Via Francigena by Rebecca Ford

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I discovered the little town of Bobbio one April afternoon, as it dozed in the pale sunshine like a content cat. Set in the Trebbia Valley in Emilia Romagna, its historic streets faintly scented with spring flowers and fresh coffee, it seemed ineffably Italian. Yet despite appearances, Bobbio has strong Celtic connections. The medieval monastery that still dominates the town was founded by the Irish monk St Columban, who turned it into a celebrated centre of learning. And in the Abbey Museum you can see the gravestone of Cumianus, or Cummian, a Scottish bishop who went to Italy in the 8th century and stayed to become the 6th Abbot of Bobbio.

Like Cummian, I was on a pilgrimage – although I was looking for the hidden Italy rather than purification. I was following part of the Via Francigena, an important pilgrim route that once ran from Canterbury to Rome. Although the journey was often dangerous, pilgrimages were immensely popular during the Middle Ages and could sometimes resemble medieval package tours: the itineraries featuring churches and holy relics, rather than today’s art treasures and Armani.

The Via Francigena was first documented in the year 990 by Sigeric, then Archbishop of Canterbury, who was obliged to travel to Rome to receive the pallium (a symbolic woollen stole) from the Pope. The record, listing the places at which he stopped, is now preserved in the British Library. The road evolved over the years and alternative routes were established, creating in the end a trans-European highway for pilgrims and merchants.

I began my journey in Turin, as I wanted to see the famous Shroud - like thousands of other latter-day pilgrims. The city’s reputation for industry, particularly car manufacturing, had led me to expect somewhere akin to Birmingham, so I was pleasantly surprised to find an historic centre, lined with miles of elegant porticoes and encircled with hills.

The Turin Shroud has attracted controversy for years. A piece of linen imprinted with the image of a man who bears the marks of crucifixion, it is said to be the shroud of Christ. Photographs taken in 1898 deepened the mystery when they showed that the image acts as a natural negative. Carbon dating in 1988 determined that it was a medieval fake, but many were unconvinced: pollen analysis, for instance, revealed pollen grains from Palestine. However, this is a relic in which people want to believe.

The Shroud is kept in the Cathedral, but I was disappointed to discover that, in order to protect the original, only a facsimile was on display. I consoled myself with a cappuccino in the elegant Café Mulassano, trying to ignore the haughty glances that sleek Italian women were casting at my practical, but decidedly unstylish, trainers and combats. I wondered whether medieval Brits had experienced something similar: ‘Did you see the cut of that pilgrim’s cloak?’ ‘Yes, they’ve no idea have they?’

From Turin I took the train to Piacenza, a prosperous town in Emilia-Romagna. Situated on the banks of the river Po, it was an important stopping point on the Via Francigena, with plenty of hospitals for the pilgrims (offering hospitality, not medical care). Cummian would almost certainly have passed through here on his way to Bobbio, just a few miles away. At the heart of Piacenza is the Piazza dei Cavalli, which is dominated by the imposing Palazzo Gotico. It was constructed in 1281 at the instigation of Alberto Scoto a merchant leader and descendant of a Scottish Knight who came to Piacenza as one of Charlemagne’s retinue.

There wasn’t a tourist in sight as I explored ancient churches steeped in incense, then wandered through the bustling market, where townsfolk talked and flirted in between buying packs of socks and porcini mushrooms. Everywhere, there was an air of long-standing confidence and contentment.

From Piacenza I took the train south to Lucca, following the Via Francigena past Fidenza and into Tuscany. It was early in the morning and I was still half asleep as we crossed the flat, airless plains of the Po, then climbed into the hills, past ochre churches and terracotta barns. It wasn’t long before we reached the mountains, where the air was cool and grey. Every so often the train would stop, giving me tempting glimpses of places such as Borgo val di Taro and Pontremoli, where caramel coloured bell towers peered moodily at me through a heavy mist. It must have seemed an inhospitable landscape to a poorly shod pilgrim.

Eventually the countryside opened out and we came into Lucca, a gem of a Tuscan town that has, up to now, managed to escape the worst attentions of mass market tourism. Tightly squeezed within its medieval walls, it seems hardly to have changed since pilgrims first crowded into its narrow streets and handsome squares.

Inside the Cathedral, which was founded by an Irish saint, I found one of the most important religious artefacts along the Via Francigena: the Holy Face. This wooden statue of Jesus was said to have been carved by Nicodemus and was thought to be responsible for many miracles. The cult of the Holy Face - which represents Christ alive on the cross, in accordance with oriental tradition – spread rapidly throughout Europe: the English William 11 used to swear ‘per sanctum Vultum de Luca’.

You could easily spend half a day just exploring Lucca’s churches, but there’s much more to the city than that. You can visit Puccini’s birthplace, walk around the walls or do as I did and just stroll along the main shopping street Via Fillungo, where you can buy everything from rich, green olive oil to perfect Italian knickers – made only for perfect Italian bottoms.

Next day I was on the train again: my luggage heavier, my clothes scruffier. My destination was Viterbo in Latium, a busy staging post on the Via Francigena. The land here was shaped by volcanoes and is immensely fertile, with woods and hills that are liberally sprinkled with wild flowers and ancient Etruscan tombs. There was something about it that made me want to unpack my bags and stay.

In medieval times Viterbo was a rival to Rome and provided a convenient refuge for a series of Popes escaping conflict in the city. You can still see the 13th century Papal Palace where several Popes were elected. The choice was not always easy – Gregory X was only elected after the cardinals were locked in without any food, an undeniably effective way of forcing any decision.

The most magical part of Viterbo is San Pelligrino, a medieval jumble of streets full of soft grey houses with outside stairways and Juliet-type balconies. Fresh washing hung from the windows and elderly men watched the world with fierce bright eyes. I understood Hilaire Belloc who came across it on his pilgrimage to Rome and wrote: ‘Every house had something fantastic and peculiar; humanity had twined into this place like a natural growth, and the separate thoughts of men….had decorated it all.’

The next day I reluctantly left Viterbo and took the train to Rome. When Sigeric came here he had lunch with the Pope. I opted for pannini by the Trevi Fountain, followed by a visit to the Colosseum; the site, according to popular belief, of many Christian martyrdoms. Today there were no gladiators, only a young man dressed as a centurion who chatted on his mobile phone, while simultaneously smoking a cigarette and trying to chat up pretty blonde tourists. You never know what you’re going to see on a 21st century pilgrimage.