Home Test

We walk with no purpose in mind

Not wondering what we may find

Each step will stand on its own

One before, one that follows

Never alone.

May 24, 2022

After 2 years planning, we are on our way. It is unexpectedly emotional to be addressed as “Pilgrims”. As we approached the counter to buy tickets to enter the Cathedral and to get the first stamp on our Via Francigena passport, the docent asked “Are you walking from Canterbury to Rome?” At that moment I felt induced into the community of wanderers along the Francigena, a subculture of thru-walkers, known and recognized along the way. “Pilgrims enter for free” he said as he stamped our passport, “Have an uplifting journey.”

This evening we attended Evensong at the Cathedral. As the girls choir sublimely sang, accompanied by the reverberating sound of the organ, their voices wafted up up the massive columns to the soaring transept where it seemed to linger in harmonious repose. I don’t know if this is part of an uplifting journey, but it made for a very good day.

May 27

Because we look like hikers people will ask “Where are you going”.   When we answer “Rome”, the reactions have been consistent: the doubtful “Wow, that is a walk”, the hopeful “Well good luck” or the more absent minded “That’s nice”.  Today we asked an elderly gentleman for directions to the Via Francigena path, “Where are you going?” he asked. “To Rome” we replied. His eyes lit up and he doubled over in laughter.  That seems like an appropriate reaction.

May 28

Dover to Calais to Wissant

Today we had 7 goals:

1. Buy used bicycles because no foot traffic is allowed on the Dover-Calais ferry
2. Engineer structural modifications to the bikes to accommodate luggage, eg eliminate one seat, build wooden platforms, secure with straps and duck tape
3. Make the channel crossing on the ferry as cyclist without ever riding the bicycles
4. Travel from Calais to Wissant (from where Caesar crossed to invade England and Sigeric actually started his trek across France)
5. Secure the Pilgrim Stamp in Wissant
6. Identify the route out of town.
7. Have a good meal

Missions accomplished!

May 29        

Wissant to Guines – 29 km

We left the broad beach of Wissant and the white cliffs of Dover behind to begin the walk across of the French countryside to the Jure and the Alps.

The leg to Guines is the 2^nd of 47 in France.  We walked against the wind through rain and shine with only a brief stop for lunch; a ham and cheese baguette never tasted so good.  We kept watch on the weather as it rolled across the plain, granting us time to put on our rain gear, which protected us spectacularly well.  Some frantic cyclists but no thru walkers until we reached our hotel in Guines, a single English woman walking the whole way to Rome, but she lives in Italy and thinks Cinque Terre is too touristy.  We may have to keep our distance.

May 30, 2022

Guines to Tournehem sur le Hem – 30.4 km

Tranquil day strolling across the French countryside through some downpours under spectacular cloud formations.  By mile 15 we were giddy and then ran into this

We were delusionally revived so we ate a basket of freshly picked Strawberries.

May 31, 2022

Tournehem sur la Hem to Visques – 20km

We think of ideal hiking adventures as walking in pristine nature. We yearn
for a sense of exploration, discovery, and perhaps even mystical union with
mother earth. Remote canyons, virgin forests, ground never touched by human
footprint. This is not that. Every inch of land is curated by human hand, not
an inch is left unattended. Even the old Roman path we walk on, built by Caesar’s
legions as they marched to conquer Britain, is carefully maintained to serve thru
walkers, as we are called.  But in these vast fields of wheat and corn, grape seed and sorghum each stalk and stem are barely a month old, seen by only a handful of walkers and an occasional rabbit.  Individually unique, in the aggregate shape a
pristine landscape.

But then there is this and our walk continues.

June 1, 2022

Wisques to Therouanne – 16km

We started our walk by visiting the Abby of Notre Dame in Wisques, briefly listening to the Kyrie Eleison de Angelis sung by the cloistered nuns of the Benedictine order.   Cloistered nuns isolate from the outside world, apparently only using their voices when they sing, so we could not see them. 

Our walk continued to Therouanne a small burg that at one time boated the largest Cathedral in Europe.  It was destroyed by Charles V, who is also credited with the sack of Rome in 1527, when he ordered the town leveled, the Cathedral destroyed and the surrounding farms salted.  Can’t figure how he merits the title “Holy Roman Emperor”

Week 1 Summary – Observations by Paula

Each day is its’ own accomplishment and gift.  Think Hanukkah, not Christmas.

It has been a full week on the Via Francigena and the classic question would be: has it been what you would hope for? Who thinks to walk from Canterbury to Rome?   —  So, Yes!

Although I have been a bit surprised by public reaction when we have been asked about our journey. In England several people casually asked the reason for our visit. When we replied we are walking from Canterbury to Rome the reaction was a nonchalant acceptance: “Oh, nice”.  However, if you casually asked a stranger about their holiday and they replied “Pulling out my toenails with pliers” you may not advance that conversation either, In other words it is a conversation stopper.

We have encountered at least 3 miracles:

1. In Dover the ferry lines prohibit pedestrians but allow bicycle traffic.  When confiding with John, the hotel manager, of our plight he produced 2 bicycles from his basement. Intrigued by our caper to load our luggage on the bikes, board the ferry, arrive in Calais, dump the bikes, he then engineered an elaborate platform on the back fenders of the bikes using bedframe parts and duct tape.  The only problem was the bicycles no longer had seats.  It worked, we arrived in Calais
2. Literally in the middle of nowhere a fresh strawberry dispensary appeared.  Insert Euro, push button, open door, take out the most perfect container of strawberries
3. A few of our hotels have had hair dryers, obviously important for drying laundry.

It has been an incredible week of exhilarating adventure. We have met two other Pilgrims, an angry English lady and a lovely Italian man. The long paths have been empty, just the two of us. Often I feel a bit guilty –  Edward has meticulously organized the incredible number of details of our trip, you’ve seen the spreadsheet, and now constantly checking our path and coordinates, leaving me the luxury to engage in random thoughts as I walk along. Just today I found myself —

• Debating if the couch would be better facing the window or the fireplace
• Musing if I should wear my hair straight like Chris Jenner’s  at the Met Ball
• And wondering why am I continually humming the Marseilles?

Thank you for following us.

This part of the country produces 80% of the world’s linen. The plants bloom a dark blue flower that is just starting to appear

This used to be coal country and some of the mining residue is piled in mounds that litter the landscape

We’ve been walking along this path covered with white puff balls from some sort of puff ball tree that we haven’t been able to Identify but I want our driveway paved with it

Bruay le B is the first urban setting in a week want to get back to the country

June 4-5, 2022

We walked through sunshine and pouring rain. On the way out of Bruay le B. a car stopped to ask if we were lost. “We are on the Via Franchigena to Rome”, I said. “Eh bien, continuez tout droit et prenez la troisieme a droit au round-point.” So we got lost, It took us another hour to get out of town, but on the way into Arras an elderly lady came to us and asked if we were Pilgrims, “Nous marchons jusqu’a Rome” I replied. “Bon voyage, je prierai pour vous. ” So we have that going for us.

Luigi, our unlikely Italian traveling contemporary, called us mid day to warn that the path mid way to Arras was an impassible, muddy mess. We were able to detour around it. Luigi, a 73 year old traveling alone with a back pack, is on his 6th Pilgrimage. “Why do you do this”, I asked, “Because I want to walk” he replied without a tinge of sarcasm.

Arras is a pleasant surprise. The city, which was completely destroyed in the Battle of Arras (1917), was rebuilt from the ground up in its original Flemish/Dutch style. Great public squares, a spectacular City Hall and Cathedral, lively scene. We are 2 days in Arras.

Jun 6, 2022 (40th Anniversary)

And now out to dinner to celebrate our vary happy 40 years.

Mostly through rain, wind and often muddy paths. We ate young peas, and rubbed lavander between our palms as we walked along while keeping track of the shifting clouds as they floated across the horizon. We passed through several large cattle farms where we were overwhelmed by the smell of ammonia and hydrogen sulfide and methane. Visited several Commonwealth cemeteries but more on that tomorrow on our walk to Peronne. We are sustained by your encouragement.

Heavy rain most of the day.  The steel grey low sky cast a somber pall over the  Commonwealth Cemeteries that flank the Via Franchigena.  The fallen lie here on land donated by France to create the illusion of home, carefully looked after, to memorialize their sacrifice during WW1.   It is a moving tribute, simple in its focus on the individual, without traces of the heroic monumentalism that often accompanies war memorials but leaving unanswered the question of why the sacrifice necessary or even proper.  A squabble between the grandchildren of Queen Victoria and a geriatric leadership in Europe escalated with the purpose and intent of a runaway train. Knowing what we do now what could have and should have been done to avoid the four-year orgy of slaughter?

Anyhow, the sun shone at the end of the day. 

Beautiful day for the decent into the Somme valley. We left Peronne after visiting the Monument aux Morts. Shaped like a cannon, a woman’s outstretched arm and clenched fist for a barrel, as she leans over the dead body of a son or husband.. A modern Pieta, her face defiant, angry and bereft rather than the mournful sadness of the Virgin Mary.

And we also enjoyed fresh peas and warm sunshine.

Weekly summary from the sequin to sackcloth tour

Yesterday was the completion of week two and I am happy to report the state of the team is – Strong! However, there have been days when we were destroyed and broken.

Now an update on our accommodations which have been varied. We have stayed in four family farms, one remains my favorite stay to date. It was a farmer and his wife Colette. The entrance was through a courtyard, a square of distressed brick buildings with long sloping roof tiles. Once inside you were greeted by a riot of flowers, barking dogs, alarmed cats and an impressive wall of vintage water cans. The house was a labyrinth of rooms, hallways and inexplicable stairs, every inch decorated or more.

Then there was last night – we arrived into a village of 85 residents and were greeted by our host, Hubert. He explained that the accommodation was for a bed and breakfast but not dinner. However, a fish monger would be bringing her truck so we could select fish and prepare it in his kitchen. And the fact that this conversation was even possible is that Edward has been kicking the French!! He is amazing, mine is limited to Bon jour, eclair and Edith Piaf songs. However, Edward has been very complimentary of my Italian which apparently I launch into when confronted with anything French.

The flat path along the St Quintin canal cuts through fields of wheat, corn and beetroot, through small villages, each with a Church across from the Town Hall and a war memorial to the side. Some have benches under an old oak where we eat mid morning snack, lunch or a mid afternoon pick-me-up as the walking day progresses. The heat started to set in making those brief shaded moments a welcome relief. St Quintin is a bustling town with an impressive 12th century Basilica set in a crowded square, framed against a bus terminal and parking lot, diminishing its massive scope and size. It has been repeatedly destroyed and rebuilt, most recently during WW1, the restoration from which was not completed until 1956. Interesting are the Knights Templar chapel with a genealogy tree that links Jesus to the Merovingian monarchy and a floor labyrinth which pilgrims have walked for centuries on the road to salvation, which we were unable to complete (due to construction). Though we did not have time to explore them, there are recently unearthed remnants of a foundation dating back to Charlemagne’s time. Tergnier is a dingy rail town, even in the bright afternoon sun.

Laon is a well-preserved medieval hilltop town with a spectacular gothic Cathedral, one of the first built in France.  The walk up 450 stairs from the plain below is well worth it. We stop here for 2 nights for provisioning, laundry, and rest.  The Cathedral is well reviewed but what impressed us most is the ambitious, massive, and yet ethereal gothic decorations of the structure which, while built in the 12h century, has survived intervening wars relatively intact.  One can’t help wondering at the devotion and dedication of the thousands of peasants who toiled over 80 years building this stairway to heaven. Laon is also home to one of the few Knights Templar churches, and octagonal structure that is supposed to replicate the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem.  The Knights who resided there were captured, tortured, and killed in 1307, under orders from King Philip IV of France, for heresy and satanism or because he wanted their loot.  We feel rested and ready for the next phase of our adventure.

We were sorry to leave Laon, a village with a good sense of its identity.  Not much on the way to Corbeny other than a long, straight, shaded path called Chemin des Dames, named that because Louis XV’s daughters walked it.  In Corbeny we met another Francigena pilgrim, this time a German who lives in California and has done 7 “Caminos”.  “Where are you going next?” I asked. “Dunno, I’ll see what I feel like tomorrow.” His weathered face tells me he could do 50 km without breaking a sweat.  Thrice divorced “First 2 divorces were successful, last one was a disaster.  A Valley Girl.”  Interesting to measure marriages by how successful the divorces are.  It must be a California thing. But he did share some Pilgrim wisdom: “If you are looking for water, find a cemetery, the faucets are always open.”  Only on a Camino.

Routine is important for babies and anyone walking from Canterbury to Rome. Now, more than three weeks in, we have a well-established daily routine at least as we set out each morning.

We wake up early, which is a direct correlation to the fact that we go to bed early, think sun is still up! Like good laborers we shower at the end of the day and rinse out clothing we feel will be dry in the morning. This nightly routine allows maximum time in the morning for applying many ointments and support materials. Sunscreen is extremely important as I try not to resemble Magda in Something About Mary, my walking stick hand already has a mahogany patina. As we move south, we have started to encounter very warm weather.

Now it is time to wrap my feet, all in the hope of avoiding the inevitable blister. Edward’s feet look like hands, hands that play piano, mine look like they have gone a couple of rounds with Sonny Liston. But I digress. Now the feet are ready for the day. Wardrobe selection is easy, the selection is limited to 3 pants and 3 shirts. Backpacks are loaded with water, rain gear and lunch – we check the maps, the GPS and our intuition and off we go.

The first 30 minutes is a mental and physical conversation or negotiation. The brain starts asking questions: whose idea was this, and offering options, let’s go shopping there were some cute frogs with umbrellas in that shop window. Then the endorphins swoop in, to the soundtrack of Flight of the Valkyrie and suddenly it all feels SO Good!!

By the end of the day, and we usually walk 7 hours, it feels like I have watched the day go by like scenes from a train window. So much to process. While most of the photographs we share are beautiful horizons, the Via Francigena takes us through varied neighborhoods. Suburban homes with carefully manicured lawns full of garden statuary and others in decline with boarded windows and vacant lots. We hear barking dogs, tractors clacking, babies crying and silence.

During the last hour our gait resembles a toddler learning to walk, we find our lodging for the night, have our pilgrim passport stamped, settle in so grateful for the opportunity to spend our day walking.

We crested a hill and all at once, as if stepping onto a new world, the landscape changed from golden fields of grain to neat green rows of vines stretching to the horizon   We are in Champagne region.  Hermonville, like many wine region towns, is orderly and clean with a well-preserved Romanesque 12^th century church where we listened to the town choir practicing a truly angelic Kyrie Eleison.   The Piccolo Pizzeria offered a reasonably good Bolognese. We enjoyed our hosts, a transplanted Dutch couple who left Den Hague 23 years ago to open a B&B in the Marne.  They also teach leadership skills in Rwanda.   On to Reims.

Some pilgrim followers have asked about hotels and food. 

Accommodations.  Except for our 2-night rest stops, we stay at pilgrim hotels, 2- or 3-star locations, some even have closets.  While humble, they are generally comfortable or at least appear that way at the end of a long day walking; we have been disappointed only on a couple of occasions where the hosts seemed to have lost track of their responsibilities.  For our longer stays we try to stay at upscale locations though in several cities there aren’t many choices.  We are grateful we have not had to camp out on a park bench in front of a Church as many Francigena walkers have done when no facilities were available.

Cuisine.  This has been a big surprise.  Until arriving in Reims we have enjoyed mediocre food that revealed a penchant for cream sauces and French fries. 

We thoroughly enjoyed Reims.  The Cathedral is a wonder to behold but we also went to the Reims Automobile Museum which, if you are a fan of vintage Renaults and Citroens, is a pleasant place to visit, and the Carnegie Biblioteque (thanks for the suggestion Roy) which led us to read up on Andrew Carnegie.   Our desire for good food was fully satisfied when we enjoyed a delectable meal at a restaurant with the unlikely name CrYpto, and where we also indulged a bottle of 2012 Perrier- Jouet.  We hope food gets better as we head south.

High 90s under the hot sun.  We take the heat and sun seriously with frequent water stops. Fortunately, the path takes us into the Reims regional natural park, a long stretch deep into cool woods, where the random fallen log makes for an easy resting stoop. But we arrive at Trepail in a blaze of heat, sweat and fatigue where the accommodations are comfortable but there is no air conditioning or a fan. We slept the uneasy sleep of slumbering in a sweat lodge without a whisper of a breeze.   But, good news, the food was decent.

My cousin Anna Maria refers to what we are doing with the Latin phrase ad aster per aspera. There is some of that though we are not suffering in any real sense of the term.  

Our walk took us along the Canal Lateral a le Marne, a shaded, straight gravel path with comfy benches every km or so.  We are in the center of Champagne region.  The signs of Champagne’s bounty are everywhere: elegant cathedrals, stately homes, shops, restaurants.  The Harley Davidson rally in the center square came with well-groomed motorcycles straddled by pot-bellied, bearded men wearing Call of Duty sunglasses and leather jackets proclaiming: “I’m a Southern Red-Neck/Kiss my Ass”, as a French rock band played Credence Clearwater, AC/DC, Rolling Stones and closed with “Sweet Home Alabama” to a gently swaying crowd of espadrilles and Nantucket pink shorts.   Dinner of roasted lamb shoulder was delicious. 

We can’t get away from WW1. Every town and village have a memorial to the fallen during the Great War.  What we need is a daily, 5-minute blaring siren to remind us of the futility and unspeakable horror of war.  We are listening to G.C. Meyer’s A World Undone as we walk through fields where Generals, experts at war, confident of victory, executed a strategy whose goal was to deplete the other side’s supply of ammunition by marching row after row of soldiers into the maelstrom of well positioned machine guns.  The parallels to our present situation are stark: sanctions, blockades, unlimited supply of weapons, grain shortages, spiraling inflation, demonization of the other side, corrupt regimes, domineering egos, humanity abandoned for savagery and more. I Don’t have any answers, but I agree with the old man in Catch-22 who told Nately “It is better to live on your feet than die on your knees.”

We walked off piste today to shorten what would otherwise have been a 35km day. This is a walk, not penance.  The secondary country roads are not much traveled and go through pleasant towns.  We were passed by two guys riding in a maroon convertible 2-chevaux with leather suitcases strapped to the back traveling not much faster than we were walking.  A delivery truck stopped to inquire where we were going. When we said, “To Rome!” and after a French shrug and a pursed-lipped “Oughre”, gave us a bottle of cool water.  We are trying to figure out why we can walk 20-30 minutes without traffic but then two cars or trucks traveling in opposite directions meet right where we happen to be. It is cosmic.  

As we move into Week 5 I can report we are feeling Strong! However, occasionally I am reminded of a slogan from the window of a tattoo and piercing salon – “you bet it hurts.” 

Additionally as we are trudging along my mind turns to Segric, the Serious as he is known in history. Segric, in 990, walked this path from Canterbury to Rome to receive his pallium, think scarf, the ultimate accessory for the Archbishop. But I wonder if he was perhaps know as Segric, the Happy-Go-Lucky until he got to the Alps and then he had the happy sucked out of him. Let’s see if we have any personality shifts. And another question, how did he get home?

Some have asked if we are losing weight – we should be, right!? We burn from 1500 to 2000 calories a day, lug around 10lb+ back packs, and haven’t had a cocktail in a month! In fact when we order wine it is a half bottle, I thought those were for the kids menu. The scene unfolds very delicately –  the waiter first clarifies that he has heard correctly, then goes somewhere where those little babies live. He comes back cradling the bottle in the palm of his and presents it like the skeptical remains of a bird. The tasting requires that he stand there holding the bijou. Once served it is then placed in the ice bucket where it bobs and weaves like a drowning swimmer. So, yes,  I think we are losing weight but fat is a incredibly loyal companion so if you are trying to decide between the Keto or the Via Francigena, for a weight loss plan I’d go with Keto.

Last night while saying good night from our twin beds, which we pushed together, Edward and I started laughing at the sheer joy and absurdity of it all. Onward.

Chavanges, a spit of a town, nurtured us.  Our gracious hosts Agnette and Jean Francois prepared a delicious meal of lamb stew and potatoes dauphine after which we retired to a restful sleep.  Brienne le Chateau, a town that boasts Napoleon found his identify at the military school there and has a Chateau and museum to show for it, drained us.  Our room was right on a main truck route so while trying to cope with stifling heat we were serenaded by 18 wheelers pumping brakes. No sleep, but the Camino provides so the next day we had a very pleasant, almost restorative walk, to Bar sur Aube.

Bar sur Aub rests on the banks of the Aub, languorously calling back to a time when it was a center of commerce for the champagne region. The relatively short walk to Clairvaux was along some of the prettiest paths we have walked to date, over gently rolling hills through the last of the champaign vineyards and then corn, wheat and alfalfa fields. The landscape has changed dramatically, we did several 400-500 m climbs along the way. We arrived in Clairvaux during a down poor that rendered the stark contours of Bernard du Clairvaux’s Cistercian abbey dark and somber. Not much of the 11^th century structure remains, but it must have been something to behold, at its peak one of the largest Abbeys in Europe. It was destroyed during the 100 year war, rebuilt in the 1700s but converted to a maximum security prison in Napoleon’s time and still used that way today. The Cistercians were the Fundamentalists of their day, insisting on strict adherence to the Rule of St Benedict, first formulated in the 6^th century. At its peak Clairvaux was home to 120 monks. That number declined in the 13^th century as other monastic movements competed successfully for recruits. Stock options were not invented yet.

Beautiful walk through the forests of Haut-Marne.  I can understand why Sigeric wanted to do this walk: stop by the Boulangerie early in the morning for the day’s provisions; pause before a church, in the shade of a post oak, across from the Mairie for lunch; a cold beer on the terrace of a restaurant at the end of the day watching a parade of vintage cars wind through the narrow streets of the town. He had the life.

Raining all day.  We walk through the woods on slippery, muddy trails dotted with these orange snails that must love this weather because they are all out for their mid-day walk. We arrive at the hotel looking like we just showered with all our clothes on but with muddy boots.  The church on the main square is open but not particularly inviting.  All our clothes are damp and smell moldy. On days like this we look at each other and say “Whose idea was this anyhow?”

Another day in the rain.  We walk to the sound of rain hitting our rain hoods, hopping between mud puddles and scraping mud from our overweight, muddy shoes.  The slippery slopes took us the bottom of  Langres’ ramparts that appeared through the mist, like a medieval vision,  1500 feet above. We are looking forward to a day of rest. Pictures when we get internet.

We have been without internet for 3 days, so this is a catch up.

First, Langres for 2 days.  What a great little town! A Roman/Medieval hilltop town defended by imposing ramparts.  It is now a foodie haven, packed with people from the Netherlands and Belgium. We had some excellent meals.  Langres is the birthplace of Diderot (Enlightenment philosopher) who was imprisoned for proclaiming “We should strangle the aristocracy with the entrails of priests.”  He is also known for his Encyclopedia, kind of a Google of its day, where one of the first entries was an article on Atheism and that got him jail time as well.  His statue stands resolutely across from the superb Cathedral, a Romanesque/Gothic structure of imposing proportions even though it sits in a crowded square.  We did our laundry and rested up for the next stage.

A wonderful walk along the Canal Entre Champagne and Bourgogne and around Lac de la Liez where we had lunch, a baguette and an orange under a weeping willow, but when the path took a turn into the wooded area along the banks of the river Saolon it became very muddy and covered with nettles and thorny bushes, so much so that in places the path was not visible.  This slowed our pace down from our usual 22–24-minute mile to a 50 minute mile. We were happy to arrive at our Pilgirm’s B&B, flies and all, though we stayed clear of the shed with all the chainsaws.

We feel fortified entering week 6 following a lovely two night stay in Langres. When checking in to the hotel Edward asked if a room upgrade would be possible,  adding “you know a room you would give to the Pope.” It worked, the room was wonderful, complete with Kleenex, writing paper, no Wi-Fi and a hairdryer. 

The two night stays are built into the schedule for extra rest, and most importantly to do laundry. Our wardrobe was particularly ripe after nearly a week of rain and a 10 day gap in service. The laundromat wasn’t nearly as charming as the previous laundromats. The machines were located at a roadside gas station under a small awning next to the gas pumps. Unloading our suitcase and filing the machines seem to offer some entertainment value for the customers at the pumps. But job done, we raised our still warm clothing to our faces and were grateful they no longer smelled like ass.

I hope you are not growing tired of our morning selfies, they may seem repetitive – hats, glasses, big smile. But crazy as it may seem those smiles accurately reflect how we feel. By contrast, at the end of the day we stumble into our destination, frozen expressions, mild hallucinations and even stepping off the curb can extract  what sounds like a Gregorian chant. But by morning we are restored, like lobotomy restored! We wake in the morning saying “hey that was awesome lets do it again!” 

Or that smile could be the afterglow of blasting the song One More Day from Les Miserables.

Some have asked if we walk in silence or talk.  We do both. Miraculously we still manage to amuse and entertain ourselves and each other. 

Our digital subscriptions have allowed us to stay current on news and events. We discuss various political and economic topics along with plant and insect identification. There is a neon orange snail, the Limace, you have to see it and mistletoe is a parasitic  plant!  And then there are our musings and random speculations, for example, what is the statistical probability of a certain bug making it safely across the lane. 

Many of the paths require we walk single file allowing for plenty of “me time.” This “me time” allows for consideration of pop culture topics like, Is Sarah Jessica Parker Parker brave for going gray and why did  Brian Austin Green and Sharna Burgess have a hard time choosing a baby boy name. Tough stuff!

There is silence but it feels intentional, oddly, almost conversational.

And then there is this other thing we are doing – Many weeks ago we met a couple, a father and daughter. We were staying the night at the same guest house, they were conspicuously silent, and guarded. We learned that they are from Minnesota and when answered if they were walking to Rome, they offered different answers. Father, “absolutely walking to Rome” and the daughter “not really sure we are going to make it.” To this strangers eyes they seem determined but joyless. We have crossed paths three additional times, however only in passing, literally passing. Their privacy is intriguing, and lends nicely to the imagination. We have been creating a narrative for them. I say they are in the witness protection program and the walk is part of the plea deal. Edward, a far more practical storyteller, has the daughter living or studying in Europe and the walk went from a casual suggestion to reality. The reality has lead her to some buyers remorse. The truth will be revealed.

Thank you for following! 

3 days of solid walking through fields of now brown wheat and rape seed but the sunflowers are just coming out and should be in full bloom as we head further south. Every town, regardless of how small, has its church, town hall and memorial to the fallen.  The churches are mostly closed with notices such as that Mass will be celebrated in August or September (presumably due to the shortage of priests).  I am not sure what purpose the churches serve anymore, France is a thoroughly secular society, but the church steeples remain a great navigational aid.  

In Dampierre-sur-Salon we were hosted by Helen and Christophe, a very charming couple who also run a catering business named Nam Viet, specializing in Vietnamese cuisine.  We met Lois, a German walker on his way to Rome for the third time.  He is a long walker, walks 3 months out of the year.  For example, he recounted that when he was invited by a friend to a wedding in Portugal he just walked out the front door of his house in Aachen and walked to St Sebastian.  He walks with 17 kg on his back, including a tent.  His wife does not walk with him. “I like to sleep under infinite stars,” he said, “My wife likes 5 stars.” I asked him his destination today “I don’t know” he said, but I bet he is already several stops ahead of us.  These long walkers are a crazy bunch.

We are moving into the Jura mountains, with regular 300 m climbs and descents, walking along forest tracks in the shade of tall evergreens.  While it is hot, the shade and cool breezes make for a pleasant stroll.  We ran into Lois, our fellow traveler from Germany, who spent the night under the infinite stars, but needed to rest because his foot was bothering him.  He is in his element so we are sure he will be ok. Even though we are in the middle of nowhere, we were able to land in a 4-star hotel with AC and a great restaurant, with one caveat: the restaurant is closed on Sunday.  We will have to make up for it in Besancon which we will reach for a 2-day rest tomorrow. 

Cussey sur L’Ognon to Besancon – 18.5 km

Up and down through wooded areas for the first half and then mostly suburbs and modern industrial parks until we reached city center.  What a surprise! A stunningly beautiful old city of medieval and 17^th -18^th century buildings framed in a loop of the Doubs River with the Jura mountains in the background. It was a short walk so we arrive early enough for a late lunch on the banks of the river. A nice plate of carbonara for me and Napoletana for Paula. We taste an Italian influence in the food. We will rest here 2 nights to soak it in and do laundry

Site of the formidable Citadel, a 17^th century fortress overlooking the entrance to the old city from on high at the mouth of the horseshoe river loop, equipped with 3 km of impenetrable ramparts, watch towers and ravelins.  More timeless, is the city’s obsession with clocks.  It boasts an astronomical clock that predicts lunar and solar eclipses, high and low tides of major ports, the location of the 6 planets known in the 1860s, when it was built, the time in world capitals, the location of major constellations, and much more.  A physical manifestation of the horological theory of creation.  

We have fallen in love with this town, the roman and medieval architecture, interesting museums (the unusual Museum of Resistance and Deportation), the food scene.  It is a youthful city, host to one of France’s premier universities and a blooming nano-technology sector.  A good place to rest and perhaps return to some day.

We staggered, stumbled and slumped into Ornans after a ridiculously long trek through and across the Jura, including a long and harrowing descent into a deep gorge where the river Loue, now dry, would normally flow. Paula walked 49,000 steps, a personal best.   We’ve been introduced to joints and muscles we never heard from whose sounds join the silent orchestra that accompanies us on our walk.   Nothing that a good night’s rest won’t cure.  Onans, a charming little burg, is the birthplace of Gustave Courbet, the 19^th century French realism painter.  We plan to visit the museum tomorrow

We left Ornans late in the morning after visiting the Gustave Courbet museum.  Courbet, who was born in Ornans in 1819, is celebrated all over town and this small but well curated and managed museum is a testament to the town’s pride in its favorite son. Courbet’s  major work is landscapes and portraits but he is best known for his somewhat mystical “Origin of the World” that was not exhibited publicly until 1995.  We left the museum rejuvenated, art as nutrition.  The walk to Mouthier-Haut-Pierre took us up the River Loue deep in a canyon with 1200 ft limestone walls on either side.  The area is wild and remote though the little villages that dot the canyon have the requisite Meirie, Church with steeple and monument to the fallen. Tomorrow, we climb the east side of the canyon, last picture below.

Mouthier-Haut-Pierre turned out to be a beautiful little town.  Tucked into the Loue valley, with 5000 ft limestone walls on either side, it seemed to have found a way to survive and prosper.  It started as a monastery in the 800s which eventually became a priory of the Cluny Abbey in the 1100s.  The monks living there developed an extensive wine making industry which collapsed in the 19^th century by the phylloxera infestation.  The town has now embraced cherries from which they make Kirsch and various cherry brandies.  

We walked up the Loue valley for 4 km along paths at some points no more than 6 inches wide, limestone wall on one side, 1000ft or more drop on the other, until we reached the source of the Loue with its impressive waterfalls.  This part of the walk is not for the faint of heart.   The rest of our walk was on a high plateau until the decent into Pontarlier.  More on that tomorrow.

640 miles from Canterbury, next stop Switzerland, 2.8 km, Last night in France!

No one likes to admit they were wrong, including me, well, the father daughter are not in the witness protection program. However, that was definitely the better story! She, the daughter, was studying in France, he is a lawyer from Minneapolis. They opened up to a guest house owner and he shared their story. I still think there is something shady to uncover.

This last week has brought about new vocabulary: “elevation gain” and “comfy hotels.” On the hotel front, I am talking 3 and 4 stars. While we aren’t at the ferns and fountains in the lobby level, a couple had elevators. As a result of these upgrades, I was able to resume my small soap collection, with 108 hotel (term used loosely) reservations, these little gems were to be my souvenirs of our journey. However not all our accommodations offer such luxuries, so I had to suspend this hobby temporarily. I bought one souvenir: a collapsible measuring stick made by the prisoners in Clairvaux.

“Elevation gain” has become an important part of our discussions as we plan for what lies ahead of each day. I guess I wasn’t focusing on the words mountains and alps, just on the walking part, and have been quite shocked by the walks at an angle. I have been using a strategy – watch Edwards feet as he climbs and do the same. It goes from ballet to some weird gymnastics, he is a machine, moving rhythmically, and gracefully and voila, we get to the top! Then coming down is an entirely separate choreography, not pretty!!

A highlight of the week was the town of Basancon, the birthplace of Victor Hugo. His quote “He who opens a school door, closes a prison” remains powerful and true. 

It was a double day and, as you now know, it means clean laundry and a full bottle of wine. We had a lovely lunch in the town square.

Our waiter, Adrian, shared that he had worked internationally and was very interested in sharing his knowledge of the town. For example, were we aware that the town was spared bombing during WW2 as a result of a love affair between a Nazi general and a Basancon beauty.  When he learned that our next town was Onans, he became particularly animated. In addition to being his birthplace, it is the birthplace of Gustavo Courbet, the 19th Century French Painter who he greatly admires. Here is a sample of our conversation:

Adrian: “ You of course know Onans is the birthplace of the famous painter Gustav Courbet?”

Me: pausing….hmm  hmm “Onans really?”

Adrian: Worry and urgency in his voice “you do know?”

Me: Thinking, that name sounds crazy familiar…”Yes”

Adrian: Unconvinced “ You know the very famous painting of the naked woman with her legs very far apart. The title “Origin of the World.”

Me: confused but intrigued….“oh yes of course!” Longer pause….awkward fumbling of the menu.

Adrian looking for more convincing confirmation…

Me: wanting to move along “I’ll take the fish of the day.”

Another conversation later in the evening with Edward.

Paula: Edward, what made us think we could do this?”

Edward: “Well, you said you wanted to do this, and I said are you sure, and you said yes. And I said ok we will do it.”

Paula: “ Oh right.”

Pontalier was where Pernod, the original absinthe spirit, was made. It brought to mind Hemingway sitting in the bar in Pamplona stoned out of his mind first thing in the morning before the bullfight.   Pontarlier is a funky place.  We followed the Absinthe route to Jougne, without hallucinogens, us up the Joura mountains with some significant elevation gain but stunningly beautiful landscapes and vistas. Fortunately the weather is holding in the mid-70s and with gentle breezes it make walking easier.  Nonetheless we arrive in Jougne looking forward to a relaxing evening and early bedtime.  Not to be. Jougne decided to celebrate Bastille Day 4 days early.  The whole town turned out to the main square, directly in front of our hotel, to re-enact medieval rituals, think Renaissance Weekend, costumes and all, and to watch a respectable fireworks display at 11pm.  And then the DJ kicked off the music and light segment that lasted until 2 am. 

Our original itinerary had us going from Jougne to Yverdon les Baines but that would have pulled us 10 km off the Francigena trail so late Sunday we decided to scrap it, made a reservation in Orbe and arranged for luggage transfer to the new destination.  .

We left Jugne early Sunday morning with the sounds of LaLaLand, the last song played at the Bastille Day party the night before, swirling in our heads.   Stopped at the Boulangerie for our daily provisions (2 ham and cheese sandwiches and 2 bottles of water)   and walked down the river Orbe.  We walked 17 miles along the Orbe gorge. It was a dramatic walk through tunnels carved into the limestone, rushing waterfalls and cool pools of still water. At some point we crossed from France into Switzerland.  National borders do not manifest in nature. A dad was walking the dog with his 3 children. “Est ce la frontier?”, Paula asked.  One of the kids answered “Yes that is Switzerland.”  

An amble along another river and through corn and sunflower fields.  The first view of the Alps.  Every town, no matter how small, has a café/bar, restaurant, an open church and some expression of local pride.  Francigena, which means Out of France in latin, should add, Finally!

We passed through Romainmotier where we paused to visit the remnants of the 5^th century Abby. The structure, combined with 10^th and 14^th century extensions,  is impressive, but as Abbeys go it wasn’t much, 20 hermits lived there at its peak in the  14^th century. Sigeric stayed there in 990 where, presumably, he was wined and dined as the representative of the King of England would be. We have no record of what he did because Sigeric did not keep a diary of his journey other than the name of places he stayed.  Thus passes the glory of the world.

We arrived at Lausanne, on Lake Geneva, in the shadow of the Alps. A stunning location and a wonderful reward for 49 days of foot travel. As a special treat, Edward reserved two nights at the spectacular Beau Rivage Palace, an anniversary and a get ready for the Alps, present.

We entered the opulent lobby, dust still rising from boots and sweat on the top of our hands and were greeted by the lovely hotel staff. The hotel guests, seated in the lobby, reacted to our arrival with eyes bulging and mouths gaping like New Yorker cartoons The bellman, given the luggage task, handled our bags like they were a ripe wheel of Camembert. As we go to our incredible suite he seems uncomfortable with my leering at his beautifully starched white shirt. Once settled, we phone the concierge and ask a question I am sure he has been asked a 1,000 times, where is the nearest laundromat.

There is no learning curve to adapting to luxury — we are back!!

It’s been an incredibly challenging week. Uphill, our ascents, are exhausting, the descents are excruciating!  The paths are often narrow and winding with unstable surfaces. I, again, follow Edward trying to match his choreography  but he is often well ahead. He has this weird tendency to speed up when the terrain is tricky.  All my body parts with ee’s are checking in – teeth clinched, knees questioning and feet gripping the earth.

I am using motivational language, like *!#***?!%*** and stronger, but adding for punctuation a screamette of “EDWARD!” 

Some of you may remember our African Parrot, Ernie. This was during our years in Amsterdam. Ernie was 2 feet tall and had a strong personality. We would let him walk around the house. He would strut, swaying side to side, toenails clicking on the floor going room to room calling “EDWARD.” Failing to locate Edward his calls would grow in urgency and resolve “EDWARD!!” The shrill of my calls as I bounce down the hills, I can hear Ernie in my tone. 

However, Edward is not alarmed, not from a lack of concern, but he differentiates my battle cry from a plea for help. He moves forward, ever my role model.

The luxury of this adventure never escapes us. It is only possible through a bounty of resources, physical, emotional, and material. On two separate occasions our hosts have remarked how expensive it must be to take months off work and book accommodations and meals for such an extended period. 

We are humbled by our experiences and most grateful. 

Lausanne is a remarkable town, blending sheer luxury with history and Swiss efficiency.  The Cathedral of Notre Dame dates back to the 12^th century but its internal decorations were covered over during the Reformation only to be restored in the 20^th century when tourism reformed the Reformation. Every night, 24x7x365 since the 1500s between 22:00 and 2:00 am a “Nightwatchman” selected by the town, climbs the bell tower to announce the hour. The current Nightwatchman is retiring in 2024 to be replaced by a young lady, first woman to hold the position in 600 years.  Progress.

We left Lausanne rested and rejuvenated to wander from one medieval village to the next along Lac Leman (Geneva) on the Montreaux Riviera. The path takes us up through the vineyards that hug the lakeshore in neatly terraced rows of Chasselas vines, grapes already golden in the summer heat.  The vineyards were planted by Cistercian monks (remember them?) and then nationalized during the Reformation.  Foundation stones of the 13^th century Abbeys along the way are still visible.  Also visible, but through a haze due to the extreme heat, are some of the tallest peaks in the Alps including the Matterhorn like a jagged finger sprouting up through the mist.  We arrive in Vevey, the thermostat pushing 95 degrees, to welcome cool beverages in the shade.  

In Vevey you will find the Alimentarium museum dedicated to food and nutrition. In front of the museum is the Fork, a sculpture by Swiss artist Jean-Paul Zaugg. Paula fell in love. We leave Lac Leman to walk up the Rhone valley in the shadow of the towering Swiss Alps.  We are filled with anticipation of our upcoming climb up and over the Gran San Bernardo Pass.  Our legs are strong, walking for the past 8 weeks is good training for the climb and we are able to scale 2000 and 3000 feet with reasonable effort, nonetheless walking up 8000 feet seems daunting. All will be revealed soon enough.  We do hope altitude will reduce the heat. Walking in 92 degrees under a pounding hot sun is exhausting.

The Tourist Office, there is one in every town, where we sometimes have our “Pilgirm’s Passport” stamped, asks us to fill out an information sheet which we are glad to do and we get to see who else is walking. There are surprisingly few walkers.  In Aigle we saw an entry by Hellen, the English lady we first met in Guines, who apparently passed through a couple of days ago.  There is a Canadian duo a week ahead of us. No sign of the father/daughter.  Half a dozen entries before June.  One of the questions on the sheet is to check the purpose of the journey with options like Religious, Health, Adventure, Tourism and Other.  We check Other because we haven’t settled on the purpose of our walk in terms of what we want to get out of it other than a good walk.

One of the benefits of walking every day is that it clears your mind.  Our inboxes are still inundated with hourly and daily alerts about the latest political and economic emergencies but our walk helps us set them aside.  The only insight, if it can be called that, is that the world fundamentally changed since January 6, domestically, and February 24, internationally.  We perceive current affairs through the prism of those 2 events.   Not a great comfort but it is what it is. Keep walking.

These are very pleasant segments along the Rhine, one of Europe’s great rivers, which at this point is a disturbed, agitated pale green mass of water restlessly fighting its banks from which it will not be set free for another 1200 km when it reaches the sea.  The walls of the valley close in until we reach Martigny, where there is no other choice but to go up, which is what we start doing for the next 3 days until we cross into Italy. We passed the Aigle and St Maurice Castles, the Pissvache water falls and we had our first glimpse of the snowcapped Mount Blanc massive, dwarfing in size and height surrounding peaks. We avoid the crushing mid-day heat by starting very early in the morning and try to wrap the day up before it becomes debilitating.  Onward and upward.

In St Maurice we had our first good Italian meal in 2 monts at Nonna’s of St Maurice in the town square. So much to see in so little time. An interesting museum sponsored by the Leonard Gianadda Foundation which currently is showing a Henri Cartier Bresson exhibition doesn’t even get a mention in google tourist attractions. But we are walking not touring so we march on forward.

The Alps are beautiful. One stunning panorama after the other.  Our first 3000 ft climb was more routine than we expected.  We had to take the San Bernard Express train for a 4 km stretch that had been wiped out by recent storms, so it was closed, but the ascent through pine forests and open fields of wildflowers was “the hills are alive” material that included a walk across the Dranse River gorge on a “swinging” bridge.  

Orsieres is a hiking and skiing town which we will leave early tomorrow to climb to Bourg St Pierre before a predicted thunderstorm. 

 We now know what a “moderate but steady” climb means: relentless. We walk uphill until we finally reach a crest just to find more uphill and another crest.  5 hours of it, including water breaks, every half hour, lunch and time to take pictures, all under a cloudless sky.  The scenery is breathtaking.  We climbed to 6000 ft then back down to 5300ft.  We are staying at one of just a couple of hotels in Bourg St Pierre.  Everyone is wearing hiking outfits, even the couple in the Mazerati SUV; we met only one young couple on the trail, and they looked like day hikers, so we are puzzled about where everyone is hiking.  Tomorrow, we climb to the Great St Bernard Pass. 

We made it! 57 days from Canterbury to the Great St Bernard Pass, halfway to Rome. The Great St Bernard Hospice and Hotel, where we are staying, has been providing hospitality for 1100 years, open all year around even when there are 30 meters of snow on the ground. We are elated.

One of the most beautiful walks of the whole trip, down mostly gently sloping, pine covered trails through the Val D’Aosta.  We left the pass early in the morning after saying goodbye to Rolf and Regula who climbed up from Martigny for their vacation.   They are part of the global community of hikers we encountered on the Via, eager to share all sorts of helpful tips about hiking (use polls), eating (not before 10 am), GPS (MapOut-which is fantastic and we started using right away-AppStore $4.99).  We also engaged in a wide ranging political discussion about the hot issues in Swiss politics that sounded eerily familiar: pension deficits, Ukraine, climate change, wokeness.  A quarter of a km into Italy, on an almost vertical incline, we found a café/bar on the side of the trail where we enjoyed our first good cappuccino in 2 months. Fountains, benches, restaurants and cafes are widely available along the trail which is well marked and maintained.  Good to be in Italy!

Edward’s cousin Ernesto when informed of our plan to walk the Via Francigena shared “Yes, I am sure you can walk 25 km in a day, but can you do it every day for months.”  That is the question I’ve asked every morning and answered every evening for the past 60 days.

When I look at my hands, which are brown as beans, I can see a hint of the clear nail polish I wore to Olivia and Andrew’s wedding. The sequined beginning of this tour.  The perfect memory upon which to stack this journey. Lausanne, only 10 days ago, is a distant memory – the beautiful lake, vineyards, and endless watch advertisement where the face of the timepiece is always set at 10 past 10. Most recently there is a blur of challenging days of endless climbing. Why is it necessary to climb 2000 ft then descend 1000 ft only to climb 3000 ft again?  All the while I am desperate for handholds, anything, roots, rocks, Edward’s cascading silver locks are often tempting.  I am doubting that Chubby Sigeric, or his horse, made any of these steep climbs. For the most grueling challenges I call upon a mental playlist of songs.  Musicals work great:  Caberet (“Maybe this Time”), Funny Girl (“Don’t Rain on My Parade”), Evita (“Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”) or such inspirational songs as “Break my Stride”, “Together for Ever”, “My Funky Cold Medina”, or, inexplicably, “Brandy”. 

But what has carried me to the top has been conjuring the scene from American Beauty when Annette Benning is maniacally scrubbing the kitchen of the house while repeating the mantra “I will sell this house today!”

Before embarking on this project, we watched several documentaries by pilgrims.  None showed the scary bits of the climb and steep descents, just walking in bucolic surroundings and lovely paths through cow pastures.  Here is the lesson: if I had seen the full extent of the trails, I would not have done it because I would have concluded that I could not do it.  There is a pithy cliché here ready to be embroidered on a couch pillow.

I’ve been steadily shedding all vanity, starting back in Dover when we pushed our seatless bikes among a sea of 18-wheeled tractor trailers onto the ferry bound for Calais. However, and it is a good thing, I made a couple of key appointments before leaving DC – my hairdresser and my GP. Michael, my hairdresser, has quite a project ahead, think the scene when Moses comes down from Mt Sinai. When I go for my annual check-up and my officious, zero body-fat Doctor asks, in “that tone”, if I am watching my diet, controlling my alcohol consumption and exercising regularly, I am going to rip the paper sheet off the examining table, put it on as a cape, hop on a chair and shout “I walked from Canterbury over the Alps  into Italy – BITCH!”  I probably won’t do that.

Neither Edward nor I have experience or desire to share our lives on social media. So this daily blog has been a new venture for us, and I promise once in Rome we will go silent, but, in the meantime, thank you so much for your support and love on this journey.  

The path is kind, gently sloping down the Val D’Aosta through mostly pine forests with cool waters gurgling on the side but the heat sets in with an iron grip by 1 pm when we welcome the outskirts of Aosta to search for our hotel and a good lunch.  We find both.  Aosta is a charming little town alive with residents and vacationers strolling along its mediaeval streets or people watching, sitting at its many bars and cafes while sipping Aperol Spritzers.  The ”passeggiata” (evening stroll) rules after 6 pm.  Aosta also boasts some remarkable Roman ruins that would be world renown in any other country, including the well-preserved 1^st Century Arch of Augustus at its entrance.  The Cathedral, mangled by successive rulers of the Val D’Aosta eager to imprint their grandiosity for eternity, sits on a magical 4^th century crypt that reminded me of the Canterbury Cathedral crypt, though the latter was built 700 years later. Our 2 night rest was restorative, especially on the heels of our emotional crossing of the GSB pass. 

Walking in 90-degree heat is crushing, especially when, as we have over the past 2 days, the path meanders up and down mountain ridges in the Val D’Aosta.  1500 ft up, 1500 ft down, 2000 ft up and back down again.  Drenched in sweat we seek the shade of a lonely tree to cool down, even for only a minute or two, gulp water and set off again.  The weather is unusual for this area, so the hotels are not equipped with AC or fans.  But we remain in high spirits for some reason.

Back in Bourg St Pierre and then across the GSB pass and through to Etroubles we spent some time with Duncan, an Australian walker.  He woke up early the day after reaching the pass to climb another 3000 ft to the summit of one of the nearby mountains and was down in time for breakfast.  He is a retired engineer and now a motivational coach. “What do you motivate people to do?” I asked. “To change” he said, “Marginal improvement, small increments, make change habitual.  Meet one new person every day. Power nap.  Daily walks. Eat something different.”  He had me at power naps. He was off to Paris to catch the Tour de France. We are off to search for air conditioning.

We reached the end of Phase 1 of our walk, from Canterbury across France, over the Alps and into the Po valley in Italy.  Phase 2 will start September 26 from Viverone to Rome where we will walk into St Peter’s Square on November 6.  Phase 1 exceeded our wildest expectations, perhaps because we did not know what to expect.  The simple fact is that when we set off from Canterbury, we did not know what we had signed up for.  Some say ignorance is bliss, in this case ignorance helped us survive. We just yodyyoed our way surprised by every turn without being discouraged, while feeling energized by every obstacle we overcame.  As Bob Dylan would say: “When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose.”  If we had been looking for a significant revelation when we started this walk, we would have been disappointed.  Instead, over the past 2 months of walking, we realized that life is fulfilling even when just putting one foot ahead of the other, one before and one that follows, but never alone.  We only need each other.

Viverone lies on the homonymous lake left over from the last ice age, tucked at the edges of the Val D’Aosta between the soaring snow-covered peaks of the Alps and the flat of the Po valley. We are deposited here by car after a non-eventful flight from Washington to Milan. While sorting through our hiking kits and inspired by whatever madness possesses hikers, we decide to walk the 16.9 km circumference of the lake. Good training for what is to come. Our reward came when we sat at a white tablecloth restaurant right on the lake for a very non-pilgrim like meal. Good lord the food is just so good! Off to Santhia tomorrow.

We are in the Po valley, the pasta and rice basket of Italy, walking beside green rice paddies and durum wheat fields.  The Via Francigena in Italy has a completely different vibe than the one we walked in France.  The signage is fantastic, the paths well maintained complete with rest areas for pilgrims every couple of kilometers, and lots of cafes in the small villages along the way.  It feels like we were invited to come for a walk and, having accepted, we are welcome guests.  And of course, the food is delicious. 

 Before leaving Viverone, we had a talk with Lorenzo, the hotel proprietor, who was very concerned about impending Armageddon if congress does not raise the debt ceiling.  He seemed even more concerned about the prospect of Trump getting elected.  I don’t like to signal political positions when abroad, unless with people we know well enough, so I assured him the sun will continue rising regardless of what happens in the US.  He was skeptical, a reminder that Europeans by in large follow US politics closely often with a terrified fascination.   He also asked why the US hasn’t had a female President, but I think that was more of a dig as Italy has la Meloni. Tomorrow Vercelli.

A grueling day across the swampy flats of Lombardi. After exhausting Egret jokes (why does the egret cross the road? because he has no regrets; and Paula’s: why did the egret cross the road? She was following an e-male chain) we settled into the zen state punctuated by the rhythmic crunch of stepping along the gravel pathway. To the north the horizon rises to the snow-capped peaks of the Alps, including a stunning view of mount Rosa.

We stop at Santa Maria della Via Francigena, think of a rest area for pilgrims that hasn’t been used for centuries, for lunch of sandwiches, cherries and apricots, we set off again toward Vercelli, the capital of the rice trade in Italy. At about the eighth hour our joints and muscles start whispering alarm “how much longer do you think you can keep this up?” By hour nine there is open rebellion, “not one step more” and “whose crazy idea was this?” All is forgotten as we reach our destination where we sit down for a fine meal and some wine Tomorrow off to Mortara.

Vercelli is a prosperous, charming, well laid-out town with broad pedestrian boulevards and upscale shops as befits the rice capital of the world. Rice brings it into contact with the globe. We had a pleasant meal, rice Vercellina, and a good night’s sleep.

On our way to Mortara we were met by a local farmer who insisted on talking to us for a half hour. She explained the problems of Italy – too may immigrants, people don’t want to work, climate change is threatening her livelihood. “If only things worked as they do in the America”, she said. We did not disabuse her. We needed to get on our way but she insisted on taking our picture. Not sure what the play was there, but we complied.

We were treated to a Moroccan wedding last night complete with ululating and boyterous cheers The music was Arabic at times, with oud and derbeke, Italian techno at others but at 4:00 am the wedding party broke out with a clamorous rendition of Ciao Bella Ciao It reminded us of our wedding , next week 41 years ago, so we were tempted to join them but still hoped for some sleep They ran out of steam at 5:00

We stopped at the Abby of St Albino just outside of Mortara on the site of a battle between Charlemagne and the Lombards Charlemagne won so his spiritual counselor, Albino, built an Abby on top of a 3rd century church How Albino became a saint is related to a nun and a priest buried in different places whose clothes were found together some time later It had to be a miracle But the legend is lost in the myst of time

We have not seen many pilgrims We stopped in Tromello for lunch, learned that we are not far behind a couple from Virginia but otherwise the Francigena highway is ours We are off to Pavia tomorrow

A bucolic walk along the Ticino, a river that flows from the alps to join the Po river just south of Pavia and eventually makes its way to the Adriatic . Just a few kilometers outside of Pavia we were greeted by a riverside trattoria where we enjoyed several fish dishes before crossing the Ticino on a covered bridge for the walk into the historic center What a town! One wonders why it isn’t a main touring destination And we had some pretty nice digs at the Arnaboldi Palace

We happened to pass the Duomo after dinner, hearing the angelic voices of a Gregorian chant we wandered in the packed cathedral to listen to a choir singing the kyrie eleison. The mass, celebrated every year (except the last 2) the Monday following Pentecostal Sunday observes the lowering the reliquary of three thorns from Christ’s crown of thorns that were discovered by St Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine, in 323 Tomorrow off to Miradolo Terme

We left Pavia reluctantly If we were starting our life again settling in Pavia would be an attractive option Centrally located near world class urban areas but an island of civilization and culture As we walk each day presents new opportunities to appreciate the world, we just don’t know what we will meet Today turned out to be a day of walking and not much else The rice fields are becoming more infrequent replaced with it corn and soy As we would would have it our accommodations are 4.5 km off the Via Francigena When Paula saw the heavily trafficked truck route we would have to walk she said “ #%¥* no we are not walking this” so we called the B&b who kindly came to pick us up. The San Colombano monastery, site of the town where our B&B sat, was founded by the Irish monk who founded dozens of other monasteries on his way from Ireland to Rome. We walked along the Via Colombano for a ways Tomorrow Piacenza

In order to get back on the Via Francigena we walked the Camino di San Colombo, the 6th century Irish monk we talked about yesterday. The path took us along the river Ambro, a beautiful walk under the trees, to its juncture with the Po river, that broad expanse of grey flowing south east atop northern Italy to the Adriatic. Danielo runs a ferry taxi service that will take you across the river and 3.7 km downstream. We made the reservation to meet him at 11:30 at a makeshift dock along the shore. How we found it is a mystery. The “ferry” was a 12 ft aluminum skiff but it ably carried us downstream and across the river to Danielo’s house where we were treated us to his PHD in Segeric lore.

The rest of the day was mostly in the sun along trafficked roadways. We prefer the quiet countryside where our thoughts can go beyond worrying about the next eighteen wheeler careening around the curve. We often have to hop into sandy corn fields to avoid premature trip suspension. We finally arrived at Piacenza another Po Valley jewel, this one, it proclaims, dedicated to children and peace. What more could we want?

Tomorrow Fiorenzuola.

The stretch of the Via Francigena from Piacenza to Fiorenzuola runs along a heavily trafficked truck route with no shoulder on the side of the road. It isn’t really walkable without endangering life and limb. I imagine Segeric, who in 990 CE traveled from Canterbury to Rome to collect his Pallium, did not encounter such a challenge. In fact, by all accounts, he rode a horse accompanied by an entourage of 100 acolytes, armed escorts and spiritual support staff whose job was to make his journey pleasant. Paula and I, on the other hand, have each other, the VF guidebook and MapOut GPS. So, we hitched a ride for the first 8 km to where the route veers off the main highway onto tertiary roads and gravel pathways.

It was still a grueling 24 km, under the hot sun without tree cover, but we were absorbed by listening to various podcasts including Brooke Gladstone’s fascinating On The Media report on the writers strike, the state of digital media and artificial intelligence as well as a 5 part series on the Digital Divide, about the rise and dominance of conservative talk radio. When we finally arrived at Fiorenzuola we were treated to, I kid you not, one of the best meals of our trip, prepared by Claudio and served by his brother Marco. We are sated, satisfied and sleepy. Tomorrow Fidenza.

No pictures tonight Weak signal

The sequins are all gone except for a few hiding between the couch cushions or under a rug pad. Those memories linger but the sack cloth walks on.

As we stepped back. onto the Via Francigena a voice in my head screamed: “Oh, we are doing this again?” It was particularly weird because this question, in my mind, was posed in a British accent, a cross between Alistair Cooke and Stewie from the Family Guy, with just the right mix of rhetorical skepticism and condescension. Edward recounted that the night before leaving for Italy I woke him shouting “What the F&%$” in my sleep.

I may have had some insecurities about the walk that I needed to resolve, but I can tell you after one week walking in the Po valley: we are good. The routine is reassuringly similar to Phase 1. We wake early. Getting dressed is simpler: the grey or tan shorts, the white shirt or the other white shirt. I usually go white on grey. We have drastically reduced our wardrobe from our last trip. However we have also eliminated rest days from our schedule which means no romantic trips to the laundromat. We wash out our clothes each evening and hang them out of our window to dry. We are keeping it classy. But I digress.

Once dressed, I turn my attention to my feet. The Sonny Liston analogy still holds: they are a crime scene without the yellow tape. However, each morning I take great care to lather and slather, carefully ministering to the sick. This process reminds me of Kamala Harris as she explains her brining and buttering technique for the thanksgiving turkey. First goes on the cream, then the lambs wool and then the cotton tape. By the way, lambs wool in Italian is sweater. It is not sold for foot care. At this point my feet look like the hands of a prize fighter and at the end of the day I am like Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction, frantically unbinding his fists.

Then we start walking. Like an orchestra warming up for a performance, each instrument plays its own notes until they merge to create music. Each body part has a comment until we all agree to set a pace. Edward and I are like a Zebra and a Wildebeest the ultimate reciprocal relationship. I am looking down observing life around us at ground level, while Edward looks ahead. So I am saying “Oh wow, is that a spider?”; and “How is that poppy growing through the asphalt?”; “what are these ants?”; “is that beetle dead?” While Edward is saying “There is a truck coming.” A recent example: Edward went into a church and I decided to walk around the outside. Without my Wildebeest I actually walked into a Via Francigena signpost. A bystander asked if I needed help.

We walk on through the day reminding ourselves of the importance of the journey versus the destination. As the hours go by, our pace slows and our gait resembles drunk walking. I hope I am not destroying your fantasy that we are somehow traveling along on a magic carpet propelled by spiritual rapture. By the end of the day I feel like a chicken from Gary Larson’s boneless chicken farm cartoon but then a passing car slows and the driver shouts “Buon Cammino!” and everything is good.

Today’s walk was easier from a distance perspective but demanding because of the heat under the relentless sun. Tree cover is rare over the endless corn, wheat and alfalfa fields. The only respite came as we visited the Cistercian monastery at Chiaravalle della Colomba, an impressive structure that still houses 12 monks.

Italy celebrates June 2 as Day of the Republic, the date in 1946 when Italy ceased being a monarchy and became a republic. It’s a young state. We arrive in Fidenza as it celebrated with flags, music, dancing (a break dancing competition) and overflowing cafes. Fidenza is, like so many others strung along the flat plain, a charming, well laid-out oasis of civilization. Its Cathedral is a 12th century Romanesque building which aside from communicating a somber Lombard look also houses the remnants of Saint Dannino in whose name the church was built. Legend has it St Dannino, a soldier in the Emperor’s service, was beheaded in 299 CE when he converted to Christianity, but he was able to overcome that slight, stood up, picked up his head and placed it where the church now stands. His skeletal remains in the crypt dutifully show him holding his head. Tomorrow Fornovo di Taro