As morning flipped to afternoon, I ambled along in a somnambulant fashion, with little of the characteristic spring in my step. I still labored to take in the scene around me, far more scorched than any landscape since Lazio, but my eyes found their way back to my feet much more often than normal. When I paused to take in the view in Settingiano, a small village in which a group of residents were gathered outside the church, dressed in their Sunday best, an older man sitting beneath a statue spotted my arrival, and said, “it’s hot today, isn’t it?” And you know what, it almost was!
After so many days spent in the mountains, so many kilometers through densely wooded hills, so many mornings in which my warm layer remained in place far longer than at any other point on the trip, I managed to walk my way back into summer, and a part of Calabria I hadn’t yet encountered.
I had considered taking a short-cut today, as the Cammino Basiliano was abusing its privileges by leading me up to the northwest before backtracking to the south. That even included a 6-7km out-and-back along the very same road. I could have chopped 11 kilometers from the day by making one left turn.
I’m not above a good short-cut; I’m fine with a long day, but I don’t revel in gratuitous kilometers. Looking at the map, though, I saw that the whole point of the screwy itinerary was to include a visit to Tiriolo, and Tiriolo sits on a peak atop the narrowest point in the Italian peninsula, the Isthmus of Catanzaro, and while many places around here call themselves the city of two seas, Tiriolo deserves the title most of all. Beyond that, Tiriolo has its own Homeric ties, as legend holds that Ulysses himself took a break here, while trying to find his way home.
And so I made the climb, first following a provincial road that has been closed for years because of landslides–bad for cars, great for walkers–and then ever higher along a winding road. 18.5km later, I reached Tiriolo from Catanzaro, finding most everything closed for the Sabbath, though plenty of locals were enjoying themselves at the different viewpoints in the center. It would have been an easy moment for some saltiness to come through, but I was content with the choice. After all, with a night of camping ahead, what else would I have done? There were enough hours and daylight to accommodate this gambit, and I’m happy to have added another Odyssean site to my travels.
An hour later, though, as I stood there in conversation with the older gentleman in Settingiano, I was beginning to bear the full brunt of the afternoon heat, a dog day afternoon, and I had some second thoughts. But then my mind turned to that expression. Where did that come from? Unlike some sayings, there’s no dispute here. It’s pretty simple–and it’s also relevant. In Ancient Rome, during the hottest part of the summer–from July to early August–the star Sirius was in the process of ascending. And Sirius, I learned, is “the dog star.” In such conditions, one certainly isn’t inclined to pursue endurance challenges; on the contrary, a blanketing heat leads only to feelings of lethargy and heaviness.
I can’t stop thinking about dogs. They’re everywhere. They’re barking, constantly. Even when they’re behind a fence, they almost inevitably have some way of escaping the fence. Which they do. And those are just the dogs that ostensibly have an owner. Lurking in every field, behind every bush, on every stoop, are the strays, many of which have gathered together in packs of their own. Some of these will aggressively hold their ground, but most retreat in fear at the first sight of me. A few intrepid ones will watch me with meager anticipation, and even follow at a distance in the hope of food or friendship, and in some ways these are the worst. Because these dogs, so deserving of camaraderie and care, need to be kept at a distance or chased back, lest they be led into more adverse circumstances. Southern Italy has been trying to get a handle on this problem for a long time. In 1991, the law changed, preventing euthanasia and requiring that strays be moved into kennels. The problem, though, is that the number of dogs keeps climbing, and the facilities are strained. Some pounds hold up to 2500 dogs; many of those dogs will spend their entire lives there.
I’ve seen a lot of pilgrims in Southern Italy, especially in Sicily, write about their concerns about getting attacked by dogs, most commonly large sheepdogs protecting their herds. I haven’t felt threatened at all, but maybe that’s still to come. On the whole, I’ve been impressed by the working dogs’ understanding of boundaries–they come within a few meters, but then hold that line, yapping all the while. Those don’t bother me. It’s the seemingly hopeless ones, the abandoned and failing ones, that are crushing.
I descend to the base of the valley, marked by an expressway and a railroad. This is one of the rare points where Italian geography permits a largely east-west travel corridor. Industrial facilities, not surprisingly, line the way, though they’re all shuttered for the weekend.
Even in church, I can’t escape dogs in Italy. Despite originating in France, San Rocco might be the most popular saint in Italy, aside from Padre Pio. Living–if he lived; there’s a fair share of skepticism about his legitimacy–in the 14th century, San Rocco set forth on pilgrimage to Rome, following the Via Francigena for a large chunk of it. Along the way, he encountered a ghastly outbreak of plague. It was the 14th century, after all. He bravely tended the sick, effecting any number of miracle cures, but on his return trip from Rome he fell ill in Piacenza. To protect others, he secluded himself in the forest. He would have starved to death, helpless in his weakened condition, if not for a dog that brought him food every day.
Real or not, Rocco is revered. He is the second-most invoked saint among European Catholics, and I suspect COVID reinforced his relevance. He’s also the most represented saint on holy cards. Across Italy, there are roughly 3,000 churches, chapels, and sanctuaries dedicated to Rocco, including at least one in nearly every major city. His appearance is consistent across every site. Most confuse him with Santiago, Saint James, as he wears the familiar pilgrim garb, including the trademarked scallop shell. There are two key differences, though. First is the fact that Rocco bares one leg, to show a plague scar.
And second is the dog, faithfully holding bread for Rocco in its mouth. And somehow not drooling on it.
As the day drags on, I move back into modest hills, freckled with olive and chestnut trees, taking a short pause in San Floro before making one more push to Borgia. The clock is approaching 5pm. It’s dark by 7pm these days, so I’ll need to start thinking about a campsite soon. But Borgia is as accommodating as a small town can be. Half a block over from the trail crossing is a gelato bar. Finally, my long personal nightmare is over! And right back at the crossing is a pizza-by-the-slice shop. I had supplies for an uninspiring dinner, but this was a most welcome addition.
Best of all, just one kilometer outside of Borgia, I unwittingly stumbled into a perfect campsite. Behind a medieval fountain–a large, rocky installation with four different spouts–the town installed a covered picnic area with three benches. Completely hidden from a lightly-used road, it ticked every box–clean base, covered roof, and secure location. On a day when it felt like everything came hard, the ending slid together seamlessly.
I woke up with the goal of reaching Squillace, the next town, around 7am–hopefully catching the croissants when they were still warm. It was the perfect start to the day, walking through a delightfully chilly darkness, and then seeing the valley take shape beneath Squillace. A thin layer of fog filled the gap between the hill I was gradually descending, in a most circuitous fashion, and the one I would need to climb into town. Impressive castle ruins towered above the entire scene, a remnant of the former Norman rulers. Across from those ruins stands a single arch, with the following information sign alongside it: “Remains of the noble palace, destroyed by the 1783 earthquake. Here, under a tent, was born Guglielmo Pepe, Italian patriot.”
An easy walk followed, with just another 20km to cover, thanks to yesterday’s efforts. I was most impressed by Olivadi, where a church that had been ruined–through a series of earthquakes, including 1783–was transformed into an amphitheater, its bell tower providing a lovely backdrop. By this point, I was starting to wonder about just what happened in 1783, and here’s how Wikipedia sums it up: “The 1783 Calabrian earthquakes were a sequence of five strong earthquakes that hit the region of Calabria in southern Italy (then part of the Kingdom of Naples), the first two of which produced significant tsunamis. The epicenters form a clear alignment extending nearly 100 km from the Straits of Messina to about 18 km SSW of Catanzaro. The epicenter of the first earthquake occurred in the plain of Palmi. The earthquakes occurred over a period of nearly two months, all with estimated magnitudes of 5.9 or greater. Estimates of the total number of deaths lie in the range 32,000 to 50,000.” The Siculo-Calabrian rift, which I’ll be calling home for the next month, has a long history of devastating earthquakes.
Of course, do you know what our best signal is of incoming earthquakes? Heck yes, it’s dogs. And I wasn’t done with them yet, because as I reached my destination for the day, San Vito Sullo Ionio, I kept seeing dogs all over the place. In the same way that a dog shows up in every portrayal of Rocco, two turn up alongside San Vito Martire. Born in Sicily in the third century, Vito’s pagan father wanted none of his dabbling in Christianity, going so far as to organize Vito’s arrest, torture, and incarceration. Saved by an angel and fed by an eagle, Vito made it to Basilicata, where he became known as a miraculous healer. The Roman Emperor Diocletian begged Vito to free his son from the devil; as Vito’s reward for this service, he was tossed into a cauldron of boiling pitch (and emerged unscathed), thrown to lions (who refused to feed on him), and finally tortured to the point of death. He died after being returned home by angelic transport.
Oh, and one other punishment was attempted by Diocletian. The emperor set rabies-infected dogs upon the martyr-to-be. Instead, though, Vito cured the dogs.
Both Rocco and Vito, then, are identified as patron saints of dogs. And Vito has turned it into a party. Every year on June 15, Saint Vito’s Day, some Italian towns, like Positano and Polignano a Mare, host a special blessing of the dogs, when all dogs brought to the service receive a proper blessing with holy water and a yellow cape. Maybe every dog doesn’t have its day, but at least some of them do.
