Day 67: Pay the ferryman
Orio Litta to Piacenza 19km (plus 20-minute boat ride). Total 1648km.
A 4km hop, skip and a jump to Corte Saint Andrea, then the crossing of the mighty Po — and another 15km to Piacenza tonight on foot.
It turns into a day of two halves — the best of the Camino and the worst of it. We’re up early to make Danilo’s 9am boat, padding quietly downstairs from our first-floor beds in the old abbey tower to join the small crew of other pilgrims making their way to the river in the early-morning gloom. First stop is the bar for breakfast, then out into drizzle with rain capes on.
Somehow, we fall behind the others and manage to go off route — the classic ‘‘how did that happen?’’ — only to be rescued by a local who screeches to a halt, jumps out of his van and points us back on to the road to avoid soggy grass. Bless him. Corte Saint Andrea feels otherwise abandoned when we join the small gaggle of bedraggled pilgrims on the riverside, but then Danilo turns up in his boat. He’s a character who well and truly lives his role and has personally ferried pilgrims across the Po since 1999, keeping alive a function that dates to the Middle Ages.
Packs on board, Danilo steers us expertly, weaving to miss sandbanks. Mid-river he takes a call in broken English and smoothly passes the phone to Citt — because who better to act as the ferryman’s impromptu secretary, taking a forward booking for an English-speaking pilgrim while Danilo keeps both hands firmly on the tiller? We laugh with delight the whole way across.
On the far bank, Danilo walks us to his house and tells us a bit of local history, ably translated by Nicolas, the young Italian with the heavy backpack whom we met yesterday. He turns out to be an archaeologist. Then the ceremonials: a special stamp in our pilgrim passports and our names in Danilo’s register — a proper bound ledger. We learn that he’s ferried 36 New Zealanders since 2014; the statistics give the ritual a lovely gravitas and a touch of humanity. I’m one of just 36 Kiwis in the last 10 years! Payment is €10 and a gentle reminder: don’t pay the ferryman until he’s put you ashore. He still ferries people on trust.
Arriving in the historic centre is a relief and a balm. Piacenza is stunning. Renaissance facades in warm pastels, a lively bike culture, little cobbled streets that make you forget the ugliness you left behind. We stop for a healthy lunch — toasted avocado and salmon sandwiches on wholemeal bread — then plod the last few kilometres out the other side of town to our hostel, tucked beside a theatre. It’s a little odd — dancers drift through the communal kitchen on their way to rehearsals in the neighbouring hall — but it’s a convenient facility, equipped with the necessary resources, and warm. We shop at the local supermarket for dinner and eat in the kitchen before collapsing into bed, tired but satisfied.
Small things linger in my head. Danilo’s register, the way a boat can make the river feel like a seam between one life and another; the brutal contrast of industry and the restored beauty of Piacenza; the kindness that turns a wrong turn into a story. Pilgrimage hands you these juxtapositions all the time — and they’re part of its slow education in letting go of tidy expectations.
Playlist: Shenandoah by Tennessee Ernie Ford. A river song feels right for a day where crossing the Po is the emotional high point. Next up: the Apennines, Tuscany, then Rome. One step at a time.
Piacenza to Fiorenzuola d’Arda 33km. Total 1681km.
We’re away with the light for at least 30 more kilometres — lickety-split down the trail to Fiorenzuola.
What a hideous night. The hostel itself is fine, but a kamikaze mosquito patrol keeps us awake with low, intermittent flybys and other pilgrims stagger back in at all hours, disrupting our slumber. Revenge is sweet: our alarms go off at 6.15am, we rustle out with packs, grab a stovetop espresso and supermarket bircher muesli, and head off into the cold pink of morning. Early starts always make long days feel possible, even if it’s hard getting ourselves out of bed initially. We’re into autumn — the mornings are getting cooler, which doesn’t help. Walking as the sun rises is gorgeous; the landscape we exit into is not.
The way out of Piacenza is long, straight and ugly — industrial zones, slightly seedy truck stops, large areas of waste ground. Drivers gathering before their day starts. Traffic increases after 8am and the road walking becomes noisy, unpleasant and borderline dangerous as trucks roar past with little verge to spare and drivers treat the road like their personal racetrack. One narrow lane hosts three hulking tractors barrelling past like they’re doing a grand prix. ‘‘You’re driving a tractor, not a Ferrari, you muppets!’’ we shout after them — and keep walking.
The worst is balanced by pockets of unexpected delight — a curving amble through countryside dotted with castles, ruined farms and churches, and outside one castle a local charmingly waiting for a glimpse of the bride. The strains of Elton John drift from the rehearsal, then another wedding erupts as we arrive in Fiorenzuola. Newlyweds emerge from the church, cheering rice flying. Fashion on parade, exuberant friends, a piazza full of joy. We settle into a basic twin room in the historic centre, shower, and join the passeggiata — people-watching as ritual, recovery as communion.
Pilgrimage keeps serving this same lesson today: you carry both the ugly and the sublime in the same backpack. The industrial stretches remind you why you crave beauty, the church bells and unexpected wedding remind you why you keep walking. Feet sore, mood lifted, we toast the day with a drink on the cathedral piazza.
Playlist: Loyal by Dave Dobbyn.
Fiorenzuola to Fidenza 26km. Total 1707km.
I sleep like a stone — eight hours straight in a cool, dark, mosquito-free room.
Bliss. Thankfully we kill the one mosquito that might have ruined it (Citt gets it with decisive efficiency). In the morning, we wobble dozily out for breakfast: espresso and a cream doughnut at the local cafe, included in the price of the hotel room. Not exactly porridge and blueberries, but enjoyable, nonetheless.
Finding the way out of town is character-building. We miss a hidden underpass, then plod 500m the wrong way after failing to spot the key Via Francigena sign. Brains: still asleep. Back on the trail, fields lie ahead of us as far as the eye can see, and the air is clean and green.
The first village, Chiaravalle, is charming — three bars, and we deliberately choose the busiest. Of the other two, one is closed, the other populated with a row of old men out front who proceed to talk about me in Italian as I go by, not thinking I speak the language. I greet them in Italian with a friendly wave. They fall silent. At the busier cafe, we meet and talk to a large bunch of friendly well-dressed people who are just finishing up. As it turns out later, they are choristers, in town for a concert at the abbey. Cappuccinos, jam croissants, friendly chatter, snippets of musical tunes.
I stand, listening, thinking how glorious it would be to sing with them. I contemplate asking the musical director, whom I recognise from the cafe. I don’t ask, I chicken out. I feel that sting of regret as I walk away — a tiny lesson about speaking up that I tuck into my pocket to reflect on later.
There’s a theme emerging here about having a voice — speaking up.
Each long walk seems to confront me with a single fear to work through — often accompanied by black dogs on the path. On my first Camino it was communication — I was asked to read in several churches, and it rebuilt my confidence around public speaking. The second pilgrimage confronted my fear of losing independence; walking with strangers taught me I could stand on my own. This pilgrimage, I feel like I’m being given the opportunity to make my voice heard: to speak, to push, to risk the awkward ‘‘yes’’ instead of the safer silence. Meeting Citt at Wisques felt like a small, decisive moment of that. I chose to engage, though it took the course of the meal to make eye contact and all my courage to speak. As a result, my whole Camino experience has changed.
We cross a broken bridge, walk on under the hum of the Autostrada del Sole and arrive at Fidenza. The church hostel is solid and sophisticated — QR-code entry, clean facilities, other familiar pilgrims milling around. Later we’ll go out for dinner and a drink, and I expect we’ll sleep well again.
Tomorrow is a long one — another 30km or more — and after 77 days of walking, 33 is the new 23. We know how to make the kilometres manageable now: short breaks, bad jokes, playlists on repeat and each other’s steady company.
Playlist: Walk and Talk Like Angels by Toni Childs. Angels are everywhere today. In the choir’s harmonies, the friendly barista, even the small, awkward kindness of a stranger.
