Day 7: Rieti to Poggio Bustone (13 miles)

Angels and Demons (and Cats)

First, the demons. The day started well: cool mist promising sun later, high spirits as we leave our cosy apartment in Rieti, a straightforward walk to the beautiful Franciscan Sanctuary–La Foresta–with exquisite gardens and copious cats. We get our passports stamped and head off again for a steady uphill climb until we spot a restaurant where we order the requisite 2 cafelattes. That’s when we notice the GPS tracker (now working, as we are at a WiFi area) shows that we have completely missed the continuation of the trail which leads from the Sanctuary. We are talking about a one-hour detour. Judy is attacked by mental demons, and marches off back down the hill in tears, unsure now that she will be able to complete the day’s 11-mile walk. Her angry inner voice is shortly interrupted by Angel #1. Elna stops her car and calls out of her window in good English, “Your husband says you have a bad knee. Do you need a lift back to the Sanctuary?” Judy immediately accepts. Dear Denis is left to walk down alone, struggling with his own inner demons. “God, it was so much easier doing pilgrimages alone…”

Judy waits with Elna at the Sanctuary, as she walks her dog a bit. Denis soon arrives and thanks her profusely for believing his tale about his supposedly lame wife who is 1 km ahead of him. Judy tells her she is an angel. “What is ‘angel’ in Italian?” she asks. Elna smiles. “Angelina, which is my middle name.” Perfect! Then her dog pees on Judy’s backpack, which is perched along the Sanctuary wall, and Elna apologizes profusely. Judy just laughs. “I deserve to be pissed on,” she says. We all burst out laughing and part with a new friend.

Once on the right trail again, we pass through woods interspersed with olive groves and vineyards, dotted with medieval towns perched impossibly high on hilltops. There are cats outside every home, it seems–calicoes, black cats, tiger kitties–and they greet us with purring and typical curiosity. At one point, we walk for quite awhile along a narrow trail cut into the hillside with a sheer drop on the other side. Technically, pilgrims need to bike, ride a horse, or walk to receive a pilgrimage certificate, but Denis ponders out loud if it’s ok to arrive at Assisi by ambulance. “I bet they give great passport stamps at the hospital,” he muses as we try to keep our balance.

We finally inch our way up the twisting stone stairs to Poggio Bustone at 4:00, but we can’t find the San Francesco Suite which Judy has booked on line. When she reserved the room, it sounded like a large, upscale place, so we think it will be easy to spot. It is not. The town is miniscule, with steep staircases between nearly every building. Judy sheds her pack and finds a park bench on the town square, which overlooks the 600 foot drop to the valley below. It is unfathomably beautiful. Denis takes charge, because Judy is clearly out of gas, and he hunts down a local for directions. An older woman with a determination to serve (Angel #2), leads him hither and yon until the location is discovered, but first she has stopped another resident in their car, called two people on her phone, and pretty much alerted half the town that two pilgrims cannot find their beds. The owner, the sister of the B&B’s housekeeper, the B&B housekeeper, and the owner’s Aunt (age 83) all follow us to the tiny B&B — like a scene out of Chicken Little or The Little Red Hen. We finally arrive, with our overjoyed welcoming committee, and the sign over the door reads, “Chez Angelina; S. Francesco Suite.” Enough said. 9/26/15