Via di Francesco, Day 10: Agriturismo Casale La Burgne - Citta di Castello

Thursday, June 1
14.5 km
Aprx 400 m

The Virgin Mary, Santa Maria, is everywhere here. It often seems that, despite Christ's centrality to Roman Catholicism, and the ubiquity of the legends of Saint Francis in Tuscany and Umbria, it is to the Cult of Mary that Italians truly belong.

Each day, we pass several roadside chapels or votive altars dedicated to the Virgin, dripping candle wax and sun-bleached rosaries. Every church is crowded with her image. Nearly every night, we fall asleep beneath a different artist's rendition of her, sometimes with the baby Jesus, sometimes without. Paint and pastel, plaster and ceramic, mosaic and cross stitch: every medium is employed to portray the Madonna in Italy. She is our constant companion as we walk to Rome.

Today, we woke at 6 am beneath a dusky oil rendition of the Virgin, dressed, and went downstairs for a cold, self-serve breakfast because, as our hostess put it, "This house does not wake before 8:30." So we served ourselves, strapped on our packs, and headed down the hill, then up the next, past a dairy and through a cloud of tenacious flies that followed us til the breezes at the top of the rise blew them away.

Butterflies replaced flies as we descended. At the foot of the hill, we passed through Lerchi, where the open door of the town church, Parrochia San Lorenzo, beckoned. Despite the dedication to San Lorenzo, a dark oil painting of Madonna and Child featured prominently in the apse, and beneath it in glowing, neon script: "Ave Maria." In the same buzzing, glowing script as OPEN and BAR signs, was holy writ. What did that imply about the comparative sanctity of the thrice daily Italian espresso and the Virgin, mother of Christ? Perhaps nothing, but we couldn't help it: we giggled.

Then back out into the sunlight. Climbing, we passed a small altar to the Virgin. Further up, we rested from the sun under a large oak tree. Looking up, my partner commented on the size of the oak apples. Following his gaze, I saw what he meant, and oak apples they were not. Rather, they were hanging wasps nest. The smallest generously outsized a coconut, and when my count reached nine I quit counting. Saint Francis may have conversed with wasps and charmed their hearts, but as far as I know I have no such skill.

I decided to seek shade under another tree-- any other tree, as far from there as possible. Hurrying to the shade of a tree further up the hill, I found myself next to a crumbling rock wall. Perched there among overgrown grass and next to an alarmed lizard who quickly scurried off, was a small, cracked, ceramic statue of, who else? The Virgin Mary. She urged us on.

We crested the second and final hill of the day, meandered downward a bit, and then followed the hillside around, paralleling our eventual destination: Citta di Castello. When the path finally arrived in the town below, we were sun weary, despite it being only 12:30. Lunch revived us some, and we explored the Cathedral, wherein we lit a candle at the Altar of the Virgin, and admired the artist's heartwrenching rendition of the very human woman, stricken upon the death of her child. In a church filled with masterworks, this painting was a magnum opus.

Tonight we go to bed early, hoping to wake by moonlight and make an 18 mile walk before noon. We are staying at Albergo Umbria, a cozy B&B in old town that is strangely devoid of depictions of the Madonna. Brassy, bold, accordian-rich music pours in our window, and I wonder how I'll sleep with such noise, and no Virgin Mary to comfort me. I have grown accustomed to her presence, and find myself looking for her, expecting her, everywhere.