The hardest part of long-distance walking isn’t the blisters, the foot pain, or the creaky knees. (Easy for me to say, as the lucky dude who has largely avoided all three.) It’s also not exposure to harsh elements, like torrential rain and wind, scorching heat, and soul-sucking humidity. It’s certainly not insect swarms, packs of mangy dogs, or cows filling the trail (in multiple ways). It’s not even steep, rocky descents, nor calf-straining climbs, or prolonged stretches along busy highways.
No, the hardest part is trying to explain why this brings you joy to someone who finds the whole concept befuddling and bizarre. Because even on a typical, run-of-the-mill, satisfying day of walking, you’re certain to include some of those annoyances, challenges, and threats, perhaps emerging the worse for wear, and yet find your enthusiasm for the practice undiminished, bolstered even!
Heck, it can even prove elusive to articulate the revelatory qualities of a great day’s walk, one unsullied by any of those matters. Certainly, a non-hiker can understand what makes an ascent to a summit, or a cliff-top stroll by the ocean, or a deep trek through the woods compelling. But these past three days on the Via Francigena Sud have been so deeply satisfying, so visually rewarding, and so unceasingly delightful despite the absence of those universally-appealing highlights.
Each day has featured its own distinct rhythm. On the first day, departing San Giovanni Rotondo, I was launched immediately into an ascent, climbing above the treeline to an almost lunar landscape, all chalky-gray, craggy rocks scattered across the hillside. The route brought me past two older religious complexes, first the Sanctuary of San Marco in Lamis and later the Sanctuary of Santa Maria di Stignano. Both of these complexes arose in response to the rise of pilgrimage to Monte Sant’Angelo in the early Middle Ages, and even today they remain important fixtures, offering fountains during an otherwise dry stretch, and in the case of the latter, a simple place for pilgrims to overnight. Neither stands out from an aesthetic perspective; both are well past their golden years. But as reminders of the relationship between the land, pilgrims, and the Church in those medieval years, they’re invaluable. A predictably jarring descent followed my time in the hills, after which I was dropped into a broad, flat valley. For a time, I walked along a rail-trail, featuring a newly-paved track, between freshly tilled fields. And then, that pavement came to a crashing halt, resulting in a fairly miserable walk along the old, haphazardly piled rocks that once undergirded the railroad tracks. It would be easy at this moment for the walking skeptic to leap from their chair–”Ha ha! Even you acknowledge the misery of this so-called ‘delightful’ walk!” And there’s some truth in that, I must recognize. At the same time, though, there’s a certain grim determination that kicks in at these points, an internal compulsion to push on, undeterred, and in so doing arrive at a deeper level of satisfaction, a humorous embrace of the absurdity of the act and the triumph of the accomplishment.
On the second day, once I emerged from San Severo–a surprisingly large city–I waded into a sea of bright green grass, waving brilliantly all around me. The day had a classic, simple flow: cross a valley, ascend to a hill town, then repeat. That mid-point town, Lucera, is not without its charms; on its west side stands a surprisingly large castle, while the east preserves a Roman amphitheater. On this occasion, though, neither of those could hold a candle to those lovely fields, billowing in the wind. The day had little in the way of variety; the views were consistent in theme from beginning to end. It didn’t matter. Neither did the strong headwind that I faced nearly every step of the way. This time, even my own internal cynic can’t hold itself back: “You can’t possibly have been happy spending the better part of 45km walking through flat, agricultural land! You already walked through the American midwest. Twice!” And yet I was.
The third day was the best of them all. The departure from Troia, descending into the hills, greeted me with a spectacular panorama, and perhaps tricked me into thinking that I had an easy walk ahead. Instead, the day included 1400+ meters of up and down, and it was doled out in a fashion that kept me constantly on my toes, nearly always ascending or descending. There were practically no flat stretches. I visited five villages along the way, none particularly substantial, but I found coffee when I needed it, and a snack at another point, and water all the while. As I moved westward, the rippling hills continued unabated, and gradually I could see even larger peaks emerging in the distance, a promise of more strenuous things to come. At one point I had to ford a river, removing my socks but otherwise tromping across shoes and all. Later, I stepped on a massive thorn that managed to get stuck in the sole of my shoe, pressing into my foot, and proved to be a particular challenge to extricate. The waymarks were often a challenge; I think I must have gotten an older gps track for this stage. For all that, passing through Buonalbergo at the end, I thought to myself, “I would be happy to push on for another 20km of this.” Ultimately, I managed to tack on one extra kilometer; the “Casa del Pellegrino” that shows up on Google Maps happens to be a different one from the “Casa del Pellegrino” I’m staying in. Fortunately, the nice woman who lives next to the erroneous one called my host, who immediately hopped into her car, drove over, and gave me a ride back to my home for the night.
Of course, that speaks to a huge part of what has made these three days such a daylight, something that is part of the walking experience if not the walk itself. The pilgrim accommodation has been a major highlight, thanks to the dedication and care of the hosts. Fabiola at Enopolio Daulio in San Severo took me out for an evening stroll, along with three other pilgrims, to see the town and enjoy the night together. I’ve been alone so, so much of the time; before this night, I had encountered five other pilgrims total and only one had paused for a mid-trail conversation. The language barrier was certainly a factor; my Italian is coming along, but it’s far better suited to a 3-year-old’s statements of fact than anything more nuanced. It didn’t matter, though, due to the generosity of my cohort, and their efforts to navigate around that barrier. I spent much less time with Antonio, my host in Troia, but he responded immediately when I arrived in town, almost 90 minutes ahead of when I advised him I would, and came straight over to let me into the hostel. He even gave me a brief tour of the museum adjacent to the hostel, all part of an old monastic complex. Finally, Donatella at the correct Casa del Pellegrino not only saved me from making an annoying climb back into town, but she provided me with my own private studio apartment (she has three separate private places for pilgrims), and also cooked dinner and breakfast.
None of this was lavish. The plumbing in Enopolio Daulio was the equivalent of having snoring pilgrims around. Troia’s Ostello del Camino has wifi, but it’s only accessible from one part of the hallway, around the corner from the rooms. The petite water heater at Donatella’s made for a quick shower, even by my own standards. Those aren’t complaints; those are quirks. These are brilliant spaces for pilgrims. But people at home have certain ideas of what travel entails, the creature comforts required. A bare mattress on an old bunkbed, as I slept on in Troia, is not what they have in mind. Nor is carrying the ingredients for a cold dinner 20km because it’s Sunday and the store will be closed upon arrival in the final destination.
The basic truths one comes to recognize and appreciate. How little you need. How much you are capable of. How fleeting are challenges. How lasting are joys. How satisfying it can be to simply be in good company. How captivating even a humble field can be.
And maybe that’s the explanation in all of this. The joy of long-distance walking lies not in the act itself, but rather in how it allows us to recalibrate how we see this world and our place within it.
Reading the above makes me feel like leaving everything and just taking off for all those wonderfull feelings and joys . If only more people in our world could realise just how little we need and how wonderful it is to share what we have . Thanks Dave.