Page by Page on the Assisi Way – 1,200 km on Foot
FR

Translated into English.

MO Montagnard74 Globetrotter ·
And I’ll admit that arriving in Modane, in that ugly town under a gloomy sky, really brought me down.

I’ve been traveling the roads of Haute-Savoie and Savoie for nearly 40 years now. The Maurienne Valley, and especially Modane, are definitely the least pretty areas of our Alpine mountains…

I admire the journey, though.
"Le véritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux." Marcel Proust
RI RichardXI Regular ·
Yes, and I knew that before I left. Nothing in common with the Savoie of my childhood summer camps above Sallanches. 🙂
RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 22, the refuge / Novalesa

That’s it! I’ve crossed the Alps and I’m in Italy. A big stage, but undoubtedly one of the most beautiful. A real mountain hike like I hadn’t done in a long time. First, the climb up the pass—tough but steady, and without incident this time. When I reached the little Mont Cenis, I emerged onto a vast grassy expanse surrounded by powerful mountains, their peaks dusted with powdered sugar in the middle of spring. I stopped. In the near-silence of nature, I savored, for a moment, that feeling of fulfillment we so rarely get to experience in everyday life. And then it was probably "Groundhog Day"! I’d never seen so many of those little curious creatures, cautiously poking their heads out of their burrows just to see who was passing by. Not too shy, but careful all the same. The rest of the crossing was trickier, with a path cluttered by snow patches that gave me quite a hard time and forced me into some acrobatics.

So, I’m in Italy now. I found accommodation in a lovely Benedictine abbey, San Pietro di Novalesa. Quite the pilgrim—I waited over 30 days before sleeping in a religious establishment! I was warmly welcomed by fratel Michael, who speaks impeccable French. Tomorrow, I’m getting up early—I’ve got Lauds at seven o’clock. I think it’ll be interesting to spend time with the monks. Ciao a tutti.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 23, Susa

There are five Benedictine monks at Novalesa. Five, in this large abbey that once housed nearly 500 in the Middle Ages. They’re men between 40 and 70, from what I could tell—around my generation, or close to it. I had the chance to chat with two of them, Brother Michael and Brother Adrian, both of whom spoke French very well. Their lives revolve around the Benedictine rule—prayer and work—but also around welcoming pilgrims, people seeking a spiritual retreat, casual visitors, and school groups. The place is quite open, even though the monks themselves live cloistered and only leave for specific, structured reasons: shopping, administrative tasks, medical appointments…

I had dinner with them last night, in silence, as the rule dictates, with just some background music in this oversized refectory for such a small community.

This morning, I joined them for the "lauds" prayer to try to better understand a monk’s daily life. All five were there in the church, dressed in their black robes, praying and lifting their chants to God. Listening to them and observing respectfully, I wondered what drives men today to live like this, cloistered in such a small community. Did they get along well? What were their dreams, their desires? Their longings? Or did they feel their lives were full because they were turned toward the love of their God? Faith, no doubt—but that word, which I respect for its deep spiritual resonance, means nothing to me… Regardless, I spent an evening, a night, and a morning filled with serenity in my comfortable cell and in these buildings bathed in tranquility and silence. Thank you to the "fratelli" for their gentle welcome. The faithless pilgrim, but with an open heart, continues on his way…

Ten kilometers this morning to reach Susa. A trifle for me. It’s still amazing how relative the concept of distance can be. Ten kilometers on foot—ten times a thousand meters, a hundred times a hundred meters (uh, did I get that right?). It might seem huge in everyday life, but it’s nothing when you’re walking an average of 25 km a day.

So, I arrived in Susa, this charming little town with apparently very rich architectural and historical heritage. But today, I focused mainly on logistics: shopping, laundry, planning the upcoming routes. Tomorrow, I’ll take the time to visit the city.

RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 24, Susa

A Sunday in Susa... What a pleasure to hear people chatting in Italian on the Sunday-best streets of this little town. I love their sunny way of speaking, with its singing vibrato and apparent cheerfulness—both distant from and close to our own. Didn’t Alphonse Allais once say mischievously that “the French are just Italians in a bad mood”? This morning under the arcades, I spent a long time sipping my coffee, soaking up the melodious sounds of this cousin language. For my part, I’m working hard to master some basic structures and build up a bit of vocabulary so I can make myself understood. I think I’m making quick progress, even if my Italian still has a bit of a “defunésien” side—like in *The Sucker*. That said, being in a foreign country, no matter how welcoming, makes things harder for me, especially when it comes to making phone reservations. Let’s hope the linguistic immersion (as language teachers call it) I’ll be diving into over the next few days will help me feel more at ease.

Vedremo. Ciao a tutti, and see you tomorrow.

KA Kate Globetrotter ·
Another church photo! Outside, inside... At this rate, I thought you’d come back in a cassock and sandals, forcing me to go to mass with you every Sunday morning 😕
Mes photos sur Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/153304262@N05/albums "Le Temps nous égare. Le Temps nous étreint. Le Temps nous est gare. Le Temps nous est train".
RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 25, Susa / Sant’Antonino di Susa

Like us, the Italians have ended up "moving their city to the countryside." The Susa Valley is dotted with pretty little villages, all extended by vast suburban housing developments. Two worlds coexist there. One is still rural and traditional. A few pastures, tractors busy in the fields. A villager from San Didero filling her cans at the fountain. An old worker from Borgone, worn out by labor, speaking to me in Piedmontese. The other world is more modern. It’s that of the suburban populations who work in the Turin metropolitan area. A string of housing estates and villas, all equipped with surveillance cameras and guarded by dogs whose barking certainly lacks the musicality of their owners’ language.

No particular difficulty on this stage, anyway. Flat terrain, along the "Via Francigena," an ancient trade and pilgrimage route to Rome. Va tutto bene, and I’m starting to Italianize *pianissimo*.

See you tomorrow.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 26, Trana

Today, I chose to let the Silence speak

...

See you tomorrow

RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 27, Trana / None

Last night in Trana, I stayed with Don Nino! No, he’s not a mafia godfather, and no, I didn’t have to kiss his hand. He’s actually the parish priest, a very elderly man, but all smiles. After stamping my pilgrim’s credential properly, he took me to the parish hostel—a cute, comfortable, and well-maintained building. Once again, I spent the evening, had dinner, and slept alone. Flipping through the guestbook, I noticed that most of the pilgrims on this Assisi Way were deeply religious men and women, driven by a strong and sincere faith. A little intimidated by their spiritual comments, I didn’t write anything. What was there to say? At least to thank all the volunteers who maintain the parish shelters and allow pilgrims to recharge before continuing their journey? That’s what I did, but in person, speaking to Don Nino in my broken Italian. I’ve been thinking about the sign above the hostel door, which I photographed: “The pilgrim is the one who has the courage to accept what they find.” It can be understood in many ways. Making do with the bare minimum. But it can also resonate much more deeply. I’ll let you ponder that...

As for today’s stage, it was probably the ugliest of all the ones I’ve done since leaving Vézelay. Twenty kilometers on the straight paths and monotonous landscapes of the Po Plain. Endless residential areas, fiercely guarded by dogs, fields of corn and wheat stretching to the horizon, thriving on this fertile land, and a dense network of roads and railways funneling people and goods toward the Turin metropolis. That was my scenery for the day, while under scorching heat, I drained bottle after bottle. When I think that on TV, they’re telling people over 65—me, in other words—to stay hydrated...

Tomorrow’s a big stage: 28 km to Carmagnola. It’s gonna be hot! Will there be dancing?
RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 28, None / Carmagnola

I left early this morning at 6:15. Full east, with a sun still a bit sleepy. To shorten the stage, I chose to reach Castagnola by road, counting on traffic still being light at that early hour. When I arrived in the village, I stopped for a coffee in a small bar filled with regulars. “Buon giorno, posso avere un caffè in terrazza per favore?” A warm welcome from the owner. “Certo, lo porterò subito.” I love it when the day starts like this, with smiles. After quietly finishing my coffee, I go back to pay at the counter. “Buona giornata e buon cammino!” the owner calls out as I leave. No doubt about it—with my tau-shaped patch sewn on the back of my big backpack, my walking stick, and my sunken cheeks, I’m clearly a pilgrim. It’s 8:30, and there are still 20 km to reach Carmagnola. So far, so good…

But the sun is getting more and more intense on this treeless plain. Road. Trucks. Farm tracks. Dust. Tractors. Wheat fields, cornfields. Aggressive dogs. Farms, farms, and more farms. I’m walking through the vast Po Plain—straight, monotonous, monochrome. Did I pass here already? No, it’s fine, but everything looks the same. There’s nothing new under the sun. Oh, a tree! But where’s the shade? Where are the fountains? I’m dying of thirst. A cemetery—saved! The dead don’t drink, but the flowers honoring their graves do. I rush to the water tap, which brings me back to life.

Finally arriving in Carmagnola. A bar under the arcades. I order a large glass of cold milk and an Americano. The town looks pretty, but it’s sweltering too.

That was a day “sotto la cupola di calore!” See you tomorrow.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 29, Carmagnola / Monteu Roero

The night’s storms cooled the air a bit and settled the dust on the ground. The morning was easier than expected. After passing through the charming village of Ceresole d’Alba, the landscape gradually changed, and I finally left the scorching agricultural plain for gentle rolling hills that led me into the Roero micro-region. A small area known for its vineyards, hazelnut groves, and medieval-style hilltop villages. Shade at last, along with fountains and public benches. The stage ended on a pleasant note, even though a nagging urge to doze off followed me all day. I think the intense heat of the previous days has worn me down a bit, and the night spent listening to the "symphony of lightning" didn’t help me recover properly. A small glass of Roero wine tonight (maybe two?) should give me a bit of energy back.

See you tomorrow.



AL Aleph240758 Veteran ·
Wow, what an adventure! I’ve never done that kind of hiking, but what courage. You must’ve trained for a long time before setting off on this "off-the-beaten-path" journey. Kudos to you!
Qui a l'habitude de voyager sait qu'il vient toujours un moment où il faut partir... Paulo Coelho
RI RichardXI Regular ·
Thanks Aleph. No, I didn’t really train beforehand, and that’s what worried Kate and made her grumble. Hiking—whether it’s short, long-distance, loop, or linear—is in my DNA, as they say now. I’ve been doing it since I was a little kid. As I often joke, walking relaxes me. 😉
MO Montagnard74 Globetrotter ·
Yes, and I knew that before leaving. Nothing to do with the Savoie of my childhood summer camps above Sallanches. 🙂

Umm, like the Saint Roch hillside, for example? 😛
"Le véritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux." Marcel Proust
RI RichardXI Regular ·
My brother tells me it's above Megève. But I forgot, it's so far away...
RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 30, Monteu / Neive

What a pleasure to wander through the small, leg-wearying hills of Roero, leaving behind the dreary, straight horizons of the Po Valley where the land is worked in rhythm. Here, the slopes and valley bottoms are the focus of fine and delicate developments. I weave between vineyard plots, almond and cherry orchards, and hazelnut groves.

Around 9:30 AM, I stopped at a roadside bar for my now-ritual Americano coffee. As I walked in, a little gentleman addressed me and playfully pointed out that my backpack was bigger than I was! I grinned widely—first because I understood what he said in Italian, and especially because his joke was spot-on. After all the walking and losing weight, my backpack has taken over. It feels like it’s carrying *me*! I settled on the terrace, and another guy came up to me, beer in hand and cigarette in his lips. "Sono francese!" It’s my magic phrase, always the first thing I say to see what happens next. The man explained that he spoke a little French, learned in school. He chose it as a foreign language because he found it easier than English. The conversation flowed in an improbable mix of "Francitalian." He told me about his region, which he loves but has changed a lot. "Before all these hazelnut trees took over, we grew peaches here. I remember when I was little—my God, they were so good!" He mimed biting into an imaginary fruit, and in his eyes, I saw his childhood. The juicy, white peach dripping down his chin. He also mentioned that he speaks Piedmontese, a language the younger generation no longer understands. When he was a child, his parents even forbade him from using it at home. They insisted on Italian! Just like Occitan back home. The splendors and miseries of the nation-state… After this lovely exchange, I went to pay and bought him a beer. "Grazie! Mi chiamo Gian Carlo. E tu? Richard. Ah sì, Ricardo! Buon cammino Ricardo!"

In the afternoon, the sun turned up the heat, and I nearly ended up with heatstroke and dehydration. But *va tutto bene*, and tonight I’m sleeping in a stunning vineyard estate—for a price… well, not exactly pilgrim-friendly.

See you tomorrow.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
May 31, Neive / Canelli

First of all, I want to correct my mistake from yesterday. The very kind and helpful hostess at "Cascina la Corte" charged me a true pilgrim’s price: 35 € for the room, dinner, and breakfast. Delighted by this pleasant surprise, I walked all morning through the vine-covered slopes of Roero and Langhe. With its gentle rolling hills (gentle to the eye only), its hillside vineyards, and its perched villages, this little region could almost remind you of Tuscany. Maybe minus the cypress trees. Perhaps also a touch less refinement and elegance than on Florentine lands. It’s no coincidence, by the way, that these Piedmontese terroirs have been classified as a UNESCO World Heritage site. For the craftsmanship of the people, the delicacy of their work, the quality of the wines produced, and all the traditions and cultures carried by these territories with such a strong identity.

Around 10 a.m., I arrive in the village of Valdevilla, and at the end of a long straight road, I spot a group of people sitting in front of what looks like a church. Since it’s Sunday, I think it might be a parish event. I’ll have to stop—pilgrim status obliges. Say a few words, leave an offering, who knows? But as I get closer, I see people sitting at tables on the small square, glasses and cups in hand. The same inside… I get it! It’s a deconsecrated chapel turned (!) into a bar. That can happen in France too, but for different uses. This, I’d never seen before. So I enter the place piously, very lively at this hour. In the choir, two couples on high chairs are sipping their white wine. Along the sides of the nave, older men are playing cards with the utmost seriousness. At the counter topped with a wooden cross, I order my usual americano from the server. I sit down and delight in observing this slice of Sunday life. When I go to pay, I ask the owner if she’d fill my water bottle. She opens her fridge and gives me a nice cold one. "Pellegrino di Assisi, huh? Buon cammino!" In less than 20 minutes, I’d brushed shoulders with both the sacred and the profane. Those Italians!

The afternoon followed the same pattern as the past week. A suffocating arrival under the sun in the stage town. A big glass of cold milk, an americano, a few puffs of my e-cigarette, then off to my accommodation.

See you tomorrow.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
June 1st, Canelli / Acqui Terme

Arrived in Acqui Terme in the early afternoon for a smooth stage—nothing much to tell, really. Oh, well, there was one thing: I had to do some acrobatics to cross a small road blocked by a landslide just after Canelli. The trail guide suggested an alternative, but it seemed too complicated. I took my chances and, despite the drop on my left, I climbed over the guardrail right above it. Just to be clear, even if this trail sometimes makes me a bit bold, I don’t take unnecessary risks. I assessed the situation, weighed the potential danger, and crossed in relative safety. I’m saying this for Kate-Rouquinette, who worries in her head.

Another intense moment: I treated myself to a micro-nap in the late morning, something that had never happened before. I was tired, already overwhelmed by the heat, and the chance for my usual coffee break hadn’t come up. I sat right on the grass, in the shade, my back comfortably against my pack. I ate a banana, nibbled on a few cookies. A gentle drowsiness slowly took over, and I fell asleep. Between wakefulness and sleep, I drifted far away. But I could still hear all the sounds of nature—and especially the steady rhythm of my breathing through my mouth. That familiar "pffouou, pffouou, pffouou" that felt like a soft lullaby. No, no, I wasn’t snoring. Besides, I never snore.

So, the end of a very peaceful stage. I’m staying two nights in Acqui Terme to rest and decide what’s next: continue my adventure or call it quits. I think the discussion between Me and Myself is going to be a close one.

See you tomorrow.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
June 2, Acqui Terme

For the first time since leaving Vézelay, Me and Myself are at odds. I personally think it’s time to stop. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, and even if I didn’t reach my initial goal, I pushed myself to the limit. This trail is magnificent, but it’s a journey of solitude. My interactions with fellow humans have been precious but rare, and my limited Italian makes things even trickier. I feel like I’ve explored every corner of myself, even the questions that remain unanswered. I’ve tested myself physically and mentally. I’ve shown resilience, adaptability, and even boldness at times. My backpack carries intense sensations and powerful memories that writing has helped me anchor in everyday reality.

And to be honest, the Ligurian Mountains via the Alta Via for 10 days worries me a bit. Few resupply points, limited accommodations (already a struggle in Piedmont), and a wild, almost empty landscape... I’ve looked into it—it’s not the GR20, but overcoming this challenge requires new logistical, physical, and mental preparation. Alone, I’m afraid I won’t have the strength. If only I’d found one or two travel companions...

I know what the other Me thinks. The one who imagined arriving in Assisi like a prince, like a conqueror. What a lack of humility for a pilgrim! I know he regrets that, once again like in Compostela, we won’t complete the journey—that I’m backing down from the final obstacle, the one that might have transformed me. That I’ll go home with endless regrets. While I, for my part, fear he’ll lose himself wandering a spiritual path he can’t seem to find...

But I’m used to it. I know him well. Him, the foolish virgin (my astrological sign), me, the wise virgin. He puts on a brave face, but I know he’ll accept my decision. Besides, I didn’t make this entire journey to argue with myself. Quite the opposite—I did it to draw new strength and live with more serenity for however long Destiny (let’s call it that) grants me.

And I also hold onto this phrase from my friend Nathalie, quoting Emerson: *"It’s not the destination that matters, but the journey."* There. This introspective exercise has worn me out. I’ll leave the two Mes to their moods and go explore the town.



RI RichardXI Regular ·
June 3, Acqui / Ponzone

Yesterday, after leaving my two selves to their moods, I went to explore the town. Acqui Terme—almost the translation of Ax-les-Thermes. A spa town. I really love thermal towns, except for Vichy, but for other reasons. No matter how lively they are, they offer a glimpse of the slightly old-fashioned charm of the Belle Époque era. The "Grand Hôtel" and "Grand Café" with their pastel façades and glass-and-steel frameworks. The parks and gardens along the lime-tree-lined avenues. The monumental fountains. The elegant terraces under the arcades, the chairs around the small tables at tea, coffee, or aperitif time… Of course, the town isn’t just this somewhat outdated image, but that’s how I enjoyed seeing it—and maybe even dreaming about it.



I’ve finally decided to extend my journey for three more days, all the way to Campo Ligure, which marks the end of the Piedmont section. And today, I met my first pilgrims—a rather elderly couple walking the trail in stages. This year, they’re tackling Liguria. I know, it’s the perfect opportunity for me to walk with them and continue my adventure. You could almost think Saint Francis sent me a sign. Grazie Francesco, but no. My decision is made, and I know I’ve mentally let go…

Tonight, we’re staying together in a more-than-basic parish hostel. I think there are probably synonyms—or maybe euphemisms—that better describe the place. Just look at the photos…

See you tomorrow.





RI RichardXI Regular ·
June 4, Ponzone / Tiglieto

In this hostel from yesteryear—how to put it? Basic, spartan, precarious, almost slum-like, especially the bathrooms—there was, under the portrait of Pope Leo XIV, a funny photo of Don Camillo and Peppone having a bike race, in that well-known scene. Thinking back to the film, I started reflecting on what it means to know how to listen and to listen to oneself.

What makes this series so special, beyond the petty clashes between the priest and the communist mayor, are the moments when Camillo talks with Jesus nailed to his cross. But in the next film, the priest, now a bishop, goes up to Rome—the Holy of Holies for a Christian. And there, Don Camillo no longer hears Jesus. He speaks to him, but there’s no answer. He’s no longer in Brescello in his little church. Far from his parishioners, he’s lost the voice of his God. Peppone, too, hears voices—those of his party. They’re what push him to act for the good of his constituents. But when he, too, goes up to Rome to take on higher duties, he feels useless. He’s no longer serving any purpose, and he no longer truly hears the voices of the Comrades either. Both have lost their way because they’re not in their place, and they haven’t known—or been able—to listen to their own voice.

In a different, more sacred vein, there’s a story in the Bible that I really love—that of the prophet Elijah. Threatened by Queen Jezebel, Elijah takes refuge in a cave on Mount Sinai after wandering for 40 days in the desert. He asks for God’s help, hoping for his word. A terrible wind rises. Nothing. Then the earth trembles. Still nothing. A huge fire blazes through the air. Still nothing... And then, “in the sound of a thin silence,” he hears the voice of God.

You can interpret these stories in many ways, not necessarily in a theological or mystical sense. For me, I’d say that to find your way, you first have to listen to your inner voice and not go in directions that don’t suit you. But it can also mean being able to hear differently, to change your sound register—in other words, to listen to voices other than the ones you expect.

Okay, solitude’s starting to make me boring and too much of a thinker. Fed up? It’s time I head back.

See you tomorrow.

RI RichardXI Regular ·
June 5, Tiglieto / Campo Ligure

Yesterday, while walking between Toleto and Tiglieto, I noticed subtle changes in the landscape—almost imperceptible at first, then more pronounced. Today, that impression was confirmed. Hills, orchards, and vineyards on slopes gave way to a rugged terrain, a line of already high peaks and deeply carved valleys covered in forests and pastures. Everything in a harsher world, of austere beauty. I’m truly in Liguria, the land where mountains plunge into the sea, even if it’s still out of sight. And so… Oh, oh! Richard, stop right there! You have to stop—your journey is over! This was your last stage.







Instead, think about thanking the people you met along the way. Rare, fleeting encounters, but so precious.

Thank you to Marthe, the university professor from Louvain, the first and only person I walked with for a few days. Thank you to Ibra the Georgian, who, by telling me about the hospitality of his country, made me forget the stupid arrogance of the “Colonel.” Thank you to Paulette, who welcomed the drenched pilgrim, dried his clothes, fed him, gave him her smile, and gifted him her pilgrim’s cloak. Thank you to the pious Louise, so proud of her God, who tirelessly takes in all these lost souls in her Bethany home. Thank you to Jean-Louis, the all-category champion of pilgrimages, a man of strength and modesty. May he enjoy his long-lost youthful love at last. Thank you to Eugénie, the podiatrist from Chambéry, who treated my battered feet with such care and skill. Without her, the adventure would have ended prematurely. Thank you to the couple from Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne who opened their home to me, gave me shelter and food, without asking for anything in return. Her, the new convert who draws strength and optimism from her love of God. Him, the atheist who volunteers his time for the parish. Thank you to the graceful and slender Céline, guardian of the refuge and protector of life. Thank you to Fratel Adriano, the Benedictine monk from Novalesa, for his kind gentleness, his deliberate gestures, his comforting voice. Thank you for showing me what a man of faith truly is. Thank you to Gian Carlo the Piedmontese, who offered me a moment of pause, a taste of his homeland and his childhood. Thank you to the owner of that unlikely bar-chapel, who, behind her counter at the back of the nave, gave me a bottle of cold water and wished me *buon cammino*. Thank you to the young owner of the *albergo* “Villa Margherita,” who played Rachmaninoff just for me before dinner. Thank you to Bernard and Hélène, with whom I slept without hesitation in a room the size of one and a half closets…

Finally, thank you to all of you who followed me daily, with enthusiasm or discretion. Your friendly presence and support gave me the energy I needed to keep going as far as possible. *"Pax et Bonum"*—that’s the phrase Assisi pilgrims use along their way. It’s for you…

RI RichardXI Regular ·
Epilogue

July 2026. I’ve been back for several weeks now, and as I flip through the pages of my travel journal in the stifling heat of my apartment, I retrace the path. Reading each stage plunges me back into memories, often vivid ones. I realize then how glad I am I kept this journal—it inked my adventure and anchored it in my memory. The trail is still here, beside me. I keep walking it in my mind, like a parallel path.

Apart from the six kilos I lost and my flatter stomach, my life hasn’t changed. But there’s the longing—for the rhythm, the breathing, the living body, the wandering thoughts, the way I looked at the world and people. The sounds, the images, the scenes of life. A physical sensation. And strangely, what weighs on me sometimes now is no longer having the weight of the pack on my shoulders. A few regrets too, as I suspected. The biggest one: not going all the way, not finding that little extra spark that could’ve turned this unfinished adventure into a complete journey.

But *« as soon as the wind blows… »*.

AL Aleph240758 Veteran ·
What courage!! Do you know the Via Francigena that goes all the way to Rome? Kate won’t be happy if I give your feet itchy feet to hit the road again 😛
Qui a l'habitude de voyager sait qu'il vient toujours un moment où il faut partir... Paulo Coelho
RI RichardXI Regular ·
Yeah, I’ve heard about it. They say the stretch in Tuscany is stunning. But it’s a much more crowded route than the one to Assisi. And for now, we’re keeping our feet in flip-flops... 😉
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
And for now, we're keeping our feet in flip-flops... 😉

Yep, chilling out, travel planning, trips, travel journals, friends, outings, reading, movies, series, political discussions, restaurants, changing the world, and also doing nothing at all...
Mes photos sur Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/153304262@N05/albums "Le Temps nous égare. Le Temps nous étreint. Le Temps nous est gare. Le Temps nous est train".
MO Montagnard74 Globetrotter ·
Thanks so much, Richard, for this amazing feedback.

I’m in awe of the journey—48 days of facing yourself.
"Le véritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux." Marcel Proust
RI RichardXI Regular ·
A huge thank you, Bruno, for following along!
SO Solene40 Globetrotter ·
Good evening Richard, And above all, congratulations—what you’ve done is, for me, a real feat! I’m one of the silent followers who tracked your journey step by step, and that’s an achievement in itself 😊: managing to captivate someone who’s phobic of slow walking but loves far-off adventures.

I really loved your storytelling, your descriptions of the landscapes, and the interesting people you met along the way (I only noted one jerk—pretty good 😄).

I’m sure you’ve created a beautiful travel journal that Kate can read to you in your old age 😉.

Thanks for sharing, Richard, and have a wonderful summer everyone 🌞.

Christelle
Le monde est comme un miroir, si tu lui souris, il te sourit aussi!
RI RichardXI Regular ·
I’m one of the quiet ones who followed you step by step, and that’s quite a feat too 😊: managing to interest someone who’s phobic of slow walking but loves far-off change of scenery.

😏 So I’m gonna buy Carl Honoré’s book *In Praise of Slow*. Thanks anyway, Christelle, for your comments.
DJ Djalma Globetrotter ·
In a more sacred vein, there’s a story in the Bible that I really love—the one about the prophet Elijah. Elijah, threatened by Queen Jezebel, takes refuge in a cave on Mount Sinai after wandering for 40 days in the desert. He asks for God’s help, hoping to hear His word. A terrible wind rises. Nothing. Then the earth begins to shake. Still nothing. A massive fire blazes through the air. Still nothing... And then, "in the sound of a thin silence," he hears the voice of God.

Elijah walked for 40 days and forty nights😏 All you’ve got left to do is make a "pilgrimage" to Mount Horeb (Sinai)—the cave is still there 😄. Over there, you won’t cross through dreary suburbs or industrial zones... Still, hats off for your biblical knowledge!

For me, I’d say that to find your path, you first have to listen to your inner voice and not go in directions that don’t suit you.

So true.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XCOyB7WStI https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2eI67iCbKY
RI RichardXI Regular ·
Thanks Jean-Michel! We’ll wait a bit for Mount Horeb. I’ve got to keep my promise to Kate for a summer in flip-flops. 😉
PA Pagaljavab Globetrotter ·
You didn’t see me, but I’d laced up my hiking boots and was following you on the road, quietly and from a distance.
RI RichardXI Regular ·
I thought so too... 😉 Thanks to you.
JO Jojoone1 Globetrotter ·
So it was written that this year would also be the year of extraordinary travel journals (I get myself). No small feat, Richard—you’ve just shared an incredible and commendable journey with us, that’s the least we can say. Would I add that it has an extra soul? You might’ve just earned your spot in paradise, while Kate, left behind in that cozy double bed, has probably sent herself straight to purgatory. As penance, she’ll have to get moving—besides, she doesn’t even have the excuse of the camera being too heavy anymore... 😛
« Tout le monde s'interroge sur comment laisser une meilleure planète à nos enfants, mais on devrait plutôt penser à laisser de meilleurs enfants pour notre planète. » Clint Eastwood
RI RichardXI Regular ·
Well, I’ll just wait for her quietly in Paradise while she serves her time. It might take a while, but I’m patient. 😉 Thanks a lot, Joël, for sticking with me.
KA Kate Globetrotter ·
Tu viens peut-être de récolter ta place au paradis, tandis que Kate, restée au fond de ce lit douillet pour deux, vient de s'expédier directement au purgatoire.

J’ai négocié une pénitence plus douce… 😉
Mes photos sur Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/153304262@N05/albums "Le Temps nous égare. Le Temps nous étreint. Le Temps nous est gare. Le Temps nous est train".

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