Via Francigena: Crossing the Grand St Bernard Pass

The Grand St Bernard Pass at 2,469 metres is one of the highest and most ancient routes through the Alps. It has been in use since the Bronze Age when people forged a trading route between northern Europe and Italy. It is snowbound for at least eight months of the year and the crossing can be hazardous, even in summer.

From Besançon, the French city of time, cloud-shrouded mountains begin to appear on the horizon. We walk in and out of deep, dark forests where the sun doesn’t shine and wolves might roam.

White storks in a field. An old man out collecting elderflowers, their faint sweet, citrussy scent perfuming the morning. The Chateau de Joux, high up on a hill and full of ancient mystery.

We walk out of France and into Switzerland. The sun lights up the snow-covered massif and we take in the grandeur of the landscape. The Eiger, Mt. Blanc, the Matterhorn; all monumental and glittering white.

We arrive in Lausanne late one afternoon, its famed lake shimmering, its great gothic cathedral imposing. Paragliders sail through the air, high above the valley. The rugged, glacial scarred mountains are even closer now. Jagged peaks, folded slopes and the mighty Rhone rushing down from its headwaters. Us walking in the opposite direction, deeper into the heave of the mountains.

The crack and fall of ice and rocks. The water glacial blue. The clang of cowbells. By day’s end, we are at 1,000 metres, the serious climbing still to come. The track weaves past rockfalls and across the turbulent Dranse River. There are seams of ice cut into the face of the mountains. 

Above the tree line of pine, larch and spruce forests are bright wildflower meadows and slopes aromatic with mountain herbs.

We’re following in the footsteps of Napoleon Bonaparte and his 40,000 soldiers who crossed St Bernards Pass in 1800. Napoleon cuts a heroic figure on his white steed in all the grand paintings of the event. In reality, he rode a donkey and let his men pass before sliding down the steepest section on his backside.

As we climb higher, the path is rocky and steep but not precarious. We hear the whistle and squeal of marmots as they make a dash for their burrows, leaving behind their musky scent. There are cows in the high pastures and shepherds busy about their summer huts.

We round a tight bend and there, before us, is the top of the pass. We celebrate our arrival with a Swiss couple who we’ve been leapfrogging on the climb up and who feel the same need to celebrate with a glass of fine Swiss wine.

The monks of St Bernards Hospice have offered hospitality and protection to travellers crossing the perilous pass since the 11th century. We note that after dinner, the monks all pitch in to clean and wash up (with a glass of wine at hand). 

We feel rested as we set off down towards Aosta the next morning. Within minutes, we cross the border into Italy and the price of coffee halves. The descent is steep but the day is full of dramatic mountainscapes and picture postcard scenes. Sheer alpine peaks, lichen-covered slopes, Edelweiss flowering by the edge of mossy streams, medieval villages whose cobblestoned winding streets are too narrow for cars. 

Eventually, we follow the flow of water into Aosta where on a balmy evening we sit at a terrace cafe and celebrate having passed the halfway mark of our 2,000+ kilometre journey from Canterbury to Rome.

The next stage of our journey: Via Francigena: Walking into Tuscany

Go to the start of the journey: Via Francigena: the beginning.