There’s a saying that circulates on pilgrim forums with some regularity: “The way is made by walking.” It comes, originally, from a poem by the Spanish writer Antonio Machado, but you’ll rarely see it in that full context. It’s the kind of expression that has immediate currency with many walkers, evoking a sage nod and unshakeable acknowledgement of its profundity. I tend to stare at it, though, with some combination of skepticism and confusion, as–to my eyes–it smacks of dime-store psychology more than some deep well of insight.
I try, in those moments, to give it the benefit of my doubt. Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate that clichés become the prepackaged, preservative-saturated, intellectual fast food that they are because they often access a truth of some significance. The problem centers on the distinction between knowing and understanding. To know a thing is to be able to repeat the cliché; to understand it requires a dissertation-length deconstruction of everything it does and doesn’t entail.
So, on a literal level, “the way is made by walking” makes plenty of sense. Repeated foot traffic creates a path, and a path draws greater traffic over time. A pilgrimage route like the Camino takes shape due to many forces, but at its core it required some number of trepidatious, credulous, passionate individuals to put boots on the ground. Pretty quickly, though, that risks devolving into a journey vs. destination or chicken-and-the-egg kind of situation. Why, after all, would people set forth on that walk without some larger purpose, a goal in mind, an endpoint to aim for? When secular pilgrims reject the significance of Compostela, it’s certainly fair for them to assert its reduced importance to them as individuals, but without Compostela there is no Camino. I know, I know; lots of people like to assert its pre-Christian history as a pagan pilgrimage route, but I’m still waiting for the first credible source to explore this to any meaningful degree. The Way was made by walking, but it was also made by an exceptional public relations campaign, significant political influence, and religious leaders vying for the aggrandizement of their regions and themselves.
This is all on my mind because, between the Cammino Materano and Cammino di San Benedetto, I’ve now spent time on two very new pilgrimage routes, purposefully designed to draw contemporary pilgrims to overlooked parts of Italy. They’re both teenagers, despite the ancient histories they encompass, and unlike Santiago their provenance is easier to track. The Materano owes its origins to a group of friends; the Benedetto, meanwhile, has a single father, Simone Frignani, who was inspired to map out the route beginning around 2009. Three years later, the first edition of his guide to the route was published. “Simone is the boss,” one host said to me. Though I think his tongue was at least brushing cheek’s edge, his point was clear: the Cammino di San Benedetto has a devoted shepherd with a defined vision for the route, and he wields his influence as needed.
The most tangible way that his influence has manifested from my vantage point as a walker is in the “Amici del Cammino,” or the group of hosts offering accommodation to pilgrims along the way. Simone is a huge believer in the donativo-based model, in which lodging and meals are offered to pilgrims without a set price, allowing them to give according to their means and conscience. This was the guiding philosophy on the Camino de Santiago for many years, though it has become less prominent over time, as more private, for-profit ventures have set up shop along the way. Not all of the Amici operate on this system; Ivana’s B&B in Collepardo, for example, has a set price. But even there, she offers immaculate rooms to pilgrims at a discounted rate and goes out of her way to attend to their every need–as she did by providing me with dinner on a night when everything else was closed in town.
Over these past three days, though, I’ve had a run of three straight nights in donativos, with meals provided on all three occasions. And they’ve made me believe that this way is made by hosting. That is to say, what makes the Cammino di Benedetto special is that passionate dedication to hospitality that exists up and down the trail linking Norcia and Montecassino.
Leaving Vicovaro, my first stop was with yet another Amica, Marzia who runs the B&B Febinn in Mandela. She’s also responsible for mailing out credentials for the Benedetto, so I first came in contact with her when arranging for mine to be shipped to the USA. Later on, when I needed an Italian address to receive my Cammino di Sant’Antonio credential, she was happy to receive it. Unfortunately, I’m passing through too early in the season, so her B&B isn’t yet open, but she made sure that I would be able to grab the credential on my way through Mandela. With that, I’m now lugging around five credentials, with a sixth still to come.
Fortunately, credentials don’t weigh much, as this was a particularly strenuous day–in the running, certainly, for my hardest of the walk thus far, with over 1600m of ascent and nearly as much descent. It also may well have been the prettiest, with precious little time spent on roads. It was like swimming through a choppy, green sea, occasionally getting spat up on the shore of small, stony islands–Licenza, Percile, Orvinio, and Pozzaglia Sabina. Orvinio stood out as a stunner, with an elegant arched gateway leading to its historic center, along with a true rarity in my time in Italy thus far, a church dedicated to Saint James. Rocco (or Roch) has him beaten twenty times over.
Most impressive of all, though, was the climb out of Pozzaglia Sabina, bursting well past the tree line and winding along grass-carpeted hilltops, all of it cropped low by the horses who contentedly monitored the ridge. And just when I thought the show was over, having dipped in elevation and left the past valley behind, an even more dramatic scene unfolded before me. Lake Turano, its tendrils twisting through the landscape below, like an Italian Lake Powell, and my final destination, Castel di Tora. I plummeted through the final descent, laughing at my good fortune, walking this in reverse and not having to make that climb, and then crossed the empty bridge over the lake before being hoisted on my own petard. There are no signs indicating that four-wheel-drive is a requirement for taking the road upward into Castel di Tora, but it’s hard to believe that anything less is pulling a vehicle up that asphalt on a wet day.
Good fortune had not abandoned me completely, though, as the pilgrim hostel is conveniently situated early in the ascent, with a stunning view of the lake out its lone window. Maria, my host, had provided me with information on how I could access the small hostel, with its four beds, a kitchenette, a compact bathroom, and even a TV with an odd mix of Russian channels and BBC News. I discovered as well that she had left some snacks for me–a slice of pizza, a wedge of focaccia, and a big bag full of cookies and biscotti. Not to mention a kettle with a huge collection of teas and coffee. Alas, no wifi. Good news: it was available in the center; bad news: that was after the equivalent of twenty flights of stairs. Fortune is a sick bastard.
When I originally communicated with Maria about staying in the hostel, there was no discussion of food. Having seen the kitchenette, I was happy to do some cooking, but I quickly discovered that the town’s tiny alimentari is closed on Thursday afternoons, so I was out of luck. The same moment I discovered that, though, I received a message from Maria indicating that she would drop off dinner for me later. She had already anticipated my difficulty. And indeed, the dinner–a chickpea and pasta soup, omelette, and quinoa salad–was waiting on my doorstep already when I returned home. Having missed me then, Maria returned later in the evening to say hello, talk about my walk, and double-check that I had everything I needed. She has been tending to pilgrims here for eleven years already, and shows no sign of slowing down.
I woke up early the following morning to take advantage of another one of the hostel’s virtues: large mugs. Nothing could have been more pleasing than to sit with a large mug filled with coffee and gradually work my way through it–aside, perhaps, from doing the same with a second mug. The warmth proved helpful, as the day’s walk proved to be the soggiest of the journey thus far. I can’t complain; my weather luck, dating back to the US walk, has been uncanny. The people around Lake Turano could certainly be justified in complaining, though, as their lives were dramatically altered in the 1930s when a hydroelectric dam was installed on the Turona River. There were fair justifications for doing so; Italy lacks coal and thus has to generate power in other ways, and the Rieti Valley suffered from chronic flooding issues. A dam could kill two birds with one stone. But it also killed the livelihood of most of the farmers in the area, resulting in a significant outflow of people–leading them not just out of town, but in many cases out of the country entirely. The stunning landscape we enjoy today, that I enjoyed as I spent the early morning walking lakeside towards the dam, is a consequence of a tragic upheaval of the lives of many of the region’s former residents.
The trail plummets, like the river, to the base of the dam, and then begins its lone significant ascent of the day, first to the village of Posticciola and then atop the hill beyond. One other small town–more than half of which was a castle–Rocca Sinibalda, breaks up the walk. Otherwise, it’s a wet stroll through gentle hills before an unremitting descent into the Rieti Valley. In the final approach to Rieti, the Cammino di San Benedetto merges with the Via di Francesco; a week from now, I’ll be here again, walking once more alongside this busy road, though hopefully not through wet grass, soaking my feet. After several days of dicey internet connections, Rieti had the most important thing of all. Not the cathedral, which is undergoing extensive repairs. Not the Augustinian basilica, which was locked shut. Not the compact, pedestrian center, its stone streets gleaming brightly in the light rain. No, it was the McDonald’s. Look, I’m not proud of it, but an hour spent on McDonald’s wifi is a supremely productive one, even when it’s packed with teenagers on their lunch break.
Originally, I had anticipated that I would stay in Rieti, but I shifted plans to stay with Mauro, another Amico del Camino, at his home 4km outside of town. The moment that I arrived at the gate leading to his house, he and his son pulled up in their car–the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. He greeted me warmly, even speaking English, which is a rarity, and then showed me to the pilgrim room–a spotless, cozy space for eight, though of course I would be the only one. He left me to rest, with the understanding that dinner would be served at 7:30 in his family’s dining room. While there is a dining area established for pilgrims, it hasn’t been thawed out from the winter yet, as I was the first pilgrim of 2025 to stay at Mauro’s.
Like Maria, Mauro has hosted pilgrims for eleven years. His life changed when he and his wife watched a movie about the Camino de Santiago in Rome, and he realized that this was something he could do. Not the walking, so much as the hosting, the tending to pilgrims on the Francesco and Benedetto ways. I sat at the dinner table, directly adjacent to the kitchen and living room in his home that was bursting with life, joined by his wife and two grandchildren, listening to him explain how his life, already rich with family, has been filled to bursting with the stories of the hundreds and hundreds of pilgrims who have stayed beneath his roof, broken bread together. The pristine pilgrim room that I have to myself was originally a space for livestock; perhaps the change is not as dramatic as I might wish. The pilgrim dining space was a total ruin. Mauro worked to renovate and transform those spaces, even as he remade himself.
Mauro’s wife–and I regret not tracking her name–served up large bowls of soup, once again featuring the chickpea and pasta combination, though Mauro insisted I garnish it with homemade olive oil with pepperoncini, which was delightful. A zucchini omelet followed, along with bread and homemade hummus. Mauro talked about how all of the ingredients are locally grown or raised; the olives and grapes behind the oil and wine were his own, while the chickpeas came from Rocca Sinibalda, and the eggs came from a neighbor.
For some reason, our attention shifted to the television in the living room, where the young grandson was watching cartoons. I stretched my Italian, saying to Mauro’s wife that, when I was a kid, one couldn’t find cartoons on television at all hours of the day. They both laughed and reflected that when their kids were young, they had rules. Maybe ten minutes of TV before dinner. Restrictions on what kinds of programming the kids could watch. But the grandchildren? There are no rules. Grandchildren are for spoiling.
As are pilgrims. I headed to bed soon after, falling asleep in the most unusual of circumstances: with no alarm set on my phone.
An 8am breakfast? That’s typical out here on the Cammino for Italian pilgrims, but I’m usually staring at the ceiling by 5am, shutting off the alarm before it ever has a chance to do its work. On this morning, though, I’m staring instead at a 13km day, which poses a whole different challenge: figuring out how to burn enough time so that I don’t arrive at my next accommodation at an obnoxiously early hour. I sat outside for an hour, reading and listening to the birds, which are in full orchestral mode. I drank coffee with Mauro, learning about his son’s basketball pursuits in Texas. And then I strolled, or maybe ambled, drifting through the trees past the Santuario della Foresta, one of many such Franciscan sites I’ll be encountering in the days ahead.
In Cantalice, the lone town I encountered along the walk, I popped into the alimentari, even though I didn’t need anything in particular. I climbed up to the old tower and then plopped down on a bench next to the church, overlooking the wide valley far below, and discovered to my delight that wifi was available. An hour later, I finally removed myself from the bench and began the stiff descent, rewarding my arrival in lower Cantalice with a coffee. Rarely have I dilly-dallied so aggressively. A perfect footpath followed, trees on my right, sweeping valley views to my left. When Poggio Bustone appeared, clutching resolutely to the mountainside ahead, I was almost disappointed to have the walk come to an end.
As in Castel di Tora, the pilgrim hostel sits right at the entrance to town (or, for most pilgrims, the end of it), before the ascent begins in earnest. The neighbor helped me call over my host, Elena, who enthusiastically set about getting me situated. It was like falling in step with a friend you’ve had for years; she loquaciously explained her day, the hostel arrangement, the dinner she had prepared (and continued to prepare right in front of me, in the hostel’s kitchen), and then she suddenly waved me out of the building to show her ongoing efforts at renovating the adjacent structure into more rooms. Given the layout, I wondered if the new space would become a B&B. “Maybe, but what’s the point?”, Maria replied. The whole reason she does this is to meet people, get to know them, have a relationship. In a B&B, meanwhile, you hand over the key and that’s it. Perhaps you see them again briefly over breakfast, but there’s no substance to it. We walked back over to the hostel where she pointed out all the furnishings, most of which belonged to her grandparents, including a lovely old gramophone. Suddenly, she grew concerned about the temperature of the hostel–it was, admittedly, quite chilly–and set out to build a fire for me, which I proceeded to spend the afternoon basking in, with a cup of tea. Before long, her husband Nicola arrived, with their wiener dog Mirtillo (blueberry), who talked a bit about his work with the Carabinieri and his service in Kosovo.
After they departed, I looked at the time. 4pm. Somehow, on my shortest walk of the trip, I ended up with one of my later showers! Once cleaned up, I inspected the dinner menu. Pasta with broccolini. Stewed carrots. Sautéed greens. Potato croquettes. The obligatory bread. Half a lemon to complement the tea, plus a slice of home-made cake for breakfast. I needed to have walked twice as much to justify that kind of feast, but I didn’t let that slow me down.
With a very full stomach, I settled back down in front of the fire, still crackling away. Maria, Mauro, and Elena and Nicola. Three straight nights in which I had little to do beyond sitting and accepting, acting as the merry and grateful recipient of unbridled hospitality. It’s a remarkable thing. To be away from home, abroad, exposed to the elements, perhaps lonely, definitely alone, to be at the mercy of store schedules and unpredictable facilities, to be more in need of sustenance than ever before, to be unsettled and uncertain about what tomorrow might bring… and to come into community, to be the beneficiary of wholehearted devotion and compassion, to receive without asking or expectation of reciprocation, to be cared for materially and emotionally. This is the Cammino di San Benedetto. The way is made by hosting.
