DAY 6
The people of Sulmona call their hometown the City of Arts. Probably because the Roman poet Ovid was born here. They even put up a rather fine statue in his honor.
Since the breakfast (which meant in this case a coffee and a puffy pastry—albeit a really enormous one) included with my accommodation was served at a bar on Piazza Garibaldi, Sulmona’s main square, I took the opportunity to enjoy a leisurely morning stroll through the town.
Piazza Garibaldi is crossed by an aqueduct—not one “built by the slaves of ancient Rome,” but a thoroughly medieval one nonetheless. I wandered over to see Ovid, after all, we do have something in common: like him, I’m a vegetarian. And while he spent his final years in exile on the shores of the Pontus Euxinus—today’s Black Sea—I began my own life not too far away, in Kyiv. The Latin inscription on his monument reads Sulmo mihi patria est, meaning “Sulmona is my homeland.”
On my way back, crossing Piazza Garibaldi once again, I found the local greengrocer setting up her stall. A small crowd had already gathered to stock up on fresh vegetables. I decided it was time to buy some strawberries and, while waiting my turn, thoroughly enjoyed watching the vendor at work. With remarkable speed and effortless precision, she filled each order, calculated the total in an instant, and kept up a constant stream of melodic Italian conversation. It was like listening to music. The woman ahead of me bought an enormous pile of leafy greens, then added four eggs and one single small onion.
The day’s plan was fairly modest: simply cross the mountains to the Adriatic Sea, stopping at two or three mountain villages along the way. The first of them was Pescopennataro, perched at more than 1,200 meters (3,900 feet) above sea level, where stone houses cling to dramatic rock formations. The view from a distance is especially impressive.
Then it was back into the mountains, climbing, descending and then climbing again almost all the way to the wind turbines lining the ridge. In two places, landslides had spilled onto the road, and only half the carriageway had been cleared. Spring runoff had washed away sections of the pavement, and in many places the lane along the cliff edge had collapsed. These stretches were fenced off, waiting for repairs. Patches of snow still lingered in the shaded areas. Up on the highest roads, the pavement was noticeably rougher than lower down, as if these remote mountain routes rarely make it to the top of the maintenance list.
The second village, Monteferrante, turned out to be rather unremarkable. As for the waterfalls mentioned in the article about this place, it appeared that they weren’t exactly nearby but dozens of kilometers away. Still, the weather was beautiful, the road was perfectly driveable, the crisp mountain air was invigorating, and the bright sunshine under a cloudless sky made for a wonderful day. So why not keep driving?
I decided to skip one of the two waterfalls since it was well out of the way, but I did make the detour to Cascate del Verde, the highest permanent waterfall in the Apennines.
The access to the viewing platforms costs €12, but the ticket office was closed. After a short 200-meter walk, the path descends via a staircase to three different viewpoints. The first requires only a few steps, the second about 40 (though it turned out the waterfall wasn’t visible from there), and the third—probably at the very bottom, near the base of the falls—about 170. I wasn’t quite ready for that kind of workout, so I admired the waterfall from afar, from the first viewpoint, or belvedere, as they’re called here—a fitting name, since belvedere literally means “beautiful view.”
After descending almost to the Adriatic coast, I began looking for my guesthouse in the town of San Salvo. Waze got hopelessly confused—it could only find the street itself. Locals gave me directions, which eventually turned out to be perfectly accurate, but I still couldn’t find the place. After more than half an hour and several laps around town, I finally called the property. It turned out that number 14 on Via Rigolizia wasn’t actually on that street at all. It was a few hundred meters away and officially belonged to the neighboring town of Vasto. Poor Waze!
That wasn’t the only curious invention at this unusual guesthouse. It has an elevator, but the only way to call it is by pressing a yellow button on the second floor. Imagine that! Whoever needs to bring up their luggage has to go upstairs first to fetch the elevator, while everyone else gets some extra exercise on the stairs. Healthy, I suppose. Let’s just hope breakfast doesn’t come with another surprise.
DAYS 7–9
It turned out that the guesthouse elevator had some more quirks in stock for me. To make it arrive, you have to keep the button pressed continuously. Even then, when I stepped inside with my suitcase, it refused to move. I had to go downstairs, call the elevator again, and only then did it graciously agree to transport my luggage. Still, the hotel itself was pleasant and reasonably priced.
Today marked the start of a faster journey south, with only a couple of stops along the way. The first one was the seaside town of Termoli. Once a fishing port, it has become a popular Italian beach resort with a long sandy shoreline, countless restaurants, and an acute shortage of parking. I got lucky: a car pulled out just as I arrived, leaving me a space almost next to the main sights. A walk of just a couple of hundred meters brought me into the old town, perched on a small peninsula.
The first landmark visitors encounter is the castle, built by the Normans in the 11th century. It was damaged during an attack by the Genoese fleet, then rebuilt and strengthened by the Swabian king Frederick II in 1240. The castle formed part of an extensive system of fortifications that once enclosed the entire old town. Today, only a single tower is all that remains.
At the heart of the old town stands the cathedral, built in the 12th and 13th centuries, a fine example of Apulian Romanesque architecture. One of its most striking features is the series of animal sculptures projecting horizontally from the walls. They resemble gargoyles in form but serve a purely decorative purpose. The interior, however, is rather unremarkable.
Another curiosity of the old town is A Rejecelle, just 40 centimeters (16 inches) wide and officially recognized as the narrowest street in Italy. It now joins my personal collection of impossibly narrow streets, which already includes similar lanes in Stockholm, Brașov (the one I searched for endlessly and, to my embarrassment, never found), and somewhere else that I can no longer remember.
On my way out of town, I stopped at the modernist Church of St. Francis of Assisi, which was built between 1976 and 1980. It is said to have some interesting murals, but, alas, it was closed: April 25 is Liberation Day in Italy (from fascism and Nazism), and everything is closed. This also almost cost me forty euros at the gas station. The system there is rather complicated, and after feeding the machine forty euros, I pressed the wrong button getting no fuel. In a second a couple pulled up on a bike, and they began trying to help me. The girl managed to extract a refund receipt from the machine and handed it to me: “You’ll be able to get your money back tomorrow.” “Tomorrow I’ll be far from here.” Then the guy told me he would have given me his money and get the refund tomorrow, but had no cash on him. I immediately reacted, “Do you have a credit card?” “Yes.” “Then fill up my car on your credit card.” Which is exactly what he did, saving me.
The second town, Larino, was less impressive. Its 10th-11th-century cathedral is considered one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in Italy. I thought this was a bit of a joke. But its main façade is Romanesque, interesting, with numerous figures (again, some of them put at a right angle to the wall). Another drawback of Larino was that to continue south, I had to first almost completely return to Termoli.
I spent two nights – a break – in the town of Rodi Garganico, the first of a series of resort towns on the Gargano massif – one of the main destinations of this trip. The room wasn’t great, and the town rather dull, but these are the things that happen. Luckily, the supermarket was open for half a day, and I made up for yesterday’s failure. After resting for half a day, in the afternoon I went to the neighboring town of Vico del Gargano, which has many fine old buildings and, of course, its own castle. Also beautiful is the neo-Gothic Palazzo della Bella, commissioned by a certain Ignazio della Bella at the beginning of the 20th century in an imitation of the Palazzo Vecchio.
Despite the approaching evening, I managed to visit the Foresta Umbra (Forest of Shadows) – a dense forest in the heart of the Gargano National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I would have liked to take a long walk through the forest, but I only had time to go around a small lake not far from the road.
Along the road, there were warnings about cows. Cows? Two days ago, there were warnings about bears – wow. And here there are just cows. Not romantic.
The next, ninth day, was dedicated to a trip through the Gargano massif, home to the Gargano Nature Reserve. The first town was Peschici, whose hotels are far from the sea, and the town itself is nothing to write home about. Next came the largest resort town, Vieste, a rather elegant one, with seaside hotels and an unusual landmark: the Pizzomunno pillar, a large monolith of snow-white limestone standing by the beach, detached from the equally white massif.
I passed the third town, Mattinata, without stopping, and headed to Monte Sant’Angelo, home to one of Europe’s most important pilgrimage sites, the Sanctuary of Saint Michael (Santuario de San Michele Arcangelo), a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This is the site of the apparition of the Archangel Michael in 493 (I believe that was his first apparition), and all subsequent sanctuaries dedicated to him were also traditionally built on mountains or hills (Mont Saint-Michel in France, St. Michael’s Mount in England, and others). (Interestingly, the Archangel Michael is mentioned in two places in the Bible as the protector of Israel.)
The sanctuary itself lies deep underground inside a natural cave, reached by descending five flights of stairs.
I also visited the so-called Tomb of Rothari, which is in fact the Baptistery of St. John, as well as the neighboring Church of Santa Maria Maggiore. Although both monument are badly damaged, several remarkable architectural details survived.
Reaching the local 9th-century castle required climbing a long staircase, and by then I simply didn’t have the energy left.
Before leaving the area, I had decided to skip San Giovanni Rotondo, another major pilgrimage destination just 24 kilometers away. I figured one pilgrimage site would be enough. Only later did I discover that it is home to a striking contemporary church. For an architecture enthusiast like me, that was a missed opportunity. Instead, I stopped in Manfredonia, took a quick look at its castle and cathedral, refilled my car, this time without any trouble, and continued on to my overnight stop.
DAY 10
In the morning, Giovanni, the friendly young man who tends the apartment where I had rented a room, ran to the nearby shop and brought back fresh bread, cheese, and juice for my breakfast. Interestingly, unlike in many other European countries, Italians rarely abandon the tradition of including breakfast even for apartment renting, even though it is often quite modest. A basic “Italian breakfast” usually consists of nothing more than coffee and a croissant or another pastry. That’s it. Sometimes they’ll also provide cereal and tea, and only occasionally anything else—at least in the kind of accommodations that fits my budget. The next morning, for only the second time during the trip, a hostess promised to cook me eggs (which, as it turned out, came at an extra charge). When I decided to leave my car on the street instead of paying €10 for the garage, Giovanni locked the steering wheel for me “so you can sleep peacefully.”
Over the past few days, I’ve been making more of an effort to speak at least a little Italian. What comes out is often a mixture of Italian and Spanish, but people understand me since the two languages are so closely related. It’s still much better than standing there speechless and trying to communicate entirely with gestures. I hate that feeling. I suspect I’d learn Italian quite easily—it contains so many words that have found their way into other languages.
Today was almost entirely a driving day, as I made my way back toward Rome. Before long, the road left the plains behind and began climbing through rolling hills and then mountains. The scenery was magnificent: picturesque hilltop towns crowned by castle towers or church bell towers at their highest points.
I took my time, stopping now and then for a snack. A slice of pizza here, a gelato there—oh, Italian gelato! Buonissimo! I was about to leave Italy without trying it. And, of course, coffee. In other countries, even in France, you occasionally come across a mediocre cup. But in Italy? Impossibile! Only excellent coffee.
My only sightseeing stop today was the town of Lucera. It reminded me of an impoverished aristocrat: full of palazzi, most of them modest but occasionally adorned with beautiful architectural details. Almost all, however, are in poor condition—a scene that is all too common in Italian towns, especially those far from the main tourist routes.
The Cathedral of the Assumption is a Gothic church dating mainly from the 14th century. Its style reflects strong French influence, a legacy of the Angevin dynasty that ruled here after defeating the Hohenstaufen of Swabia. Like most of the churches I visited on this journey, it has a wooden ceiling. The building follows a three-aisled plan without a transept, allowing all three aisles to open directly into lofty, light-filled apses that create a surprisingly uplifting atmosphere. And finally, there were the ribbed vaults in the apses. I had missed seeing those.
As I rattled over the large cobblestones of the old town, I suddenly noticed an elegant Baroque scrollwork decorating an 18th-century church and stopped to capture it with my lense. It was a rare occasion when I genuinely liked something Baroque—Sicilian Baroque being, of course, the exception.
I arrived at a farmhouse in the middle of a broad, peaceful valley for the night. After showing me into the house, the hostess drove away, leaving me completely alone in a silence broken only by the chirping of grasshoppers. I still had time to sit on the swing by the entrance, enjoying the quiet and basking in the warm rays of the setting sun. Tomorrow is going to be a hectic day, much like the first one, and ending at the airport.
DAY 11
The final day of a trip is often hectic and stressful. This time, however, my last day surpassed all expectations. But let’s start from the beginning.
Shortly after ten in the morning, I arrived in my first destination of the day: Anagni, famous for the remarkable frescoes in the crypt of its cathedral. The cathedral itself was built between 1072 and 1104 in the Romanesque-Byzantine style, while its interior acquired Gothic elements during a mid-13th-century reconstruction.
I soon discovered that the crypt is open only every thirty minutes, for twenty-minute long visits, when it is fully illuminated. The access to the cathedral museum follows the same schedule and, during the busy season, probably needs to be booked in advance. The staff initially offered me an 11:30 entry to the cathedral, which would have completely ruined my plans since it was only 10:30. After a bit of friendly persuasion, I managed to secure museum admission at 11:00 with respective entry to the crypt at 11:30.
While waiting, I wandered a little through the town. Just a short walk from the cathedral stands the Palace of Pope Boniface VIII, now a museum. Soon enough, I hurried back.
The cathedral itself is not especially remarkable. Access to the main nave is reserved for worshippers, although it can be seen from the entrance to the crypt. When I noticed that the crypt was still illuminated and no one was checking tickets, I quickly slipped downstairs and managed to enjoy a few precious minutes during the previous group time slot. When the lights went out, I went up, waited ten minutes for the lights to come on again and then entered once more on my own time slot—this time completely alone.
The frescoes, painted between 1237 and 1256, cover every wall and ceiling of the crypt and are among the best-preserved examples of Romanesque-Byzantine painting in Italy, although some sections have suffered considerable damage. Their subjects range from early philosophy and the lives of saints to the Apocalypse and the Ark of the Covenant. The accompanying information is detailed and available in English. The only disappointment is the short visiting time.
Photography is officially forbidden, but since there is no supervision, visitors tend to interpret that rule rather freely. The frescoes cannot rival the quality or preservation of, for example, the Romanesque paintings in the Pantheon of the Kings at San Isidoro in León, Spain, but their iconography is fascinating and well worth studying.
While admiring the frescoes, don’t forget to look down. The crypt—and the cathedral itself—features a magnificent original Cosmatesque floor that has never been restored. This distinctive decorative style consists of intricate geometric mosaic patterns made from tiny pieces of colored stone and marble arranged into circles, squares, diamonds, and triangles. The style takes its name from the Cosmati family, the master craftsmen who perfected this uniquely Italian art form.
I should mention that Waze let me down in Anagni. Following its directions, I drove straight into the historic center without noticing the sign restricting access to residents only. Based on my experience during a previous trip to Italy—when I ignored a similar restriction, assuming the Italians might be a little relaxed about such things, only to receive a rather substantial fine later—I wouldn’t be surprised if another unpleasant “@”gift” arrives from Anagni.
From Anagni, I made a fairly long drive to Tivoli to visit the famous Villa d’Este. Judging by what I had read, I expected it would take two or three hours to explore, so I was already worried about my schedule. The adventure began with Waze once again trying to route me into a restricted-traffic zone, but this time I was vigilant. The app seemed offended and went beserque. I switched to Google Maps which for some reason decided this time to communicate with me in complete silence. As a result, I spent nearly half an hour driving around the town and asking people the way before finally reaching Villa d’Este.
This was one of the rare occasions when I left genuinely disappointed. Usually, when a famous attraction fails to impress me, I simply tell myself, “Well, now at least I know what it’s like.” But this time my expectations had probably been set too high. Comparisons with Peterhof are, of course, unfair, but I still diligently walked the entire garden, climbing countless staircases and photographing every fountain. I became a little more forgiving when I reminded myself that the villa was created almost five hundred years ago. Even so, the wilder beauty of Villa Gregoriana appealed to me much more.
After leaving Villa d’Este, I sat down at a café in the piazza for a well-earned break and was rewarded with one of the most delicious lasagnas of the trip. In the vicinity of Villa d’Este there are no parking lots, so to find a place to park one have to plough the neighboring streets and may end up leaving the car quite a distance away.
After somehow finding my way back to the highway without any navigation apps functioning, it occurred to me that perhaps I should restart my phone. That solved the problem, and I continued to the town of Nemi, the smallest of the fourteen hill towns collectively known as the Castelli Romani. Perched on the rim of an ancient volcanic crater, Nemi overlooks the deep blue waters of the lake filling it now. The town is famous for its wild strawberries, which thrive on the sheltered slopes of the crater, protected from the wind.
I would have loved to spend more time wandering through Nemi’s charming streets, but my schedule was tight. Instead, I treated myself to a strawberry tiramisu and a cup of coffee on a terrace overlooking the lake. Before leaving, I took a chance and bought a small selection of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries. Although the berries became rather squashed during the journey home, they survived the trip—and brought plenty of joy to everyone waiting for me there.
I had no time left to visit the final destination on my itinerary—Castel Gandolfo, the historic summer residence of the popes. Like nearby Lake Nemi, Lake Albano, on whose shores the town stands, fills the crater of an ancient volcano.
Everything that happened between then and my flight home turned into an uninterrupted series of mishaps and absurd adventures. It began when I accidentally entered the electronic toll lane reserved for drivers with automatic payment devices. I realized my mistake immediately, but by then a line of cars had already formed behind me, making it impossible to back out. All I could do was continue and hope another fine wasn’t on its way.
I had also spent the entire day reminding myself that I needed to refuel the car. With all the things that happened that day, I somehow forgot about it. At the rental return desk, I was given two choices: pay €100, including a €50 refueling service fee, or gok and fill the tank yourself. I chose the second option. Unfortunately, the gas station had one final surprise waiting for me. The payment machine happily accepted my €50, then, instead of dispensing fuel, printed a receipt explaining how I could request a refund. This time there was no helpful stranger nearby to rescue me. In the end, I lost the same €50 anyway, plus the extra time and stress of racing back to the station. At least returning the car itself went smoothly. A wellcom novelty: in Rome you don’t have to look for your renting company: the lady at the entrance to the garage takes care of all ‘the rent a car’s saving customer’s time.
Was that the end of it? Not quite. The disasters continued to build up to reach a a real crescendo. By the time I got to the airport, my phone battery was dead—and, in my haste, I had packed the charger inside my checked suitcase. After some determined searching, I found someone charging his own phone, borrowed their charger, and managed to bring my battery almost back to full. Then I made the long journey to my departure gate, including an endless corridor and a shuttle bus ride. Finally, I settled into ay seat, feeling immensely pleased with myself. My flight was delayed by two hours, so I thought I might even have enough time to write—and perhaps publish—this travel diary. I reached into my pocket for my phone… and it wasn’t there.
How it disappeared remains a mystery to this day. I tried to make my way back to the place where I had last seen it, but that proved impossible. And so my sometimes hectic, eventful, thoroughly enjoyable journey through Central Italy ended with one final unforgettable mishap.
