When planning our route from Piacenza to Stra, this final stretch had always troubled me. Unlike the well-known paths of the Via Francigena, this segment felt like a void, unmapped in spirit, unsupported by infrastructure, and unrecognised as a pilgrim’s trail. I worried about how we would be received, afraid we might pass through places where no one would understand why we were walking, or worse, not care. I imagined long, quiet days with little kindness and even fewer resting places.
But from the moment we stepped beyond Piacenza, those fears were steadily undone.
The kindness we encountered was not only present, it was abundant. People responded to us not with suspicion, but with genuine curiosity and open-heartedness. Attilia and her family took us in, fed us, and made us feel like guests rather than strangers. A few days later, on a quiet morning when no cafés were open, a woman named Simonetta invited us into her home for coffee without hesitation. Her generosity was so simple and instinctive, it felt sacred.
Then came the storm. A sudden thunderstorm swept over us, the sky breaking open with rain and roaring thunder. With no shelter in sight, panic began to set in. We ran across open fields, soaked to the bone, until a woman emerged from a nearby house and shouted to us, pointing towards an old barn. Her voice barely reached us over the noise, but her gesture was clear. We bolted inside, hearts pounding. In the shelter of that crumbling structure, the storm raged around us while we stood in silence, grounded by fear but also awe, of nature, of timing, of grace.
Later that day, we found a small café and met Maria Grazia. She recognised the scallop shell on our bags and immediately asked about our journey. When we explained we were walking from England to Italy, her eyes lit up. She too had walked the Camino of Santiago with her daughter. That shared experience created a bridge between us. She insisted on offering us coffee and, the next morning, greeted us again with a packed lunch and words of sincere encouragement.
This stretch of road, once the source of so much uncertainty, became one of the most transformative parts of the walk. It reminded me that hospitality is not bound by routes or rituals. It lives in the instincts of people who see your vulnerability and respond with warmth. In the absence of a formal pilgrimage, we discovered a more profound path, one lined with compassion, shelter, and connection.
Sometimes, when the map feels empty, that is exactly when the most beautiful stories begin.
Two days later, we had arrived in Padova. The sight of the city, the very city where i was born, stirred something deep within us, excitement, disbelief, and an underlying sadness that the journey was drawing to a close. As we entered the city, my phone rang. It was Stefano, an old friend from art school whom I had not seen in years. He had followed our journey online and was determined to meet us in person. When we saw him waiting for us near the centre of Padova, it was like stepping into a memory. His smile was familiar, his embrace warm, and for a while we talked like no time had passed. The joy of reconnecting, even briefly, reminded me of how deeply this walk had bridged past and present, memory and motion.
