What’s the best way to create a long-distance walking route from scratch? Over the last few days, I’ve been kicking around that question, and I’ve found the Cammino Materano and Cammino Basiliano to make for an interesting comparison.
Both routes demonstrate the ambition of their creators. While the Basiliano spans many more kilometers, the Materano’s vision includes an expansive network of shorter routes spiderwebbing outward from Matera. That said, the organizers of the Materano have exercised considerable restraint in how they roll out each of those routes. Indeed, I found this rather frustrating when they wouldn’t share their in-progress itinerary for the Via Jonica. However, there’s a quality standard that they’re aiming to hit, and they don’t want a pilgrim to have a bad experience under their guidance.
The most-walked and fully-developed branches of the Materano, particularly the Via Ellenica and Via Peuceta, check all the boxes. Pilgrim accommodation is available at the end of nearly every stage. Some water refill spots have been established along the way. The waymarking is quite good. A significant amount of each stage takes place off pavement.
It’s discouraging to discover that the full network of routes, which the website makes appear fully realized at first glance, doesn’t actually exist in practice. But again, there’s a standard.
The Cammino Basiliano, meanwhile–and I mean this in the nicest way possible–has exercised no restraint. The website, which is a triumph in its own right, currently lists 83 different stages and collectively these span nearly 1600 kilometers. That’s more than double the Camino Francés.
And yet, many of those kilometers take place on provincial roads. That’s not the most damning of indictments; traffic is light and the walking is often plenty scenic. But there are places where off-road possibilities must exist; I spotted a few on my own, at first glance. On the flipside, some of the more limited stretches where the Basiliano veers onto footpaths can become quite overgrown and difficult to navigate. So yes, I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth, but this is part of the challenge of route management–finding the best walking approach possible and then building a network of locals to help keep it in good shape.
On the Materano, there’s a tight-knit network of local volunteers, including enthusiastic individuals who will show pilgrims around many of the towns in the evening. On the Basiliano, I couldn’t even get a credential. When I sought out some advice on less expensive accommodation, I basically received the email equivalent of a shrug. While many towns have a Cammino Basiliano sign at a prominent spot in the center, encouraging people to scan the QR-code for information, it remains a mystery.
None of that is meant to come across as a serious critique of the Basiliano. For all I know, the Cammino is a pure passion project spearheaded by one or two Calabrians, pouring all their spare time into a great dream for their region. In many ways, it was and is the linchpin to my Italy plans; take this away and there would be a massive hole in my itinerary. I had to freestyle a long way just to link the Via Francigena Sud and the Basiliano. Remove the Basiliano and the whole thing collapses. Thank goodness for their wild ambition. But still, I wonder if starting smaller, building a stronger foundation, and then expanding outward might have resulted in a better and more sustainable initiative.
Today’s walk exemplifies some of the best and most frustrating aspects of the Cammino Basiliano. The opening twelve kilometers continued to mostly follow the provincial road, as has been the case for most of the past two days. The darkness took its time departing this morning, so I played the most boring version of Frogger possible, sliding with or against traffic each time car lights pierced the veil. Finally, I slipped through the small village of Torre di Ruggiero, where I tried (and failed) for weeks to reach what I had heard was pilgrim-friendly accommodation, and into neighboring Cardinale.
I popped into a bar in the center of Cardinale and nearly walked right back out when I found the pastry case empty. “Wait, wait,” said the barista, as she scrubbed what looked like two dozen espresso cups. She hustled into the back room and emerged with a sheet of new croissants, fresh out of the oven. Later, when I prepared to leave, she asked me what I was up to. Another guy at the bar jumped in and started peppering me with questions. I was explaining the accommodation situation, comparing the network of pilgrim hostels in the north with the dearth of such options in the south, when the barista interrupted me. “Many churches here have a room available, like Torre di Ruggiero.” “I tried,” I replied, in my most wheedling Italian. “I wrote, I texted, and I never got a response.” “No, you’ll never get a response,” she said. “You just have to show up at the door.” And then she comped me the breakfast, wishing me well.
After Cardinale, the Cammino Basiliano finally broke from pavement, climbing into the hills along logging tracks. It’s fascinating, watching the gps, as the majority of the dirt roads are completely absent, never mind the footpaths. This is exceptionally unusual; I’ve been watching gps tracks closely for years now, across the US and Western Europe, and while there are some occasional ghosts, I’ve never seen such a tabula rasa. From a walking perspective, this poses challenges, as it’s impossible to prepare oneself for which upcoming turns to ignore. As a consequence, there were a few points early in this walk when I was lulled into a false sense of security, sticking with what felt like the most established track, only to be forced to backtrack later, when I discovered that I had missed a turn.
Backtracking, of course, is the mature move. Heck, it’s the first rule of hiking, or at least should be: when you discover that you’ve made a wrong turn, double back to the scene of the crime, instead of pushing ahead with the confident–and erroneous–belief that you can find a way to reconnect later. I’ve known this rule for years, browbeaten it into my students’ heads on trips… and yet, at some point on every trip, I disregard it with painful consequences.
Today, that meant at one point that I found myself scaling a hillside into a dense pit of stickerbushes, trying to thwack my way through them with the weakest facsimile of a tree branch possible. I had disregarded the many mini-lacerations dragging across my shins and hands, but when one high-dangling branch snipped across my nose and cheek, it finally caught my attention. And so, gingerly and methodically, while also wiping blood off my face, I did what I should have done in the first place, and marched back to the original intersection, tail firmly between my legs. It really wasn’t that far.
And then I powered ahead with determination! I had time to make up! The trail led sharply uphill, destined for the mountaintop, and when it finally plateaued I popped out the gps to see how far my little beacon had moved. And moved it had… right off from my intended route. I unleashed an explosive expletive and then turned right back around. Lesson learned.
My heart sank when I found the trail I was supposed to follow, which was covered in stickerbushes. Still, I was dedicated to doing this the right way. I battled through the first wave, earned twenty meters of easy walking, and then found myself ensnared again almost immediately after. Looking ahead, no further reprieve was in sight; this was going to be a bloody battle for each and every meter.
So I made the logical decision to go back to the dirt road I had been following erroneously, optimistic that it would reconnect with the official route further on. And sure enough, it did! I guess this is the second rule of hiking. Fortunately, from that point on the walking was much easier, with wide open dirt roads leading most of the way to Serra San Bruno.
While the walking mostly moved through quiet woods, there were a couple surprises. In what felt like the middle of nowhere, I encountered an old hotel that now seems to be flats for young people, a handful of whom were gathered outside socializing. The building is showing its age and lack of upkeep, but nearly every room had clotheslines filled with drying apparel. Just down the dirt track was an even more impressive structure, though similarly scarred with signs of neglect. There’s a story here, courtesy of a comment on Google Maps: “Structure built a few decades ago dedicated to welcoming elderly people in need but “NEVER” entered into operation. It is yet another example of an Italy aimed at waste and incorrect management of its potential. Today the structure also shows the heavy vandalism suffered over the years. Doors and shutters torn off, windows shattered, bathroom fixtures stolen, etc. etc. It’s a shame that no one has ever been interested in restoring this cathedral in the desert.” The powerful frustration of a local, left with no option but to vent their disdain on a Google comment few will ever read, jumps off the screen.
The phrasing is evocative and apropos, as Serra San Bruno started out as, more or less, a cathedral in the desert. Bruno of Cologne was the creator of the Carthusian Order in the 11th century, founding the great monastic charterhouse in the Dauphiné. He likely would have been happy to spend his life there, but Pope Urban II summoned him to Rome in 1091. Those were complicated, messy years, and before long Urban, Bruno, and the rest of the Vatican crowd were in flight, seeking escape from the invading German Emperor Henry IV and the antipope Guibert. They ended up in Southern Italy, where Bruno was released from papal responsibilities and allowed to return to the life of a hermit in the Norman lands just north of Reggio Calabria.
He described his new home in a letter to one of his closest companions, and it could still describe the region today: “Of its beauty, its mild and healthy climate, the vast and pleasant plain that extends for a long stretch between the mountains, with its verdant prairies and its flourishing pastures, what could I adequately tell you? Who can adequately describe the aspect of the hills that gently rise on all sides, the recesses of the shady valleys, with the pleasant abundance of rivers, streams, and springs? Nor is there a lack of irrigated gardens nor of varied and fertile fruit trees.” Along with his hermitage, he also founded–two kilometers away–the monastery of Santo Stefano, which still stands today.
And there, too, are the diverging outcomes of unbridled ambition. San Bruno didn’t just create a monastic order in France and an extension of that in Calabria; he founded a thriving town that remains a treasure chest of religious architecture today. By contrast, just down the road, a palatial complex for the elderly moulders away in disuse, never once used for its intended purpose. In some ways, creation is the easy part. A building, a website, a set of gps tracks… they’re time-consuming, for sure, but that’s a finite commitment. But what happens next? Is there a long-standing commitment? Only time will tell with the Basiliano and Materano.
