Bolsena to Montefiascone, with 2 great stops

9/20 - Bolsena to Montefiascone - 9.39 miles

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Pilgrim on the Via Francigena

After packing up my belongings, I quietly walked down the stairs so as not to disturb anyone. I think Sister Giovanna had been waiting for me, however, because she soon popped out of nowhere and ushered me into the refectory, where they had laid out a breakfast for me. She then left me to eat in peace, but not before asking that I sign their guestbook, and very shyly requesting that I leave an offering, if I were at all able to do so. I did both, and felt ashamed for not having done the latter on my previous sojourns in these religious houses.

Luckily for me, she had verbalized the normally unspoken duty of a pilgrim who has the means to donate to these convents and monasteries along the way. Now that I knew how it worked, I felt much better about accepting their hospitality. Still, despite the creeping temptation to think that these people are only kind and hospitable to pilgrims because they want more money, my own experience tells me that this is not so, at least where I stayed. No, they love their pilgrims, see their journey as a beautiful expression of the active love of Christ, and want to help them in any way they can.

So, now the question arises: you're not on a walk for overtly religious reasons, so how can you enjoy the benefits of the services provided? Well, I have given this some thought, having had a few minutes (read: hours and hours) of free time, and here is what I have to say about it. Nowhere is it written or suggested that only religious people may walk on the Via Francigena, this pilgrim's route to Rome. No one has ever hinted that these houses are only for Catholic pilgrims. I never misled anyone into believing that I was a Catholic pilgrim, or expressed any religious thoughts that were inconsistent with my own beliefs (which I will do my best to leave out of this blog). When asked about my religious affiliation, I respond truthfully, and further state that this walk will hopefully help me to sort everything out (which is true). Finally, the fact that I lacked the "credentials," a book of squares to be stamped at each destination along the way, made it clear to all that I was not a true Via Francigena pilgrim (or at least had not started my journey with that intent in mind), but I was never treated with any less respect, kindness, and generosity as a result. So, having laid everything out on the table, I strive to be respectful, grateful, and cheerful, and enjoy being on this path; after all, it holds great interest for me from a historical perspective, as many of these towns had grown up around the Via Francigena as outposts. I love knowing that thousands have climbed the same hill, marveled at the same vista, and slept in the same convent for hundreds of years.

Walking by the Lake

Judging by the weather, I had a great day ahead of me. The sky was that deep azure color one finds after a heavy rain, the sun was warm but not oppressive, and a strong wind blew off from the lake to keep the day from becoming too hot. Perfect walking weather, I thought, and was a bit disappointed that this day would be a short one, as Montefiascone was only a few miles away. Well, not that disappointed; I used the extra time I had to visit an internet cafe, chat at length with the market owner, and even visit the church, which had early Christian elements.

The signs for the Via Francigena pointed me toward the Via Cassia, the main road in these parts, so I set off on the side of the road, which was surprisingly empty. Looking to my right, I could barely see the lake of Bolsena, as my view was obstructed by houses and trees. I wanted to get closer and take a picture, but no roads led to the water, so I kept walking.

A couple miles later, I saw my chance: a field with tall grass was split down the middle by a dirt path which went all the way to the water's edge. This must have been someone's land, but I didn't see anyone around, and meant no harm, so I turned off the Cassia and walked down that path. It ended at a large, beautiful tree, and I found myself sheltered from the road on my own private beach. The view was divine, the smells and sounds of the choppy lake were fresh and pleasant, and there were plenty of places to sit and relax.

I plopped down my bag and ate my lunch after a very short walking spell; usually I make myself earn it, walking two or three times the distance I had just covered, but I could not pass up this spot. As the tree, the reeds, and distance separated me from the road, I felt as though I were the only person on the lake. The wind also played an important role in making me feel this way, as it pushed away the sounds of cars, leaving only a dancing field of grass. This was, without a doubt, one of the most memorable lunches of the trip, and I took the opportunity to record the sights and sounds thoroughly. I just wish I had a way to capture smells and taste, too!

The War Cemetery

While I could have spent all day here, I did have to reach my destination by nightfall, so I said goodbye to my little beach, and walked back up to the Via Cassia. I was not on it for very long, however, before I came across another compelling stop: a British War Cemetery, honoring the fallen in this area during the Second World War. This, as you surely must know from all the photos of war monuments I have taken, is right up my alley, so I turned without hesitation, and walked down the large white steps to the cemetery.

I never expected it to be as well maintained and aesthetically pleasing as it turned out to be. I also did not expect it to be open, as I was alone here, but when I pushed the iron gate and it slowly opened, I entered. Oh, that I might one day be laid to rest in a place as peaceful and still as this war cemetery was! Spying plaques along a shaded wall, I went over to read, and found a full account of the Italian campaign with a description of who fought and died here. Opening a vault built into the same wall, I found a guest book and a booklet which contained a full list of the dead, as well as an even more-detailed account of the fighting. I took this booklet to a sunny patch of grass facing the graves of these heroes, and here read the account of what they did to serve their country and the cause of freedom.

Once I finished, I took an emotionally taxing stroll among the graves, reading the tombstones which bore messages from proud, affectionate, and grief stricken parents and family members. I do not possess the ability to accurately convey the electrically-charged but profoundly peaceful atmosphere in that cemetery on this particular day, but I hope that the photos will give you at least an idea.

Silently, and with true reverence for these honored dead, I walked out of the cemetery, and back to the road, where cars whizzed by, barely noticing the columns that marked the cemetery's entrance. And then you ask why I walk...

Montefiascone

It was not much longer to my next destination, and I arrived at the 17th century convent around 5:30 - once more I was warmly welcomed by the nuns, and showed to my sleeping quarters, another room with beds for five or six, but with just me to occupy it. Just as the nun was about to leave me, I decided to go for it, and asked if they had a piano. She smiled, and without even taking off my shoes and sitting for a minute to rest, I followed her back down.

She took me into a separate room, a salon in the old style, beautifully furnished, and here I found a grand Bosendorfer, one of the best pianos. Better yet, the piano was in excellent condition, being used frequently by the town's piano teacher. I sat down, took a deep breath, and played. The nun smiled at me, the mother superior came in for a chat, but then the door was closed and I banged away.

When the door opened again and the nun asked me if I planned to eat that evening, I realized that it was 7:45, and that I had 75 minutes to find a place to eat and return by the 9:00 curfew. I ran out, still pulsing with energy from two hours in paradise, and saw that this was a truly beautiful medieval town. Promising myself to take a closer look the next day, I settled on a trattoria on a square.

This was a special little place, with the kind of staff that takes pride in their art form, and with a chef who owned the place but did not keep aloof, often serving as waiter and busboy. I had papardelle al ragu di cinghiale (wild boar meat sauce, yum), a pot filled with delicious porcini mushrooms and roasted potatoes, and a cream-filled pastry topped with chocolate that came from a bubbling fondue pot five feet to my right. What a crying shame that I only had an hour to eat and linger! I could have sat all night, tasting these delicacies that were clearly prepared with love. It turns out that I even lucked into sitting next to the chef's parents, and so soon became engaged in the prattle back and forth between parents and son. At their urging, he gave me some little plates to sample, some reserve dessert wine to wash it down, and then when the bill came, the chef cut it by 20%. I repeat, what a crying shame that I had to leave for curfew!