.png)
7 hours ago
3
In the silence of the chestnut woods, rays of sunlight ignite the patches of pink cyclamen and crocus. There are fungi of various kinds dotted around, including one that is a perfect sphere of bright orange pushing its way up out of earth. I sit on a rock and after a while I hear a gentle grunting noise, the sort of contented chunter made by a snorer having a light snooze. It’s not me. A pair of wild boar are approaching, moving through the shadows, noses down, short tails flicking continuously. It’s a mother and baby, so close I can see the dust on their backs. I move my hand towards the camera, but wily Old Ma spots the movement and they take off at a blistering pace, charging downhill, bristling with indignation.
I continue walking uphill, and after a mile or so stop at a paw print in a patch of mud. Large dog or wolf? There are no human boot marks that might accompany a canine. Nor is there anyone around to ask. Eventually, I reach a viewpoint on top of Monte Stella, the highest summit for many miles at 1,131 metres. Out west is the dark surface of the Tyrrhenian Sea where Odysseus reputedly battled his way home from Troy, narrowly surviving temptation by the dreaded Sirens at an island, Isola Licosa, just hidden from my view by the curve of the coastline. I can see as far as the distant ragged peninsula of Amalfi on the northern horizon but there are no ships in sight. I am alone.
Finding solitude in Italy is not always so simple. The population density is lower than Britain or Germany, but its 59 million residents are host to about the same number of tourists each year, most heading for some of the world’s most desirable honeypots, drawn in by the siren voices of social media.
High on those selfie bucket lists is Amalfi, that same distant mountainous peninsula that I can see from my perch on the mountaintop. Out there, while I sit contemplating the chances of seeing a wolf, the locals leave home before 8am for most of the year because after that time the streets are too packed to walk anywhere. In the central beauty spot of Positano, I am reliably informed, one entrepreneur is asking for €500 (£415) a day for the best beach location and umbrella. My shade, under a carob tree, comes free.
I had started out a couple of days earlier at the pretty seaside town of Agropoli where old men were playing cards over their breakfast coffee on the beachfront. Before setting out on the footpath south, I stepped into the local supermarket expecting to find fast-food snacks in garish packaging. Instead, I found myself in a delightful family-run delicatessen serving a range of local produce from artichokes to courgettes. I stocked up on fresh bread, olives and cheese.
The path I am following curls southwards through what is Cilento national park, one of the largest in the country, covering a long stretch of craggy coastline, a mountainous interior and hundreds of small villages. It’s a fairly easy route to follow – I’m guided by travel firm On Foot’s well-designed map app – and almost deserted as a path. In five days of walking, I meet only a few local people, plus one German couple and a solitary Canadian.
At San Giovanni vineyard, I stop to sample the wine and get a plate of delicious local pancetta and cheeses. When I ask the name of the cheeses, I’m told: “We just know them by the name of the farm they come from.” The wine is organic and very good although production last year was low. “We had hot, humid conditions, which are not ideal.”
I dispel any post-lunch fuzziness with a dip in the sea at the first beach I come to, then take a steep, twisting path inland, climbing to the mountain village of Monte Castellabate, an outrageously gorgeous tiny village whose stony alleyways are so labyrinthine that I get disoriented, forcing me to ask the way and discover that I am standing next to my hotel, itself part of the lovely maze.
Next morning I refuse the offer of a lift back to the coast (the views are too good) which the path follows all the way to a point overlooking Licosa. The are no Sirens to be seen or heard, no sea-roving Greeks, either, in fact no one at all.
I now leave the coast – not to return for a few days – and head up into the forest, passing a lovely avenue of ancient carobs, then climbing to a pair of 13th-century lookout towers. My final destination is Rocca Cilento, another mountaintop village with castle, this time in the guesthouse of Paolo and Concetta, who prove to be great informants on the history of the place – Paolo having grown up in the same house.
“There used to be a lot of people in the village,” he says. “Maybe 1,000 all year round. Chestnuts were the big thing. We’d grind them up in the water mills to make flour. And we kept pigs to make prosciutto.” He tries to keep up tradition, making his own wine and growing most of the vegetables, but the population has plummeted to below 100.
after newsletter promotion
My next hike leads down the valley past abandoned farmhouses and watermills. This area has suffered from bouts of emigration, starting in the 19th century when people left for America and most recently in the 1950s when cities such as Milan and Naples lured them away. The only sound in the woods is the cackle of jays. At one stream a grass snake slithers away.
When I climb up into the chestnut woods, I start to meet locals. There are two men riding mules up to where they are coppicing a grove of sweet chestnut trees. I watch as they hitch up the felled trees and the mules haul them away. They are friendly and I join in, running after the animals when they escape.
I go over Monte Stella and down to an agriturismo, a farm that has a tourist element (the official rule is at least half the income should be agriculture). This one is run by Luisa, who came here 40 years ago, before there was a road, and built the business up.
My last walk is down to the coast. Now the villages seem quieter, with more holiday cottages. In Pollica, I sit down for a coffee and bump into the local mayor, Stefano. “The problem here is that we get a massive influx of visitors in August, but very few otherwise. I’m trying to carry on the work of Angelo and make people realise that Cilento is wonderful all year round.”
Angelo Vassallo was his predecessor, shot dead by a gunman in 2010. It’s thought he may have blocked the award of building contracts to Camorra-affiliated companies.
Finally the footpath drops down to the coast road and I walk along a shingled beach into Acciaroli. In the 1950s, this was Ernest Hemingway’s favourite Italian resort and though the hotel he stayed in has long closed, it’s easy to see why the writer loved it. There’s an old castle, a clutch of houses and several decent cafe-bars where the locals socialise. It feels rather old fashioned, as if the writer might stroll in and order one of his favourite Italian tipples, a Montgomery (15 parts gin, 1 part vermouth).
Another American who came here, after the second world war, was Ancel Keys, a nutritionist drawn by discovery that the locals were extremely long-lived. Keys settled in Pioppi, a coastal village near Acciaroli, where there’s now a museum that includes his study and library. After careful analysis, he eventually concluded, rather disappointingly, that the key to longevity was “the Mediterranean diet”, rather than drinking Montgomeries.
Kevin travelled to Cilento by train. A 7-day Interrail Global Pass is around £315. On Foot Holidays offers a 7-night walking itinerary through Cilento National Park from £1,180 with accommodation, luggage transfers, and some dinners
