Warmth: Altopascio to Ponte d’Arbia

I left Altopascio the next morning. I hadn’t taken a day off in quite a while and I was reluctant to leave crisp white sheets. My proverbial feet were dragged. I had hoped to leave early but reluctance had delayed me. As I was leaving, the manager told me he had googled where Newcastle was. “You’re a long way from home.” I suppose I am.

Altopascio has a small but pretty historic centre. I passed under an old red brick archway and trekked through suburbia for a while. There was low density sprawl for about forty-five minutes, at which point, the path led into a kind of nature reserve. The trees weren’t high but they offered shade from the morning sun. The path wove around various flora and the ground was a dark red-orange.

I spent an hour or so turning small corners in that park. The way remained obscure beyond the next bend but the signs remained reliable.

On leaving the park, the route intersected with an old cobbled road. There was an information board informing me that it was part of the original Via Francigena. It was, certainly, an old road.

The idea, however, of the Via Francigena existing as some continuous pathway that leads from Canterbury Cathedral to the Vatican is, of course, ludicrous. There was no one Francigena. There were a collection of roads and tracks and paths from village to village to town to village. As it was then, so it is now.

The cobbles did have beside them an abandoned building which was apparently an ancient hostel that had long since been abandoned. The plaster was peeling.

I walked on. I was going to San Miniato and there was a long way to go. Cloud was covering the sky, reducing the heat but raising the humidity in compensation. I returned to asphalt and woodland lived on the other side of fences to my left and right.

Soon, I reached a river. A small village was built around an elaborate bridge. The bridge had been paid for by the Medici family, who had dominated large parts of Tuscany in the Renaissance. The bridge itself was home to a existing pilgrim hostel, but I walked past without stopping.

On the other side of the river, I followed an embankment built up on its edge. The plants at its edge had dry, spindly limbs which gently scratched at my legs. The sun had burnt up the cloud and was reasserting itself with tyrannical confidence.

I soon came into a town on a hill called Fucecchio. It had some pretty towers and some signs posting to historic buildings. My neck stretched reading the signs but I didn’t stop to sight-see. I walked to the edge of the town which was close to another river crossing, this time the bridge spanned wider and more famous river Arno which flowed from Florence.

I sat down on a marble slab that was in the shade and ate a lunch of slightly sweaty cheese and bread. On leaving, I was tempted by a bar to a colder and more sugary drink. My energy was waning.

I crossed the Arno and continued alongside the road. The path diverted to the left but I had decided that remaining with the road would result in a slightly shorter route. Cars shot passed me but I craved the rushing air that their movement displaced. My shortcut did result in my having to briefly double back on myself to cross under a bridge.

After this crossing, the path disappeared on the other side of the bridge. I trekked one way, where the scrub seemed to be trampled, but any sign on previous progress faded. I tried another direction but it led down a path to some allotments. The sun taunted me and I thought about finding shade and hiding for a few hours. I felt very lost even though I knew I could not be far from the beaten-track.

I looked at my GPS and followed the direction of where the path should have become the path. I walked up a hill through some scrubby bush. There was no sign of prior footsteps. At the top of the small rise, the path appeared, sloping up mysteriously from the right. I wasn’t sure how I lost it but all I cared about was that I had found it.

Walking on, I came to San Miniato. The town is divided into the part of it at the bottom (Basso) and the part of it at the top (Alto). I had been wanting to camp so found my way to a supermarket and bought some things for a dinner I could cook on my stove. I sat in the shade again for another half an hour.

The walk up to San Miniatio Alto took another forty minutes or so. I passed another hostel that advertised its hospitality to pilgrims. I resisted the urge to make an early stop. The climb was partially off-road and if I hadn’t been so hot I think I would have found it quite beautiful.

Arriving, I sucked at my water pouch and heard it run dry. My confidence is sleeping without a bed disappeared. The heat and apparent lack of any good camping place quickly made me decide to head for the Augustinian monastery a couple of hundred metres further ahead. I badly wanted a shower.

I buzzed at the door and told the man who answered that I hadn’t reserved, apologising. He sounded stern for a moment and then told me not to worry. He put a big jug of water on the table and then asked if I wanted dinner and breakfast. Conscious of my hypothetical pocket-book and the pasta in my bag I declined.

He showed me to my room in the capacious complex. I think the monastery is so big because St Francis is documented as having visited the small town. We passed the large refectory and I felt a tinge of disappointment at missing out on the communal dinner.

Then, he led me through a cloister where washing was hanging to dry. He pointed to the wire lines and told me I could use them for my clothes. A glassless window from the cloister gave an incredible view of the surrounding Tuscan countryside.

I had a room for four to myself. I washed the sweat and dust from my body and spent the rest of the evening doing nothing in particular. I hung my clothes and cooked my meal.

The next day I realised I had fallen out of the habit of early rising. By the time I was packed and underway it was already 8 o’clock. I descended through the town and on leaving visited a small church dedicated to Saint Sebastian.

The interior was covered with modern murals painted by local artists. It had a distinctly apocalyptic vibe. It was built in 1528 when a plague was sweeping Italy. Saint Sebastian is the patron saint of those infected by the plague. I’m not sure why I find the idea of an infected town furiously building a church dedicated to Sebastian so beguiling. I imagine the bricklayer coughing up yellow mucus. Maybe the stonemason has buboes.

The route soon left the town and passed into rolling Tuscan countryside. The fields were golden and golden with fields of wheat that stretched forever. Occasionally a stretch of trees would divide the fields, giving short pause before more wheat.

The colour was ripe but dry. I don’t know when they harvest but it must be soon. Surely the growing is done?

There was no cloud that day. The sky was a light blue and refused to present any form of relief.

The path was unable to find any clever route which bypassed the hills. Instead, I was forced to roll with them. I climbed up hill after hill on dusty farm tracks. Occasionally, a tree at the side of the road would offer a tempting patch of darkness but I refused to stop. I knew that it would continue to get hotter until at least three o’clock.

And so, I trekked on. The golden hills moved with me. Vines would appear in stripes from time to time to punctuate the landscape. Everything was very beautiful but my eyes remained largely trained on the ground in front of me. It took a lot of concentration just to not be overwhelmed by the heat; my mind was on little else.

At the top of one of the small hills was a first aid box with a strange assortment of supplies. There was a latex tourniquet and a needled syringe in a sterile pack. No blister plasters.

In a small town there was a diversion to a water point. I walked away from my destination, also in the hope of finding the entrance to a very old church that was nearby. I found the fountain but the church remained inaccessible, locked away on a hill behind some gates.

I sat in the shade and ate a little. I had enough water in my pouch but I splashed some onto my face. After a while, I gathered my things and myself and continued to walk. It had probably just gone noon.

The path curled for another two hours that were scorchingly hot but somehow endurable. I eventually neared Gambasse Terme. Just before coming to the town there was a old, wide church. A pilgrim hostel was round the back but I had decided tonight would definitely be the night I would camp. I tried the door and, again, it was locked.

I began the climb up to the town, passing a wide patch of vineyards that ran perpendicular to the path. They framed small chunks of the horizon.

It was a Sunday and most of the shops in the town were shut. I reached the main square and planted myself at the open bar. I ordered a beer and on walking back I noticed that the Greek pilgrims who I had met in Pietrasanta were at the table behind me.

“David! Where did you walk from today?” I replied. “And you just arrived?” It was 2pm. “You walked in this heat? You’re crazy.” It turns out they had taken the bus.

I sat with them and drank for a while. They were a group of three women and a man. One of the women was sleeping and the man bought me a couple of beers for “enduring my snoring the other night.”

He told me that he didn’t like walking in heat. That he didn’t really like walking in Italy at all. They were all members of a mountaineering group in Athens. “For me, my experience with God is in the mountains. Church is nothing. This pilgrimage, nothing.”

He asked if I had been walking in the mountains. I told him that a few days ago I had been in the Apennines and then a few weeks ago the Alps. “But are there forests there?” I told him I had walked a bit in Scotland. He was still unsatisfied. His definition of ‘the mountains’ seemed only to include those in Greece.

It became clear that my new friend was pretty drunk. He took to repeating himself and swearing at the bells for ringing. Then, his anger was directed towards the EU. “To have all these cultures all these languages all under one system,” he said “it is against nature.” I smiled and had little to offer in reply.

Luca, who I had met in Lucca, also arrived. It had been his second day of walking and he announced that he was “destroyed”. Apparently his phone had gone bust through a mixture of the heat and his sweat. He also had an infected blister on his right foot.

He had also come from San Miniato but his feet had slowed him down. He had left at 5am and had arrived at least an hour after me. I told him that his feet would heel and he would get stronger. It was important to rest if he needed to.

After an hour or so together in the square, we all drifted separate ways. I stayed a little longer to allow the sun to decline a little. Then, with three litres of water in my pack, I set off down the hill. In my guidebook it showed a small patch of trees where I thought I would camp.

I walked for another three or so kilometres and found the patch. Unfortunately, the coverage it offered was pretty dreadful and it was next to a B&B. I trekked around it trying to find a spot where I could sleep but it was mostly dominated by a short but steep valley to a river.

I walked down a dirt track and found a passage through the undergrowth. It had a roof of thorns and you had to crouch to pass through it. I was tired and there wasn’t another spot of trees for many miles. I decided the clear patch was just wide enough for me to lie my sleeping mat along it. It would have to do.

I cleared away some of the thorns and crept into the natural tunnel. I asked myself why I wasn’t sleeping in the hostel by the church. I hid from the sun and then cooked my dinner. The high-pitched whine of mosquitoes pricked my ears.

In the night I slept badly. I had emptied half a bottle of repellent on my upper body but I still think I received about twenty new bites. I had thought I would be too hot so had only used my sleeping bag liner. After midnight, it proved insufficient. I was also in fear of being discovered. I’ve heard a few times that the Italian police take quite a dim view of wild camping, and can in fact arrest you, but I’ve no idea how true this is.

At 4:30am I had decided I had tried my best to get some sleep and I really would rather leave. I packed up my things in torch light and lugged my bag back down the thorny tunnel. I saddled myself and began walking. The sun had not yet risen. It was cold and I wore a fleece.

It was already going to be a short way to San Gimignano and I decided that I would be able to sleep in the hostel.

The moon still reigned to my right but an unseen sun was starting to light the landscape from underneath the horizon. As I reached the top of a hill, I saw the sun start to inch into the sky. I can’t remember the last time I saw a sunrise. It happens more quickly than I had thought.

The golden disc was soon completely visible and shining brightly. I stopped to photograph it several times but then continued to walk. I passed by several oak trees and the young sun dappled their leaves.

My night had been uncomfortable but my day had started beautifully. I passed through quiet roads and a couple of villages. At around 6 I nodded at a man taking his dog for a walk. Then, I glimpsed San Gimignano on the horizon. It is one of the most visited towns in Tuscany, an incredibly picturesque place, built on a hill and with a walled centre and several looming towers.

Spurred on, I came to pass a monastery on the hill facing San Gimignano. I had just missed Lauds and the door remained locked. I descended to its right and met a road that led onto the town. Traffic at the still early hour was quiet.

I began the climb up the city and had made my way to the church of St Augustine by 7:30. It had some incredible altarpieces and after walking round it for a short while I went to sit in the cloister. I wasn’t in a great hurry to check in.

After a while, a man exited from a door and headed towards the main church. On seeing me, he pointed me in the direction of the ostello.

I sat for a little while longer and then went to find the proper entrance. I buzzed and a man opened the door. It was 8 o’clock and they were cleaning from the last set of pilgrims. He looked a little shocked to see me. I told him I had walked through the night on account of the heat.

I did my best to look tired which wasn’t too much of a struggle. He told me I could leave my bag and come back at 2:30pm. I thanked him and did so.

I made my way around the town which was still quiet and free from tourists. I sat in the main square and accidentally spent too much on coffee, the price having been accordingly hiked for the view.

The vineyards that I had walked through on my approach to the city had persuaded me to book myself in for a wine-tasting. I phoned and confirmed an eleven o’clock appointment.

The tasting happened outside the city. I followed the path out that I had come in on and was soon at a gorgeous villa with views across to the towers. I sipped at the selection and thought I had done quite well for myself.

I chatted to the owner and told them that I’d walked through a lot of vineyards since Canterbury but that the only other tasting I’d been to had been in Champagne. That cold biscuit-dry fizz felt a long way away. The Tuscan experience felt like an appropriate counterpoint.

Back in town I made a reluctant payment to visit the Duomo. The interior was magnificently frescoed. My audio-guide told me that the church had initially been orientated in the opposite direction but the placement of the Francigena and the frequency of historic pilgrims meant that it had been reversed for easier entrance. The flow of the path had dragged the entrance round.

At the entrance wall was a fresco of Sebastian again. It had, fascinatingly, been painted in the same year as the church in San Miniato. I wonder how many dedications Sebastian received in 1528.

I returned to the hostel and found a slight ruckus brewing. My Greek friends had apparently got the bus again and tried to gain entrance before 2:30pm. The man who had railed against globalism had gotten into an argument with the manager. He was not allowed to stay.

The tension in the hostel was taut. Nobody spoke loudly and we padded round the narrow corridors. I had not offended but wasn’t really sure what was going on. I nipped into the shower. Afterwards, I heard music drifting in through the dormitory window. I followed it into the church of Saint Augustine and found an English school choir rehearsing.

Later in the evening I returned for the concert. I think there’d been a problem with the advertising because I was one of fourteen in the audience. The school was Sevenoaks, in Kent, not too far from Canterbury.

It was quite amazing and I admired their bravery in continuing when they were greater in number than their audience. They sang beautifully and filled the vast church. Their penultimate song was Rheinberger’s ‘Abendlied’. I couldn’t believe it. It was the song that I had hummed to myself most evenings.

The concert ended and I returned to the hostel. The hospitalers (the volunteers who ran the place) told us about their own pilgrimages, particularly through the Holy Land. Then, they brought out a wide ceramic bowl and matching jug. Our feet were to be washed.

A prayer was said at each of our feet. I can’t remember all of it but part of it included ‘may the welcome that you receive here nourish you until your arrival in Rome.’ I knew that, in fact, it would.

Then, our hosts served us dinner. There were thirteen of us gathered around a large square table. We ate well and laughed and talked. It felt very celebratory and any sourness was dispelled.

Breakfast was offered by the hostel at 6am the next day. I had packed my bag the previous night and was keen to get off promptly. I tarried a while though and charged myself with coffee and bread. I hugged the hospitalers and went on my way.

I thought then, as I have thought a few times, who had the greater sense of movement? Me or the hospitalers? Each day they welcome a fresh batch of travellers from anywhere. Does the river seem to move more quickly if you are in it or if you are watching from the bank?

San Gimignano was empty. The stone-paved streets, that had yesterday been jammed with tourists, were being tended to by a couple of street cleaners. It was being prepared for another day of performance.

I left through the south gate and descended on the road. In the middle of a roundabout was a sculpture of some pilgrims. At the side of the road I found its caption. I found myself strangely moved by its simplicity: “How old are roads, Papa? When was the first road? If the place we have to go to is too far away, will we make it? If we meet people I do not know and I cannot speak their language, will you help me?”

Each step I was taking felt old. There was a weight of the road behind me that was resting at my legs.

Cloud covered the sky and I thought it would make for a slightly cooler day. I left the road and began to walk through woodland and fields. The cloud resulted in an intense humidity. As I climbed a hill, pushing my fresh legs, the sweat on my brow was refusing to evaporate.

I walked on and re-met Pauline and Morel who I had stayed in the same place as in Lucca. We walked together for most of the day. The path made a long dogleg and we decided not to take a shortcut to reduce the distance.

We walked across very pleasant roads through a mixture of forest and farmland. The humidity dropped and the trees offered a very reliable source of shade. We walked together at a pace slightly slower than my normal speed but I enjoyed the lack of rush and the conversation.

Pauline and Morel had made seven previous walking pilgrimages to Santiago. They were from South Africa. I asked them why they thought people made pilgrimages. They told me some people did it to recover from trauma. Some did it as a way of giving thanks for being. Healing seemed to be a theme. Some, they said, did it just because they wanted a long walk.

They told me about the industry that the Camino de Santiago has become. That there were some hostels there which could accommodate two hundred pilgrims. I was amazed at the density.

We walked across what seemed to be very old roads. Cobbles that had become one and the same with the ground. For a while we passed over stones that had shells as part of them. A scallop shell is the symbol of St James. They seemed to be appropriate signage.

After a few hours of walking we passed by what seemed to be a thermal pool. It was very old and something of a local attraction. There were a couple of swimmers already there when we arrived. I quickly changed and jumped in. It wasn’t hugely thermal but very refreshing after the warm of the day. Pauline and Morel, I think put off by involuntary grimacing, decided only to dip their feet.

We moved on and walked for a few more hours together. The weather remained warm but unoppressive. We soon arrived at a small town called Strove where we parted ways. I wanted to camp that evening and needed to shop for dinner.

I bought some things from a small place and ate lunch lazily in the shade. I walked on and after a while came to Abbadia a Isola which was the site of an ancient abbey. Pauline and Morel were staying there but I walked through. It was another three or so kilometres to Monteriggioni which was another incredibly well preserved walled medieval city.

As I climbed the hill to reach it, the afternoon sun, unhidden by clouds, shone down on me. The slope was steep and I dug in the points of my hiking poles with each step. I reached the town and sat by a water fountain.

I splashed my face and filled my pouch. I took a small walk round the tiny town and then left it through the opposite gate. Soon, I was in woodland again and there were plenty of excellent spots for my tent.

I continued on for seven kilometres, wanting to reduce my distance for the next day. I passed along more old roads. Eventually with a wheat field on my left, I turned into the forest on my right. I took off my wet shirt and hung it on a tree.

Having cooked dinner quickly, I pitched my inner-tent. I was being bitten by bugs again and I was keen to have an untroubled night. When inside, I looked happily on mosquitoes failing to pass through the thin mesh that was protecting me.

I slept incredibly soundly. It was very nice to wake up to birdsong and trees again. I only had fifteen kilometres to get to Siena so packed up and headed off before the sun had risen again. I watched it rise as I walked, equally as beautiful as it had been two mornings ago. I was struck that this spectacle was happening all the time somewhere in the world. The sun never stops rising.

I had used up nearly all of my three litres since filling up in Monteriggioni. Just as I was becoming concerned about my thirst, there was a stopping point for pilgrims with a fountain and benches. The site well maintained and there was a number to ring if you wanted tea or coffee. It was only six o’clock and I thought it would be a little unfair to wake someone up.

I carried on, taking a longer, but apparently prettier, route into Siena. I was in no hurry. I passed across beautiful farmland.Long, invisible cobwebs cut across the path.

On the approach to to the city, I made my way up a steep tarmac hill. I was a little surprised at how much I had to struggle but I was in striking distance of Siena. Soon, I was having coffee at a shop on its outskirts.

I entered Siena through the Porte Camollia and then made my way to an ostello that was run by an organization that primarily fed the city’s homeless. I had asked if I could stay for two nights: I hadn’t stopped properly for fifteen or so days.

The door was opened by a kind but obviously very busy nun who showed me to my room and asked if I was tired. I replied that I was. I washed and slept a little.

In the afternoon more pilgrims had arrived. An Italian called Enzo took the bed next to me. I had seen him in San Gimignano and his last stop was Siena. He asked why I was walking. I returned the question and he told me he was in love with a girl who had walked the route in September. He told me he looked for her name in all the guestbooks of the hostels.

“When she walked the Francigena way, she told me she realised that she loved me. At that time, I didn’t know how to reply. I wasn’t in love with her then. I was still in love with someone from a previous relationship. So, she suffered and she left me and is now with someone else. I realised my mistake. And now I am suffering. And so I walk.”

Also in the dormitory for that night were Mariann and her son Dani. Again, she had done the Spanish Camino a couple of times. She told me she believed in the miracle of the Way. That whenever something went wrong, soon a solution would present itself. That things, she said, always worked out. She insisted that luck had nothing to do with it. “St James carries us in his hands.”

The evening we ate in the ostello. It seemed to be food leftover from the nun’s mission but it was very tasty.

The next morning I said goodbye to my friends. They were leaving, some continuing to walk and some going home. I, having eaten breakfast, felt full of energy so decided to take myself on a short run around the city. I went for six kilometres, skipping as lightly as I could up and around the hilly city.

In the day I visited a few churches. St Catherine of Siena, as her name would suggest, is an important figure in the city. She was a remarkable theologian and mystic who is one of the few female  ‘doctors’ of the Roman Catholic Church. Eerily, her skull is on display in the reliquary at the Basilica of San Domenico. The rest of her body lies in Rome.

The main Duomo charges a steep entrance fee but its interior is an unmissable work of art. It is defined by its construction in white and black marble and elaborate series of floor illustrations. In a side room is a collection of enormous illustrated psalters that are especially beautiful.

In the evening I met with Jörg, who was a pilgrim I had met in Pietrasanta. He had taken a day off in Florence and had caught up with me. We went to the Piazza del Campo but baulked at the price list. I said I had found a place where you could get Aperol Spritz for three euros. We agreed to meet at six the next morning to walk to Ponte d’Arbia.

I arrived at our agreed meeting point at twenty past six. “You said you would be a tiny bit late!” I apologised. Jörg is German and I explained that I didn’t have his natural punctuality.

We left the city on tarmac roads for a while, sloping down from Siena’s position of height. After an hour or so we stopped for a coffee at a small town before continuing on. The track led up to a ridge on the hills and we were both struck by the rolling hills of hay and wheat.

The path remained along the ridge and made for fairly easy going. The scenery continued to be breathtakingly beautiful. At one point we arrived at a field where hundreds of butterflies were in constant fluttering flight. We both stopped for a while, trying and failing to get good photographs. “They have a lifespan of something like three days, I think.”

We climbed down from the hill and met sunflowers. Rows and rows. Some were tightly sealed but many were in full bloom. They were a field of smiles.

The last few kilometres passed without too much occasion. It was beginning to get uncomfortable in the last half hour but we arrived in good time. The ostello was unlocked but empty.

We walked to the centre of the village and found a shop that was almost totally empty. At the bar opposite we were told it was shutting down: “he buys too much and his prices are too high, its his own fault.”

In the afternoon, more pilgrims arrived. Some I had met the previous night in Siena. Antonio, a fairly old Italian man; Lucien, a young Frenchman who was walking to Assisi and then on to Jerusalem; Marianne, who was walking to Rome; and Iris and Stefan, a German couple. Stefan had walked from Frankfurt and was also going to Jerusalem. Iris was joining him for a couple of weeks. She rode a bike because she had a broken toe. “And,” she told me “this is my holiday, I don’t want to be exhausted at the end of every day.”

Antonio suggested we use the kitchen and cook together. I didn’t have much hope for a good meal because the shop in town was so barren. In fact, what happened was remarkable: from everyone’s rucksacks emerged a small contribution. I had a little pasta, pesto, and cheese which I offered up. In a few hours, we were feasting on multiple courses. Antonio had manned the kitchen and transformed the offerings into a complete banquet. Stefan shared up a beautiful bottle of Montepulciano he had bought from a nearby vineyard.

Jörg, a professional flautist, played for us. It was a fantastic private concert from a very talented musician.

And then, when we were washed up, we all sang together. The evening was an accidentally magnficent communion.

As the sun fell, we all made our ways upstairs to bed. The next day was to be a long walk but we had fortified ourselves. Rest and hospitality allows you to go very far indeed. Tuscany was coming to an end and Rome was less than two weeks away.