IN The silence of the wooden chestnuts, sunshine of sunlight burns the patches of pink cyclamen and crocus. There are fungi of various types with dots around, including one that is a perfect sphere of bright orange that drives out of the ground. I was sitting on a rock and after a while I heard a gentle noise, the kind of satisfied chunter made by a snorer with a light sneeze. I’m not this. A pair of wild boar approaches, moving in shadows, noses down, short tails that continue to glow. It was a mother and baby, so close that I could see the dust behind them. I moved my hand toward the camera, but the vigorous old MA spit movements and they stopped at a fast pace, charging down, bristling with anger.
I kept walking upwards, and after a mile or so stopped at a printed paw in a patch of mud. Big dog or wolf? There are no human boot marks that can accompany a rice. Nor does anyone around to ask questions. Later, I came to a point of view at the top of Monte Stella, the highest summit for many miles to 1,131 meters. Outside the west is the dark surface of the Tyrrhenian sea where Odysseus recognizes his return from Troy, narrowly survivors of fearful mermaids on an island, Isola Licosa, hidden only from my perspective through the coastal curve. I see until the distant rugged Peninsula of Amalfi in the northern reaches but no ships can be seen. I was alone.
Finding an unity in Italy is not always very simple. The population density is lower than Britain or Germany, but its 59 million residents hosts almost the same number of tourists per year, mostly heading for some of the most desirable honeypots worldwide, drawn by social media siren voices.
High on the selfie bucket lists are Amalfi, the same distant mountainous peninsula I see from my perch on the mountain. Outside, as I sat in meditation -the opportunities for a balloon to see, the locals left the house before 8pm most of the year because after that time the streets were too packed to walk anywhere. In the central place of Positano beauty, I can expect to know, an entrepreneur asks for € 500 (£ 415) a day for the best beach and umbrella location. My shade, under a carob tree, is free.
I started a few days before the beautiful town of Agropoli where old men played cards in their coffee at breakfast on the coast. Before setting out of the South footpath, I walked to the local supermarket who was expected to find snacks that were fast food in garish packaging. Instead, I found myself in a fun family-powered delicatessen that served a set of local produce from artichoke to courgettes. I put on fresh bread, olives and cheese.
The path I followed with curls in the south by what is Cilento National Park, one of the largest in the country, covering a long stretch of Craggy Coast, a mountainous interior and road -of small villages. This is a relatively easy route to follow-the travel firm guides me in a properly designed map of Map-and almost deserted as a path. During the five -day walk, I only encountered a few local people, including a German couple and a single Canada.
In San Giovanni Vineyard, I stopped to for example wine and took a plate of delicious local panetta and cheese. When I asked the name of the cheeses, I was told: “We only know them in the name of the farm they come from.” Wine is organic and very good even when last year’s production is low. “We have hot, humid conditions, which are not perfect.”
I take off any post-lunch fuzziness with a sinking sea on the first beach I went to, then took a steep, twisting path Inland, climbing the mountain of Monte Castellabate, an extremely gorgeous small village whose stony alleyway was so labyrinthine that I was getting disoriented, of my hotel, itself part of the lovely maze.
Next morning I declined the offer of a lift back to the coast (the views were so good) that the path followed all the way to one point overlooking the licosa. The sirens are not visible or heard, no sea-roving Greeks, either, in fact nothing.
I now left the coast-not to go back for a few days-and head to the forest, going through a lovely way of ancient carobs, then climbing a couple of 13th-century lookut towers. My final destination was Rocca Cilento, another mountain village with a castle, at this time to the guest of Paolo and Concepta, which proved that the places were great in the history of the place – Paolo grew up in the same house.
“It used to be a lot of people in the village,” he said. “Maybe 1,000 throughout the year. The chestnuts are the big thing. We do it in mill mills of water to make flour. And we keep pigs to make prosciutto.” He tries to keep tradition, making his own wine and growing most vegetables, but the population falls below 100.
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My next hike leads to the slope past the abandoned farmhouses and watermills. This place suffered from emigration seizures, beginning in the 190th century when people left for America and the latest in the 1950s when cities such as Milan and Naples were trapped in them. The only sound in the woods is the Jays’ cackle. In a stream a snake grass slithers away.
When I go up to Chestnut Woods, I start to get to know the locals. There are two men riding the mules to where they are coppicing a grove of sweet chestnut trees. I was watching as they chased the fallen trees and pulled them out of the mules. They were friendly and I joined, running after animals when they escaped.
I go to Monte Stella and down to an agriturism, a farm with a tourist element (the official rule is at least half of the income should be agriculture). This one was governed by Luisa, who came here 40 years ago, before there was a road, and the business was built.
My last walk went down the shore. Now the villages seem to be quieter, with more holiday cottages. In Pollica, I sat for a coffee and fell to the local mayor, Stefano. “The problem here is that we get a huge flow of guests in August, but few otherwise. I’m trying to carry out Angelo’s work and people realize that Cilento is amazing all year long.”
Angelo Vassallo was his predecessor, shot by a gunman in 2010. It is thought that he may have blocked the awarding of contracts to developing companies related to Camorra.
Finally the walk goes down the road to the coast and I walk along with a shingled beach to Acciaroli. In the 1950s, it was Ernest Hemingway’s favorite Italian resort and even the hotel he was staying at had long been closed, it was easy to see why the writer loved it. There is an old castle, a clutch of houses and many decent cafe-bar where the locals interact. It felt rather old -fashioned, as if the writer could take a stroll and order one of its favorite Tipples of Italy, a Montgomery (15 parts gin, 1 part of Vermouth).
Another American who came here, after World War II, was Ancel Keys, a nutritionist drawn by discovering that the locals were extremely long. The keys lived in Pioppi, a coastal village near Acciaroli, where there is now a museum that includes his studies and lizards. After the careful examination, he eventually finished, rather than unpleasant, that the key to longevity was “the Mediterranean diet”, rather than drinking montgomeries.
Kevin traveled to Cilento by train. A 7-day Interrail Global Pass is around £ 315. At the foot-office offers a 7-night walking itinerary by Cilento National Park from £ 1,180 dwelling, luggage transfer, and some dinner
