Leaving the airy heights of the Pollino was a wrench, as usual. Discovering and exploring such places was one of the reasons for being on the walk, but leaving them, I could see, was going to be one of its curses. Moving on, always moving on, is what makes a long walk a long walk. But when you‘re in a place as perfect as the Pollino moving on can be hard.
On the other hand, if I didn’t get going I’d never find out what lay over the next hill and pass, or discover what lay in wait in the next valley. Undoubtedly, great riches lay ahead, and if I sat in the Pollino for the next 17 months (as I could!) I’d never unearth them. It occurred to me that there was a life lesson in this, something along the lines of: “Enjoy to the full what you have when you have it, but when the time is right don’t cling to it and hold yourself back, let yourself move on.” And so, a little reluctantly at first, I did.
With the Pollino behind I weaved downhill through sun-dappled beech and oak woods that reminded me of the woods I’d traversed during the walk’s first week. On the northern edge of the Pollino I passed a sign: “NO CAMPING IN THE PARK” it said. Oops. But who’d have thought it? A mountain wilderness that you’re not allowed to enjoy and experience by night? Well, I’d broken the rules, but I’d done no harm, had disturbed no wildlife, and had taken immense care to leave no sign of my passing. Morally, I couldn’t believe I’d done anything wrong…
Wild land belongs to everyone. It’s our birthright, our truest home, by day and by night. Closed wild land is an abomination. In popular areas rules and regulations are often necessary to preserve the integrity of a place, to ensure we don’t love a mountain or a forest to death, or damage flora or fauna we’re not even aware of, and I accept this, but when it comes to the wild a part of me will always rail against rules and regulations. I’ll admit it: I’ve jumped fences to reach wild landscapes, slept where sleeping is banned, walked where walking is disallowed. If a landscape isn’t farmed, and isn’t filled with livestock, and isn’t obviously going to suffer for my being there, then it’s fair game for exploration, ‘private-keep-out-no-admittance’ signs or not. I’m a serial trespasser, and over the years I’d become very good at it. And this ability to trespass and camp discretely served me well on my long walk across Europe, especially in the southern Apennines.
No camping in the Pollino? The three nights in the Pollino were the highlight of the south.
I was now in Basilcata, passing through its western regions, with Campania lying just a few days ahead. Wildest Calabria instantly seemed like ancient history. Basilicata looked different, felt different. Instead of endless rolling forests here we had a greater variety of landscapes: deep gorges, open farmland, grassy uplands, steep-sided mountains, craggy limestone ridges, deep valleys, attractive hill-top villages. Here, the rural areas were tidier, more prosperous. The olive groves and orchards were clearly better cared for; they were less tangled, they were cleared of thorns and scrub. In towns, buildings were cleaner, sporting bright white walls and well-maintained red-tiled roofs. And there were many more woodland paths to walk, and more tracks to follow up to the high mountains, and once up there more wide-open spaces to cross. For a long-distance wanderer, it was a far easier place to walk.
Some things hadn’t changed, of course. The midday sun still shone with fierce determination, my pack still hung heavy on tired shoulders, uphill still felt like uphill! Discrete camps still took some effort to make, mosquitoes and ants still whined and crawled through the nights, dogs remained a frequent snarling hassle, and maps remained challengingly inaccurate. I was still asked: “Dove vai, dove vai?” over and over and over, a thousand times a day. “Where are you going, where are you going?” And everywhere I went the locals still stared, stared, and stared some more. A full ten-hour day, with the many adventures great and small that filled it, still left me physically exhausted by the end, and my left foot still hurt; it still gave intense stabbing pain when I caught it badly, as though a bone was broken somewhere inside. So… some things hadn’t changed, but that’s just the way they were. These hardships, discomforts and difficulties didn’t seem so important any more. The further I walked the less I noticed them. Being hot, tired, thirsty, and all the rest… I wasn’t going to let such trivial matters spoil everything else I had. They were are small price to pay for my freedom, an inconsequential fee for the amazing natural beauty that filled every moment of every day.
It seemed like there was a life lesson there, too. “Don’t focus on the bad, focus only on the good. And if you do, you might sometimes forget the bad exists.”
One small incident illustrates this. Towards the end of a draining twenty-six mile day I came to a small village, famished and desperately trail-worn. I could have stopped a couple of hours earlier that afternoon at the first official campground I’d come upon in weeks, but I was out of food, and the campground store was woefully empty. So, pulling on reserves I didn’t know I had, I pushed on to the next village, and grinned and grinned and GRINNED once there as I walked around the small supermarket, plucking items from shelves as though I hadn’t eaten in weeks. Afterwards, I collapsed outside, foot-sore, sweat-soaked, weary indeed. But I didn’t focus on that. Instead, I focused on nothing but the simple goods I’d just acquired.
This is exactly how I scribbled it in my diary that night:
“Late afternoon I reached a supermarket. Oh joy! JOY! Food! FOOD! Fully stocked up, with fresh milk, fruit, cereal (after a breakfast-less morning), bread, chocolate, and more, I sat outside, looking up at dark storm clouds building over the mountains. But let it rain! Hah! Let the storms do their worst! Thunder, lightning, torrents: I don’t care, I’ve got food, and that’s all and everything I need!’
After 550 miles I was living in the moment, focusing on what I had; my needs and pleasures were now very basic!
Some photos from Basilicata & Campania:
A bank of poppies and daisies above Piani Montessano, Sulla Marcellana, Basilicata
A typical hillside village, Basilicata
And a typical village alley
Looking ahead to Monte Sirino, Basilicata
Monte Pollino, seen from Monte Sirino, above morning valley fog
Monte Alpi seen from Monte Sirino
Not the best photo by any shot (!) but a blurred picture of a wild boar, dashing away…
Monte Sirino, Basilicata. Spot the sheep and shepherd if you can!
Looking to the summit of Monte Sirino, from another limestone top.
Farm land, Basilicata
Monte Motola, Basilicata
The deep limestone valley of the Sammaro Gorge
Looking down the Sammaro Gorge
Poppies on the floor of an apple orchard, location of one of my discrete camps
Village of Campagna, Campania, beneath steep forested hills.
My weaving route north evolved of it’s own accord and carried me all the way to Campania’s west coast. It was worth it, for two quiet nights listening to waves, and for this sunset.