We were now entering a new phase of the journey. The landscape began to change gradually, subtly. The Po River, our constant companion for so long, finally drifted behind us. With it, we also crossed an invisible border and stepped into the Veneto region. That moment, though marked by no sign or fanfare, held a quiet significance. The terrain under our feet was no longer unfamiliar. These were roads that, at least in spirit, led home.
The heat was still unbearable. By mid-morning, the sun had already claimed the sky, burning down on the tarmac without mercy. The umbrella we had once used for shade now felt useless under the sheer weight of the heat. There was no breeze, no shelter, only the long road stretching ahead and the quiet sound of footsteps pressed against melting asphalt.
Carlos, stripped to the bare essentials, walked ahead of me, pushing the trolley with a cloth draped over his head in an improvised attempt to block the sun. The orange bundle of our gear looked like it too was sagging under the heat. There was something both comical and heroic in that posture. No glamour. Just grit.
We walked with the kind of determination that comes not from confidence but from necessity. The road gave us no shade, no distraction, no reason to stop and no incentive to speed up. It was just us, the sun, and the landscape that seemed to shimmer and contract in the distance.
It was in moments like these that I realised how much the journey had stripped away. Comfort, coolness, control. But also ego, impatience, and excess. What was left was raw effort, pure movement, and an honesty with the body that only walking in such conditions can reveal.
The silence between us grew longer that day, not because we had run out of things to say, but because words themselves seemed too warm to hold. We simply kept going. One step at a time. A cloth on the head, sweat running down our backs, and the trolley rolling faithfully along.
That was walking at its truest. Not poetic, not performative. Just real. And in its own way, beautiful.
That evening, as the sky began to dim and the heat still clung to the air, my phone rang. It was my sister, Nadia. She and her husband Biri wanted to come and meet us.
Later that night, we sat together eating pizza, laughing, and sharing stories. For the first time in weeks, I was surrounded by someone from home. It felt surreal and perfect. A reminder that the journey was not just about leaving, but also about being received again.
That night was not simply a reunion. It was a turning point. A quiet celebration of how far we had come and how close we were to the finish.
The morning after our joyful evening with Nadia and Biri, we set off once again. Our bags were lighter, thanks to their generous offer to carry some of our gear home. For the first time in many days, we walked with almost nothing, just the trolley and a few essential items. It was liberating.
But the morning brought a small disappointment. No coffee. Not a single café was open in the small village we had entered. The early sun had already begun to sting, and the absence of caffeine made the morning feel unusually long.
Then we saw her.
A woman stepped out of her house, stretching in the doorway like she had just woken up. Without thinking, we asked, “Excuse me, do you know where we might find a café?”
She smiled and replied without hesitation. “Come in. I am making coffee for myself. You can join me.”
Her name was Simonetta.
Her kitchen was warm and filled with the familiar scent of fresh espresso. She welcomed us inside as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No questions. Just pure, simple generosity.
We sat at her table and shared our story. She listened intently, her curiosity bright and unfiltered. The conversation flowed easily, as though we were old friends. She was kind, sincere, and utterly open.
That cup of coffee, so unexpected and freely given, meant more than I can say. It was not just a gesture of kindness. It was a reminder of the extraordinary generosity we had encountered again and again on this walk. It was a moment of humanity that anchored us once more to the essence of the journey.
When we stepped back onto the path, our hearts were full. The coffee had warmed us in every way, and the day, though hot, felt lighter.
Simonetta may never know how much that morning meant to us. But I carry it with me still. A simple act, given freely, that became part of our story.
We kept walking after leaving Simonetta’s house, the sun already high and the road shimmering ahead of us. With every step, the landscape began to feel more familiar. The Po was now well behind us, and the terrain, once flat and endless, began to suggest something more defined. The air changed too, just slightly, carrying with it a quiet sense of arrival.
Then, stretching out before us, the Colli Euganei appeared. No longer a distant silhouette but a clear, grounded presence. I took this photograph at that moment. A long, straight road led directly towards the heart of those soft, volcanic hills, framed by fields and canals that seemed to lean gently in their direction.
The image speaks for what we felt. The road narrowing with perspective, pulling us forward with a quiet and steady rhythm. The hills rising not as dramatic peaks but as familiar companions, solid and unmoved.
