Apennines to the Adriatic, Via Francigena Sud

We wake to the deep silence of the contemplative Monastery of Santa Catarina. There’s heavy rain forecast and it comes early. The beautiful Trebulani Mountains are lost to us. We’re walking the Via Francigena Sud, a 950 km route following the Appian Way southwards from Rome. After 10 days in Lazio, we turn inland towards the mountainous Campania.

It’s May Day and we’re lucky to find coffee and respite from the rain at a workers’ bar. La Festa dei Lavori is a celebration of workers’ rights. It’s been a public holiday in Italy since the 1800s. In the more industrialised north, workers mark the day with marches and speeches. Here in the south, it’s more of a family picnic day, if the weather is on the side of the worker.

We walk on, through mediaeval villages and verdant green forests. The rain continues unabated. Ancient stone towers, Roman theatres and abandoned farms appear out of the mist. We arrive in Statigliano and find its only restaurant closed this Mayday. But our host surprises us with a feast; an array of dishes featuring homegrown ingredients and wild herbs foraged from the mountains. Oh, and a bottle of excellent homemade red wine to go with the food. 

Above the clouds, the shimmer of castles and mountain peaks. Underfoot, a path softened by camomile and mint. A woman in a blue Fiat stops to check that we’re okay. She shows us where she lives and says to call on her if we need food or shelter.

The rain eases. The landscape takes on detail. Oak trees, olive groves, wheat fields, a sweeping valley and dramatic mountain ridges. Close to Ponti, high on a hill overlooking the valley, is a fortified site with a round tower dating back to the 10th century. Legend has it that a lord of the castle accused his wife of being a witch and threw her down from the ramparts. The nearby Mt Erbano is named in her honour. History has erased the lord from its books.

We follow the path as it winds through Holm oak forests. Past an imposing bluestone castle, across a Roman bridge over the cloudy green Titerno River and along the heavily wooded slopes of Mount Acero.

In 1349, a great earthquake destroyed everything in this region. Immediately after the earthquake, sulphurous springs appeared that are now the basis for a renowned spa complex. We are looking forward to soaking in the hot pools but the complex is ‘under renovation’. Denied an anticipated pleasure, we come down hard in our opinion of the town.

Benedictine monks lived in the nearby Abbey of the Santissimo Salvatore until the end of the 16th century. It was here that Anselm, the theologian and philosopher, wrote part of his work, Why Did God Become Man? Like Sigeric, the first chronicler of the Via Francigena, Anselm rose to be the Archbishop of Canterbury. 

We wake to a sunny day. Mountains glowing, birds on song. We walk past the lake out of town, through vineyards and fields of medicinal herbs. The climb up through the wooded Taburno-Camposauro Massif is a beautiful walk. Ancient mule tracks lead us through remote, rugged country. At 500 metres we have views across the valley to the rugged mountains on the other side.

From Utile, we walk downhill to the Calore River, past farmers pruning their olive trees. On a bike path on the outskirts of Benevento, we meet Marcello. He’s the local Birdlife International representative and tells us that the nearby wetlands provide critical refuge for ducks, herons, cormorants, woodpeckers and migratory cranes. They also provide solace to Marcello when he’s missing his young son who lives in Croatia with his ex-wife.

A peaceful morning’s walk; an afternoon exploring Benevento’s stone treasures. Buildings a puzzle of pilfered materials; Roman columns, inscribed headstones, Hellenic statues. The imposing Arch of Trajan, the Roman Theatre that held 10,000 spectators and the Church of Santa Sofia, a UNESCO heritage site. Arechi II, Duke of Benevento, built the church as a personal chapel for the redemption of his soul and the salvation of his people. It connects to the monastery where the Beneventan script was born, the minuscule handwriting that was in use in southern Italy for five centuries.

Benevento is a cosmopolitan city. Its cafes and bars are lively, its streets buoyed by a diversity of people. Collar-and-tie professionals, tattooed hipsters, retirees, university students, fluro-clad tradies, playful children. 

An early morning spellbound by the wild manoeuvres of swallows. The allure of the Apennines propelling us forward. A hazy, humid day. A heron lifting off from a pool of water created by rain.

Drying sheds where great bunches of garlic and chillies hang and corn dries on wooden racks. A patchwork of undulating green fields. Olive trees and olive oil processing plants (this area is renowned for its excellent DOP olive oil). The smoke from fires. The earth rumbling off in the distance. Could it be an earthquake? The Apennine Mountains lie between the Eurasian and the Adriatic plates and are turbulent. When we check, we learn there have been sixty-five quakes measuring up to magnitude 3.7 in the past 24 hours.

In Buonalbergo, we dine with our hosts and three Italian pilgrims from Bergamo. It’s a simple, delicious and raucous dinner. Vegetables from the nearby fields, a bottle of barbera wine from their grapes, captivating stories. The Italians double the number of pilgrims we’ve seen to date from three to six.

We’re up early to see the world in all its glory (and because we have a challenging day’s walk ahead). We follow an ancient royal droving route, down to the Miscano River and then back up into the hills. A man out walking his dog stops to chat. He tells us of the transhumance tradition in this region; the droving of livestock from the hills to the valleys in the autumn. It’s a tradition he feels a deep connection to when he’s out walking the same path his ancestors walked for centuries. September, let’s go. It is time to migrate … my shepherds leave the folds and go towards the sea; they go to the wild Adriatic that is green like the pasture of the mountains. (Gabriele D’Annunzio).

We walk past a charming chapel dedicated to the Virgin of the Forest and out into the fields. They are muddy and pock-marked by cows. The waist-high grass is wet and the river crossing is hazardous. Even though it takes you onto the asphalt, we wish we had taken the winter variant.

Outside an abandoned resort, we meet Bruno, a French pilgrim from Brittany who is walking to Jerusalem. He doesn’t like digital wayfinding devices. Instead, he is relying on directions in an Italian guidebook that he translates into French each evening.  He’s taking a different route to us this afternoon and at a fork in the road, he turns and waves. We wish him a buon cammino.

The highest point of today’s walk is 950 metres, our last high point in the southern Apennines. From here, we’ll drop down to the vast plains that lie between us and the Adriatic Coast. Once we’re clear of the mud, it’s glorious walking across the high plains. They’re harsh and remote in winter but gentle with alpine wildflowers on this fine spring day.

A path through beech woods takes us into the small village of Celle di San Vito. It has just 162 inhabitants and is only one of two Franco-Provençal speaking minorities in Apulia. Provençal soldiers came here in the 13th century to wage battle on behalf of Charles of Anjou. They stayed on and founded the town. Their language was influenced by the local dialect and protected by the town’s isolated location

The day begins with a climb to a high point with views out over the great plains. Beyond it is the sea, glowing golden in the early morning light. A cuckoo calls as we walk through the forest and out into a high, quiet byway. There are villages off in the distance and an occasional farmhouse. Otherwise, the world is all ours as we look out across vast undulating fields of ripening wheat.

We come to a fork in the road. The official Via Francigena signpost says we should go one way. Our direction-finding app says another. While we’re considering these two options, a couple of workers in a van drive by and point to a third option. On a whim, we take it. We’ll never know if it was the best way to go, but it’s a lovely winding path, the breeze is warm and the world is still.

Carrion bells sound out across Troija. Soon after leaving the village, we meet a couple walking in the opposite direction. Jen & Tom started their Via Francigena in the south, where the known world begins, and will finish in Rome. We’d be happy to chat for hours but there’s rain forecast and we want to be off the road before it starts. 

We stay the night in a Masseria (an old fortified farm), now an agritourism venture with a focus on food. It makes its own buffalo milk cheeses and is proud of its burnt wheat pasta dishes. The dark-coloured wheat is an ancient ingredient, born out of poverty. Gleaners from the poorest families used to collect the ears of wheat left after the stubble was burnt and grind it into flour. With a resurgence of interest in food traditions, burnt wheat pasta is back on the menu. Diners delight in its earthy, smoky taste and the memories it evokes.

Rain again this morning and the forecast of more. Red poppies, velvety in the soft early light, fringe the track. The plains flatten and wheat gives way to olive groves. The demise of feudalism, war, and the consolidation of farms have changed the fabric of life in this region. We pass a litany of abandoned, now derelict, farms; some of them once owned by the richest and noblest of families. Once these families left the land, the villagers moved on as well.

Birds of prey hovering above fields of garlic and tomatoes, the Red Queens of Puglia. We walk on remote back roads, up over a gentle hill to another valley and into Ordona. The town centre lies near the ancient site of Hedonia where Hannibal fought an important battle against the Roman army.

We stop by a patisserie in town to buy food for tomorrow’s lunch. Upon learning where we’re from, the proprietor refuses payment for the pasties we’ve selected. He explains that his cousin also lives in Melbourne so, in his eyes, we are family.

The bar at the service station on the edge of town is lively with locals. They’ve driven here and when they finish drinking, they’ll drive home. Even though it’s been mandatory for decades, most of them won’t wear a seatbelt. They’ll talk on their mobiles and may even have a small child sitting on their lap. Italy is not known for its safe and responsible driving and as a consequence, it has one of the highest numbers of road deaths in Western Europe.

The sun coming up. Migrant workers harvesting asparagus, broccoli, fennel and artichokes. A little further on, the landscape is dominated by wheat fields and wind farms. A volcano glowers on the horizon. The sky is broody.

Three men in an olive tree sing in harmony as they prune the branches. The track winds through fields until we reach Stornara, part of the granary of Italy. It’s named for the starlings (storni) that circle the wheat fields in autumn as farmers prepare the land for sowing. Even though it’s a small town, it’s host to a rap music festival, several striking murals and a cafe with a big city vibe.

We walk on a dirt track through olive groves for an hour or so until the downpour that was forecast hits. The rain is torrential. As dirt turns into an ankle-deep river of mud, we make for the bitumen. Even on the road, the water is a force to be reckoned with, pooling in the dips and flooding the sidewalks. It rains all the way to Cerignola.

Cerignola more or less marks the halfway point of our Via Francigena. We happen upon a stylish bar and, despite our bedraggled appearance, treat ourselves to a celebratory Spritz.

The next morning, the sky is clear and the sun warm. We walk into grape-growing country, the vine leaves bright green, the fruit budding. It’s pleasant walking, except for the piles of rubbish dumped by the side of the road. It’s a blight on the landscape.

Our route leads us to the highway for a short stretch. We pass three sex workers, sitting on office chairs by the side of the road a few hundred metres from each other. Skimpy red outfits, gold stilettos, a suitcase, a rutted, dusty motorway. It’s a surreal scene. Italy is a destination country for women trafficked for sexual exploitation and we hope that this has not been the fate of these women.

We are soon off the highway and walking along a quiet path, past the ruins of an ancient mausoleum and a Roman bridge built in the 2nd century. The bridge was on the Via Traiana, the road connecting Rome with the port of Brindisi on the Adriatic Sea. 

A man photographing the bridge turns his attention to taking photos of us. A little further on, a car pulls up. The driver gets out and welcomes us to Canosa di Puglia. He’s the President of the local Friends of the Via Francigena group, alerted to our pending arrival by the man on the bridge. In the half an hour it takes for us to walk into town, the President has arranged for a young woman to act as our guide. She meets us in the piazza, presents us with an information pack and escorts us to the Cathedral to have our credentials stamped.

Later in the day, we revisit the Cathedral. The odd jobs man recognises us and insists on opening the crypt and the mausoleum for us. Commemorating Marco Boemondo, a hero of the 1st Crusade who died in 1111, the mausoleum was placed next to the Cathedral in the Norman era.

In the morning, on our way out of town, we meet the members of a local walking group. Ah, ‘it’s the Australians’ they call out. They’ve seen us on the Friends of the Via Francigena Facebook page. We exchange good-natured banter and pose for photos before saying our goodbyes. It’s as unexpected and warm a farewell as our welcome yesterday.

Olive plantations, vineyards, pomegranate trees in flower. Fig trees starting to fruit. Soon the land will yield an abundance of food.

Dry stone walls. Stone boundary markers etched with the initials of the property owner and the date they took up the land. Buildings the same pale colour as the earth. Distant voices. A thrilling glimpse of the sparking blue Adriatic Sea.

With time to explore, we visit the Mucci Confetti Museum in Andria. We learn that sugared almonds can taste delicious (unlike those we remember from weddings past). And that colour is significant. White for weddings. Green for engagements. Lilac for same-sex marriages. Orange for new beginnings.

A quiet Saturday morning. We walk out of town, past abandoned farms where the figurines of the saints that once protected the inhabitants lie forgotten and forlorn. In Corato, we pay a visit to the 11th-century church of Santa Maria Maggiore. It’s known for its bas-relief of the flight of Alexander but we’re struck by the fragment of a beautiful fresco depicting the Virgin and Child.

We pass several beehive-shaped trulli. Shepherds driving sheep along this ancient traturri used these stone huts as shelters. A stone cistern. A Bronze Age dolmen tomb. Dry stone walls. Ancient olive trees growing in the pale, stony soil. Cherries ripening.

As we walk past the Romanesque Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta in Ruvo di Puglia, a bride and groom emerge in an explosion of joy. We explore the mediaeval heart of the town, wandering through its twisted lanes, past Baroque churches and 16th-century palaces. There’s an outdoor exhibition featuring the stories of local-born anti-fascists and partisans. Tens of thousands of people from the south worked in the industrial north during WWII and many of them took part in the partisan struggle in the mountains.

This morning the wind is howling. We don’t expect to find a bar open let alone have company but we run into Frank, a local, as we’re walking out of town. He knows a bar that’s serving coffee and invites us to join him. Several of his mates are in the bar and he takes on the role of go-between and translator. Where are we from, they want to know. Where are we going? Why are we walking? How old are we? Once the volley of questions subsides, we finish our coffee and say our goodbyes. Frank is visiting relatives in Melbourne next year and we promise that the next coffee is on us.

Seagulls wheeling, foretelling of the sea just a day away now. We walk for hours through olive groves on the ‘way of plants and flowers’. The wind calms and with it, the world. No barking dogs. Not a house in sight. No human presence. Just us, alone with our thoughts, moving step by step towards Bitonto.

We walk past a vast cemetery on the outskirts of town. It’s busy this Sunday morning with flower sellers and families praying for the souls of their faithful departed.

The 12th-century Romanesque Cathedral in Bitonto is home to a beautiful statue of Michael the Archangel. This evening, it is carried aloft through town, in a procession led by priests. It’s a luminous spectacle, the setting sun catching the wings of the Archangel and turning them golden. The procession gathers people as it moves from church to church. By the time it returns to the Cathedral, there’s a throng of worshippers, all holding candles alight and chanting prayers as night falls.

A morning of driving rain. Somewhere out there in the obscured landscape are olive groves, abandoned farm buildings and a Romani camp. But all that is real to us is the wall of falling water. The flooded roads. The great wet.

Drenched by the rain, we arrive on the shores of the Adriatic Sea. It is indiscernible in the coastal fog but even so, it’s a sweet moment. We’ve now walked over 600 kilometres and crossed Italy from coast to coast. Fellow pilgrims are scarce on the ground but those we do cross paths with remain in our hearts. The Italians we meet light the way for us. Accepting and generous, they reveal the ley lines that help us make sense of the history and culture of the lands we traverse.

From here (Bari), we’ll hug the coastline until, passo dopo passo, we reach our destination, Santa Maria di Leuca on the Ionian Sea.

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The first stage of our Via Francigena Sud starts here: Ten Days in Lazio.  Continue on our Via Francigena Sud journey to Santa Maria di Leuca in Finis Terrae: to the end of the earth.