David

This World is Not Conclusion: Viterbo to Rome

The End.

Rome, as shown in the Map Room of the Vatican Museum

This blog post has taken me a long time to write. I’m back in Newcastle and have been for a week. I have been sitting here and doing next to nothing.

I arrived in Rome and the necessary efficiency of my pilgrim-lifestyle evaporated. Like a corset bursting, a laziness immediately sagged to my sides. I had time to waste and waste it I will.

But I have reached the end before I have written it. So I shall return to Viterbo, which is where I left the last blog post. It is quite a large town but feels very much within the gravitational pull of Rome. There were road signs that pointed to my ultimate destination.

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Unto this Last: Ponte d’Arbia to Viterbo

I was sharing a room with Jörg. We had agreed on an early start to try and see the sunrise and make it to San Quirico d’Orcia before it got too hot. We left the hostel quickly and quietly, not wanting to disturb the other pilgrims who had declined our invitation of rising at 5am.

The air was perfectly cool as we left. Sunrise was due for 5:40 and I had spied a spot on the map that looked like it might be a good vantage point. We walked on, trying to make it round the corners and up the hill in time for the show.

We stood on the ridge amongst a set of hills. To either side of us were wheat fields. There was thick cloud that allowed about an inch of clean air between it and the horizon. All around us, farmland rolled peacefully. Small puddles of mist dusted the land.

The sun crept up and we stopped to watch it for a while. Soon, it had a few moments of naked glory before it disappeared behind the clouds, casting dramatic colours in the sky.

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Looking for the Holy Grail

When VHS used to be a thing we had a tape of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. We’d recorded it from a television showing and I think the iconically cool Motorola Razr was being advertised in the breaks.

I must have watched it a few times because a scene is burnt on to my mind. Indy has arrived at the entrance to the chamber where the Grail is kept. He knows there are booby traps, bodies are strewn next to him, and he’s just seen someone lose their head. In his hands are the diary notes of his father.

‘The penitent man will pass.’ He reads, muttering under his breath. He take tentative steps forward. ‘The penitent man will pass. The penitent man. Penitent. Penitent.’ He is shaking. The tension is huge. Then, suddenly, ‘KNEEL!’ He leaps forward and does an acrobatic roll. Circular saws slice through the air he was just in. Harrison Ford lives to fight another day.

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Warmth: Altopascio to Ponte d’Arbia

I left Altopascio the next morning. I hadn’t taken a day off in quite a while and I was reluctant to leave crisp white sheets. My proverbial feet were dragged. I had hoped to leave early but reluctance had delayed me. As I was leaving, the manager told me he had googled where Newcastle was. “You’re a long way from home.” I suppose I am.

Altopascio has a small but pretty historic centre. I passed under an old red brick archway and trekked through suburbia for a while. There was low density sprawl for about forty-five minutes, at which point, the path led into a kind of nature reserve. The trees weren’t high but they offered shade from the morning sun. The path wove around various flora and the ground was a dark red-orange.

I spent an hour or so turning small corners in that park. The way remained obscure beyond the next bend but the signs remained reliable.

On leaving the park, the route intersected with an old cobbled road. There was an information board informing me that it was part of the original Via Francigena. It was, certainly, an old road.

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Thorned diversions: Mount Valoria to Altopascio

Cloud had descended on Mount Valoria but I was determined to rest on the mountain. I tucked myself into my bivvy bag and tried to sleep. I had been too hot for days but that night I needed all four seasons of my sleeping bag certification.

Light rain fell on my cheeks in the night. I pulled the waterproofing over my face and persisted in trying to sleep. I heard some faint bells from what I assumed to be nearby cows. There is some bravery in the persistence of drowsiness.

Dawn arrived and I woke with it. The fog remained thick but began to slowly trickle off the mountain. The cows were actually horses and seemed a little surprised by my presence amongst them. It was cold and I wore the most clothes since the first day back in Kent.

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The Mountain as Altar: Shelleys and Mont Blanc

“I think,” I suggested hesitantly, “that that,” I gestured, “is Mont Blanc.” Me and my friend Ed had arrived in Chamonix on a train, having taken a break from The Pilgrimage in the Alps to visit the most iconic Alp of them all. We were sipping beers a few steps from the train station. The mountains loomed above us.

I was wrong. Depending on where you are in Chamonix, Mont Blanc does not always appear as the highest peak. I was seduced by a closer, smaller, rockier crop that due to an perspective error looked higher to me. In fact, Mont Blanc hunches on the horizon. It has a rounded, snow-capped peak that looks less threatening than those that surround it.

We looked at an information board which told us the names of the different peaks. There was Mont Blanc. Once I knew it, it did look more imposing. I could adjust for the perspective and it seemed very high indeed. I prepared myself for the moment of sublime ecstasy that Shelley’s famous poem describes. It did not arrive.

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Feathered Hope: Pavia to Mount Valoria

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.

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Dissolved Frescoes and Mosquito Smears: Aosta to Pavia

I stayed in Aosta to rest for the day and explore a little. Laundry, however, was higher on my priorities than the considerable range of Roman ruins. I went into a laundrette. It was the sort with big machines: too big for my small shopping bag of dirty socks. The proprietor walked me outside and directed me to a self-service place then patted me on the cheek with a rough hand. Pity the alien.

Laundry washed and mostly dry I returned to town to visit the city. The morning had been sunny and full of colour but by the early afternoon clouds had made their appearance. It was still warm but covered by a pervasive greyness.

The city, Aosta, was established as a gateway to the Roman Empire after the Emperor Augustus had taken the St Bernard Pass from Gallic tribes. It’s name is a contraction of his. There are ruins of an enormous gate, a theatre, a vast forum that is now totally underground, a bridge.

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Passing the Pass: Martigny to Aosta

The Great St Bernard Pass is a very significant part of the Via Francigena. It is supposed to be 1000km from Canterbury. It is the figurative halfway point of the route. It marks the crossing into the final country. It is the highest point of the journey at 2,469m or 8,100ft (for reference, Ben Nevis stands at 1,345m or 4,413ft).

There is a remarkable symbolism that this highest point comes at the halfway mark. It seems to be a prop which the route dangles from on either side. Once you cross the Pass it is, so to speak, downhill to Rome. (You do actually have to go up the not inconsiderable Apennines but that is for another post.)

The Pass is one of the things Francigena pilgrims most frequently talk about. It poses additional complications because, for vast portions of the year, snow and ice makes the pass totally unpassable without quite serious specialist gear. I know pilgrims who had attempted to make the crossing a few weeks before me and had been forced to take the tunnel route, via bus, because it was too dangerous.

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Around the Lake: Lausanne to Martigny

I woke up to a glittering Lausanne. The sun was shining and I relaxed. I was ahead of my planned itinerary and felt no sense of rush. Laundry done and blog updated, I took a stroll around the lake in search of a sailing club that I had walked past the previous day.

I was too early for opening and so ambled round the outskirts of the city, walking through a university campus to find a supermarket for lunch. Everything felt civic and metropolitan. I was annoyed to be in walking gear amongst fashionable students.

When I returned to the sailing club I rented a small dinghy for an hour and found myself quite rusty at preparing its rigging. On the water, there was barely a hint of wind. I gently drifted out a few metres but was crawling along. I made slow tacks for the hour, a little bit frustrated at my speed, but enjoying the sun.

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