The fourth annual Francigena Fidenza Festival took place a couple of weekends ago. Our local celebration of the medieval Via Francigena pilgrimage trail from England’s Canterbury Cathedral to Rome focuses on Fidenza’s central position on the route and, implicitly, on its enduring charm as a cultural center and place to visit. There were talks, a concert, a couple of art and photography shows, and various other events, but what drew me were two walks in the neighboring countryside, not least because they both concluded with some substantial refreshments.
On Friday, April 12, we hiked a stretch of “la Francigena” (pronounced fran-CHI-genna) as part of a loop that started and ended at the Castello di Costamezzano. Located in a village outside of Noceto, itself a small town outside of Fidenza, the castle is a fortress that was battered and battled over during this region’s many centuries of aristocratic gang warfare. Things didn’t settle down until after the French conquered the region at the end of the 18th century, deposed the old nobility, and abolished many of their feudal privileges.
The tower looks like it’s been through plenty, as befits something that’s some six centuries old. During our walk several people said that they’d heard that the castello—not only the tower, but the entire compound, which includes a church, a small palazzo, and a host of outbuildings—is currently on the market, no doubt for millions of euros. To say nothing of the millions more it will take to stabilize this ruin and put in sufficient electrical outlets. Unfortunately, there don’t seem to be any advertisements for this noble relic online that I can link to for those who might like to invest in an extremely historic property.
We were a group of about 25 people, mostly women, mostly older, plus a little dog named Mimi. Our guide, Paola Bondani, set an easy pace. In the sunshine the new green of the trees and fields was dazzling.
This is a very domesticated landscape, as you’d expect a heavily cultivated river valley to be, so the scenery lacks the drama of wilder places, but its towns and hills are very pretty, especially on a sunny spring day.
I wondered if the graffiti we encountered on this apparently abandoned outbuilding had been left by some other via Francigena pilgirms or just English-speaking vandals.
I’d foolishly neglected to bring any water along, so I was glad to hear we’d be stopping midway at a park that has both a water fountain and a bathroom. The water was very welcome, but the bathroom was alarmingly medieval.
Along the way we encountered this gentleman mowing grass in front of a cowbarn. I have no idea if he was a true contadino or a rusticizing suburbanite, but he told us an entertaining story, amplified by a lot of gesticulation, about Scandinavian visitors walking the Francigena who insisted on bathing in the nearby cowpond.
One of the nicest things about this walk was the friendliness of the other hikers. Many were walking solo, so instead of talking mostly to the friend or partner who’d come with them, several of them talked to me. I got to repeat several times my long-form answer to, “Why Fidenza?”, a question that people from around here always ask with a certain amount of incredulity. Since my story begins, “It all started when Trump got elected in 2016…,” some interesting political conversations usually ensue, as well as discussions about Italian versus American folkways. One woman told me that Americans always ask how much money you make—a question that I certainly didn’t ask, I hasten to add. Can it be true that Americans do that? Didn’t their mothers tell them how rude that is?
By the time we came back around to the tower we’d covered six miles and I was more than ready to quit walking and sit down. The castle, or rather the castle that used to stand on the spot where the current castle is but was destroyed in some local war or other, was originally built by the noble Tavernieri family. You have to wonder how noble they really were with a name that means “tavern keepers.” but in some quarters the present castle is still known as “the tavern-keepers’ castle” and in days long gone was reputedly a site of places offering rest and refreshment to weary pilgrims. There is still a trattoria there, part of the compound which may or may not be for sale, where we gratefully enjoyed a spuntino (snack) that was more like a full-fledged dinner. This was part of the outing, and indeed the reminder email that the tourist board sent out the day before said, “Ricordiamo che il momento conviviale è parte dell'esperienza” (Let’s remember that the convivial moment is part of the experience). And indeed it was.
Hostaria la Torre (the Tower) has all the hallmarks of an old-school Italian osteria. (Hostaria is an archaic spelling of osteria, itself an old word that roughly translates as tavern.) I was immediately charmed by the entry, which looked like it dated from a century ago—and I’m just talking about the sign and the bead curtain, not the stonework. The smell of polenta frying in lard was charming, too.
The inside’s decor more than lived up to the entry’s promise.
So did the food. We started with some bottles of good local fizzy wine, the region’s crusty bread, platters of salame, prosciutto, and gorgonzola, and sticks of that fried polenta.
Afterwards came platters of tortelli d’erbetta, the most popular pasta in these parts. For those who are newer to this blog, these are what we’d call ravioli filled with cheese and spinach or chard and served with melted butter and cheese. The hostaria’s tortelli weren’t the most delicate I’ve ever had, but they were clearly homemade and very satisfying. And for once I felt like I actually deserved all those calories.
Our supper ended with a crostata, another local standard: a jam filling baked in a pastry crust. This one was unusually good and everyone wanted to know how it was made. While we all pulled out our 15-euro fee for the food and wine, our hostess and chef, Iris Malanca, emerged from the kitchen.
She was happy to share her crostata recipe. “Shortcrust pastry, and you mix chopped walnuts with apricot jam,” she said. “Simple. Ah, and a little rum.” I could see that Hostaria La Torre boasted another mark of Italian restaurant quality: a genuine “pasta granny” in the kitchen. Thanks to her, this castle was well worth making a pilgrimage to.
Lovely! I feel like I was with you every step of the way. Pasta Granny the cutest!
Love everything about this pilgrimage story. You ever think about walking to Rome?