It sneaks up on you.
You spend years cultivating a sense of self that positions you as different, as considerate and other-aware, as grateful for the services and care you receive, and you recognize that even if you’re still a tourist in the end, at least you’re not one of those tourists.
Until you are.
I knew coming in that I had created a day that would be both dream and monster. On paper, it was both shorter (4km) and with substantially less elevation gain/loss than the Ligurian Alps crossing, but walks don’t happen in spreadsheets, and this included The Cinque Terre, widely considered to be in the running for the most beautiful corners of Italy. The point wasn’t to speed-run it, even if daylight would severely limit the amount of time I could spend in any one village.
That said, I had reviewed the arc of the day multiple times, and the Cinque Terre section only spanned the first 16 or 17km. After that, I had a dastardly villain waiting for me, but then I’d kick into autopilot and roll out the remaining 25 or so kilometers with gusto. The point, then, which I was mostly trying to hammer through my thick skull, was that I could take my time, move at a slower pace than my normal habits dictate, and enjoy the views.
And the morning played out exactly according to that sagacious script. I departed Levanto in darkness–already, in just these two weeks, a 6am departure is growing more difficult–and reached Monterosso as the sun broke the peaks behind me. The quiet, stony beach of the first Cinque Terre village was empty at this hour, still lined with blue-and-white striped covered boats. Also visible, to the south, was a raging storm, visibly strafing the sea with precipitation and occasional explosions of lightning. I was, of course, heading south.
All problems can be solved with coffee, so I slipped into a beach-side bar for the lone coffee and brioche that I had promised myself today. Maybe the storm would do me the courtesy of arriving while I waited. It did not, but neither did it move any further in my direction. I confess to being somewhat underwhelmed by Monterosso. Having already walked through so many Ligurian stunners, Camogli most of all, this merely seemed like a lesser variation on the same theme. It must have some distinct appeal, though, because of the five villages this is the one that has emerged as the home of many rich and famous Italians since the turn of the 20th century. Maybe it’s just a matter of having more flat ground. The town is reputedly famous for its lemons and anchovies, but I can’t speak to either.
As I climbed to the second town, an Italian jogger was trotting in the opposite direction, warning everyone on the trail against continuing because a storm was on the way. He had managed to spook two different pairs of early risers. I was delighted. Soaked or not, the trail was mine. I continued weaving around steep hills lined with terraced agriculture, interrupted occasionally by trailside cafes, until after a jarring descent Vernazza–stunning, incredible Vernazza–appeared right before me. Founded by Romans, this is the oldest and most spectacular of the five villages, and it has been famous for its wine for as long as it has existed. We know this because some ancient Vernazza wine jars have been found in the Pompeii excavations.
Corniglia came next, appearing as a wall of tall buildings lining a sheer clifftop. Arriving on foot from the north is the right way to handle this village; most, arriving by train, are immediately presented with a 382-step climb and little visible evidence of the village they’re sweating for. As I skipped down the brick switchbacks towards the train station, I alternated between pity, sympathy, and hilarity over the long line of visitors managing these stairs with rolling suitcases. Regardless, their job was easier than whoever got stuck with delivering Carrara marble here in 1334 for the church.
And this is when things started to go wrong. Or, at least, to get annoying. First, I encountered a checkpoint booth on the trail leaving Corniglia. Due to my early departure, I had unintentionally evaded these thus far, but I learned you have to pay to walk these trails. 7.5 euros. I rolled my eyes and ponied up the cash. Paying for pilgrimage!
From the Corniglia train station, I descended a tunnel and then looped around to the waterfront. 200 meters later, the path was blocked by orange tarp. However, there was an easy way to circumvent this barrier and a well-trodden footpath going around it, so I followed suit. Unfortunately, another 300 meters after that, there was a much more serious and non-negotiable fence in place. I consulted the gps and found no viable options for continuing on from here, so I bit the bullet and hopped on a train. I was astonished to discover that this three-minute ride cost ten euros! (For comparison’s sake, the 25-minute ride I took across Genova cost 1.6 euros.)
In Manarola, the fourth Cinque Terre, situated in an old river ravine within which mills used to operate, the walking track once again loops around the train station. 500 meters later, I reached another ticket booth. I presented my ticket and the woman shook her head as though this were a sisyphean ordeal she was facing. That ticket wasn’t enough. This next walk–a remarkably short walk leading to the last village, Riomaggiore–cost an additional ten euros. And, as a kicker, this ticket–unlike the previous ticket–couldn’t be purchased at the checkpoint, but rather had to be secured at the office in the train station. I made a face and turned back.
By the time I finally reached Riomaggiore, it was absolutely swarming with people. The clock was ticking audibly in the back of my mind, and whatever zen patience I had managed to cultivate in Levanto was long gone. I still caught myself long enough to grab a slice of pizza and to sit on the long, colorful street leading up the hill. Then, however, it was time for the villain. A 600+ meter ascent in less than two kilometers. Plus, I would soon discover, nearly the entirety of the first 400 meters took place on stairs. Fortunately, nobody was within earshot.
With that behind me, I started thinking back over Cinque Terre and my frustration. The reality is that I hadn’t done my homework, and the most minimal of efforts would have laid bare the assorted fees. More significantly, it might have prompted me to think more about why those fees exist.
The reality is that Cinque Terre today is one of the most over-touristed places in the world. Unlike the Venices and Romes of the world, though, there’s practically no history behind this, and as a consequence very little infrastructure in place to support it. Indeed, that’s practically the selling point for it. The major development, of course, was the installation of the train line in the 19th century. Paved roads didn’t reach these villages until the 1960s and ‘70s, though nobody in their right mind would want to drive those. They are isolated, they are old-fashioned, they preserve something truly precious. And so, of course, millions and millions of us want a peace of that. Badly.
Even in the 1980s, something resembling the old rhythms of life persisted in Cinque Terre. Like the rest of Italy, World War II left its mark. Nazis inhabited many of these villages. Nearby La Spezia was so important to the Axis efforts as a transportation hub that the Allies bombed the area heavily. Cinque Terre was fortified in places with bunkers and landmines. But again, as happened in so many other parts of the peninsula, life returned to some semblance of normalcy. People farmed, worked the land, tended their homes, and opened up a room here or there to accommodate the growing streams of visitors. And then they became torrents, flooding the coast.
How many visitors? Perhaps four million in 2023 alone, though it’s hard to pin down a precise figure. Those who stay in the five villages are easy to account for. But what about someone like me, who stays in neighboring Levanto? What about the cruise ships that dock in La Spezia and coordinate day-trip visits? Regardless, on a typical night between April and October, there are more tourists bedding down in Cinque Terre than local residents. Tourists bring money, of course, but they also bring a host of problems. Rising cost of living for locals, surging property costs because of real estate speculation that result in the complete disappearance of affordable housing, deteriorating relationships between locals and their communities, the privatization of public spaces, and harm to the physical environment.
That last one, of course, is part of the reason that the villages need to charge for trail access. Four million pairs of feet do a lot of damage, and every offseason is spent making repairs and performing upkeep. There’s also ongoing concern over how land is being repurposed, along with the loss of traditional practices. Terracing is long-practiced here, but the key detail is that those terraces are buttressed with drystone construction. Instead of cement walls, or rocks held in place with mortar, the old way here involves stacking stones in carefully chosen patterns, often featuring overlapping columns. All told, there are said to be over 6700 kilometers’ worth of drystone walls, each of which can last for a century with limited upkeep. Unlike cement or other modern building techniques, these are robust and flexible. They don’t wash away when the water-based floods come–and they always do.
Indeed, the floods came in 2011 and 2012, and the carnage they inflicted included that waterfront walking path that I had been thwarted in following. And that 10-euro hiking trail? It’s an engineering marvel, hacked directly into the cliffside, and it required extensive repairs following those landslides. Expensive repairs.
I hadn’t considered any of that as I made my walk through paradise. It certainly smacked me in the face, though, when I turned into the pilgrim hostel in Sarzana, having just slogged through flooded trails in the final approach, and encountered a mostly-full, tightly-packed space. The lone American approached me to say that there was one top bunk in the corner, that there was no hot water, and that most other hostels are much nicer than this one. I wouldn’t go so far as to call that hostel purgatory, let alone hell–we’re all better off with it existing as an option–but it was a stark reminder to better appreciate the wonderful when it’s in front of me.
Regardless, I decided to camp.
