What follows is an unnecessarily detailed and dramatic
retelling of the time I did a walk. It’s a well-known walk, one which many, many
people have done before. I did it too, though.
I am a fairly spectacular urban walker, of this there can be
no doubt. But I’ve never really enjoyed walking as a pastime. It’s slower than
its close relation ‘running’, and contains a higher risk of boredom. To spruce
up the whole endeavour, I decided to listen to the entire Radiohead
back-catalogue in order. Well, just the albums. And I started at The Bends - I’m not a psychopath. I
swear this just happened organically, at least for the first three albums.
After that, it just seemed rude to change.
The journey began in the tiny Commune Di Framura. Framura
isn’t actually itself a town, but rather a collection of minute villages dotted
across the side of a hill. What it does have is a dynamite little hostel,
quieter and far cheaper than its touristy cousins in the Cinque Terre. It’s run
by a charming chap who speaks no English. I don’t think he speaks German. I
didn’t try French. I assume he speaks
Italian, but how would I know? Our relationship consisted mainly of “ciao” and
thumbs-ups.
[Sidenote: This really was a great little hostel (Ostello
Perla del Levante). At check out time, I wasn’t quite ready, and he was off
somewhere to do Italian things, so could I please leave the key in the
letterbox, and just drop some cash on the desk to pay for the room. All of this
communicated in hand gestures and trust.]
With base camp set up, it was off to Cinque Terre. These are
five little towns amongst the hills, connected by train tracks and walking
paths. I had done little research, but I guessed I’d go to the other end of the
track, and walk until I got to Monterosso, the nearest town to Framura (and the
one with a beach). The German woman in my dorm had done some of it yesterday, and came back
looking like she’d done several back-to-back Tae Bo classes (back when that was
a reference). I asked her whether it might be too much for one day?
“For me, yes. But I haven’t done any sport since last
September.” It’s a little weird that she gave a specific time period of
non-sportingness. She probably expected me to ask further questions. I asked no
further questions.
She continued, “but you probably do a bit more sport than
me.”
“Oh, you know, occasionally,” I replied humbly, but I could
tell she knew. “I’ll give it a go. There’s always the train if I need it.” I
had no intention of needing it. What she didn’t realise was that she had
challenged me and all of New Zealand, and I would not let us down.
“Where do we go from
here…”
While waiting for the train at little Framura station (10am),
I decided to listen to The Bends. It
was sunny, and sometimes I listen to The
Bends when it’s sunny. I had packed the essentials:
- - H&M shoes;
- - H&M shorts;
- - H&M socks;
- - Towel that’s too small for proper beach use, but
saves an insignificant amount of space in one’s bag;
- - H&M swimming shorts;
- - Biscuits which weren’t very nice, but the good
news is they were expensive;
- - Water;
- - All Blacks shirt, because patriotism is a responsibility.
The plan: Walk really fast; cursorily observe the history
and culture; get to the beach at the end; forget most of the history and the
culture. Oh, and I pass you, you don’t
pass me. (I’m competitive, it turns out).
“You’ve got to feel
it in your bones…”
I arrived in Riomaggiore (10:35am), the first (or the last?)
of the Cinque Terre, and I was pumped. Let’s hit this trail. Stop - culture; history! Also, KISS graffiti:
So I walked around a little. Yeah, cool town; funny colours;
don’t need souvenirs, thanks. Let’s hit
the damn trail! Normally, this part of the journey is the easiest. There
are nice, flat, seaside pathways between the first two towns – a gentle warm
up:
This would be true, if it weren’t for landslides. So we’re going over. It was at this point that I noticed that a lot of people had hiking boots, and moisture-wicking clothing, and backpacks with chewy straws which you can chew on while pretending to hydrate. Some people had ski poles, so maybe there’d be chairlifts? Oh, and all the shoes were brands named after Himalayan villages and such, and were in earth tones so you knew they were serious. I didn’t see many pairs of DIVIDED by H&M.
After walking around for an eternity trying to find the
trail, I spotted the sign to Manarola (let’s say 11ish):
 |
| Hard to believe I missed it the first time! |
“Sometimes you sulk,
sometimes you burn…”
Immediately, we were going up. And up. Stairs made of (not
necessarily flat) rocks. And narrow. I could see that some of my colleagues –
the ones penciled into Death’s To-Do list – were finding the going difficult.
I, however, had done the Tongariro Crossing when I was about 10, so I had a
good base fitness to build on. Also I figured that, if “up” is the worst way,
then doing it slower will only make it take longer. Better to go faster.
Eventually I made it to the top of the first hill, redfaced
and gleaming thanks to a sweat comprised largely of olive oil and a little
house wine from last night at Sylvia’s, a nice family-style joint in Costa, Framura.
By this stage, I was well onto OK
Computer. These albums are surprisingly good for walking to, by the way.
But maybe the message is just that walking to whatever your favourite music is
will always be a great time. Flight of
the Valkyries would be spectacular, I imagine.
“Such a pretty house,
and such a pretty garden…”
“Fitter, healthier,
and more productive…”
Walking down is obviously better than walking up. What is
especially nice about walking down is passing people going in the other
direction, and giving them the little “you’re nearly there”, “great job”, “this
is really impressive, for you” looks.
Eventually, I made it to Manarola around 12:15.
 |
| Manarola |
Here’s the truth about the Cinque Terre: the first few towns
kind of look the same. The exciting part is doing the trail, hating every
second of it, then spotting the next town, then realising there are two more
“ups” before you get there. When I was in Riomaggiore, Manarola and Corniglia,
I was mainly thinking about the next leg, filling up my water bottle, that sort
of thing. I’ll bet the guide books say something else – that each of them is
unique and spectacular and there’s all sorts of history. Anway, if you want to
know more about Manarola, read one of your precious guide books. Just know that
I was there, I looked at it, then I left it.
“It’s gonna be a
gloooooorious day…”
As much as I’d like to whinge about identical towns, steps, and that nagging feeling that I was on the precipice of chaffing, the scenery and the climate combined to make it an extraordinary experience. Now back to cynicism.
“Hey man, slow down.
Idiot, slow down…”
In all my excitement to be the king of the mountain, and
thanks partially to the incredibly inadequate signage, I got lost:
I battled through some bushes, and I battled some more. Here I was, in a populated, tourist mecca, lost like something out of a Rudyard Kipling novel (never read anything by Rudyard). Lost like something inaccurately translated. Lost like those guys in Lost. I pushed through, and stumbled upon grape vines, in what seemed to be someone’s backyard:
I had two options: Go back down to the last legitimate path
I’d seen (maybe 20 minutes of climbing), or head right (if I had a compass, I’d
tell you the direction. Also if I knew how to read a compass), jump a few
fences, and try to find the track.
I weighed the two: I really didn’t know which way the track
was. I didn’t know what lay ahead. Would I be shot? Would I walk on forever,
never to find the path, trapped in a sort of Waiting For Godot narrative, in which Godot is a path?
But I couldn’t go back. I was winning. King of the Mountain! To go backwards
would be to admit defeat, or at least non-total-dominance.
I chose to be bold. For whom does fortune favour? That’s
right, the bold. Well, in this case it really favoured me, because the path was about 10 metres to the right. It’s
possible that this whole episode was far less dramatic than I imagined, in
hindsight. But hindsight’s 60 Minutes, as they say.
“Yesterday I woke up
sucking a lemon. Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon…”
 |
| Lemon trees are EVERYWHERE |
Yup, we’re on to Kid A. It’s now starting to feel a little
weird listening to this very minimalist, industrial-sounding music from the
turn of the millennium in this context. Where’s the mandolin? Maybe some
alt-country would make more sense?
 |
| Corniglia |
We’re also onto Corniglia (1:30), the third of the towns.
This one’s different because it’s perched up on a cliff. Other than that,
though, it’s not heaps different. They do have their own Westpac Stadium, though:
I stopped here for four biscuits. As I told you earlier,
they were pretty lousy:
And in produce news, I purchased an apple and an orange. The
sign outside said they were 2.20
a kilo, but I paid 2.60
for one of each. In hindsight, I don’t think I bought a kilo worth of fruit. On
the plus side, the woman who served me was holding a slice of pizza in her
spare hand, and it’s fun when stereotypes bear out.
After my biscuits, I left Corniglia.
“Cut the kids in
half. Cut the kids in half…”
You know what would make this whole ordeal even better? A
baby! These two were keeping an open mind about the mess they’d found
themselves in (both in the moment, and in the bigger picture), but I can’t
imagine it being fun after 20 or so minutes (ditto).
Ps, the baby was crying.
[We’re on Amnesiac
now, by the way]
“15 Steps, then a
sheer drop…”
So many steps. It was like how Melissa Moon used to do those
races where skinny people run up all the steps in a really tall building. I was
the Melissa Moon of Cinque Terre. I’m not actually comparing myself to world
champion stair runner Melissa Moon, but I’m also not not.
[Sidenote: Melissa Moon used to teach at my high school,
when she wasn’t running up something steep. I never actually met her, but I
like to think that she remembers me fondly.]
“I guess I’m stuck,
stuck, stuck. We thought you had it in you but no, no no…”
I’d be lying if I said the mood was still high, the pace
still quick, and my feet not sore. As cost-effective as these shoes were, they
are not really any match for the oddly-shaped rocks these stairs are made of. Mood
was low, and I forgot to fill the water bottle in Corniglia. The great carrot
was the beach at the end, but first I had to get to Vernazza.
“Down is the new up…”
It didn’t feel like much more climbing to reach Vernazza.
That’s probably due to Corniglia being on a cliff, and Vernazza being down at
the water. Still, it’d seem a waste not to go up at least a few stairs. So we got that out of the way, and then it
was a more considerate rolling path back down.
Also, along the way I finally found a sign that I liked:
Disappointingly, “playa” is just another word for “beach”. This really had the potential to be an elite sign. Still, I had a little giggle, and then it wasn’t far to Vernazza.
 |
| Vernazza |
Vernazza is probably the prettiest of the Cinque Terre. It’s right on the water, and it really felt like it was designed to be looked at from within. I didn’t stop long, because there was only one more path to climb, and then it was beach time!
 |
| Vernazza |
[BIG SIDENOTE: Diligent Radiohead fans will have noticed
that I totally neglected Hail To The
Thief. Congrats. That was a test. Actually, I forgot it entirely. I
remembered about it on the way to Monterosso, but I figured I would add it on
at the end if necessary. In the end, it was not necessary.]
“Little by little, by
hook or by crook…”
I was officially over all the stairs, the climbing, the
other people at this point. I felt that my ‘if something is worse, do it
faster’ mentality made sense, and started really moving. Feet hurting, sunburnt and thirsty, I
was determined to end this thing. The good news was that this was the last leg.
The bad news was that people had told me that this was the hardest leg. I don’t
know if it was any harder than the first two, but I guess you are supposed to
go “around”, not “up” for them. Anyway, it was annoying, hard, and I was over
it. The beach was calling, and it was time to greet it.
They say that this part is meant to take an hour and a half.
I don’t know who’s in charge of that, because it took more like 40 minutes. [“God
defend New Zeee-eee-land”]
Gloriously, mercifully, the beach finally materialised (4pm).
Freedom. Monterosso is the biggest of the towns, and probably the one that I
would choose to spend my free time in, mainly because of the beach.
 |
| Monterosso |
“The water’s clear
and innocent…”
Because it’s Europe, this is a bikini tops-off friendly
beach. Naturally, I took mine off.
The beach, with it’s cold-but-not-impossibly-so water, was
exactly what Dr Whatman ordered. You’d be a nutcase to do this trip the other
way around, since there are no beaches at any of the other towns.
All in all, it took about five hours. It’s meant to take
more, and I definitely could not tell you the deepest secrets of any of the
little towns I visited. It was a nice, healthy challenge. For all the whinging
about sore feet and the seemingly inevitable onset of chaffing (never actually
arrived, miraculously), plenty of geriatrics were there, cranking it out. She’s
no K2.
I celebrated by lying on that beach for two hours, acquiring
further sunburn, and then with a delightful spaghetti and a bunch of beer:
Most people probably prefer to make these sorts of journeys
with friends and loved ones, laughing gaily and enjoying the sights. I
preferred the thrill of victory. I looked mother nature in her eyes and laughed
scornfully. She, with her stone steps, tiny signs and dusty walkways; she, with
her souvenir shops and overpriced fruit; she, the creator of obstacles and the
burner of skins, could not defeat the human spirit. I laugh at her as I laugh
at moderate foot pain, as I laugh at estimated journey lengths and I laughed at
the children I brushed aside on the road to victory.
But mostly, I laugh with pride, because on this day as on
every other day since time began, New Zealand was better than Germany.
