The map they gave me indicated that the 3km-walk between Vernazza and Monterosso would take approximately two hours, but it only took me an hour and a half. And wearing a pair of chucks too.
The trail draws a wavy line along the coastal mountains of the Italian Riviera, sometimes rising to skirt the top-most boundary of a leafy orchard, other times diving into shady, cavern-like corners fed by secret springs and hung with ivy. The path itself changes too, alternating between wide stretches, shaded by natural leafy pergolas and freshened with a mountain breeze, and narrow ledges of hard, dusty rock made even harder by the relentless heat of the sun. But always the Mediterranean ocean twinkling far, far below, the deep turquoise becoming more textured with every change in the wind’s direction, the waves never ceasing.
To help get me going, I listened to music at first, knowing that if I sashayed and sang my way up the rock staircases, I wouldn’t feel the effort in my legs as much. It worked and within a half hour, my body became accustomed to the pace and I took off the earphones to better enjoy the physical experience of walking the path.
The sound of my own breathing. The splash of the waves below. The skittering of rocks as tiny lizards dashed across the path. The papery sound of leaves fluttering in the wind. The mingling of voices from travellers ahead of me, behind me, below me.
The other people I met on the trail were as engaging as the view. Families being led by excited children, evidently undaunted by the dangers of running too fast on a cliff path. Groups of sturdy middle-aged German women, their thighs reddened with exercise, their walking sticks firmly grasped. Older British women with wiry arms and jaunty Tilleys calling out a mirthful, Maggie-Smith like “buongiorno!” in response to my greeting. Enthusiastic, young American men inevitably trailed by disgruntled-looking girlfriends wearing the wrong clothes and clutching a water bottle…
With such entertainment to be expected around every bend, I hardly felt the time time go by.
When I reached Monterosso, I immediately walked around to the harbour and dipped my feet in the Mediterranean, laughing to see that the green polish on my toenails matched the colour of the sea. Having procured myself an ice-cold Birra Moretti, I then found a rocky perch and let my feet dangle, alternating reading The New Yorker with watching a group of pink-backed Australians celebrate their swim over from Vernazza. I swallowed the last of my beer in their honour and retied my shoelaces, ready for the walk home.
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Walking the trail, Cinque Terre, Italy
The trail draws a wavy line along the coastal mountains of the Italian Riviera, sometimes rising to skirt the top-most boundary of a leafy orchard, other times diving into shady, cavern-like corners fed by secret springs and hung with ivy. The path itself changes too, alternating between wide stretches, shaded by natural leafy pergolas and freshened with a mountain breeze, and narrow ledges of hard, dusty rock made even harder by the relentless heat of the sun. But always the Mediterranean ocean twinkling far, far below, the deep turquoise becoming more textured with every change in the wind’s direction, the waves never ceasing.
To help get me going, I listened to music at first, knowing that if I sashayed and sang my way up the rock staircases, I wouldn’t feel the effort in my legs as much. It worked and within a half hour, my body became accustomed to the pace and I took off the earphones to better enjoy the physical experience of walking the path.
The sound of my own breathing. The splash of the waves below. The skittering of rocks as tiny lizards dashed across the path. The papery sound of leaves fluttering in the wind. The mingling of voices from travellers ahead of me, behind me, below me.
The other people I met on the trail were as engaging as the view. Families being led by excited children, evidently undaunted by the dangers of running too fast on a cliff path. Groups of sturdy middle-aged German women, their thighs reddened with exercise, their walking sticks firmly grasped. Older British women with wiry arms and jaunty Tilleys calling out a mirthful, Maggie-Smith like “buongiorno!” in response to my greeting. Enthusiastic, young American men inevitably trailed by disgruntled-looking girlfriends wearing the wrong clothes and clutching a water bottle…
With such entertainment to be expected around every bend, I hardly felt the time time go by.
When I reached Monterosso, I immediately walked around to the harbour and dipped my feet in the Mediterranean, laughing to see that the green polish on my toenails matched the colour of the sea. Having procured myself an ice-cold Birra Moretti, I then found a rocky perch and let my feet dangle, alternating reading The New Yorker with watching a group of pink-backed Australians celebrate their swim over from Vernazza. I swallowed the last of my beer in their honour and retied my shoelaces, ready for the walk home.