One of the funny things about a walk is that it can go 98% according to plan, predictable as can be, and yet it’s the two percent that determines the outcome of the day.
I slipped out of the agriturismo before 6am, as planned, hoping to carve out as much time as possible in Rossano at day’s end. This being Sunday morning, the roads were largely empty, aside from a few ambitious hunters, so I was able to power through the early kilometers with few concerns. In the small village of Pertina, little more than a scattering of houses at a crossroad, I found the bar I expected open for business and grabbed a cappuccino. In the next town, San Giacomo d’Acri, I arrived just as the townsfolk poured into the church for mass, but its bar was still staffed, and I was happy to get a second dose of caffeine. This was all the more important, given that no other opportunity for food or drink would appear over the remaining 32 kilometers.
I knew these opening hours would be relatively unremarkable–unlikely to show up on the trip highlight reel. Even still, the scenery here remains unremittingly lovely, lush and verdant in all directions. Along with the typical olive trees, today saw a return of vineyards, along with more heavily-laden chestnut trees. The goal, though, was to power through all of this, as fast as possible.
And then I reached the most anticipated part of the walk–a pair of sharp up-and-downs, crossing a pair of ridgelines, with a river crossing in between. The descent was rather treacherous, following a narrow mountain bike trail through prickly bushes, made all the more constrained by the erosion of those bike tires, carving their own mini-gorge in the sandy track. Eventually, though, I emerged on the Torrente Cino, which didn’t contain a single drop of water. I tiptoed through the large, unsettled stones, marveling at the power that must be on display when storms push through and reignite this river, causing cascading waves of water to surge directly into the Ionian Sea. Here’s hoping that remains a matter of imagination, as more of these crossings are still to come in the days ahead.
The ascent was less unsettling, as is usually the case, but arrival on top brought one of those pivotal surprises, a critical one percent to change the course of the day. Tucked away in the woods sat a ruined monastic complex, the old Abbey of Santa Maria del Patire, or just “Pathirion” for short. Built a thousand years ago by a Basilian hermit, Bartolomeo di Simeri, this became one of the region’s most important religious complexes. The church remains in very good shape, thanks to multiple rounds of restoration–and no thanks to Joseph Bonaparte, who sold it off to private ownership in 1806–and its remarkable collection of mosaics stands out as a major highlight of the place. In the Middle Ages, though, the Scriptorium was much more important, and it, too, can still be visited. A key aspect of Basilian practice was the copying of ancient manuscripts, to support the preservation and spread of knowledge, and a substantial number of books copied here made their way into the Vatican Library. Years later, the abbey’s baptismal basin also departed the complex, though it traveled further–all the way to the Met in New York City.
Another extended descent followed, first on trail and then on an absolutely empty rural highway, and then I wound my way through an old farm complex, complete with a couple more fence hops. By this point, I was practically at sea level, and probably not much more than a half-kilometer from the sea itself. The route, though, turned back into the hills, making one last ascent to Rossano, a town with a long history that is showing its age. It didn’t help that rains closed in as I made the last push, but even still–most of the buildings in this winding, cramped hill town are in different stages of disrepair.
Given all of that, my expectations were sitting quite low when I entered the Duomo. And immediately, any doubts I had felt were scuttled. No, obliterated would be a better word. The columns were a glowing red marble, locally excavated. The altar, simple and open, with two stained glass windows devoted to Peter and Paul, was perfectly illuminated. The ceiling was marvelously decorated. Most striking of all, though, was a special altar sitting on the front-left side of the nave, right in the middle of the seating area–a most unusual arrangement. This shrine held an image of the Madonna Acheropita, claimed to have not been painted by a human hand. Knowing nothing, I felt like I was staring at something quite aged and special, and indeed, it has been dated to the 6th century. This was the second percent.
I’ve been visiting Italian churches for almost five months now. The thrill of what might be waiting within hasn’t gone away. It hasn’t ebbed at all. And indeed, as I move deeper into Calabria, into this very different historical and cultural context, it may be rising to an even higher level.
