My maps South of Rome began to read something like an encyclopedia of church history - Anagni (birthplace of several popes), Aquino (birthplace of Saint Thomas Aquinas), Monte Casino (the monastery founded by Saint Benedict, the father of Western monasticism and where he wrote his rule, the basis for most Western monastic orders)....
It was also unbelievably hot. I only realised after the weather had broken and the temperature had returned to a pleasant and cool 29°C (sic) why I had been feeling so out of sorts. Thoughts ran something along these lines:
"Hang on, it was 38° in the shade. My body temperature is 37°. I wasn’t in the shade and I was doing exercise with 20kg on my back. Hmm, no wonder I didn't feel so good"
I stopped in Anagni to admire the beautiful cathedral with it's wonderfully intricate Cosmati marble mosaic floor and the amazing 13th Century frescoes in its crypt. Apparently they mark a crucial turning point in the history of Italian art, coming between the Byzantine tradition and the emergence of perspective and realism seen in the work of Giotto. Had a bit of a "Well I don't know much about Italian Art, but I do like pretty pictures" moment. The cathedral was getting ready to host a wedding and looked really beautiful decked out in lovely blue and white flowers and with the choir having a last minute practice. A magical experience.
Further down the Via Casilina I stayed with the monks of Abadia de Casamari, a Cistercian monastery. A warm and kind reception from the monks, especially Fr Agostino who took me under his wing. He told me all about the history of the monastery (built with a donation from the mother of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II to the Cistercian design - hence why it looked rather like a French church dropped into the middle of Italy) and chatted about my trip and the idea of pilgrimage in general in a mixture of French, Italian and English (the only way I could communicate). He also told me that last year they had a Frenchman staying with them who was walking to Jerusalem with a donkey. Good to know that I'm not the only one.
Arriving in Casino, I went into the tourist office to find information on somewhere to stay. It felt like I was the first person to walk in for months given the greeting I got. The man behind the counter was very enthusiastic - "Are you interested in cooking and food? Here, have this leaflet. Are you interested in history? Here, have this leaflet. The outdoors? War history? Oh, and have this map, and this booklet - this is hotels in the city, this one hotels in the region, this one campsites, this one bed and breakfasts.....". I left groaning under the weight of paper, but much better informed about the Ciociaria region. It seems to get a bit of a raw deal - stuck between Rome and Naples, most people seem to rush through without stopping. The tourism literature was desperately trying to promote it as an up and coming exciting place to stay, but didn’t quite seem to escape the chip on it's shoulder feeling. I particularly liked this (slight mis-)quote from the "culinary tourism in Ciociaria" brochure. "People have said that the cuisine of Ciociaria is unexciting peasant food, but this is not the case. We have a vibrant and exciting culinary tradition". I half expected to read "No really we do, honest". I have to say that I really liked the region and thought it was well worth a visit (there's my plug for the Ciociaria tourism authority).
I walked up to the hill behind Casino to admire the monastery of Monte Casino which dominates the town. It has had a tough history, being sacked by pretty much every invading army, from the Lombards in the 6th century (shortly after it had been founded by St Benedict) to the British and Americans in the 20th. They had the monastery bombed flat during the battle of Monte Casino, one of the fiercest battles of the second world war. One estimate puts the toll of dead and injured at 250,000, including many civilians who had taken refuge in the monastery and more than 1,000 Free Polish troops fighting with the allies. Lots of Polish visitors to the monastery whilst I was there. The monastery itself is magnificent, with a commanding position dominating the two valleys it overlooks. It has been rebuilt (almost) exactly as it stood before the war and much was salvaged from the wreckage, including the remarkable bronze door cast in Constantinople in 1066 which lists the monastery's many fiefs and possessions.
Another tent disaster in the hills between Casino and Capua. I thought I had found the perfect campsite for the night - a flat terrace in a beautiful shady chestnut wood about 2 miles from Roccamonfina, set back from the road and with an incredible view across the valley below and away towards the sunset. Anyone spot the fatal flaw? I certainly didn’t until I sat down in my tent and felt a stabbing pain in my buttocks as the needle-like spines of dried out chestnut husks pierced my groundsheet and pricked me in the bum. A frantic 15 minutes picking up the edges of my tent and trying to sweep away the detritus from underneath seemed to solve the problem, but a restless night's sleep as I kept expecting a stray chestnut to burst my air mattress.
In Capua, it felt finally like the "poor South" had begun - particularly when I was chased down the street by a howling, barking pack of stray dogs, much to the amusement of the local populace. I was met there by Ian Sheldon (a University housemate) and we had a very silly couple of days walking from there to Benevento, another staging post on the Medieval pilgrims route to Jerusalem.
We spent much of the day trading Monty Python French insults ("I don wanna talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough water", "You're mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries") and even delivered an impromptu performance of "Bohemian Rhapsody", complete with (very bad) falsetto, extravagant air guitar and head thrashing. We got some very strange looks from people passing by. Half expected the men in white coats to arrive and drag us away. Reaching the town of Frasso after a 600 metre climb and desperate for some sustenance, we approached a toothless old man leaning against a wall with a pair of crutches and asked him if there were any restaurants in town. He pulled a grave face and muttered to himself a bit before saying - "Oh no, no restaurants.... but hang on a minute - oy, Marco!", Marco emerges from his driveway in a big estate car, listens to our story and says "jump in". We were both a bit reluctant - firstly, not wanting to be accused of cheating and secondly remembering everything our mothers had told us about not going off with strange men. However, too tired and hungry to do much else, so in we jumped. Marco drove us up the hill to a sort of holiday resort perched on the edge of a cliff with a couple of chalets, a beautiful pool and (most importantly) a pizza restaurant. Rapid, complicated Italian conversation ensued between him and the owner and then he motioned us to get out. At this point Carlo the owner turned to us and said in a broad Ayrshire accent "Don't worry lads, I’m from Scotland, ye'll have no worries with the lingo here - put yer tent up anywhere you like, there's showers over there and the restaurant opens at 8". He then proceeded to treat us to a huge meal and more beer than was possibly good for us. A beautiful night's rest was sadly spoilt by the karaoke night going on at the restaurant. As Carlo said "I'm really sorry, they're absolutely dreadful. If this lot went on stage in London or somewhere, they'd be booed off stage, but they insist on singing". Until 1 in the morning. That's a lot of bad karaoke.
Leaving Ian in Benevento, I headed on into Puglia where I met up with Emma Hood, another university friend. A lovely week's walking first through the stubble fields of the Ofanto river valley then down the coast. Overwhelmed once more by people's generosity - possibly even more so here in the "poor South". It's funny how it is often those with the least to give who are the most ready to give it. On Emma's first night, whilst looking for somewhere to stay we thought we had hit the jackpot when we saw a sign with pictures of a bed, a knife and fork, champagne glass and a couple dancing. It was an old people's home. However, the director Giovanni invited us in for a beer anyway, rang round trying to find us a room for the night and when that turned up nothing, put us up in the staff quarters of the home - the first time I’ve stayed in an old people's home
. In Giovanezza, a lovely Swiss lady celebrating her (very cool) café's 1 year anniversary, gave us a free breakfast, two baseball caps and a picture of Padre Pio. We've also been laden down with gifts of fruit - one old man appeared from between the vines and handed us two huge bunches of grapes. Ten minutes down the road, a man drew up in his car, threw open his boot and filled my hat with plums. Not quite satisfied with his handiwork, he thought for a second, then added two more huge bunches of grapes to the pile. Satisfied, he jumped back in his car and drove off.
I'm beginning to worry that perhaps the road has been harder on me than I thought. On one day, Emma had the morning off and came to meet me for lunch. She was still giggling to herself several hours after the receptionist in the place we had stayed the night before said "It's alright dear, your father has already paid". She did redeem herself in my eyes by adding that I "must have a big heart" to be walking to Jerusalem.
We passed through various Norman-Swabian towns (Barletta, Trani, Giovinazzo and finally Bari). at first sight the architecture in these towns looked very Northern European (as in Casamari) - almost like a French or Norman English church had been lifted up and deposited on the shores of the Mediterranean. On closer inspection, however, they revealed their secrets and the incredible richness of the Southern Italian culture - Byzantine mosaics, recycled ancient Roman columns, and here and there Arab influences in the vaulting of a church or the look of a window. Evidence too of the multiculturalism of the kingdom of the Swabian emperor Frederick II - a 13th Century synagogue in the town of Trani, long since turned into a church under his less enlightened successors.
In Bari, I visited the church of Saint Nicholas where the remains of Saint Nicholas (of Father Christmas fame) rest. They originally rested in Turkey (at that time part of the Byzantine empire), but the monks of a monastery in Bari had a terrible dream that the relics were under threat from brigands and pirates. The dream became a self-fulfilling prophecy when they launched their own raiding party to steal the relics and bring them back to Bari, where they are housed in another magnificent Norman-Swabian church. 
And so having finally reached Bari, I am leaving Italy. 1,700 miles walked, about the same to go - the half way point. On now across the Aegean to Greece and beyond...
Before I go, some more thank yous - to Ian and Emma for their excellent companionship (and for not complaining about the mileage, the heat or even the smell of my feet), especial thanks to Ian for bringing me spare pants and a copy of "Private Eye" (which he read himself and then accidentally took home again) to Jane for the parcel of jelly babies awaiting me in Bari, to Giovanni who put us up in his old people's home, to Carlo for pizza, beer, a place to put the tent and the karaoke, to Tomasso and his family who showered Emma and I with figs, water, coffee, milk and warmth when we stopped to ask for directions, to Vito and his mother in Bari who gave Emma and I lots of pictures of "very powerful" saints to protect us on the way and a pair of Coca-Cola headbands and to all the anonymous people who gave us encouragement, offers of lifts (sooo tempting), water, coffee (a lovely man from Philadelphia, back to his birthplace for his summer holidays) and fruit.
