Best B&B on the Via Francigena? We Found a Gem in Emilia-Romagna
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Somewhere between Parma and the Apennines, you’re walking across Italy with a backpack, two trekking poles, and calf muscles that haven’t received the memo. The sun is out. The birds are loud. And the only thing standing between you and complete emotional collapse is the possibility of dinner.
This is the Via Francigena—an ancient pilgrimage route that runs from Canterbury to Rome, with just enough signage to keep you hopeful and just enough espresso to keep you upright. Not every day ends in glory. Some end with sore feet, a minor identity crisis, and you questioning whether Negronis count as hydration.
But then there are days like this one. Days that end with fresh tagliatelle, a slice of homemade apple cake, and a chilled glass of local Sauvignon Blanc—served by a lovely B&B host named Manuela. The place is called La Vecchia Quercia—The Old Oak. And it’s the kind of spot you don’t forget.
Trapped in a Convent (Briefly)
The day began, as all great adventures do, with mild panic and a locked gate. We’d spent the night at a modern Franciscan guesthouse outside Noceto—quiet, clean, peaceful. Maybe too peaceful. Because when we woke up, the friars were off murmuring in their chapel, and we were very much locked inside.
There were no signs, no instructions, and definitely no espresso yet. Just a gate. And us. Audrey gave me a look that said solve this immediately or we die here. I told her to go track down one of the brothers. She turned to go—but then I spotted it: a latch. A very obvious, very normal latch, at roughly shoulder height. I pulled it. It clicked open like it had been waiting for us the whole time.
We stepped out into the cool morning air—free again, slightly embarrassed, and extremely ready for coffee.
Horses, Hayfields & a False Sense of Progress
The road opened up into soft fields and quiet farmland. A breeze kicked up. The air smelled like cut grass and spring. For a while, we forgot our feet hurt. We passed vineyards, hay bales, and a herd of chestnut horses grazing near a blue caravan. They barely looked up. We slowed down, took a few photos, and tried to pretend we lived there.
It felt like the kind of place where time pauses—a little bubble of rural Italy that hasn’t changed in decades. Just horses, hills, and soft morning light.
For a brief moment, it seemed like the hardest part of the day might be behind us.
It wasn’t.
But for that half-hour stretch, before rock quarries and river scrambles and questionable fencing decisions, we felt like we were floating. Walking was easy. The trail made sense. And the world was so stunningly still that it almost didn’t feel real.
We should’ve known better.
Where Negronis Flow and Confidence Peaks
By the time we strolled into Fèlegara, we felt like pros. Not well-rested pros, or particularly fast ones—but seasoned enough to earn a proper break. The town itself was the size of a generous parking lot, but it had what mattered: a bar.
Not the kind of bar back home where people shout at TVs and order drinks loud, fast, and with tomorrow’s hangover built in. This was Italy, where a bar can serve espresso, wine, snacks, and existential rest all in one spot. Audrey ordered a white wine. I asked for a Negroni, which the bartender whipped up with the kind of flourish that made it feel medicinal.
Audrey gave the Negroni a sip, and handed it back with the look of someone who’d just been betrayed by a family member. It wasn’t the cocktail itself—she’ll tell you it’s the gin. Childhood trauma. Long story. Involving a misidentified water bottle. Let’s just say she and juniper aren’t friends.
Still, we snacked like champions. There was pizza. A custard-filled brioche that Audrey declared “borderline spiritual.” We leaned back in the shade, halfway through our drinks, and decided this day was basically in the bag.
Of course, it wasn’t. We had at least five more miles, one very wrong turn, and a questionable encounter with a barbed-wire fence ahead of us.
But in that moment—in the tiny town of Fèlegara, surrounded by carbs and alcohol—we felt unstoppable.
Quarry Shenanigans & Unauthorized Exit Routes
Fueled by Negronis and blind optimism, we marched out of Fèlegara ready to conquer the day’s final stretch. What we got instead was a detour through what can only be described as the least scenic part of Italy: an industrial gravel pit.
The path—if you could call it that—started to narrow, then fade entirely, until we were trudging through what looked like someone’s unfinished landscaping project. Piles of rubble. Strange tire tracks. A noticeable lack of pilgrims.
We checked the GPS. Rechecked it. Swore at it. And kept walking.
Eventually, we hit a river. Not a cute, babbling brook. This one was wide, loud, and flanked by tall fencing and signs that definitely didn’t say “Welcome Pilgrims.” Across the water, the actual trail taunted us.
We wandered up and down the banks looking for a crossing, but short of growing wings, there was only one option: climb.
We found a spot where the fence dipped just low enough to scale. Audrey went first, hoisting her pack like a pro and clearing the top with the grace of someone who’s done this before (she hasn’t). I followed—less gracefully, more loudly—and landed with a satisfying thud. A few scratches, a lot of sweat, and zero legal repercussions. Win.
We were free. Again. Twice in one day.
We didn’t mention this part to the carabinieri. No need to raise alarms. We called it a “detour.” Sounds more noble.
Fornovo di Taro: Civilization and a Bridge that Feels Like Glory
After the convent, the hills, the river, the horse farm, the cocktails, and the gravel pit of despair, we finally saw it: a bridge. Not just any bridge—the bridge. The kind that signals real civilization. Wi-Fi. Running water. Maybe even gelato.
Crossing it felt like finishing a marathon where nobody cheered, but everyone kind of respected your survival. Fornovo di Taro stretched out ahead of us with its sleepy streets and pastel buildings, like a reward for making it through the chaos.
We paused at the base of the bridge for a quick photo—proof that we hadn’t just imagined the day. We looked wrecked. Happy, but wrecked. Sunburnt, sweaty, and a little bit feral. The kind of pilgrims who’d been very recently crawling over fences.
The town itself was quiet, almost suspiciously so. A few cars. A few locals. Mostly just heat and the hum of our blistered feet begging for mercy. Still, we felt good. The hardest part was behind us (or so we told ourselves). Spirits lifted with every step through Fornovo’s streets, even as ankles reminded us otherwise.
And somewhere up a hill—our final climb of the day—a homemade Italian dinner waited.
La Vecchia Quercia – The Final Climb is Worth It
Just when you think you’ve made it—just when your legs are ready to clock out and your brain is picturing a soft bed and some form of cheese—you look up and see the road climbing again.
The final push to La Vecchia Quercia isn’t long, but it’s steep. A winding ascent past a few scattered homes and into the trees, the kind of road where you start negotiating with your backpack like it’s the problem. The sun’s still high, your shirt is mostly sweat, and every step feels like a slow-motion stairmaster set to “Italian countryside.”
Then you see it: a red gate draped in wisteria, half-hidden behind a curtain of green. You’ve arrived.
Manuela, the lovely host behind La Vecchia Quercia, greeted us with quiet kindness and a glass of cold water—exactly what you want after a long, uphill day you thought would be easier. Then came a local white wine (Sauvignon Blanc, crisp and perfect), handed over like a reward. Suddenly, your dusty shoes and aching calves don’t feel quite so tragic.
The grounds are quiet. Rustic. Peaceful in that way only places with chickens and homemade pasta can be. You exhale for the first time all day.
And you haven’t even had dinner yet.
Dinner, Wine & New Friends
Dinner was homemade and full of love—the kind of meal you dream about halfway through a protein bar on the trail. Manuela served us tagliatelle with a slow-cooked ragu that honestly could’ve won awards. Then came roasted veal seasoned with rosemary, a salad so fresh it probably came straight from the garden, and an apple dessert that tasted like someone’s grandmother still had secrets to share.
Every bite was a reward.
Every glass of wine was a medal.
We shared the table that night with a lovely, chatty couple from Milan doing the bike version of the Via Francigena. Not quite TPBs (Tight Pants Bikers), but close—and definitely not short on personality. They were good-humored, up for a full bottle of wine between the four of us, and they were happy to joke about their pedal-powered climbs while we exaggerated our noble, blistered march.
It’s one of those quiet joys of walking across Italy: strangers who become dining companions for a night. For a few hours, we swapped stories, compared routes, and laughed over the shared absurdity of the road—whether you’re on foot or wheels, uphill is still uphill.
Golden Hour & Gratitude
We sat outside until the sky turned purple and the cicadas took over, glasses half-full, feet completely wrecked. The steep climb was behind us, the wine was flowing, and the chaos of the day—locked gates, rogue rivers, wrong turns—had settled into something that felt like magic in hindsight.
It was rustic. Quiet. And absolutely perfect.
Somewhere between the second course and dessert, we realized how rare a night like this really is. A home-cooked meal. A table full of strangers who don’t feel like strangers. That golden, exhausted satisfaction of having moved through the world with nothing but your feet and your willpower.
We’d crossed rivers, climbed hills, busted out of a quarry, and found our way—together.
One sleepy, delicious, slightly chaotic village at a time.
And tomorrow, we’d do it all over again.
If you’re walking the Via Francigena—or just passing through Fornovo di Taro—do yourself a favor and stay at Manuela’s B&B.
La Vecchia Quercia is tucked up a quiet hill just outside town, with peaceful views, real hospitality, and home-cooked dinners that honestly feel like a reward. It’s rustic in the best way and one of the most memorable stays we had in all of Italy.
- La Vecchia Quercia B&B, near Fornovo di Taro, Emilia-Romagna
- Great for walkers on the Via Francigena
- Dinner is available with booking and absolutely recommended
- Book it here
