European Cities Collection 2025
What if your next city tour meant cruising through Rome in a vintage Fiat 500, kayaking down Venice's hidden canals or rollerskating under the stars in Copenhagen?
Now, thanks to a new wave of passionate local guides reimagining the urban experience, city tours have never been more original, fun or varied. In our cover story, we dive into this quirky, characterful trend and explore how travellers are seeing cities through a fresh lens.
This edition also taps into the rise of active city breaks, spotlighting how Europe's urban centres are doubling as gateways to the great outdoors. Here, travellers can cycle along former railway lines, go wild swimming in repurposed barges and even abseil down skyscrapers.
Elsewhere, this issue explores Europe's rich musical tapestry — from the haunting fado of Lisbon to the vibrant folk beats of the Balkans — before uncovering how food halls have become the continent's hottest culinary destinations. All this, plus a roundup of Europe's finest hotels and experiences, brought to you by our partners, to help you plan your next urban escape.
(More from The Collection by National Geographic Traveller (UK).) To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
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National Geographic
a day ago
- National Geographic
7 classic Italian journeys, from Vespa rides to vintage trams
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). Italy hasn't stopped moving since the Romans began building their extensive road network, and the country has a penchant for speed and drama — despite its reputation for a slow, savoured approach to life. Whether you choose to board a plucky Vespa or a zippy vaporino, ride a poker-red Ferrari or a sky-scraping cableway, this way of exploring brings a fresh perspective and up-close interaction with some masterful examples of Italian craftsmanship. Lake Como by vaporina Dark varnished wood, buffed to a bar-top lustre; curvaceous metallic detailing, glinting under sunlight; cushy leather banquettes, for kicking back with an icy glass — Lake Como's vintage vaporinas are part-artwork, part-motorboat. The sightseeing mode of choice since the late 1800s, these vessels ferry visitors between opulent hotels, waterside towns and tucked-away villas in high style. Operators like Como Classic Boats offer driver-guides who'll zoom you across the peak-ringed expanse of blue, pointing out landmarks such as palatial Villa del Balbianello, featured in the James Bond film Casino Royale. One-hour tour from €370 (£314). Tuscany by Vespa Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck's 1953 film Roman Holiday made the Italian scooter world famous, and the vehicle retains plenty of star power today. Its 1940s-era design has barely changed over the decades, and the region that manufactures them has a similarly timeless appeal. Get behind the handlebars on a day-long guided trip with Tuscany Vespa Tours. Its 20-mile route zooms past Chianti vineyards and cypress trees, and it includes a stop for lunch and an olive oil tasting. From €95 (£82) per person. Whether you choose to board a plucky Vespa or a sky-scraping cableway, get an up-close interaction with some masterful examples of Italian craftsmanship. Photograph by Lee Frost, AWL Images Turin by vintage tram Board Turin's number seven tram line and you might think you've entered a time machine. Its beautifully preserved cars — built variously between 1910 and the 1950s — take passengers past handsome baroque buildings, the gleaming windows of 19th-century Porta Nuova station and the Renaissance-era Duomo. Settle in for the full loop, around an hour, or hop on and off for gallery visits and pit stops at art nouveau cafes — its circular route is perfect for laid-back sightseeing and a bargain, too, priced the same as a standard Turin transport ticket. Tickets from €1.90 (£1.60). Matera by luxury train In April, Orient Express launched its La Dolce Vita service, putting Italy at the forefront of a new age in luxury rail travel. Effectively a high-end boutique hotel on tracks, its seven passenger carriages are replete with nods to mid-century Italian design, from polished metallics to exquisite fabrics in juicy hues. Kick back in the dining car — order a negroni or a dish from a menu designed by lauded chef Heinz Beck — while watching the scenery slip by on the way to the mountaintop, UNESCO-listed city of Matera, home to ancient cave dwellings cut from tufa stone. Two-night Rome-Matera trip from €5,780 (£4,990) per person. Emilia-Romagna by Ferrari This region is famously the home of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, Parma ham and balsamic vinegar — unless you're a petrolhead, in which case you'll know it as the birthplace of the Ferrari. Supercar fans flock to the city of Maranello to visit the official Ferrari Museum (€27/£23), while 12 miles north is the Autodromo di Modena (two laps from €704/£607) circuit, where you can get behind the wheel yourself. Even better is the chance to test drive a Ferrari in the Modena Apennines, feeling the guttural roar of the engine as you tackle hair-raising hairpins and pass forested hamlets in a blur. 10km (just over six miles) test drive from €190 (£163). Capri by yacht Beloved by a 1960s jet set that included Grace Kelly and Sophia Loren, the sunny island of Capri — off the southerly Amalfi and Sorrento Coasts — has long been a byword for glamour. Its rugged coastline and hidden caves, framed by glittering waters in variegated blues and greens, are best explored by yacht — but you needn't be in possession of an A-list budget. Capri Island Tour has slickly styled traditional gozzo boats, available for private hire by the hour or day. Two-hour private tour from €190 (£163). Aosta Valley by cable car Floating above the plunging valleys, Alpine meadows and ashen peaks of the Aosta Valley, Skyway Monte Bianco sets out from Courmayeur to ferry visitors to Italy's highest accessible point — Punta Helbronner, an eye-watering 11,370ft above sea level — and views to the snow-capped summit of Mont Blanc, just over the French border. On your way back, stop at the halfway Pavilion station to visit boundary-pushing Cave Mont Blanc, home to some of Europe's highest vineyards and an experimental high-altitude winery. Round trip Courmayeur-Punta Helbronner from €58 (£50). Published in the September 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK). To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
National Geographic
2 days ago
- National Geographic
What it's like tracking Namibia's desert rhinos in the storms of a decade
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). Damaraland is certainly a large area (18,000sq miles) and it's definitely in a hot region (current temperature 31C). But where I'd expected lunar landscapes speckled with the occasional succulent, there are rolling hills swathed in softly wafting grass. Where I'd imagined blue skies untroubled by a single cloud, there are cumulonimbus boiling overhead and thick sheets of rain barrelling across the horizon. I'd pictured a world that had no ambitions beyond 'beige' on the colour chart. This is every shade of green, from the near neon of a tennis ball to the silvery subtlety of a sage leaf. 'It's crazy special,' says Bernadro Hillary Roman as I climb into an open-sided Land Cruiser behind him. 'For 14 years, we've had a massive drought. This place normally looks like a rock garden.' I meet goateed guide Bernadro — better known as Bons — at a sandy airstrip in the Palmwag Concession, a protected conservancy of 2,100sq miles in northwest Damaraland. It's several steps beyond the middle of nowhere. Bouncing beneath the clouds in a tiny Cessna, I'd seen signs of life fade the further north the plane travelled from the Namibian capital of Windhoek: first the settlements disappeared, then the trees, finally the roads. Below, enormous rock formations rippled out of the flat earth like petrified sea monsters. Like most people, I've made the journey for one reason: to see a critically endangered species that has learnt to survive in this normally hostile and arid environment. 'We have the world's largest population of desert-adapted black rhino here,' Bons says, driving towards our camp, sunglasses perched on his head. 'And we have a 99.99% success rate of finding them.' The drought-resistant Euphorbia damarana, or Damara milk-bush, contain a latex sap that's poisonous to most animals, including humans, but not rhinos, sustaining them in the absence of other sources of food. Photograph by Jonathan Gregson Trackers pull out notebooks and cameras, recording the animals' condition and sketching distinctive features that help identify them. Photograph by Jonathan Gregson Bons has worked as a guide for Desert Rhino Camp since 2010 and knows the concession better than most. 'I grew up 11 miles away, this is my backyard,' he tells me as the rain starts, so faint at first I have to hold out my hand to be sure I feel it. 'Even if you put a bag over my head, I would know where we are.' He doesn't get a chance to demonstrate. Soon after our arrival at Desert Rhino, the skies darken, the wind picks up and the throaty growl of thunder rumbles across the plains, seeming to rebound off the surrounding mountains and pinball around the camp. The rain is quickly torrential. Puddles turn to little streams. Little streams turn to small lakes. We're marooned, hiding in our canvas safari tents like desert Noahs as the waters rise. Life on Mars There's little sign of the storm the following morning. A few clouds skim the horizon in the inky pre-dawn light and the earth is dark and damp, but the water has entirely drained into the porous soil. What I take to be the cartoon-like croak of a frog is, according to Bons, the dual calls of two Rüppell's korhaans — slender, beige birds found in regions with little rain. As the sun rises, turning the grass golden, they form a tiny orchestra, joined by the looping whistle of a Benguela long-billed lark and the cheerful twitters of sparrow-larks. The plan for the day is to join Palmwag's rangers and — with luck — follow them to some of the 17 or so black rhinos within driving distance of the camp. The rangers had set off a couple of hours earlier to get the search underway. 'The trackers track the rhino and we track the trackers,' says Bons with a characteristically mischievous grin. 'It's hard for them though — the rain will have washed away any footprints.' We spend the morning trundling along tracks that weave across the concession, each turn revealing another epic landscape — an endless parade of grass-covered hills filing to the horizon, punctuated by sandstone cliffs and giant outcrops of red basalt. Yellow mouse whiskers and purple carpetweed flowers poke up between the rocks, splashing the desert with colour. The minty smell of wild tea carries on the breeze. 'Usually this looks like Mars,' says Bons. 'If a guest from the last 10 years saw pictures of it now, they would need to see a doctor.' Prominent in the landscape is the plant that allows black rhinos to survive in a more typical year. The drought-resistant Euphorbia damarana, or Damara milk-bush, contain a latex sap that's poisonous to most animals, including humans, but not rhinos, sustaining them in the absence of other sources of food. Deadly toxins are not the only horror concealed within the bush: hundreds of spider-like armoured crickets cling to its spiky fronds, likely feeding on the latex to make themselves unpalatable to birds. Damaraland has the world's largest population of desert-adapted black rhino. Photograph by Jonathan Gregson 'The trackers will tell us where to go, and we follow on foot,' says desert guide, Bons. 'We want the rhinos to experience the least human disturbance. We don't want them used to jeeps — you can imagine how vulnerable they are to poachers then.' Photograph by Jonathan Gregson As we continue through Palmwag, Bons frequently stops to peer through binoculars, his naked eye having picked up evidence of other life in the desert, much of it drawn in by the abundant grass. Among them are the retreating backsides of springboks, zebras and oryx keen to get as far away from us as possible. A closer encounter comes after we slosh through the fast-flowing water and thick mud of the normally dry Uniab River. An Angolan giraffe stands on the other side, his jaw working at the leaves of a mopane tree as he gazes impassively at us. We have little time to gaze back. The Land Cruiser's radio crackles with a message from the rangers — they've found rhinos. We set off in their direction with some urgency and are soon driving past heaps of megafauna dung, the trackers' 4WD in our sights ahead. Beyond them are the rhinos — a female in front, a small calf sticking close by and a large male ambling in their wake. 'The trackers will tell us where to go, and we follow on foot,' says Bons, his voice hushed. 'We want the rhinos to experience the least human disturbance. We don't want them used to jeeps — you can imagine how vulnerable they are to poachers then.' The team motions us over and instructs us to walk behind them in single file and to stay silent. 'We need you to blend in,' ranger Denso Tjiraso whispers. 'We are in their environment and we want them to be unaware of you.' Our attempts to blend in and stay silent fail almost immediately. Edging down a rocky slope, we dislodge layers of shale, which slide and clatter beneath our feet. The three animals turn and look — they're very much aware of us. At the bottom, we all stand and stare at one another, caught in a Mexican standoff with a hundred metres between us. The rhinos finally relax, conscious of our presence but apparently untroubled — the adults return to the grassy lunch at their feet, ears cocked in our direction, while the baby slumps in the shadow cast by her mother. Along with Denso, trackers Hofney Gaseb and Richard Ganuseb pull out notebooks and cameras, recording the animals' condition and sketching distinctive features that help identify them. In front of us, I learn, are Tuta, daughter Kasper and interloper Arthur, who's likely hanging around in the hope of mating. Survey over, we quietly retreat, leaving them to find some shade as the mercury rises. Good weather for rhinos Guests at Desert Rhino Camp are able to have such unique experiences thanks to a project it runs with Save The Rhino Trust Namibia (SRT). For over 21 years, they've worked with the three communities within the conservancy, leasing land from them and sharing profits from the camp, as well as encouraging them to help with conservation efforts and to report any signs of poaching. SRT also trains and equips Palmwag's rangers, recruiting many of them from those same local villages. I meet the trust's director of field operations, Lesley Karutjaiva, as he's returning to his headquarters in the concession and Bons and I are out on a meandering drive. Leaning on his 4WD, neatly dressed in green shirt and trousers, he tells me that the SRT has trained 71 rangers, and anti-poaching efforts are improving. 'We have around 200 rhinos here,' he says as thunder rattles around us. 'But 500 would be a good number.' The deficit is not down to poachers. 'Our last good rain was in 2011,' Lesley explains. 'During extreme drought we lose many calves — the mothers don't have enough food to produce milk.' In better news, he tells me, Palmwag has received so much rainfall this year, it should see them through for another five. With theatrical good timing, the storm that has been threatening all afternoon finally breaks, raindrops hammering around us with sudden ferocity. Lightning spasms across a sky slashed red with the rays of the setting sun. 'Oh, this is very good weather for rhinos,' Lesley says with a broad smile as we retreat to our vehicles. 'We are all very happy.' The rain is quickly torrential. Puddles turn to little streams. Little streams turn to small lakes. Photograph by Jonathan Gregson The concession's low-intervention approach towards the wildlife on its land means the animals remain unhabituated to both vehicles and humans, and their natural instinct is to run away from both very quickly indeed. Photograph by Jonathan Gregson The rest of my time in Palmwag produces further very good weather for rhinos, and further rhino sightings. We spot Tuta, Kasper and Arthur as they plod along a dry river bed in the soft evening light, and again as they enjoy a roaming buffet of wild grasses on an early-morning stroll through the hills. Each time, they eventually catch our scent on the wind and take off for the horizon with a surprisingly dainty little trot. The concession's low-intervention approach towards the wildlife on its land means the animals remain unhabituated to both vehicles and humans, and their natural instinct is to run away from both very quickly indeed. But it's not a common strategy in the reserves of northern Namibia, as becomes clear almost immediately at my next stop. Coming into land after an hour-long, corkscrewing flight east from Palmwag, I already feel transported to another world. Nature swaggers here, lavishing the land with thick clumps of trees, the whitest sandy soil and vast turquoise pools of water. Humans have added the decorative touches of arrow-straight roads and fences. It's a 10-minute drive from the airstrip to the gates of Onguma, a privately owned reserve of more than 130sq miles on the edge of Namibia's landmark Etosha National Park. Those 10 minutes provide a bumper pack of wildlife sightings. A family of banded mongooses tumble and play metres from the vehicle; a male wildebeest strides nonchalantly past, so close I might lean out and touch him; a small herd of oryx, horns rising like spears, graze at the edge of a clearing; and a lilac-breasted roller perches on a termite mound as kori bustards strut through the grass behind. Nothing is running away here. Walk on the wild side I soon learn that close encounters are something of a theme at Onguma. While the reserve prioritises the welfare of its animals above all, it allows its human guests plenty of opportunities to quietly observe them at near quarters. At the exclusive lodge of Camp Kala, each of the four suites sits on a raised walkway overlooking a water hole, with hyenas and elephants coming in to drink as guests watch from their plunge pools. A custom-built Land Cruiser with a 'star bed' built over the cabin allows couples to spend the night out in the open, listening to the grunts of nearby lions as the Milky Way dazzles overhead. And a hide set partly beneath ground level allows its occupants to peer out at zebras and giraffes standing oblivious just metres away. The accommodation I'm heading to, however, has been open for barely a month, and the wildlife in the area is not yet accustomed to the new residents. With the sun setting and the bullfrogs croaking, my perennially cheerful guide Liberty Eiseb and I bump along a track towards Trails Camp. Liberty stops the vehicle to point out boot prints left in the sand beneath us by Onguma's anti-poaching unit, who patrol in pairs at night. Beside them are the tracks of a leopard. 'This is probably the leopard that comes into camp when we are sleeping,' he says. 'I hear it every night at 4am.' I can hardly blame it for calling in — Trails Camp is a mini Eden tucked within an acacia woodland, from where guests typically head out on walking safaris. Lantern-lit pathways lead to four safari tents, each with a wooden hot tub at the front and an outdoor shower at the back. When darkness enfolds the bush, the Southern Cross and Scorpio shine bright in the firmament of stars above. 'Here you get silence and you get adventure,' says Liberty with some glee before we both turn in for the night. A custom-built Land Cruiser with a 'star bed' built over the cabin allows couples to spend the night out in the open, listening to the grunts of nearby lions as the Milky Way dazzles overhead. Photograph by Jonathan Gregson While the reserve prioritises the welfare of its animals above all, it allows its human guests plenty of opportunities to quietly observe them at near quarters. Photograph by Jonathan Gregson After an undisturbed sleep, I find him sitting by the fire in the muted pre-dawn light, a blackened tin kettle sat within the embers. 'You see the bushman's TV is already on,' he says, gesturing to the flames. 'It always tells a good story.' He heard the saw-like calls of the leopard as it padded through at 4am and 5.30am. 'The animals need to get used to the camp, but they will,' he continues. 'The big leopard will soon be sitting in the trees around us.' With breakfast soundtracked by turtle doves crooning from those same trees, I could get used to the camp myself, but the bush waits for no one, and I set off with guide Tristan Lewis for a day's exploration. We're soon driving through a landscape pocked with water holes, with makalani palms towering above. Wildlife teems around us — the heads of giraffes appear above the umbrella thorns; elephants cross in front of us and instantly melt into the bush; African grey hornbills pick at termites; leopard tortoises bumble along the track; spotted hyenas skulk through the grass. 'Morning drives are my favourite,' says Tristan, his traditional safari uniform of beige shirt and shorts accessorised by a neat little moustache. 'Everything's fresh, everything's waking up.' Like Palmwag, Onguma has seen unprecedented rainfall, and it's changed the behaviour of the animals on the reserve. 'We usually have a little migration with the rain,' Tristan tells me as we stop to watch a herd of impalas chewing on grass, their black eyes fixed on the vehicle. 'Breeding groups go east because that's where the first rains usually fall. But they're finding rainwater everywhere now, so all the patterns are messed up.' The rain has messed up some of the tracks, too, and Tristan occasionally has to coax the Land Cruiser through deep, water-filled channels in the mud, or turn back and find another route. We're on the lookout for a pride of lions seen near the reserve's border with Etosha when one particularly troublesome puddle finally defeats us. After radioing in for a replacement vehicle, Tristan points to a pair of male white rhinos grazing some way in the distance. 'It's not so bad being stuck when you're stuck by rhino,' he says. 'Shall we go for a walk?' He collects his rifle and we quietly creep towards them over sandy soil scattered with lion paw prints. 'We've spent hours and hours with these rhinos,' Tristan whispers as we draw closer. 'We know their behaviour is relaxed. They're not like black rhinos — black rhinos are a handful.' We're 60 feet away when the two males finally become aware of our presence. Tristan motions me to crouch down and be quiet. 'They know we're here, now we give them time to decide what to do,' he says softly as they stand facing us. 'You can see they're curious.' After a few minutes trying to figure us out, one cautiously pads in our direction, head down, ears rotating. He's so close I can hear him breathing when Tristan slowly rises — the rhino instantly canters away. Over the next 30 minutes, the pair repeatedly amble towards us, only moving away when Tristan gently shifts his position. 'They're comfortable with us but we don't want them too close,' he murmurs, watching as they graze. 'They're wild animals and we want them to stay wild.' It soon feels completely natural to sit quietly in the sand, passing the day with animals each weighing up to 2.5 tonnes and sporting impressively long and pointy horns. 'It's nice when they let you into their space and they're not threatened by you,' Tristan says when the rhinos eventually decide to move on. 'You can share this incredible time with them.' It's a parting gift from the rains of Namibia — a vehicle stuck in the mud, a moment of pure magic. As we wander, slightly giddy, towards the guide who's come to pick us up, I'm reminded of something Bons had said to me as we sheltered from a storm in Palmwag: 'The rain is very good for everything — for nature, for animals, for us.' Getting there and around: Flights from the UK to Namibian capital Windhoek entail a stopover. South African Airways, British Airways and Virgin Atlantic fly via Johannesburg and Ethiopian Airlines flies via Addis flight time: prop planes fly to airstrips in Damaraland and Etosha, and are organised by your tour operator or accommodation. If driving, rent a 4WD from Windhoek's Hosea Kutako airport; it's seven hours to Desert Rhino Camp, and a similar time from there to Onguma and Etosha. When to Go: Wet season in northern Namibia falls between November and April, though rain doesn't fall each year and can be intermittent when it does. Dry season (May to October) is a good time for wildlife-viewing, with animals gathering at the few water sources. There's little temperature difference across the year, with highs of 25-30C and lows of 10-17. Where to Stay: Weinberg Hotel, Windhoek. From N$5,654 (£235). More info: How to do it: Africa specialist Yellow Zebra Safaris offers one night at Windhoek's Weinberg Hotel, three nights at Desert Rhino Camp and three nights at Onguma Camp Kala from £9,524 per person, including meals, drinks, safari activities, domestic flights and transfers, and international flights, plus the option to spend a night in the Dream Cruiser star bed. The same itinerary with the last three nights at Onguma Trails Camp (open April to September) costs £8,289. This story was created with the support of Yellow Zebra Safaris. Published in the September 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK). To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
National Geographic
3 days ago
- National Geographic
Find a new reverence for Rome on a thousand-year-old pilgrimage to the capital
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). It's holy week and music is rising from the Chiesa di Santa Maria. First comes the slow sigh of baroque strings, then a wash of operatic harmony as a soprano and alto plunge into the opening lines of Pergolesi's Stabat Mater. Outside, a blood-orange sun is slipping behind the sage hills surrounding Vetrella, throwing a square of sunlight onto the church's frescoed walls: a honeyed beam that writes life into the eyes of every painted saint and martyr. I'm coming to the end of my first day on the Via Francigena and already I'm getting a sense of the trail's strange power — though I'm 12 miles closer to Rome than I was this morning, I appear to have stepped further back in time. In many ways, it stands to reason. After all, I've spent the morning tracing one of Lazio's ancient holloways — the sunken roads etched by the Etruscans sometime between 800 and 300 BCE and deepened over the centuries by the footfall of Roman legions, Frankish knights and modern-day pilgrims. After the concert, the congregation spills onto the lawn, where I get talking to blue-eyed Tiziano, who's travelled from the nearby town of Bracciano to be here. 'The springs surrounding this place made it a site of pilgrimage long before the church was built,' he explains, 'and yet most people pass it by without even noticing. For me, it's an overlooked masterpiece.' The same could be said of the Via Francigena itself — a quiet backroad compared to the bustling pilgrim highway that's Spain's Camino de Santiago. The key difference is that the former didn't begin life as a pilgrimage trail, but rather evolved into one, its network of roads originally serving as arteries between the Roman Empire and northern territories like Britannia. The sunken roads etched by the Etruscans sometime between 800 and 300 BCE were deepened over the centuries by the footfall of Roman legions, Frankish knights and modern-day pilgrims. Photograph by Gilda Bruno By the Middle Ages, any pellegrino (pilgrim) worth their communion wafer could be found traipsing towards Rome, where the spirit of St Peter was said to suffuse every root and rock. For the next few days, I'll be following in the footsteps of one such wayfarer: 10th-century archbishop Sigeric the Serious, no doubt a notorious party animal. In 990 CE, he travelled some 1,200 miles from Canterbury Cathedral to St Peter's Basilica — by way of France and Switzerland — to collect his official garment from the Pope. Handily, he documented his return trip, providing a blueprint for today's official Via Francigena route. Tackled in full it's a mammoth 100-day trek, so many pilgrims choose to walk key stages. My own journey takes in the last 60 or so miles to Rome, a five-day hike through cavernous valleys, emerald forests and rarely visited hilltop towns. The route is liberating in its simplicity — so long as I make it to my B&B each night, I should reach the Eternal City just in time for Good Friday. The wandering monk Spring is a good time to be on the open road. Lazio is in the midst of a great transformation, the region's cobbled towns brimming with early artichokes, its boulder-strewn woodlands carpeted with anemone and pink cyclamen. Striking out towards the hilltop town of Sutri the following morning, I pass a gaunt, olive-wreathed farmhouse. The year's first swallows glide in and out, their long migration finally at an end. It's here I meet Brother Ambrose Okema, a Benedictine monk undertaking the Via Francigena by bike. For him, there's little difference between we pilgrims and the birds dancing above our heads, for we're all stirred to wander by the same invisible force. 'It's a call from within,' he says, beating a pulse on his chest. Dressed in Lycra and sat astride a gravel bike, he's a far cry from your stereotypical wandering monk: the solitary, staff-bearing pilgrim whose effigy graces every waymark along the Via Francigena. His companion Victor Hernandez, a stubbled Puerto Rican, shows me footage from morning Mass on his phone; a priest in Tyrian purple robes using a garden spray pump to douse the congregation with holy water. 'You've gotta love Italy,' Victor says, beaming. The last 60 or so miles to Rome are a five-day hike through cavernous valleys, emerald forests and rarely visited hilltop towns. Photograph by Gilda Bruno Tackled in full the Via Francigena is a mammoth 100-day trek, so many pilgrims choose to walk key stages. Photograph by Gilda Bruno We walk together for some time, descending into the Valle di Tinozza, where a jade stream guides us past rockfaces honeycombed with Etruscan tombs. Conversation flows easily on the road, and soon Ambrose is recounting his life story: the childhood in war-torn Uganda, his move to a monastery in America. I get the sense that this pair's pilgrimage is as much an act of friendship as it is of faith. 'I did the Camino de Santiago solo,' Victor tells me, 'so I knew I didn't want to do this trip alone. After meeting Ambrose at his monastery, it made sense to do it together.' That evening, with 14 miles under my belt, I drink a Campari in Sutri's main square, its baroque fountain trickling sapphire. Beside me, an elderly man with thick-framed spectacles is filling his pipe, eyes cast skyward as the rain clouds part. A passing friend berates him for staying out in such conditions. 'La pioggia lava tutto,' the smoker replies — rain cleans everything. His words are still with me two days later. They echo something Sigeric and his fellow medieval pilgrims must also have felt to be true — that in enduring the elements they were somehow cleansing themselves. Call it purification by suffering. From their howls of laughter, it's clear English pilgrims Maris Waterhouse and Sarah Thompson have no intention of suffering their way to Rome. 'We're not religious at all,' Maris tells me as we fall into step entering Insugherata Natural Reserve, a 1,800-acre patchwork of forest and farmland bordering Rome. 'Most of our lives are spent in the same routine — but this is something different.' With comically good timing, at that moment, a very large, very hairy wild boar emerges from the forest. I fleetingly wonder if he's here to enact revenge for last night's dinner, pappardelle pasta served with ragù di cinghiale, but he simply raises his snout, sniffs the air and trots off. Our friend's habitat slowly recedes, giving way to glimmering shopfronts and warm-lit cafes — every table adorned with some limp-limbed pilgrim unable to move another inch. Their reluctance is understandable, as the Via Francigena has one more challenge in store: Monte Mario, Rome's tallest hill. Praying for divine intervention, I crawl up its cobbled back; past silvery olives and flat-topped pines swaying in the afternoon breeze. I spot two peregrine falcons circling overhead, and then, quite without warning, catch sight of something I'd nearly forgotten: St Peter's Basilica, its gilded dome a second sun above the city's sweep of ancient spires. The final approach is like a dream, baroque avenues heavy with orange blossom giving way to the Renaissance splendour of St Peter's Square. Photograph by Gilda Bruno The final approach is like a dream, baroque avenues heavy with orange blossom giving way to the Renaissance splendour of St Peter's Square. At this point, Sigeric would likely have commenced the obligatory circuit of Rome's other holy places — a pilgrimage within a pilgrimage. But after a few moments of gazing at the basilica's gold-encrusted interior, Sarah's earlier words start ringing in my ears like a command: 'All I want from a trip like this is a long walk and a good meal at the end of it.' Within the hour I'm sat outside La Quercia, an osteria in Monteforte, stretching my legs beneath a table set with a bowl of smoky, parmesan-dusted pasta amatriciana. Dinner and a well-deserved rest. Some pleasures truly are eternal. UTracks' 10-day, self-guided Orvieto to Rome tour costs £950 per person, including B&B accommodation, meals and luggage transfers. This story was created with the support of UTracks. Published in the September 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK). To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
