Mary Fisher discovers the physical and mental trials of walking the Cammino di San Benedetto.
“To be deep in history is to cease to be Protestant” as St John Henry Newman so famously said, and I found myself up to my waist in history as I walked the Cammino di San Benedetto in Italy this summer. Whilst studying theology at Oxford during my time at St Stephen’s House, before my reception into the Church, I was always struck by the depth and richness of the history of the Faith: by the monastic communities that evolved over time, from the early Desert Fathers and hermits in caves, to the formalising of a Rule by St Benedict that inspires religious communities up to the present day; and by the way these communities formed great thinkers and commissioned great works of art, all in the name of Jesus and for the greater glory of God.
Around 18 months ago, I decided I needed to make a pil-grimage. I decided not to do the famous Santiago Camino as it can be rather busy, but I had recently heard about the Cammino di San Benedetto, a 180-mile walk between Norcia, where St Benedict was born, to Monte Cassino, where he died. This walk goes through the Umbria and Lazio reg-ions of Italy, and was said to be very peaceful and beautiful – perfect for praying. The monastery at Monte Cassino was also visited early in life by St Thomas Aquinas and St Philip Neri, two saints to whom I have a particular devotion. The route passes through Subiaco where St Benedict founded 12 monasteries, one of which remains today. Along the way, I would cross over with various other saints such as St Francis; St Felix of Cantalice, the first Capuchin saint; St Schol-astica, St Benedict’s twin sister; and St Rita of Cascia; not to mention the host of local saints. A walk through the Ital-ian countryside with such a depth of history along the way, and with so many saints to accompany me, felt like a very good way to spend the start of my school summer holidays!
It soon became apparent that the walking aspect might not have been as straightforward as I had expected, so I decided to use my discomfort and sufferings in the walking and heat as a prayer. We read or hear that we are to “offer it up” when difficulties come our way in life, and I have often found this hard to hear, since it easily sounds airily pious when one is struggling. On this occasion, it seemed a lot easier to offer my physical, and in some cases mental, anguish up to the Lord for all those I wished to pray for. As a lone pilgrim, you don’t have the company of others to spur you on; you are more vulnerable, exposed, which at difficult times can lead to some rather bleak thoughts. One is forced to rely upon God, to trust Him utterly with one’s safety and with the needs of the day. I had taken with me the Oratory Prayer Book, which the Fathers of the Oxford Oratory have recently published, and the “Prayers before Starting a Journey” had become my daily prayer. Adapted from the traditional Roman Itinerary, they read in part: “Be our support in our leaving, our comfort on the way, our shade in the heat, our shelter in rain and cold, our rest in weariness, our fortress in danger, our staff on perilous slopes…” While rain and cold were very much not a problem I encountered (though I wouldn’t have minded just a little), the others very much were. I was living the prayer!
Walking in the mountains, one stumbles upon parts of nature that very few people ever really do: stunning arrays of wildflowers on mountain pastures 1,200m above sea level; turquoise lakes that shrink to sapphire puddles by the time you have climbed the mountain; beech trees where the sun breaks through to bathe you in a brilliant verdant light; mountain ranges like piles of sugar on the horizon. As I listened to the birds sing, the almost deafening cacophony of the cicadas, with no one at hand to exclaim to, the psalms praising God in the beauty of creation seemed to make a great deal of sense. I wondered if perhaps St Benedict had thought this as he walked to Subiaco, and if the Psalms had kept him company on the walk, too.
I often thought while walking of those holy souls who trekked across Europe to learn from the great thinkers of their time. They had no carbide-tipped walking poles, or foam-cushioned shoes, or hydration packs on their backs (though perhaps they stopped and drank from some of the same fountains that I did along the way). Some of the features of the Cammino did feel as if they would have been familiar to those walking in centuries past. I frequently came across what can only be described as a World War I-style collection of barbed wire and bits of tree held together under tension as a form of gate. My knowledge of physics and my (limited) upper body strength came in useful here as I was able to prise open the gate, pass through it and re-secure it behind me; but I did wonder if my tetanus injections were up to date. At one point I met a group of horses happily munching on the side of the path, blissfully oblivious that they were blocking my way! Some had foals, and were protectively wary of me; but I removed my mirrored sunglasses to look more human, gently raised my hand, and spoke in the steadiest farmer’s daughter’s voice I could muster in Italian, trying to reassure these cavalli. They soon realised that I was no threat, and I just wanted to pass by, and so like the waters of the Red Sea they parted to either side.
The intention was always to make it to Monte Cassino after 16 days’ walk and a rest day in Subiaco. I had been feeling confident, as I seemed to be progressing well, desp-ite the challenging nature of the walk with the elevations covered each day and some of the rough terrain; my back, shoulders and knees all seemed to be coping well, and whilst the tendons around my ankles were sore, stretching seemed to help each day. So when I reached Subiaco, faced with soaring temperatures and ever more remote villages to journey to, to discover that the inevitable blisters on my feet were not just sore but infected, a decision had to be made. To continue would have been foolish, motivated only by pride, and so I made the difficult choice to stop at Subiaco, leaving the final six days’ walk to Monte Cassino for another time. I was very grateful that I was able to join friends in Le Marche to recover in the bucolic Italian countryside and rest my weary feet. Whilst this may not have been the plan, God’s ways are not our ways, and He knows best.
Disappointed as I was not to make the full pilgrimage to St Benedict and St Scholastica, it did now mean that when I reached Rome I could make a small pilgrimage to St Philip Neri, who I believe to have been instrumental in my conversion from the earliest days. On the Sunday, I went first to the church of San Girolamo della Carità, where St Philip lived when he first started his Oratory. It was then on to Mass at Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini, where he established a Confraternity to look after the many pilgrims to Rome. Once the churches had reopened after the afternoon closure, I was able to visit the church where St Philip had been rector, San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, before finally going on to visit the saint himself at the church built for his community, the Chiesa Nuova. Being able to kneel before the mortal remains of the saint and offer up prayers for those I had been asked to pray for, as well as for the Fathers, Brothers and parishioners of the Oxford Oratory was a good deal more moving than I had expected. It was a peaceful, calm experience that seemed a fitting end to my time in Italy and felt as if it was perhaps where I was really meant to end up after all.
Having returned to cooler climes, somewhat humbled by my body, and a little disappointed not to have made it all the way to Monte Cassino, I can certainly give thanks for what did pass. The Good Lord does know what is best for us: 10 days of more strenuous walking than expected, followed by an opportunity to relax for a few days before making a pilgrimage to St Philip Neri, perhaps was a more balanced pilgrimage than I had originally planned. As I recall the serenity of the valleys I walked through, valleys where one could sense the prayers of those from long ago lingering in the air, I give thanks for my Catholic faith, and the cloud of witnesses who accompanied me on the way.
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