Gentle Green Puglia: Sapri to Bari.

May 8, 2015

Monday

Already by turning inland the road has improved. Just what I need after waking with cramped legs after all yesterday's steep climbing. The first ten kilometres are a gentle steady rise with sweeping bends up by wooded slopes. Pass a herd of goats in a jangle of bells as they're herded along. Two dogs driving break off their work when they see me and come barking down the field toward me, but I've passed their territory when they've come as far.

Across the summit the road improves still to a good single-carriageway with adequate shoulder rolling down to a tee, where I turn left toward Lagonegro, a town I see clustered high-rises of on the far slope of the valley.

This road is like single motorway, but with the shoulder and being straight, I'm safe from the cars swishing pass. The real autostrada is up on the hills to the right of the valley above Lagonegro. Bits of viaduct of it can be seen stretching between hills and what isn't seen, is tunnels.

I stop at an Ein petrol station, the best place for a morning coffee and croissant before facing whatever climbing is in store to and beyond Lagonegro, getting round that barrage of hills the town sits against.

On from the petrol station the road climbs gently as the valley narrows and ahead will converge with the autostada, but the road I want turns right and is elevated high on concrete stilts across the valley to the other side; whereupon meeting a road at a tee, parallel to the valley side. I turn right again, with three kilometres to town.

Lagonegro is nothing more than a large village and without signage for the way onward. I climb as locals stare, the steep main street thinking this must be the way, until a small piazza at the top, wherein it looks doubtful it can be. There's no way pass vertical slope. I turn back downhill to the roundabout where I entered town. There, I continue straight passing on the right where I came in, taking the next exit. This come to a dead-end. I ride back and take the next exit round with an immediate bend; round which, I come to a tunnel; at the mouth of which, is a sign: Laura. The town the cyclist I met yesterday mentioned I should head for. There is little traffic and the tunnel is short: daylight being visible through the far side.

Emerging out the other side, the tunnel through a hillock and the road continuing parallel in the valley. And I am glad to see a supermarket a kilometres ahead, needing stuff for lunch and fresh drinks as the days warm up. It feels like the thirties. A cool beer would be nice. On such days you can never quite carry enough fluids. I leave the supermarket with two litres of water, the same of sprite, a litre of orange juice, litre of wine and half of UHD milk: in all six and a half litres on board.

Before Laura at a fork I veer left. The next forty kilometres is slowly but steadily downhill, the sort of decline unseen by the eye, on good straight shouldered highway. Italy is full of surprizes.

With this long easy roll down, I am doing well today and I'm for riding a hundred and twenty kilometres, but then having taken a different road at a left turn, passing through verdant green rolling countryside up to soft sandstone escarpment with violet blossom carpeting hillsides, I'm soon climbing again.

By six in the afternoon I'm climbing up a switch-back climb out of a valley toward a deserted village atop a lofty promontory; then passing up by, with the village's lower street fronting on the road's right; doors padlocked and weatherworn and weeds growing up alongside the walls, I thought of turning off up the narrow grassy uphill street and finding a place to camp in it's centre. A little further, the other side of the promontory to which I faced on the way up, is seen to back onto a shear rock face drop to the valley below. Like a tall plinth with ruin forlorn houses atop. The modern village is less than a kilometre further, still climbing; but beyond it is pine forest where the road peaks and decending a little, I come to a track into the left through an orchard of old overgrown olive trees, terraced against the slope and ideal for camping. Though I wish I'd passed a water tap back in the village. The two litres I have, are for cooking and the like and the sprite is all gone. I put the tent up and quench my thirst on orange juice and savour it while waiting for water to boil to cook dinner.

Tuesday

The body-clock is getting earlier at waking. Nowadays it kicks in shortly before six and I rise at half past as the sun rises. I am not getting notes written in the evening. I'm too tired. I write instead in the morning which delays an early start. This morning it is eight when I set off and already quite warm.

The road descends a little more, leveling out along a ridge and starts climbing again. A killer first thing in the morning. I see a low gap in the hills and assume the road ahead will pass through it; but, beyond the next bend, the road is revealed to turn further uphill and can be seen snaking up to the highest point, continuing steeply for seven kilometres to Aliano, a small hilltop village with nothing to stop for.

There follows the anticipated descent; long straights between a series of sharp switch-back bends where a car follows patiently behind me, one of the few cars and tractors I've seen so far today on this small road. The road comes down to a north-south valley wherein a straight highway passes through. Leading to the junction the car finally passes, halts at the stop sign while cars and commercial vehicles swish by, then moves out and across when the coast is clear, turning left toward Potenza. My road is straight across toward Stigiano and traversing the valley begins another long climb.

Stigiano is another hilltop village reached by rounding a long series of bends hoping this is the last, but only to find a lot more climbing. It looks a place of weekend houses. There's no services such as cafes nor supermarket, but descending steeply round the hillside, I ride into a town hidden from whence I came, with lots of traffic and life. It must be the midmorning break as there are lots of teenage school children hanging about cafes. I stop for morning coffee and later descending more on the way out of town, there's a supermarket on the left where I stock up for the day.

The road on levels out then climbs gradually, but it is a pleasant road across hillside overhung with broad leave woodland providing shade from the sun.

When it is time to stop for lunch I'm back in the open, having dropped into a gorge and crossed a bridge and now riding parallel with the river below on the right. The sun uncomfortably warm if I stop and nowhere suitable to stop and eat; until, I come to a laneway overgrown with grass and enclosed with saplings and bushes either side; not ideal, but for want of a nice place with short sward, shading trees and perhaps a view, it'll do. I push the bike in to a small tree at the side providing shade and lean the bike. I take off the front-right clothes pannier, like a cushion, and set it down to use as a seat with the front left pannier as a back rest. The result is like a comfortable car seat. Lunch is tuna salad I cut and mix myself with chunks of cheese and rocket, bread and a cup of wine; then rest for twenty in which time I close drowsy eyelids and sleep briefly.

A little way on there's quite an incline, again; to Accettura, a town on a promontory ahead above the river. Before the first switch-back up, there's a green and black snake on the road by the verge looped up, it's head resting on it's thin tail. I though it was road kill at first, but there is no usual bloody residue and so is likely asleep. I thought to lift it into the grass with a stick so as not to be run-over, but it would only come back out to the hot asphalt. Anyway there are few cars on the road, and those there are, travel slowly and probably see it and drive round.

Apart from one flattened crow and a few crushed lizards I've seen no road kill. Yet the roadside is crawling with green lizards with red underbelly, darting in and out of the verge and often racing ahead of me before diving to safety into the grass like scared sheep in front of the bike.

Leaving Accettura I'm high upon a plateau for a bit looking far out to the east, seeing a dirty brown traffic-fume haze lingering low in that direction where the sky has grown hazy blue-grey from the coast or heat of the day I cannot tell.

I drop down sharply into a wide valley of vivid green patch work quilt of rolling farmland dissected by a straight band of autostrada, which I cross over and follow signs for Irsma and continue on narrow byroads with only an odd car or tractor. The verges a rich bouquet of red poopies, maturing wild cereals and a yellow cocksfoot like plant. I am making good progress but by five it's looking like it may be difficult free camping anywhere. Though near enough always I come to some possible place I can put a tent up without harming nothing. And I do. In fact I come to the best free campsite ever when the road eases down to and bridges a small river well shrouded in bushes; in amongst which, is good level lawn-like riverbank.

Once I have the tent up I strip off and go into the river for a bath. The water is comfortably lukewarm. And I also rinse the clothes I wore.

Wednesday

The birdsong is really intense from dawn onward. One bird sound like it is saying "never-a-word never-a-word......" then another chirps a reply "word-speak word-speak......." Though listen more carefully, their language is very complex and they don't seem to udder the same sound twice.

I am slow taking down the tent as it is soaked with condensation, preferring to let it dry first, meaning it is after nine when I ride out the track to join the road at the bridge. Still on country byroads with an occasional passing tractor but barely a car. There are rows of round-top conifers at interval along one side of the road: the dark green contrasting with the lighter greens of farmland along the valley hillsides, which also has stripes of yellow where grass has been cut for silage. There is the sweet smell of rows of new mown grass in fields by the roadside too. And the roadside verge flaming red with poppies.

It is a long arduous climb to Irsma on a hilltop. A pharmacy green cross sign shows +37. The main street has no shade and I count five fruit and veg shops, two florists, no cafes and no supermarket; until, I reach the far end of the kilometre long street, there's a Spar shop, so I stock up for the day. I also buy a cool beer which I savour sat by the bike in the shaded front of the shop.

The descend is cooling, but once on the flat the tarmac radiates heat. At a junction the way morphs to a smooth highway with a shoulder, merging with the way I come when I's coming from Bari last March. It was getting late that day and I look out for the spot where I camped on a track along a cereal field, but don't recognize it. Ahead as expected I see the town covered hillside of Grevine di Puglia. There I remember a water-tap in the piazza, so when I get as far, I turn off and climb into town and lunch on a tree shaded piazza bench. The water-tap is a busy place, with a constant stream of locals filling water bottles and in a short let up when there's no-one, I go and drink. It is wonderfully cold and I fill up all spare bottles.

I thought I would reach Bari today, but with the late start there's no way I'll get there before nightfall. And free camping possibilities from here on from what I remember are limited. I may have to fork out for a hotel, but first I've to visit an ATM. In the next town, Altamura, I put my card in one machine; do the transaction, then after a few seconds wait, my card slides out but no cash follows. Momentarily a message appears on the screen in Italian. I translate the ending, which reads, ....no response. I try a different bank and the same happens: the message the same, ....no response. This has me slightly worried. But there's no point worrying. I can't do nothing now. Hopefully my card will work in a machine in Bari tomorrow.

Turning back on the highway leaving Altamura, there's not much of a shoulder now. I'm pressed between metal crash-barrier and fast traffic. Then a little down the hill from town, there's a split off minor road signposted "Foresta Mercadanta 10km.

I am surprized at what a nice road this is, having ridden the highway last time which is dead straight, up and down over every undulation. This on the other hand meanders with that same wildflower verge, though field division here are grey dry-stone walls with grey rock outcrops on slopes.

When I get to the forest, I push my bike through a gap in the wall and ride about a kilometre in from the road to a suitable camping spot.

Thursday

Listen. Imagine the roar of a jet engine as a plane gains altitude in the sky over an airport. But a continuous rumble. The light dim in the tent first thing and no glare from rising-sun filtered in. Yesterdays heat has culminated in a thunder storm. Moments later as expected, there's the patter of rain on the tent's taut fly-sheet. It isn't like a sudden afternoon storm, moving in with a dark curtain of pelting cold rain. No this has slowly been happening all night. The sky when I peeked out early on was uniform grey. And it could rain the whole day.

Having at long last finished The Old Patagonian Express, I take from my pannier the other book I brought along and make a start. The Conservationist by Nadine Gordimer. South African. I can not say much about the book yet as I bough it on a whim.

I have only read three pages when the drumming on the tent ceases and a bit later, about half eight, the sun breaks through.

The tent is dry by the time I decide to get going and I'm in Bari at noon to find there's a Catholic festival, the feast of San Nicolas, from Thursday through to Sunday. The town is full and so is the first hostel I call at. Booked up until Sunday. However the next one has a few beds, fifteen euros a night, so I check in for four nights. I go to the bank and the machine works this time and return and give the reception guy sixty.

Today's ride: 315 km (196 miles)
Total: 3,892 km (2,417 miles)

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