What defines us, what stands out as our greatest source of pride, can all too often bring about our fall.
It’s a slow, leisurely morning as I set forth from Cannole, complete with two hard boiled eggs and a large bag of dried figs, courtesy of Fabio and Lucia. I pause in Carbieno to grab a coffee, where I discover that throughout the Middle Ages this was the site of a popular fair, drawing attendees from all across the region, including a number of Greeks. Further afield, I encounter another extended stretch of wheel ruts, ground deep into the rock over the centuries. My eyes are drawn more to the ground today, which is unusual for me.
At first, I thought I was just getting bored with the increasingly familiar scenery. I’ve been walking through olive groves for two weeks now. Even with their distinctive accompanying elements–the stone trullis which have become as commonplace as orange trees, the crumbling masseria farmhouses, the cave churches, the rock quarries, and the sunken gardens–it’s inevitable, I suppose, that some of the charm is lost when a landscape holds singular prominence for such a long time.
It occurred to me, little by little, that while familiarity can indeed breed disinterest, something more was afoot. The olive groves of my early days in Italy, so meticulously groomed, so assiduously cared for, had been replaced with ragged, disorderly clusters, as though the trees suffered from a collective case of bedhead. Finally, Fabio clued me in at dinner that something was rotten in Puglia. Yes, he had his own olive grove, “but you’ve seen how it is,” he added mournfully. The bacteria.
It first appeared in 2013. Xylella fastidiosa. And in the decade since, it has absolutely ravaged the peninsula, killing a third of the region’s olive trees, perhaps 20 million in all. Well over a billion euros’ worth of damage, thus far. Things could get even worse; in February of last year, scientists discovered a different subspecies of Xylella that had run roughshod over vineyards in the US, but had previously been unknown to Italy. There is no cure for either. And this is just the tip of the iceberg; over the past decade, some 70 different plant diseases have appeared in the EU each year. All efforts to curb the arrival of such unwanted visitors have failed miserably.
Perhaps those flickers of tedium were onto something. No, it’s not an aesthetic matter; rather, it’s an agricultural one. The Puglia of the past had a richly diverse approach to cultivation–olives, of course, but also all manner of fruits, grains, nuts, vegetables, and woods. In the shift to monoculture, the region has elevated its peril. As Cosimo Terlizzi writes, “What has become the cornerstone of Puglia’s imaginary, a revered aesthetic, is, on the other side of the coin, a symbol of Puglia’s vulnerability.” What I saw as pristine care, Terlizzi explains, was cause for additional concern: “Plantations were so well cared for, with herbicides, pesticides, plowing, and pruning, that wildlife and flora were relegated to small portions of land, those abandoned or along the edges of roads. On cultivated land it was customary to remove anything that wasn’t considered useful; to fall poisoned were rare snakes such as Colubers, small birds, and varieties of insects that we would now consider beneficial.” King Olive has found its head on the chopping block, a consequence of its unyielding ascent.
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Few things can make a walk less enjoyable than the approach of a major city; few things can make a city less enjoyable than the walk into it.
Most of the walk into Lecce, for the last ten kilometers at least, suffers from the proximity to the city. Urban sprawl cuts through suburbs, none of which carry any of the charms of the urban hub. Along the way, I encounter my first three pilgrims of the trip, all walking southward, and none have the slightest interest in slowing down for a conversation. It’s as though we’re all resigned to just pushing on with the business of reaching the center or extricating ourselves from it, and thus have little regard for any other affairs.
Eventually, though, I arrive, and that makes it all worthwhile. Lecce, a Puglia Tourism website informs me, is the Florence of the South. That’s one hell of a claim, and perhaps a disservice to the Apulian city. It’s impossible to hold up in comparison to one of the most spectacular places on earth, but that’s not to suggest that Lecce is undeserving of praise. Indeed, it’s well worth a day off here, for pilgrims on the Via Francigena Sud. While its history extends to the pre-Roman era, and it preserves an impressive Roman amphitheater, Lecce’s golden age came much more recently, in the 17th and 18th centuries. The city is a testament to the Baroque style, benefiting from the local limestone rock that proved most pleasing to architects and sculptors alike. The historic center features a wealth of impressive buildings. Not just the duomo, situated in a massive piazza of its own, but also a series of other churches, along with innumerable private dwellings and commercial structures, all featuring distinctive design features that cause one to walk constantly looking upward.
Alas, I can’t linger as long as I would have liked. First, angry storm clouds gather overhead, with thunder rumbling in the background. And second, I am scheduled to meet the priest at the parish church at 16:30, and that church is several kilometers east of the center. As hard as I worked to reach the center, I need to abandon it all too soon after.
The Parrocchia San Giovanni Battista is a modern construction, set within a sprawling housing complex. I stand in the large piazza between the church and parish complex, listening to choral music echoing within, as I await the arrival of Don Gerardo. I appreciate that he responds to email, but he does so, it must be noted, with an absolute paucity of words. Does he begrudge my arrival? Does he regret offering shelter to pilgrims on the Via Francigena? It’s easy to read the worst into such terse replies, but in person the priest immediately disabuses me of such notions, his ruddy face opening into a beatific smile and a warm greeting. Even here, though, he wastes no time, quickly passing me onto a church lady who leads me to my room. As we march away, we’re interrupted by the priest shouting across the piazza, “No pay! No pay!”
It takes another ten kilometers to extricate myself from Lecce the following morning. Strange as it sounds, the highlight of that section, aside from the city walls, which glowed brightly in the early morning light, was McDonald’s. Over the course of the US walk, I spent a ton of time in fast food restaurants–more, I suspect, than I had over the entirety of my life prior to the walk. I came to look forward to these even more than you might imagine; where else, after all, could I absolutely rely on robust wifi, air conditioning, bottomless drinks for a dollar, decent enough bathrooms, and plenty of seating? Few people actually eat inside a McDonald’s these days; while the drive-thru lines are ten cars deep, I can walk straight to the counter inside. As a consequence, when I see a McDonald’s now, I think: productivity. This is a chance to get some focused work done online.
Fast food in Europe, though, tends to have a different effect. It makes me jealous. Before I even enter the McDonald’s, I pass a Burger King, which is advertising a vegetarian steakhouse bacon burger. I recall the McDonald’s in England that offered both a veggie burger and veggie chicken strip option. And at breakfast time in this Italian McDonald’s, there are cappuccinos and fresh-baked croissants for a euro each. Why do we get the absolute worst version of this possible? I repeat: What defines us, what stands out as our greatest source of pride, can all too often bring about our fall.
I finally free myself from the urban clutches and am rewarded with an extended stretch through open countryside. Even the olive groves dissipate for kilometers at a time, replaced with waving grass and turbines. The wind accommodates, whipping past at increasing velocity. Farmers buzz to and fro in their apes, little three-wheeled trucks, but otherwise I’m alone in the fields.
Alone, that is, until I see a thick blanket of smoke, unfurling right-to-left across the trail in front of me. A farmer has decided to burn off some clippings and other detritus, maybe bacteria-infested olive wood for all I know, gathering those burn piles on the edge of his property–directly alongside the Via Francigena Sud. The churning winds fan the flames, sometimes causing them to shoot halfway across the trail. I lower my head, take a deep breath, and sprint through the blaze. Twenty meters further, I repeat the process, invigorated by the spectacle.
Just like that, the walk is over. I arrive in Torchiarolo, passing a funeral en route to the center, where I have a bed waiting for me in the Foresteria, the key left in the gate at the property’s entrance. I laugh at the cavalier ingratitude conveyed by my thoughts over the past two days, annoyed first by the fields and then by the city, despite lovely fields and marvelous architecture. Despite comfortable accommodation provided as charity, not commercialism. Despite potato and truffle cream pizza, a pistachio croissant, gelato, and fresh fruit. Despite good health, almost unceasingly excellent walking conditions, and the escape from world events afforded to me in this moment. May the pleasant fields and beautiful cities carry me every step of the way onward to Slovenia.
