The rest of the Cinqueterre, a tribute to Homer, and Portovenere

8/31 - Vernazza to Muzzerone, overlooking Portovenere
14.24 miles

The walk along the cliffs to the next three towns was picturesque, but I would not be telling the whole story if I did not admit that I was less than pleased this time around. After so many miles walked along so many different types of terrain, it was a gigantic pain in my neck (and not only from the backpack) to have to walk with so many other people. All the plastic ciaos, gra-si-ays, and smiling nods were overwhelming to the point of nausea, and I booked it through those couple of miles as quickly as possible. So sad, you say, shaking your head at my impatience and trail snobbery. Still, I maintain that there is nothing worse than a beautiful stretch of land that has been stuffed full of people to the point of resembling an amusement park. It completely ruins the majesty of the surroundings, at least for me. And that's how I feel about that.

Since I was heading toward Portovenere, I at least got to have my own respite from the maddening crowds, starting right after a walk through Riomaggiore. From there it was up the slopes to Santuario, where already the atmosphere had changed dramatically, and was once again breathable. I took a cat nap on a bench overlooking the sea, went the wrong way back toward Riomaggiore for a good mile (who's the expert hiker now, eh Pat?), then walked up a demanding trail to the crest of the mountain chain. I took this crest, largely unmolested, all the way to the cliffs overlooking Portovenere, and it was here that I finished my audio reading of the Iliad (had I mentioned that I had been listening to it since the northwest tip of Piedmont? If not, oops). As I sat looking out over the islands of Portovenere, I took a minute to reflect on the immensity and profound beauty of what is without a doubt my favorite literary work. How does this poem resonate so harmoniously with so many people after so many thousands of years? How has it survived despite being exclusively an oral tale for a large part of its existence? I silently thanked all those anonymous bards who kept the tale alive through marvelous feats of memorization, and smiting both my thighs, bade them carry me forward to the outskirts of Portovenere, to a mountain refuge overlooking the water and the islands.

As has happened a few glorious times before, I had a bunk room all to myself, and with a thud I let my backpack fall from my shoulders. The first day back from a period of rest is always tough. I went to read on the hammock, which I must admit was much less comfortable than it looked once I actually tried to lay on it, and settled down to a lavish six course seafood feast, one of my best so far. While I didn't take any photos of the dishes (sorry!), here is the rundown, for the foodies: filet of anchovies drizzled with olive oil and local herbs, steamed mussels in a vegetable broth, filet of local fish (something akin to whitefish) with salt and rosemary, bucatini with prawns, fritta di mare with fried anchovies, whole prawns, and calamari, and finally, biscotti dipped in a shot of orange liqeur. This all from two rock-climbing sailors who also had time to run the refuge and shoot the breeze with guests.

After a solid sleep, I arose early to hit the road, planning to reach the edge of Liguria by the end of the day. I said goodbye to my host, received a name to look up when I reach Calabria, and parted with a new friend. "Never caught your name," I said. "My name is Ettore" which, my dear friends, is Italian for Hector, honored among Trojans. Couldn't make it up if I tried.