50ccPilgrim.uk

"You have arrived at your destination." I'm sitting in the cloisters beneath the Basilica di San Francesco d'Assisi, where I've spent a good part of the afternoon (I was resting this morning, exhausted by the heat and journey!) I finally climbed the last hill into Assisi, went through the cloisters and up the steps to the small piazza outside, and paused for a few moments at the doors. Then, walking in, I was struck first by the riot of colours (the walls and ceilings are covered by the most magnificent frescoes, including the famous sequence by Giotto telling the story of the saint's life). There were people milling all around, and a low hum of conversation - not quite the silence the custodians beg for, but not too intrusive. I walked right up to the altar, not sure what was in my heart to do, then found myself falling to my knees, overcome with a sense of ... well, of what? Not achievement or accomplishment, although this has been a challenging ...

That's Assisi in the near distance. I caught a train this afternoon from Firenza / Florence which left me about 3km away from the end of the outward leg of my pilgrimage. I walked up to the outskirts, to the Bose monastic community who've offered me accommodation for the next few days. After a good shower and a bite to eat I'm settling into my room. I can see the hill on which the city itself stands from my window. It feels amazing and humbling, after almost 3 weeks on the road, 2,300km of travel, the loss of Rocinante, all the stops and encounters and challenges on the way, to be this close at last. It's about a 1.5km walk from here to the Basilica. But right now, it's time for sleep. ///melon.motivate.curable

I enjoyed this little nugget. Next to the Badia Fiorentina, just down the road from the Dante residence, is the Torre della Castagna - the Chestnut Tower - where Dante would have served as Prior in the Priory of Arts. The tower gets its name from the voting practice of the Priors. They would pass around a cloth bag into which they could choose to place a chestnut to indicate approval of a motion. At the end of voting the chestnuts were counted and compared with the number of voters. This helped prevent pressure being placed on the Priors: it was a form of "free and fair" election. In Tuscany, the chestnuts were called ballotte . And that's where we get the word ballot from. The essence of a ballot is that the person who gets elected is the one who can get the most nuts on their side. Food for thought. ///waddle.finger.targeted

It's beyond reasonable dispute - in my head, anyway - that the Florentine genius Dante Alighieri was the greatest poet who ever lived. If you've not read his Divine Comedy  you missed a huge, life-changing experience. There are excellent English translations with enough notes to guide you through the trickier bits. I've loved Dante since discovering him in my early twenties, and I've read the Comedy  numerous times in a range of translations. He has shaped my thinking about so many things, not least the profound extent of the love of God. One of the four books I brought with me is a copy of the Comedy . Some have called it the Fifth Gospel, which might sound a bit overblown or heretical ... unless you actually read it. Today I walked through streets of Dante's city, saw the church where he prayed, the homes of the great families whose lives dominated his, the Chestnut Tower where he exercised his office as Prior of the city. And I visited his home. Or, a...

I thought, this morning, that it might be nice to begin the day with prayers in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, right in the heart of Florence. Well, I wasn't the only one to think that. A line of visitors was waiting, queuing right round the cathedral for hundreds of metres. And this, I discovered, was 45 minutes before the cathedral even opened! All I can say is, they've never queued like that for my sermons. So I went wandering and found the little chapel of S. Michele Arcangelo Visdomini. A lovely and quiet space where I said morning prayer, all the time under the watchful eye of a custodian in black shirt and trousers who paced constantly up and down the aisles, perhaps supervising our prayers, or maybe watching in case someone got caught up into the heavens so he could grab their ankles and keep them from flying away. Then around the corner I discovered Badia Fiorentina, a monastery church (in the photo). Breathtaking. An absolutely wonderful place of ...

I mentioned Giotto's remarkable crucifix in a previous post; it hangs right in the middle of the nave at the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella. This isn't a photo of it (my phone camera isn't good enough to get a decent one). It's a photo of a 10 cent prayer card I bought on the way out. Not quite as good, but the earlier post shows it in it's proper setting, so go take another look. For me, one of the striking elements was the combination of blood and skull at the bottom of the crucifix: Now that might seem grisly, but stay with me here. There's some symbolic imagery at work. In the Bible we read that Christ was crucified at Golgotha, meaning the 'place of the skull'. Medieval Christians understood that to me the exact place at which Adam had died and been buried - it wasn't just the place of a  skull, but the place of the  skull. In Giotto's painting the blood flowing from Christ is running down the mountainside and is abo...

Sometimes it's the little things that matter, right? I love Febreze. A miracle of the space age (literally - it's used on the International Space Station) it's a wonder substance that doesn't hide odours, it neutralises them. I think it's wonderful. Now one of the problems with extended travel is odours. Not keeping things clean ; that's surprisingly easy, especially in hot weather. Water is abundant and soap is cheap. But when everything's bundled in a pack (or moped top-box) day after day, on the road, in hot weather, it just starts to smell a bit. Clean as much as you will, nothing's getting well aired so it starts getting stale. I've been looking for Febreze everywhere  since leaving the UK but it's been fiendishly elusive. Until today. An unassuming grocery store here in Florence ... and there it was, sitting chirpily on the shelf as though to say, "Oh, were you looking for me?" Tonight everything I own will be hung aro...

Florence - cultural heart of Italy and birthplace of the Renaissance! And also the birthplace of the greatest poet of all time: Dante Alighieri. Mind you, being here right now I'm starting to understand how he conceived of the horrors of the circles of hell. It's baking hot. The streets are full - surging - with people: tourists, locals, hawkers and vendors, commuters. Buses, trams, scooters, cars, bikes and pedestrians jostle on the streets, not always helped by the rather vague edges separating road from pavement. And the noise ...! I spent some time earlier in the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella (in the photo). To my delight I discovered that here (and in the other churches in Florence) it's customary to charge visitors but give a free pass to priests. I was ushered into the cool, quiet church and enjoyed the opportunity for prayer. I was particularly captivated by a beautiful crucifix painted by Giotto which I'll post more about later. I'm staying wi...

So here's the new plan. First, the things I can't do. You can only buy a scooter if you have Italian residency. Scooters can be hired, but only for local use. Because of my sleep disorder I've been advised against driving cars. And although I briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a walking pilgrim - you know, a proper pilgrim! - I've not come prepared for that, don't have the gear, and there's a heatwave here in Italy ... just doesn't seem wise. So, phase one: buses and trains to Florence, where I can stay in a Florentine convent, and then train to Assisi to stay with the local community of Bose and complete the outward journey. Phase two: I don't have a realistic and life-giving way of making the pilgrimage back (unless I want to spend days as a bored train-riding pilgrim) so I'm going to get a flight back from Assisi. Phase three: fix up my other 50cc scooter (more about Stella later ...) and make a UK based 50cc pilgrimage - praying ...

No matter where I travel, or what happens, I'm not alone. There are angels everywhere. I've been very aware, throughout the pilgrimage, of the many people who just seemed to pop up at the perfect moment to help. Last night, after saying farewell to Rocinante, I was left stranded on an industrial estate 5 miles from the hotel with all my luggage and an awkwardly ungainly motorcycle top-box. I tried calling for a taxi, but this isn't a tourist area so few people speak English: I couldn't make myself understood. In the end, I just started walking. In the heat, with the box and gear, it was slow going. After about an hour I'd only covered 2km and was getting tired. But I'd gone from the industrial area into a small village, and found a cafe bar ('La Scarramuchi'). I went in to see if they'd call a taxi for me. Andrea, the owner, gave me an ice cold coke (I must have looked very forlorn!) and tried to get a taxi. It took me a while to explain ...

Salvatore climbs back into the cab of his recovery truck to take Rocinante on her last journey. I spoke with three mechanics this morning, and they all agreed on three things. First, Rocinante's engine was almost certainly damaged beyond repair. Second, a repair or replacement would be extremely costly. Third, they were so backed up with work she wouldn't even get the work done for two or three weeks. From all three I learned a new word: autodemolizioni . Basically the Italian word for scrapyard. So I spent a long, hot and slightly dispiriting afternoon with Autodemolizioni Longagnani in Baggiovara going through the lengthy paperwork involved in scrapping a foreign vehicle, then picking up the bike. I am now a pilgrim on foot. One more night at the hotel then ... well, then whatever comes next. ///spelled.chills.cape

A difficult day on pilgrimage is still a day of pilgrimage. There were a lot of things to do, but one of them remained praying to God in the beautiful places. So while I was out this morning visiting mechanics and getting supplies, I also went down to Piazza Martiri Partigiani, walked the colonnades past coffee shops and bars, wandered the streets (like those in the photo) and went into Duomo di San Giorgio Martire. It was another extravagantly baroque church, not really to my taste but quite spectacular, and it was quiet and prayerful. I stopped to pray for a while. ///flounce.smiles.transitional

Walking down a back street I came across this car covered in bees. It looks like a hive had fallen from the tree above - there were pieces of broken honeycomb on the car roof and on the ground.  The colony seemed to be crowding around the rear window, so I assume that's where the queen ended up.  They were swarming but not, so it was too get very close for a good look. Fascinating, although not great for the bees, of course. ///ensemble.tarnish.blushes

Rocinante is in trouble. Bad trouble. She may not recover. This morning's ride to Brescello was pleasurable and uneventful, but after lunchtime, setting off for this evening's campsite, she began rattling and wheezing a little. It's fiercely hot here right now, so I stopped for a while and let her cool off in the shade while I had a nap under a tree. Then we pushed on a bit further. As we were coming round Sassuolo she began making some really worrying noises - clattering and puffing - and I quickly pulled off into an industrial estate. Good job I did; we'd only gone round the corner into the estate when she gave a great shudder, a heaving wheeze, oil spilled out onto the road, and she ground to a halt. I don't yet know what's happened but it's clearly bad. I'm prone to anxiety in situations like this, so I deliberately just say for a while under a tree, gathering my thoughts. I was trying to figure out my first priority when a woman came pas...

Today I visited a shrine to one of the greatest priests Italy ever fathered: Don Camillo. If you've never read the writings of Giovanni Guareschi then I understand, although I'm also filled with pity for the pale cultural life you've had to live up to this moment. Let me introduce you. Guareschi wrote in politically turbulent post-war Italy in the midst of violent conflict between right and left wing groups. He tried to humanise the conflict by telling simple and comic rural stories about a little village in the Po valley, ruled over by the communist mayor Peppone and watched over by the rough but kind priest Don Camillo. Their many conflicts - but also their ability to remain close friends throughout - touched a nerve in Italian society, and made Don Camillo a cultural icon. In the 1960s a series of Don Camillo films were made in Brescello, a little village very like Guareschi's fictional one. That's where I've been this morning, visiting the museum...

Wild camping last night in some woods a little way out of Piacenza. This was my front garden this morning.  I slept under the stars, using just the inner layer of the tent as a mosquito net (there were swarms of those, so I wasn't taking chances). I was surrounded by crickets, butterflies, hoverflies, bees, wasps, and at one point, fireflies. Bats swooped overhead at dusk. It was glorious.  And then morning prayer today in the warm dawn sun, and I was able to take my time over it, really relish the Psalms. This is exactly what Manchán mac Silláin had in mind when he sang about "praying to God in the beautiful places." ///corporate.recaptured.dinners

Now that's a pulpit. Catholics sometimes have an undeserved reputation for not taking preaching seriously ... at least, among Protestants who do take it very seriously indeed.  I'd like to say that this pulpit in Cattedrale Santa Maria Assunta in Piacenza suggests otherwise. I've been in churches where the homily is shorter than the time it would take just to climb those steps. Also, look how many people could crowd up in there. Opens up all kinds of possibilities. Tag-team sermons. Preaching in four part harmony. Room for the bishop's quality control team. Clergy Mexican waves. Don't worry, I can keep that kind of nonsense up all day. ///frizz.salads.hydrant

I've come across a few of the large and ornate cemeteries that are such a feature of this part of Italy, but today, entering Garlasco, I came across the most impressive so far.  The site covers acres of ground, surrounded by classical porticos and extravagant monuments. Inside, the dead are crowded together like fans at a football game, arranged in close packed rows and tiers. Tombs are peppered with etchings, statues and photographs. And at the far end a beautiful, simple chapel topped by a mosaic of the risen Christ and the single word: RESURREXIT . The dead live  here. There's a strong sense of love, remembrance, gratitude and hope. In Britain folks are sometimes afraid of burial grounds; they find them unsettling or spooky. This place is gentle and beautiful.  By the way, isn't it interesting that we usually think of ghosts as frightening? But if ghosts are the spirits of the dead, why would those dead be any different in death than that were in life? And ...

The derelict remains of Chiesa di San Giacomo Apostolo in Cascine Strà. Apparently this used to be a little oratory attached to lodgings used by pilgrims on the way to Rome. But prayer continues here, in the form of a little grotto devoted to Our Lady of Lourdes: And today I stopped here for a short while to catch breath, and added my own few prayers to the places' long but patchy history. ///ringside.furred.regrowth

I arrived last night at Monastero di Bose, one of the communities I'd hoped to visit on this pilgrimage. Until I stopped I hadn't realised how tired I was from the last couple of days. Vespers, a simple meal, Compline, then I went to my room (yes, not in the tent again!) to write a post or two about the day. Then I woke up. So here we are, Monday morning and the beginning of week three of my journey. I've been set up for the day with Lauds and some bread with lemon curd. Before I launch, a moment to take stock of the current state of play. - I have lots of slightly damp or slightly smudged things (clothes and everything else) but basically clean. That feels like an achievement. - I'm tired and might need another rest day somewhere soon (not here, as they're full tonight with a group.) - I'm occasionally lonely, dispirited or flagging, but learning to deal with it; most of the time I feel pretty good, though. - I'm praying so much more than I expe...

A study in contrasts this morning. The community's day began with Matins and Lauds in the small prayer chapel, a very reflective time with beautiful psalm singing and periods of silence.  Then, after breakfast (bread, jam and tea - very British, really!) it was up to the main church for Sunday Mass. To my astonishment - remembering that this church is at the top of an alpine pass - the service was packed, including a number of families, young children, teenagers ... I have no idea where they all came from, but it was a terrific and lively hour!  And the ability of the community to make the switches required, from intimate to congregational, from contemplative to celebratory - was impressive. They're only a small community, fewer than ten people in all, I think, but God has clearly called the right people to be here.  ///curing.harmony.tenable

And we're over another border, heading down the pass through the southern Alps. A beautiful couple of hours riding ahead, with views like this: ///equality.likenesses.heaven