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 head 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 arrive early and find a good parking spot with surprising ease. However, the parking ticket machine gives everyone fits. It only works on every third or fourth try (no matter who was using it) and the line for tickets snakes across the parking lot. We finally receive a ticket on our third attempt.
A short walk downhill affords our first glimpse of Isola San Giulio. It is a breathtaking isle, sitting like a jewel in the middle of Lake Orta. We wander 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 can see are the boats. Dozens of boats that can supposedly take us to the island are all lined up. I don’t see a queue, so I ask a man in a captain’s hat. He takes my hand and leads me onto his boat. Five euro for a round trip ride. A bargain. Memories of an early morning ride in Venice flash through my mind as I settle with my husband into the back of the water taxi. Descending into the hatch of a distinctive wooden taxi boat, makes me feel very cosmopolitan. I could get used to this.
The quick boat ride lands us at the steps of Basilica San Giulio. It is 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 is more modern, constructed in 1100 A.D.
The sanctuary is an impressive display of fresco and carving. I linger 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 surrounds the remains of San Giulio. It is a beautiful place, a peaceful place. But the reverence that I usually feel in ancient churches is 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 move on to walk the street that circles the island. Signs remind us that the holy order has taken a vow of silence and requests that we also walk in quiet contemplation. I am happy to comply. Sadly, a family with screaming children, the Italian reunion group, and all those German elders are incapable. We walk every side alley and to the water’s edge to let them pass. Silence. Perfection.
The short walk on the island’s only road is magical to me, but decidedly not for everyone. I love the ancient walls and only occasional glimpses of water. I love that it is devoid of touristy attractions. The only shop is a small gallery at the end of the walk. I buy a small metal Vespa to hang on my Christmas tree.
Once back on the mainland, we walk along the shore, taking photos of the island. We decide to walk up the steep Via de Cappucina to the Holy Mountain of St. Francis. It is a strenuous yet beautiful walk. The street just keeps going up and getting steeper all the time. The mountain shelters a large Franciscan church and numerous small chapels depicting the life of Saint Francis.
On the top of the mountain, grannies sit on every surface, pulling paninis out of purses and gossiping with smiles. Children play soccer in the grass in between chapels. It seems like a festival. The church itself is a little underwhelming considering my long climb. It is dark, but you can turn on the lights by inserting two euro in a coin box. Considering I am the only one inside, while a party was going on outdoors, I make a quick circuit and a quick exit.
The views from the plaza in front of the church are truly breathtaking. Isola San Giulio sparkles like a jewel in the middle of Lake Orta. We take a few selfies, but my husband has had enough and heads off to find a bench.
I am on my own to explore the Sacro Monte di Orta. The twenty or so chapels are unlike anything I have ever seen. Intricate, painted terra cotta sculptures are set up like elaborate life size doll houses. Some chapels are well kept and illuminated, some are dark and in decline. Each holds 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 have glorious mountain views of beautiful lake Orta. Children’s voices carry on the breeze as they play tag in the park. Grandmothers now eat gelato (Where did that come from? They couldn’t have that in their purse? Could they?) and share more stories. A cool breeze gently twists the turning leaves.
Although I have limited information about what I am actually witnessing, I walk on and become part of the story.
I take a few videos to remember a place in time on the sacred mountain. I know I have never encountered anything quite like this before. It is rare and wonderful.
I am no longer sure where to look when I enter a chapel. My senses are overloaded. The scenes run together inside. Outside each view is more wonderful than the next. It is a beautiful afternoon.
Finally, I complete the circuit and reach the last chapel. Its doorway opens onto a beautiful view of the lake and lower town. Perfection.
After finding my husband, we maek our slow descent to the piazza near the port. I find a few statues, shrines, and churches to visit along the way. The way down sure seems faster than the long climb uphill.
We find 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 is 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.
