Although I had been daydreaming about, and subsequently planning a group cycling tour of Puglia -- this is the southeast region of Italy, or "the heel of the boot" -- for almost six months, I am hesitant to admit that what has had me amped up was the high-altitude high-speed zipline experience that I had also booked for the very first day after the week of cycling.
And it was a bit fortuitous that it would be realizable at all as the zipline is only operational on weekends after mid-September. Our cycling week ended on Saturday with a celebratory dinner that same evening in the historic old town of Polignano a Mare, a fascinating port city on the Adriatic coast. Every old town shares many similar, arguably romantic attributes: very narrow, often twisting streets, not paved but assembled from stone, even sometimes from marble in fact, laid centuries ago when not yet invented cars could not exert any design influence on their layout; ancient stone buildings now housing resplendent restaurants, cafés and boutiques; and of course a church or two, often magnificent in stature replete with the most detailed artwork adorning their vaulted ceilings and brilliant stained glass windows punctuating their walls, but as well other churches rather understated lacking any splendor at all, out of favour perhaps. When a town is considered historic in Italy you can be sure that most of its buildings were constructed four or five hundred years ago, and the remainder even older and still standing, too, in contrast to our much newer buildings and roads at home in continual need of repair or replacement. I find it frankly amazing that we often enjoyed our dinners in restaurants that were built even before the concept of a restaurant came into being, where the original centuries old wooden beams still hold up the ceiling; where the electric wiring had to be added to the structure only after electricity had been invented and become available so the hall could be illuminated for us all to see our tasty pizzas, risottos, pastas and our friends' smiling faces, too; where the plumbing needed in a modern kitchen (and lavatory) had also to be added decades ago once this became common practice, too
As we were cycling outside of the summer high-season, we always had good luck in being seated all ten of us at one table, hastily arranged from smaller tables by the waitstaff eager for the business. Somewhat bittersweet our last dinner was as we all knew well that Sunday would not be another glorious day of cycling, no longer were random surprises awaiting us as we rode our daily 90 km track along the coast, at least once a day through a zombie village where I imagine several thousand summer residents had completely filled the town but a month earlier, crowded the beaches with reverie, swelled the cafés and bars their coffees and beers noisily consumed, emptied the stores of beach paraphernalia, sunscreen and bathing attire, only to be totally deserted by early September, leaving ghost cars and bicycles behind, silent and motionless; windrifts of sand blown in from the beach accumulating at random corners and on streets (risky business for a cyclist!) possibly to be swept away by next summer's returning residents. My first zombie village experience made me imagine the aftermath of a neutron bomb, where supposedly all life is obliterated yet no harm befalls the homes and other structures. At first I decided that it must be siesta time, that period from 2pm to 6pm when even today, in the high-tech 21st century that we all inhabit, all commerce ceases so that workers could return home for a home-cooked pasta meal and a nap. But no, a siesta it is not. The houses are closed up tight, their windows shuttered and the town's population drops to zero! I half-expected to see tumbleweeds blowing through the deserted streets. I suppose tumbleweeds don't blow outside of Arizona very often. Or is it New Mexico?
Other villages, the larger ones, remain alive and vibrant all year long as one might expect. Of course it was in these towns that we spent our evenings. The one town I must reveal to you as being perhaps the most amazing is Matera, km 0 for us out of 525 km ultimately cycled over six days. I fear that I will spoil the surprise that awaited me by sharing this, however for you who will likely never visit, read on: the Old Town of Matera, much like all the others, is accessed by passing through ancient gates, under giant stone archways, leaving behind modern buildings and paved streets for the charm of all that is antique. But there's more: the center of Old Town Matera appears to be dug out of the surrounding city, a hole about 400 metres in diameter. It is nestled deep within and down below. Steep stone staircases cut into the walls of this depression allow us to descend to its very centre. I have never seen a city with a hole in its center, and in this hole another city is built, with homes clinging to the steep walls leading down surrounding the tumultuous cacophony of commerce and restaurants and cafés at the bottom. Close your eyes for even a moment and imagine old square stone houses with their ubiquitous orange-coloured clay roofs 360 degrees around the edge of a bowl 400 metres across, and down the sides of this bowl, more houses, all the way to the bottom. Add this town to your bucket list, it is unique for other reasons, too, for you to discover without my guidance.
The celebratory dinner behind me -- as tasty as any dinner in Italy -- my next challenge was to get my ass an hour north to Bari, Puglia's largest and only city where a car can be rented. Two cycling friends and I were finally, comfortably seated in a rented Panda en route to Castelmezzano, one of the ten most beautiful mountain villages in the world, it has been written. Google it and you will see that I kid you not. An hour of highway followed by ninety minutes of narrow, winding roads, a few wrong turns thrown in for good measure, slowly climbing mountainsides as we closed in on our mountaintop destination. Castelmezzano's buildings are built into the mountainside with barely room for anything motorized to get through beyond the village's entrance. So parking our car along its access road's shoulder is normal practice and dragging our luggage 500 metres uphill along pedestrian passageways to our B+B is also normal, drawing no stares from townsfolk. One really has to see this village to understand how it justly earned its reputation for amazement. The first view of it from a bend in the approaching road -- there is only one way in -- left me speechless. I admit that finding myself speechless is a rare treat, a feeling that I relish. The townspeople live in houses basically uphill and downhill from each other. A deep valley separates this village from its neighbour, Pietrapertosa, which is similarly built on top of its own mountain, two kms south. A few years ago somebody decided to build not one, but two ziplines connecting the two mountain villages. One zipline zips downhill in one direction from the top of one mountain, and the other returns the customer back to his or her starting point from the top of the other. Did I forget to mention that we zip along at over 100 km/hr? Yep, you read this correctly, over 100 km/hr on a zipline which is more than 1,500 feet above the valley floor below!! I knew these statistics when I reserved our 4:30pm time slot three months ago and it has been weighing on my mind until this Sunday when we ultimately arrive in Castelmezzano. Not as you might guess on my mind due to trepidation but to anticipation of the expected euphoria to come. I am certain that the 100 km/hr speed metric had not been what was exciting me all this time, but rather it was the altitude: zipping 1,500 feet above the trees below me, in effect flying like an eagle, being secured only by a cable above me and a couple of hooks. Unimaginable. A shuttle takes us up a narrow road, one switchback after another and deposits us at a footpath above the village. Anticipation grows further, as I have roped my two brave cycling friends into joining me, and we walk uphill another 25 minutes, chatting nervously about who will go first, who will go last and who will change his mind and bail, to arrive at the mountain's peak and the starting point. Like most thrills (and fears) in life, the very thought of what follows can be more terrifying than the event itself. Not so in this situation. The excitement continues to build for the experience to come. I slip into a harness and tighten it, don a helmet, and allow the attendant to clip me to the cable. I remain uncertain as to the utility of the helmet however it occurs to me only now that I could slam into a bird at full speed. I am asked to lie horizontally suspended and a second clip is attached to the cable, I grab the straps behind my back to secure my arms and next a little sail is fitted between my back and the roller above which will prevent me from gaining too much speed as it catches the wind and acts as a brake. After months of expectancy a catch is released and I accelerate horizontally into space somewhat downhill faster and faster, the wind rushing towards me, my eyes start to tear -- from joy or from the wind I do not know. I look left, right and down and I am in denial that this is real. To be frank with you, it is surreal. Picture me: I am flying! I am an eagle. A very fast eagle!
This I know: a huge thrill it was, it was over too quickly (about 75 seconds) and my Strava app logged me at 103 km/hr for nearly the whole time. Add Castelmezzano to your bucket list. You can thank me later.
Cycling/zipping Barry of Puglia
