The Mountain We Didn’t Walk (with a Little Help from Claudio)

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After 45 miles in four days, our bodies tapped out. Not in a dramatic, fainting-on-the-side-of-the-road way. More like a quiet, creaky protest every time we moved. The guidebook said we were supposed to walk over 20 miles today, tackling more steep Apennine terrain. Our knees laughed. Then screamed. Then muttered obscenities.

So we made a new plan: walk five easy kilometers to Berceto and call a cab for the rest. This wasn’t quitting. It was strategic retreat. A nod to future us—the version who’d still like working knees at the end of this journey.

The B&B host didn’t blink. She made the call, gave us Claudio’s number, and probably lit a candle for our dignity. Bags packed, feet sore, and expectations lowered, we stepped outside into the crisp morning air, grateful we only had to walk to the next bar, not the next mountain range.

Sometimes the brave thing isn’t pushing through. It’s calling the damn cab.

Walking Without Guilt (Mostly)

The road to Berceto didn’t ask much of us. No switchbacks. No knee-crushing descents. Just soft hills, morning light, and the kind of silence that feels earned. Our packs felt lighter—even if they weren’t—because the pressure was off. We weren’t racing daylight or scanning the horizon for the next white arrow. We were just walking. Slowly. Intentionally. Like people who had nothing to prove today.

Of course, the guilt crept in now and then. Little mental barbs about “skipping a stage” or “taking the easy way.” But we’d look at each other, look at the road, and shrug. This was the right call. And if some imaginary pilgrim council wanted to revoke our merit badges, they could pry them from our well-rested hands.

We passed sleepy farmhouses and a few disinterested cows. A dog barked once and immediately lost interest. No drama. Just a gentle glide into a town that already felt like a reward. If all walking days were like this, we’d be saints by now.

May Day in Berceto

We landed in Berceto mid-morning, just in time for Italy’s May Day—La Festa dei Lavoratori. Shops were closed, streets were quiet, and the whole town had the unbothered energy of a Sunday nap. Kids kicked soccer balls against stone walls. Old women leaned out of windows like unpaid supervisors. Everyone else was doing very little, very proudly.

Even though we hadn’t technically crossed into Tuscany yet, Berceto felt like the teaser trailer. Cracked stone facades, warm golden light, and that effortless charm Italy pulls off better than it has any right to. The kind of place that makes you think, Maybe we should just live here and sell postcards or something.

We found a little bar with outdoor seating and ordered two Aperol spritzes. Not earned, exactly. But after the last four days, they felt like reparations. They showed up cold and neon orange, condensation dripping down the side like they’d just returned from battle. We didn’t speak much—just clinked glasses and soaked in the stillness.

Sometimes the best part of the walk is when it stops.

When in Italy… Try Horse Tartare?

We had time to kill before our ride, so we ducked into a café sporting a cheerful “Welcome Pilgrims” sign—always a good sign you’re about to overpay. Sure enough, the menu had a tourist markup, but it also had something… unique.

Audrey spotted it first: horse tartare.

Yes. Raw horse. Served cold. On a bun. With a garnish.

To her credit, she went for it. Bravely. Several thoughtful bites were followed by a look that said, Well, now I’ve done that. I stuck with a regular burger, no horses involved.

The tartare stayed mostly untouched, sitting there like a dare no one wanted to accept. We poked at it. We took pictures. We debated whether it was an acquired taste or a lost bet in culinary form.

Italy had already served up plenty of surprises, but this one was a first. A weird, oddly charming, definitely overpriced first.

Claudio Arrives, Right on Time

At 2:30 on the dot, a green wagon pulled up—beat-up, low-slung, and perfect. Claudio stepped out with a warm wave and a face that said, Don’t worry, I’ve got you. He looked like someone who’d driven every road in these hills a hundred times and could do it blindfolded if he had to.

We loaded our packs into the back, slid into the seats, and exhaled. I grabbed the front seat, eager to test out my barely-functional Italian. Claudio didn’t speak a word of English—not a problem. Within minutes, we were chatting like old friends.

The drive was smooth but winding, a series of switchbacks through pine-covered slopes and bursts of sunlight. We covered all the classics—how beautiful this region was, how many people walk the Via Francigena, and, unexpectedly who might be the next Pope.

Claudio had opinions. Strong ones. There was a candidate from the Philippines, maybe another from Africa, and of course the usual talk of another European. I nodded along, tossing in safe phrases like “Vedremo” and “Sì, interessante.” My Italian was holding steady at somewhere between enthusiastic tourist and confused exchange student, but it was enough. We kept the conversation rolling, bouncing from religion to the road ahead, occasionally pausing so Claudio could gesture dramatically at some village or peak out the window.

The ride itself was a gift. We watched the mountain pass we didn’t walk glide by outside—hairpin turns, dense forest, blind corners, and not a single sidewalk in sight. It wasn’t just steep—it was dangerous. Fast trucks, tight roads, and cliffs that would’ve made the bravest pilgrim reconsider. Riding over it didn’t feel like cheating. It felt like common sense.

When we finally reached Pontremoli, Claudio slowed the car and pointed to the narrow entrance of the old town, gesturing with a slight shrug and a look that said, Trust me, this is where I leave you. We thanked him, waved goodbye, and stepped out onto the edge of Tuscany.

Not a bad way to cross a mountain—by the grace of an old car, a cheerful driver, and a shared conversation about faith, fate, and the Pope.

Hello Tuscany

We crossed a bridge, rounded a bend, and just like that—Tuscany. No welcome sign, no dramatic fanfare. Just the soft gold of late afternoon bouncing off stone walls and tiled rooftops. Pontremoli emerged like a reward. It didn’t announce itself. It just was.

The streets were uneven and quiet. Locals strolled with strollers and groceries, not a tourist in sight. It felt like we’d stumbled into someone’s real life, not a postcard scene. And after days of sweating through rural hills and tiny villages, it felt good to arrive somewhere that didn’t ask anything from us.

This wasn’t the “start of something.” It was the pause. A breath. A gentle, grounded welcome.

Our hotel—Hotel Napoleon—was chosen mostly for the name. Blame my history obsession. But it turned out to be the perfect place to crash. We dropped our packs, splashed water on our faces, and went in search of food.

We found it fast: Tuscan pizza with that wood-fired crust that’s half chew, half crisp. A carafe of the house red, probably filled up from a vat behind the bar. We ate outside, watching Pontremoli move around us—quiet, practical, unbothered.

It was the kind of meal that whispers a new plan into your ear. One more night. Maybe two. Just enough time to rest, regroup, and pretend for a moment that we actually lived here.

By the end of the carafe, the decision was made. We weren’t leaving tomorrow. Not if we could help it.

A Castle at Sunset

We weren’t planning to hike again that day. But when the light hit the rooftops just so, the Castello del Piagnaro called our name. Perched above Pontremoli like a smug old watchman, the castle caught the golden hour in a way that felt personal—like it had been waiting just for us.

So we climbed. Slowly. Stiffly. Camera in hand, sore legs be damned. The cobbled path curved upward through quiet alleys, past shuttered windows and sleepy cats. At the top, we caught our breath and the view—Pontremoli stretched out beneath us in warm, glowing layers.

We didn’t go inside the castle. That was for tomorrow. This was just a teaser. A taste. Enough to promise ourselves we’d be back after some sleep and maybe a clean shirt. Still, standing up there, we knew: This wasn’t a town to breeze through. It deserved our time.

Choosing to Rest

Back at the hotel, we booked a second night before we could overthink it. No debate, no pilgrim guilt. Just two tired humans choosing rest over ego. We didn’t need a sign from above. We’d already crossed into Tuscany. We’d already climbed mountains—both literal and emotional.

This journey wasn’t about punishing ourselves to prove something. It was about presence. And Pontremoli, in all its quiet, golden-hued grace, was teaching us that sometimes progress looks like stillness.

We’d earned a day to stop. To breathe. To watch locals go about their lives while we sipped espresso and took photos of old doorways. The mountain we didn’t climb was a reminder: the best pilgrimages aren’t about the miles. They’re about knowing when to keep going—and when to stay put.