A Passionate Geography: Romancing King Arthur’s Roman War

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May 13, 2026 (Wednesday). Pilgrimage.

Chaucer began his famed Canterbury Tales with the fictional, genial tavern keeper, Harry Bailly, announcing each pilgrim would tell four tales, two on the way to Canterbury and two on the way back. But Chaucer wrote just one tale for each pilgrim. Perhaps Chaucer’s ambitions surpassed “his time or space” to complete the project, but maybe it also speaks to pilgrimages, generally. 

The capaciousness of the idea of taking time out of ordinary life to walk in search of transcendence or the divine or forgiveness (by God or of oneself) is probably more than the physical days of a single walk can contain. Some medieval pilgrims never returned home—whether due to death or a new plan. Some pilgrims, such as Margery Kempe in the early 1400s, continued pilgrimages to other destinations, not eager to return home, in her case, to her role as wife, mother, or brewer. But for those who returned, was the fabric of their daily life altered by the pilgrimage?  Eventually, even Margery Kempe returned home to care for her ailing husband.

Our pilgrimage is coming to an end, and today we walk to Rome. We take the advice of our guidebook and clamber on a city bus for the first few kilometers of the pedestrian-unfriendly Via Cassia. The bus is Rome-full, and we cram in with about 30 middle school kids on their way to a field trip, all wearing an orange cap. They are laughing, watching TikTok, yelling to each other, making fun of each other. The energy is sky-high, and it’s irresisitible.

We hop off the bus and pick up our trail into a huge natural area called Riserva Naturale dell’Insugherata, an oak tree habitat on the northern edge of Rome. A few kilometers away, the metropolitan area of over 4 million people and 95,000 daily tourists is roaring into the day while we walk in solitude through woods and meadows thick with spring grasses, wildflowers, and bird song.  

Around mid-day, we emerge into a city neighborhood, enjoy a cappuccino, then continue on in the intermittent rain. I slip my glasses over my necklace to avoid looking through rain drops. With a billowing orange poncho on, I get snagged by a handrail and swung around. A few minutes later, I discover my glasses are gone. We retrace our steps and there on the pavement near the handrail, miraculously intact, are my glasses! Che fortuna!

Soon we enter Riserva Natural di Monte Mario and encounter a few pellegrini. We chat with Ray, from Japan, and his walking partner Franco, from Italy, as well as three women from Boston. We take photos of each other then resume our own paces through this surprisingly quiet natural area within the city. We ascend Mount Mario and suddenly — Michelangelo’s lofty dome of St. Peter’s! It is a sight we anticipated, but it’s still an exhilarating moment of arrival. 

Zigzagging down a steep cobblestone path, we exit the park and walk down Via Angelico toward St. Peter’s, incrementally among more and more people until we are enveloped in the maw and madness of thousands of tourists. Such a day of extremes, and the antithesis of a spiritual arrival.

Being a pelliegrina gives you special status at St. Peter’s: we show our pilgrim’s passport and are ushered to the front of the very, very long line. Prior to arriving, I thought it didn’t seem very “servicio” or “sacrificio” (two of the five virtues on the mountaintop church of Day 4) to jump the line with our pilgrim status (Paul had no problem with it!), but faced with the throng, we gladly accepted the courtesy so as to get our “testimonia,” a certificate of completion of at least 100 km of the Via Francigena.

I had wondered if getting a certificate from the Roman Catholic Church might feel a bit ridiculous. But receiving the testimonia from the volunteers is a surprisingly tender moment, even amidst the throngs. Graduation day is my favorite day of the academic year so it’s no wonder I love receiving the certificate! Our hearts are full—with some travail, we’ve reached our pilgrimage destination and shared a meaningful journey.

Paul and I find a side chapel in the busy and mammoth St. Peter’s to sit and pray, to breath a moment of reflection and gratitude. I find St. Peter’s overbearing: the gilded, Baroque Baldacchino by Bernini—a twisting, bronze canopy over the altar—the sculptures of saints and popes, all a counter-reformation swirl of more, and more. Michelangelo’s Pieta provides a counterpoint of quiet naturalism and reverence.

We prepare to leave this complex space—a vortex of mass tourism and spirituality—and notice that people are congregated just before the massive exit doors. A heavy rain is pummeling down, so Paul and I help each other back into our ponchos, making sure to bury our certificates in our packs. With that, our pilgrimage ends, at one level. We walk out into the downpour, open to what might come next.