Waking up in the morning was quite chaotic. Around twenty people were rushing to pack, shower, use the toilet, and get ready in general in order to catch the only rigid-inflatable boat allowing us to cross the Po River.
We wanted to follow in the footsteps of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sigeric, who in 990 had crossed the river at this very spot.
It was a misty morning, extending the magic of the evening before. Getting into the boat wasn’t as straightforward as I had imagined. The very steep and damp steps saw a few people lose their balance, slipping momentarily before regaining their footing.
The boat journey stretched for around sixteen kilometres. We were gliding over a vast mantle of water, disturbed only by our presence. The wind caressed our hair, and the sun—just barely over the horizon—pulsated golden rays. It was a sublime experience, evoking a deep sense of peace and freedom.
I didn’t know it then, but it was the last time I would see the faces of some of those people—friends for a day—whose presence had somehow left a mark.
As we floated onward, the quiet hum of the motor faded into the background, overtaken by the hush of the river and the occasional call of a bird somewhere in the mist. I found myself gazing across the water, letting the rhythm of the boat lull me into a kind of trance. Time loosened its grip. The journey felt suspended between two worlds—between regions, between days, between the person I was before boarding and the one I would become once I stepped off.
We all sat in silence, touched by the stillness. We weren’t speaking, but we were sharing something profound. The river felt like more than just a stretch of water—it became a threshold, a moment of quiet passage that carried more than just our bodies.
When we finally reached the opposite bank, the boat gently nudged the shore, and reality returned. One by one, we stepped off, back onto solid ground. But I carried something with me from that crossing. Not just the memory of the mist or the glimmering surface, but the quiet realisation that this journey wasn’t only about walking. It was about noticing. About letting go. About being moved—sometimes quite literally—by forces bigger than ourselves.
Once we crossed the river, the group slowly dispersed. Some stopped to rest or adjust their packs, while others pressed on without a word, as if the calm of the river crossing had placed them into a quiet, meditative state. The energy had shifted—less frantic than in the morning, more grounded, as if the mist had not only cloaked the landscape but softened our pace.
The terrain was flat, the path gentle, and the Po now behind us became a kind of silent witness to our continued journey. Fields stretched out on either side, and the air, though warming under the rising sun, still carried a hint of dew. I walked mostly in silence, occasionally exchanging glances or small words with the few who had remained nearby Carlos and I. There was a sense of unspoken connection among us—strangers just hours before, now bound by a shared moment on water.
We passed through sleepy villages, where life was just beginning to stir: a farmer tending his land, a dog barking lazily in the distance. Our bodies began to feel the effort of the day, but something about the earlier crossing lingered—it had quieted the mind, made the road ahead feel less like a challenge and more like a continuation of something sacred.
By midday, we reached a shaded spot and paused for a simple lunch—bread, cheese, fruit, whatever we had in our packs. Feet were stretched, backs leaned against trees, and for a while, the world was still. It was there, under the soft rustle of leaves and the fading sound of morning footsteps, that I realised: the real journey wasn’t marked by great milestones or dramatic views, but by these quieter transitions—like the crossing of the river—where something subtle within us had changed.
As the afternoon wore on, we picked ourselves up and continued walking, the rhythm of our steps steady, but our minds elsewhere. The flat landscape rolled on, and yet something in the atmosphere had shifted. We were getting closer. Piacenza was no longer just a name on a map—it was a presence, drawing nearer with each footfall.
We knew what waited for us there. Not a mountain to climb or a storm to brave, but something far harder to carry: the moment of goodbye. Piacenza marked the end of the shared road for many of us, the point at which our group—brought together by chance, dust, laughter, and kilometres—would part ways. From there on, everyone would follow their own path. That thought hung quietly between Carlos and me as we walked, unspoken but heavy, like a weight we were saving for later.
When the city finally emerged in the distance, its rooftops shimmering under the late-day sun, a strange silence fell over us. There was no sense of arrival, no triumph—only a quiet knowing. We were walking not just into a city, but into a goodbye we hadn’t yet rehearsed.
The streets of Piacenza welcomed us with charm and warmth. Life pulsed through the city—children playing, bicycles zipping by, cafés humming with conversation. And yet, I felt a kind of stillness inside me, a pause. We found a trattoria tucked away on a quiet street, a place that felt as though it had been waiting for us. There, over a final meal, we gathered with Massimo, Daniele, Marco, and Davide—friends who had become part of the soul of this walk.
It wasn’t a sad dinner, not on the surface. There was wine, good food, stories, and that kind of laughter that carries an edge of longing. But underneath it all was the knowledge that this was it—our last meal together, our last shared evening on the Via Francigena.
We stayed an extra day in Piacenza, needing that space to prepare ourselves. And on the morning we said goodbye to Massimo, Daniele, Marco e Davide, we woke early. The city was already awake. We gathered one last time, just the three of us. Watching him walk away, his shape slowly shrinking into the distance, was harder than I had imagined. For over a month, he had been there—steady, generous, constant. And now, suddenly, he wasn’t.
That morning left a silence between Carlos and me that even walking couldn’t fill. Something had closed. A chapter, a rhythm, a companionship. The road ahead felt emptier—but we walked on, carrying with us not just our packs, but the presence of those who had helped shape our journey.
After their departure, a quiet settled over us that even the sound of our footsteps couldn’t break. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled—it simply was. Carlos and I looked at each other, neither of us needing to speak. We had both felt it: something had ended.
We decided to take a slow morning. Free of our gear for once, we wandered into a local shop in Piacenza. My second pair of shoes—worn down by the relentless kilometres—had finally reached their limit. The soles were thinning, the stitching coming undone. It felt symbolic, somehow, to leave them behind here, in the city that had marked such an emotional turning point. I tried on a new pair, and as I tied the laces, I felt the weight of all the places the old shoes had taken me—and the silent hope that these new ones would carry me just as far.
We also picked up two umbrellas—an odd choice for walkers, maybe, but the heatwave gripping northern Italy was becoming unbearable. The sun, once a gentle companion, now pressed down with sharp insistence. The umbrellas became our portable patches of shade, tiny oases under the blazing sky.
Originally, we had planned to take a long and winding route home. But that morning, we heard about a smooth cycle path that followed the Po River almost all the way to the Veneto. It felt like an invitation. After so many rugged trails and tangled detours, the idea of walking beside the water again, on steady ground, was too appealing to ignore—especially with Carlos’s trolley in tow.
We set off at dawn the next day, stopping at the only café open at that hour. A warm coffee and a slice of cake felt like a quiet ritual, grounding us before the day unfolded. And then we walked. We let our steps find their rhythm again—new shoes, new shade, new silence.
By noon, we had already reached the spot where we’d sleep that night: a football pitch behind a church. I made a few phone calls, and the priest, with quiet generosity, offered us permission to pitch our tent there. What felt like an ordinary field turned out to be a small blessing—it had a shower. After so many days of heat and dust, the simple act of washing off the day felt like reclaiming something essential.
And still, even as we settled into that evening, something lingered in the air. The farewell to Massimo, the shifting of the journey’s shape, the growing awareness that the end was drawing near—it all moved with us, quiet but insistent. The walk had changed, and so had we.
After leaving Piacenza, everything felt quieter, even the landscape seemed to reflect the shift. The road was straighter now, the terrain more forgiving, but there was a subtle weight in the air, as if the absence of those we had said goodbye to the day before was walking beside us. Every step felt both lighter and lonelier.
Carlos and I followed the new route we had heard about, a smooth, well-maintained cycle path that ran parallel to the Po River. It was a welcome change after weeks of uneven trails and unpredictable terrain. The trolley rolled effortlessly, and for the first time in days, we didn’t have to think about our footing. The river flowed beside us like a silent guide, its calm presence both reassuring and reflective.
We walked in near silence, letting the rhythm of the path and the rustling trees fill the space. The sun was unrelenting, bearing down with a strength that seemed to grow with each passing hour. The umbrellas we had bought in Piacenza turned out to be small acts of genius—offering pockets of shade in a world of heat. People looked at us strangely as we walked with umbrellas under a cloudless sky, but we didn’t care. They gave us the comfort we needed to keep going.
That morning, we stopped at a small café, one of the only ones open at that hour. The scent of coffee, the coolness of the tiled floor, the gentle clink of cups—it felt like a little sanctuary. We sipped slowly, almost ceremonially, knowing that these moments of stillness were becoming more and more precious.
By midday, we had reached the place we would sleep. A football pitch tucked behind a church, offered to us by a kind priest who had answered my call with quiet generosity. It wasn’t just a patch of grass—it had a shower, and in that heat, that felt like a miracle. I remember standing under the stream of water, the dust and sweat washing away, and feeling a deep gratitude for the smallest of things.
That evening, as we sat on the edge of the pitch, watching the sun begin its descent behind a line of poplars, the silence between us was no longer heavy. It had changed. It was filled with the unspoken knowledge that we were nearing the end—not just geographically, but emotionally. The road that had once seemed endless was now narrowing, drawing us closer to Stra, closer to home, and closer to whatever version of ourselves had been waiting to emerge.
