Why re-walk a familiar route? With more incredible trails to be pursued than one has any hope of walking in a lifetime, what’s the argument for burning some of our limited kilometers on already trodden paths?
I asked myself that a couple times when planning this itinerary. Even with six full months at my disposal, I’m barely scratching the surface of what there is to see and explore in Italy. Nearly three weeks of this, in the end, will be spent on stages of the Via Francigena that I’ve already walked a handful of times before. My best answer was little more than the embarrassingly limp, “because I want to,” but that was enough for me to lock in the plan.
Day after day, though, the reasoning has come into focus. More than anything, I’m here to walk alongside the ghosts, to stir the echoes of those past trips. There are moments when I’m striding along a trail and suddenly the next fifty meters suddenly flash in my mind, before they ever appear to my eyes. There are places where a spark is ignited and I remember a photo, taken in that very spot, the context of that moment reemerging in quick succession. You can’t go back in time, but the past is written on the trail. It’s a great work of history, waiting to be read.
People were up early in the hostel, shuffling around by 5am at least, which means I was up by 5:10, unable to eke out any further shut-eye. That was too much time to burn in the hostel, so I ultimately set off in the dark. I couldn’t have picked a better section for it, though, as I’ve probably traveled this eleven times. When our student groups stayed in Ponte d’Arbia, we cooked a large group meal. The only problem was that there wasn’t a supermarket in town. Instead, I hustled ahead to Ponte d’Arbia, dumped out my pack on a bed, and then sprinted out the door. Buonconvento, 4.5km ahead, has a Coop supermarket, but it closed for siesta at 1pm. I can remember frantically shoving the shopping cart around the store, with announcements blaring about the imminent closure, as I tried to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything crucial, and that all of the portion sizes were correct for a large group. And then, of course, I tossed it all in my backpack and hoofed it back to Ponte.
It was also appropriate to arrive in Buonconvento on the cusp of darkness. My first visit to this town occurred in pitch black; it was so unplanned and unexpected that it would be years before I realized I had actually spent the night in a place called Buonconvento. It was December 2004, and my progress continued on my scouting trip to discover the Via Francigena. Unfortunately, I had gotten badly, terribly lost in the woods–turned around over, and over, and over. As dusk set, and the temperature plummeted, I had two equally unappealing options. I could push ahead on the trail, into dark woods, with no idea where I was going, or I could turn onto the railroad tracks. I opted for the latter, figuring that sooner or later railroad tracks are going to bring you to a town. What I didn’t expect was that they would also lead me to a trestle curving left over a river. My heart lodged firmly in my throat as I crossed the bridge, paranoid throughout that a train would inevitably come chugging down the tracks. I emerged unscathed, though, and soon enough I discerned lamplight in the distance. That grew into a town, and that town had exactly one hotel. Fortunately, they weren’t on holiday.
Another reason to re-walk a known route is to experience familiar ground in a different season. I’ve noted that there are some downsides to being here in early September, as opposed to early July. The harvest is largely complete. The ground is scorched. In many places, the rolling hills of Tuscany are a faded brown. The exception to all of that, though, are the vineyards, where the bunches of grapes drape heavily from every vine. In many places, those properties are lined with cypress trees in this stretch, including one much-photographed dirt road that has towering trees running along both sides. And having earned such an early departure, this walk–which lives in my memory as a singularly sweaty experience–was cool and breezy.
One of the most enjoyable parts of re-walking is getting the opportunity to overnight in new places. I’ve always stayed in San Quirico d’Orcia; I even managed to build rapport with the priest over the years, until he sadly moved onto a different town before my last group visited. I remember sitting with him in his office, taking care of stamps for my group, and shooting the breeze. I found the opportunity to convey how happy I was to be back in San Quirico. “Yes,” he replied, “it’s nice enough in the summer. But if you are ever here in the winter…” At that point, the priest made his hand into a gun, pointed it to his temple, and fired away.
The priest made it out; I made it back. While the Romanesque church at the town’s entrance is admirable, with its three impressive portals, my first stop was the same as always–the Horti Leonini. These Renaissance gardens are the only of their kind on the Via Francigena, and while they operate on a much smaller scale than some of their more famous peers, there’s an intimacy and charm to these that I’ve always appreciated. They’re just off the main road through the historic center, tucked inside the town walls, and a genuine surprise when first encountered.
So much changes when you return, time after time, but these gardens are the same. They have remained the same since they were first laid out in 1581 on a plot of land donated by Francesco dei Medici. In the lower, “artificial,” garden, one finds double box hedges, arranged in a diamond shape, surrounding the statue of Cosimo dei Medici III. By contrast, the upper garden maintains a more “natural” design, filled with holm oaks. Of special significance is the fact that, while most Renaissance gardens were private playgrounds for the powerful, the Horti Leonini, from their founding, were intentionally created to provide comfort to wayfarers–like pilgrims. One year, my pilgrim group was taking full advantage of this, meeting in the far upper corner of the gardens. Apparently, we missed closing time, and the person responsible didn’t check to see if anyone was left inside. They just locked the gates. We broke out through the rose garden, hopping over a shorter wall. I recommend that everyone surreptitiously escape from a Renaissance garden with a group of teenagers at some point in their lives.
The sustained ascent leading into San Quirico continues along a dusty, dirt track to Alto Vignoni, a small fortified village with an envious view overlooking the valley below. Far in the distance–much too far for comfort for those walking this next stage–is Radicofani, its castle tower protruding like the tiny plunger on a bell. I’ve always walked through Alto Vignoni in early morning, and thus the modest church has never been open. This time, however, I slipped inside and discovered a small display to San Biagio. Or, as he is identified in the English translation, “San Biagio throat protector.” No additional commentary is provided to explain how Biagio protects throats, or what kinds of threats he protects them from. Are we talking about chokeholds and rabbit punches to the Adam’s apple, or the common cold? I may never know. But at least I do know that someone is out there, looking out for my throat, and that’s something else I would have missed had I never re-walked the Via Francigena.
From the heights of Alto, one descends to Bagno Vignoni. Its central purpose has remained the same for millennia. With 36 different hot springs, the hottest topping off at 51 degrees Celsius, this was a popular spa town for Romans. In the Renaissance, the Medici once again made their mark here, funding the construction of larger, hot water pools. Most striking of all, though, is the central piazza in the small village which itself is a large pool. Nobody was bathing in it, on this warm afternoon, so I opted not to risk it.
The official Via Francigena makes a long, ponderous arc from Bagno, winding through Castiglione d’Orcia. It’s a beautiful fortress town, well worth visiting at some point. Having done so, though, I opted instead to follow one of the old variants of the Francigena. It has been forgotten over the years and is largely untraveled today, but this, too, is part of the joy of a re-walk. My memory of these roads goes beyond map or gps; it is programmed into my feet. Of course, sometimes old ways are forgotten for a reason; in this case, I quickly discovered that the wooden bridge over a narrow river gorge had been completely removed. In its place, though, are a pair of thick ropes, allowing one to make a mini-rappelling session down and then a quick climb back up the other side. In other words, this route has been upgraded!
In time, I reached my day’s destination–La Vecchia Posta in Gallina. The old post office has been converted into a pilgrim hostel, complete with an excellent kitchen. Gallina was always the one, treasured stop leading into the long climb to Radicofani. This year, it’s home for a night. Like Ponte d’Arbia, it’s not making any Must See lists, but it’s exciting to see how many more towns along the Via Francigena are embracing the route. It took a while for the Via Francigena to catch on. It’s still a far cry from the Camino, in terms of popularity. And yet, what I’ve learned on this return journey, is that it is now truly embedded in the lives of these communities, as it was so many centuries ago.
In the same way, all of these different journeys on the Via Francigena are now embedded in my memory, like layers of an archaeological dig. Different eras, different people, different versions of me–but all part of the same unifying story. And it is only by re-walking that I hold those together, make them whole.
