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Either
Iíd underestimated Il Senteiro Azzurro, the 8-mile hiking
trail hugging Italy's Cinque Terre coastline, or I'd been overdoing
it on the wine and cheese, but halfway along the trail east from
Venazza, I stood mopping my forehead, panting and drenched. We'd
just crested the route's steepest point, and stopped for sips from
our dwindling water stock.
The
setting was fantastic: an old farmers' path running along acres
of terraced slopes, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. We hadn't
realized our fatique, so absorbing were the views.
As
we tapped out our water, a quarter of Italian hikers emerged ahead,
small cups and plastic spoons in hand. My wife Sommai and I eyeballed
each other in anticipation. A stone building stood cliffside up
around the bend, its worn yellow sign announcing our saving tonic:
Gelato.
Five
Coastal Lands
Serendipity
and gelato we encountered in equal abundance throughout our stay
in Cinque Terre, which stretches ten miles along the eastern Italian
Riviera coast, and draws its name from the five villages - Monterosso,
Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore - that dot its shores.
Settlements
in Cinque Terre (literally, "Five Lands") trace back to
Roman times, and were consolidated under the Republic of Genoa in
the 13th Century. In time the region developed a reputation for
its high-caliber wines, olives, and oils.
Thanks
largely to its remote coastal setting, which precludes car access
(drivers must park in the hills above town, and walk down), Cinque
Terre remains relatively untrammeled, despite having landed squarely
on the tourist map.
Word
of Cinque Terre's charm has gone global. In 1998, the five villages
and surrounding terrain were declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site,
and Italy followed suit in 1999 with the creation of Cinque Terra
National Park. Many modern-day travelers visit Cinque Terre for
its languid pace, while others, like us, come to hike Il Sentiero
Azzurro, which is well marked, properly groomed, and connects
the villages like pink pearls along a Rivieran strand.
We
quickly realized Cinque Terreís nascent popularity one June Sunday,
after a twelve-hour night train from Paris to Nice, and a coast-hugging
local into Italy. Sunny Vernazza greeted us with a platform packed
by day-trippers, awaiting return trains.
Sunny
Ingrid
Via
Roma, Vernazza's main promenade, spills 100 meters or so from the
station down to the piazza, and tiny harbor. We weaved through post-tanning
shoppers springing for sunglasses, olive oils, wall calendars, and
ever-present gelato.
Vernazza,
population 1100 or so, is arguably Cinque Terre's most fetching
village, and the one most popular with Americans, who tote guidebooks
about like hallowed tomes. Conventional wisdom says to ask around
in Vernazza for accommodations, so, mustering up our best "Scusi,
vorrei un camera doppia?", we hit the shops.
After
a couple of misses, I turned to a blonde woman on the steps of the
Internet Point cafÈ, who blinked, smiled, and said, "Yes, I
have you a room."
Ingrid
Fenelli, our cheerful, Swiss-German hostess, led us off Via Roma,
and up a pink alleyway, canopied with clotheslines. "I came
here for a visit and met my husband, Antonio," she explained.
"That was 15 years ago."
Turning
at the Virgin Mary wall statue, we came upon our corner studio,
a winner: 200 square feet, remodeled, with a king-sized bed, sofa,
dinette set, fridge, hot shower, and a bidet. A steal at 55 Euros
a night.
Ingrid
traded us keys and her card for my passport, and bid farewell. We
savored the room for a moment, and then changed into our swimsuits
to take advantage of the day's late rays.
Vernazza
boasts Cinque Terreís sole natural harbor, a small, semicircular
cove housing a dozen-odd boats, buttressed by the modern, manmade
breakwater, a tiny kids' beach, and the venerable stone church of
Santa Margherita díAntiochia, dating to 1318. Myriad
languages and swimwear styles around the harbor attested to Vernazzaís
international name.
We
serpentined through groups of sunbathers lolling about on rocks,
found a flat one and spread out. Tiny crabs scampered deeper into
their crevices, continually plunking plankton. I padded to the slimy
edge of the rocks, and promptly slipped and fell in.
Castello
Doria
Resurfacing,
I surveyed the seal's-eye view of town: Pastel pink and orange houses
climbed the hills up from Via Roma, yielding to cultivated terraces
and steep green ridges above. Activity buzzed around the piazza,
at the foot of Via Roma next to the church, and adjacent boat dock,
where the coastal ferry was offloading passengers.
Jutting
above the dock, Castello Doria, a 13th Century tower with
expansive sea and town views, once safeguarded the town from Turkish
pirates, whoíd raid and kidnap villagers.
When
tower guards saw the ships, they'd sound the alarm and savvy residents
would take to the hills.
Today
the tower affords top-notch photo ops. Atop it that evening, we
gazed seaward, tracing the ferry's path to Manarola, and scanning
the hills, noticed hikers descending from Corniglia along Il
Sentiero Azzurro - which we'd be tackling tomorrow.
The
view impressed us enough to dine at Castello Restaurant,
tucked under the tower. Family-run, with Mamma pouring espresso
drinks while boys of all ages took orders and ran food, Castello
fueled us up on multiple courses. First came the antipasto di
mare, highlighted by calamari and capers and roasted peppers
and pine nuts on toast.
Our
primero, the trenette con pesto, gushed with basil
and garlic, while the 200-gram sea bass, neatly cleaned at the table,
stuffed us into submission. We capped it with sweet schiatellia,
Cinque Terre's revered desert wine, and stumbled home down now-dark
alleys.
Hiking
Cinque Terre
Day
two we rose early for cappuccino dusted with chocolate, and apple
and creme brioche, which we noshed in the sleepy piazza. The onset
of Monday had returned quiet to Verzazza.
Our
plan was to hike Il Sentiero Azzure west, toward Corniglia,
then Manarola and Riomaggiore. Wooden signs posted two routes to
Corniglia, one cutting across town and emerging along a ridge to
the east, the other accessible from just above the train station
- the path we'd seen from the castle yesterday. We chose the latter
and set out.
Modern
stone steps and retaining walls led us above town quickly, past
cute, one-room farmhouses exploding with poppies and jasmine. Dramatic
views appeared of Vernazza below, its pastel rowhouses twinkling
like seashells strewn about a coral cove.
Clambering
up a rock to shoot pictures, I imagined Vernazza's townsfolk scrambling
from Turkish marauders centuries ago. I caught a taste of their
fear as the rock started teetering precariously beneath my feet.
As
we hiked on, the landscape turned to crops. Lemons, figs, basil,
grapes, and olives grew in abundance. We came to a ticket booth,
installed along with Cinque Terre's National Park status.
For
three Euros each, we were given red tickets and a Cinque Terre trail
map, in Italian. Nice souvenir: Il Senteiro Azzurro, clearly
marked, was foolproof.
The
trail flattened out along a ridge, and opened up to reveal wide
expanses of the Mediterranean. We could catch occasional glimpses
of Corniglia and Manarola through the folds ahead. Campsites below
signaled Guvano Beach, famed in the 1970s as one of Italy's
few nude beaches.
A grove of olive trees marked the start of the switchbacks to Corniglia.
We wound beneath a canopy of branches, with furled orange nets stretched
tautly from tree to tree; at late summer's harvest, farmers would
beat the trees with sticks and catch the olives in loosened nets
below.
This
was said to be Il Sentiero Azzura's hardest stretch, but we hardly
noticed till we reached the summit. The mixed-berry gelato whipped
our thirst. We ate at the clearing then walked on, the trail curving
down and to the left. Corniglia came into view around the bend.
A
Strange System
At
the west end of town we startled the ticket booth attendant, who
seemed surprised to see us (for reasons we'd soon discover.) Corniglia
stood clinging atop a bulky rock outcropping before us, 100 meters
above sea level.
Corniglia's
berth presents the town's lone drawback: the 365 steps required
to hike the trail down to the train station. Among its advantages,
however, are fewer tourists, stellar views, and rooms overlooking
the sea for as low as 15 Euros a night. Next time.
Confusion
reigned in the park office at the station, log-jammed with multinationals
trying to distill trail information from the harried attendant.
We slipped past to the ice cream cooler, overhearing the clamor:
"Trail
closed from Manarola to Corniglia, no itís open there; Itís closed
to Riomaggiore but open to Vernazza; Riomaggiore opened but the
trails from Vernazza are closed."
"We
came from Vernazza," I chimed in, heads turning our way.
"Today?"
"But itís closed."
"Hereís the ticket," I said, pulling the red stub from
my pocket. Silence fell, broken by the attendant. "Itís a very
strange system," he said.
Turned
out the trails that day were closed outbound both ways from Corniglia,
"for maintenance," so we bought two train tickets to Riomaggiore
at 95 cents each, and arrived minutes later.
Copa
Mundial
Construction
gear and haphazardly strewn planks and boards greeted us outside
the station, like last-minute renovation plans curiously abandoned
just before high season. The reason became clear as a roar echoed
down the road, followed by shouts and whistles. "I guess Italy
scored," Sommai said.
I'd
forgotten the World Cup, getting underway in Asia that week. Italy's
opening match against Ecuador had brought Riomaggiore, if not most
of the country, to a halt. A makeshift gazebo had been set up street-side,
and outfitted with tables, chairs, and a wide-screen TV blaring
first-period action. Carousers and soccer fans shuttled back and
forth from the gazebo to adjacent shops along the road.
We
ducked into a homey pizzeria showing the match on a fuzzy black-and-white,
and soon were gnawing on fresh tuna and caper salad, and Quattro
Formaggio pizza dripping with now-requisite anchovies.
Italy
won, 2-0, so we hit the return trail, from Riomaggiore to Manarola
along Via dell' Amore, the well-traveled "Romanic Way"
which, frankly, lacked passion, substituting concrete and graffiti
instead. The
'strange system' resurfaced at Manarola, where rangers informed
us that the trail back to Corniglia was also closed, but the coastal
ferry was soon due to depart. We ran and boarded, the deckhand busily
snapping his fingers at me when I sat in his seat.
Speeding
west to Monterossa, the boat bounced lightly and offered nice panoramic
photo opportunities, amply appreciated by all the shutterbugs. Corniglia
receded, then Guvano Beach; I squinted to make out the gelataria
along our just-traveled path.
Passengers
shuffled on and off at Vernazza, precipitating a fresh round of
finger snapping from our deckhand, whoíd stop everything to assist
the elderly females.
The
ferry pushed on to Monterossa, the most Riviera-esque of the five
towns, and the only one sporting a genuine beach, a long curve of
sand split up by jetties, and peppered with rental chairs. We found
a blanket spot amid Italian teenagers and other couples, and quickly
fell asleep.
We
woke to far fewer people, and managed to make our way groggily to
the train station, where we hopped the outbound train for Vernazza.
When I told the conductor our plan, he said ìVernazza? No Vernazza.
Riomaggiore. You change there."
Laughing
as the train barreled into the tunnel, we briefly glimpsed Vernazza's
station, and rumbled past. We stared up Corniglia's steps, and wondered
what charms Manarola, the one town we'd bypassed, had to offer.
Waiting to change in Riomaggiore, late afternoon rays saturated
the town boatyard and hillside, lending credence to all those claims
of romance.
Tuesday
morning in Vernazza, Sommai and I were watching the five-day market
setting up, when Ingrid pulled up arm and arm with her Antonio,
a mountainous man with benevolent eyes and a lopsided grin. "Here
is the reason I stayed in Cinque Terra," Ingrid said.
Sommai
and I could only smile, thinking of countless more.
–
Jay Cooke is a San Francisco-based travel, food, and culture writer.
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