Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: Volare — Domenico Modugno

“Volare, woah-oh, cantare oh-oh-oh / Nel blu dipinto di blu / Felice di stare lassù”

A song choice relevant due to its prominent use today, more so than the vibes. You’ll see.

There was chaos in the hostel at 6:30 this morning as the three French women and the three Italian men scrambled to pack up before their morning bus, which they would take to cut the day’s distance in half. With 7 of us and one bathroom, I decided to stay in bed until they had gone to avoid adding to the confusion.

I packed up and left shortly after, stopping for a pastry on Altopascio’s main road. I tried to open the Via Francigena app to pull up the GPS route for the day, but it wouldn’t open. I tried repeatedly — closing and opening it, turning data on and off — and nothing worked. So, I figured I would use Maps.Me and where possible try to follow the Via Francigena signs.

This worked well enough following the roads out of town, and then onto a small path through fields and stands of trees. Even in the early morning, I could hear the sound of hunting rifles in the distance. Eventually I plunged into proper forest, where the gunshots got progressively louder. Upon reaching a fork in the road, where the VF signs pointed me on a winding path to the left and Maps.Me was taking me out of the forest, straight on, I decided to divert from the path and walk the road. I just wanted to be away from the hunters. I remembered — too late — that the reason for the VF’s diversion was to coincide with a Roman road that made up part of the original Via Francigena. Wanting to see this in person, I decided that I would double back once I reached Galleno, which I managed quickly and without incident.

It was worth the backtrack — the road was well maintained, and it was moving to walk on the same paved stones that pilgrims a thousand years ago would have crossed as well. I backtracked for five minutes or so, and at the sound of a loud gunshot turned around and retreated to Galleno. Here I followed VF signs to the right back in the direction I had come from, on a narrow path and then to a small asphalt road.

A woman in a car flagged me down and asked if I was walking the Via Francigena. When I said I was, she told me the path was “over there, by the column.” I went to investigate, confused because I could see VF signs on the pole in front of me. She insisted, but since I didn’t see what she was referring to, I thought it would be best to follow the signs. This was a mistake.

I followed this paved road past olive trees and into a stand of trees with signs posted everywhere “Attention: Hunting Area for Wild Boar. Active Wednesday, Saturday, Sunday.” Not that this was really new information — I could hear the shots — but alarming nonetheless. By this point the VF signs I had seen had also entirely disappeared, which made me nervous. Taking a look at Maps.Me I figured out where I thought the actual VF might have gone, and saw I had another 30 minutes or so before I would rejoin it. How bad could it be?

The next 10 minutes were still on a paved road, so no issues there. Then, I turned onto a sandy track by a horse farm, which I figured also would be away from the hunting area. After that, I was on the same wide trail through scrubby underbrush. Shots rang out from all directions, including over where the official VF would have passed. The situation wasn’t dire, really, but my nerves were shot (no pun intended) pretty quickly. The trail I was on seemed like it was somewhat well-trafficked (horseshoe prints and horse shit suggested someone had ridden by within the last few hours), and I was following the recommendations for hunting season: wearing hi-vis, sticking to the trail, and singing so I could be heard.

I figured that I should sing Italian songs to curry favor with the hunters, but there is only one that I confidently know the lyrics to: Volare, famously sung by Domenico Modugno on the Ed Sullivan show. So, for the last 20 minutes, I had been singing it on repeat. I stopped for a moment to check I was still on the correct path, when with a bang a shot rang out, very loud and closer than any of the previous ones. Fuck! I screamed (a knee-jerk reaction) before remembering that my one job here was to sound as human and non-animal as possible. So, even louder than before, voice shaking, I continued: Volare, woah-oh, cantare…

Shortly after this incident, adrenaline still rushing, I rejoined the official VF. As I had suspected, being on the official trail didn’t do much as I was still solidly in hunting territory. Nerves fully fried at this point, I hustled out of the area and to the next road, which I received with much relief. From there it was a short walk down to Ponte Cappiano, a small and charming town with a pilgrim hostel in its historic bridge.

I decided to push on to Fucecchio, though I knew I would need to sit down for awhile after the morning I’d just had. But Fucecchio seemed close, so I figured it was better to continue. The path followed a canal — never have I been more grateful for good old boring canal walking!! — in the hot sun, longer than I had expected. By the time I reached the outskirts of town I was starting to drag, having walked probably 12 miles without stopping since leaving Altopascio. Barely pulling myself up the stairs into town, I collapsed in the first open cafe I found.

The owner shuffled me out of the piazza terrace onto the cafe’s back porch, which had a lovely view out over the green hill behind. Needing to decompress, I put on a podcast and zoned out for 20 minutes until noon, when the kitchen opened and I could order a tagliere. After more zoning out, as I got up to leave two men at the next table over stopped to ask about my journey. Then, after giving me a stamp for my credential, the barman gave me advice on how to get out of town (and recommended I visit the museum, which was unfortunately closed).

After walking on a sunny path on an embankment above fields for awhile, now sweltering in the sun — high of 79 once again, somehow — I realized the path was going to take me on two sides of a right triangle to avoid the road. No thanks! Onto the road for me. It really was only semi-dangerous for a few minutes, where I was squeezed between traffic and a metal barrier. Then I diverted onto a shady road which, while not very scenic, made for easy walking as I powered through San Miniato Basso.

Finally it was time to get to San Miniato Alto, which — obviously, from the name, involved getting up to the top of a rolling Tuscan hill. There is a new, recently developed path which wanders through fields and then switchbacks up much of the hill. It was a nice walk, though hot and exposed in the sun in the early afternoon. This walk, blissfully, ended at an elevator which whisked me three floors up to the historical center.

I looked over and saw a pilgrim perched outside a gelateria with an ice cream in hand. “Marisa!” I called out. She beamed and waved and I headed over to greet her. I was shocked that I caught up with her given my long lunch, as she had started in Galleno. We headed over to the hostel, where the French women were sitting outside. Eugenio was outside as well with his pack on, exclaiming “We just arrived!” I guess I walked faster than expected to have caught them despite their taking the bus — something about getting shot at encourages you to pick up the pace.

It was a very chaotic arrival in the hostel. In addition to our French and Italian companions, we had Marisa, Manuela (an Italian biker who I ran into on the trail the last two days), and Floris, a Dutch guy who started in Lucca. Between me chatting with the Italians and translating to English for Marisa, her and Floris chatting in Dutch, and the French women being in the mix as well, it was incredibly hectic. Once I had showered I headed out for a walk around town.

I made my way uphill to a lookout point over the city. I sat for a long time admiring the view over the cathedral and clock tower to the rolling hills below. We are now properly in Tuscany! In every direction were low hills covered in vines and olive groves, with the famous pointy cypress trees peeking up above the skyline. It’s absolutely stunning and I’m looking forward to more time with this landscape.

After admiring the view and saying hello to the donkeys who roamed the hillside below, I headed back into town for a crepe and then went back to the hostel where I wanted to write. I opened up the door of the hostel and sat outside with my iPad when a man walked over and began staring at the open door. My hackles were immediately raised, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he stood there for multiple minutes, seemingly scoping everything out. I thought he might be trying to steal my phone, which I had on the ground next to me, so I grabbed it and put it in my pocket.

Then he turned to me and started asking me questions. Was I a guest in the hostel? Was I alone? This question immediately made me uncomfortable and I tried to figure out who the hell this guy was. I asked him if he was from San Miniato, and he gave an evasive “yeah…from around here” as he stepped into the open doorway. “I’m just going to use the bathroom and get some water,” he said. I told him that the place was just for pilgrims, and he responded that no, he knows the signora that runs it. That may be true, but this guy was a total creep, so I walked inside with him to make sure he actually went to the bathroom and wasn’t casing the place. Once that was determined I looked up and saw Eugenio nearby and waved him over, explaining the situation and how uncomfortable I was. He went over and knocked on the door, after which the guy emerged (evidently without having used the bathroom) and walked out.

The whole thing was so bizarre, I wasn’t sure how to respond. When the French women returned, I tried to give them a heads up, but they said that he had already been in earlier while they were sitting in the lobby. It turns out he had done the same thing to Floris as well. Super strange and quite uncomfortable.

I decided to head back out (taking my belongings with me), and ran into Manuela. Together we headed to a bar to meet Marisa and Floris, where we sat for a few hours drinking wine and having an early dinner. San Miniato is a truffle town, and their white truffle festival is only a few weeks away — a pleasant reminder of my time at Alba’s white truffle festival last year. In the meantime I wanted to try something with truffle, so my dinner was a sandwich of steak tartare and black truffle on focaccia. It was a lovely evening with a combination of singing (Bob Marley), petting the nearby dogs, and talking about politics.

Afterwards we headed back to the hostel, where the four of us sat chatting for awhile. Apparently the proprietor had come by and warned that all doors should be closed to protect against thieves — another somewhat concerning and sketchy development.

Tomorrow is Eugenio’s birthday, so Marisa and Floris bought a gelato cake to celebrate. When he, Domenico, and Enrico returned from dinner, we surprised him with an Italian rendition of “Happy Birthday.” After blowing out the single candle, he ran off and returned with a bottle of bubbly, and all of us sat outside to celebrate.

Final mileage: 17.34 mi
Walking time: 7h 06m (incl. an hour for lunch)
Elevation gain: 820 ft

Accommodation: Ostello San Miniato. The hostel itself is perfectly nice, but I’m not sure I can fully recommend it given the somewhat creepy vibes. It would have been helpful, at least, to have a heads up from the proprietor about the guy (who was asking me if I was staying there alone) to let us know he was harmless, as in the end it sounds like he often hangs around the place.