I often think of beauty as something fragile, delicate, perpetually vulnerable to a destruction that would not only shatter the object itself, but the aesthetic quality along with it. And yet, nearly everything that is beautiful in and around Brindisi today has been trashed at some point.
The bedraggled olive groves of past stages largely yield the ground to artichokes today, and they’re in fine form. As with broccoli earlier on this walk, I had never before seen a field flush with artichokes, nearly ready for harvest, so this was a revelation. In my mind, these are heavy enough to cause a modest plant to droop beneath their weight, and yet they tower proudly, like the star atop a Christmas tree.
We all walk the same route on the Via Francigena Sud, but our timing metamorphoses it into something else entirely. I think back on the Via Podiensis, and my adoration of burgeoning fields of sunflowers, glowing golden across the horizon, and yet other pilgrims bemoan the complete absence of this phenomenon. I’m lucky to be in Salento at this time of year, to see the rich terrain already full to bursting with such agricultural richness, and I wonder what those might encounter instead closer to the heat of summer. What a shame to pass through here after the harvest, the perfectly ordered and vibrant fields reduced to scrappings. I can see some charm in freshly plowed rows, I suppose, but maybe not for days at a time. This is the cycle, though–sometimes glorious and life-filled, sometimes back to dust.
Perhaps 10km into the walk, offering a break from artichoke alley, I encounter the ruins of an ancient city, Valesio. I might as well say “rediscover,” as the stone marker posted at the site is nearly overrun with weeds, and it takes some effort to reveal the last three letters in the name. For the most part, the site requires more imagination than I can muster; precious little remains that is accessible to the walker on the road, though towards the end I finally come across proper ruins, complete with the husk of a building and the base of old stone walls.
Fortunately for me, the archaeological museum in Brindisi, which I confess to discovering when I was in search of a free bathroom as I burned two hours before my B&B was open, filled in the picture for me. While the museum, alas, lacked a bathroom, it was stuffed with exceptional pottery and sculpture, some of it Roman of course, but much of it Messapian. The Messapians, I learn, were the indigenous population of the Salento peninsula–aka, the heel of Italy–and because of their proximity to Greece, they largely adopted Hellenic ways. At times, they were a thorn in the side of those Greeks, proving hostile to the Spartan settlement in Taranto, but at others they proved to be able students and willing trade partners. By 244BC, though, the Messapians of Brindisi were conquered and assimilated into Rome. Valesio itself had Iron Age roots, though it peaked alongside the rest of Messapia, between the 6th and 1st centuries BC, with walls encompassing 84 hectares. Its economic potency can be seen in the fact that the town minted its own coins.
While Valesio is long gone, its gorgeous ceramic work survives in full glory in the museum, rivaling some of the best works that I ever happened to see when traveling in Athens. Every face adorning those pots has a character, tells a story, remains vibrant and alive. The same is true for the tiny sculptures, all carefully assembled by the museum curators. 2500 years later, the art of this long forgotten people stands as a testament to the endurance of beauty, to creation. Some things endure.
A display in the museum underscores how hard some of us labor in the present to facilitate that endurance. Given Brindisi’s historic importance as a port, shipwrecks off the coast have proven to be a rich source of archaeological finds, and photos capture divers in scuba gear, preciously holding tiny urns and pots, as though they were baby ducks. All the more delicately, I suppose. Recovered from the depths of Poseidon’s lair, salvaged from the bowels of history, these are brought back into the light. One remarkable bronze statue wears the scars of centuries of saltwater, and yet manifests all the more character as a consequence, its face staring to the horizon, as though having lost that vision once before, it will never turn away again, not even for a second.
For all its power and glory, much of Rome’s imprint has been lost to Brindisi as well. It stands at the historic intersection of two key Roman roads, the Via Traiana Calabra, which I have followed to this point, and the Via Appia, which leads onward to Rome. At the end of the Via Appia, overlooking the Adriatic sea, stood the Columns of Brindisi, dating perhaps to the 2nd or 3rd century. These tower remarkably high, and perhaps served as a landmark for seafarers coming towards port. Unfortunately, in a story that will repeat itself, an earthquake in 1528 caused one of the two columns to collapse. The other survives today, but the remarkable capital atop the column has been moved indoors for safe-keeping, a replica installed atop the column in its place. The advantage of this maneuver, I realize, is that today’s visitors can appreciate the artistry in a manner that Romans of their era never could, up close and personal, rotating slowly around it in the exhibition room devoted to the capital, free and open to the public. It’s not what the artist intended; so much that unfolds deviates decisively from what was ever intended at the time. And yet, there are silver linings to be found.
The duomo of Brindisi sits next door to the archaeological museum, just a short walk inland from the columns, and my initial reaction was that it was a colossal disappointment. It’s important to pause at such moments, I’ve learned, and ponder the “why” behind such a response. After all, fascists aside, Italians historically did not construct ugly buildings. It’s history is certainly rich enough, dating back nearly a full millennium, and consecrated by Pope Urban II in 1089–an appropriate link, given that his call to crusade would bring so many knights to the port of Brindisi over the following decades. As with the columns, though, an earthquake–this time in 1743–reduced the duomo to rubble, and two centuries later the Allies added insult to injury by bombing the belltower. The cathedral was rebuilt, of course, but most of its earlier glories were lost. However, the chapel preserving the relics of Saint Theodore of Amasea offers a glimpse of what was, a reminder of all that was lost.
Loss characterizes Brindisi’s most noteworthy religious structure as well, the Tempio di San Giovanni al Sepolcro, just a short walk inland from the duomo. Yet another earthquake–good lord, they’ve had it rough–stripped the roof from this church in 1761, resulting in the destruction of perhaps 80% of its frescoes over the years that followed. The fragmented glimpses of what survives are alternately stunning and tragic. Unlike the duomo, something palpably numinous persists in this circular space, its mismatched marble columns bridging the classical and the medieval. Here again, we see Brindisi’s ties to the Holy Land, as the canons of the Holy Sepulchre, and later the Hospitallers, were responsible for this shrine and its echoes of Jerusalem.
Three thousand years of history in Brindisi, three thousand years of loss. Some of those losses were indelible, undeniable, tragic. And yet, so much remains, all the more precious for its tenuousness, and a testament to the collective efforts of so many to allow beauty to endure.
