We Walked 15 Miles and Accidentally Slept in a Monastery

We had our packs, our paperwork, and a plan that could generously be described as loose. Day One of our walk down Italy—along the ancient Via Francigena—was officially underway. The idea was simple: walk from Fidenza to Rome, take photos along the way, and maybe not completely fall apart by day three.

The reality? Less “romantic pilgrimage,” more “slightly sweaty wandering with purpose.” But in the best way.

The day started with nerves, caffeine confusion, and that half-buzzed hum of anticipation you get before a big trip actually begins. That moment where the streets are still familiar, but the trail is calling—and you know that everything’s about to change.

No turning back now.

From Fidenza to the Fields

Our hotel breakfast came with the usual mix of low expectations and vague hope. Audrey played it safe with a cappuccino. I went rogue and asked for something closer to a full French press, which apparently translates in Italian to “sad espresso barely floating in hot water.” It’s called acqua sporca—literally “dirty water.” And yeah… fair.

But outside that little café window, Emilia-Romagna was already showing off. Rooftops gave way to wide open farmland, the morning light pouring across everything like someone had bumped the saturation slider. It didn’t take long to leave town—one turn, maybe two—and we were suddenly in the kind of countryside that feels less like a landscape and more like a backdrop for cured meats and cinematic drone shots.

This is Parmesan country. Prosciutto country. But in this quiet pocket of Emilia-Romagna, the land didn’t feel industrial or staged. It felt soft, personal—just one poppy standing tall in a sea of grass. Not wild, exactly. Just… alive. Like everything here knew its place and wasn’t in a hurry to impress you.

You could smell it in the air—literally. Earth, hay, sun-warmed soil, and maybe a faint whisper of aging ham. I kept the camera ready. The light was clean, the clouds cooperative, and the road ahead felt like a story unfolding one photo at a time.

Negronis in Costa di Noceto

By midday, the sun had fully committed. The kind of heat that bakes the gravel into a crust and convinces you that shade is more important than scenery. We rolled into Costa di Noceto in that slightly feral, sweaty state of being that only uphill walking can deliver. It was barely a village—just a bend in the road with a church, a few sun-bleached buildings, and one café that looked… closed.

But the patio? Chairs. Tables. Shade. That was enough.

We collapsed like extras in a spaghetti western and tried not to look too defeated. A few minutes later, a man appeared—hanging from a tree, full-body harness, trimming branches like it was a Tuesday. He waved, grinned, and soon strolled over, speaking his best English and radiating that relaxed, countryside charisma Italy does so well. Apparently, we were welcome to stay.

We ordered Negronis. It felt bold. Possibly misguided. I thought I hated them—turns out I was just drinking the wrong ones. This one was bitter, herbal, icy cold, and way too easy to finish. Audrey took one sip, made a face like she’d just been insulted by citrus, and slid hers across the table to me.

Then the place got lively: a group of retired Swiss pilgrims showed up—cheerful, precise, walking the Via Francigena in stages over the years. We swapped trail stories. One of them had a Canon around his neck and, as camera people do, we drifted into nerdy gear chat while everyone else stayed hydrated.

Then came the bikers. Italian, obviously. Head-to-toe spandex. Jerseys covered in espresso logos. They walked like flamingos in cleats and looked like energy bars on legs. It was a moment.

But that’s the beauty of walking through places like this—you don’t plan the people you meet. You just show up, sweaty and curious, and let the patio do the rest.

No Plan, Just a Tip: Cella di Noceto

We could’ve stayed longer—kept riding that Negroni buzz, traded more stories with the Swiss, tried to decode the cyclists’ espresso sponsors. But that creeping voice returned: Where are we sleeping tonight?

We hadn’t booked anything. Charming, right?

Audrey had gotten a tip at the bar—some vague mention of a donativo in a place called Cella di Noceto, maybe three kilometers away. No one had a number. No website. Just a shrug and “you can probably just show up.”

So we messaged. We waited. We prayed to Saint WiFi. No response.

Still, 3km didn’t sound bad… in theory. So we slung our packs back on, tightened our straps, and started walking uphill into late-day light.

The road was quiet. Farms glowed in the slanting sun. No epic views, no drama—just that golden kind of stillness that makes you forget how tired your feet are.

And then, there it was: a small curve of buildings on a hill, tucked into the countryside like it had nowhere else to be. One of them had a sign—Fraternità di Betania.

Still no confirmation. Still no clue if we had a bed.

But it looked real. It looked clean. It looked… promising.

Inside the Fraternità

We rolled up to the back gate, sweaty, dusty, and running low on optimism. A buzzer sat next to the tall metal fence. I pushed it and tried my best Italian: “Ciao… possiamo dormire qui stasera?” (Hi, can we crash here tonight?)

What came back was a machine-gun blast of Italian that I understood maybe 20% of. But the tone? The tone sounded like a yes. Something-something entra, something-something porta principale. We pieced it together: come around to the main entrance.

So down the hill we went, backpacks creaking, still not 100% sure if this was real. The building looked… modern. Not ancient stone or creaky floors—more like a spiritual retreat built by minimalist architects with very clean shoes.

Then the gate opened.

And standing there like something out of an Italian Catholic superhero film was a man in a wheelchair, dressed in blue, bald, calm, and motioning us forward like we’d passed a secret test. We followed him—because honestly, what else were we going to do?

Inside, the building was spotless. Natural light everywhere. White walls. Quiet halls. No medieval gloom, no incense, no nuns lurking in corners. Just calm. He zipped ahead, narrating in rapid-fire Italian, pausing only to point at key landmarks like a man giving a tour of a spaceship: “Messa qui.” (Mass here.) “Cena là.” (Dinner there.) “Cappella.” (Chapel.)

At the stairs, he jabbed a finger upward, said something about a room number, and disappeared down a hallway.

We climbed the stairs, immediately forgot the room number, and claimed the first clean one we found.

It was beautiful. Big windows. Country views. The kind of place you collapse into and forget how weird the day’s been.

Mass, Dinner, and a Welcome We Didn’t Expect

Technically, we were in the wrong room.

We were still decompressing—shoes off, feet up—when a woman in a blue robe walked in. She looked surprised. Not alarmed, just… surprised, like we’d wandered into the wrong Airbnb. She had that calm, in-charge energy that said I run this place without needing to say it.

“This is not your room,” she said, gently but firmly.

Fair.

She pointed us toward Mass downstairs, followed by dinner. That got our attention. We didn’t know the rules yet, but we were starving and too tired to overthink it.

The chapel was simple and clean—warm wood beams, a modern stained-glass window, and a sense of calm that didn’t feel performative. This wasn’t a dusty old monastery—it was something newer, stranger, and quietly beautiful. The community—Fraternità di Betania—isn’t your typical monastic order. It’s friars and sisters living together, praying together, and opening their doors to the wandering and worn out.

Mass was in Latin. All of it. Forty-five minutes of syllables we didn’t follow and motions I half-remembered from Catholic school. Audrey sat perfectly still, hands folded, trying not to look like she was doing pilgrim cosplay. I just tried not to mess anything up.

Afterward, the same woman guided us to dinner.

Long tables were set in the dining room, but only one had a card.

Benvenuti Pellegrini
Welcome, pilgrims.

Just one card. Just for us.

That little sign hit harder than it had any right to. A handwritten welcome. A quiet seat at the table. No speeches, no fanfare. Just pasta, bread, pizza, and wine that tasted like it forgave you.

We didn’t need a reservation. We just needed to show up.

What This Day Meant

There’s something about walking all day—with no map certainty, no hotel key, no solid plan—and still ending up somewhere that feels like it was waiting for you.

This wasn’t the day we imagined. It was better.

Not because the views were epic (they weren’t). Not because we nailed the logistics (we didn’t). But because something unfolded that we couldn’t have scripted: a shady café break with Swiss pilgrims and tight-pants bikers. A monastery-convent hybrid run by people in blue robes. A Mass in Latin. A dinner with strangers who treated us like we belonged there.

It reminded me why I travel like this—with a camera, yes, but mostly with open time and tired feet. Because the best moments don’t come from five-star hotels or perfect planning. They come from the space between what you expect and what you actually find.

This was Day One.