Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Gloria — The Lumineers

”Heaven help me now, heaven show the way / Get me back on my own two feet / I would lie awake, and pray you don’t lie awake for me”

Another great one to have heard live in Rome, I was clacking my poles (in place of clapping my hands) as I listened today.

I woke before my American bunk-mates this morning, just before 7am, and set about my normal packing routine. I was ready to eat breakfast by 7:30 and so figured I would be out by 8am — not bad. But, opening the fully-stocked fridge in Casa Margherita, I saw a carton of eggs that were calling my name. I haven’t had real protein for breakfast in ages…maybe since Seveux? Is that possible? And I haven’t been having tons of protein in here in Italy, So, I decided it was worth a later start.

I made myself a 3-egg French omelette. It’s funny, I never made French omelets till this trip, always giving up partway and doing scrambled eggs instead. But I’ve found they really aren’t as difficult as they look and the fully texture is really worth it. So, I had my eggs and some blood-orange juice and chatted with Leigh and Ann, who were planning on leaving later in the morning. There was a bit of a rush as Leigh was having someone take her bag to Ivrea, and needed to hand it off to him. Once this was done I had finished my breakfast and washing my dishes, and was out the door probably around 8:15. I need to mentally prepare myself for earlier departures in the coming days as the heat returns, but with rain in the forecast and the Ostello in Ivrea not open until 4:30, today was not that day.

I decided to take a slight uphill detour in order to cross over the magnificent 2000-year old Roman bridge that gives Pont Saint Martin its name. I don’t think I really touched on this yesterday, but… I of course knew what the bridge would look like from photos. But I was not AT ALL prepared for how large it is! I was expecting something the size of Ponte Cestio in Rome, another Roman-era bridge spanning half the Tiber. But this bridge is huge, high up above the rapids below, and very tall. It’s impressive enough to name a town after it — now I understand.

Anyway, after a triumphant crossing, I was back on the main road passing through Pont Saint Martin’s suburbs and backyards, ducking under pergolas of vines. Then the path cut up to the left, uphill, in the direction of Carema. I knew from the guidebook that this section was meant to be tricky: in the end, much of it was and uphill scramble more than a walk. But I love a good scramble (at least when it’s uphill): I enjoy the challenge of picking the right foot placement rather than just plodding uphill. There were signs everywhere for the “run through the vines” race which would take place this evening to celebrate the opening of Carema’s wine festival — I’m sure it’s a lot of fun but I struggled to imagine taking some of these sections any faster than a walk.

Finally reaching the top of the hill, I was faced with the inevitable consequences: a steep downhill that was somewhere between paving stones and steps, which were slick from last night’s rain. I tread carefully and clung to the rope provided as a handrail until I was safely on non-slippery ground. I am really noting the lower level of ankle support on these shoes, so need to remember to be careful on uneven ground like this. As Ken aptly put it: “one wrong step and you bring this whole thing to the ground.”

The last bit into Carema was a lovely walk under the pergolas of vines that surround the town, well-known in the region for its wine. I was very bummed to be missing its wine festival by half a day. I also had, at some point, unknowingly crossed from Aosta into Piemonte: on to the next Italian region! Carema has a well-preserved medieval centro storico: a glimpse inside someone’s open door revealed a ground floor that was unrenovated, with a stone floor and old wooden steps.

The way out of town once again had me passing through pergolaed hillsides, with a view back to the higher mountains of Aosta. Today was a transitional day, and I knew I would be bidding the mountains farewell for real later in the day. The next section was along a busy road with enough shoulder that I wasn’t really concerned — after France it will take a lot of road-walking to phase me. Finally I curved off the road, passing through a mobile home campground where I interrupted a couple’s breakfast view. Sorry!

As the mountains on either side of me got lower and lower, I was entranced by the clouds today. The forecast had suggested that it would rain in the morning and then be cloudy all day — like most days, it was incorrect. No rain in the morning, but light, cotton-candy wispy clouds got stuck to the mountains and glowed in the sunlight. It was beautiful — and something I will miss as I head toward the plains.

The next town I passed through was Settimo Vittone, which seemed to be almost abandoned as a walked up past uncultivated fields and crumbling stone walls. The VF path actually didn’t seem to want me to spend my money in town (a rarity, given it normally detours to pass a bar whenever possible), so after climbing a grassy hillside path and snapping photos of the town’s church, I snuck behind its buildings on a slowly sloping downward path alongside fields and large rocks. This path took me briefly off of the gravel track to hop over some rocks in the forest before immediately rejoining (“ummm…okay…” I wondered aloud) before ducking below a pergola once again, tiptoeing my way through what had once been the trail and, since last night, had become a small stream. This was followed by another scrambling section over rocks. Once again, this was welcome and interesting when going uphill, but significantly more difficult going downhill. Sometimes this was more of a scramble, but at a certain point this turned into a road paved in stones and covered in a thin layer of wet leaves — a truly terrible combo. I prayed once again for the health of my knees and ankles and snaked my way slowly down, passing under an elevated obstacle course which looked like a lot of fun, ducking under an abandoned house, and finally arriving back in civilization where the path once again passed under pergolas.

Debating whether I wanted to stop somewhere for a coffee, I noticed two people sitting below the pergola ahead of me. “Pellegrini?” I asked as I approached. They nodded, and asked if I was Italian. I apologized — no, I’m American. But despite this they were happy to chat, and told me about their trip so far. They were Michella and Adriano from the Veneto (with Veneto accents to match, which I struggled with occasionally as they are quite different from the Roman accent). We walked together for the next hour or so, chatting about family and work. Though they don’t really speak English, they said their daughter was studying languages, and constantly berating them to pick up more English through watching TV or listening to music — though of course, we all agreed, it’s so much harder to learn languages the older you get. We also commented on the changing landscape: we had now left the mountains behind us for good (for me, after 20 days or so of mountains on the horizon, between the Jura and the Alps). The architecture had changed, too: no more stone houses and slate roofs, instead the typical homes you see on the Italian plains: bright orange or mustard yellow, new construction, with red roofs.

After a lovely walk with them, we went our separate ways in Borgofranco d’Ivrea, where I stopped for a sandwich at one of the only open bars in town. Afterwards, I began the last stint, a 2-ish hour section alternating between town and nature. Out of Borgofranco, I passed through woods and through an area where trees were clearly being cultivated, planted in perfectly straight lines. This path wound its way into actual forest, where i was treated to all sorts of goofy-looking mushrooms, before ducking briefly into the down of Montalto Dora, where I managed to get caught in school pickup traffic. The VF signs here seemed to want to take me on a wild goose chase, far from the app-suggested path, so I followed the app up a long asphalt hill, and then down the other side, equally long and all asphalt.

Now I was properly in the outskirts of Ivrea. One more uphill took me to the front of the town’s castle (unfortunately closed) with a view over beautiful red-tile roofs. I walked the few meters over to the Duomo, which was open. Inside was dark, only lit by candlelight and rays from the sun streaming in a single open window. The church was beautifully decorated in marble, and in the ambulatory were the remnants of old frescos. I also made buy way into the crypt, which is over 1000 years old, and admired some of the 12th century frescos. I love medieval art because I find the way they capture humans and animals to be so expressive, without being at all realistic. There’s something I find really lovely and resonant about the lack of visual perspective in these paintings.

Leaving the church, I chatted with my mom for a bit, before settling outside a gelato shop to write. Just before 4:30 I headed to the Ostello to check in, and after sorting out some confusion regarding Leigh’s bag that she had sent ahead of her this morning (the messenger, finding the hostel closed, had hidden it in an outdoor fridge), was sorted in a dorm room overlooking the river, where kayakers were practicing slaloms in the rapids.

I also tried repairing the tear in my shoe that I got a few days ago with some glue I purchased from the supermarket. I discovered the hard way that superglue reacts with cotton and wool by vaporizing, so I had to open a window, fan off my now-smoking shoe, and rinse out my eyes thoroughly. Lesson learned….

I ended up eating at a restaurant across the street for dinner: 15 euro for a pasta and a secondo of pork. Both were delicious and so filling — a crazy deal. I was pretty out of it so used the chance to catch up on the F1 free practice. Yes, I know, I shouldn’t be on the phone at the table, but sometimes that is what you need.

Back at the hostel my dad called me and we caught up on his trip to New York. I hadn’t heard from him in a few days so it was nice to hear how things were going. Now I’m finishing up this blog and headed to bed!

Final mileage: 13.15 mi
Walking time: 5h 55m
Elevation gain: 1870ft

Accommodation: The Ostello at Ivrea’s Canoe Club — apparently a famous spot, mentioned explicitly in the guidebook’s intro. Very cool to watch the kayakers go by and the sound of the rapids is nice white noise. The bathrooms are not the cleanest (similar to those in the Saint Bernard Hospice), but nothing unreasonable. For 20 euro, not bad at all.