Walking Over the Cisa Pass and Into a Pub Called Le Spine
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We started the morning at La Vecchia Quercia, a hilltop B&B in Fornovo di Taro, with a breakfast that actually counted. Real coffee. Jam that didn’t taste like melted cough drops. Bread that hadn’t been pre-staled by the gods of pilgrim rations. A win.
Across the table, our two cyclist friends—who we’d shared dinner with the night before—were already suited up in matching neon, helmets dangling from their packs, bikes parked just outside the door. They weren’t exactly “on pilgrimage,” at least not in the foot-powered sense. They were more like road warriors on a holiday, tackling the Via Francigena with 85 kilometers of hairpin descent and smooth pavement ahead of them.
Their goal for the day: cross the Cisa Pass and glide south into Tuscany. Ours? Walk over the same mountain, with the grace and speed of overburdened turtles.
We all sipped our coffee, swapped some final laughs, and faked optimism. They talked about their planned pit stops and where to grab lunch. I mentally calculated how many blisters I was already working with and whether I had enough cheese to survive another uphill day.
We smiled and waved as they clipped in and rolled away, effortlessly disappearing up the winding road like it was no big deal. No sweat. No drama. Just two people and their bikes, happily avoiding everything we were about to suffer through on foot.
And I’ll admit—watching them pedal off into the cool morning air, fresh-legged and smugly vertical—I hated them just a little. Not personally. Just… philosophically.
Our day was just beginning. Sixteen miles. One big mountain. And exactly zero gears.
The Prosciutto Pit Stop
About five miles in—right when we were starting to feel dangerously proud of ourselves—we saw it: a sun-faded wooden sign swinging from a rusted bracket, promising Prosciutto di Parma and Formaggi Tipici. Audrey gave me the look. The one that says, We’re going in, without saying a word.
The shop was more like a cured-meat chapel. Cool, dim, and filled with the scent of salt, smoke, and temptation. The woman behind the counter was well past middle age, with the energy of someone who’d been slicing ham before refrigerators were invented. She didn’t ask if we were hungry—she just started assembling. Slabs of prosciutto. Wedges of pecorino. A waxy little wheel labeled molto forte, which she handed over with a solemn nod, like we were accepting communion.
“This is the last place,” she warned us in serious, broken English. “You won’t find anything else before the pass. You must take.”
We did. With enthusiasm. She vacuum-sealed everything like she knew pilgrims have no chill and even less sense of proportion. By the time we staggered out, our packs smelled like a deli and weighed about ten extra pounds.
The Climb Begins
The Cisa Pass wasn’t a metaphor. It was a very real, very uphill reality check that started chewing through our optimism about twenty minutes after we left the shop.
The road narrowed. The incline sharpened. And just like that, we were in it—switchbacks, stone paths, and that special brand of steep that made you question how gravity worked in Italy. There was shade, but not enough. When we found it, we hovered in it like moths around a porch light. I started doing weird mental math to distract myself. If one prosciutto sandwich = 200 calories, and one step = 0.5 calories burned, then how many regrets did it take to power a climb?
Audrey hiked like a machine. Relentless. Quiet. Efficient. I started calling her the Terminator in my head—she didn’t slow, didn’t sweat, just marched. Meanwhile, I was leaking from every pore and sounding like a broken accordion.
At some point, I started saying my regrets out loud:
- Buying molto forte.
- Bringing two lenses for my DSLR.
- Every leg day I ever skipped.
- Whatever life decision led to me sweating through my shirt on the side of an Apennine mountain.
No one laughed. Probably because no one could breathe.
Still, there was something weirdly beautiful about the pain. The trees thinned, the path opened up, and the views started doing that cinematic thing where everything looked like it belonged in a documentary about human perseverance. It was brutal—but in that oddly satisfying, we-might-actually-have-done-something-epic kind of way.
What Even Is the Cisa Pass?
At some point—probably during a wheezing water break—I started wondering: what even was the Cisa Pass? Besides a slow-motion cardio event.
Turns out, it’s kind of a big deal. The Cisa Pass (or Passo della Cisa) is an ancient route that’s been linking the Po Valley to central Italy for centuries. Long before we came trudging up in quick-dry shirts and questionable shoe choices, Roman soldiers, medieval merchants, and every tired pilgrim since have crossed here on their way to Rome. It’s part trail, part timeline.
At 1,040 meters (3,412 feet), it’s not the Alps—but your legs would like a word. The air shifts, the trees thin out, and the silence starts to feel heavier. It’s the kind of altitude that doesn’t announce itself with fanfare, just a slow, grinding fatigue that settles into your bones. You don’t get a medal at the top—just the quiet satisfaction of crossing into something wilder, harder, and undeniably earned.
More importantly, the pass marks the border. One last look back over the rolling hills of Emilia-Romagna… and then, boom: Tuscany. It’s not marked with a neon sign or a fanfare, but you feel it. The earth shifts underfoot. The light changes just enough to notice. You’ve crossed into a new region—one known for wine, beauty, and more uphill nonsense.
It’s the kind of place that makes you pause, pant, and pretend you’re appreciating the historical weight when really you’re just trying not to vomit.
But still. Epic.
Cassio and the Ducati Invasion
We limped into Cassio like extras from a post-apocalyptic movie—sunburned, sweaty, and mentally negotiating with our hamstrings. The ground leveled out, but our legs didn’t get the memo. We were moving on faith at this point.
Then the roar hit us.
Cassio, a tiny mountain town with maybe three streets and a church, was absolutely alive with noise. Dozens of white-haired Italian men revving Ducati motorcycles through the main square like it was race day at Mugello. We had stumbled into some kind of vintage MotoGP fever dream—leather jackets, reflective sunglasses, synchronized head nods. No one under the age of 60 and every single one of them looked like they could bench press us.
Audrey and I collapsed onto plastic chairs outside the only open bar and ordered cold drinks from a woman who didn’t blink at our pilgrim stench.
We watched in silence as the Ducatis circled the square like majestic, aging lions. It was deafening. It was absurd. It was, somehow, exactly what we needed.
For a few minutes, our aching bodies were distracted. Our tired brains could only focus on the sheer audacity of a man named Giuseppe doing donuts on a $20,000 motorcycle while wearing orthopedic shoes.
I swear one of them raised a glass to us as they sped by.
We nodded back, dazed, grateful, and slightly concerned for our safety.
The Final Two Miles (Mostly Downhill, They Said)
Cassio was supposed to be the hard part. The reward. The crest of the climb. From here on out, it was “mostly downhill,” according to everyone we asked. Which, as it turns out, is hiker code for “there’s still a bunch of uphill, but maybe you won’t cry this time.”
The last stretch dragged. Our legs were shot. Our bags felt heavier—thanks, cheese detour—and the idea of walking even five more steps required some form of spiritual negotiation. But then we saw it. A gravel road, a low wooden sign, and tucked into the hills: Le Spine Pub & B&B.
It looked like a mirage. A glorious, rustic, beer-flavored mirage.
We rang the bell and were greeted by our host—a middle-aged woman with the exact vibe of someone who runs things efficiently and doesn’t mess around. Friendly-ish, but not chatty. German energy. Maybe Swiss. She unlocked the door like she was doing us a favor, and we followed her into the quiet pub.
“It’s closed today,” she said, as we gazed longingly at the beer taps.
Audrey started to thank her anyway, but I must’ve given off the kind of look dogs use when they want bacon. A beat later, she sighed and said, “I’ll see if I can find someone to get you a drink.”
Five minutes later, we had cold beers in hand, and I was prepared to forgive every uphill turn the trail had thrown at us.
The place was quiet, simple, and clean. It smelled like wood and soap and salvation. We were home—for tonight anyway.
Dinner felt like crossing another finish line—only this one came with wine refills.
The pub-slash-B&B hybrid turned out to be genius. Once we’d showered off the day’s suffering and put on our least-dirty shirts, we made our way back down to the dining room. No menu. No questions. Just food… appearing.
First came the pasta—wide ribbons of tagliatelle in a slow-cooked meat ragu that tasted like someone’s nonna had whispered secrets into it. Then prosciutto and cheese (because clearly, we hadn’t had enough). A salad so fresh it probably still remembered the garden. And bread that required zero effort to love.
The wine flowed. Then beer. Then more wine. I don’t remember ordering any of it, but it kept showing up like an enthusiastic friend who just wants you to have a good time. Somewhere in the distance, the sun was setting over the hills in dramatic, Instagram-worthy fashion. We gave it a nod. That was all we had left.
There wasn’t much talking by the end. Just the clink of glasses, the scrape of plates, and the quiet sound of pilgrims trying not to fall asleep at the table.
Eventually, we staggered upstairs and collapsed into bed like people who had absolutely nothing left to prove.
Victory tasted like pasta and beer. And sleep came faster than thought.
Somewhere north of 16 miles, our legs stopped registering as functional body parts. Just numb meat extensions, dangling uselessly off the bed. Shoulders ached. Feet pulsed. Even dreams, when they came, involved walking.
But we’d done it.
We crossed the Cisa Pass. Climbed through two regions. Ate enough cheese to frighten a cardiologist. Drank like we’d earned it—because we had. This wasn’t just a long walk; it was a border crossing in every sense. Emilia-Romagna faded behind us. Tuscany lay ahead. The air even smelled different—pine and dust and a little bit of magic.
There was no ceremony. No sign announcing you’ve entered a new phase of life. Just the slow realization, as sleep pulled us under, that we were still going. Still changing. Still walking.
