The whole reason that I decided to divert onto the Cammino Materano’s Via Ellenica variant in this section, instead of remaining on the Via Francigena Sud, was to see Alberobello. It’s rightly famous, but more on that in a bit. What I didn’t realize, though, was how remarkable all of the towns are in this section. As nice as it was, Carovigno was the least of the bunch, and it only got better from there. Here are some of the stories of the cities of this variant:
Ostuni, even emerging from winter, is blazingly white, a beacon shining from a distance like a lighthouse in the hills. In contrast to its oversized presence, its historic center feels compressed, as though once the exterior ring of buildings were completed, precious little space remained for anything in the middle. All of that came much later, though; this hilltop and its surroundings have been inhabited for 50,000 years, first by Neanderthals, and later by early humans, one of whom has a name, Delia. She wasn’t from Ostuni proper; in fact, I passed her home along my walk after the town. It’s known today as the Cave of Santa Maria di Agnano. And Delia was discovered there, 20 years old and pregnant, and also at least 20,000 years dead. Her remains have subsequently been moved to the Church of San Vito Martire on the outskirts of Ostuni. As with its neighbors, Ostuni passed through many hands over the years, but perhaps it’s the early Greek influences–Ostuni (ok, astu-neon) is Greek for “new city”–that remain most palpable today, with bright blue doors and shutters, bougainvillea creeping around corners, and the relentless whitewashing.
That whitewashing, it turns out, didn’t merely have an aesthetic function. In the 17th century, as the plague ravaged Puglia, destroying one town after another, locals in Ostuni decided to coat each house with a mixture of limestone and water. The blinding effect achieved by this, they believed, would keep the enemies at bay. I’m not sure how that logic applies to bacteria, but apparently white lime does, in fact, have antibacterial qualities–a happy coincidence.
Arrival in Cisternino isn’t quite as impressive, but there’s more room to breathe in the center, with a happy combination of some broad avenues and piazzas along with the narrow, twisting alleys so characteristic of these aged hill towns. This is hardly the optimal time to be enjoying these towns, it must be acknowledged. Probably three-quarters of the service sector is hibernating, parts of the towns could do with a good scrubbing to wipe away winter’s grime, and the sun doesn’t climb high enough overhead to cast these narrow streets in bright light. The flowers and plants that fill the alleys with life are dormant and drooping. Even still, it’s easy to see what has earned Cisternino the distinction of one of the “most beautiful villages of Italy.” Down every alley, one finds cute messages painted onto swing-like contraptions, dangling overhead, while ceramic pottery adorns historic stone buildings.
Legend links Cisternino’s origins to the Trojan War, the story claiming that Sturnoi, the companion of Diomedes, founded the town in the aftermath of the conflict. Its early years were, to be kind, turbulent. By one account, it was destroyed by Hannibal in 216 BC. By another, it was trashed by Goths after the fall of Rome. We can collectively thank a group of Basilian monks, having fled here from Greece, for restoring it in the 8th century. Their abbey became the center of this restored community, and the church’s name–St. Nicholas Cisturninum–inspired its permanent identity. I’ll be spending a lot of time with the Basilians near the end of the second half of this walk, when I follow the Cammino Basiliano, but this is a reminder that, all things considered, I’m not far from that region at all.
After a very cold night spent camping in the woods, I was thrilled to reach Locorotondo early the following morning, just as a market day sparked to life. Another whitewashed hill town with a stirring presence, the only problem was that it took far longer to reach coffee than I might typically expect in an Italian town. Once that crisis was managed, though, I approached the rest of my visit with far greater patience. The Chiesa Madre di San Giorgio holds a cherished treasure in its crypt, the reliquary of Santa Felicissima, a martyr from the 3rd century AD, her body likely taken from the Roman catacombs and gifted to Locorotondo in 1699. My eyes were drawn more swiftly to the statue of Saint Roch, though, given his parallels to Santiago. Roch, the story goes, visited Locorotondo and saved the town from the plague. Over the years, it has continued to express its gratitude–first dedicating the statue to him in 1700, then naming him patron saint in 1787, then founding the fair of San Rocco in 1897 (among the oldest in the region and still going strong), and finally with a fireworks competition devoted to him in 1957. Few towns are working harder to keep the plague away!
Ostuni, Cisternino, and Locorotondo. Those were all the happiest of accidents. But Alberobello? That has been the goal all along, and it has certainly lived up to expectations. The town is famous for its collection of trulli, the UNESCO World Heritage structures that look a little like the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia, or giant Hershey’s Kisses you can live in. I have to acknowledge at this point that I have been loose with my terminology; I’m learning that trulli, specchie, mussels, lamie, and casedde all correspond to different stone structures traditional to this region, but the Internet isn’t particularly helpful in sorting out these distinctions with any degree of precision. Regardless, what’s certain is the link between trulli and Alberobello; the town has two trulli “districts” of remarkable size, where it’s possible to lose oneself entirely within the little houses–though, one has to note, it’s fair to wonder how many of them actually are houses today, as opposed to tchotchke shops, restaurants, and B&Bs. Even this time of year, the streets are filled with a steady stream of tourists; I can’t imagine what it’s like in late spring.
In its discussion of the historic significance of trulli architecture, UNESCO notes that the dwellings date to the 14th century and feature a prehistoric building technique, completely free of mortar. (It’s worth noting that some historians argue that these go back much further, with Messapian origins.) The key to the design is corbelled limestone slabs that allow for the circular pinnacle to hold together and not collapse from the weight. (Cool side-view perspective here.) While it’s easy, and practical, to assume that these were built in this manner because of the available materials–lumber is limited, after all–a more amusing story suggests that this was the preferred architectural technique because the dwellings could be disassembled and moved, a strategy employed to escape taxation. Regardless, back in the day, these would have served as houses for only the poorest of agricultural laborers; more commonly, they functioned as shelters in the field, which is how I’ve most commonly seen them deployed along the walk. While I haven’t seen this elsewhere, some of the trulli in Alberobello also feature symbols marked in ash upon their roofs, aimed to ward off evil forces.
The peak period of trulli construction in Alberobello–aside, I suspect, from today–was between 1620 and 1797, the last two centuries of feudal rule in the region. Fortunately, that didn’t leave much time for decline before initiatives were launched in 1909 to protect these historic structures. In recent decades, tourism and the real estate market have caught up with Alberobello. Just in 1990, trulli were offered for free with land, because there was otherwise no demand. A decade later, a trullo in need of repair, on a small plot of 45 m2, sold for €10,000. That same trullo, repaired, sold another decade later for five times the initial investment. This development has brought equally good news to construction crews; over the course of the last decade, the price of restoring a collapsed trullo roof has jumped from €1500 to €20,000. Preservation is good for business, at least some businesses.
This is the conclusion of my time on the Cammino Materano, and I’m sorry to see it come to a close. Marvelous walking, fascinating places, and gorgeous scenery. Tomorrow I’ll freestyle my way back to the coast and the Via Francigena Sud, and I’ll spend the next handful of days shadowing the Adriatic.
