Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Dear God — XTC

Any religious readers, cover your ears / eyes now. But this song has always resonated with me, as someone who was raised without religion. To be clear — I have deep admiration for people of faith, and specifically for people who dedicate their lives to their faith. It’s been very interesting staying in abbeys and monasteries along the way, and attending services. But on the other hand, the church as an institution has caused a whole lot of harm, even as it does good for some individuals. While the Via Francigena is very much a cultural route at this point — supported by tourism boards and local municipalities — its historical routes as a religious pilgrimage mean I do spend time thinking about the church and its role in history. Today was one of those days where this was on my mind.

At 6:45 this morning the sun was not yet up, and the light streaming in through the windows was a deep blue. I got up and began packing as quietly as I could do as not to wake Leigh and Ann. All in all I’d had a good nights sleep — I think the white noise from the sound of the rapids outside did me well. I ran into Daniel, the Belgian pilgrim, in the hallway as I was getting ready to go and he was clearly just waking up — he was surprised to see I was already on my way.

Snacking on an apple from Casa Margherita yesterday, I walked out the door of the Ostello at 7:25. I was glad to have stayed there (it helped having the best room in the house) — it’s an interesting location. That said, the evening walk through two deserted, unlit parking lots to get there was not ideal to do solo last night, and only marginally better in the morning.

It was starting to drizzle as I made my way back into the center of Ivrea, so I stopped quickly to put my pack cover on before continuing. A runner passing by wished me a good walk as I struggled with the elastic. Finally, my pack protected, I crossed over the river again and headed into an open cafe for a cornetto (unfortunately, the French influence seems to have run out) and a cappuccino. I argued with the proprietor over the weather (he said his app told him it wasn’t going to rain today; I informed him it was currently raining; he was skeptical) and the waitress was surprised to hear about my journey. I drained the last of my coffee as the rain picked up, and headed back out into the cool morning.

It was a long walk to finally leave Ivrea and its outskirts. It continued to lightly rain, though I didn’t bother to put on my raincoat as I could see the end of the rain clouds. And because the sun was so low, sunlight streamed below the cloud, illuminating the rain beautifully as I walked. Eventually I was out of town, following a path through fields and forest, up a hill — more scrambling up rocks — and to a bench with a lovely view over a lake. I paused for a bit to admire the scenery, trying to soak it all in while I can. The rice fields are coming up, which will be interesting in their own right, but won’t have a lot of changing visual interest.

Descending on a pine-needle-strewn path, I was then diverted into a another wooded area with trees planted in perfectly straight lines. I’m not sure why but these areas kind of give me the creeps — there is something strange about it all looking so perfect. Last night’s rain had left large puddles on the path, and mosquitos danced on their surface — not a good omen for the coming days. I walked quickly on the flat trail, the scenery alternating between trees, cornfields, and grassy pastures. I cut through two connected towns — Burolo and Bollengo — without a single open business between them, and followed the road for awhile out of town.

The path made what seemed to be an unnecessary left turn up a hill to divert from the road — unconvinced but obliging, I followed. As it turns out, the point of this was to bring pilgrims to a closed, abandoned church. I snapped a few photos and stopped at a picnic bench nearby for a few pieces of chocolate before continuing on with more road walking. This diversion seemed pretty pointless as I climbed up the asphalt road with walled gardens to either side — however, finally reaching the crest of the hill, I was treated to fantastic views. Behind me, the spiky silhouettes of the mountains, which I will dearly miss. In front of me, the Ivrean moraines: rolling hills of glacial deposits. On the valley floor, a patchwork quiet of grass and corn, accessorized by the typical red-tile roofs.

I was starting to feel the lack of food this morning, and was longing for a place to sit down for a coffee and cornetto. I was thinking of this while dodging cars on the road into Palazzo Canavese, when across the road I spotted a stopping point for pilgrims. I crossed over to check it out. It was a bench and a few other seats, a stamp (we know I love the stamps!), and some pieces of paper. There was a note from the man who made it, explaining that after seeing so many pilgrims come through the village he wanted to offer a nice place for them to rest. Part of the message, translated to English, read: “When I see you, my spirit calms down. My heart rejoices knowing that I have alleviated your fatigue.” It was such a lovely gesture. I regrettably did not have a pen to leave a message in return, but I was really touched by the generosity of the man who decided to build a bench here to help strangers on this crazy journey.

As I was packing up my things to go, I turned around and saw another pilgrim: a man about my age with a massive red beard and a walking staff. His name is Kevin and he is from Switzerland , and started his walk in Lausanne. I told him he could stamp his credential here, and we chatted quickly before discovering we are staying in the same hostel tonight. I wished him well and figured I would see him later. Buoyed by the interaction and by the kindness of this stranger, I left with a real spring in my step — no coffee needed. And the man behind the bench was right — I will now remember this kindness outside of Palazzo Canavese.

The next town was 40 minutes up the road, the absolutely charming village of Piverone. Allegedly the name of this town comes from some local pepper, and has nothing to do with the name of the next town over, Viverone. I don’t understand how this is possible, but language is weird, I guess? Anyway, I meandered through the cobblestone streets, following the scent of baking bread, which led me to an open bakery. I procured a square of focaccia: soft and fluffy, and deliciously oily, and sat down on a bench to eat.

Next to me on the bench was another man about my age, who struck up a conversation. He was from Piverone but lived in Turin, and was home for the weekend visiting family. We talked about about my experience on the VF as I ate, before I got up to go and he left to meet his sister. This is the most interaction I’ve had with people my age since Giulia, way back in France, so it was a big day for young adults.

The last stint into Viverone was easy, following a trail over rolling hills covered in vines (with and without pergolas). I passed by one farm where a man was loading up his truck with boxes of grapes — I looked over and noticed a handful of people working in the pergolas, harvesting grapes. I was surprised it was harvest time already, but realized it is the end of September already, and these lower-elevation hills probably get a lot of sun. I wished him a buona vendemmia and continued on. Finally, I got a glimpse of the Viverone Lake below the hills of vines — brilliantly blue reflecting the sky, with gently undulating hills surrounding it.

I picked up my pace, both excited by the prospect of visiting the lake and nervous about a storm that seemed to be on the horizon. I was blessed with fantastic weather today — limited rain after my departure from Ivrea, and not too hot, with decent cloud cover. I wanted to get into town before any weather broke.

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about, as the storm never materialized. Instead, I wandered the quiet streets of Viverone in search of a place to eat (unsuccessfully). Stopping on a bench to check on my feet — one of my toes was hurting from slamming into the front of the new shoe on downhills — a man came by and asked if I wanted a stamp. Not one to turn down a stamp (Patrick has called me a “regular girl guide”) I agreed and followed him into the municipal offices for a stamp. Then I headed downhill to the lakeside, where I had a sandwich for lunch and a glass of wine (a local variety called Bonarda that was robust: tannic, full of ripe dark fruits, and not very acidic). I was swarmed by bees at the lunch place, and also missed being shat on by a bird by mere millimeters, so decided not to try my luck and relocated to a bench further along the lakeside to write and admire the view.

I was told check-in started at 3, so at 2:30 I packed back up and made the uphill walk to Roppolo, where the accommodation was. Upon arrival I discovered I was the last one there! Ah, well — I wouldn’t have traded an earlier check in for my time at the lake, anyway. After a shower and laundry I sat on a hanging chair in the garden and talked to Nathan for awhile.

Afterwards I had a beer in the garden with Kevin (the Swiss pilgrim from before), and Anja, his girlfriend. They had walked the Camino before and we talked about what it means to walk a pilgrimage, and the ways you benefit from the mix of easier and difficult, interesting and less-interesting days. We then headed to dinner where we ran into Antonio, the other pilgrim in our room. He is Italian, from Milan, and walking a 4-day Piedmontese Camino called the Camino d’Oropa, which starts in Santhia and heads upstream from the Via Francigena. He is retired and has walked many caminos in Italy, and had plenty of recommendations of walking trails up and down the country.

We had a pilgrim meal at a trattoria nearby, where I translated between English and Italian. The conversation was good (if limited by my Italian vocabulary), and the food was great as well: a first course of tajarin (Piemontese taglioni) al pomodoro, one of my favorite dishes, and then a secondo of fish and polenta. We had originally ordered veal — the waiter spoke so fast I only caught every few words — but he, realizing this, made sure we understood it was veal liver. So, fish for all. For 15 euro, an incredible bargain.

Final mileage: 14.40mi
Walking time: 5h 32m (excl. lunch break)
Elevation gain: 1315 ft

Accommodation: Casa del Movimento Lento, a hostel with a very comfortable dorm room and a lovely yard to sit in. The hosts are very welcoming and happy to help organize pilgrim meals.