There are only so many viable ways to cross the Alps; it makes sense that those few privileged pathways would suffer for their accessibility. And indeed, my whole walk over the Grand Saint Bernard Pass and through the Aosta Valley has followed one scene after another of remarkable carnage, along with strategic hilltops dotted with crumbling hulks, perched like vultures overlooking the river. A route so precious was worth controlling, whatever the price.
The Austrians learned this lesson the hard way. When they made their play in 1800, trying to capitalize on French instability by seizing northern Italy, an ascendant Napoleon, recently minted as First Consul of the French Republic, assembled a force to liberate the besieged French contingent in Genoa. While most assumed the French army would come around the coast, as most sane commanders would orchestrate, Napoleon took 40,000 men to climb to this 2500m Alpine Pass in May. The pass doesn’t open annually today until mid-June, due to snow, so this was no easy climb as I enjoyed.
Napoleon prepared the troops in Martigny, disassembling all equipment and dividing it into packs of 60-70 pounds for each man to carry. Cannons, meanwhile, were dragged in hollowed-out pine logs. They made it to Grand Saint Bernard in five days; many pilgrims make the trek in two days today, but with considerably less weight and better weather. At the top, the monks welcomed the French army with great fanfare; bands played martial music, while the monks supplied each soldier with two glasses of wine and a slice of rye bread with cheese. While this moment is remembered in the famous painting of Napoleon astride his horse, it’s more likely that he rode a mule; not only that, but given the deep snow, he and his men opted to slide on their butts part of the way down.
Leaving Aosta, I passed through the hulking Roman gate, the Porta Praetoria, a reminder of just how heavily fortified this fashionable city once was, and climbed to the north side of the valley. Pilgrims often can choose, in the Aosta Valley, between a flat cycling route that stays alongside the river, or the hiking route that takes a roller coaster approach, climbing up the hillside, dropping back down, repeat ad nauseum. The Castello di Quart was my first castle of the day, tucked away into a nook in the hillside, adjacent to a medieval bridge spanning a river/waterfall. Next came the Castello dei Seigneurs in Nus, though its predecessor, the Castello di Pilato, long ago burned to the ground. As the trail pushed onward, I longingly looked across the Aosta River to the Castello di Fenis, located on the cycling track, which we often took with students to help offset a longer day. More of a showy residential space than a martial one, even from a distance the intricate design jumps out. My approach, though, brought me instead to Chambave, a small town situated immediately below the Castle of Cly. It’s not what it once was, which is true for all of us, I suppose. At its peak, in the 14th century, it was owned by the wealthy Challant family who controlled as far as the eye could see. Alas, by 1600 it was long abandoned. In time, it changed hands, and the new owner essentially bought it for scrap, upcycling many of its stones into a new house. The disemcastled tower was converted into a prison, then–mostly for witches.
Chatillon is the destination for many pilgrims in this stage. I’ve always stayed there, until this trip. Its strategic value is immediately apparent, as hills loom on both sides of the river at this point, allowing for a castle on the Chatillon side and a tall tower on the other. Nobody was passing through this crook in the Aosta without the lord’s consent.
In the midst of all this carnage, it’s surprising to fall into the lap of luxury, as is the case in the next town, Saint Vincent. The Via Francigena skirts the upper edge of the town, and having always slept in Chatillon, I had no particular reason to detour into the center. This time, though, I needed to burn a couple hours before camping, so I made the dive. What a delight! The “Riviera of the Alps,” as the sign says in the center, boasts Europe’s largest casino and also a thermal spa. It does not, however, offer pilgrim lodging; while one hotel notes that it has pilgrim discounts, its starting rate is around $160. Violence continues to be perpetrated on travelers through this region.
I passed the ruins of a smaller, squattier castle with bigger game in mind. Ever since I first walked through here, some 16 years ago, I’ve dreamed of sleeping in the Castello di Saint-Germain. It’s in rough shape. Technically, it’s “closed,” but that’s “closed” in the Italian sense, where after that initial sign, the three different gates are all unlocked and wide open, and well worn footpaths lead around the castle. The main tower is in good shape; amazingly, the interior wasn’t covered with bird crap. When you slip out through the lower walls, you emerged on large, flat-topped boulders overlooking the entirety of the valley, far below. The one downside of a stunning, evocative, abandoned castle ruin, as I learned later that night, is the presence of spotlights, lighting that puppy up from all sides.
The following morning, groggy and fulfilled, I quickly passed Montjovet Castle, and then once again had a choice. The low-level approach would lead past Issogne, which has another residential showpiece of a castle; the high-level option, meanwhile, led through Verres, another medieval town with a castle situated immediately overhead. I took the latter, and I enjoyed it, but ultimately I had one overarching priority. I pushed on through the village of Hone, crossed the bridge over the Aosta River, and stopped dead in my tracks, to take in the majesty of the Forte di Bard. You see it emerge over the final kilometers leading here; at first, it seems to just be a giant boulder in the middle of the river. But that boulder isn’t just a boulder! It has a massive fortress complex on top, reached by a funicular.
While I charged towards Bard with some urgency, it couldn’t compare to Napoleon’s. Indeed, his entire campaign came down to his ability to elude the Austrian counterattack here. One simply couldn’t get through this narrow pass in the mountains if confronted with an established, competent army. Even operating at breakneck speed, Napoleon still wasn’t entirely successful at evading contestation, and it took him two weeks to solve the riddle and push on past the fort. He would remember this, though. After securing victory, he ordered the fort to be destroyed. (Three decades later, it was rebuilt. You can’t let a strategic goldmine go to waste.)
The valley widens after Bard. I mean, it would have to; there’s barely room for the river to cut past the fortress. But it opens up much more dramatically over the next ten kilometers, even as the flanking mountains gradually lose steam. The Via Francigena continues winding along the northern hillside, passing along a pristine little stretch of Roman road outside Donnas, over the exceptional Pont Saint Martin (a Roman bridge dating to 120-25 BC), and through a series of terraced vineyards that are much loved by wine experts today. Due to very thin topsoil, the vineyards hang from monumental granite columns, and demand extra care and maintenance.
One can imagine Napoleon’s forces gaining speed, careening ever onward with paramount confidence, having cleared the pass and Bard. Fortresses remain along this next part of the valley, but its broadening would certainly have diminished their efficacy, and the Austrians couldn’t rely on loyal lords all along the way. It’s a lovely section of the Via Francigena; while overshadowed by the showier northern stops, these small villages–Carema, Torre Daniele, Cesnola, Settimo Vittone, and Montestrutto–are often snugly immersed in the surrounding vineyards and boulders, and the route leading through them, admittedly tiring, involves some delightful footpaths.
The month of May still hadn’t ended when Napoleon’s forces reached Ivrea, taking the city without undue difficulty on May 26. He would continue to hold Ivrea until his fall in 1814. And I can understand why. The red brick castle stands high above the surrounding town, its three towers climbing far overhead. There used to be a fourth tower. It’s where they stored ammunition. And then lightning struck in 1676.
Lightning was also on my mind, as the forecast had indicated that thunderstorms were possible at any point from 14:00 onward. The clock was approaching 16:00, and some initial, sluggish raindrops suggested I was just about out of luck. I swept past the supermarket, tried to buy gelato, and then pushed onto the hostel, across the river from the center. An hour later, the hostel’s windows were rattling violently as thunder tolled relentlessly overhead.
While Ivrea–and the broader Aosta Valley–doesn’t suffer from a relentless stream of military incursions today, it has refashioned violence in a new, mostly safer fashion. Each February, during Carnival, the city hosts a Battle of the Oranges, in which thousands of townspeople, divided into nine teams, pelt each other with oranges. Nobody knows why they use oranges; originally they used apples. That made much more sense, given that apples are native and oranges are not. Still, Ivrea’s loss is Sicily’s gain, as–by one account–the city imported 580,000 pounds of oranges in 1994.
