Start: Rifugio Champillon/Finish: St Rhemy en Bosses , 13.4, +420, -1300
It rained overnight, and as I walk up towards Col Champillon, the marmots are out and about in droves. Descending down from the col, I stop to enjoy the meadow around me. A particularly loud and shrill whistle makes me take note - it's clearly a Marmot whistle, but there is something about it that is different - it feels urgent, almost scared. Scanning the valley around me, I see marmots running into their burrows, the high pitched whistles vibrating all around. A movement in the grass above draws my attention. It's a fox. It is walking slowly, low on its legs, looking down at the marmots. This is what they were afraid of. I suddenly find myself in the middle of a David Attenborough movie. Transfixed, I try to capture this on camera, but the fox is too obscure and far away, and all I get is a recording of a particularly shrill marmot. After what feels like long moment (and probably feel like an eternity to the scared marmot), I loose sight of the fox. Another breathtaking small moment in the mountains.
On the way to Col Champillon
I continue the descent, past some farm ruins as well as an active one, across the stream into the next range. I'm now walking on ancient road, still evident in the stones below my feet and the support wall on my right. People actually built this, with their own bare hands. The ancient feel of the path is juxtaposed with very modern pylons and the (relatively) busy road below.
This is the Via Francigena, the pilgrims route between Canterbury and Roma, crossing the St. Bernard pass high above me. As I walk towards my destination for the night, I imagine what it would have been like to walk here 500, 1000, 2000 years ago - knights on their horses, monks and simple men on foot, noblemen in carriages. I think of how people didn't used to leave their homes, their villages. They died where they were born, often young. Wars and famine would drive them away. Pilgrimage was the only reason a simple farmer would leave his home and family. I think of how they would have grouped together for safety. How they would have to wait for the snow to melt to make the journey. How they might not have come back. I think of the languages they would have heard along the way. Of the strange food and unfamiliar building. I wonder if they were scared or perhaps excited, going out to a world they never saw before. I think of how easy it is for us, how privileged I am to make this journey, privileged in the very basic sense of the world.
Can you tell I like history?
The ancient road to the St. Bernard Pass, the yellow grass a reminder of the lack of rain in the past few weeks.
These thoughts keep me company as signs of civilisation increase. I hear the bikes before I see them racing up the winding road. St Rhemey is the last village before the pass, and for centuries its people were tasked with maintaining the road in return for exclusivity on leading people through the pass. I contemplate continuing to the St Bernard Pass, which is not officially on the trail, but calling the monastery, they are full for the night.
St. Rhemey is a one-street village. At the entrance to the village is building where they make Jambon de Bosses, the local cured ham. I would like to have a look, but the building is closed for some reason. Three buildings up the street is my hotel: Hotel Suisse. There's a rope blocking the entrance to the hotel, and a sign announcing entering is allowed only to Green Pass holders. This is the first time in more than two weeks that anyone asks to see my vaccination certificate, and I hope my Israeli one will pass.
The village of St Rhemey. The St. Bernard range looming above
Satisfied with my pass, and following a short conversation on how early I got the vaccine (it seems that everyone in Europe knows of our early vaccines role out), she takes me to my room. It's in a separate building, what seems to be an old carriage house or a stable. It's monkish, with thick walls and a tiny window letting in very little light. But it's clean, and has a nice shower, and it's all I need for the night.
Drinking wine before dinner, an American couple strikes up a conversation. They are from the west coast, just finished the first day of the Italian part of the Via Francigena. I sympathise with the challenge of a 1000 meters descent on the first day, and we launch into a conversation about hiking and covid and politics. They invite me to join their table for dinner, but the hotel forbids it - covid rules and all. I'm sat next to them though, and we continue the conversation as the Italian dinners around us sneak looks every once in a while. Are they annoyed at the chatter? maybe the topics we cover? I don't know.
The dinner is a sumptuous and tasty affair, with some great local wine. Tomorrow's my birthday.
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