When I set out to walk across the USA, I had to rewire my brain and my feet. There’s a rhythm of life on pilgrimage, an utterly delightful one, that a trans-US walk can’t hope to replicate. The country is just too damn big. Admittedly, it wasn’t too dramatic a change on the East Coast, but the further west I proceeded, the greater the distances between places grew, and so too, consequentially, did the weight of my pack. Increasingly, my mindset each day revolved around the destination, as often the lone opportunity for resupply would come at that point. Sometimes, that destination might not merely be sitting at day’s end, but rather the next day’s end, or in the case of Wyoming, two days further down the road. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the journey in between, but when you have 100+ miles to cover between towns, it’s easy to settle into a mechanical march, going for hours and hours at a time without ever breaking stride.
Now that I’m back on pilgrimage, I’m thus making a reverse adjustment. Initially, that wasn’t required; on the Materano, there were multiple stages when no towns offered breaks within stages, and the same was true during some of my freestyling walks. And while I’m sure that will be true at some point on the Via Francigena Sud, these first two stages have seen me coming in and out of so many towns that I’ve probably passed 95% of the cafes and two-thirds of the grocery stores and supermarkets along the way, never mind the others lurking just off-route. My first couple of shopping trips were still under USA-brain, as I proceeded to horde enough calories to get me through 50 miles; I’m trying to shift back over to a grazing mindset–buying less, carrying less, and preserving more excuses to stop and sit in different towns along the way.
Leaving Santa Maria di Leuca, I ascend that grand staircase back to the lighthouse and basilica, after snagging breakfast in the café with a dozen fishermen. After so many days spent walking southward, straight into the glare of the sun, which is positioned at that lower latitude pretty much all day this time of year, turning back to the north is an absolute delight. Alas, the Via Francigena Sud proceeds to deliver its best Cammino Materano impression after Tricase, zigzagging east and west like a drunken cartographer. The initial payoff of that sidewinding is significant, though, as I soon arrive at a vantage point overlooking the sea far below, with a footpath offering one stunning glimpse after another. Best of all, there is a perfectly situated bench, allowing one to take it all in and take a load off, simultaneously.
My goal on the first day of this walk is to stay in the small town of Vignacastrisi. The parish there is said to accommodate pilgrims. Nicole Bukaty and Sandy Brown’s upcoming book on the VFS already has an accommodation listing available on line, and for this parish (and a disconcertingly high number of others), the message is something to the effect of: advanced communication is difficult; show up and hope for the best. I do not receive the best; rather, I am met instead with silence. I’m not too troubled, though; the afternoon is young, I feel good, and there is no chance of rain. It offers a great opportunity to burn off some more kms and then find a nice place to camp.
As I am forced to push onward, I encounter the Madonna that wouldn’t move. The story goes that in 1589, the parish priest was out on an evening walk when he spotted a light in the distance, bright as a burning flame. The next night, the light returned. Determined now, the priest gathered together the faithful and set forth with hoes and shovels to get to the bottom of things. Well, at the bottom of things was a stone slab with the image of the Madonna di Costantinopoli upon it. The priest and the people decided to celebrate the discovery by building a niche in their town, in which to preserve the image. Three times they tried to move her there. Three times she ended up back in this place, on the Via Francigena Sud, where they discovered her. With that, they got the message, and built a shrine on that spot.
While one could question the truth of many parts of that story, one I believe wholesale is that the priest was out for an evening stroll. Because, my goodness, if there’s one defining habit of the Italian people, it’s not smoking–though I did see a man with a cigarette in one hand and a vape in the other–but rather the proverbial stretching of the legs in the latter hours of the day. And on this evening, the dirt track I follow between a series of small towns is practically a highway given all the foot traffic. Three older women pass by, regarding me with skepticism, and then I pass three younger women, all with dogs. A father and son trot by, perhaps late for something. An elderly woman, barely mobile at all, is practically carried along by two middle-aged women, underscoring the essential nature of this practice. All of that is heartening to witness and an absolute pain in the butt for someone trying to find a place to stealth camp. Finally, though, the strollers dissipate, and I find a ruined masseria with a clear cement pad on which I can roll out my bivy. No shelter, unfortunately, so I know I’ll likely awake to a wet tent, but you can’t have everything. What I have instead is a score of yowling, hissing cats lurking around the building, and an equally audible population of birds overhead, constantly updating one another on the predators’ movements.
I never sleep well when I’m camping, but I emerge in the morning with a huge burst of energy, so happy to be out of the bivy and back on my feet. I practically charged into the next town, where I snagged an espresso, which only added fuel to the fire. I followed the Via Francigena Sud as it swung wide to the coast yet again, leading me into the gorgeous beach town of Otranto. The old route into the town looks like a stunner; unfortunately, the track has been diverted because of fallen trees. The new route holds to the interior, sacrificing those sea views completely. The upside, though, is that it passes by the church of San Francesco da Paola, which has a dramatic story. On 14 August 1480, Otranto found itself occupied by a Turkish force, and the commander of that fleet, Ahmed Pasha, ordered all males over the age of 15 to be brought to the hill upon which the church now stands. Pasha announced that they would live, but only if they first renounced their faith. 800 men refused. That’s when the executions began, one after another, each man beheaded on a large rock. The story here is that the first Christian executed didn’t topple over afterward; instead, he remained standing throughout the execution, watching it through–as best he could, given his condition–to its completion before he finally collapsed. One of the executioners was so moved by this act of faith and will that he converted on the spot. Instead of being decapitated, he was impaled, and it’s said that the column on which he was killed remains on the hill.
I descend to the port, eager to approach the historic center as originally intended, alongside the Adriatic. I soon discover a large castle impeding my passage, but fortunately a metal staircase allows one to ascend through a gate some 10 meters high in the old walls. And with that, I’m immersed in the old town, though one that remains somnambulant on this early morning, the shops all closed for another hour yet. I’m eager, though, to reach the duomo, which is famous for its remarkable mosaic that covers the entirety of the floor, and in the process narrates a number of key scenes from the Bible. Created almost a thousand years ago, by the monk Pantaleone in 1163-65, it’s an artistic triumph, and if I can appreciate the protection it receives today, with the bulk of it blocked off from tourist traffic, I regret the lost opportunity to study it more closely. The Tree of Life runs through the entirety of the work, the trunk beginning near the front entrance and ascending towards the altar. Near the top, one finds Adam and Eve, making a very human decision. Elsewhere, one finds Cain and Abel, the Flood, and the Tower of Babel. But that’s not all; not by a long shot. The mosaic also includes King Arthur, Alexander the Great, Atlas holding the sun, all manner of mythical beasts, and the epic hero Roland with the horn Oliphant. At 8:30 in the morning, I have it all to myself.
On my way out of Otranto, I find the only way to top the mosaic–with a large wedge of onion focaccia in the park, along with a macchiato to wash it down. And then I head west, following a canal along its reed-choked passage, leaving the sea far behind. Rocky footpaths follow, leading past a series of menhirs, ancient standing stones holding vigil here for millennia, along with a dolmen for good measure. When those finally yield the land, they are replaced with something far more modern–signs and symbols of the Via Francigena, including benches and tires painted rainbow colors and sharing messages of encouragement. For the first time since the Cammino Materano, I am walking a way vividly, tangibly marked with the affection of local advocates, encouraging pilgrims forward.
I later discover that the man responsible for all of that work is my co-host for the night, Fabio, along with his wife Lucia. The latter is home to welcome me when I arrive in Cannole, and she rolls out the red carpet, sitting me down to table with chocolate, potato chips, walnuts, and fresh-squeezed orange juice, along with her company. Once again, I have to take a moment to rewire my brain. I have spent so much time traveling alone now, especially in the US, but even over these past two weeks, that I have lost track of what it’s like to live in conjunction with others. When I arrive at the end of a day’s walk, I can already feel the clock ticking towards sunset, and with that the loss of a precious opportunity to dry my clothes. Sitting with Lucia, I had to curb that urgency, smash that clock, in order to first endure and then enjoy the conversation, to remember that this is the point of all that walking, not merely securing clean clothes for another day. The habits of solitude are difficult to shake. In the end, of course, everything is taken care of. Better than that, even; later in the evening, Lucia carries the drying rack from the rooftop terrace inside, placing it in front of the roaring fire, to ensure that my clothes are ready for the next day.
I soon discover that the town is celebrating its version of carnival, with tractor-driven creations–a Frankenstein-like monster, a girl associated with Squid Games, and a giant clown–each preceded by local youngsters performing dance routines, tossing confetti into the crowd along the way. The spectacle was not that dissimilar from the small town parades that I happened to encounter around the US, though the latter involved more candy.
Fabio made it home a little later, and soon the three of us were gathered in their kitchen, Lucia working frantically over the stove. They’re kind enough to prepare a vegetarian meal for me; Fabio explains that his father harvests vegetables in the garden every morning, and so they eat whatever turns up. In this case, we eat broccolini, doused in his homemade olive oil, a leafy green vegetable that is stewed with cheese and olive oil, an omelette, five different cheeses, and slices of fennel to aid digestion at the end.
Fabio and I discuss the sights that I encountered along the walk, and he discovers in the process that I missed out on one of his highlights at the entrance to Cannole. The Via Francigena swings wide around Cannole, in order to pass through the historic complex on the outskirts of the modern town, which includes a cave church, wheel-rutted road, the old necropolis, and a fortified tower. At least, that’s what I thought the latter was, as I passed by. On the contrary, though, it’s a medieval granary, and Fabio is appalled that I missed it, so he promptly leads me down to his car after dinner in order to pay it a visit. Within, the tower is empty, and the amazing part is that the wall, so solid from the outside, follows a checkerboard pattern within, with alternating gaps in the wall and protruding stones. Each gap, Fabio explains, would have functioned as a niche within which grain could be stores. Whereas we enter from the ground level, that’s a modern addition; originally, six different stairways would have led down from the access point halfway up, allowing humans to get access, while keeping pests out. The site is even more stunning in the dark of night, lit up by flashlight.
On the way home, we loop around a piazza in which a giant tower of bales has been stacked, perhaps ten meters tall. “In two days,” Fabio tells me, “we’ll have a great fire here.” I assume at first that it’s an extension of carnival, but he corrects me. “This is to celebrate our town hero.” Almost six hundred years ago, he explains, as Turkish forces swept through the region, conquering towns up and down the Adriatic, they passed by Cannole, thanks to its protector. The Madonna di Costantinopoli.
