There are days, I admit, when I approach the stage’s end and despair the lack of a hook, something to write about in regards to the day’s journey. In the US, I had an easier time of it, in large part because it was easier to line up audiobooks that suited a relevant topic or theme. That might seem surprising, given the abundance of history on hand in Italy, operating on an entirely different scale than what we have in North America, particularly given the available physical evidence, and certainly the peninsula has not been neglected by authors over the years. The problem, though, is finding accessible books on appropriately niche subjects, as opposed to sweeping treatises on the ancient world–within which, I’m sure, there’s a relevant chapter or two, buried within the surrounding material.
The point, though, isn’t to bemoan a lack of inspiration, but rather to celebrate the Hail Mary that landed upon my arrival in Carovigno at the conclusion of today’s walk. The journey itself was pleasant enough. It began with a passenger ferry ride across the port of Brindisi, a quick little scoot delivering me near the base of the Monumento al Marinaio d’Italia, a towering structure that overlooks the city proper. From there, the route passes between military bases and then follows the coastline around the Brindisi Airport, and onward for a few hours. At times, it enjoys marvelous views, following footpaths right along the sea’s edge; at others, it’s stuck on a paved road with narrow shoulders. Eventually, the route leaves the sea, however briefly, and it’s at this point when the Via Francigena Sud and the Via Ellenica Variant branch of the Cammino Materano part ways, the former returning to the Adriatic, and the latter continuing inland. I’ll follow the variant for the next couple days, in order to pay a visit to Alberobello, and then I’ll freestyle my way back to the VFS in Monopoli. In any case, the journey towards my final destination, Carovigno, was admittedly quite familiar at this point, with olive groves interspersed with artichoke fields, though it also included a stretch through some of the nicest houses I’ve encountered thus far–all white stucco and right angles, gleaming amidst the scrubby trees on this bright, sunny day.
Carovigno’s history is as rich as any in the region. One Puglia tourism website underscores the many hands it passed after the fall of Rome: “the town was ruled by Visigoths, Byzantines, Lombards, Normans, Angevins, Aragonese and the Venetians.” That parade of conquerors left its mark on the city’s historic center, with a medley of architectural styles on display, narrow and twisty alleys all the better for its (apparently all too futile) defense, and a bold castle at the top. Ultimately, though, it’s the piazza where my accommodation is located that grabs my attention: Piazza ‘Nzegna. That doesn’t sound the least bit Italian!
And yet, this is the defining feature of Carovigno, the legend around which the history revolves, like ribbons around a maypole. It originates four kilometers from the city, at the Sanctuary of the Madonna del Belvedere, a shrine built atop a large cave. Within its depths, there was once a fresco dedicated to the Archangel Michael, part of an early cult to the saint that spread across Southern Italy. The legend is linked to the discovery of this site, an event sparked by a calf that wandered off. Its owner was gravely concerned; such a loss would be crippling for a poor farmer. The community rallied around him, searching far and wide, and ultimately finding the wayward bovine. Despair became relief became exhilaration; a handkerchief was tied to a stake and tossed skyward in celebration. At the same time, the rescue party discovered that the hole entrapping the calf’s leg wasn’t any old hole; it was an opening to this remarkable cave, within which they found the fresco and the image of the virgin.
Over the years, a one-off search party was transformed into a cherished ritual. That handkerchief on a stick metamorphosed into the ‘Nzenga, a flag, an absolute explosion of color, that if more formalized and “official” in recent years, still captures something of the original. Despite my skepticism, I learn as well that, despite its foreign appearance, ‘Nzegna is local dialect, all the more linked to this land for that tradition.
The heart of today’s ritualized celebration is known as the Battitura della ‘Nzegna. Two men stand at the center of a circle of locals, tossing the flag high into the air, as music thrums in the background. The goal is to keep the flag aloft, aiming for an updraft, as it’s bad luck if the flag repeatedly crashes to the ground. Even here, though, tradition continues to evolve, into ever more elaborate manifestations and adaptations of the folk practice.
The official website frames the tradition and its timing–coming as it does during Easter week–as a gesture of peace between the region’s Greek and Latin communities, noting that the historical events at its core likely unfolded around the time of Norman conquest, at the expense of the prior Byzantine rulers.
This, too, is part of the challenge of reading and learning about this region. One arrives with certain expectations–the centrality of the Roman Empire and the eventual emergence of the Italian state. But nearly 1500 years stand in between, centuries during which Southern Italy was passed around Mediterranean hands like a beach ball, each leaving their mark. There is no singular, defining cultural influence, and the genetic proportions almost certainly recalibrate from one region, from one town, to the next. Italy, in its chaotic mishmash of traditions and rulers, defies any easy sort of categorization.
