Dissolved Frescoes and Mosquito Smears: Aosta to Pavia

I stayed in Aosta to rest for the day and explore a little. Laundry, however, was higher on my priorities than the considerable range of Roman ruins. I went into a laundrette. It was the sort with big machines: too big for my small shopping bag of dirty socks. The proprietor walked me outside and directed me to a self-service place then patted me on the cheek with a rough hand. Pity the alien.

Laundry washed and mostly dry I returned to town to visit the city. The morning had been sunny and full of colour but by the early afternoon clouds had made their appearance. It was still warm but covered by a pervasive greyness.

The city, Aosta, was established as a gateway to the Roman Empire after the Emperor Augustus had taken the St Bernard Pass from Gallic tribes. It’s name is a contraction of his. There are ruins of an enormous gate, a theatre, a vast forum that is now totally underground, a bridge.

It was all made the more incredible by the immediate backdrop of the still-snowy Alps.

I’ve never been desperately fascinated by Roman history for some reason. The city was full of it, however. It actually had too much, probably. What would have been behind glass and protected somewhere was, here, a non-event at the road side.

They were all markers of this ancient waypoint. Aosta is also a gateway to the Little St Bernard Pass, further to the East. It is a city because of the road.

The road is not unshifting: the old Roman bridge is a particularly strange site. It lies a little outside the ancient city, past a gateway and across a newer bridge. This is because after a great flood the river changed its course a few hundred metres to the West. The bridge now stands over an empty valley.

The final note on Aosta is that it was the birthplace of Anselm of Canterbury. He is most famous for first proposing the Ontological Argument for the existence of God. It runs something like this: the idea of God is defined by God being the greatest or largest concept imaginable. Therefore, since such a thing can exist in the mind (by the process of imagination), it must also exist in reality or else (by the its very definition) it cannot be the greatest or largest thing. Its kind of screwy and circular and when you think you understand it, it dissolves in your fingers.

In any case, Anselm had crossed the Alps to and journeyed up to Normandy. From there, after the Norman conquest he had, eventually and after several disputations, been appointed the Archbishop of Canterbury. There is something about this road which runs under the surface of the ground.

The next day I was up late. I went down to breakfast in my cheap hotel, loaded up on coffee and muesli. I opened a croissant in a plastic wrapper and found a circle of sad looking mould.

When I left it was raining. I wrapped my backpack in its waterproof cover and stepped out, undeterred. It was already 9 o’clock and I had a way to go. I headed straight out along the ancient road. First I crossed the bridge over water and then crossed the bridge over no water. Soon, I climbed the edge of the valley and was walking through much more modern suburbs.

Just as had been the case in Switzerland there was a path that ran on the valley floor but it was occupied by a busy road. In any case, I was told that due to the now-extinguished problem of malaria, the path on the valley side had been historically favoured by traveller.

I had half-assumed that after Aosta I would freewheel to Rome. This was not the case. The route required a lot of climbing up the valley side on small paths. I was surprised and a little frustrated by the slowness of my speed.

I usually prefer to walk in silence but I had downloaded a ‘Learn Italian’ audiobook and was listening and chanting to myself in an attempt to download knowledge (Matrix-like) in to myself.

The path passed through occasional villages every hour and a half or so and then returned to undergrowth or vineyards. The walking was challenging but I persisted in trying to make up for my late start, not stopping to break.

At around 2 o’clock I met Vim, who was one of the Dutch pilgrims I had met at the Pass. He had found a companion, Luciano, who was walking with him. They were sitting outside a church. I liked Vim but I wanted to push on.

I climbed through more hills, turning left up a winding route that ran along a small stream. It took a loop that I knew added additional distance but I decided to keep following the signposts.

I was disappointed to find that most of the churches in the Aosta Valley were locked. Some looked architecturally fascinating: no attempt at suggesting a unity. There were attachments of neo-classical facades to potentially medieval towers and apses. I quite liked it.

My navigation practice had changed a lot. In France there can be virtually no directions so I was constantly wedded to the pdf of the guidebook which I read from the kindle which constantly dangled round my neck. Since Switzerland, there has been very reliable signposting and also GPS plotting of the route.

I’ve used the guidebook less and less. It gives, unsurprisingly, a different perspective. My guidebook used distances between waypoints. It was about counting and being aware exactly how far you are from your final destination. The GPS gives you a clearer idea of the bends and the direction travelled. Following signs is a blind faith, very rarely misplaced.

There was a point where the arrows had obviously been re-directed. There were ghosts that pointed to the right but clearly someone was suggesting the new route was up a narrow alley to the left. I trusted the persuaders.

The alley led past a house that was covered with slabs of wood that had been painted. Many were messages to pilgrims, wishing them a good journey to Rome.

I lingered to study some of the messages. Then, just as I was leaving a man came out on to his terrace and asked me if I would sign his book. It was a slightly ragged cheap hardback notebook that bore messages from hundreds of pilgrims that had walked through the alley. I’m fairly sure that man had re-directed those signs.

As I was writing, Vim caught up with me. The man had previously had a Dutch wife (and a French one, before getting to his current Italian partner). He talked to Vim in Dutch and was clearly more excited to see a Dutchman than an Englishman. Nonetheless, he invited us both for coffee. We sipped espressos and chatted for a while before moving on.

There was about an hour left to Chatillon. I managed to get lost in an abandoned group of houses when I missed a sign telling me to turn left up a hill. It was a strange place, totally unconnected by road but had clearly been a not insignificant complex.

Eventually, I climbed down from the valleyside and entered the small city of Chatillon. I had arranged to stay at a small Franciscan centre. I buzzed at the door and was greeted by an monk who welcomed me very kindly. We talked a bit about literature and about the ancient and contemporary monks at Canterbury.

The room consisted of three beds and an adjoining bathroom. There was a Turkish toilet that could put a board of wooden slats over to double as the shower. I think I might have once been a bit disgusted by this. Instead, it  struck me as prudently space-saving.

Shortly, Luciano appeared at the door. We spoke a little and he told me he had started at Aosta but was a veteran of the spanish Caminos. His leg hurt a little from all the descending on his first day. I offered him some of my considerable First Aid supplies but he said he had his own.

There wasn’t a great deal to see in the town but I wandered for a while and drank a beer from the supermarket. For dinner I treated myself to a €5 pizza.

I retreated to bed. In the night, it because clear that Luciano was a heavy snorer. Heavy in the kind of way you are shocked they don’t wake themselves up the sound is so enormous. Heavy in the way that each time the person reaches a new climax of volume you are entirely sure it isn’t possible that a human body could possibly make any more noise until they exceed the previous climax within a few moments. Thankfully, I had packed several pairs of earplugs which blocked most of it out. I did, however, notice at 4am when one of them fell out.

Luciano and I were up fairly early. My itinerary had a fairly long day of 35km to Pont Saint Martin. The route turned back up into the hillside quickly. The climbing started again and I was quickly sweating.

The pathways were narrow and it still felt very alpine. The scenery rolled and the horizon remained dramatic. I had started early and felt like I was making good progress.

After a couple of hours I was in the small town of Montjovet. I diverted to head to the old church. There were a couple of plaques showing me small photographs of the interior but the door was locked. Montjovet had been one of Sigeric’s original stops so I was a little disappointed. I sat outside the church and ate five handfuls of peanuts and sat for a long while.

I walked on, passing more and more vineyards which sloped elegantly against the edges of the hills.

I passed by a church which had an inscription that asked for reflection.

I think this is the translation but if anyone can offer one more accurate please do get in touch.

Shepherd, stop here with your sheep and goat. You, lover of the beauties of nature, passing here, seal your lips with gushings fresh and pure.

Mortel you are only an exile on earth: stop your steps here for a short while. Water your soul in prayer; think of the value of days her to come.

I didn’t stop. I actually marched passed that church fairly quickly. But my mind has been back to it often, and rested there for many moments.

I passed cherry trees that were heavy with fruit. I caught a pair in my hands. The fruit was sweet and I lingered at the tree, filching more. I began to jump, trying to grasp more. After a few minutes I was satisfied and my mouth was full of sweetness and the ground was littered with gnawed pits.

Shortly I was in Verrès. It had been 20km and was where Luciano was stopping that night. It felt a bit of a cold town so I felt unmoved by passing through it quickly.

It was about one o’lock and I was concerned that I had another 15km to do. The steep climbing had slowed my pace and left me behind my expected schedule. Undettered, and with the hope of a slightly flatter progression I left past the train station.

Shortly after leaving the town I met a group of Dutch pilgrims walking back to their home from Rome. They congratulated me on having done more than half my walk. They asked if I was sure I wanted to keep going for another 13km: by then the clouds had gathered and they warned me of a storm. I thought for a moment about turning back and finding accommodation with these potential friends but I decided to continue.

The route was much flatter. It passed much more along the base of the valley, closer to the river. I crossed an attractive bridge and then walked along a less attractive highway for an hour or so.

Soon, I was in the charming town of Bard which was on the edge of a meander. It had a fortress on its edge and was clearly a popular tourist destination. I stopped to take a photo of a family with the valley in the background and then took a photo of my own.

I wished that I had been there earlier so that I had had more time to enjoy the town but I had promised a priest in the next town that I would arrive by four o’clock and I was already going to be late.

The rain began to spatter but thankfully a storm never came. I defiantly ate my sandwich in drizzle outside yet another locked church. I had to incise portions of my cheese that had become mouldy in the Italian heat.

I followed the river around to the east and descended further from the hillside. I met the remains of another Roman road that led into the city of Donnas, where I would be staying. It seemed to have been cut from the cliffside and included an impressive archway.

I walked along this road for a short while and then joined some tarmac which eventually led me to the parish church and offices. I descended some stairs and met a pair of ladies who were sewing. They showed me to a room with four bunk beds and we conversed a little in French. I had still been listening to my audiobook but still was struggling to form the most basic of sentences.

The room had a hotplate and some kitchen utensils so I went to a supermarket and bought myself some pasta. Whilst I was cooking a gardener walked passed and offered me some cherries. I felt a little guilt for having grabbed some from the tree earlier in the day. I didn’t turn her down.

In the evening a group was meeting next door. I didn’t quite understand what they were meeting for but they asked if I had taken the left or the right route at the church at Montjovet. I told them I had gone left. “That is why you are tired. Its flat if you go right. From here, there are no more mountains until the Apennines.”

I was tired. I drew the curtains and got an early night.

The next day I would walk to Ivrea. It was about another 25km. I left Donnas, walking down the main road. After about forty five minutes I was in the adjacent town of Pont Saint Martin. As the name suggests, it is built around a bridge.

The legend goes that this bridge, which is actually of Roman origin, was built by the devil. St Martin had made a deal with Lucifer: is he built a bridge for the townspeople, he could claim the soul of the first to cross the bridge. The devil built the bridge in one night but St Martin threw some bread over the bridge so that the soul which crossed was a stray dog. I pity the dog but it does have interesting implications for the salvation of animals.

The bridge has been surpassed and one that is accessible to cars passes in front of it. I suspect it took longer than a night to build, however. In any case, I climbed around the city to pass over St Martin’s bridge. I didn’t meet the devil.

Bridges are important places. They used to be hard to build. Towns would exist because of them. They occupy countless places in stories. Crossing a bridge often involves some sort of transaction: think of Billy Goat’s Gruff. Again, its a moment where the road doesn’t run at the same pace. Its slower. Not all metres are equal. One doesn’t always equal one.

After crossing the bridge I followed the main road for a short while. I stopped at a bar and ordered a morning coffee, managing the encounter with my new basic Italian.

I left and signposts pointed in opposite directions. I chose the ones that were pointing in the direction of Rome. It led me down a path to some vineyards that after a few minutes quickly became clear weren’t the route. I turned back to follow the other arrow. I was glad I did: a pair of my underwear that had been drying on the top of my rucksack had been snagged by some brambles and were tantalisingly being dangled above the path.

I climbed up a slope and continued for pacing. There was a point where the route became unclear again. I scrambled down a slope into another group of abandoned buildings. The was a small herd of sheep that were fenced into a too-small-looking pen. They looked at me quizzically and I returned the look. Would they know they way. How many others had they seen lost here?

I fished my phone out my pocket and found my way back onto the route using my GPS. I turned to look back and the valley had softened slightly but was still defining the landscape.

In the final village before the approach to Ivrea the obligatory communal fountain had been filled with a shoal of goldfish. I stopped for a while to watch their swimming. As I tried to photograph them, they moved together to the other edge of the small pool.

I caught up with a group of French pilgrims. Two couples. I chatted with one of them for a while. I was glad to be using my French again. He told me that he had visited Canterbury cathedral lived very close to the Francigena in the north of France. They were doing half of the Italian section this year and would return next year to complete the journey to Rome.

As they stopped for a break I continued on. We passed through a woodland area that swarmed with mosquitoes. I had been warned that the Po valley area was something of an enormous hive. The prospect frightened me. I have been known to have bites that swelled to the circumference of tennis balls.

My arms swarmed around me trying to swat and ward off hungry insects. Thankfully, I passed fairly quickly through the area and arrived into the suburbs of Ivrea.

The approach dragged a little but eventually I arrived at the hostel which was on the riverside. It was called the ‘Canoa’ hostel because it was just next to a set of white water weirs that were popular with canoeists.

I was sharing my dormitory with a very tall man from the south of Italy. He was 26 and was working at a local school. It was his first job and he was working as a janitor but wanted to teach P.E.. At night, his feet dangled off the end of the bed.

I hadn’t arrived too late so I managed to head into town to see a few sites of the city and a beer in the piazza. Ivrea is the first city built on the flats after the alps.

Again, I went to a supermarket and bought things for dinner. I met my new French friends who made a much more impressive job of cooking than I did. Things are a bit easier with scale. I would waste most of an onion if it was just for me.

I stayed up a little, using the wifi. There was one other man sharing my dormitory. He was also in the common room playing Uno with his daughter. His daughter wasn’t in the dormitory the next morning.

Instead, the pilgrims, the four French and two new Canadians, were all eating breakfast at seven.

That day I was going to Santhia. There were two options: either going round the north of the south of lake Viverone. A lot of pilgrims go north and split the journey on one of the towns on the lakeside. The southern route saves five kilometres but is still 35km. I decided to head south, having been promised ‘beautiful views of the lake’ by my guidebook.

The Alpine hills had completely dissipated. The land was totally flat. After a week or so of fairly consistent climbing and descending I felt like I was flying along and bairly exercising.

The route was, however, visually engaging. I think the lake might have shifted since the writing of my guidebook because the totality of my view was a glimpse through some trees.

Despite the boringness of the scenery I was full of exceptionally positive energy. I felt like I was fizzing. I think it was the easiness of the passage. I was eating up kilometres with absolutely no effort.

I passed the lake and continued along a quiet tarmac road. It told me there was a diversion for the village I wanted to go through. Foolishly, I thought it wouldn’t apply to pedestrians.

After half an hour I reached the reason for the diversion. A concrete barrier had been erected.

I peered through the fence as far as I could see and saw no-one at work. Since Canterbury I have become accustomed to vaulting fences. I decided to trespass. I clambered through a small gap, dislocating my rucksack when necessary.

After a few hundred metres I was shown the real reason for the prohibition. The bridge was under construction. There was a gap of about six metres. I was not jumping it.

Frustrated, I turned back and climbed over the fence again. I didn’t want to follow the road diversion, which would have added another ten kilometres, so I found a way to the motorway side.

I clambered over more fences, throwing my bag over before me and lightly puncturing my forearm. The motorway wasn’t too busy: I crossed both channels and clambered over another fence. I arrived at an industrial orchard and passed a man on a tractor who looked a little bemused at my presence but didn’t say anything.

I eventually found my way back to the route and continued towards Santhia. It was by then the afternoon. The sun was high and it was very hot. The road remained anti-scenic, passing by high speed rail and more motorways. I passed through a tunnel in the middle of some farmland.

Finally, I approached Santhia. The city had a straight line of fresh black asphalt paving its entry. No pavement, however. I walked roadside for a couple of kilometres.

I arrived at the centre of the small city. There was a pilgrim hostel and the keys were kept at a nearby cafe. The proprietor seemed a little suspicious but eventually softened after about seven minutes of my relentless smiling and thanking him.

The hostel was made up of more bunkbeds. I was glad to arrive and took a long shower and washed my clothes in the sink. Soon, an Englishman who had cycled from Canterbury arrived. He had come from Aosta and I slightly envied his speed.

More pilgrims arrived. The two Canadians: René and Louise. They had planned on stopping to the north of lake Viverone but the hotels had been too expensive so they continued on. They had done 41km and expressed their exhaustion.

Finally there was a man called Guiseppe but who introduced himself as Pico. He was a forty-something but carried his guitar on his back. We went out to get stuff for dinner at the supermarket and ate together. He told me about his ex-girlfriend who he was apparently desperately in love with. He had only spent twenty nights with her last year. He was doing the pilgrimage to try and break out from his obsession.

I sort of knew Pico’s type. Half-hippy, half-bohemian. Someone who doesn’t fully get on with the world and talks in aphorisms about the importance of music in relation to the soul. I was, in a way, surprised I hadn’t seen more Pico’s and treated him with an air of suspicion.

Nonetheless, we shared our dinner in the city’s main piazza. It was the end of Ramadan and there was a big festival happening at the same time.

Later we retreated to the square nearer to the hostel and Pico played his guitar for me. They were songs about being in love. “It is strange to me that you’re not here.” He spoke pretty good English that he had learned from listening to American songs. I was starting to change my mind about the aphorisms. Some of his phrases seemed full of feeling. I couldn’t decide whether I liked him or not.

A hundred swallows were darting around the tall brick tower that loomed over the square. I wanted to listen to both songs although the swallows’ isn’t particularly beautiful.

We stayed in the piazza for a while and Pico told me about Truth and Love. The minutes ticked on and I was conscious of the dormitory. I said I wanted to go to bed. He packed up the guitar and we returned to the hostel. The English cyclist was another snorer and I hoped that I my bunkmates had earplugs too.

The next morning Pico was lingering for me so we walked together. The path quickly left Santhia and passed across the famous rice fields of Lombardy. They were again, strikingly flat. Pico and I talked for a while but mainly progressed in silence. He was holding his guitar in one hand.

The sun was high and hot and I had wrapped my head in a bandanna. It was a little hotter but make the sun less draining.

Soon, we were caught up by a French girl, Nicco. She had, she said, been staying on another floor of the hostel. She had walked from her home town of Nantes which was actually almost exactly the same distance as from Canterbury.

We continued together through the rice fields conversing in French, English and Italian. We joked that we were the ‘Scuola di Lingue’ (school of languages) and were pleased that we were representing three of the four countries on the Francigena. Later, a Swiss man passed us to complete the quartet for half a minute.