Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Linger — The Cranberries

“Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?”

I have been saving this song for a good sunrise, because I firmly believe that the first 20-30 seconds or so must be listened to in this context. And today was one of the most beautiful sunrises I have seen — so, here we go.

I left this morning early, packing in the dark and tossing the keys over Fiorella’s gate, as instructed. Heading out into the street, the sky was a murky watercolor impression of a sunrise — almost brownish in its hues of orange and purple. I made my way to Bar Jolly, the earliest-opening place in town, where I had a delicious cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, with a plain croissant wrapped up to go. Then I made my way out of Garlasco, quickly making my way down the Main Street and then onto a side road. I passed a caravan camp near the city limits, and then was back out into the fields.

I looked up to see one of the most stunning sunrises I have seen on this walk. The sun glowed brilliantly orange, illuminating the cloudy sky and making the horizon look like it was on fire. This light caught the mist that clung low to the fields. I walked directly into the sun, admiring the view.

Eventually I joined up with another irrigation canal, at which point the sun had risen further and was hidden behind a layer of clouds — a major departure from the last few completely cloudless days. Hearing gunshots in the distance, I pulled out my hi-vis again and draped it over my pack as I marched along by the canal, across a highway, and back into the fields.

Just outside of Groppolo Cairoli, my first village of the day, I was once again struck by the view. Church bells rang out across the fields, the sound bounding off the walls of a cemetery outside the city. Across yellow rice fields, the first buildings of the town emerged from a thin layer of mist, painted in hues of orange, yellow, and even blue. I entered the village hot on the heels of a man out for some exercise, and went to peek my head inside the village church. Realizing there was a mass happening, I quickly retreated.

Next to the church was a cafe, seemingly deserted. As I walked by I scoped it out, deciding if I wanted to stop here or continue further into town for the hope of something else. As I did, the proprietor appeared in the doorway, wielding a flyswatter. “A lovely pilgrim passing, and not even greeting us?” He called out, winking. I laughed and said hello, and decided I might as well get something here.

However, as soon as I walked in, I realized the vibe was a bit strange. I sat down at a table inside and the proprietor sat across from me, occasionally asking me a few questions: Where are you from? How long have you been walking? All alone? The usual. He also told me about some family he has in Argentina. And yet the conversation was broken, halting, and he would periodically lean over and begin talking about me to his wife (“Did you hear she has a boyfriend back home? Must be a lucky guy.”). Everything happened in Italian so he must have known I could understand, so it was strange and made me a bit uneasy.

I finished my coffee, thanked the couple, and paid, still feeling a bit weird about the strange vibes. I’m sure they were just being friendly so I’m not sure exactly what it was what was setting me off, but I’ve learned to trust my intuition when I get creeped out about these things. The rest of the town was not much better — a bit seedy-seeming, with plenty of bars where men would sit outside smoking, staring hungrily as I walked by. I kept my head down and made my way quickly out of the village and back into the countryside, where I immediately relaxed.

The next stage was back amongst the rice fields, passing the occasional cascina. Once again it was a beautiful view, with the sun obscured by clouds so it wasn’t too hot. Waterfowl flew gracefully over the rice, the only movement in an otherwise completely still landscape. From these fields I entered Villanova d’Argenghi, which other than one or two elderly people biking seemed to be completely deserted. On the far side of town I stopped by a football pitch on a bench to have my second cornetto.

I continued on a small one-lane road, passed by a massive tractor and not much else. Here the walking path would cross with the bike path — I decided to take the bike path as Patrick had warned me that there was knee-deep mud on the footpath next to the river. So, I stayed on the road which was elevated, giving me a view over to the fast-flowing Ticino. In a way, it reminded me of the Potomac near Great Falls — a small reminder of home.

A number of bikers passed going in the other direction. One slowed down, asked me “Roma?” I responded with an enthusiastic Si! “Da dove?” Canterbury! I shouted back. He whistled, wished me luck, and pedaled on. A group of three stopped me a few minutes later asking the same thing — I heard them expressing their shock to each other as they pedaled away.

I turned off the bike path shortly after and paused for a cold soda and potato chips at a restaurant right along the river, which unfortunately wasn’t yet serving food when I arrived. It was a lovely spot, very peaceful, and would have been a good spot to stop for lunch had I arrived 45 minutes or so later, but I wanted to keep moving on.

From here, relatively sure I had skipped the muddy section, I rejoined the walking path. This was a narrow trail that ambled along the river, with views of ducks and rabbits, then through forests and across fields. Meanwhile I listed to a podcast about the Lombards, who controlled much of Northern Italy, with Pavia as capital city, in the sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries. When they first invaded, coming from the Balkans in 569, they seized Pavia for three years before the city finally gave in. Allegedly the Lombard king, swore to kill every citizen of the city, but upon his arrival his horse collapsed at the city’s edge. Only after he recanted this statement did his horse recover, saving the Pavese from extermination.

Another interesting Lombard fact is that the influence of their language remains in modern Italian. The Lombards originally were a Scandinavian tribe before making there way into Germany and the Balkans and eventually Italy. By the end of their rule, the local Italians had been integrated into the Lombard society, and the cultures and languages mixed. Today in modern Italian, the word for “snore,” russare (a word I have become quite familiar with give my many hostel stays), comes from the Lombard language.

Soon I found myself walking through a city park, under a railroad bridge alongside the Ticino. In the distance I could see the dome of Pavia’s duomo — the dome is the fourth largest in Italy after St. Peter’s, the Pantheon, and the duomo di Firenze. And within minutes I had a line of sight to Pavia’s other famous landmark: its covered bridge. Here I took a set of stairs up to the top of the riverbank and made my way toward the hostel, which is across the river from central Pavia.

First, I stopped at Antica Trattoria Ferrari(!) which had a 15 euro lunch special. I had a coffee and hazelnut risotto (delicious but very strange, since I’m so used to hazelnuts in dessert), turkey in a sage sauce, and a side of fried zucchini (plus a beer and a bottle of water). It was all delicious and the trattoria’s decor was classic, with plenty of old photos of Pavia and a very cool old cash register upfront. After lunch I still had half an hour till check in so sat outside a nearby bar to inspect my feet — two new blisters, unfortunately — and rest.

Suddenly I look up and see a figure in white heading toward me — Patrick! Carrying two cold cans of soda. He sat down with me and we caught up on the last few weeks since we saw each other in Aosta, and the weird vibes we both got on our way to Pavia. He is staying here for a few days, trying to take it easy until his daughter gets here tomorrow. After a bit of chatting we headed to the hostel so I could check in, a somewhat confusing process as the nun in charge would tell me to “wait here” and then disappear for 10 minutes at a time. But finally I received my bed, in a room with a student and a teacher who seemed to be staying in the hostel long term. The 7 beds would ultimately be filled by Joanne and Mariella, and another long-term person who I did not meet. After my normal chores and chatting a bit with Joanne and Daniel, I headed into Pavia to do some errands (buying new shampoo!) and explore the town.

Pavia is a lovely spot — exactly the size of Italian city I like to visit. Given its former history as the Lombard capital (and a major city in the region in the intervening 1300 years or so), it has a lot of history to see, and as a student city it also has lots of cool bars and restaurants.

I visited four of Pavia’s churches. First, the duomo, whose brick exterior does not prepare you for the massive, bright, marble-clad interior. And the dome is also massive from the inside — truly impressive to behold. I walked around for a bit, admiring the altars (including one with the remains of Saint Sirus), trying not to interrupt a group praying. It was strange, I could hear the prayers piped over the loudspeakers to the rest fo the church, but looking over there was no one actually running the service (or at least no one standing near the altar). So no idea if they were listening to a pre-recorded service or someone in the pews had a mic, or what.

I then popped into the Basilica of San Teodoro, hoping to see the frescoed maps of the old city, however there was a mass happening and I didn’t want to intrude. I will have to make it back to Pavia as I have heard this is absolutely stunning! Then I visited the Chiese di Santa Maria in Carmine for its Lombard-Gothic architecture and 15th-century frescoes. Afterwards, I stopped for a gelato and to read my book for a bit.

On my way across town, while on the phone with my dad, a car pulled up beside me and I heard people calling my name. I looked over and there was Fiorella and her husband! I greeted them (they were in town to pick up a new computer) and thanked them again for the recommendations. Afterwards I made my way to the church of San Michele Maggiore, where Barbarossa had been crowed kind in 1155. This was a large and impressive Romanesque church, with a 10th-century silver sculpture of the crucifix.

After a quick ginger beer in a piazza with a view of the Duomo’s dome, I headed to the restaurant La Posta for a meal with Patrick. Over delicious food — a tagliere to split, and two risottos (sausage for me, porcini mushrooms for him) — and good wine we talked me about his plans to visit with his daughter in Pavia and the rest of the trail. Unfortunately, this is most likely the last time we will see each other, as he is here a few days while I am chugging onward. Though of course, you never know. Either way, it’s been an absolute pleasure walking with him and getting to know him — Patrick’s been a big part of my Via Francigena experience — so it’s a bittersweet moment. But, now this time I get to be his advance scout, so I promised to send any useful reconnaissance his way.

After dinner it was back to the hustle and bustle of the packed hostel, and then — finally — to sleep.

Final mileage: 13.75.40mi
Walking time: 5h 23m
Elevation gain: 767 ft

Accommodation: The hostel at Santa Maria in Betlem. The location is great and there is nothing to complain about with the hostel itself. However, arriving toward the beginning of the school year the room was packed with students and teachers still looking for accommodations, who seemed unhappy to have transitory people “invading their space” for the evening.