Via di Francesco, Day 11: Citta di Castello - Pietralunga

Friday, June 2
29 km
880 m

I have a blister! A small but respectably deep blister wedged beneath the callous on the inner edge of my left heel. I know this doesn't seem like big news, but in 42 days and more than 400 miles of walking, I've only had one tiny blister before today.

That may seem miraculous, but my shoes (Oboz) breathe well, are well broken in and fitted, and I care for my feet conscientiously. I wash and dry them carefully, elevate them at the end of each day, and always wear "camp" shoes (Crocs ballet-style flats) around town at the end of the day. How then did my usual routine fail me?

After joining the Via di Francesco, our daily walks shrank from 25 km/day to 17 or 18. The stages feel reasonable-- sometimes decidedly short. Today, however, was 29 km long. Even for veteran pilgrims, that's a long walk, and it was, apparently, long enough to induce a blister on the most seasoned of feet.

And they are SEASONED. They have covered hundreds of miles, crossed through 3 countries (Monaco, France, and Italy), and walked three Italian provinces. They are stinky from 6-8 hours of hiking per day, every day, for many weeks. They have worn the dust of hundreds of towns, thousands of roads. They have callouses that would make any mountain climber proud.

There was nothing else particularly special or memorable about today, save the heat and length of the journey. The way was as bucollicly charming as Umbria always is; it is a land of farmers and shepherds, rippling fields of grain and mahogany eyed cattle. We saw a bushy-tailed fox slink across the road, eyeing us suspiciously before disappearing into the undergrowth. We waved to shepherds with their dogs and inhaled the saccharine scent of fields of unknown wildflowers. A thousand sunning lizards  scurried from the road as we approached. What crumbling stone houses we passed seemed near vacant; some were abject ruins. This is Umbria.

Despite its omnipresent charm, near twenty miles of walking up and down its hills can, and did, induce a blister. Small though it may be, I wear it as a badge of honor. It is an  accomplishment to blister feet so hardened. It is beneath so much callous, it is near impossible to lance-- a treatment of which I am a staunch proponent. A lanced blister is a fast-healing wound. An unlanced blister will only worsen.

To that end, I carry a sharp needle, a lighter to disinfect it, disinfectant ointment, and a small spool of thread that acts as thimble and leverage line. They haven't seen much use this camino, a fact for which I should be grateful, but an unused item in my pack feels more like dead weight than blessing, so I am glad to have found need of them.

It is now near ten at night and, as the streets in this tiny hamlet come alive outside with shouting locals, giggling children, and the first strains of the evening's music, I'm smearing a thick coat of Bepanthenol cream on my weary feet and tucking myself in. As enticing as the sounds are, a pilgrim lives on their feet, and mine are tired.