Acquapendente to La Storta

Walking in the footsteps of my ancestors, and edging in on Rome

180 kms – 8 days

I’d been walking in Lazio for less than two days, and the rolling, golden hills of Tuscany already felt like a lifetime ago. Lazio was lush and green, the slopes of its once-upon-a-time volcanoes covered in dense forest. The tourists of Tuscany where nowhere to be seen, and were replaced with farmers on aged tractors. Farmers not unlike my ancestors, who hailed from this corner of Italy. Over the coming days I would stray from the Via Francigena and venture to their hometowns, walking the paths they once used to walk. My entire journey through Italy has felt like a sort of homecoming. But my real homecoming was here, in Lazio.

Olives ready to be picked

My first detour took me through clouds and farmers’ fields as I climbed high and crossed in to Umbria, heading in the direction of a small town called Castel Viscardo where my late Nonna, Dina, was born. Cars stopped me as I walked, their drivers puzzled by my presence. They asking where I was going, and if I’d lost the path of the Via Francigena. They asked if I wanted a ride, but when I explained why I was walking to Castel Viscardo they understood. They nodded, shouted “Complmenti!” and drove off into the rain.

Arriving in Castel Viscardo, Nonna’s birthplace

I last visited Castel Viscardo in 2016 with Nonna, when we were holidaying in the area and decided to take an afternoon drive and a trip down memory lane. This time around I spent some time visiting the church where she was baptised, and the Commune (town hall) to explain that I had walked from London and was after a stamp for my pilgrim’s passport.

Castel Viscardo is a very typical Italian town

Heading back towards the Via Francigena I snaked through dense forests where gun shots filled the air. It was hunting season, and every man in Lazio seemed to be on the look out for cinghiale, wild boar. Italians take their hunting seriously, dressed head to toe in camouflage and some also driving camouflage trucks. Showing off the fruits of your labour is taken pretty seriously too. I was sat in a bar in a small town, refuelling on pastries before walking the rest of the day’s kilometres, when a man parked up outside. Everyone in the bar flocked to the street as he pulled dead animals from his boot and passenger seat, proudly displaying them on the tarmac.

Walking past farms in this part of the world can be a hazardous business. Sheep and property are guarded by Maremmani, Maremma sheepdogs. I remember some years ago visiting my Mum’s uncle, Serafino, and thinking that his big, white, oversized Retriever was adorable. But the working Maremmani are far from friendly. I’ve been chased and barked at when my path skirted the land they are protecting. But my heart was well and truly in my mouth when, spotting a pack of seven Maremmani in the distance, one raced after me and followed me down the road, barking and snapping at the air around my ankles. A passing Fiat Multipla, of all things, came to my rescue, tooting it’s horn and giving the dog something else to bark at.

Lago Di Bolsena

Taking a steep and muddy path through the trees, I got my first glimpse of Lago di Bolsena. Its glistening water and familiar outline brought tears to my eyes. I’ve been coming to the lake since I was a babe in arms, and have many happy memories of times spent there from my childhood through to a holiday earlier this summer. It is, for me, a place that feels like home. And it felt utterly surreal to know that I had walked there from my other home in the UK.

Lago di Bolsena is the largest volcanic lake in Europe and reaches depths of over 150 metres. It’s two islands, Isola Bisentina and Isola Martana, have been inhabited since Etruscan and Roman times, have passed through the hands of royalty, noble families, and popes, and are now privately owned.

The view from Bolsena’s castle
A quiet street in Bolsena’s old town

Although I’ve been coming to the lake my whole life, I’m not particularly familiar with its northern shore. The Via Francigena took me to the town of Bolsena, which is famous for a miracle that occurred in the 13th century. I wandered around Bolsena’s churches, explored the nooks and crannies of its old town, and took in the lake views from its imposing castle. And I sat on the lake shore, too cold to take a dip but warm enough to eat a gelato, and looked across to the town of Capodimonte which I escape to every summer.

Sunset on Lago di Bolsena

I set off on another detour from the Via Francigena, towards the place my Mum, Luciana, and my late Nonno, Marino, were born. I cut across farms and wandered down dirt tracks. During WWII Nonna was walking this route with one of her brothers, Dario. They were fired at by a British plane, but neither of them were harmed. However their father, who heard the gunfire from their family farm, had an anxious wait to see if they would both return home.

In the middle of nowhere an old lady appeared, surrounded by a harem of dogs. She told me that I was going the wrong way, and directed me towards a path that cut between some olive groves. I took her advice and went off on my way, but sadly after a few hundred metres the path was totally overgrown – I’m not sure she had walked it in recent years.

Eventually I arrived in the town of Bagnoregio, where my Mum was born. I visited the Cattedrale dei Santi Nicola, Donato e Bonaventura, when Nonna and Nonna were married and my Mum baptised.

Inside Bagnoregio’s Cattedrale dei Santi Nicola, Donato e Bonaventura
Stunning Civita di Bagnoregio

A short walk outside the town is one of Italy’s truly remarkable sights, a place that I’m fortunate to have a personal connection to as its where Nonno was born. Civita di Bagnoregio is an island village, seemingly stranded in the Calanchi Valley and accessible only by footbridge. Once connected to neighbouring Bagnoregio by land, earthquakes and erosion have led to its current isolation. But there is an upside to isolation, as a visit to the village has the feel of going back in time.

I’ve visited this special place many times, but I’ve never stayed the night. It was one of the biggest treats of my walk to Rome to have the place to myself after the day trippers had gone, to wander the streets and for it to be so quiet that I could hear a woodpecker working away on a tree in the valley below, and to see a sky full of stars when the village turned in for the night.

Civita di Bagnoregio’s San Donato church, where Nonno was baptised
All is quiet after the day tripper have gone

Crossing the footbridge back to the mainland, I meandered along country roads back to the Via Francigena. Farmers were busy picking grapes, and there was a smell of wine in the air. In the distance I could see the hilltop town of Montefiascone, famous for once being the summer residence of popes and for its Est! Est!! Est!!! wine.

Montefiascone’s Basilica Santa Margherita, looking out over the volcanic hills

The dome of Basilica Santa Margherita, one of the largest in Italy, dominates the town’s skyline. Nonna never set foot in the Basilica her whole life, being somewhat afraid of how it towers over you when standing at street level. In recent years she expressed an interest in visiting it, but we didn’t manage to take her before she passed away. So on arriving in Montefiascone I headed straight for the Basilica, and took a moment to enjoy it’s beautiful frescoes and huge dome for Nonna.

The dome of Basilica Santa Margherita

Being so close to Rome, there is a temptation to wish the time and kilometres away. There is an eagerness to get there now. And there is the temptation to see the final stretch as a chore, something that just needs to get done. But my days walking through Lazio have been full of adventure.

The historic city of Viterbo was full of medieval houses and bell towers, and its surrounding countryside dotted with hot springs that helped to soothe my aching bones. I felt like Indiana Jones as I walked through the Cava di Sant’Antonio, an Etruscan road carved out of volcanic tuff, with walls rising up to 10 metres high. The forest floors were covered in a blanket of lilac cyclamen, and I stumbled upon countless people searching for porcini mushrooms.

Viterbo’s old town
Visiting the hot springs outside Viterbo
Walking through the Cava di Sant’Antonio

I walked through endless olive groves, flourishing in the black, volcanic, sandy soil. For days I got lost meandering through huge plantations of hazelnut trees. Squirrel like I collected fallen hazelnuts and walnuts from the ground, and munched on them as I continued my journey south.

A Roman road leads the way through olive groves
Hazelnuts!
Harvest time

With less than 100 kilometres to go, the Via Francigena still had some gems up its sleeves. The towns of Capranica and Sutri, perched high on volcanic tuffs, were full of narrow, cobbled streets and weatherworn doors, lavish churches and busy piazzas, a Roman amphitheatre, and cave churches and tombs.

A quiet street in Capranica
Sutri’s Roman amphitheatre
One of Sutri’s busy piazzas

Rome is now within spitting distance. Less than 20 kilometres away. Tomorrow I will walk into the Eternal City, and the Basilica di San Pietro and the Coliseum will tower over me. I don’t know how I will feel. No doubt I’ll be a mixed bag of emotions – elated to have arrived in Rome, in disbelief that I walked every step of the way from London, and saddened that my journey is over. But today I feel excited. Tremendously excited.

Throughout Lazio cyclamen create a lilac blanket on the forest floors

I’m walking from London to Rome to raise awareness about mental health and money for the mental health charity, Mind. Last week I featured in the Metro’s “Strong Women” column. You can read the article, and my thoughts on mental health awareness, here. If you would like to make a donation please visit my fundraising site. Thank you.

Calais to Arras

From the coast to the capital of Pas-de-Calais

146kms – 5 days

When most of us think of Calais, we think of P&O ferry rides, booze cruises, and the beginning or the end of a long drive to the South of France. It’s safe to say that Calais and the Pas-de-Calais department that it sits in are largely overlooked by tourists, who only pass through or at most make an overnight stop before an early morning ferry ride. Unlike them I would be travelling slowly, as fast as my feet could carry me. And slow travel would allow me to get acquainted with this lesser-known corner of France.

Calais’ Hôtel de Ville

Weaving my way between Calais’ towers and lighthouses, through its parks and colossal churches, I made my way to the imposing Hôtel de Ville. I couldn’t help but liken it to a space station crossed with Big Ben, ready to launch into the sky. In reality, it’s like some sort of watchtower from which the people of Calais keep tabs on intruders from the south. Because beyond the Hôtel de Ville there’s nothing. The city came to an abrupt halt, and I was soon working my way along canals that felt like they were in the middle of nowhere.

The Forest of Guînes

Outside the town of Guînes the canals morphed in to dense forest, the site where Frenchman Jean-Pierre Blanchard and American Dr. John Jeffries landed the first successful balloon crossing of the English Channel in 1785. The forest canopy provided a welcome relief from the burning sun, but it’s bugs had firm plans to drive me back out into the light of day. My picnic lunch under the shade of a tree had to be relocated to a farm track in an open field, underneath an electricity pylon – the glamour of long distance walking!

Emerging from the forest the scenery quickly turned to golden wheat fields, which were to be the backdrop for much of my journey south to Arras. One never ending wheat field, or so it seemed, punctuated only by a flash of red poppies here and there and the scars left by a tractor’s twists and turns.

Poppies adding colour to the fields of golden wheat

Days were broken up by what became a familiar routine…scanning the horizon for a church. Some were huge, like cargo ships sailing across the fields, and others were on the petit side with pointy spires topped with an iconic, proud, cockerel. Whether large or small, a church always meant shade, water, a town, and perhaps even the hope of a pain au chocolat. And they were, without fail, always empty, with no real signs of life on the streets surrounding them either. I began to wonder whether it’s not just tourists who neglect Pas-de-Calais, but the French too.

Churches provide a cool refuge from the sun and a place to fill up water bottles

Signs of religion were everywhere, not just in the village churches. Roadsides were adorned with chapels and crosses. I even passed holy springs, and the birthplace of Saint Benoît-Joseph Labre, a patron saint of pilgrims. Perhaps a fortuitous sign.

The 18th century home of Saint Benoît-Joseph Labre

Passing through tiny French town after tiny French town, I soon became acquainted with their look and feel. The pretty, crumbling Mairie (town hall and mayor’s office), the boulangerie, the absence of any green space on which to sit and take off my boots, the sleepy Tabac with next to no customers and where I guzzled down cold Orangina, and the tiled old road signs that I have developed a slight thing for.

The Mairie in Licques
Boulangeries, my new best friends
Old tiled road signs which I can’t resist photographing

I walked through these villages with a huge amount of house envy. Beautiful rustic farm houses were kept from view behind thick courtyard walls and enormous wooden doors. Being bold and stepping over the threshold revealed colourful shutters and geraniums, sloping tiled roofs, old farm machinery and a world from years gone by. Snooping on chateaux wasn’t anywhere near as challenging, as their showy-offy nature meant they were visible from the road. I ogled at them in wonder – their different shapes and sizes, their towers, their countless windows.

The kindness of locals meant that I was lucky enough to stay in a traditional farm house in the beautiful village of Amettes and a chateau in equally stunning Villers-Châtel. And I stayed in them for next to nothing. People say that “the camino provides”, that one way or another pilgrims are taken care of as they journey from place to place. But the generosity and kindness of those I met in Pas-de-Calais was overwhelming. People wouldn’t let me set off in the morning without the hand drawn map they had prepared for me, and wouldn’t let me put my feet up at night unless I had a glass of wine in hand. I’m quickly learning that it’s a very special and humbling thing, to walk across unfamiliar parts of Europe and be treated like one of the family.

The beautiful farm house I stayed in in Amettes
Although it may look like it’s a display, every pot and pan has its use!
The stunning Chateau Villers-Châtel

But the most memorable night’s stay (the 1970s caravan coming a close second) would have to be in Abbaye Notre-Dame, which is home to an order of Benedictine nuns. I was looked after by Sister Lucie, who showed me to my room in a beautiful former hunting lodge within the abbey’s grounds. I was invited to listen to the nuns sing their nightly prayers under the enormous vaulted ceiling of their church, to eat a wholesome evening meal cooked using vegetables they had grown, and to enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep that was broken only by the sound of church bells in the morning. Some places have an air about them, an aura that’s hard to explain. The abbey had just that, and the nuns living there exuded a sense of calm and contentedness that was infectious.

Abbaye Notre-Dame

Wheat fields gave way to open cast mines, which marked the landscape with huge mountains of earth that looked quite out of place in the otherwise gently rolling hills. Run down mining towns were spruced up by a grand Hôtel de Ville with a bell tower that would sing a merry song every hour.

The beautiful Hôtel de Ville of Calonne-Ricouart

Arras’ spires soon came in to view, and signs for McDonalds and Subway replaced my friend the yellow knap-sack carrying pilgrim and signs for the Via Francigena. As I approached the city I wasn’t sure how I felt about returning to urban life. The sleepiness of the countryside had lured me in, and the hum of traffic felt alien and suffocating. But as I walked through Arras’ quiet back streets I realised that there was no need to panic. Arras is about as sleepy as cities come.