The Road to Filetto (and a Night at the Gingerbread House)

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Some days on the Via Francigena are about survival—mud, missteps, maybe a ham sandwich if you’re lucky. But this one? This one was about everything clicking. From the quiet charm of Pontremoli to the forest paths that felt pulled from a fantasy novel, to a dinner that still makes us emotional, this was the day that reminded us why we chose to walk in the first place.

The route itself wasn’t long—just a stretch from Pontremoli to Filetto, with a final push to a hilltop B&B hilariously (and accurately) called the Gingerbread House. We didn’t rush. We didn’t have to. The weather held. The trail behaved. Our calves cooperated. And at the end of it, there was a bed that felt like a cloud and a four-course tasting menu that basically became a religious experience.

But it wasn’t just about what we did—it was how it felt. Like Tuscany had finally stopped testing us and decided to show off a little. No wrong turns. No mud-soaked boots. No bad coffee. Just ancient stone, soft hills, good people, and food that somehow made the walking part make sense.

If you’re ever wondering when the magic kicks in on a long-distance trail, this might be it.

Slow Start, Soft Light – Leaving Pontremoli

The sun was already slicing through the wooden shutters when we finally convinced ourselves to leave the bed. Hotel Napoleon has the kind of morning setup that feels like a cross between an old wine cellar and a Cold War bunker. Breakfast is served in the stone-walled basement, where the ceiling hovers just above head height and cappuccinos arrive by instinct. The server greeted us with the familiar nod and “Cappuccino?” and we answered like regulars. No small talk. Just routine. And it was perfect.

We didn’t expect to love Pontremoli as much as we did. It started as just a waypoint on the Via Francigena—somewhere to rest before climbing into the hills. But the place snuck up on us. Golden stone buildings, arched bridges over fast rivers, spritzes for the price of a water bottle. It’s the kind of town that doesn’t try to impress you… and ends up doing it anyway.

Still, the trail waits for no one. So we packed up, laced our boots, and eased back into motion. The first stretch was mercifully flat, winding through soft countryside with wildflowers and the occasional cow pretending not to stare. The shoulders were wide, the air still cool, and for once, we weren’t being punished by the terrain. It felt like Tuscany was cutting us a break.

Filetto by Mid-Morning – Coffee, Calves & Medieval Arches

About an hour or so later, we rolled into Filetto, a town we knew almost nothing about—except that it was next, and it sounded vaguely delicious. We passed under a stone archway that looked like it had been holding up the sky since the Middle Ages and immediately slowed our pace. Not because we were tired (for once), but because this place deserved a slower look.

We found a quiet café tucked beside a sleepy piazza, ordered cappuccinos that arrived scalding and perfect, and parked ourselves in the spring sun. Locals stood around the bar chatting like it was a national sport. No one asked us where we were from. No one cared. Which, frankly, was refreshing.

Our conversation veered toward calf pain and muscle envy—Audrey’s legs were looking increasingly Olympic, mine were holding on for dear life. A nearby cow chewed thoughtfully, probably judging us both. We accepted the loss.

With caffeine in the bloodstream and no blisters to speak of, we pulled out the map again and pretended we knew what we were doing. Next up: the forest path to our B&B, known only (and beautifully) as the Gingerbread House. But for now, we let ourselves sit still. Filetto had this grounded, untouched feeling—like it had been waiting for centuries without ever needing to change.

A Shortcut to Narnia – Into the Fantasy Forest

We left Filetto with a vague idea of where we were going and the blissful ignorance that comes from trusting a GPS trail with zero context. Almost immediately, the world shifted.

The road narrowed. The light changed. And suddenly we were in some kind of woodland fever dream. Moss-covered everything. Trees arched overhead like cathedral ceilings. The kind of forest where you half expect a white stag or a cloaked figure to appear with riddles and a quest.

Old stone ruins appeared without explanation—just resting there under ivy, like time had left them behind on purpose. Then came the churches. Not marked, not open, but there. Ornate, half-forgotten, still watching. We didn’t go in. Didn’t need to. Just being in their gravity felt holy enough.

Every step felt slower, like we were walking inside a memory. The trail didn’t feel modern or ancient. It felt outside of time. Somewhere between myth and muscle ache.

Invisible in the Park (and Loving It)

Eventually, the path dropped us into a local park—nothing flashy. A patch of grass, some shade trees, a couple of benches sunning themselves. We were dusty and dazed and probably looked like a lost scouting troop. But no one cared.

Locals were stretched out in the sun like cats. A group of teenagers passed a soccer ball. Someone read a book. Someone else was napping mid-sentence. We waited for a stare or a question or even a curious look. Nothing. We were perfectly invisible.

And weirdly, it felt amazing. No performance. No translation. Just a quiet bench in the shade and the permission to simply be. It was the kind of unremarkable moment that ends up being your favorite. No hashtags. No story slides. Just real life happening in the background of your day.

Welcome to the Gingerbread House (Yes, That’s Its Name)

We’d heard whispers about it from other walkers. The “gingerbread house” B&B somewhere in the hills outside Filetto. We assumed it was just a nickname—one of those cute things people say when a place feels cozy.

But no. That was actually the name.

And it made perfect sense the moment we saw it.

Wooden shutters, flower boxes spilling over with wild herbs, curved rooflines, and a soft, earthy scent in the air that could’ve been rosemary or something from a fairytale cookbook. It wasn’t trying to be whimsical—it was whimsical. Like if Hansel and Gretel had grown up, gone to therapy, and opened a guesthouse in Tuscany.

Waiting at the door were Alva and Roberto, our hosts and honorary Italian grandparents for the evening. Alva greeted us with a smile that didn’t need translation and the kind of warmth that makes you forget you’re technically a sweaty stranger. Roberto had the calm energy of someone who’d helped a hundred pilgrims find their way, and still cared enough to do it one more time.

They didn’t ask for our story. They didn’t need to. We looked tired. We were carrying backpacks. That was enough.

Alva led us to our room—beamed ceilings, soft lighting, the kind of handmade furniture that creaks in a good way. Roberto, with a slight smirk, offered a dinner recommendation: “If you’re hungry, go to Locanda all’Antico Mulino. Tell them I sent you.”

We didn’t question it. We just showered, changed into our least filthy clothes, and started walking downhill—because of course the Gingerbread House was on top of a hill.

Dinner Recommendation of the Year: Locanda all’Antico Mulino

The walk downhill was short—about 15 minutes—but we stretched it out like a scene from a RomCom. Warm evening air, stone alleys glowing gold, and that satisfied silence you only get after a long shower and a clean pair of socks. We were heading to Locanda all’Antico Mulino, the restaurant Roberto had mentioned with casual reverence. He didn’t oversell it. He didn’t have to.

We arrived to find a quiet little trattoria tucked between old walls and flowering vines, with a few tables set outside under string lights. One of them had clearly been saved for us. Alva and Roberto had already made the call.

The table had a candle. A hand-written menu. And that rare feeling of being somewhere that knows how to take care of you before you even order.

Tasting Menu Dreams (This Is Why We Travel)

The server gave us the four-course tasting menu rundown with just the right balance of pride and chill. We said yes before she finished the sentence.

We started with carpaccio, thin and bright with balsamic glaze, arranged like it had been auditioning for a food magazine. Next came saffron risotto with ribbons of Chianina beef and a hit of red pepper marmalade. Then: spinach ravioli in creamy pesto, followed closely by a bubbling lasagna verde smothered in herbed tomato sauce and aged cheese.

And we weren’t done.

The main: tagliata di manzo—sliced Tuscan beef over arugula and cherry tomatoes, paired with crispy roasted potatoes that made us briefly emotional. The wine? House red, poured from a frosty carafe, definitely made by someone’s cousin in the next village. It was bold, rustic, and tasted exactly like we’d walked to get here.

Dessert sealed the deal: pound cake with whipped cream and strawberries for one, and cantucci with vin santo for the other. Sweet, warm, and completely unnecessary—but absolutely earned.

This wasn’t just dinner. It was a thesis on why we walk, why we travel, and why you always say yes when a kind Italian man says, “Tell them I sent you.”

Roberto to the Rescue (Again)

Dinner had ended. Our hearts were full. Our stomachs were… fuller. We sat at the table a little longer than necessary, pretending to savor the wine but really just trying to figure out how we were going to make it back up the hill to the Gingerbread House.

We stared at the road for a minute, did some quiet math involving incline, digestion, and dignity, and then made the only sensible choice: we called Roberto.

He answered on the first ring.

Five minutes later, headlights cut through the cobbled street, and there he was—smiling like a man who’s seen this exact situation play out a dozen times before. No teasing, no questions. Just a kind, knowing “Salite” and the familiar creak of the passenger door.

Back at the B&B, the garden still smelled like herbs, and our room glowed softly like it had been waiting up for us. We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to. It had been one of those rare days where everything lands. The kind that can’t be scheduled or predicted. Only walked into.

Where to Stay & Eat if You’re on This Route

If you’re walking this stretch of the Via Francigena (or even just driving nearby), this is one of those stops worth making space for.

Stay: Gingerbread House B&B – Villafranca in Lunigiana

After booking, all of the property’s details, including telephone and address, are provided in your booking confirmation and your account. A warm, welcoming hilltop stay run by Alva and Roberto, who treat you like family the moment you arrive. The house is cozy, charming, and just surreal enough to live up to its name.

Eat: Locanda all’Antico Mulino – Villafranca in Lunigiana

Hands-down one of the best meals we had in Tuscany. Go for the tasting menu if it’s available. Expect thoughtful plating, house wine that over-delivers, and warm hospitality that makes the whole thing feel special without being stuffy. Reservations recommended, especially in high season.