In Italy, even when you’re not on pilgrimage, you’re probably on pilgrimage.
Waking up early, I took full advantage of the self-service breakfast in a room just off the cloister, bringing out two mugs of coffee to admire the stars overhead as I fired off the previous day’s blog post. Even still, I couldn’t afford to linger too much past sunrise, as a long day stood before me, and the rocky trail conditions from yesterday’s walk stood as a stark warning. A 3km per hour pace today would set me up for seventeen hours of walking, which would have me going until just shy of midnight.
The only two villages in the first half of the walk, including the larger Piaggine, came in quick succession, and I fought off the temptation to veer off-route in order to hunt down a macchiato. With those behind me, a steady ascent into the hills began. It sounds counter-intuitive, but this was the easiest climb to an 1800+ meter mountain peak ever designed, often along a dirt track. Even the final push along footpaths, though, was free from both huffing and puffing, and as I emerged from the thick tree cover I had enjoyed for most of the walk I was astonished by the transformed world around me. Bare, rocky peaks unrolled like camel backs before me, while all around they plummeted into green valleys far below. I followed a footpath along the side of La Nevera, a rounded peak, and then joined a newly-paved road that led soon after to a dirt parking lot, which even had a handful of cars. A lantern-lined trail, jarringly developed after so long in the woods, brought me up one last ascent through towering beech trees to the Rifugio Cervati, a mountain hut complex just on the edge of the Cervati mountain.
This brought with it two surprises. First, the staffed refuge office had a thermos of coffee available for visitors, which was an absolute delight. Second, and more notably, there was a shrine just above, built high into the mountainside, dedicated to the Madonna della Neva.
While the origins are unclear, some suspect that it was Greek monks from the nearby monastery of Santa Maria di Sirippi who initially placed the Byzantine-style statue of the Madonna here, within a crevice in the rock, likely around the year 1000. A second room was added in the 18th century, to accommodate the growing streams of visitors. The transition between the two rooms is narrow–intentionally so, to prevent thieves from stealing the statue. One legend suggests that such a move was unnecessary, as if someone attempted to remove the statue the cavern would simply close around them.
Along with the impact of the Basilian monks of Greek heritage, this region is also rich in Marian worship, and by the 20th century the Cilento region had identified the “seven sisters,” or the seven Marian sanctuaries in the area, of which this stands out as perhaps the most significant.
A magnificent pilgrimage tradition exists to the shrine, though I unwittingly ended up following it in reverse, as I descended the “Sentiero Storico” towards the town of Sanza, first winding through one more stunning stretch of rocky mountaintop, and then plunging abruptly back into the woods.
On July 26th every year, for centuries, the villagers of Sanza prepare for a very long night. After mass concludes, and the fireworks complete their show overhead, a procession begins to Monte Cervati and the Madonna’s shrine. At the front of the procession is carried another statue of the Madonna, the long-venerated golden statue, enclosed in a wooden stipa, or palanquin. The great tradition within the tradition involves the men carrying that stipa. The Archconfraternity of Santa Maria della Neve is composed of marunnari, perhaps one hundred local men who are integrated into the order in childhood and spend their lives serving this vital role. As the climb proceeds ever higher into the mountains, and the crowd of townsfolk inevitably tires, the marunnari race more swiftly forward, the weight on their backs posing no challenge, until they arrive, settle the virgin back into her home, and prepare the chapel for the other visitors’ arrival. The Madonna of Sanza remains there for ten days, until a reverse procession returns her to Sanza on August 5.
I confess that when I arrived in Sanza, following a wide, looping arc that allowed me to admire the lovely hilltown in full, I was much more focused on food. At just after 2pm on a Sunday, I already knew that the town’s lone grocery would be closed, and I was prepared to find little more than a stale croissant in an empty bar. Even when I stumbled across the bakery, I was initially discouraged to find the door locked and the lights off. Fortunately, though, I paused and took in the scene, discovering a hand-written “panificio” sign with an arrow, guiding me behind the building. And indeed, there was the actual site of the bakery, its ovens still churning away, and stacks of prepackaged cookies on display. I was prepared to just load up on pastries, including a couple of Naples’s famous sfogliatella, when the friendly baker waved me back to the ovens to show me the long sheets of pizza that had just emerged, still bubbly hot. My hands suddenly full of cheesy calories, he then insisted on steering me back to the other building, so that I could sit and eat outside of the persistent drizzle, also delivering two bottles of water to my table before he returned to work. As I left Sanza, I passed an elderly couple, enjoying the afternoon from a bench beneath a tree in their yard, who asked me what I was up to. “I’m walking across Italy,” I said, “from Switzerland to Sicily.” “Always on foot?” “Yes, always.” “Mamma mia!” I laughed and headed back into the hills.
While the drizzle tapered off, the damage had been done on the next section, as the soft dirt trail combined with my traction-less shoes resulted in a lot of slip-sliding and some slow-going ascents, lest I engage in a very unenjoyable game of Chutes and Chutes. At one point, the trail simply dove straight uphill, a stark break from the consistent switchbacks and steady grades elsewhere in the day, and I found myself grasping for tree branches to help lever myself forward. I was surprised to stumble across a tiny hamlet, with a handful of rustic stone buildings–a community of goatherds who specialize in cheese, according to one informational placard. A man stood, watching me approach with a flat expression. I smiled and greeted him, and his face split wide into a grin. We had a near-identical conversation to the one that happened in Sanza, complete with another “Mamma mia!”
As smoothly as most of the day had gone, it nearly went off the rails in the next section, as I lost the thread of the trail. For most of the day, the red and white blazes had been reliable, and I only periodically needed to consult the gps to confirm that I remained on the right track. This time, though, the dramatic elevation shifts caused by rocky incursions in the otherwise soft-dirt hills resulted in me being one hundred meters above the trail, and eventually I realized I just needed to scramble down the side. Immersed in thick tree cover, the late-afternoon light disappeared swiftly, and I imagined the worst case scenario of needing to find a narrow strip of flat ground within which to cocoon myself for the night. That was motivation enough to push hard, and in time I found the trail. Even still, some damage was done, as I spent the last half-hour of the walk in pitch black, though mercifully by that point I was on paved road.
Arrival in Fortino was a mysterious, dramatic affair. After having been ensconced in darkness, this small, luminescent ball suddenly took shape within the hills. A small string of streetlights, a few homes glowing on either side. And then the hum of conversation. Pushing along the goat-shit-coated street, I reached the glowing heart of the town, the tavern, which included a few large clusters of locals, all chatting happily, while large pens filled with goats looked on silently to the left. The people treated me like sunflowers–as I walked past each group, one head, then two, then the whole group would suddenly turn and take in this bizarre apparition, this hiker complete with a sahara hat and sunglasses across the bill, emerging from the darkness. Some small festa was taking place, and while part of me considered this to be great fortune, the other part, which had just walked for thirteen straight hours and was undergoing a massive adrenaline dump, was heartily discouraged. I wasn’t going to find a peaceful place to crash by the town church, which stood right in the middle of this.
I topped off my water bottle and sat down to eat a can of lentils. The pop-top popped off without the lid. I bashed the can against a rock until a small hole broke open, allowing me to slide the handle of my spoon in and withdraw a small line of lentils. Certainly the most genteel way possible to eat lentils from a can. Eventually, I gave up, tossed it, and shouldered my pack. At last, luck was with me. An old Casa Cantoniera, the buildings that line the highways up and down Italy but are no longer used, stood abandoned just outside the center. Its gate stood cracked open, just wide enough for me to slide through, and its wide covered patio had just enough floor space cleared for my bivy. It was meant to be. I set up camp, slipped into my sleeping bag–at 900 meters, I realized summer was a thing of the past–and zipped the bivy shut, so pleased to be lying down. And then the DJ started his set.
The following morning, I set out from the outskirts of Fortino quite early, spending another half-hour walking in darkness. I had shifted my plans the night before in order to re-route through the town of Lagonegro, a far better plan than my initial itinerary, both because this meant morning coffee and because it allowed me to take advantage of a long rail-trail cycling track that I had previously expected to join far later in the day. This shaved off some kilometers and simplified the food situation for the day.
It also, I later discovered, brought me back to Santiago. As I neared the outskirts of Lauria, the town that marks the official beginning of the Cammino Basiliano for me, I stomped the brakes when I saw a sign announcing “Il Piccolo Cammino di Santiago.” What on earth?! I continued running into signs as I proceeded into Lauria, making a steep descent from the old rail line. I later learned that this little Cammino spans ten kilometers, and is a reflection of the strong affinity locals have for San Giacomo, or Santiago. I had already seen a church dedicated to him in a neighboring town, but within Lauria the Hermitage of San Michele alle Grottelle features a fresco of Santiago that includes the “hanged innocent” miracle story, among others, complete with flying chickens. A local group suggests that Santiago’s popularity here is linked with the cult of Saint Michael, exemplified in Monte Sant’Angelo, and that many pilgrims would find ways to connect their journeys to both shrines.
As important as Santiago might be in this region, he’s no Domenico Lentini. Born in Lauria in 1770 to a poor family, he committed his life to the priesthood at fourteen, and spent nearly his entire life in Lauria. He is remembered for his remarkable dedication to the poor, stripping off his own clothes and shoes to give them away, going without food, and sleeping on the floor. He lived with extreme penance, including acts of self-flagellation, with the goal of atoning for humanity’s sins.
His life overlapped with what might have been the most desperate, most painful moment in Lauria’s long history. In 1806, as Napoleon’s forces swept through the region, Lauria stood as a center of resistance. Napoleon had already made it clear that such belligerence would be met with extreme force–and it was. As Thomas Pedius writes, “At the hands of Marshal Massena… about a thousand citizens fell under the enemy’s sword; one hundred and forty-two houses in Upper Lauria and two-thirds of all the others in Lower Lauria were burned, including the two mother churches and the magnificent Convent of the Minor Observants. The looting was widespread, as was the weeping, desolation, and mourning.” The “Lauria Massacre,” as it became known, included the slaughter of one hundred inhabitants who were hiding in caves, widespread rape, and the massacring of the sick and wounded in their own beds.
In the face of that, Lentini remained steadfast in his devotion to the town, known for his ecstatic and intense celebrations of the Eucharist. Throughout his life, he was already credited with many miracles, and these only intensified following his death–which was marked by the “odor” of sanctity. His funeral took place over seven days, his body remaining warm and smelling sweet throughout. In the days and years that followed, a number of miraculous healings have been reported, linked to his intervention, some of which have received official acknowledgement–leading to his beatification by Pope John Paul II in 1997.
I climbed to the castle ruins on Lauria and then made one additional push back up to the rail trail. One last hour of walking brought me to the outskirts of neighboring Galdo, where I was quite grateful to have a bed waiting for me–with no accompanying soundtrack.
