Saturday in Northern Italy is marked by hordes of men on bicycles taking over the roadways. These biker gangs are problematic because the roads are narrow as they curve up and down the foothills of the Alps. The general rule I’ve determined is the narrower the road and the more blind curves, the more cyclists you will find clogging the roads. I pointed out to my husband that you rarely see women participating in this madness. Could be cultural but probably is just common sense.

Despite the lawless hordes of cyclists, we fearlessly headed over the mountain to Orta San Giulio. The tiny town of about 1,600 people is considered one of the most beautiful villages in Italy. We arrived early and found a good parking spot with surprising ease. However, the parking ticket machine gave everyone fits. It only worked on every third or fourth try (no matter who was using it) and the line for tickets snaked across the parking lot. We finally received a ticket on our third attempt.

A short walk downhill afforded our first glimpse of Isola San Giulio. It is a breathtaking isle, sitting like a jewel in the middle of Lake Orta. We wandered down narrow streets lined with shops to Piazza Mario Motta, the historic city center. The piazza is lovely, with medieval buildings and outdoor restaurants, but all I could see was the boats. Dozens of boats that could supposedly take us to the island. I didn’t see a queue, so I asked a man in a captain’s hat. He took my hand and lead me onto his boat. Five euro for a round trip ride. A bargain. Memories of an early morning ride in Venice flashed through my mind as I settled with my husband into the back of the water taxi. Descending into the hatch of a distinctive wooden taxi boat, makes you feel very cosmopolitan.

The quick boat ride landed us at the steps of Basilica San Giulio. It was supposedly the last church built by Julius of Novara. The legend claims that he appeared in 390 and freed the area of dragons. The small church he founded grew to a medieval church of some size, only to be destroyed by Holy Roman Emperor Otto in 962 because it was being used as a fortress by Queen Willa. The current structure was more modern, constructed in 1100 A.D.

The sanctuary was an impressive display of fresco and carving. I lingered over the brightly colored paintings of Mary, St Sebastian, St. Roche (Rocco), St. Julius, and others. They could have been painted yesterday instead of hundreds of years ago.

In the crypt, a candlelight vigil surrounded the remains of San Giulio. It was a beautiful place, a peaceful place. But the reverence that I usually feel in ancient churches was marred by endless tour groups. It is the weekend, and we are sandwiched between a busload of German senior citizens and a carload of Italian grannies having a family reunion. We can’t exit the crypt or the church because they stop in small bunches right in front of the doorways, huddled together and not at all responsive to excuse me, scusi, or verzeihung.

My patience wearing thin, we moved on to walk the street that circles the island. Signs remind you that the holy order has taken a vow of silence and request that you also walk in quiet contemplation. I was happy to comply. Sadly, a family with screaming children, the Italian reunion group, and all those German elders were incapable. We walked every side alley to the water edge we could find to let them pass. Silence. Perfection.

The short walk on the island’s only road was magical to me, but decidedly not for everyone. I loved the ancient walls and only occasional glimpses of water. I loved that it was devoid of touristy attractions. The only shop was a small gallery at the end of the walk. I bought a small metal Vespa to hang on my Christmas tree.

Once back on the mainland, we walked along the shore, taking photos of the island. We decided to walk up the steep via de cappucina to the Holy Mountain of St. Francis. It was a strenuous yet beautiful walk. The street just kept going up and getting steeper all the time. The mountain was the home of a large Franciscan church and numerous small chapels depicting the life of Saint Francis.

I am not sure what I expected. Grannies sat on every surface, pulling paninis out of purses and gossiping with smiles. Children played soccer in the grass in between chapels. It seemed like a festival. The church itself was a little underwhelming considering my long climb. The church was dark, but you could turn on the lights by inserting two euro in a coin box. Considering I was the only one inside, while a party was going on outdoors, I made a quick circuit and a quick exit.

The views from the plaza in front of the church were truly breathtaking. Isola San Giulio sparkled like a jewel in the middle of Lake Orta. We took a few selfies, but my husband has had enough and went to find a bench.

I was on my own to explore the Sacro Monte di Orta. The twenty or so chapels were unlike anything I had ever seen. Intricate, painted terra cotta sculptures were set up like elaborate life size doll houses. Some chapels were well kept and illuminated, some were dark and in decline.Each held surprises. A chariot of fire. A women breastfeeding a child. Soldiers. Children at play. All carefully crafted and brightly painted.

In between the chapels, I had glorious mountain views of beautiful lake Orta. Children’s voices were carrying on the breeze as they played tag in the park. Grandmothers now ate gelato (Where did that come from? They couldn’t have that in their purse?) and shared more stories. A cool breeze gently twisted the turning leaves.

Although I had limited information about what I was actually witnessing, I walked on and became part of the story.

I took a few videos to remember a place in time on the sacred mountain. I knew I had never encountered anything quite like this before. It was rare and wonderful.

I was no longer sure where to look when I entered a chapel. My senses were overloaded. The scenes ran together inside. Outside each view was more wonderful than the next. It was a beautiful afternoon.

Finally, I completed the circuit and reached the last chapel. Its doorway opened onto a beautiful view of the lake and lower town. Perfection.

After finding my husband, we made our slow descent to the piazza near the port. I found a few statues, shrines, and churches to visit along the way. The way down sure seemed faster than the long climb uphill.

We found a small restaurant tucked in a side street away from the crowd. The beautiful sounds of a saxophone play in the distance. A leisurely meal is a gift when the food is fresh and delicious. I have a pumpkin, Gorgonzola, and pistachio gnocchi. It was beyond expectation. Homemade bread for dipping and a glass of moscato rounded out a beautiful day.

I have walked miles and could do it all again. The silent island and the holy mountain are special places. I feel energized. I feel centered. I feel whole.