Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Gentle on My Mind — Glen Campbell

“It’s knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk / That makes me want to keep my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch / And it’s knowing that I’m not shacked by forgotten words and bonds / Or the ink stains that have dried upon some line / That keeps you on the backroads, in the rivers of my memory / It keeps you ever gentle on my mind”

This is a song I’ve always associated with looking upvalley and seeing rows and rows of mountains disappearing into the distance. I’ve listened to it a lot riding the bus and hiking around Aspen, especially on the route along Brush Creek road. The feeling of heading down the Valle d’Aosta inspired this same feeling.

And, in a moment of serendipity, I decided to give my mom a call to say hi and to tell her I was using Glen Campbell for my song of the day today. She answered and before I could get a word in, said “I was literally just about to call you! Gentle on my Mind came on the radio and it made me think of you.” I laughed. “Guess what my song is today?”

I was up and out just after 7, head still a bit foggy and wishing I could go back to sleep. Today was the first day where I knew for a fact I wouldn’t run into anyone I know. And it was a long one — the stage to Chatillon is already long and I was tacking on a few extra kms.

Patrick had messaged me yesterday warning about an hour-long dangerous diversion above the Castello di Quart. The issue with this stage is that the valley floor is dominated by the Autostrada, so the hiking trail takes the north side of the valley and heads up and down the mountains there. To avoid this diversion I would need to take the bike trail on the south side of the valley — but I would have limited options to cross back later. But I trust Patrick’s advice of course, so bike path it was. I crossed through Aosta, under the train station, and joined the bike path out of town, which was initially quite uninspiring, crossing under the highway multiple times and passing by large industrial buildings.

I listened to upbeat house music to keep my pace up and let my mind wander. Eventually I was out of the industrial outskirts and walking along grassy fields with views to the high peaks on my right. I was a bit blinded as I was walking directly into the rising sun, but once the angle of the sun changed I had a fantastic view down valley, where the spines of mountains seemed to continue to infinity. After about 2 hours I took a quick break to switch shoes — I needed the chance to sit as I was feeling nauseous, but nothing came of it.

The new shoes definitely need to be broken in, but aren’t so bad. They’re definitely stiff around the ankles and the heel and tongue. And the soles are quite rigid and will take some time to mold to my feet. But they aren’t painful to walk in, so I’m hoping I can transition to them quickly and lose this extra weight of carrying two sets of shoes. After a few more uneventful hours of similar scenery — beautiful, but I don’t need to describe it twice — I entered a small nature reserve where the path circled a lake. After a bit more walking alongside fields I could see signs of civilization head: a small church and a few buildings. I took a small path across a field and tried the church (closed). I realized a stray dog had jogged out into the street and was sniffing the garbage bins nearby, so I waited on the church’s porch until it had put some distance between us. Then I took a small road into the town of Fenis, which Google suggested had an open restaurant.

Pretty quickly I discovered this to be false — the restaurant is closed on Tuesdays, unfortunately. However a few doors down, in another beautiful stone building, was a small bakery. Suddenly hungry for more than breakfast, I grabbed an aranciata soda and a cold slice of pizza. Well, maybe let’s not call it pizza as that would be my first since leaving Italy, and it wasn’t all that good — so, let’s go with “cold bread with tomato and cheese on top”. Either way I was happy for more substantial food as I realized my supplies have dwindled. Having scarfed this town (or scoffed, as our down-under friends say) I was back out on the road, admiring the charming buildings of Fenis and sneaking a peek of the large castle that sat above town.

I’ll admit, I had been feeling a bit of FOMO about not taking the hiking route, which was said to offer spectacular views of the valley, vineyard walking, and a number of cool castles. But, I figured with the extra weight in my pack and the increased heat today — not as bad as I had in Switzerland, but close — this was probably the better call anyway. I walked for about an hour, primarily along roads and fields but also briefly through a stand of trees for some much-needed shade, emerging along the rail line. I was running low on water now, and thankfully passed by an outdoor “green space” with picnic benches, barbecue pits, and a fountain. There’s been some chatter in the pilgrim groups about issues with water, with some fountains being non potable. I have tried to avoid drinking from fountains where it’s not clear (there are a number of these that look like horse troughs that in Switzerland are potable), but I figured this one at a campsite certainly had to be drinking water. After restocking and dousing my hat and bandana, I headed back into the sun. I also stopped to switch back into my hiking boots, and noticed that my new shoes must have caught on something — a section of the fabric had already been torn off. I’ll need to find a way to repair it in one of the next †owns.

After tracking a canal in the sun for awhile, the bike path crossed the road near a rare bridge over the Dora Baltea River, my constant companion off to my left today. I crossed over and climbed a short, sunny hill into the town of Borgo Chambave. This is the center of the Chambave DOC, which produces Petit Rogue-heavy red wines and Moscato Bianco whites. Heading into town you can see trellised vines along the hillsides. Behind a restaurant dedicated to the town’s vignerons, I could see the equipment for pressing grapes. Across from the church was a lovely wine bar with tables in the sun — I wished I could have stayed, but I had hours to go, now that I had rejoined the hiking trail.

I had been under the impression from looking at the map that this path would be more of the “gravel road” variety, but I was wrong — it was a proper hiking trail. It was afternoon by now and the sun was beating down on a completely unshaded trail. Up and down I went, carefully navigating loose rocks and tree roots. I briefly passed through a tiny hamlet of stone buildings, where a man pointed me in the direction of the path, and then was back among the rocks and weeds. Just after a “ghost village” of abandoned houses, I continued on the path and was met with a literal wall of plants. I could just barely see beyond them a trail-marking sign, so knew I had no choice but to go through. I groaned and rolled my eyes, before sticking my arms and poles in front of me to try and clear a path. After a few minutes of fighting I managed to find the remnants of the path, and continued to beat my way through until I emerged on a road.

More of the same till Chatillon: beautiful views up and down the valley, no shade and the hot sun beating down. Finally I arrived in town, where the Via Francigena meandered through tiny medieval alleyways before dumping me out on the main road with a view of the town’s tower. To my left, hidden behind a mountain, was the Matterhorn, and signs announced the road to Cervinia. I crossed through town, tempted to stop somewhere for a cold drink but ultimately deciding to push onward. I did end up ducking into a pizza al taglio place for a chance at redemption. This slice of Margherita was warm, crunch on the outside with soft and pillowy dough — more like focaccia. I ate it on the move as I trudged uphill next to a highway into Saint Vincent, on the phone with my mom.

I stopped by the Tourism Office on the way into town for a stamp, and for the umpteenth time on this journey my brain totally malfunctioned. I started saying hello to the woman there in Italian, and then for some reason switched over to French when asking for a stamp. She corrected me, in Italian, and I walked away shaking my head. Of course learning another language just makes you worse at the ones you already speak.

After checking into my hotel, which was well-located on the main square in town, I headed toward the famous Saint Vincent Terme — a thermal spa whose waters had first been discovered in the 1700s. Saint Vincent, like most spa towns, is lovely, with arched lights over the Main Street holding flower boxes, and rows of shops and restaurants. The hotel owner had told me that the funicular to the train was no longer working, but there was a “little staircase” that would get me there. I groaned upon seeing it — it was less of a staircase than a steep road, and I wouldn’t describe it as “little.” But, I just walked over the Alps, so I can’t complain, and trudged my way up.

Once I arrived and got settled in, the spa was amazing — absolutely worth walking a bit longer! The main level had a series of saunas of different levels of heat and humidity, plus a steam room and various doccie emozionate which Italians seem to love. It also had a few hot tubs and lounge chairs, and a wide panel of windows overlooking the valley. But upstairs was even better: 3 personal-sized jacuzzis on an outdoor terrace, where you could sit in the sun and admire the view back toward Aosta. Behind the tubs was a wood-burning sauna, so if you like that thing (I do) the whole terrace smelled fantastic. There also was a downstairs terrace with a pool, but the upstairs was by far my favorite. All in all I spent about two and half hours at the spa, lounging around and enjoying the view. While my strained muscles are a lost cause, I think, I came away feeling extremely relaxed and refreshed.

Between the mileage and the spa, I was exhausted and in need of food. After a quick shower back at the hotel, I settled at one of the few open restaurants in town. Given that I didn’t really have a full lunch, I ended up treating myself to a two-course dinner: a beef tartare with zucchini followed by a deer ragu. This was paired with a Valdostano Nebbiolo — very interesting to try as very little Nebbiolo is grown outside of Piedmont. It tasted like Nebbiolo, certainly, but was much more of an easy drinker — way less tannic and powerful than a Langhe Nebbiolo. I’ll confess though that I didn’t fully enjoy it because I was concentrating on not literally falling asleep, facefirst, into my plate of pasta. As soon as I was done eating I paid and stumbled back to the hotel, where I quickly prepped for the next day before collapsing facefirst into bed and promptly falling asleep at 9:30 pm. A much-needed good night’s slide.

Final mileage: 16.58mi (I’m not sure this is right as Maps.Me was saying it should have been 19 miles, so take with a grain of salt)
Walking time: 7h 54m
Elevation gain: 651 ft

Accommodation: Hotel Bijoux. Very well-located in the center of town, and a very good price. The rooms were not super modern (but this isn’t something I really care about if everything works). I had a great view over the square to the mountains — would highly recommend, and would recommend Saint Vincent for any pilgrims willing to brave the extra mileage