Lower Basilica of Saint Francis: Giotto and Cimabue frescoes in the saint’s crypt

Descending into the Lower Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi is like entering another dimension. While the Upper Basilica welcomes you with its light and majesty, down here the atmosphere changes completely: the air feels denser, the light is subdued, and the silence seems to carry a different weight. It’s not just a church; it’s a journey into the heart of Umbrian medieval history, where every fresco tells a story that goes beyond religion. There are moments when you stop and think: ‘Millions of people have walked here over eight centuries, yet this place retains an incredible intimacy.’ The feeling is that of being a guest in a place that, despite its worldwide fame, preserves an authentic and collected soul.

Construction began in 1228, just two years after Francis’s death, at the behest of Pope Gregory IX, who wanted a worthy place to house the saint’s remains. The basilica was consecrated in 1253, but decoration work continued for decades, involving the greatest artists of the time. Giotto arrived here at the end of the 13th century, revolutionizing painting with his Stories of Saint Francis in the central nave. Shortly after, Cimabue frescoed the transept with apocalyptic scenes that today show the marks of time in a fascinating way. It’s curious to think that this medieval construction site was a bit like a Silicon Valley of the art of the time, where new techniques and languages were experimented with.

• 1228: Construction begins at the behest of Pope Gregory IX
• 1253: Consecration of the basilica
• Late 13th century: Giotto creates the Franciscan cycle
• Around 1290: Cimabue frescoes the transept
• 1997: The basilica survives the earthquake that severely damaged the upper one

What strikes you is not just the beauty of the frescoes, but how they are arranged. Giotto didn’t merely decorate the walls; he created a visual narrative that guides you step by step. The twenty-eight scenes from the life of Francis in the right nave are like a medieval comic strip: from renouncing his father’s wealth to preaching to the birds, all the way to the stigmata. Each panel contains details that tell the story of thirteenth-century life: the clothing, the architecture, the expressions on the faces. On the counter-façade, there’s a detail few notice: Giotto’s Magdalene has a delicacy in her lines that anticipates the Renaissance. And in the left transept, Cimabue’s frescoes of the Last Judgment—though darkened by time—retain a dramatic power that helps you understand why Dante called him ‘the master of those who know’.

Descending into the crypt is an experience that goes beyond a typical tourist visit. Francis’s tomb is surprisingly simple: a rough stone surrounded by an iron grate, illuminated only by a few oil lamps. No gold, no precious marbles—just stone and iron, as he would have wanted. The atmosphere here is so intimate that even on the busiest days, one can find a moment of quiet reflection. On the sides, in the niches, rest four of Francis’s first companions: Leo, Angelo, Rufino, and Masseo. One thing that has always struck me is the contrast between the grandeur of the basilica above and this essential simplicity underground. It’s as if the architecture wants to remind you that, despite his posthumous fame and glory, Francis remained until the end ‘the little poor man of Assisi.’ Sometimes you see pilgrims stopping to pray, others simply observing in silence—each person experiences this space in their own way.

Three concrete reasons why it’s worth it. First: it’s one of the few places in the world where you can see frescoes by Giotto and Cimabue in the same environment, allowing you to compare two giants of medieval painting just steps apart. Second: the basilica’s acoustics are extraordinary—if you happen to hear a choir or organ, the effect is priceless. Third: visiting the crypt offers a direct connection to the most authentic history of Franciscanism, away from the monumentality of the upper basilica. And there’s a fourth, more personal reason: after seeing reproductions in books for years, standing before the originals makes a world of difference—the colors, actual sizes, and texture of the plaster have an impact no photo can convey.

The best time? Early morning, before organized groups arrive, when light streaming through the windows creates chiaroscuro effects on the frescoes. Or late afternoon, when crowds thin out and you can enjoy the basilica more peacefully. Avoid midday during summer days—not because of the heat (it’s cool inside), but due to overcrowding. Once, I visited on a light rainy autumn day, and I must say the atmosphere was perfect: few people, the sound of rain muffled by the vaults, and that gray light that seemed to enhance the colors of the frescoes. In winter, Assisi is less touristy, and the visit takes on a more authentic feel.

After exiting the basilica, don’t miss two nearby experiences that complete your visit. The first is the Basilica Treasury Museum, which houses relics, sacred vestments, and artworks donated over the centuries – there’s a 13th-century cope embroidered with stories of Francis that is a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The second is a walk to the Porziuncola, in the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli just outside Assisi: this is the chapel where Francis founded the Franciscan order, restored by his own hand, and seeing the contrast between the simplicity of that place and the grandeur of the basilica that now contains it is enlightening. If you have time, stop to admire the view from Rocca Maggiore – from there you understand why Francis chose these hills.