A Walk to the Sea through Roman Ruins and Marble Mountains
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Trading Cobblestones for Coastline
The official Via Francigena route from Sarzana heads inland toward Massa. It’s scenic enough, but let’s be honest — it’s also more of the same: old roads, industrial edges, and not a lot of payoff unless you’re really into wet cobblestones and warehouse views.
So instead, we turned toward the coast.
The detour to Marina di Massa isn’t traditional, but it is absolutely worth it. You trade pavement for countryside, end the day with your feet in the sea, and get rewarded with fried seafood and no uphill climbs. This isn’t a purist’s path — it’s a smart one for anyone who needs a break from the grind and a reminder that travel is supposed to feel good sometimes.
We made the walk in spring, and while the weather flirted with rain, the open farmland and distant views made it one of the most peaceful stretches of the trip.
Fortezza Sarzanello on the Hill
You can’t miss it.
Just outside of Sarzana, Fortezza Sarzanello rises above the valley like it’s auditioning for a fantasy novel. Perched high on a green hill with a perfect stone crown, it’s the kind of place that makes you stop mid-step and mutter something poetic like, “Okay, fine — that’s cool.”
We were already committed to a long walk, but obviously we climbed the hill anyway. Because logic.
Fortezza Sarzanello doesn’t just sit on the hill — it owns it. As we zigzagged up the path, it kept growing bigger, more dramatic, and somehow more photogenic with every step. From below, it’s all sharp angles and towering walls. Up close, it turns into a geometry lesson in stone — bastions, parapets, arrow slits, and whatever that thing over there is called.
The fortress was closed when we got there (of course it was), but that didn’t stop us. Audrey got into full documentary mode, filming slow-motion pans and narration like she was submitting a thesis to the History Channel. I wandered in wide circles, switching lenses and angles like I knew what I was doing — framing it from the olive groves, from the road, from halfway up a ditch. We shot every wall, turret, and weed that looked remotely dramatic.
There’s something about this place that makes you slow down. No crowds, no pressure, just wind and stone and views that stretch all the way back into Liguria. You don’t even need to go inside — though if it’s open when you visit, absolutely do. But even from the outside, it delivers. A fortress with presence. And attitude.
Into the Ivy and the Forest
The first stretch after Sarzanello felt like we’d accidentally wandered into a Tuscan postcard. Olive groves on one side, ivy-covered stone walls on the other, and that soft golden light that makes even a cracked dirt road look romantic. This was the Italy everyone dreams about — warm, quiet, bathed in green and gold. For a while, we just walked in silence, soaking it up like people who had finally escaped the group tour.
Then the path changed.
The stones disappeared under our boots, replaced by uneven dirt and scattered pine needles. We ducked under a low canopy of trees, and suddenly the world narrowed. The air got heavier, cooler, damp with that earthy forest smell — wet bark, crushed herbs, something vaguely minty and ancient. There were no trail markers, no people, and not even a suggestion of civilization. Just branches creaking in the breeze and the sound of our feet on soft ground.
The forest felt older than the ruins we’d just left behind. It was quiet in a way that made you pay attention. Every twig snap echoed. Every rustle made you turn your head. It was peaceful, yes — but not gentle. More like the kind of peace that asks you to respect it.
We slowed down. Not because we had to, but because it felt wrong to rush. Whatever this stretch was — path, detour, secret portal — it pulled us out of the walk and into something deeper. A green corridor between one version of the journey and the next.
The Roman Ruins of Luni
After miles of forest trail and no signage whatsoever, it hit all at once — pavement underfoot, street signs in multiple fonts, and actual humans walking around like nothing was weird. Civilization. We had officially stumbled into Luni.
And right at the center of it: the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Luni — a museum we hadn’t planned on and honestly hadn’t expected to be open. But not only was it open, it was one of the best surprises of the entire walk.
Inside, the place was cool and quiet, the kind of museum where the guard gives you a slow nod and then disappears completely. The exhibits were understated but excellent — ancient tools, amphorae, household items, and floor mosaics that looked like they belonged in an upscale Roman Airbnb. You could almost hear the voiceover: “Tastefully restored with original marble, natural light, and a mosaic of Neptune riding dolphins to work.”
Beyond the museum, the ruins of Luni stretched into the distance — not just crumbling walls or scattered columns, but a full-on archaeological sprawl that felt half-excavated and half-forgotten. We wandered into what looked like the remains of a Roman bathhouse or workshop, where the stonework still showed the careful hand of ancient engineers.
Nearby, rows of stone and brick arches hinted at fire pits, ovens, or maybe a heating system for the baths. The walls were low but solid, layered with centuries of rebuilding and erosion. A rust-colored patina clung to the masonry, and you could almost hear the voices that used to echo here — workers, merchants, or whoever kept this place running before it slipped out of history.
One slab caught our attention — a large, rounded chunk of marble with a faint but unmistakable carving. The outline had been softened by centuries of weather, but you could still see the ghost of a human figure or animal, etched into the surface like a memory refusing to fade. It felt oddly intimate. Like the past wasn’t just on display — it was reaching back.
The Ugly Middle
Leaving the ruins of Luni felt like stepping out of a time machine and landing in a cement mixer. The path shifted from ancient wonder to full-on industrial slog in about thirty steps.
It was flat, dusty, and loud. Trucks rolled past way too fast. Chain-link fences lined both sides. We walked along cracked pavement under power lines, surrounded by the kind of grime that clings to your skin and your mood.
The only strange beauty came from the marble dust — it floated through the air in little shimmering clouds, catching the light like glitter someone spilled across a construction site. Not exactly postcard material, but weirdly memorable.
We were tired, hot, and cranky. But we could smell the sea now. And that was enough to keep going.
The Marble Mountains
Then the mountains showed up.
The Apuan Alps rose in front of us like something out of a dream — sharp white cliffs glowing against the sky. At first glance, it looked like snow. But it wasn’t snow. It was marble. Entire peaks carved and mined, shining so bright we had to squint.
There’s something mythic about them. Like you’re walking into a place that doesn’t quite belong to the modern world — part Olympus, part quarry, all surreal.
We followed a stream down into the valley, past more machinery and marble-processing plants, into a weird mix of natural wonder and hard industry. It wasn’t beautiful in a traditional sense, but it was unforgettable. And we were close.
Worth It
We hadn’t made it to the beach just yet, but we were close enough to smell the salt in the air and hear the traffic thin into seagull noise.
This wasn’t the most beautiful walk of the Via Francigena. It wasn’t the most direct or the most logical. But it gave us everything — hilltop castles, Roman ruins, long silent forest trails, industrial grime, marble cliffs, and more cats than we could count.
The day we left the official route — on purpose — ended up being one of the best. Not because it was easy. But because it reminded us why we were walking in the first place.
Sometimes the right detour isn’t about skipping a stamp. It’s about finding the part of the journey that actually feels like living again.
Want the full story?
This detour — and plenty of others like it — shows up in Walking Through Tuscany, my photo travel memoir of hiking the Via Francigena with a camera, a sense of humor, and a backpack full of regrets. If you’ve ever wondered what happens when a scenic route turns into a life crisis (and then back into something beautiful), this book’s for you.
