As can already be noted from the plaque bearing the name of this narrow medieval street – “Contrada del filatoio” – this stop in the story of Valvasone also runs along the “water line.” That of the “dei mulini” canal. After a short underground stretch near via Erasmo, the main street of the village, dedicated to the noble humanist, the canal re-emerges just beyond the concrete wall. Before proceeding straight and descending the four stone steps, however, notice the building on the right, marked with the house number 6: it is the ancient Domus Curiae, the place where public assemblies were held, contracts were drawn up, and – in the name of the Counts of Valvasone – justice was administered. 

Half a meter below street level, that rectangular open space at the edges of the canal, ending with a series of inclined slabs protruding over the water, are nothing but the ancient washhouses of Valvasone. 

We can take our time machine and go back centuries, to a sunny day in 1394. Knees on the ground, back bent, neck and head almost inside the canal, a woman is scrubbing a linen tablecloth on the washhouses. It's not just any tablecloth, but the one that covers the church altar, the one on which the priest breaks the bread at the moment of the Eucharist. The woman continues to scrub the linen fabric, unfolds it, turns it over, soaks it in water. But the tablecloth, instead of becoming cleaner, begins to stain. One, two, three, many stains. 

Stains that spread, dark in color. 

The woman lifts the tablecloth to look more closely. 

That color, from dark, becomes decidedly red, starts to drip slowly, and a few drops fall on the washerwoman's hemp tunic. 

Terrified, she suddenly straightens her back and lets out a scream: «Blood, blood!» But where is that blood coming from? The woman is frightened, yes, but she is a commoner, a curious one, and above all, one who believes in God: she looks more closely and sees that the blood is attached to some lumps of white bread, unleavened bread. 

The one, in short, used for the hosts and that, probably, ended up between the folds of the tablecloth after the last mass. «But then this blood is the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ! Miracle, miracle! Mr. parish priest, Mr. parish priest!». 

That's how it went, more or less, at least according to the chronicle left to us by the most illustrious notary of Valvasone, Antonio Nicoletti, in the mid-1700s. To be honest, our story diverges from Nicoletti's in two small but very important details. The date: Nicoletti writes “1294,” but scholars agree that the event should be postponed to a century later. And then, the place: in reality, what has remained famous, until today, as the “miracle of the sacred tablecloth,” did not happen where you are now, but actually in another municipality, that of Gruaro, in Veneto, about twenty kilometers south of Valvasone; and therefore along another canal. So why did we decide to “stage” this ancient story here, in contrada del filatoio? Simple: the linen tablecloth, stained with blood and immediately handed over by the washerwoman to the parish priest of Gruaro, ended up, after long vicissitudes, right in Valvasone, despite the protests of both the local parish priest and the bishop of Concordia. Gruaro, at the time, was indeed subject to the fief of the lords of Valvason-Cucagna, who did not miss the opportunity - around the early 1400s - to transfer the precious relic to the then parish church of Valvasone, dedicated to Santa Maria and San Giovanni. A small church that, for such a great miracle, could no longer suffice. 

Following the canal, continue straight along via Elisabetta Noja, characterized by the facades and the characteristic arcades below the 13th and 14th-century buildings, which follow the path of the second circle of walls.