Week 6 Greece and Italy

 

Monday 15th February

Likou was there to meet us as promised, his eyes twinkling from the depths of his wrinkles, on the inland edge of Marathokampos. He looked us up and down. We are walking fit, hardened by almost five thousand miles over every kind of terrain, and his Greek sideways nod said he could see this. Even so, Mount Kerkis rises steeply from the seashore, its rocky head as grizzled as Likou's, an imposing and rugged climb.

He set a slow pace at first but, as we bunched behind him Likou, an observer not a talker, picked up speed until we were swinging along at our usual rhythm. Once we had gained some height, instead of taking the trail that led towards the rocks, he turned along the flank of the mountain, heading steadily inland and dropping at length into a green valley spangled with anemones, red, violet, white and humming with bees. Ahead of us the track was lined with brightly coloured hives, like miniature beach huts. Some of us were not keen to go any nearer but Likou led the brave gently in among them. He stopped, lifted a lid and, completely unprotected, pulled out a tray. The bees calmly crawled over his arms and shirt while he crooned softly to them. We licked our lips: nerves or the anticipation of honey?

The route back led, inevitably, to the hut where he processes and sells honey, soap and candles. We tasted and sniffed, sighed and exclaimed. Needless to say we came away with heavier backpacks and lighter wallets, leaving Likou smiling and waving us out of sight. 

We took the high route and stood on the flat top of Kerkis to gaze out across the Aegean, dotted with islands, where our ferry will soon be carrying us to the mainland. We had a pleasant evening eating in the harbour of Samos town before boarding ready to head westward towards Piraeus. 

Tuesday 16th

Reclining seats do not make for a comfortable night's sleep so many of us were on deck to greet the sun as it rose in our wake and it was a bleary-eyed band of pilgrims who stumbled up the road to Athens. The whole area is relentlessly built up: where there isn't a building, there's a building site and any greenery is accidental, a brave shrub pushing its way towards the light.

Of course we stopped at the Acropolis. There was hardly a soul there which gave us space to wander among the ruins, marvel at the frieze, discuss the morality of the Elgin Marbles. We looked out across the city, hazy in the winter morning light and rush hour pollution but our senses itched for clean air, greenery and the open road.

As we were leaving, we were intercepted by a lone American tourist, wondering who the heck we are and where we were headed. He looked disbelieving at our explanation but claimed that Thessaloniki was awesome and should be on every human's bucket list. He was right, it is a modern city with ancient charm, but there is a ferry to Bari on a Tuesday night so we pressed on. Our route threaded along broad valleys, alongside huge reservoirs, across the mountainous and sparsely populated interior. 

At dusk we crossed into Albania with some difficulty since the border guards were convinced that we must be refugees and asylum seekers. They were puzzled by our British passports and asked a lot of questions but allowed us in the end to carry on. We came down into Dürres port where the ferry was waiting for us. A second night of reclining seats was not enticing so we were pleased to discover that cabins were available.

Wednesday 17th

The sea was calm, the engines thrummed, we slept deeply and well. Excited at the prospect of Pompeii we found a quick breakfast at the railway station, recommended by Pete and Jane, and set out along the flat Puglian plain, through miles of olive groves,  interspersed with vineyards, before rising into the wooded hills of the Basilicata. Crossing into the Campania region, we came to the picture postcard hilltop town of Eboli.

Carlo Levi wrote a memoir, Christ Stopped at Eboli, depicting the wartime north-south divide in Italy from a southern point of view. Poverty is not as apparent here as it is in the parts of eastern Europe we walked through to get to Jerusalem but there remains a sense of grievance that the north holds the south in contempt. We had been enjoying the unspoiled countryside but the southerners still feel they could do with more of a share of northern Italy's wealth. It is a long way to Milan.

We had lunch in Salerno, the gateway to the Amalfi coast, perched on the hillside overlooking the Adriatic. The direct route took us inland from here but the opportunity to explore the coast was too good to waste: despite the cloud cover and some quite tough walking here and there, we all agreed that it was well worth the detour for the breathtaking views, for the coffee break in Positano, the memories it brought to some, the tick on the wish list for others. Unable to drag ourselves away, we spent the night in Sorrento.

Thursday 18th

Fortunately it is not far from Sorrento to Pompei so we were able to get there nice and early and had the place almost to ourselves. It is a haunting experience: the exquisite mosaics, the details of everyday life, the petrified bodies, put the antiquities into perspective. We have looked at magnificent, awe inspiring temples and historic sites over the last days and weeks but here is a the baker's shop sign and peasant houses as well as wealthy middle class homes and temples. Real people lived here and went about their day-to-day business. 

'There were survivors,' the guide tries to reassure us but then adds: 'Imagine the terror, imagine seeing your town disappear completely. Those who got away had nothing to come back to.'

 

It is not so much the fact that Vesuvius could blow again, but rather the fact that it will blow again that drove us rapidly through Naples and out onto the road to Rome. With mountains to our right and the sea never too far to our left, the route is lined with parasol pines. The sun has come out, the temperature, at 13C, is perfect for walking and we make easy progress, arriving in Rome in good time to enjoy a leisurely meal followed by a passeggiata stroll through the street, lacing together the softly floodlit landmarks, the water of the fountains throwing shimmering shadows onto the statues. It is not quite warm enough for a gelato on the Spanish Steps but we drink in the atmosphere, along with a coffee in the piazza. 

Friday 19th

Having missed the Ash Wednesday service in St Peter's Square we made a point of visiting this morning and imagining what it must be like to join the throng of pilgrims on one of the major holy days. The square is vast so what would you see of the Pope if you were squashed in at the back? His Ash Wednesday homily is available, we find, on-line: he spoke of Lent as a journey, its forty days representing the forty years God's people trekked through the desert. Here was food for thought: yesterday was the fortieth day since we left Upton Bishop. We've been to Jerusalem and now here we are in Rome, two of the major places of pilgrimage in the Christian world. Our pilgrimage has brought us fresh air, companionship and perhaps a somewhat different perspective on life.

And so back to the antiquities: we spent a happy morning sightseeing in the winter sunshine and had lunch on the Piazza Navona. There was traffic on the streets but very few people on foot and the city felt out of sorts, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for spring and a return to the tourist buzz.

On the way to Assisi we are among wooded valleys again. We pass a sign to San Pellegrino:

'As in the sparkling water?'

'No that's in the Alps, but a pellegrino is a pilgrim.'

'Shall we go and have a look?'

However, the lorries that emerge covered in chalk dust from the turning and the distant roar of quarry works are enough to put us off.

The country lanes are reminiscent of Herefordshire.

'Except for the vineyards.'

'We have vineyards too.'

We drop onto a broad plain and gradually Assisi comes into view, sprawled over the hillside ahead with the massive Basilica of St Francis dominating the skyline. Born into a family of cloth makers, a cumulation of incidents prompted Francis to throw off his wealth, literally, and embrace a simpler, stripped down approach to Christianity, shying away from the pomp and ceremony of the 12th century church.

The medieval town, with its narrow alleyways and stairways, is a delight and we are happy to stop here for the night. At the Albergo where we are staying we run into Michael who tells us that there are three places we absolutely must not miss and waxes lyrical about the Roman temple now the cathedral, the Upper Church in which St Francis preached naked from the pulpit and the monastery of St Damiano where Francis threw his father’s money in the window for the poor and St Clare set up her nunnery. Early start tomorrow then. Michael says he might catch up with us again in Florence but declines the invitation to walk.

The words of St Francis start by doing what's necessary, then do what's possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible, seem to sum up this walk of ours.