been turned off because “they want you to spend money at the restaurant.” He had a camping stove and had cooked himself a burger and chips, frying the potato in several inches of oil. I think he was on his 6th large bottle of beer when we were talking to him.
The man from Coventry told us he walked through the night. “I start at 1am and arrive before 10. The heat is too much.” Maybe he had the right idea.
We also met an Australian young woman who had spent the last 18 months walking hiking trails all over Europe. She had worked for two years in a call centre to save for the trip and was leaving to walk a month in California at the beginning of June. “Its like opening Pandora’s Box. Once you start walking you just don’t want to stop.” I would be lying if I hadn’t started looking at other roads to walk.
The man from Coventry and Australian are the two archetypes of the Francigena: the hiker and the pilgrim.
In the evening we met another Dutch woman who had been cycling round Europe for a year. She had a child’s trailer on the back of her bike which housed her cocker spaniel. The spaniel caused some consternation with the hostess who got quite agitated when English was spoken. I got dragged into the dispute but somehow everything was settled fairly amicably with me calling her ‘la mama’ and kissing her on both cheeks.
In the night, the spaniel persistently tried to climb on Emily’s bed and the Australian was a light snorer. We woke in the morning not especially rested. Trying to replace a lack of sleep with coffee, we found a bar that was hysterically cheap and ate a quick breakfast before setting off.
We had 22km to do but the climbing was to start in earnest. The Apennines is the last of three mountain ranges that the Francigena passes through, the other two being the Jura and the Alps.
We spent the first part of the day winding gently up a wide but quiet tarmac road. After a couple of hours the sun was in place again and we both agreed that it was hotter than the day before.
At one point, on either side of the road were orchard trees. There was a sign encouraging pilgrims to help themselves but unfortunately nothing was ripe for plucking. We passed through a town and saw a sign to a sixth century church. It was locked. There was a number to call to visit but I thought we ought to push on. Emily was getting a taxi back down the hill in time for an afternoon train and I didn’t want her to miss it.
Soon, we left the road and joined a rocky pathway. The gradient got steeper but thankfully we were also afforded some shade.
We climbed, passing more fields and fording the same river several times. The views of the surrounding mountains were gorgeous.
The gradient would occasionally steepen radically and then reduce to something more manageable. It was hard work. On seeing another steep slope Emily said “time to get your sweat on.” I assured her it had already been on for the past two hours.
After an hour or so of steep climbing we had to descend a couple of hundred metres before reascending. We walked downhill into a couple of small villages, returning to streets for a short while. Then, the path came back to the forest and we were making the final ascent for the day.
It was the steepest and rockiest so far but the pines on either side remained, offering shelter from the sun. After a while, we returned to the road and followed it into Cassio for the final kilometre and a half. The gentle slope felt like a rest after clawing up the stony hillside.
Emily was to be picked up from the bar in town so we settled in there for a couple of hours and had a celebratory risotto. We sat in the shade but even there it was a little hot. We were very glad to have stopped walking.
Soon, the hour for Emily’s departure arrived and we hugged our goodbyes. As the car sped her back downhill to Fornovo I walked on a hundred metres or so to the hostel of the town.
Andrea welcomed me to a room and showed me the bathroom. He was clearly a collector and the whole place was filled with an assortment of almost everything. Toothpaste and shampoo and even a foot spa.
Downstairs, the kitchen was packed to the gunnels. The fridge was stuffed with cheeses and vegetables and cured meats and beer and wine. There was a cupboard full of pasta and rice and sauces. There was a little porcelain cow for donations for what you used. It was like a fairytale.
I took a nap and then went downstairs to make myself some dinner. It was the first salad I had eaten in weeks. I helped myself to a little of the Chianti that was held in litre and a half bottles on each table. Soon, a man appeared at the window. Andrea let him in and told me we’d be sharing the room.
His name was Philippe. He was Canadian and had a furious energy despite having cycled 120km that day. “Do you know this place only has one door? If there’s a fire we’re all done.” He was cycling up from Rome and was going to Austria, where some of his family were from.
He was amazed as me at the bounteously stocked kitchen. He made himself a huge plate of spaghetti. We chatted about our travels for a while. It was his nineteenth time cycling through Europe. “And what do you think of Brexit?” I told him I was very sad. That the U.K. was still hugely divided. He seemed surprised.
Then he began to speak about immigration. “You know, there are just too many of them. Countries can’t cope. Its just too much.” I tensed up. I didn’t agree but I just replied that it was a difficult issue. “A small minority that is integrated is fine. But they don’t want to work and they don’t accept our culture.” The brushstrokes were huge and I didn’t know where to start, so I didn’t.
“People need a shake up. Things need to change. That’s what’s happening in America and, you know, I think it’s a good thing.” Ah. “And you know, I think Brexit will be a great thing too. Britain’s going to do ten times better. Well maybe not ten times, ten times is a lot, but its going to do much much better. It makes Britain different. People like things that are different.” Then I recognised the strange syntax. I thought you just said people didn’t like things that are different? Maybe it just applied to skin colour.
“People need to stand on their own two feet. They need independence. Look at what you’re doing. You’re being independent. Travelling alone. It’s a human need.” He had foxed me. It was something I had been thinking about for a while. I have valued the solitude of this trip more than anything else. Where did that leave my belief in the importance of community?
I didn’t answer him then but I have an answer now: the thing which has sustained me through three countries and a shade under 1,500km is the kindness of strangers. I have made this journey by myself but I have never been alone. I would be back in England if it weren’t for the open-heartedness of people who had no reason to love me. But, as I say, I didn’t answer him.
Despite our different views on politics or, perhaps, the nature of humanity, I didn’t dislike Philippe. We watched the dregs of a sunset over the Apennines together. He told me about the love story between John and Elizabeth Barrett Browning and about the importance of family. It was the summer solstice.
As the sun descended, I told him I was getting an early night: the sun had begun to dictate my day with a fiery fist.
In the morning, I left Philippe sleeping and left whilst said sun was low. I was surprised to find thick cloud and cool air. I checked the forecast which predicted a high of 22 centigrade. I was thrilled.
That day I was heading for the Cisa Pass which cuts through the Apennines. If you look at the map of the Francigena there is a kink in the otherwise fairly straight line. This is because the Cisa pass enables a route which avoids constant climbing and descending.
With reduced pressure to arrive before a high sun I walked calmly and in good spirits. The Australian walker from Fornovo had told me there was a path with thick mud that I could take the road to avoid. I only remembered this when I arrived at that path. I squelched through the wet clay, caking my boots, and walked on.
The path sloped up fairly consistently but I was fresh and it didn’t pose too much of problem. I stopped in the yard of a church for a while and sat on its wall, admiring the mountains.
Before too long I was in Berceto, a much bigger town than Cassio. The weather remained mild and the forest cover was fairly reliable so I decided to camp that night. I bought some supplies, dawdled around the town for a while and then set off again.
I had less than ten kilometres to do and felt no rush: it was still very much the morning. The path began to climb steeply again and my pace slowed with it.
There was a diversionary route to Mount Valoria (1,230m) a couple of kilometres to the east. My guidebook told me the views were ‘stunning’. I had the time, so pushed on further up the hill.
It took me a while to reach the summit and I quickly realised I was climbing through cloud. The visibility was less than 50m. I reached what I thought must be the top, found a shrine to the Virgin and ate my lunch beside it.
I stayed for a while, hoping that the mist would clear. Eventually, it was gradually brushed away and I could see for miles. I realised I was not, in fact, at the summit, and there was a higher patch of ground a little to my south with a stone marker. I walked up to it and looked.
The previous evening I had only caught the last of the sunset but it had been a sumptuous red and pink. I decided that this would be a perfect place to try and see it in its entirety. I would camp on Mount Valoria.
I sat for hours on the mountain, seeing no one and staring out into the Apennines. I cooked my dinner fairly early. A man on a horse trotted up. We looked at each other but no words or gestures were exchanged.
At around 8 o’clock the heavy mist returned and stole my hope of seeing the sunset. I toyed with the idea of moving to a nearby group of trees for cover but realised that I had no one to hide. I lay out my bivvy bag next to the shrine. The mist gave the air a bite and I was shivering. I had never been more happy to have goosebumps, reminding myself of the previous week’s oppressive heat.
Before sleeping, I walked a little around the mist. I went up to the peak’s marker stone and saw nothing. I looked at my calendar and realised I had less than a month left on the road. For the first time, in thickest fog, I felt close to Rome.
