Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Tangles of My Mind — Janis Ian

I heard this song for the first time earlier on this journey, on the canal to La-Chausee-sur-Marne. It’s funny — a reminder of just how far I have come.

Today was a more difficult day than expected. I didn’t sleep well last night — was up after midnight for unclear reasons, and with my mind racing (and a bunk mate snoring) I struggled to fall back asleep for hours. Then at 6am my alarm went off, and I quietly tried to pack up my things and head down for the first breakfast at the hospice — I found Patrick eating in a room downstairs, but the food options were incredibly limited. I opened the window for a bit of fresh air and realized the visibility was incredibly low, and with no sun there was no way I was walking in that. Plus, with the lack of sleep and lack of food I was feeling a bit woozy. I told Patrick I needed to go back to bed, and that we should reconsider a later departure — he was fine with this, so I went back to the room to nap while the Belgo-Italians got ready for the day, making fun of me for our ill-fated early departure plans.

At 7:50 or so I was back up and awake, and the official breakfast was announced with the ringing of the bells. I made my way downstairs to the same seating as last night — so had another chat with the Americans about the VF experience over life-affirming hot cocoa and bread and butter. Around 8:30 it was time to head out, and the hospice was full of a bustling energy as people donned rain gear and packs and tied shoes. Patrick and I grabbed our things from the room, bade our bunk mates farewell, and made our way downstairs to put on our boots. By 8:50 or so we were out the door, heading into the foggy morning.

It was chilly, naturally, and visibility was still quite low. We took the road across the border to Italy, and carefully picked our way down rocks as we followed the VF path. Given the mist and low visibility, the signage was not very good, and I stopped every few minutes to confirm we were still on the trail, despite being only a few hundred meters from the hospice. After this initial tricky bit, we crossed the road and the trail, while still narrow, chilled out into a more gentle downslope cutting across the wide hill. Patrick and I chatted a bit about fog and mist songs (“Misty Mountain Hop,” anyone?) and he shared some crazy stories from backpacking trips he has taken in New Zealand. After awhile we fell into a companionable, concentrated silence as we kept our eyes peeled for trail markers — it would have been very easy to get lost in this section without the app, and I think poor visibility like this is quite common.

We also ran across an Italian man walking from the Pass to Aosta as a one-day trip (he took a taxi up the hill in the morning). He is from Cuneo, and I shared with him about my trip to the Langhe last fall, which remains my favorite trip I have taken in Italy. However, he was slip-sliding around as he walked — not an issue I guess as he didn’t fall, but it made me incredibly nervous to watch as the narrow trail followed a high ridge. Patrick ended up stopping to take a few photos, and once he had finished, our Italian friend had vanished into the mist.

Eventually the clouds started to lift a bit, and we could see down the valley to where we were headed — dark, dense pine forests as we were about to re-cross the tree line. The dark line of the highway wound its way through the narrow valley, and directly below us we could see the mouth of the Saint Bernard tunnel. It had taken us a day to cover what drivers would do in 30 minutes passing through the mountain. Even with the mist, we still got the better views.

For the most part, this section of the trail was not as bad as I had expected in terms of steepness — certainly much better than it would have been walking in the other direction from the pass, going down where we came up yesterday. We were walking slowly, cautiously, but even so making relatively good pace. Finally, after what felt like ages, we made it to the first town: Saint Rhemy, a charming medieval stone village, decorated with flowers and with beautiful geometric slate roofs. I’m very happy to be back in Italy, a country that I love dearly and one where I can actually communicate! Valle d’Aosta is a new region for me, and it’s interesting to see how it differs from the Swiss villages on the other side of the pass — for example, gone are all the old timber homes. Unfortunately given our later start it was now almost 11, so the only place in town was not serving food. I was starving to the point of being almost light-headed, so dug into my emergency stale bread as we headed to the next town, Saint-Rhemy-en-Bosses, just a few kilometers down the road.

Despite being a slightly larger village, there was only one place to eat: a bar in a highway service station. So, we made our way off the official trail, through a parking lot, and to a prosciutteria, the only one open in town. We sat down next to a table of 3 men who were each on their third glass of wine, who really wanted to chat with us. Where were we from? Belgium? No? America and New Zealand, wow. Where were we walking? Etc. Etc. They were insistent that we try the local prosciutto from the town, to the point than one man got up from his seat and walked over with a forkful of prosciutto for Patrick and I to try (it was really delicious, and is a prized local delicacy). A second man kept insisting on ordering drinks for us — we respectfully declined and ordered for ourselves, but in the end he still manage to sneak in an order for two coffees for us. For the most part, the third man, who looked a bit like a biker-gang Santa Claus, ignored us.

Patrick had a coffee and a ham sandwich while I dug into a platter of the prosciutto and burrata. I hadn’t eaten much for my last two meals (the hospice serving sizes were not large) so I was grateful for the big, early, lunch.

I can’t remember who it was I was speaking to earlier on my trip, somewhere in France, who said that the Camino de Santiago could be split up into phases. At first you have to manage the physical challenge, then the mental challenge, and only then could it become a truly spiritual experience. I thought it was interesting at the time but had forgotten about it until today. I wonder if there is something in it, because having just conquered probably the most physically challenging section of the entire Via, I suddenly was feeling overwhelmed by the emotional and mental challenge.

Patrick could see that I was troubled, and while I’ve tried my best to be stoic, I found myself unable to keep it together to give a good answer. I started telling him what has been on my mind these past few days. He, in turn, opened up to me about some of the reasons he chose to embark on this walk. It’s interesting — we’ve known each other for awhile (in pilgrim time), but it took weeks — and summiting the Alps — to really open up to each other. There is something really freeing about discussing personal topics with someone who you know and respect but don’t know well, who doesn’t know anyone else in your life. It can be helpful, occasionally, I think, to get an outsider’s perspective.

Sensing I was upset and in need of fresh air, Patrick suggested we get a move on. On the way out, the third Santa Claus man stopped me and handed me a blue rubber bracelet advertising helicopter trips. I thanked him profusely and went to pay.

“It takes a lot of internal strength to do the things you’ve done,” he said, “moving to another country, embarking on a crazy journey like this. And I am impressed by your fortitude.” I could have started crying (actually, I think I did). It was the nicest thing anyone has said to me in awhile. And he’s right — while it has been an adventure, it hasn’t been easy. And that inner strength, or fortitude, or resilience, whatever you want to call it, is what I have hoped to take away from this journey. I just hope that arriving in Rome — having spent 90-ish days fending for myself, ensuring I have food, water, and shelter, dealing with all sorts of issues as they come up — that I can come away feeling more able to handle new problems that will inevitably come up in life.

We walked along a raised path above a series of gardens, an irrigation canal keeping us company on the left (though uncovered, making me nervous about accidentally falling in!) talking more about life and family. Soon we reached Saint-Oyen, a small but bustling town bisected by the road from the pass. My thoughts still cloudy, I somehow managed to navigate us in the wrong direction not once but twice, making the 10 minute walk to Etroubles more like 30.

Etroubles is the largest town (/village?) of this stretch of the Valle de’Aosta. It originally was a Roman town called Restapolis, and was used as stopping point between Aosta and the Pass. Patrick and I rambled into the historic center, which was largely closed, and happened upon our bunk mates from the Pass, who must have caught up and surpassed us during our lunch break. They had rented an apartment in town and were off in search of lunch. I left Patrick at the tourist office, where he ultimately would go get a pod at the camping grounds — I was jealous and didn’t really want to walk the remaining 2km to Echevennoz, which is essentially a collection of a few buildings. Etroubles seemed nice and I would have liked to explore it a bit more.

However, it was now starting to drizzle, so I needed to get a move on. I crossed out of town on a lovely covered wooden bridge, and quickly ascended on a wide path through a stand of trees. The path was poorly marked here but I managed to find the correct way using my phone, and quickly made my way further down valley. This was my first time being properly on the path alone since Lausanne, and a few minutes outside of Echevennoz it all hit me at once. Overwhelmed with emotion, I stopped for a bit to calm myself down before continuing on the final few minutes.

Echevennoz really is a collection of buildings more than a town, so I’m not quite sure why the VF has made it the stopping point for the “official” first Italian stage according to the app (Etroubles would be a much more obvious choice). Anyway, I realized I didn’t have the address for the Ostello, so I made my way to the only trattoria in town. “Do you know where I could find the hostel?” I asked (in Italian, I swear). “It’s here!” The owner smiled. “Let me get the keys.” And so she led me outside and around the back into a small ostello with 6 beds and a bathroom. I went to shower and write, and was joined by Beatrice and Daniel, who had set off from the pass after Patrick and I (and had gotten caught in the rain, which had picked up). It was nice to see them again — I had a brief but lovely conversation with them last night as well — so I am looking forward to having people I know already for company tonight.

Dinner a few hours later was back at the trattoria, served by the couple who ran the place. It was delicious — soup with garden vegetables, beef and chicken cooked in wine and served with potatoes, and salad. Afterwards we had coffee and dessert. Over dinner I learned more about their lives — Daniel used to work in marketing for a number of large companies in France, but most recently led operations for a company that builds holiday homes around France. Sort of like the campgrounds I’ve enjoyed staying in (I think), these communities let people spend time in nature without needing an RV or camping supplies. It sounded like a great place to work. They also told me about their kids, who are a bit older than me, and showed me photos of their young grandchildren. It was a lovely conversation and a nice pick-me-up from from the day. They gave me their contact information and invited me to stay with them in Paris, which I would love to do — they’re an incredibly kind and welcoming couple.

Final mileage: 10.39mi
Walking time: 5h 3m
Elevation gain: Negative feet!