There were two big pieces. Two of them.
I had confidently turned into the bakery, pleased with my pace, and assured that a plan was indeed coming together. I hadn’t just left Rossano in darkness; it was one of my earliest departures of the trip, straight into the maws of a persistent rain that just wouldn’t quit. The provincial road wound through the Greek Sila mountains, without the slightest hint of a straight road. At one point I turned back around and saw the lights of Rossano, cutting through the dampness and the darkness, suggesting a view that I suspect would be quite photo-worthy. Not on this trip, though.
I was in a hurry. On paper, this would be my longest walk of the trip, and with daylight dwindling by the day, I needed to operate with urgency. In theory, accommodation was possible in a mountain hut, but I didn’t know exactly what that entailed, and I sure didn’t want to have to figure it out in darkness. On top of that, the last town along the way, Longobucco, 41 kilometers from Rossano, would see its bakery and grocery close for siesta at 1:30pm. I couldn’t afford to wait until they reopened, with more than three hours of walking still to follow.
Fortunately, Longobucco wasn’t my only shot at sustenance. Several small villages lined the way. Up first came Paludi, a compact hill town, the center of which fell just off route. I saw a beverage truck unloading a pallet-full of alcohol and decided to follow its lead. Sure enough, it delivered me to the bar, where I grabbed a cappuccino and croissant. Nothing else was happening in Paludi at such an early hour, though, so before long I was back on the road.
The next stretch took me off-road, initially following a quality dirt track. When it dead-ended in a private agricultural complex, though, things got interesting. I couldn’t figure out where the route went, and ended up moving directly into the midst of the complex, drawing the attention of all five dogs, which animatedly expressed their displeasure with my presence. Even the two men working the heavy machinery noticed me walking around their place, but by contrast they seemed utterly unconcerned, like this sort of thing happened every day. Eventually, I teased out the trail, which required navigating through a pair of secured fences, and then a long, sustained ascent up a slick, clay track. The night’s rain had transformed an otherwise unremarkable walk into a slip-and-slide. At one point, both feet whooshed right out from under me, resulting in a messy arm and leg, and I counted myself fortunate to not emerge in even greater disrepair. Throughout the whole climb, the dogs shadowed me in silence, as though they were enjoying the show.
It was a relief to reach Cropalati, which had a fountain positioned right at the crossroads–perfect for some impromptu bathing. Inspiring some flashbacks to the Etruscan towns of Lazio, I marveled at the houses set almost on the edge of a sheer cliff. Once a popular site for hermits seeking caves, this became a castle town in the 14th century. Today, the Cammino bypasses the center, but like the fountain a bar also sits at the crossroads. I was happy to top off my caffeine and confirm with the barista that the next town, Destro, had a bakery open for business. The idea that had emerged in my mind over the past hours was to aim for Destro. With some modest supplies already in my pack, if I could mix in some additional calories, I’d be able to walk without urgency for Longobucco.
And Destro was just an hour of highway walking away, so I pushed on, refreshed, and eager to hit the next stop. I was surprised, though, to also run into a bar with a tiny grocery at the entrance to Destro. I couldn’t help but pop in and buy a cup of yogurt, though that saw me get stuck in line behind two people somehow doing a week’s worth of shopping in this tiny outpost. Still, this felt like a bonus, and I merrily inhaled the yogurt outside the shop, before ambling to the other side of town and the bakery.
One man was already inside when I passed through the beaded ropes. That’s when I saw them: the two big slices of margherita pizza, sitting inside the glass case. After some conversation, the man asked for a handful of rolls. Then he asked for a couple bags of the pretzel-like bread circles that are popular here.
And then he did it. He did it so casually, so blithely. He took the pizza. Both of them.
Stunned, before he even left, I asked the baker if he had any other pizza tucked away in back. “No,” he said, “that was all of it.” I heroically swallowed three different expletives, ordered a couple rolls, and shuffled out.
I calmly packed away the bread, took a big swig of water, reshouldered my bag, tightened all the straps, and charged. Now it wasn’t just about food. It was a matter of principle. I was going to reach Longobucco before 1:30pm. I was going to find some pizza. And I was going to curse that dude in my head every step of the way there.
Working in my favor was the route, which followed an elevated rural highway that climbed steadily into the hills, set on stilts drilled into another dried-out riverbed. My fastest walking speed comes on a 5-10% grade, and this provided exactly those conditions. Along the way, the Cammino Basiliano guide informed me, were ruins of a handful of Basilian sites, but these must not be signposted well–even at high speed, my head was on a swivel. Still, one can quickly recognize the appeal. Even today, it’s a place of ample isolation, with precious few residents. Along the way, the road featured those distance signs, with the kilometers from Longobucco in large font and tenths of kilometers separating the current kilometer from the next one in smaller Roman numerals above. As I moved to within three clicks of town, I accelerated, chewing up one football field after another in quick succession, pushing, pushing, pushing.
The final approach in Longobucco requires one to double-back around to the left and then swerve through several switchbacks up the hill, the town looming high overhead. Still, my pace persisted undiminished. Suddenly I was in the town, passing the bronze gates of the church, turning into the piazza, slipping past a group of young people hanging out, through a pair of bars, and I paused for none of it, gave it zero thought. I had the bakery in my sights, half a block down a side street. In one, fluid motion I charged up to the door, grabbed the handle, turned inside, evaluated the contents of the glass case, and engaged the baker in conversation.
There were three pieces of pizza. Three. I took two, leaving one for whomever comes next. I felt very smug.
The petty party, as it happens, paid multiple dividends. The pizza made for a much more satisfying dinner. The mini-mart, also open, set me up with supplies for a good snack in the piazza. And I hadn’t just arrived by 1:30pm; I reached the center a few minutes before 1. With 42km in the books already, I had also secured an arrival at my destination with plenty of daylight to spare.
And so I kicked up my feet in Longobucco and took in the scene. It’s still kind of surprising to see such life in these small, mountain towns. It’s customary on the Camino de Santiago to find towns that are well down the aging curve, with younger people having moved elsewhere in pursuit of opportunities. But Longobucco was teeming with youth–I think I arrived shortly after school wrapped up for the day. It’s also jam-packed with history. A center of silver mining during the era of Magna Graecia, some have linked Longobucco to Homer’s Temesa. All those years of excavation, though, eventually wore out the mountain, resulting in the closure of the mines in 1783. Instead, today the town is known for its textiles, linked to traditional hand-weaving techniques.
Even with the found time, I still couldn’t afford to linger for too long. The Cammino led me up a winding road, as though the town’s slim streets were braided together heading uphill, until I finally emerged on the road far above, the entire town laid out beneath me. But that was just the beginning–the ascent persisted, now at a steeper grade than everything preceding it, topping out around 1500m, and passing a series of tiny homesteads, each with a thin sliver of a garden wedged into the crease in the mountain through which I was traveling. Finally, I tipped over to the other side, leading into a high mountain valley and the closing stretch to Cerviolo.
Many visions had flashed through my head when I saw that there was a “hut” available to pilgrims in Cerviolo. The reality was quite different. A large mountain camp complex sat at the intersection of the trail and provincial road, in considerable disrepair. Seemingly every door was chained shut with a padlock. At first, I gave up hope entirely of any sort of indoor spacing. Then, I decided to push a kilometer further down the road, as my earlier research had made me believe the hut was located there. I discovered that the later spot was actually a shuttered agriturismo, so I turned tail and retraced the unnecessary kilometer. At least the first place had a covered, open space that would provide some semblance of shelter.
With a piece of pizza in hand, I made one more tour of the complex, and along the way I noticed one door that wasn’t chained shut. Instead, there was an eyehook, reaching out from the interior and hooking through a loop on the outside. With a shrug, I popped the hook and the door swung open. Within was a spartan room, half living room and half kitchen, featuring a few very comfortable-looking armchairs. And then I noticed something even more remarkable. The room was warm. Someone had left the embers of a fire behind, maybe a day or two earlier, and they were still simmering away. I slammed the door shut behind me and plopped down in a chair. It was every bit as comfortable as it looked.
I kicked up my feet. I had never imagined armchairs in a hut, but God, what a delight. And to think–it was the pizza that made it all possible.
