This is a mini-vacation of sorts, the first two of three days all around thirty kilometers or less. And, given that the first chunk of the walk from Galdo continued on the rail-trail, the terrain continued to be quite forgiving–at least for a while. The Calabro-Lucana railway, which once passed here, is characterized by the Cammino Basiliano folks as an engineering marvel, and I can’t disagree, given the wealth of tunnels and high, arching bridges along the way.
This first day posed some minor logistical challenges. Given that I was camping, I first needed to find ways to burn enough time so that I wouldn’t arrive at my intended campsite too early in the afternoon. That’s just miserable. I also needed to buy food for the next two days in Rotonda, the last town on my schedule for the day, and their grocery store closed for siesta until 4pm. So, I had to operate with an unusual game plan–burn time. Burn it early and burn it often.
The Basiliano makes a mini-detour into Castelluccio Superiore, a hill town perched high above the Mercure-Lao Valley, facing the Pollino Massif, where I would arrive the next day. Situated near the site of the ancient Roman Nerulem, at the intersection of the Via Popilia and Via Herculea, this didn’t really emerge as a town until the Middle Ages, and it preserves the shape of those twisting, narrow streets and tunnel-like passages.
Nearly everywhere I go in Italy, I receive very friendly responses. For that reason, I found Castelluccio amusing, as every “buongiorno” or smile I offered bounced firmly off of cold shoulders. The old lady carrying her groceries back uphill to her home. (The leg strength on these old women is admirable.) The two construction workers next to the town center. The old man who just seemed to look flatly straight into my soul. Even at the supermarket in neighboring Castelluccio Inferiore (downhill, without any of the views), the woman at the register said nothing to me until I tried to leave my receipt behind–an entirely customary act–and she called after me in an accusatory fashion. Abashed, I retraced my steps and took my ticket, realizing that they offered no garbage can outside, either.
Soon after I left the town limits of Castelluccio, a car passed by. Both passengers smiled and waved.
As I descended through the Mercure-Lao Valley, I found myself in a rich agricultural area, a marked change from so many dense woods and rocky peaks. The tomatoes here are in great shape, and long strings of bright red peppers are hung out to dry on many porches. Corn dangles along fence lines. The pomegranates here are a little behind their coastal peers, but they’re coming!
The Basiliano finally gives me my first extended stretch of off-road walking after crossing the Mercure, ascending along old mule tracks through turkey oak forests. At one point, it passes through what feels like private property, threading along a skinny cement track between house and outposts, before dwindling down to the narrowest of footpaths for the final push into Rotonda. A farmer stands at the top, watching me stagger through the last steps. Was he the owner of that house below? He certainly manages the land up top–the very land I had just walked through. I give him a big smile and wave, and he reciprocates immediately.
Like many towns around here, historic Rotonda sits on a sharp, little hill, while the modern town sprawls downhill from it. I didn’t realize it until I arrived, looping past the farmer and the Chapel of the Madonna di Costantinoli, but I had essentially stormed Rotonda from the back, scaling the hill to its old castle, before ever entering the town itself. For every inhabited house in the old town, there might be nine decaying ruins. While the new town has a much improved ratio, it’s barely any livelier in the afternoon, when practically everything was shut down. Even the bar I had finally settled on, after finding all the others closed, shut down at 2pm. And so, I spent two hours sitting outside the supermarket, waiting for its reopening.
The first reference to Rotonda dates to the 11th century, but the castle wasn’t established until the 15th century, and it holds an enviable position, with 360-degree valley views possible from the modest surviving fortifications. Still, the primary historical event celebrated in the town was Giuseppe Garibaldi overnighting here in 1860.
The Basilicata region had an ancient practice of tree worship, with Fir Festivals still celebrated in several towns, including Rotonda. However, the town has repackaged that tradition around a different event–the passage of Saint Anthony of Padua through here, on his long walk across Italy following his boat’s crash in Sicily. The legend goes that Anthony had paused to take a rest on a ravine’s edge, at the very moment that a shepherd stumbled and fell. Anthony saved him mid-plummet.
My shopping completed, I headed south from Rotonda. Once, there was a Greek church on the outskirts, but Robert the Guiscard had made it his mission to “Latinize” the south, destroying whatever remnants of Greek-Byzantine monasticism he could get his hands on. Today, the Santa Maria della Consolazione complex stands there. I looped around behind it and wound through the hills, at one point passing a shepherd, sitting roadside as his flock merrily munched in the day’s dying light. At last, I arrived at the Mercure spring–the source of the river valley I had walked through today, and now a popular spot for locals to get fresh water. It made a perfect campsite.
I woke up with a very different plan for the new day. After a slow start, in the hope of finding an open bar in the neighboring town–which proved futile–the goal was to move quickly through the remaining kilometers. I had arranged to stay in a mountain refuge, and my host was leaving the key for me. I could check in any time. The rarest of treats–an early day, with an afternoon spent lounging at 1550 meters.
Viggianello was the only town of any consequence on the day’s route and I reached it within a half-hour. Situated on the border between Basilicata and Calabria, it once stood on the Via Popilia as well. Who hasn’t ruled Viggianello at some point? Basilian monks may have founded it, but the Lombards, Byzantines, Normans, and Swabians all passed through, and even an Aragonese family took control for a time.
Leaving Viggianello, I also left the Mercure valley behind, climbing into the hills on narrow roads, first passing through more turkey oaks and then transitioning to pine. I couldn’t have been happier to discover that the tiny village of Torno had a bar. “A cappuccino?” “No, we only have coffee.” “I would love a coffee.” Indeed, the bar had quite limited offerings, and the coffee itself was made from a small, home coffee machine. It was aspiring towards lukewarmness. What a treat.
Two different people in Torno called out at me to make sure I was going the right way. It’s the first village I can remember in weeks that had any recognition of what I might be doing or where I might be going. A woman in the next town offered me a coffee, just before a dozen dogs exploded from around the neighborhood to escort me from the premises. In neighboring Mezzana, I made a detour to the very rare mini-market. I had enough food to survive, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, and I was rewarded with a lovely little town that was covered in murals.
I’ve been a little frustrated by the amount of pavement so far, especially when I’ve seen a number of signs and waymarks indicating roughly parallel footpaths. In this last, big ascent, following the pilgrim road to the Madonna del Pollino, I realized the issue. Every single footpath on this track is badly overgrown and practically impassable. There just aren’t enough people here to keep these trails clear. I suspect that locals might clear them at some point, around the annual pilgrimage date, but it doesn’t take long for the stickerbushes to reassert themselves. In any case, the road barely had any car traffic, and it moved through thick groves of white fir
The Madonna del Pollino is another mark of the Marian cult that is so vibrant in this region. As so often happens, this originated with the appearance of the virgin before a shepherd here, at some point between 1725 and 1730. When two women returned days later to seek intervention in support of a sick family member, they discovered a statue of the virgin in a cave. And, sure enough, upon returning home they learned that their loved one had been healed. In gratitude, they arranged for the construction of the chapel on the mountaintop.
The complex at the top includes not only the church but housing for pilgrims, a separate sacristy, and ex-voto offerings. There’s even a 150-year-old Italian maple. Alas, it’s all shuttered for the year–I’m two weeks late to see any of that. The pilgrimage season kicks off on the first Sunday in June, when–as on Monte Cerviata–a procession carries the statue of the Madonna twenty kilometers to the shrine. Along the way, they pause at different small stands, setting the statue down and dancing in celebration. Then, on the second Sunday in September, she is carried back down to San Severino Lucano. The greatest celebration, though, takes place over the first weekend in July, when the Madonna is carried both northeastward–back into the valley from where I came–and south through the Pollino mountains. Music is played all weekend at the shrine, featuring bagpipes, accordions, and tambourines.
Instead, for me it is a place of silence. A few visitors drop by in cars over the course of the day, strolling out to see the statue of the Madonna and Child, overlooking the dramatic valley views below. Otherwise, though, the mountain is mine.
