Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: You’re On Your Own, Kid — Taylor Swift

“Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned, everything you lose is a step you take / So make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it / You’ve got to reason to be afraid….You’re on your own kid / Yeah, you can face this / You’re on your own, kid / You always have been”

This is a song that’s very meaningful to me, so was always going to get used at a certain point. Her latest album, Midnights, came out a few weeks after I moved to Italy, and this song really resonated with me and became sort of an anthem during that time. And it doesn’t really paint being “on your own” as a bad thing, so don’t think this is me being lonely or wanting you to feel bad for me. I am on my own, by choice. I’ve spent a lot of time on my own in the last year, and I’ve become much more comfortable in my own company. I like being in charge of my own Via — I walk at my own pace, I stop when I want, I eat what I want. Of course, it’s been fantastic meeting people along the way and I am always grateful for the companionship, but this is ultimately a journey I am taking alone, by design, so some solitude is of course part of that.

I woke up to my alarm at 7am, meaning I got almost 10 hours of sleep last night. And boy, did I need it. In retrospect I think I may have gotten a bit too much sun yesterday, as my face is looking like the color of my new pinkish-orange shirt. But, I’m in no rush. Today’s stage is listed as “challenging,” but I’ve already covered almost a third of the ground by starting in Saint Vincent, so it’s nothing I can’t handle. Plus, there was a fleeting beautiful view of the sunrise over the mountains from my room, with the clouds lit up in pink and orange hues that complemented the flowers in my window box. I took a picture, and when I looked again a minute later, the color had faded — a daily reminder of the importance of appreciating these things while you have them.

I headed downstairs for a long breakfast and to catch up on yesterday’s blog, which I was too wiped out to work on other than writing a few stream-of-consciousness notes. Breakfast was delicious: local cheeses and salami, and a wide variety of sweet options (I made sure to sample the carrot and fruitcakes…you know, for science). I left sated, and was even more pleased when the woman running the hotel complimented my Italian on the way out (this is the most direct way to my heart, as a note to all future Italian hotel owners).

And, so, at maybe 8:40 or so I was finally back on the road. The Via takes a steep hill route to the Terme before heading back downhill — considering I had walked that hill yesterday I saw no reason to do it again, so rejoined the via on the main road a few minutes out of town, which took me on a gentle uphill away from town with a view back up-valley to Aosta. From the road I could peer into backyards covered in grapevines and vegetable gardens.

I descended into the first village of Cillan, another charming example of Valdostano architecture, with a frescoed church, old stone houses and the beautiful slate roofs. I wandered through tiny alleyways and through backyards, before being deposited onto a proper hiking trail which took me quickly uphill and then down on a forest path that crossed a roaring mountain stream. This was the experience for much of the morning — into the forests and then out again, up and then down, with intermittent streams and vast, expansive views.

In the town of Chenal I caught the first glimpse of the Castel of Chenal, which sits high on a rocky promontory above the village. The village itself is extremely well-maintained: tightly-packed vegetable gardens back into pristine stone houses. I said hello to a woman washing something in a communal fountain, who assured me all of the water is potable (this has been a point of contention in the pilgrim groups).

Distracted by a hulking dog that was barking at me from behind a fence, I almost missed the correct turn out of town. Luckily, I caught myself quickly and backtracked, finding the tiny path running to the left of the church. From there I passed once again through woods, on a path bordered on either side by old stone walls, before being spit out onto a road in Provarey. Here I had a view to Chenal’s companion: the Castle Saint-Germain. Together these two castles monitored the trade routes crossing through the valley below: olive oil and wine coming from the south, salami and local wine heading south.

Ahead of me I could see in the distance the telltale signs of another pilgrim: a massive backpack and pair of poles meandering down the road. I was reminded of how I first met Patrick, walking behind him for at least 20 minutes before finally catching him. That couldn’t have been more than 30 days ago, maybe? And yet so much has happened in the interim. Anyway, this pilgrim was Daniel, a Belgian man who was also headed to Rome, but today was headed beyond Verres as he couldn’t get a place at the hostel. We chatted briefly, but since my pace was much faster, I continued on and soon lost him.

The next section was fantastic, tracking along with terraced vines and gardens above and below. A sign pointed out that we were on an old Roman road, and sure enough you could see the deep ruts from carriages in the stone — even now i find it amazing to be walking the same roads as the Romans who built them, 2000 years ago. And of course it reminded me of my high school Latin Class. We used the Ecce Romani textbook series. The book for Year 2 entirely centers — yes, for the whole year — on the story of a family whose carriage wheel gets stuck in a ditch. Unfortunately my memory of the vocabulary now is limited, but the story itself clearly made an impression.

I had an amazing view from here of the mountains, still tall and imposing but at times bulbous in their protrusions, and the valley floor below, a brilliant green cut in half by the cloudy Dora Baltea River. From above I could hear the constant hum of highway noise and the arf-arfing of a small dog. Ahead of me I could see medieval villages that clung to the mountainside.

In one such village I ran into another woman doing her washing at the fountain. I stopped and we ended up chatting for awhile — she was surprised to hear I was doing the whole VF in one go, and doing it alone. “Isn’t it better to walk with others?” She asked. “I meet people on the trail,” I responded, “but I like having time by myself so I can think.” She nodded, unconvinced, but said she had met people young and old, alone and in groups, who passed through the village, and wished me luck.

Pretty soon I headed downhill into Montjovet. I had originally intended to head to the valley floor here for a coffee and a snack, and to change back into my old boots (I had started out in the new shoes). But I was feeling good about my progress and decided to push on, after a quick snack stop to have an apple I had taken from breakfast.

I managed to find the path out of town with some difficulty, thanks to a heads-up from Patrick who noted that it cuts behind a house, through a construction site. I passed alongside the backyard of a family who was breaking down a tree into pieces for firewood — a group affair as the woman would break sticks into sizable pieces, one of the men was using a handsaw, and another a chainsaw. Stepping well out of the way of the blades, I headed up a steep, rocky path through the forest, only to then crest a hill and head back down a similarly steep and rocky section. I picked my footing carefully on the downhills and huffed and puffed my way through the uphills. But again, I just climbed the Alps — nothing I can’t handle. After a few rounds of this with the ascents and descents becoming progressively longer, I finally emerged atop a hill covered in brown grass, blowing in the wind as rain clouds moved in. Below I could see a town — not quite Verres, but the town ahead of it where I would rejoin the valley floor.

Not quite home free, I realized the way to get down there was a very steep road paved with stones, that had little grip and and become a bit slick from the light rain. I thanked my new shoes for their barely-worn treads, clutched my poles, and prayed as I skidded my way down in a zig-zag. Finally, this last treacherous bit was over and I was headed through one last stone village. Then I was at the highway — total culture shock after a morning spent high in the mountains in tiny hamlets. I passed large industrial stores, selling hot tubs and all sorts of other large appliances. Finally I turned up the road that brought me into the medieval heart of Verres, which sits below its 13th century Castle, owned by the same family who controlled the other castles of the valley.

The hostel didn’t open until 2, so I stopped in the first bar I saw to have lunch. The menu was limited, so I ordered what was translated as a “Valdostana crepe.” Do you ever order something at a restaurant and when it shows up, think, what have I gotten myself into? Yeah, this was one of those. The waitress brought over a large plate entirely covered in cheese — though I did discover that there was a crepe hiding under there. Mountain life!

It was a bit early but I decided to head in the direction of the hostel as I was chilly sitting outside. I had a coffee in the charming bar next to the station until 2, and then checked into my room. I had been anticipating being in the dormitory, but was informed that I had selected a single room — I had completely forgotten but was grateful to past Eva. For only 12 eur more than the dorm bed, I was grateful for the guarantee of privacy. I’m still feeling pretty exhausted — I think there is both a physical and emotional comedown from crossing the Pass, which looms so large over the first half of the journey — so I’m happy to have my own space to crash.

I did all the normal pilgrim stuff, and also called my grandmother! I haven’t talked to Yaya I think since I was in Rome, so it was great to hear her voice and hear how things are going. She is a reader of my blog (hi Yaya!) so I filled her in on the gap between my latest post and today. I then settled in at a charming wine bar in the medieval center to write over a glass of Petit Rouge, though I had to head out before I finished this post because it hard started to drizzle and I was 15 minutes away from the hostel with no rain gear.

Dinner was pizza and grilled vegetables from a place in town, and then early-ish to bed! Onwards — tomorrow is my last full day in the Valle d’Aosta.

Final mileage: 9.88 mi
Walking time: 3h 40m
Elevation gain: 589ft

Accommodation: Il Casello, a family-run hostel by the trail station. A bit outside of the center of town but a good price for a single room. unfortunately the pilgrim dinner wasn’t on offer, but there is a pizza place just 5 minutes or so away for dinner.