This was the day I’ve been longing for. Physically, I was overdue for an opportunity to properly stretch the legs, both in terms of distance and elevation, and this stage accommodated.
The opening kilometers were familiar enough, still generally following a canal track northward. The small differences, though–a little more windiness to the trail, more extensive tree cover, a smattering of villages along the way–added up to make the walk more enjoyable. The broader context had an even more significant effect. Today was May Day, La Festa dei Lavori, Italy’s Labor Day, and most Italians celebrate it in a manner similar to Americans. That is to say, they go outside. It seemed like every Italian in the region had taken to the trails on this sunny, gorgeous day.
Early on, that manifested as bicyclists, often in groups, whipping up and down the trail. Bikers receive a lot of scorn on the Camino de Santiago, especially the Camino Francés, and it’s easy to see why. It’s a structural problem. There are loads of people, fleets of bicyclists, and an often narrow trail that can only accommodate one person alongside a passing bike. For the walkers, even if every bicyclist is optimally mannered, approaching with care, using a bell, and conveying respect to the walkers for shifting aside, it still risks being a constant disruption to their rhythm, and it can feel jarring to suddenly hear those brakes engage when a bike appears around the corner behind you. For the bikers, it must be maddening to invest the labor to get up to a solid speed, only to have to immediately throttle it back down, because yet more people are blocking the trail, especially when it’s just one person with earbuds, walking right down the middle.
With only one of me and loads of them, the equation simplifies. I’m happy enough walking along the trail’s edge, and the bikes navigate around me, the clumps thinning out into single file. I haven’t heard a single bell here, to the extent that anything is unnerving about the experience, it’s that bikers coming up from behind are content to pass in whatever space is available. Why distract the walker if it’s unnecessary? Of course, many Italian bikers are like Italian drivers, happy to offer the most limited passing space required, which has caused me to make a mini-hop in surprise. That’s the main annoyance.
Shortly after the town of Spineda, the Cammino finally broke with its northward progression, veering east into the hills. My first destination was Asolo, a pleasant, tree-covered town situated on the edge of the foothills, perhaps 100m in elevation, known as the “city of a hundred horizons.” Seemingly every biker on the road appeared to be targeting Asolo for their first break, as the cafes were filled with spandex-covered men in sunglasses. The town reached its apogee under Venetian rule, the Serenissima, in the late 15th century, when the former Queen of Cyprus also took up residence in the castle and sponsored a sprawling set of artists. It’s easy to see the appeal; even on a harsh, summer day, one imagines that Asolo remains cool in the shade, with an ever-present breeze wafting through.
As I climbed onward, first to the castle and then deeper into the tree-covered hills, the bikers transitioned to hikers. Once again, some traveled in groups, including a dozen or so in fully-loaded backpacks, using the bank holiday to squeeze in a three- or four-day jaunt. The trail, wonderfully cool even as the warmth of the day made its presence known, didn’t offer much in the way of views because of the dense foliage, but occasionally I could see the narrow valley on the northside, between this far outcropping of Alpine foothills and its more serious brethren. For a moment, I wondered why I couldn’t have picked the Austrian border as the goal, instead of the Slovenian one!
After a couple hours twisting and turning through a green tunnel, I emerged at a house primed for a feast, with several long tables squeezed together out front, all lined with place-settings. Spotting a waymark on the far side, I shimmied through the narrow space and ascended to a small shrine on the hilltop, from which I could hear preaching booming out through speakers. The Santuario della Madonna della Rocca looks like any number of other modest chapels that I have encountered on this walk, but on this sunny holiday, it was stuffed full of little kids, all of whom had made their own little pilgrimage from the town below. I arrived just as the sermon ended, with the priest trying to end on a positive message, while also playing to the crowd’s hunger for lunch, waiting just below. Parents lined the small piazza outside; some were actively tracking the scene within, while others enjoyed an opportunity for some sunbathing.
A sharp descent followed, and I should have been immediately concerned, given that the waymarks–all quite new–didn’t correspond with the gps track. Still, I decided to follow, figuring that the changes would be modest enough, and likely all to the better. However, they continued to diverge from the route, and when I finally studied the map, I realized that if I missed the nearest bridge crossing the Piave River, I wouldn’t have another opportunity to cross it for many, many kilometers. Grudgingly, I backtracked, using side roads to reconnect. The joys of following a newish route… there’s plenty of time still required for fine-tuning.
I spent the remainder of the day, though, confused about why the route designers might deem such a change necessary, as the walk along the northside of the Piave was delightful. The river itself was stunning, a twinkling sapphire splitting through white rocks, and every bit as cold as one might expect from Alpine melt in early May. I paused in the town of Vidor, grabbing a coffee and marveling at the sudden change in landscape, with vineyards encircling the hills. A sign informed me that I had entered prosecco country. An old monastery sits just south of town, the Abbazia di Santa Bona, privately owned by a count today. Once I was on the riverside trail, though, I was often joined by locals enjoying a beach day, unrolling pads on the rocks and basking in the warm glow. After many kilometers of trail through lightly-wooded terrain, I was surprised to suddenly come across a small church flanked by a series of memorials. The Isle of the Dead, as it became known after World War I (it was the Green Isle before that). In October 1918, a vanguard of Italian soldiers broke through Austrian lines, creating a bridgehead that allowed for the army’s continued progression. It was a costly victory, though, taking the lives of many, many young men. Even still, it was jarring to look at the small church’s front doors, seeing a typical Marian scene etched on the left door, but young men engaged in artillery fire on the right.
I continued onward, and increasingly it felt like every Italian living within a 25-kilometer radius must be converging on this area, especially those under the age of 20. When I finally moved past the trail, I saw at least 100 bikes lining the outer fence, and then I passed through a series of different parking lots, all stuffed full of cars. And then I reached the town park, which was even more crammed full of families, all enjoying picnics. The Italians don’t mess around on May Day.
With all of the stores closed, I settled for gelato and pizza, with the two restaurants conveniently situated in adjoining buildings. The gelateria, in particular, seemed to be an obligatory stop for all beachgoers on their return trip home, with perhaps forty people making full use of the many benches lining the building outside. Even when they finished their gelato, many stuck around, lingering on the benches for a little while longer. After all, who would want such a day to end?
