The morning was already becoming hot, the sun climbing quickly as we rejoined the cycle path running alongside the Po. The landscape felt familiar by now—long, straight stretches of tarmac flanked by fields, irrigation canals, and the constant, slow-moving presence of the river. But something within me had shifted. With every step, the idea of reaching the end became more real. It wasn’t just a vague thought anymore—it was something I could almost touch.
We walked quietly, in that comfortable silence that only grows between people who have shared miles together. Occasionally, we exchanged a few words, pointed out a heron lifting from the bank, or commented on the changing light, but mostly, we let the journey speak for itself.
By midmorning, the heat returned—fierce and inescapable. The umbrellas we had bought in Piacenza became indispensable. Without them, I don’t know how we would’ve kept going. We took breaks under whatever patches of shade we could find—sometimes a tree, sometimes the narrow shadow of a roadside chapel or an abandoned farmhouse.
That afternoon, the long, straight path began to feel symbolic—like a thread connecting us directly to our destination. There were no distractions, no turns to negotiate, just the slow, steady act of moving forward. But with that clarity came a strange tension. The end was drawing near, and as much as I longed for rest, for familiarity, for home—I also didn’t want to let go.
The simplicity of the walking, the way the days had fallen into rhythm, the freedom of being disconnected from the static weight of everyday life—it had all become a way of being. I feared what would happen when it was over. Would I be able to carry this presence, this attention, this quiet strength, back into a world of walls and clocks?
That evening, as the sun began to drop, we arrived at a farmhouse tucked away in the countryside. A man stood by the gate, watching us approach with calm curiosity. His name was Antonio, a Peruvian beekeeper who had lived alone on this land for years. There was a quiet dignity about him, the kind that comes from being deeply rooted in place, in rhythm, in labour that has meaning.
He welcomed us without hesitation and invited us to stay the night. His home was surrounded by humming hives and the slow, golden work of bees. As we sat together, he shared with us a spoonful of his honey—thick, rich, sun-soaked. It wasn’t just delicious; it was alive, carrying the flavour of the fields, the flowers, and the time he had given to them. I watched his face as he spoke about the bees—so full of care, of patience. It felt like listening to someone who had long ago made peace with the pace of the world.
The next morning, as we prepared to leave, Antonio handed us a jar of honey—his honey—as a gift. He didn’t say much, but his gesture held a weight I won’t forget. It was more than kindness. It was a reminder of how much can be offered by those who live simply and give generously. As we walked away from his farm, the jar tucked safely in my pack, I felt again the quiet power of the road, not just in the landscapes it carried us through, but in the people it placed in our path.
The heat was already rising, and as we rejoined the cycle path along the Po, the landscape stretched out before us—straight, steady, familiar.
But something had shifted. Each step now carried the weight of an approaching end. The idea of arriving, once so distant, was suddenly near. And with it came a strange tension. I had longed for home, for rest—but now, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop walking. The rhythm, the silence, the simplicity of the road had become something sacred.
I found myself wondering what it would feel like to return. Would I recognise the place I left? Would I recognise myself? The path had stripped everything down to what mattered, presence, breath, attention. Letting go of that felt like a kind of grief.
That day, the road offered no distractions. Just the sun, the river, and the sound of our steps. It was a reminder that the journey wasn’t just about getting somewhere. It was about learning how to be with what is, each step, each moment, each quiet unfolding.
And maybe that’s the truth of walking: that every ending is just another beginning in disguise.
A couple of days passed after we left Antonio’s farm, walking under an unrelenting sun, through endless stretches of cultivated land and small, half-sleeping villages. The path remained mostly flat and straight, and though our bodies moved forward, the sense of arrival felt as distant as ever. We were suspended in a strange in-between, no longer far, not yet close.
One morning, just after dawn, the light turned golden and stretched our shadows across the fields like quiet companions. I paused and took this photo. There we were: Carlos, the trolley, and me, reduced to silhouettes dancing over the green. Something about it struck me deeply. In that fleeting moment, we were both part of the landscape and separate from it, ephemeral, but present.
Looking at that image now, I see more than shadows. I see the essence of pilgrimage. The act of walking not just through space, but through time, memory, and self. The shadows are stretched not just by the angle of the sun, but by the miles we had carried within us. They hold exhaustion, perseverance, laughter, doubt, and quiet resilience. They are not merely outlines; they are echoes of who we were becoming.
We didn’t know it yet, but just a few days later, another glorious moment was waiting for us, a turning point that would once again remind us why we started and what it truly meant to walk toward home. But for now, in that quiet, golden hour, it was enough to simply witness our shadows, tall and tired—still moving forward.
