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There’s an easy, all-too-tempting way to frame these two days on the Via Francigena Sud’s coastal variant.
It was the worst of pilgrimage. Leaving Trani early in the morning, after a most disappointing “included” breakfast, I found myself back on paved roads much of the time. If this opening stretch had the advantage of avoiding the highway at many points, it still often found itself on heavily trafficked roads. Somehow, I managed to be close to the Adriatic while seeing little of it. Even arrival in Barletta, the largest city encountered since Bari, proved to be somewhat anticlimactic. On paper, it has the best collection of beaches that I’ve seen… in a while, but the industrialization of its inner port makes those sandy shores far less desirable than they might otherwise be.
It was the best of pilgrimage. Departing Zapponeta even earlier, I dropped the keys and an oferta in the mailbox outside the parish office and strode forth into the dark, walking directly to the coast. In the greatest of treats imaginable, the VFS follows the beach northward for two extended stretches in this section, only pulled back because of the need to cross a bridge over a river. Rosy-fingered dawn painted a masterpiece this morning, working in slow, dramatic brushstrokes, while the sand underfoot was just firm enough to allow for comfortable strides, such a delightful change from yesterday’s incessant asphalt. In the distance, mountains emerge along the horizon’s edge, a sign of things to come… as early as this very afternoon. Admittedly, the beach time couldn’t last forever, and a return to the highway life was inevitable, but it was much shorter this time around, and before long I was back on the coast for the final approach into Manfredonia, and my long delayed first coffee of the day. The barista capped off a wonderful opening stretch by only charging me a single euro for my Americano.
It was the worst of pilgrimage. Highway. Constant highway. Practically no shoulder. That wasn’t just an economic choice; it was a terrestrial mandate. The farther north one travels from Barletta, the more the landscape recalls Waterworld. The world shrinks down to a narrow sandspit, with the Adriatic on the right and swampland dominating to the left. There are pockets of land between the highway and the coast, enough for houses, gardens, and the occasional beach resort, but sometimes even these are washed out. I can’t imagine how buggy this gets in the summer; it’s a relief, I suppose, to be here in the relative cool of March. Most Italian drivers, ever confident, feel little compunction to provide a wide berth, swinging over to the opposing lane when possible; rarely do they even offer as much as a meter’s space of clearance when wizzing by. (I should note that, by contrast, they’re remarkably considerate after a rain shower, swerving wide to avoid pools of standing water, and even slowing down when necessary to allow another car to pass.)
It was the best of pilgrimage. The hills were waiting! I stormed inland, with adrenaline and caffeine coursing through my veins, and if the actual ascent proved evasive for the first two hours out of Manfredonia, the gradual, sloping ascent still brought me closer to the rugged rock face. When the climb finally began in earnest, I charged headfirst onto the footpath, a sheer drop into a ravine often paralleling me to the left. The rocky surface bore its historic role like an aged cathedral, the passage of so many steps, by so many believers, having worn deep grooves over the centuries. When the clouds burst, I cursed, of course, but once I had donned my rain gear I reveled in the conditions, grateful to be ascending as opposed to navigating the steep, rocky descent in my worn-down shoes. And even with the rain, as clouds swirled all about, I could see the Adriatic emerge beneath me in full, remarkable glory–the entire arc of my day’s walk in vivid display. The winds churned, risking to lift the back of my poncho up and over my head, but I laughed; one day’s annoyance is another’s glee. At long last, I was back above sea level.
It was the worst of pilgrimage. The accommodation list indicated that it might be possible to sleep at the Zapponeta parish, but emails had gone unanswered, and that was to be expected. I circled around to the back of the church, found the buzzer, and rang for the priest. As I waited, I saw two older women on a rooftop across the piazza from me, who proceeded to engage in an unexpected game of charades with me, which I lost repeatedly. It was clear that they were signalizing that the priest was unavailable. I interpreted this to mean that he was sleeping; later on, two guys from the bar came over to chat and explained that he had driven to Manfredonia for the day and would be back in time for mass. So I sat and waited. And waited.
It was the best of pilgrimage. The absolute best. 86 steps lead me down, down, down into the heart of the mountain. More than 1500 years ago, in 490-493, the archangel Saint Michael made three appearances here, deep in a cave, promising to protect the region from its enemies if the cave were dedicated to Christian worship. Unlike every other Christian church, this was never formally consecrated in the official manner; instead, Michael is said to have performed the act himself. Walking into the cave is one of the more remarkable experiences I’ve had; it’s as though the moon crashed into a church. The chapel itself extends deep into the grotto, and as the organ played during mass it echoed in oddly inconsistent ways, sometimes muffled, sometimes keening. Despite those early origins, most of what I’m seeing came much later. The buildings date to the 13th century, when the shrine experienced a high point during the peak of Crusade fever, drawing in many pilgrims for a visit en route to the Holy Land. From this emerged the triumvirate of pilgrimage, Homo-Angelus-Deus, the idea being that one should visit the “man” (primarily Peter and Paul, but James counted as well), the angel (Saint Michael), and the God (sites associated with the life of Jesus).
The main cavern area, the Cappella del Santissimo Sacramento, is decorated in a Baroque manner from the 17th century, following the reappearance of Michael in 1656, when he is claimed to have helped ward off a plague attack. Behind the altar, positioned in its own rocky nook, is the definitive marble statue of Saint Michael, spear rammed through a devil’s neck. While many imitations would follow–just check the gift shops in town–this is the defining representation of the archangel, dating to 1507. While the shrine is deep within the cave, the entrance–and the town that formed around it–is situated in one of the most stunning locations imaginable, perched atop the narrowest of ridges, with the plunging views of the Adriatic off the southside, and expansive views of tree-covered hills descending from the north. Houses were built wherever they could find purchase, so it’s a town of stairs, climbing up and down wherever possible.
So there it is. The tidy narrative. 50km of suffering, of paying one’s dues, in order to earn the boon, to gain access to the blessed shrine. It’s not devoid of truth; that walk into Zapponeta was dicey, but I suppose I can credit my US walk for inoculating me against intrusive auto traffic and long stretches of highway.
The problem, such as it is, is that the Zapponeta stage is rife with its own distinct, indelible moments, discoveries, and experiences. Barletta, in particular, stands out as the site of a great story. It’s the city of the challenge, from February 1503, featuring a classic jousting match between 13 French knights and 13 Italian knights. The event began, of course, with a grievous act of disrespect. First, some context–the lightest sprinkling I can bear. In 1500, the French and Aragonese monarchs signed a treaty, through which they agreed to the division of the Kingdom of Naples into Spanish and French hands. Predictably enough, this didn’t play out in a harmonious, reasonable fashion; before long, the two kingdoms were vying for dominance. The Aragonese lacked the manpower of their French rivals, so they recruited Italian (take this as shorthand; “Italy” was still 350 years into the future) soldiers into their service. In January 1503, a relatively small skirmish had resulted in a number of French soldiers falling into Spanish hands, including Monsieur Guy de la Motte.
These were noblemen, of course, so they proceeded to do the only reasonable thing one might do with such illustrious prisoners–they held a banquet, with the prisoners as honored guests. One cannot, however, buy self-restraint or tact, and that night La Motte denounced Italian soldiers as cowards. In response, the Italians in attendance demanded justice, and this led to the declaration of a contest. Thirteen Italian knights would joust thirteen French knights, to the death if need be. And those Italians went thirteen-for-thirteen, an absolutely crushing victory, which was subsequently celebrated in the Cathedral of Barletta–and, one imagines–in every pub in town.
Many details related to this event are contested, of course, but one stands out to me. This story became an assertion of Italian national pride, especially during the fascist years, when such military glory in service to the state was of heightened consequence. The reality, though, is that these soldiers were fighting in the service of one colonizer versus another. Independence wasn’t on the table; this only served to reinforce Spanish dominance in the region. And when one considers that many Southern Italians view the unification movement in the mid-19th century as yet another form of colonization, a rule imposed from the outside, the glorious victory risks an even sadder framing.
My afternoon in Zapponeta risked taking a sadder turn as well. I arrived at 3:30pm in the afternoon. Ultimately, it would take two hours for the priest to finally return. Throughout those two hours, I had no idea what would develop; he could easily turn me away. There were no guarantees of accommodation. And in the meantime, I was burning the limited daylight still available, making it all the more challenging to find a campsite if push came to shove. I spent the first half-hour spinning my tires, anxious with the uncertainty and feeling increasingly uneasy about sticking around.
And then, people began coming over to talk with me. The two gentlemen who informed me of the priest’s travel proceeded to discuss the area, and when they learned I would be visiting San Giovanni Rotondo in a couple days, one launched into his admiration for Padre Pio, who transformed that city–and, in certain regards, Italy as a whole. After they moved on, a pack of boys converged in the piazza to play soccer, banging the ball against an old cement building across from the church. Eventually, a couple of them worked up the nerve to come figure out what was going on with this stranger, and over the next hour nearly all of them circled over at different points to ask me where I was from, what I was doing, and whatever else they could come up with. One of the kids was so blown away by the fact that I was walking that he launched into a recitation of my recent itinerary each time a new kid came over. “He’s walking across Italy! Yesterday he walked from Bari to Molfetta! Molfetta to Trani! Then Trani to Zapponeta!”
I’ve stayed in some lovely cities of late. Bari, Molfetta, Trani. They’re big enough, though, that a certain anonymity prevails; even as I sat in a park for a couple hours in Trani, nobody ever seemed to take the slightest interest in me. Zapponeta, though, is a small place. Everyone knows everyone. And that made my presence all the more noteworthy. And because I needed to wait for the priest, the world opened up in a way that it almost certainly wouldn’t have otherwise.
In the end, the priest arrived, and he did have a room where I could stay. It was a small space in a flat, mostly used by the church for crafts projects. There was one mattress, curled over in the corner, and a bathroom with a toilet. As basic as could be. In Monte Sant’Angelo, I stayed in the Casa del Pellegrino, but I felt much more at home in Zapponeta, in this simple room, where the whole town had taken me in.
