As we approached the unmistakable outline of Stra, familiar landmarks began to emerge on the horizon. Each one carried layers of memory, and every turn in the road felt like a reminder of the life I had once left behind and was now returning to. The streets, the rooftops, the gentle curve of the Brenta River were the images that had lived in my mind for months, now made real once more. But something had changed. The journey had infused them with new meaning. They were no longer simply places from my past; they had become chapters in a story, part of this very journey.
Then, in the distance, a figure appeared, pedalling towards us with unmistakable energy. It was Mario, the vice mayor of Stra, cycling to greet us. His smile was as warm as the golden afternoon light. He stepped off his bicycle and shook our hands before kindly offering to escort us to Villa Loredan, the grand sixteenth-century building that now serves as the town hall.
As we walked side by side, Mario spoke with great passion about cycling, about the freedom and connection to the land it brings, something I now understood deeply after crossing countries on foot. We laughed about the parallels between his wheels and our weary legs. Our conversation felt like more than casual chat; it was a meeting of kindred spirits, bonded by movement, landscape, and shared effort.
And then, we turned the final corner.
At the front of a small but vibrant crowd stood two figures who meant the world to me: my sister Nadia and my beautiful mum. Their joy radiated even from afar. My steps quickened, drawn to them by something beyond willpower, until I was finally wrapped in their embrace. The weight of the entire journey gave way to the warmth of that moment. It was perfect.
The car park outside Villa Loredan was buzzing with life. Friends, neighbours, and even complete strangers had come to welcome us. Some had followed our story online or read about it in the local newspaper. Nadia, ever the connector, had helped spread the word. Now they were all here. Their smiles, their applause, their presence were overwhelming.
And the surprises continued.
Inside the villa, Mario led us to a hall where Carlos and I sat facing the gathered crowd. It felt surreal, almost like a press conference, but filled with affection and intimacy. People asked questions about preparation, challenges, and what had kept us going. With each answer, we relived parts of the road, sharing moments that still felt impossibly close and yet already belonged to the past.
When someone asked how it felt to finally arrive home, I paused before replying. “Our journey has not finished yet,” I said. “I still have to walk another two kilometres to get to my house.” The room filled with laughter, but I meant it. This was more than a journey to a destination. It was something deeper, still unfolding.
Mario then presented us with a beautifully wrapped gift from the town: a print of Stra, rich in character and detail. As we admired it, my cousin Celeste stepped forward with a second gift: a pair of golden shoe soles, handcrafted and engraved with the words From England to Italy. A master shoemaker, Celeste had captured the soul of our walk in that gesture. They were not just objects, they were symbols of everything we had endured and everything we had become.
Eventually, it was time to leave the town hall and take those final steps home. Only two kilometres remained, but they carried the weight of thousands. Biri kindly offered to carry our bags in his car, but Carlos and I declined. Those bags and that orange trolley had walked every step with us. They belonged with us to the end.
As we made our way through the streets of Stra, memories surfaced with every corner. Then, just ahead, stood our final destination, my childhood home. A crowd of family and friends waited, cheering us on. Nadia ran to us first, arms open, followed by my mum, who held me in a way only a mother can. Her embrace said everything. Behind her were more: Biri, Nicolò, Mariana, and few others.
And then I saw it. Hanging from my mum’s balcony was a huge banner. Its words stopped me in my tracks. I was overcome. That banner was not just a greeting. It was the perfect final line to this journey, a symbol of everything we had walked through. Above us, bold and clear, it read:
From Home to Home. Ben Arrivati.
It was more than a homecoming. It was the beginning of a new chapter, one shaped by every step we had taken. And in that moment, surrounded by love, pride, and the quiet strength of community, I knew we had truly arrived.
Soon after this I came to the conclusion that walking is not good for sunbathing.
