Eva on the Via Francigena (and beyond)

Song of the Day: 25 Miles — Edwin Starr

“Twenty-five miles from home, girl / My feet are hurting mighty bad / I’ve been walking for three days and two lonely nights / You know that I’m mighty mad … I got to keep on walking / I got to walk on / I’m so tired, but I just can’t lose my stride”

This is, I think, the best motivational song for a long day of walking or anything physically difficult. I used to sing it to myself when doing the terrifying hike up Highlands Bowl, kicking my ski boots into the slick snow with every step. Today might not have been the longest day of my journey (the Langres-Champlitte day I think wins that title), but the long final uphill, the difficulties finding food and water, and the various other challenges of the day make this the right day for some extra motivation.

After an early alarm, I dragged my belongings out of the hostel room so as to not to wake my bunkmate and got ready in the hostel’s dining room. Just after 6:30 I was out the door and into the dark — and it truly was completely dark. Nathan called quickly to say goodnight and then I was alone on the quiet pedestrian street, leaving the centro storico and turning right on the road out of town.

As I was debating whether to grab a coffee on the way out of town, my dad called to say hi, knowing I get a bit creeped out by these before-dawn starts. We chatted for a long time, as I made it out of the suburbs and onto a quiet gravel road that passed through the countryside. Off to my left I could see light just beginning to creep upwards across the sky. Thick clouds swam through the valleys between the famous Valdorcian hills. Above me, the sky was clear and I could see stars between the cypress trees.

It had started to brighten by the time my dad signed off, and trekked along contentedly till I reached the hamlet of Vignoni Alto, a former fortress guarding the towns below. Morning had fully broken by now, and I was treated to a truly spectacular sunrise. Stripes of pink and orange cut across the sky, the clouds still hung low but with islands of cypress trees emerging from them below, and ahead of me I could just see the silhouette of Castiglione d’Orica, high on a hill. I stopped for awhile to admire the view, captivated. If nothing else, the early start was worth it for this.

The views continued as I headed steeply downhill into the town of Bagno Vignoni, which was remarkable in its own way. The town’s central piazza, rather than being a square, is a large rectangular thermal pool. In the morning, steam rose off the surface, which gurgled occasionally. I stopped for a coffee and a brioche cioccolato (the closest thing to a pain au chocolate) and watched, mesmerized. As I went to pay I realized I was running critically low on cash, so had to stop at an ATM on the way out of town. Then, unsure of the path out, I found myself meandering along thermal streams below the town. This was well worth the detour as I found myself at the base of a large turquoise thermal pool, with the thermal streams cascading down from above.

After some difficulty actually getting out of town — the pedestrian bridge was closed so I had to divert back to the Via Cassia before looping back to re-join the VF on an uphill trek towards Castiglione. According to the weather app it was 59 degrees — I believed this in Bagno Vignoni, where I was chilly as I started walking again. But going uphill in the sun made it seem much warmer, and I despite the weather being objectively nice I found myself struggling to cool off. I ended up stopping mid-climb to delayer and pour water on my face, which helped a lot.

With the biggest part of the climb behind me, I traced my way through olive groves just below the road into Castiglione — it’s a shame that the VF doesn’t go into town, as it’s supposed to be very nice. But, I was glad to be saved a bit of climbing. As I started to make my way downhill, I checked the time, and realized I must have spent more time than expected dicking around in Bagno Vignoni. I’d probably only walked 6 or 7 miles and I had been on the road for 3 hours. At that rate it was going to be a long time before I got to Radicofani.

But, I was also starting to feel the nagging pains one seems to get only on long haul days. My bad hip was acting up, and wouldn’t stop hurting no matter how I adjusted my pack. The soles of my feet were aching, and I was worried about more blisters emerging. I told myself that most of these things would eventually pass over the course of the day — they usually do — and put on Edwin Starr to set the pace.

I headed downhill, along the foot of a few hills, and then climbed back to a ridge for more classic Val d’Orcia scenery. The rolling hills in all direction were beautiful, and the rows of Sangiovese vines glowed a brilliant yellow-green as the leaves started to turn. In the distance, I saw a familiar-looking mountain with a recognizable, almost rectangular peak and a fortress at the top. I groaned — that was Radicofani? I couldn’t fathom how it could possibly look so far away. Adding to this, I was starting to get hungry, and as I walked along the ridge line I suddenly became cognizant of dark gray clouds moving in behind me. I prayed for no rain — or, at the very least, no thunderstorms.

But the hunger was going to be an issue. Allegedly, an agriturismo on the way offered a pilgrim lunch. Just outside the halfway point of Gallina I passed the Agriturismo Passalacqua, which I thought was this place — but quickly making a loop of the grounds it was clear no one was home. Glancing an eye at the dark clouds, I pressed onward.

I headed down another hill and had 30 minutes or so of flat walking through fields and woods. As I went to “ford” a non-existent stream, I noticed a series of cars parked on the path. Hunters, of course. There was an empty picnic bench just off the trail, but not wanting to eat my lunch mid-hunt I continued on, stopping to briefly chat with the boar hunters I passed.

Emerging from the woods unscathed, I passed another agriturismo after maybe 20 minutes or so. This one’s gate was open, and a man sitting in his car just inside greeted me as I walked past. At this point I was hungry to the point of nausea and my legs were dead tired, having walked at least 12 miles with no real breaks. The agriturismo had a few chairs near the gate, and as far as I could tell I was on an old country road for the foreseeable future with nowhere good to sit. I figured that the agriturismo guy seemed nice — why not ask if I could sit for a few minutes in one of his chairs? Worst that could happen is he would say no.

Or so I thought. As I looped back and walked toward the gate, the family’s Maremma sheepdog started barking and ran at me. I assumed that, since it was an agriturismo that presumably had strangers coming in and out frequently, the dog was just going to bark at me before calming down. Even so, I stepped back a bit to try and appease it. I assumed wrong — the dog snarled angry at me, and teeth bared, made a lunge in my direction. I had my poles out in front of me for some form of protection, and the dog grabbed on to one end of my pole, giving me enough time to back away further before yanking it from its grasp. As it turns out, the guy in the car was not the proprietor (his feeble attempts to call back the dog made this clear), so I decided this was a good sign that this would not be the place to stop. A bit shaken up, I thanked the guy and continued on. As I walked away I still couldn’t wrap my head around it — yes, I understand the dog is trained to guard the premises, and by stepping over the threshold of the gate I was fair game…but how do you run a hospitality business with a dog that aggressive? Anyway, very much aware that the interaction could have been much worse, I counted my blessings and kept walking.

Just as I felt like my legs were going to give out I passed another agriturismo, this one up a hill. Thankfully, though, they had built a nice little retaining wall near their driveway which was the perfect height for me to perch on and make a sandwich of the salami and pizza bianca I had purchased yesterday. I ate quickly, staring absentmindedly at the large hill in front of me.

Feeling a bit better having eaten, I continued on my way, listening to an interesting podcast about the production designer for Martin Scorsese’s new film. I used to do light design for theater and always found production and lighting people to be very interesting — this guy was no exception. As I listened, the road took me up another hill, and then down under the Via Cassia, where I stumbled across stones that appeared to be a dry creek-bed — not sure if this cut-through exists in the wet season or not. From there I paralleled the highway on a nice-enough gravel track in the trees. To my left I played peekaboo with an almost completely dried-up riverbed, and eventually I rounded a corner to discover that I would be crossing the river, which was wider here. Unbuckling my pack I carefully made my way across the slick stones connecting the banks, before continuing on. Here fall seemed to be in full swing, with shades of orange and yellow cropping up in the scrub that was growing in the dried-up riverbed. The dark clouds had moved on to bother other people, and the sun was shining brightly. During this time, I passed 3 signs saying I had 8km to Radicofani…the distance between these signs was at least 3 kilometers in total, so hard to know which was correct.

Emerging from this tree-field section back into farmland, I crossed a small bridge to another agriturismo, this one advertising food and drinks for pilgrims. Two men were walking around outside, clearly scoping out the place — no dice, they told me. Their names were Ian and Ken, from Canada, heading to Radicofani where their friends had taken the bus and would meet them. We chatted for awhile, walking by a pilgrim resting place that advertised water but did not seem to have a fountain. We lamented the confusing signs, but figured we must have about 8k to go now, since the route famously ends with about 8k of uphill, and we were looking at a climb. I bid them a buon cammino and set off up the hill.

Just as I started climbing, I ran out of water in my camelback. Luckily I had filled up my water bottle as well at a fountain earlier, but even so I was a bit worried about having enough water to make it to the top, if the hill was as bad as advertised. With this worry in mind, the sun seemed even hotter, and I could feel myself overheating again. Damn — I should have looked harder for that fountain.

I stopped for awhile, crouching in the shade of a short wall, eating an apple which I tried to convince myself would help hydrate me. A man in a very rickety-looking van stopped and asked if I wanted a ride — I politely declined, both out of principle and because his van didn’t really look like it was going to make it up the hill without falling apart. As I contemplated my mistake — nay, hubris — regarding the water situation, I rounded a corner and god bless saw a set of picnic tables and a fountain. Never so happy, I almost jogged over and immediately washed my face, doused my bandana, and decanted cold, fresh, water into my Camelback. I took more than I thought I would need — almost as much as I left with this morning, and continued on, much refreshed. Nothing like actually cold water at the end of a long day, rather than my usual lukewarm, mildew-flavored specialty.

In the end, the uphill was not as brutal as I expected. I chugged along at my normal pace, and had a quick call with my mom and grandmother (who were together). I put on Edwin Starr one last time (had to!) and charged up to a sign announcing I had arrived in Radicofani — thought there was still more uphill to go.

I arrived at the hostel and called the number listed a few times to no response. Finally, I got ahold of the man who runs it, who told me to go in and make myself comfortable and he would come by. After claiming a bed, showering, and washing my clothes, he had still not arrived and I was getting hungry, so I ran to the bar across the street for a snack. In the meantime, Domenico arrived and had a similarly bizarre interaction with the owner. When 3 hours had passed since my arrival and the proprietor hadn’t come, I decided to head out on a walk. The town was charming and small, with dark stone houses and few businesses. After a quick lap I headed back to the hostel. Nearby was a small park with benches overlooking the hills beyond. I sat for a long time, staring and pondering the journey so far. Somewhere along the way the scenery had changed on me. The rolling Tuscan hills were gone. Ahead of me were small but more stark mountains completely covered in forest. Beyond them, it would be relatively flat between me and Rome (I think..) I couldn’t believe I was almost there.

A few days ago was the one year anniversary of my move from Boston to Rome. It’s a bittersweet anniversary — a reminder of a difficult but ultimately incredibly rewarding decision, but also a reminder of the fact that this chapter is coming to a close. A few days before I left Boston, starting to get sentimental, I worried to Nathan about how everything was soon going to be hard — calling a restaurant to make a reservation, going to the doctor…despite my half-decent Italian and comfort in the country, everyday things were going to be more difficult than they were in the US. In the end, of course, that challenge was one of the things I loved about the experience. And my Italian has improved a lot, especially in the last month or so. I do think I can turn the page and prepare for the next phase of my life feeling proud about what I’ve accomplished and what I’ve learned from my time in Italy.

I spoke to Nathan for awhile, who is in New York visiting friends, while watching the sunset. Then I headed back to the bar for dinner of pasta al ragu. At the next table over were Ken and Ian, plus the rest of their group: Ruth, Jeremy, and Joanne. We chatted for awhile before they headed back to their Airbnb to cook. After dinner I returned to the hostel where Sergio and Domenico were talking in the kitchen. Sergio, the Neapolitan, gave us a masterclass on how to properly make coffee. The main takeaway — when you fill up the coffee grounds in the basket of the Mokapot, “make mount Vesuvius” and under no means pack the coffee down. After some chatting in the kitchen, I excused myself to head to bed, as I was exhausted.

Final mileage: 21.21 mi
Walking time: 8h 26m
Elevation gain: 3,382 ft

Accommodation: Hostel run by the Confraternita di San Jacobo di Compostella. This had been recommended to me over the communal hostel, but not sure why. I think perhaps in the summer there is a livelier atmosphere with hospitaleros who will make communal dinners, etc.