Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Fast Car — Tracy Chapman

Another ironic song choice for a day where I was lacking inspiration for a song. Spent a lot of today with the sounds of rally cars in my ears (and avoiding them, where necessary), so I think it fits….

I was extremely grateful for the late start today. I desperately needed the sleep, and maybe more importantly, I needed to eat a real breakfast. I haven’t seen a supermarket since Orsieres and my supplies are dwindling. And the meals at the hospice, while lovely in terms of company, were modest portions for this hungry walker. So, my alarm went off at 7am and I spent a few minutes laying in bed, watching the low clouds cling to the pine trees on the mountain outside. Beatrice and Daniel were up and moving so I went about packing my bag and getting ready for the day.

We had breakfast in the same side area of the trattoria as dinner last night. It was a classic European breakfast: bread and butter (from the mountains) and jam. I never ate jam before this trip, but all of these homemade confitures have finally won me over. We continued our conversation from the night before as we sipped coffee, and talked about the nature of pilgrimage. They have been walking the Via over the last few years in stages. “We are both retired — but we have no time!” Daniel joked. Returning to their life in Paris after weeks on the road is always a readjustment, but they are grateful for the lessons they learn from this time. “There are good days and there are bad days, but no matter what, every day you have to get up and keep walking.” I agreed — after feeling all over the place the last few days, from the triumph of the pass to the emotional lows of yesterday, I was grateful that I needed to keep moving.

After breakfast we headed out into the chilly morning, and with double kisses we said goodbye. I promised to send them a photo from Rome and to write to them when I am back in Paris. It’s been really lovely getting to know them — though we have been crossing paths since Saint Maurice, really I have gotten to know them better over the last few days and have found them to be an incredibly generous, warm, and kind couple. I hope to see them in Paris some time.

Back on my own, I followed the track up a steep and wet grassy hill, where I rejoined the Ru Neuf irrigation canal, which dates back to the 1400s. Though the canal was sometimes built up in a cement channel, for the most part it looked more like a mountain stream that happened to have very even banks. The path meandered along next to the canal, covered in a soft bed of pine needles and punctuated by trees and boulders. This was some of the most meditative walking I’ve had in awhile, and with limited threats to life and limb I enjoyed letting my mind wander and appreciating the scenery. And, I was far enough from the road to get a bit of quiet, with the only sounds my feet on the trail and the rushing of the canal.

There were a few points of interest in this section, including a gigantic wood carving of a pilgrim — I don’t see the resemblance. Also, a religious shrine in the Je Te Salue grotto: a statue of Jesus and Mary placed under a rock. Water runs down the rock from the mountainside, meant to represent the waters of baptism. I got a few drops on my head as I scoped it out before heading onward. From here I diverted from the canal on to a regular gravel trail. Frustratingly, I could hear the loud sounds of cars — it sounded like someone was drag racing up the valley, except that the sounds continued on for at least 20 minutes, I was missing the F1 race today, but it sounded like it was happening right below me!

There was a steep section down to the town of Gignod, where I wondered how Patrick was doing — surely he was ahead of me somewhere. The path was straight down the hill and covered in loose rocks, making slipping almost inevitable. Eventually this trail gave way to a set of stairs, and eventually steep roads into town.

I suddenly emerged in a small square in the center of Gignod in front of the church. I’ve noticed in this region that many of the churches have frescos painted on the outside of their otherwise simple facades — beautiful and completely different from any other style of Italian church I have seen. After stopping to pet a cat out front, I popped into the church which had a pilgrim stamp and admired the inside. Suddenly, I heard a noise behind me. I looked back to the door and there was the cat, pawing to get in. Without thinking, I went to open the door and (of course) the cat ran inside. I stood for a second, looking from the door to the cat, which had quickly made itself at home running along the pews. Well, that was pretty stupid of me… I realized the priests probably would not be happy to have a cat running around inside, so I needed to get her out of there. Thankfully this cat seemed to have limited survival skills, and I was able to walk right over to her, pick her up, and place her back outside, where she meowed ruefully at me before disappearing.

I received a message from Patrick — he was in Gignod, sitting at the one cafe in town. There’s a rally happening in town — I’m trackside with a coffee. Well, that explains the noise, which had gotten even louder as I walked into Gignod. Very carefully crossing the street, I made my way down alongside the road, where I saw rally cars stuck in uphill traffic behind everyday civilians driving Fiat Pandas. They revved their engines and weaved to warm up the tires, but nothing doing — they would need to wait till grandma got to her turn before they could do any real racing.

As promised, Patrick was seated outside at a roadside cafe. I joined him for a coffee and cornetto — we must be close enough to France, as the pastry was pretty good. We watched the drivers go by as their fan clubs waved and cheered as the cars passed. Finally we had enough and continued on toward Aosta: through an underpass, cutting through a few backyards, then unfortunately along the main road for a long stretch.

The clouds were still thick, though no rain was expected today, so we had limited views across the valley. But we could see through gaps in the cloud cover that ahead of us was a massive mountain which loomed over the town of Aosta. We stopped for a moment at another lovely frescoed roadside church, before crossing the highway and taking a side road up through vines and fruit trees, past a power station, and then finally down a long, steep set off straight-downhill streets into Aosta proper.

While I have been in Italy for a day and a half (or so) now, the mountain villages between the Pass and Aosta don’t feel all that Italian. The architecture is very Alpine, naturally, and both Italian and French are spoken. Arriving in Aosta I really felt for the first time the realization that I was back in Italy. The architecture was once again familiar and the fashion recognizable. I breathed a sigh of relief — it’s good to be back.

I’ve spent a lot of time in Italy in the last 7 years, since I first visited the country with my mother and grandmother. Through vacations, work, and then finally relocating to Rome last year, I have developed a strong connection to the country and culture. Being back in Italy, even a city I have never been to before, feels almost like being back on home territory. I understand how things work here, I speak enough of the language to get around, and the daily rhythms are familiar. After 6 weeks of struggling with French, climbing across barren hillsides, and learning to adjust to French and Swiss cultures, I am so happy to be somewhere that I feel I understand a bit more deeply.

I dropped off Patrick at the cathedral and went to check into my Airbnb, before heading back out for lunch. I have tomorrow to sight-see so wasn’t worried about visiting the Roman ruins yet. However, I did pass through the ancient Roman Porta Pretoria on my way up one of Aosta’s main pedestrianized streets. It’s a lovely town from what I have seen — surrounded by mountains, and with a very active populace. I’ve seen so many people in hiking boots, running shoes, and full biking get-ups. One of the things I love about mountain towns.

I ended up ducking into a lovely wine bar with a massive selection — I had a board of local meats and cheeses for lunch, paired with an Aosta red wine of primarily the Petit Rouge grape. It was tasty, and a definite departure from the lightweight Swiss Gamay I had been drinking, with clear notes of vanilla from its barrique aging, in addition to the red fruit, dried herb, and earth notes. I ended up chatting with the husband and wife proprietors, as she was curious to know how I had ended up in her shop. When I told her I was American, she looked at me, confused, and asked “…but your accent [in Italian], it’s not so bad?” High praise, and she seemed to accept my explanation of having lived in Rome a bit. She and her husband had walked some of the Via Francigena, and he was a trail runner, so they also offered some recommendations of stores to look for shoes tomorrow.

After lunch I spent a few hours back at the Airbnb doing my chores: running a load of laundry, attempting once again to clean my camelback, showering, etc. I also talked to Nathan and watched a bit of the F1 race before heading out to meet up with Patrick for dinner — likely our last for awhile, as he continues on to Chatillon tomorrow. We split a carafe of red wine and each had delicious papardelle with a game ragu. “This is really delicious!” He exclaimed. “Benvenuto in Italia!” I replied. It’s going to be good like this for 6 weeks.

We talked a bit more about his music, and he shared the band that he plays in — I will need to find them on Spotify. I also explained a bit more about the work I used to do. It was a really lovely dinner, notwithstanding the very brusque restaurant owner who was offended by my asking to split the bill (which is usually very common in Italy, but whatever). We went our separate ways in the main piazza, thanking each other for the company, but aware that this is more of a “see you later” as I will probably catch him in Pavia.

I headed home through the quiet streets back to my Airbnb and crawled into bed, excited for a day to rest and explore tomorrow.

Final mileage: 9.51mi
Walking time: 3h 57m
Elevation gain: Negative ft, again

Accommodation: Airbnb