Paths

I would have liked to take today off from hiking, to give my body a little more chance to recover, but with the weekend coming I suspected that the already busy trails would become positively infested with weekenders. It would be better, I thought, to hike today and Monday.

I started where I left off yesterday, in Corniglia. After arriving on the train it took me a while to find the path to the next village – adequate signage isn’t the Italians’ strong suit – but by process of elimination I found it behind the train station. And then, about half a kilometre in, I found the path blocked, with a notice that it was closed for repairs.

Italian signs like this are often best ignored, but this one was ziplocked to a fence panel that had been ziplocked to the walls with no possible way around, so obviously, it meant business. Reading the notice, it turns out that the seaside trail from Corniglia to the next village, Manarola, had been closed for repairs since 2018. Knowing the Italians, in the intervening five years they probably hadn’t even drawn up the plans yet.

Dispirited, I returned to Corniglia train station. I consulted my map, and realised that I could still take the mountain route to Manarola. It would take longer and involve gaining some altitude, but, I figured, if it was too tiring I could just skip my plan to walk on after Manarola to Riomaggiore.

So I did this, but between the little misstep down the sea path, and the fact that the new trail started up in Corniglia rather than at the train station, I’d now walked 3kms without even starting to hike. As compensation, now that I was in Corniglia I could buy some celebratory gelato, and also a cap, since I could feel my scalp burning even in the mild European sun. The only shop I could find in Corniglia that sold caps charged 20 euros for them, which is outrageous for a clothing item that would have cost them, at most, 1 euro. But I figured that if it was a choice between sunburn and sunstroke and losing 20 euros, I’d rather lose the euros.

Once I found the mountain path to Manarola, there began something I like to call the Kilometre of a Thousand Stairs. Stairs after stairs after stairs. I worked out later it was the equivalent of climbing a 200 storey building, while simultaneously walking more than a kilometre. Even with lighter clothing and a little mental preparedness, I still found myself leaning against a post, or a wall, or a tree, struggling for breath, my heart pounding, covered in sweat, and still facing more stairs as far as they eye could see, and cursing my own naivete.

But somehow, the Kilometre of a Thousand Stairs came to an end. I fell to the ground and kissed the sweet, non-vertical dust, then, after a suitable recovery period, got up and continued on my way.

The path now levelled out and passed through densely wooded slopes peppered with spring wildflowers, offering occasionally spectacular views of the Mediterranean far below. It gave me an opportunity to take some more pictures of Explorer Sam, doing the things an explorer does.

Eventually, the woods gave way to terraced vineyards, and it was after a few minutes of walking through these that I discovered the best part of the hike. Apparently, while one is on a gruelling hike through isolated farmland in Cinque Terre, there’s a place where you can stop and have a glass of wine. Not from some itinerant gypsy pouring rotgut into an old jug, but from a charming Italian waiter offering tasting notes while serving a nicely chilled chenin blanc in a proper wine glass.

If I’d turned a corner and discovered woodland animals in waistcoats having a tea party, it would have been less surprising, and also less delightful.

In the unlikely event that they did the same thing on the outskirts of Perth, or, heaven help us all, Amsterdam, they’d cut corners and use disposable plasticware, or only serve warm reds. But this is Italy; of course they take the extra steps necessary to serve wine to hikers in a civilised way. Non siamo animali!

This, right here, is why I love Italy.

After my pleasant glass of dry white, I proceeded on, now, fortunately, almost entirely downhill. There were further spectacular views over Manarola, the sea, and back towards Corniglia, Vernazza and Monterosso in the distance. By this stage I’d hiked for nearly 10kms, and yet I could see Corniglia train station just a stone’s throw away. It’s never been truer that it’s the journey, not the destination.

I had a pleasant late lunch in Manarola of classic bruschetta and a glass of prosecco, then some more gelato, because naturalamente, then caught the train back to La Spezia, pausing only to assist some elderly Americans trying to operate a ticket machine via instinct and intuition rather than reading the instructions on the screen. Once on the train I encountered a ticket inspector, for the first time since I’ve been shuttling back and forth on the Cinque Terre trains. He was in his 20s, possibly gay, wearing his uniform as if he’d slept in it, and going about his work with a fairly unique mix of tired disinterest and dry vindictiveness. He asked to see the ticket of an obese American man who had parked himself next to me, and the American replied that his wife had the tickets, somewhere further down the crowded carriage, then sat back, as if that were the end of it. I need to see your ticket, said the inspector. My wife has it, repeated the American. I don’t know your wife, said the inspector in a tone of mild but pointed exasperation that was somehow even more biting than an active sneer. The American blinked and looked baffled, as if he’d never had a service worker speak to him that way AND expect him to get off his fat ass and fetch something. The stared at each other for several seconds, and then he hauled himself up and wobbled off in search of his wife. It was glorious.

The hilarious thing about the whole paradigm of checking tickets on the Cinque Terre trains is that they are so large and packed, and the distances travelled are so short, that there’s no possible way an inspector can fully check a single carriage, let alone an entire train. This inspector had clearly embraced this, and was content to be a sort of Italian railway grinch, just ruining the day for a handful of people on each trip. I watched as he also busted a dude with a top knot on the Riomaggiore platform, then ground down a flaky French couple and their five noisy children, all without any shred of empathy. I think I may have found my spirit animal.

In the evening I repaired to another nearby bar, Chinasky, for aperitivo. They made me a proper limoncello spritz (ie, one that renders you head-spinningly drunk before you’ve even finished it) with bar snacks of crostini, shaved prosciutto, little needles of hard cheese, biscotti, potato crisps and some little panini things, all for 6 euros, or less than $10.