Amalfi Trek

My name is Jenny. I’m a 37-year-old woman, who should know better. The pain is excruciating. I am suffering. I lay in bed, the ache creeps up from my ankles. I turn over in bed and my lower body screams in protest. Sitting down requires careful consideration. Standing up requires steady support. Stairs elicit panic and pause, each step jarring my thighs, calves and knees.

Wednesday 22nd August Gigi and I rose at 6.30am. Following the obligatory breakfast stop for croissants and an invigorating espresso we took the Circumvesuviana (literally the train that circles around the Vesuvio volcano) to Castellammare di Stabia, a seaside town south of Naples that is now home to industry. We ran to catch the 8.50am cable car (Funivia) that would take us to the top of Monte Faito. Surprised at the cost of the ticket at Euro 4.65 Gi had complained to the ticket seller, only to be told that for an 8 minute ride it was good value.

He may consider it good value. I considered it an expensive way to scare myself half to death. Some years ago, I stopped riding rollercoaster rides. No longer exciting or exhilarating such rides are now just periods of my life when I am completely overwhelmed with fright, eyes closed to the reality of the distance between me and the ground, my mind calculating the consequences of something going wrong. As I get older my fear of heights has, ironically, only heightened. An 8-minute cable car ride from sea level to a height of 1150 metres over yellow and red apartment buildings, treetops, gullies and sheer rock faces as the mountain gained stature suddenly seemed a very bad idea. I tried to relax and take in the view of Naples and the bay fanning out behind us, only to have Gigi joke about rocking the enclosed booth. The thick cables, gentle sway and occasional rumble only served to reinforce my anxiety.

At the top of Monte Faito we immediately noticed the drop in temperature, and the haziness that often settles over the coast with the warmer weather. After consulting a friend’s map of the walking tracks, we first set out along route 36. Scrambling over rocks and wild rose bushes, we followed a path that led to the tip of a ridge. Ending suddenly with a large cross I observed that the two benches overlooking the valley were securely concreted down against the buffeting breeze. Disappointed at the dead end, we were simultaneously delighted to take in the 270º panorama, the peaks of the isle of Capri just visible through the haze, the great sweep of the volcano to the right and a hint of the Amalfi Coast to the left.

After some debate, we followed the road down from the summit, eliminating the long windy trek by cutting through the forest before finding the next path. The plan for the day was to hike from Monte Faito down to Positano. We were carrying a tent, food and water in case we needed to camp overnight. This path took us down towards the town of Moiano, zigzagging back on itself. Stepping over rocks, careful to retain my balance I was conscious of wanting to watch where I was stepping, while also wanting to enjoy being immersed in woods. Gi stopped repeatedly to pick, crush and smell local herbs, wild lavender, fennel smelling of sharp aniseed and blackberries. The ancient path was rudimentary, marked with the passage of time and many feet, and red and white checked strips of plastic tied intermittently to trees. I paused at the sound of sheep bells, bleating and a weary sounding shepherd issuing pointed instructions to his flock. Down below I could make out the flanks of the sheep, as they slowly made their way through the scrub, the shepherd banging his cane on an abandoned piece of metal, all of them seemingly oblivious to the steep incline.

The steep, stony path ended and we turned onto a paved road before winding down concrete steps passed the musty cemetery into the centre of Moiano. The pastry shop was irresistible, calling Gigi inside its heady sweetness. He emerged smiling, claiming the pastries were even better than in Naples.

We followed the main road out of the village. It was then a sharp climb upwards, but at least it was a relief from the constant pressure of coming down. Pausing at a bus shelter Gi pulled out the map and decided to take an unmarked road to the right. To my horror, this road was even steeper, but a woman at the first house confirmed that it lead directly to Positano. The information came with the proviso ‘senza strada’ though (without road). I only hoped there would be a track to follow. We strode past vegetable crops, apple trees, cornfields and farmhouses before the road ended and the view opened up in front. With a lively breeze as company, we unpacked lunch and refuelled.

Gi located a well-established path and so we began the two-hour descent towards Positano. I have driven along the Amalfi Coast road numerous times but it was incredible to see it from above. From the beach the famous peak of Positano is drenched in colour, but from above it is surprisingly predominantly white. Sitting on the beach it looks impossible to walk to the top of the mountain and without the zigzagging path I wouldn’t have considered attempting it. Halfway down my right knee began to wobble. My leg muscles were feeling mildly strained but I wasn’t sure that my knee was going to make it. We would reach a flatter stretch of path and I would send up a silent prayer, only to then spot the next lot of steps. A series of caves opened up on the right and to our left Gigi photographed an enormous hole in a nearby ridge.

With Gi bouncing along in front, I steadily made my way down. Eventually we hit paved road. We had already decided to go all the way down to the beach for a swim. I had however failed to remember the steps that bypass the winding road once you arrive in Positano. By this stage I was walking like my grandmother, one step at a time, holding on to the rail, trying to ignore Gigi’s teasing. I honestly didn’t think I was going to make it, my right knee had completely stopped working, and the tremors were throwing me off balance. Just as I thought about admitting defeat, we reached the central piazza and I knew it was just a matter of negotiating through the shopping tourists before we hit the sand.

A swim has never been more deserved. The waters instantaneously washed away the sweat and heat, and buoying me up gave me relief from the pressure of almost seven hours of downhill trekking. We had decided to take the ‘Metro del Mare’ (a summer time ferry) back to Naples. Gigi went off to buy the tickets. I was stretched out relaxing when he returned with the news that the ‘metro’ had been cancelled due to inclement weather (Where? It was perfect on the beach). We had to dress quickly and head off to catch the next bus, which would allow us to connect onto a train back to Naples. God almighty, I thought, I just can’t do it.

Gigi was already off, heading away from the beach. My knee was marginally better but still I was wishing for a wheelchair or an escalator. Instead we walked, at a trot, back up the hill, screaming inside with frustration at having to trawl along behind hot, lethargic tourists wandering along the shopping strip. Then, just as I thought my lungs would burst, we bumped into a friend of Gigi’s. With the clock already ticking, I couldn’t believe that we stood there for ten minutes exchanging pleasantries, explaining why we were all in Positano and promising to catch up soon. The bus was due at 5.40pm and with just minutes to spare we arrived at the intersection, already crowded with other passengers waiting on both sides of the road for buses.

Having made it to the bus stop in time, there were two remaining problems: water and tickets. My body was screaming for water (we’d consumed the three litres we were carrying) and it was with a thankful sigh that I spotted the clean running water fountain at the bus stop. Gigi then gallantly offered to go off in search of tickets having been told that the newsagent back down near the beach was the only place that sold them! He finally came back, as I nervously waited for the now obviously late bus, reporting that he’d been to three different shops. One didn’t sell bus tickets, the other had run out of tickets (in mid summer, peak tourist season…how, I ask you, how?) and the other shop was closed. ‘Va be’ (that’s fine), he told me, we’d just tell the inspector he’d been to three places and they could go and…you can imagine the rest. Having read that the ticket inspectors are particularly active and harsh on the Amalfi Coast strip I wasn’t happy to be riding ticketless, but my legs and my resolve were not up to the challenge.

The minutes ticked by, and the waiting crowd continued to grow. Old women in summer dresses, their wrinkled necks and chests evidence of years of harsh tanning, stood in the middle of the road looking out for the bus. Cars driven by tourists, couples cruising on motorbikes and delivery trucks would come around the corner and suddenly find the lane blocked by these raisin grannies. I guess they thought that keeping a look out for the missing bus would make it arrive faster. I’m yet to understand this particular behaviour of southern Italians. It is, at the least, entertaining to watch the intersection back up with traffic because of their indifference.

A coach arrived, with a big sign ‘Napoli’ on the front. This was not the Sorrento bus we were expecting. After checking with the driver, we boarded, as it would take us directly to the central station in Naples. The coach was already full, and it was strictly standing room only as we crammed into the aisle. A fracas at the back broke out. Some ‘lady’ was asking everyone to move down to make room for her group to get on. Unfortunately, her tone and attitude did little to help her cause on a hot Sunday afternoon. I watched as those around me raised eyebrows, waved their hands and dropped snide comments.

The coach took two hours to make the slow, windy journey along the coast road. By the time we got home it was past 8pm. I dropped ten cents into the lift to carry me to the first floor to avoid the steps and then fell into the shower.

The trek was fantastic. The physical effort was completely draining, yet rewarding at the same time. I struggled to walk for the next three days. Steps and gutters were particularly difficult challenges.

Gi summed it all up a few days later when he said ‘you know, it’s strange to look at that mountain and realise we climbed down it’. It makes you realise that mountains are just a series of steps, be it up or down, and that with a little effort most of them are surmountable. Just like other obstacles in life.

The Amalfi Coast is full of hiking trails, and I’m now planning to do the most famous trek ‘Sentiero degli dei’ (Path of the Gods). Who’s coming?