Finis Terrae: to the end of the earth on the Via Francigena Sud

Waves breaking on the rocky shore. Pebbles sighing. Ferries plying the waters of the Adriatic. Fishing boats out at sea. We’re walking the Via Francigena Sud, a 950-kilometre route following the ancient Appian Way southwards from Rome. After walking through Lazio and across the mountains of Campania, we arrive in the port city of Bari. From here, we’ll hug the coastline until we reach Santa Maria di Leuca on the southernmost tip of the Salento peninsula, where the Adriatic and the Ionian Sea meet.

Bari was once the ancient capital of the Byzantine kingdom in southern Italy. Conquered by the Normans in 1071, it became the city of St Nicholas when his relics were ‘transferred’ here in 1087. It was (and still is) a key pilgrimage site and a significant stop for Crusaders, pilgrims and merchants on their way to the Holy Land.

We walk out of Bari along the seafront. On one side there are elegant Venetian towers and Mussolini-era modernist buildings. On the other, a string of lidos. People will flock to these private beach clubs in summer but for now, the sun lounges lie empty and the striped umbrellas unfurled. We continue through small seaside villages, past fish markets and half-built, now abandoned, housing estates. The sun shines; the sea sparkles.

Turning inland, the air is sweet with the scent of chrysanthemum. We walk through vineyards, olive groves and fig orchards, the sea never far away. Some of the olive trees are ancient. We come across a farmer out tending his tomato crop and stop for a chat. He is proud of the quality of his produce and recommends a restaurant in Mola di Bari that he supplies. While he regards the Via Francigena Sud as an arduous undertaking, he agrees that passo dopo passo, it is possible to walk to Santa Maria di Leuca.

On the way into town, we’re struck by a mural commemorating the murder of two Sicilian magistrates, Falcone and Borsellino. Giovanni Falcone, his wife and three bodyguards died in a car bomb blast in May 1992. The assassination was on the orders of Mafia boss, Salvatore Riina. Paolo Borsellino and five policemen were killed a short time later, also by a car bomb. Borsellino & Falcone were childhood friends. They had different political leanings but shared a desire to bring the Mafia to justice. The Mafia is not invincible at all, it’s a human fact and like all human facts has a beginning and will have an end. (Falcone)

In the Middle Ages, Mola di Bari was an embarkation point for the Crusaders. It’s now a fishing port, one of the most important in Puglia. In the Loreto Church, there’s a beautiful statue of the Virgin of the Deep Sea who blesses all who sail upon it. Devotees take the statue from the church and carry it onboard a parading fleet on the first Sunday of July each year.

Tractors are on the move early this morning. It’s pruning season and men carry wooden ladders from tree to tree. Others are in the fields picking artichokes. Red poppies glow in the ploughed red soil.

Our path takes us back to the sea. Birds hover around a small fishing boat moored not far offshore. The lilt of the waves is a soothing presence as we follow the coast southwards on this bright, calm morning. The sea shimmering. A string of coves and inlets, the water turquoise and crystal clear. Caves worn out of limestone. The occasional onshore fisherman. Beauty abounds.

The ruins of cassedde (small round dry stone shelters with conical roofs) lie scattered about the fields. We walk through the mastic scrub, inhaling its ceremonial scent as we press on towards San Vito. Whitewashed houses. Bays bright with traditional red and green painted fishing boats. The grand, baroque San Vito Abbey, founded in the 10th century. It’s a magnificent, surreal presence in an otherwise modest landscape.

After not seeing a soul for hours, we walk into Polignano a Mare, the pearl of the Adriatic. It’s awash with tourists. People crowd the high limestone cliffs, taking in the sublime vistas. The picturesque perched village (among the most beautiful in Italy), the coves and pebble beaches, the stunning aquamarine water. Once we leave the village, the world quietens and the track becomes wild and remote again.

In the ancient port city of Monopoli is a cathedral that dates back to the 12th century. Re-created in the 18th century, it’s now a Baroque masterpiece. Fought over by the Byzantines and Normans, the city was a crossroads for merchants, Crusaders and pilgrims. 

Light glinting off the sea. Ferries crisscrossing the Adriatic. Sparkling coves and rocky headlands. The Castle of Santo Stefano, a commanding presence on the headland. Founded in 1089 by the Normans, it later became a hospice of the Knights of Malta.  

A thin wisp of a woman, so hunched she’s almost bent double, out in the juniper scrub shepherding her two sheep. Fishermen in small boats, talking to each other across the water.

A low arched doorway with a Greek cross above it. A round hole carved out of stone and surrounded by concentric circles. They are all that remains of the rock-hewn Church of St George. Further on; a marine quarry, Roman sea baths and an archeological park with finds dating back to the Bronze Age.

Our route takes us away from the sea and onto a contrata (droving road), lined with dry stone walls. On this warm, overcast afternoon we walk among ancient olive trees, marvelling at their monumental beauty. Gnarled, knotted and twisted; the twisting always clockwise due to the rotational motion of the earth.

The Greeks brought the olive tree to Puglia in 1,000 BC. Today, the region has the highest density of centuries-old olive trees in the world. Revered as ancestors, these trees are the guardians of tradition and of vital economic importance. But now, Xylella, a bacteria that arrived on an imported ornamental plant, is ravaging the trees. As these centuries-old witnesses of culture die, families grieve the loss of trees they believe to be immortal. While millions of trees have succumbed to the disease, there is now a glimmer of hope that with decisive action, some of the trees will be saved.

The pungent earthy smell of cows. The scent of anise. And then, an off-shore breeze brings with it the tang of seaweed, salt and seawater. The ocean announces itself. From our hotel room in Torre Canne, we have a view out across the water to the lighthouse. The wind picks up and the symphony of the waves breaking on the beach builds to a crescendo. All night the sound of the sea. This morning, the sky is a brooding pink.

The coastline is a series of long stretches of sandy beaches backed by dunes and wetlands. As we walk, we hear the cries of the herons, egrets and plovers that spend part of the year here. Onshore fishermen are out with their nets, hauling in anchovies. A small boy and his mother fossick for shells. A dolphin calf lies dead on the beach.

We walk through seaside villages and on a dirt track parallel to the coast for a time. When we return to the shoreline, the seascape has changed. It’s now one of jagged limestone platforms, rocky coves and weather-worn headlands.

The remains of watch towers, some dating back to the 12th century, dot the coastline. The Knights Templar built one of them, the Santa Sabina Tower, to warn pilgrims of perils on this stretch of the crusade route.

A grand, white-washed masseria with underground oil mills and a votive crypt. Ancient juniper trees giving off an aroma of pine and cedar on this quiet, calm afternoon. Men back in from their morning’s fishing. The locals down at the cove to see what they might buy for dinner.

An overcast, windswept day. Plastic littering the beaches. Run down seaside buildings; concrete crumbling, iron rusting, paint peeling. The consolation; the sweeping views of the Adriatic. Waves rolling in and claiming the shore back from its careless custodians.

A heady perfume of Mediterranean scrub; mastic, juniper, rosemary & purple flowering broom seed. The quiet beauty of salt marshes. We walk for hours without sustenance before we come across a restaurant. It’s closed in preparation for a wedding but they graciously agree to make us a coffee.

The ruins of Torre Penna, built in the mid-16th century, are still impressive. The tower was part of a coastal defence system, linking Brindisi in the south to Torre Testa in the north. In 1676, two Turkish galleys landed near here and sacked five of the neighbouring farms. In the same year, the Turks landed again, taking 12 people from nearby farms as slaves. 

In 1992, in the seabed north of Brindisi, divers found fragments of bronze statues produced in Ancient Times. The works arrived in the Adriatic area from Greece in the late Imperial Age. Once embellishing prestigious buildings, the sculptures represented divinities, philosophers and members of noble families.

Brindisi was once the main port of embarkation for the Holy Land and played a strategic role in the relationship between East and West. It represented the main ‘Gate of the Orient’ between two, often conflicting, cultures.

At the office of the secular Accademia degli Erranti (Academy of Wanderers), four Italian and two French pilgrims arrive at the same time as us. We receive five stamps in our credential, one for each of the ancient pilgrim paths that pass through Brindisi. And we are granted a testimonium for walking from Rome to Brindisi that states: There is no way too long for those who walk slowly and carelessly; there is no destination too far for those who prepare with patience. 

Leaving Brindisi through the Porta dei Lecce, we veer inland. A hare in the field. The breeze scattering the birdsong. We walk until we come across a farmer working with a horse-drawn plough. Birds following him. We ask why a horse and not a tractor. He says he was born to horses and the horse is more precise than a tractor. He’s a modern man with an ancient heart; meditating as he walks up and down the long rows, he and his horse working in harmony.

We take an ancient cobblestoned road through the Cerano Woods Nature Reserve. It’s the last surviving strip of the forest that once covered most of this coastal area. It’s home to martens, red foxes and hedgehogs who find refuge among the dense holm oak trees and Mediterranean scrub.

A man in a car coming home from watering his vegetable garden stops for a chat. He wants to know where we’re going and if we’re eating well on our journey. We reassure him we are.

Later, in a cafe, we’re introduced to a Ukrainian girl whose family is being hosted by the village. She says that while she and her parents are safe, she worries about her grandparents and her dog still in the Ukraine. The ongoing trauma of the war, held in her grave young voice.

Warmth in the sun. Lizards scuttling about. Rows of dark-green cypress. Kestrels chasing the bird-like shadow of a wind turbine blade across a field.

The Abbey of Santa Maria di Cerrate was once a Greek Orthodox monastery. One of the finest examples of Puglian Romanesque architecture, it had two previous lives. One was as a religious institution and the other as a farm. It is now a cultural centre, developing activities linked to local traditions and drawing people deeper into the Puglian way of life.

We enter Lecce through the Porta Napoli and find ourselves in an opulent, dream-like city carved out of golden sandstone. It’s regarded as the ‘queen of baroque’, an ornate and elaborate style of architecture.

Baroque was born in Italy in the late 16th century as part of the Catholic Church’s counter-reformation campaign. The Church believed it could entice people back into worship by constructing churches to inspire awe and emotion. They commissioned architects to reimagine the sacred. Domes and colonnades became grander, more decorated and more dramatic. Elaborately painted ceilings enticed worshipers to look up and feel as if they were gazing into heaven. Light was used for dramatic effect; streaming down from cupolas and reflected from an abundance of gilding. Gradually, this highly decorative, theatrical style of Baroque spread across Europe.

It’s warm early today. There’s a sense of summer stirring. We pause for a morning coffee in the fortified village of Acaya. Dating back to the 16th century, the village has an impressive Renaissance castle. We continue down quiet back roads, past wheat fields and olive groves. A fox runs across a bare field in the full glare of the midday sun. Birds nest high up in a dying olive tree. The earth smoulders where they’re burning trees that have already succumbed to disease.

Dry stone shelters called pajari are still used by farmers and shepherds in this region. Standing three to four metres high, these circular buildings are wound with an external stone staircase and topped with a conical roof. The first pajari date back at least a thousand years.

As the afternoon warms, our pace slows. A few kilometres from Martano, we cross paths with a band of wandering musicians. They are walking an ancient route, tracing the Via Trammari from the Ionian Sea to the Adriatic Sea. Each evening, they perform the traditional songs of their host village, bringing forgotten songs back to where they came from. They invite us to this evening’s performance in Martano and of course, we accept.

At the commencement of the performance, the audience stands for a minute’s silence in honour of the Romani people. Then the music begins. It’s haunting and beautiful, particularly the voice of Enza Pagliara. She’s a renowned singer, songwriter and researcher in the traditional music of the Salento region. Her voice sounds as if it was born of the earth and has travelled for centuries, taking on the memories, passion and pathos of the people of Salento.

Tonight’s songs were born to the local Griko-speaking people. During the post-Roman centuries, Greek and Byzantine rulers dominated Martano, creating a culture that endures to the present day. In Martano and many of the other towns in the Grecia Salentina area, elders still speak the Griko dialect.

With last night’s music still deep within us, we leave town in a trance. One step after the other, on tracks rutted by carts over the centuries. Passing Aragonese castles and an underground olive oil mill, once operated by donkeys. We stop to speak to a man out collecting snails (magini) near Cannole, the city of snails. There’s an annual festival here that pays homage to the snails, one of the most traditional dishes of Salento.

Fennel smelling of licorice. A breeze carrying the scent of the sea inland. The village of Giurdignano is a garden of megalithic monuments; menhirs, cave churches, crypts and dolmen tombs. One of the menhirs (upright standing stones dating back to the Bronze Age) served as a point of reference for farmers. They burnt oil in the cavity on the top of it and used it like a lighthouse, to guide their way at night.

By early afternoon, the sea is visible in the distance. Soon enough we arrive in Otranto, Italy’s easternmost town. Charming and picturesque, it sits right on the Adriatic Sea, across the strait from the Balkans and Greece. Once an important commercial port, it was a hub for contact with Constantinople. It also served as a departure point for Roman military expeditions and for Crusaders and pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land.

The Otranto cathedral dates from the Norman period. Its glory is its mosaic floor; a masterpiece created by a monk called Pantaleone in the 12th century. Known as the Tree of Life and one of the largest Mediaeval mosaics in Europe, it depicts the history of the human experience from sin to salvation.

No one stirs as we leave Otranto early this morning. We walk out past a memorial to the lives lost at sea when an Italian warship intercepted, rammed and sank a refugee ship in 1997. On board were more than a hundred people fleeing the civil war in Albania. Among the 81 drowned victims were many women and children.

A lighthouse. Stone watchtowers on headlands. Fields of rolled hay leading down to the sea. An emerald green bauxite lake. The 11th-century Abbey of San Nicola di Casole was damaged by Turkish forces in 1480 and abandoned in the 17th century. It was once the jewel in the crown of the monasteries and libraries of Europe and was where Pantaleone, the creator of the Otranto mosaic floor, trained

A flush of red poppies. Cows in milking sheds. Birds of prey, falcons and an eagle, on the hunt. We walk meditatively towards Vignacastrisi, our last overnight stop on the Via Francigena Sud.

Stepping out early, we follow a beautiful wild track high above the sea. Views of rocky headlands, white coastal villages, the glistening Adriatic and, above the sea mist, the mountains of Albania. Ferries crossing between islands. Wildflowers, dry stone walls, olive groves and grasses turning golden.

An old couple in the field, weeding the earth beneath their olive trees. A farmer out harvesting vegetables. He comes over to the fence to talk to us. We sense we could have had a fascinating conversation with him if only we had more language.

Like a mirage, a woman in a pink sunfrock and a red straw hat appears, looking particularly non-Italian. She tells us she is from Hanover (Germany), lives in Geneva, and has a holiday apartment here in Trecase. Even though she walks everywhere, she says she finds our walking garb a little absurd. When we explain we are en route from Rome to Santa Maria di Leuca she is silent at first, then explains she’s overcome. The thought of such a journey has moved her to tears.

Wedding bells ring out in Trecase, calling the guests into the church.

An afternoon walking the way of miracles and mysteries. Through small mediaeval villages where sea dust (salt) collectors & smugglers lived. And the village of Tiggiano with its Church of Sant’Ippazio, patron and protector of male virility. Along back roads lined with dry stone walls built to protect plants from the salt-laden winds. Prickly pear close to fruiting, olive groves, fig trees; the air a heady mix of anise, oregano and wild mint.

Nearing Santa Maria di Leuca, we catch a glimpse of the lighthouse and the deep blue Ionian Sea. We’re told that when conditions are right, you can see a line where the Adriatic & the Ionian seas meet.

We continue descending until we come to Finis Terrae, once the end of the known world and now the end of the Via Francigena in southern Italy.

A nun copies words from an ancient script and grants us our testimoniums. We have a fleeting but affectionate encounter with the three Italian pilgrims we shared a meal with in Campania. They are leaving for home this afternoon so we wish each other a good life and many more long, meditative walks.

The ancient route that we’ve been walking once connected Canterbury to Rome and the harbours of Puglia. It traverses Roman stone-paved roads and ancient droving routes, joining East and West, Christianity and Islam, and the Age of Antiquity to the Middle Ages and beyond that to the here and now. While there’s a route that continues to Jerusalem, we’re content to end our enchanted journey here on the shoreline of the wild Ionian Sea. Passo dopo passo, we’ve arrived.

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Our journey on the Via Francigena Sud started walking out of Rome: Ten Days in Lazio, then we crossed the Apennines to the Adriatic Sea.