Capranica to Campagnana de Roma 15.11.10

15.11.10 Capranica to Campagnana de Roma

I had warned R that leaving Capranica would be a photofest. The hard harsh history of the daily life of Italy away from the big cities is clearly laid out. The poverty, the crowding, the daily drudgery and tedium of living in these mean streets.

More recently so many towns in Italy took a hammering during the second world war, and there was no work, no hope, hunger and despair. No wonder so many people took the chance to emigrate to somewhere offering more opportunity in life. Even now I think about the teenagers and young adults I see, nothing to do, silent streets. Is it different to life for kids in Australia in the suburbs? Maybe not, but it seems very dreary, little knots of them sitting in the cold outside the pizzeria, the café.

We strike out for Monterosi, straight up a long hill. Suddenly R realises he doesn’t have the guidebook. It must have fallen out of his pocket. He runs back down the hill, finds it and comes back up. We have form in this – in Spain we were climbing a long hill early on, before we were fit, and I saw a sunglasses lens on the ground. “Some poor bloke has lost that, “I thought, as I stepped delicately over it. At the top of the hill R says, “Oh no, I’ve lost a lens.” I realise what has happened and tell him. He sighs and runs back down to get it. Same today. So far, so good, but it comes back to haunt us later.

Nice scenery, threatening weather, contradictory Via signs. We plod on. 5km out is Sutri, on a strategic spot at the confluence of two rivers. It was an Etruscan stronghold, then Roman, then Christian. There is a Roman amphitheatre. I stand and think about the poor bastards waiting in the wings to be sent out to fight a lion. There is only one ending to that story, for the gladiator.

Roman amphitheatre at Sutri

The site also has an Etruscan necropolis, tombs cut into the volcanic rock cliff. How old is that ? What were their lives like? About the same as ours, probably, eat. Sleep, work, raise families.

We reach Monterosi, our destination. There is only one lead for a place to stay. We can’t find it, but – here’s the funny part – neither can any of the locals we ask. Not a clue where the hotel is, the street is, no idea. One person suggests we could walk a couple of km and see if we find it. I look down the road. 2 km is out into the countryside, great suggestion. It’s a drab little town anyway. I pull the pin, find out when the bus goes to Campagnana de Roma and, an hour later, here we are.

But the guidebook, determined to escape, must have fallen out of R’s pocket as we got out of the bus and it is now on its way to Rome. We stand on the footpath absorbing the thought. I am quietly confident that I will be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for not saying anything at that moment. Fortunately there are only two days to Rome, so we will find a way. How to go cross country without a map? We head for the place we want to stay, discover it is 4 km away and stop for help at a tourist office that appears magically in our path.

A helpful Signora gives us a map, writes a list of turns to get onto the off-road Via route and finds a hotel in town for us. I feel like leaping over the counter to throw my arms around her.

We find the hotel, musing on this life question and we drag up several flights of stairs: why is it that the nmore tired you are the higher your room is? The view is nice, of course, as long as you don’t give up on the last landing and just lie down and die. We settle in, head down for dinner in the little restaurant. It’s just us. The pardon sits stolidly in the corner watching the television, turned up loud to the inevitable game show, while we eat. I wouldn’t want to open up for just us either. In the book I read about the couple who went to live in Tuscany I read about feasts for lunch, five courses, that go on till the last person falls unconscious. That sounds like fun, but it’s not the meals we are having. Firstly we upset the proper order of things, we want my soup, his meat, my salad, all at once. And we order so little, one course each, two at most, once in a blue moon a sweet. What’s the point of having a restaurant if you have customers like us?

In 2 days we will walk into St Peter’s.

16.11.2010 Campagnano de Roma to La Storta

Those Romans sure worked hard! They ruled Western Europe and, trust me, it’s a long way from end to end when it’s all done on foot. The administration, money, power, bureaucracy is incredible to consider. They built monuments, temples, aqueducts. But the most amazing thing is those roads. You bump into them all over the place in the old Roman Empire, no matter how remote. Straight as an arrow, flat and firm. You’ll be walking along a straight path and you’ll look down and there it will be. Lots of them have been quarried for building, but astounding stretches are still there, 2500 years later. Cars drive on them!

The Romans used massive amounts of effort, three layers of carefully prepared road bed, then smooth stones trimmed and fitted together to form that flat surface. Originally they were edged with a rim of stones with a gravel track down the side for horses. It is awe-inspiring to walk on them and I had a Sigeric moment too, one day, knowing that my feet were definitely treading the exact surfaces he did, 1000 years ago.

We follow the Signora’s instructions in the morning and it gets us out of town, then a car pulls up in the middle of the road and a man directs us 50 metres up the road, where we find the track. All day I am thinking that this might be the last forest walk, the last soft path. It’s raining on and off, but the mist is pretty and the track is very picturesque.

We follow the map and the Via signs all day and it finally drops us off out of the forest and onto a busy crossroads. The next Via arrow is ambiguous and the map is useless. WE try one way, then the other. No more signs. Lots of traffic. The noise is shocking after the silence of the forest paths. WE ask at the service station. “No idea”. We go onto the most obvious road then back off – it’s way too dangerous, no footpath and huge trucks flying through. I say something, R stops, I stumble and bump into him and half fall over. You can see where this is leading. What follows is a brief but insightful discussion of each others’ personality and character.

We walk off in two different directions then circle back and sit down on a bench at the service station to draw up the peace agreement. It’s Yalta all over again except that we can’t divvy up any territories, not having any to start with, and currently carrying everything we own on our backs.

I take the map and decide to try another tack. Maybe one of these stupid (we really need the aid of German here, dumkopf is such a useful word) attendants can at least tell us exactly where we are on the map. I approach one, noticing, not for the first time, that servos here seem to be run by Indians, the same as in Australia. The guy point, “Ask him, he speaks good English.” I look over and see a young Italian bloke on the phone servicing a vending machine.

I wait, he smiles, finishes his conversation. Yes, he speaks good English, his mother is South African. It’s only a couple of km from our destination but he doesn’t know how to find the Via. We look at that scary road again. R says Is there a taxi? “I will drive you if you like,” he says. We give it a nanosecond’s thought. “Yes!”

We pile into Mario’s little car and he drives us to La Storta. It’s no distance, but he then helps us find somewhere to stay. We have an address for a convent and a hotel. We find the convent and go in. Mario comes in with us, arranges with the two sisters standing in the foyer with the two very smartly dressed lay ladies who are the day and evening cooks.

Mario is laughing, talking, smiling. He charms the socks off the nuns, well their HomyPeds anyway. Then he kisses me and R on both cheeks, holds the nuns hands in his, has a group photo taken, and breezes out. Everyone is smiling.

We have had some wonderful moments where people’s unexpected kindness has made a big difference and this was one of them. We won’t forget Mario.

The nuns are lovely too. Little cheery sisters, all in white. “My sister lives in Blacktown!” Everyone loves Australia. Ah Bella Bella! Their eyes light up. Sidenee! It is a delightful thing to come from such a popular country. People almost clap their hands with admiration. Young people talk of coming, how to get there, how to get work. Their yearning to visit, to emigrate, is palpable. I fell as if I have won something, somehow almost unfairly, being born there, so easy. Then I remember how my ancestors braved danger and distance to make this happen. 100 years ago Lord Baden Powell said “Just by being British you have already won the lottery of life.” Of course that was when the Empire was still in full swing and Britain ruled half the world. Now it is my turn to feel lucky. Lucky to live in a country not powerful or influential in world affairs but just so good at everything, so fair and so clever.

OK that’s The Philosophy Hour over.

Our room has two little twin beds opening on to a balcony overlooking a garden. Elderly Italian sisters wander slowly along the paths, leaning on their canes. Brisk dark skinned nuns dart energetically along. Clearly the next generation of the church comes from Africa and India.

We walk down the road on our ongoing quest for the way on to the Via tomorrow. We stop for a coffee and the Romanian barman calls in a distinguished looking man to help us. His English is perfect, he is the professor of Horticulture at Viterbo University. But you are French Monsieur I exclaim as his English has a French accent. Ah no, I’m Italian but I am from Milan in the North so I sound French. He tells us that there is no off road Via anymore, it is all busy roads to Rome. 15 km to go.