After a high-level mountain crossing, these two days brought me down to sea level and then back through more gentle hills. They also immersed me in a land rich with layers of religious tradition, extending the Italo-Albanian focus in Civita and the cult of Marian worship further north, adding another strand to the Basilian presence in the region, and introducing a new saint of great consequence to Calabria.
Descending from the Pollino mountains, I plunged swiftly through olive groves to the Raganello River, though it was mostly riverbed at this point in the year. Indeed, the trail itself was swampier than the rocky bed, so I opted for the latter for most of this walk. Had I been here during rainy season, though, a wildly different situation would have existed, with this being transformed into a “fiumara,” or a torrential watercourse, bringing the power that hacked its way through that massive gorge over so many years. Instead, though, I followed the route as it climbed back up to the highway, offering one more panoramic look at the Ionian Sea and the broad Sibari valley down below, a dramatic change from the past few days. On the edge of that valley, taking advantage of one last impressive hill, sat the day’s first town, Cassano Allo Ionio. For the first time in a while, I settled back into a typical pilgrimage rhythm, complete with a cappuccino and croissant a couple hours in.
A few minutes earlier, I thought I had stumbled into something far more consequential. I stood in the Basilica Minore Santa Maria del Lauro, having a good look at one of the chapels, when a woman motioned me over to the altar. “You should take a photo of this,” she said. “This is the oldest crucifix in the world.” “The oldest crucifix in the world?”, I repeated back, in disbelief and hoping to confirm. “Yes,” she nodded. I took a closer look. The figure of Jesus looked weatherworn, and the detail on the crown of thorns was impressive. There was a smoothness to the torso that seemed to suggest a significant age. Even still, though, I was skeptical. Surely, such a thing would generate more commentary and attention! And indeed, if the woman was correct, she seems to be the only one aware of this fact. Nonetheless, Cassano is one of the oldest dioceses in Southern Italy, dating to the 5th century, and the cathedral’s crypt was built in the Romanic style, underscoring its age.
The most dramatic sight I encountered in Cassano, though, was something entirely different. Near the center, I ran into–almost literally–waymarks for the Cammino di San Francesco di Paola, the most established pilgrimage in Calabria, with a network of different trails all oriented towards the shrine in Paola on the west coast. Francis was born there in 1416, named after his Assisi counterpart, who was called upon first to bring a child to older parents and then later to save his sight from illness. He spent a year serving in a Franciscan convent and also made a pilgrimage to Assisi as a young man, but was hungry to explore other forms of Christian life. A mystic, he established himself as a hermit near Paola. As always seems to happen to hermits, people were drawn to him, and with his family’s support he built a chapel and dorms for visitors, which served as a starting point for the religious order he later founded, the Order of Minims.
The local diocese embraced this burgeoning holy man, arranging for funds for the construction of a monastery, and the community threw their energy–and labor–behind this initiative as well. Even the pope grew curious about Francis, sending an emissary in 1467 to learn about him. That emissary decided to join Francis as well! Soon after, four cardinals determined that indulgences would be offered to those who helped fund the monastery or visited it, essentially laying the foundation for today’s pilgrimage. And finally, Pope Sixtus IV granted recognition to the order, which followed in the footsteps of Assisi by embracing severe austerity.
Even during his life, he became known for performing miracles, and there’s an impressive collection of big, audacious miracles attributed to him. The most famous is his crossing of the Strait of Messina, when the scheming ferryman refused to ferry Francis and his followers free of charge, as was expected. And so, Francis made the journey on foot–and on his cloak, to be specific–from Southern Italy over to Sicily. My favorite miracle of his, though, is different. Francis had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow. He called it Martinello. And then, one day, a group of laborers had that little lamb, its flesh was tender and juicy. They tossed the bones into the furnace when finished, and denied any involvement when Francis came looking for his beloved Martinello. Still, Francis called, and all of a sudden, the good, little lamb strolled right out of the furnace, without the slightest bit of singe. Francis himself wouldn’t be so lucky. After he died in France at the age of 91, having spread his order to the wider Christian world, a group of Huguenots came for his body, forcing open the tomb and setting the incorrupt body aflame. As a consequence, precious few relics survive from Francis.
The primary gift I received from Francis was the opportunity to put my phone away, as his waymarks carried me through the remainder of this day’s walking with great ease. The walking was simple as well, mostly flat through olive groves and citrus trees, along with the occasional melon farm–including rows of fat, ripe watermelons. The lone climb of any note followed, with an overgrown trail winding up and around a sandy trail, dropping me into the Torre Mordillo archaeological area. Apparently, they’ve found something good, because a decision was recently made to fence in the entire zone, cutting off both of the Cammini passing through here. And so I hopped an eight-foot fence and carried on.
A more gentle rise leads into Spezzano Albanese, first passing “mandrie,” stable areas for animals like sheep and cows, and then the “celje” district, referring to caves used by Basilian monks as hermitage shelters. On the outer fringe of Spezzano sits the sanctuary of the Madonna delle Grazie. In 1470, Albanian immigrants settled here, and were allowed to take temporary shelter in a building called the Casale Delle Grazie. Around the same time, stories began to circulate about the appearance of the Virgin, which led to the first small chapel on this site.
I had planned on spending some time in Spezzano. Given that it’s a camping night and not a supremely long day, I needed to burn some hours. But most everything was shut down around mid-day, so I pushed onto Terranova Da Sibari, a short walk through non-stop olive groves. That setting would have felt familiar to some of its earliest residents, as a group of Greek refugees moved here during the era of Magna Graecia. Over the years, it became a staunch bastion of Christianity, today boasting twenty churches and calling itself the “Land of Two Popes.” Most striking of all to me was the Basilica of San Antonio da Padova, formerly of Santa Maria delle Grazie, which is completely filled with Baroque artistry. Fortunately, I visited that first. Later on, after the incident with a can of lentils, I was far less presentable indoors.
The trail from Terranova is unforgiving, first making a steep descent into the Crati Valley, crossing the river of the same name, and then climbing right back up the other side into the Sila hills. Still, I had no urgency. I hoped to knock out another ten kilometers, but ultimately I was content to settle for the first good camping site I encountered. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. At a hairpin turn in the little-used agricultural road, I saw an old complex, with one farmhouse and three out-buildings. It was long abandoned, but the house remained mostly structurally sound, and it didn’t take much work to sweep out a tidy footprint for my bivy in the old living room. I sat on a cement block on the old porch, taking in the scene. Directly across from me, far in the distance, were the Pollino mountains, where I had slept two nights ago. To the right was the Ionian Sea. On a hill to the left sat Terranova. And just below me were a group of turbines, humming along merrily. A perfect perch to watch the day unwind.
Thanks to that extra work, I only had a little over an hour of walking before San Demetrio Corone, where a delicious cappuccino was waiting for me. Another center of Arbëresh culture, its Chiesa di San Demetrio Megalomartire il Mirovlita blew me away with the explosion of colorful figures and icons within. I’ve come to admire the artistry of Catholic churches over the years, but there’s something undeniably satisfying about the Eastern style.
The Basilian roots of San Demetrio Corone are nowhere near as flashy. In 955, Saint Nilus of Rossano founded a monastery here, the Abbey of Sant’Adriano, and a hermitage named after him also survives. Born in 910, and revered as a saint by Catholics and Orthodox believers alike, Nilus married as a young man and had a daughter, but quickly realized he had made the wrong choice. He left his wife and daughter well taken care of, and then took on monastic life in the Mercure-Lao Valley. After taking vows in the convent of San Basilio, he made the move here to San Demetrio Corone, and proceeded to live here for 25 years. While he subsequently moved to Constantinople, and his monastery was badly damaged by a Saracen invasion, it was rebuilt by another Basilian who saw it thrive as a center of enlightenment in the region.
Nilus’s favorite disciple, Saint Bartholomew the Abbot, remembered him after his death in 1004, stating that, “Saint Nilus saw that all men, all animals, even every reptile that moved on earth, were blind and totally deprived of light, and that the entire earth itself was surrounded by profound darkness and an immense haze.” His goal, Nilus made clear at many points, was to provide a light.
From San Demetrio, I pushed higher into the Sila hills, following a dirt track through pine groves. At one point, I saw a pile of old, broken dog houses, which I later learned was once the “Zanna Bianca” stray dog village. Instead, there were a few laborers putting the finishing coat of paint on a new building, signed as the kennels of Acri. A descent brought me to my accommodation for the night, an agriturismo 3km north of the town center. They quite kindly allowed me in at an ungodly early time, so that I could dump my pack and stroll unhindered into Acri. I doubt there’s one square meter in the town that is entirely flat; instead, it’s closer to what some people might imagine when they hear that Rome is the city of seven hills. Acri is all hills, nothing else, and this makes a visit much more strenuous than one might first expect. And my destination, sure enough, was on the far side of town, atop the last inhabited hill. The Basilica di Sant’Angelo d’Acri is the largest church in Acri, built a little over a century ago to honor the town’s beloved Saint Angelo.
Born in Acri in 1669, as Lucantonio Falcone, he devoted his life to the Church in 1691 as a Capuchin friar. He preached throughout the south, speaking on behalf of the weak, against bullies and the excesses of the powerful, and condemning corruption and social injustice. Interestingly, he failed badly in his first few attempts at preaching, having his mind go blank and forgetting everything he planned to say the first three times he rose to deliver a sermon. He realized that the lesson was to be simple and straightforward–to avoid expansive and flashy rhetoric, and instead meet the people where they were.
While several miraculous cures were attributed to him, it took a much more recent event to finally elevate him to sainthood. In 2010, Salvatore Palumbo awoke from an irreversible coma. The doctors had given up hope, but his parents hadn’t. They asked for a relic of Angelo, and proceeded to place it under the pillow of the young man, lying unconscious in the Cosenza hospital in Southern Italy. Almost immediately, he recovered. In 2016, this was acknowledged as a miracle; a year later, Pope Francis canonized Angelo.
Francesco had a little lamb. Nilus had a light he sought to shine. And Angelo came through for the people most in need. As for me, I’ve got a bag full of groceries, and a couple long walks coming up.
