Distance Walked: around 875 miles, now going by the guidebook.
Current No. Blisters: 1
[Sorry for the delay – I’ve now descended into Italy enough to find some phone signal! I can also say that I’ve joined Napoleon, and the illustrious group of people to have made part of the descent on my bottom.]
It’s now getting on for fifty days since the walk began, with three countries down, and the fourth (at the Swiss-Italian border) perhaps no more than two hundred and fifty meters away, over the snow.
Switzerland has continued to be fantastic. I was reminded by a Swiss pilgrim in France, many weeks ago, (as an excuse for not exporting their wine) that Switzerland is small. He’s right, but also it is incredibly dense: in activity, in beauty, and diversity of terrain and landscapes. Rivers, mountains, lakes, forests, cities, towns and vineyards, are all crammed into such a small space, with nothing like the vast open fields of France to separate them. It’s difficult to get far away from something interesting.
On Friday, and Saturday, the scene was the continuing vineyards, built like layered fortresses on the steep slopes facing lake Geneva. Walking through them, the irregular, yet geometric walls seem to warp and shift in the distance.
After coincidentally walking right past the grave of Graham Greene (having been completely unaware that he ever lived in Switzerland – he retired to Vevy), I set up at a campsite on the very edge of Lake Geneva, and tried not to look drunk whilst walking with a slightly irritated right ankle, past the six Swiss police officers who were arresting someone in a neighbouring tent. The sunset was utterly beautiful.
I overslept, which left me walking through the main heat of the day (and it was scorchingly hot – the kind of hot that reminds you why you have eyebrows: to stop the rivers of sweat flowing from your forehead dripping into, and stinging, your eyes). The route took me down past the end of Lac Léman, and up the Rhône towards Aigle. Some pre-alpine climbs up the edges of the valley, and a final stretch of a good many miles of exposed, unshaded road made it a tricky day. I slept in a little room kept aside for pilgrims at the Catholic church in Aigle, after a very warm welcome from Fr Rolf (who told me about his own pilgrimages over a cup of tea, including a few in Japan).
Another hot day of steep ups and downs took me to the Abbey of Saint Maurice. I had been intending to go straight on to Martigny, missing the Abbey altogether, but Fr Rolf had told me the previous night that to do so would be a crime. I was quite happy to accept a shorter day, and made it to the Abbey in plenty of time.
The Abbey of Saint Maurice is the oldest (continually operating) Abbey in Western Christendom. There are a series of archaeological digs at the Abbey, but perhaps the most interesting thing for me was attending the Sunday evening vespers, sung by the monks. It was a fantastic experience to cap off the first half of the pilgrimage (the Abbey marks the halfway point (roughly) to Rome – but also, the next day, I had other duties).
On Monday, I was up at four, and down at the train station (!). At last, the time had come to return to university for two days to finish off the degree. I hoped to be back in Switzerland, walking again, by Wednesday afternoon.
After a few minutes of marvelling at the speed of the train, I’d already made it back to Aigle. I was at Geneva airport, mentally grumbling about the price of a croissant before nine.
I spent the night at a hostel in Birmingham (with a very noisy Dutch chap in the dormitory whittering on about something at midnight), and took my viva-voce the next day. I think it went rather well. Perhaps the examiners were caught a tad off guard after asking me my plans for after the viva: “fly back to Geneva to collect the rest of my belongings from some Swiss monks, halfway up the Alps”. I actually had all my dirty laundry, and other valuables with me in the exam, in the Waitrose bag from Canterbury, that had successfully doubled up as aeroplane carry-on luggage.
It was wonderful to pop back home for a brief night, after which I found myself back in Saint Maurice, at about 13:30 the next day. I took the gentle, easy walk to Martigny, and settled in at a campsite after 16 km, back on the walk.
Thursday was fantastically brutal. According to my guidebook (I brought the second volume from home, so now have maps again!), the day saw me climb over 2000 m, descend a good thousand of these, and walk a horizontal distance of 30 km. And I’d be lying if I said the weather was nice. It was tough work, slipping over the mossy boulders, and clambering along paths sporting rather precipitous falls down to one of the Rhône tributaries, far below. But, after taking a shortcut over the Col du Prion, I was past the worst of the terrain (if not the weather).
For many pilgrims on the Via Francigena, there is a lot of anticipation around walking the Grand Saint Bernard Pass. It is generally regarded as one of the highlights of the pilgrimage, but often one is forced to skip it, because of poor weather, or avalanche risk. The pass is accessible only by foot for most of the year, with the traditional road opening in June, when enough snow has melted to enable machines to clear the way.
And so, I rang the Hospice at the top, fully expecting not to be able to walk the pass (and instead having to do a Lord of the Rings-esque “if we cannot go through the mountains, let us go under them”, in my case not through the mines of Moria, but rather the 1962 road tunnel, by bus.) I was pleasantly surprised to be told it was safe to ascend, if I didn’t mind a few centimetres of snow. I know it was a “no” last week, so this was unexpected news.
Thus, this morning, I set out from Bourg Saint Pierre, heading not for the bus stop, but for the mountain pass, and for Italy. The weather, for a change, was excellent.
The path rises up a road, and past a large hydroelectric dam, and round the edge of the lake behind. It passes a good few derelict buildings and huts, some containing emergency phones. After that, I gave up on the path, and forged ahead on the deserted road. It looked easier, and there was less snow, for a while.
Eventually, the road snowed up as well. I walked past the machines that clear the way (they set to work shortly after), and continued up towards the pass. I could understand the avalanche risk, looking at some of the walls these machines had carved in the snow, to clear the road.
After much snow had entered my boots, and absolutely boiling (despite sub-zero air temperatures, and a single layer of clothing), I caught sight of the little cluster of buildings that is the Hospice of the Grand Saint Bernard Pass. I was quite glad not to have needed to use my spare socks as gloves, as originally intended.
I’ve honestly no idea what the climb down tomorrow will be like, but for the moment I am safe and warm. And that’s where I write, currently in an empty dormitory at the Hospice, surrounded by feet and feet and feet of snow. I don’t know where “a few centimetres” came from (aside from my potentially dodgy translation). Maybe it was a few centimetres of fresh snow?
In any case, this will be my last (expensive) night in Switzerland. I look forward to the lower prices that are 250m away, in Italy!
To conclude, I thought I might muse a little on pilgrimage itself, given I’m currently at one of the most historic sites of welcome for pilgrims on this walk. One of the original purposes of pilgrimage was an opportunity for redemption through no small degree of pain and suffering; and to this end, early pilgrims did whip themselves as they walked along (not for me). Perhaps this week, in the growing heat, and faster growing slopes of the Alps I should have been reminded of this. I’ve been sweat-soaked, frozen to the core, exhausted, and borderline robbed every time I need a sandwich. Indeed, Thursday’s walk from Martigny to Orsieres is regarded as the most punishing, and perilous part of the whole route from Canterbury to Rome. And the Grand Saint Bernard Pass, is the highest and coldest part of the route, and not much less punishing. But if this is penance, then I am forced to take the view of one Ingenious Hidalgo of La Mancha.
When asked for the whereabouts of Don Quixote, who at the time had seemingly disappeared into the hills of Sienna Morena, Sancho Panza responded:
“My master’s doing penance in the middle of these mountains, and loving every minute of it.”