Day 12 Loreto: lonely days

I leave Pietralunga and the small old town on the mountain. And I leave the extraordinarily lovely accommodation La Locanda den Borga, which you absolutely have to book if you ever find yourself here.

More than loneliness

Pietralunga, with nothing around it, is perfect for people who are looking for peace and quiet and who enjoy hiking or cycling. Also a perfect location to make a detour to Gubbio.

On this tour, too, I hear nothing that indicates people (apart from the occasional noise of airplanes in the distance). I have now calculated that I have walked about 60 kilometers through absolutely deserted areas. And there are also numerous abandoned farms along this route.

As you walk, you are surrounded by a deep sense of calm. And there is nothing left to do but concentrate on your thoughts, nature, your own steps, your breathing and the path. And lo and behold, in the damp clay path you can see traces of animal paws and, every now and then, shoes. So there was a human here today after all.

Despite the loneliness, you don't feel alone on the hikes. At the end, in the accommodation, you meet them again: one or two other pilgrims. You exchange ideas and occasionally spend dinner together.

On adventurous paths

As always, the path leads up to light hills (with beautiful views) and through wooded valleys, the asphalt road quickly turns into a gravel path and eventually into an impassable trail. It gets difficult on the clayey paths. The rain of the last few days has completely soaked them and sometimes it's like going down a slide. If you go to the wrong place, it's almost impossible to get your shoes out of the mud. There's no way around it because there are undergrowths to the left and right of the path.

At one point you can hardly believe your eyes: there is a traffic sign limiting the speed to "20". It is hard to imagine that a vehicle could get through here, and even if it could, this warning is actually superfluous.

After about 3 hours, you can hear the braying of a donkey from far away. I'm approaching a wide valley with a scattered settlement. And there it is again: my next hostel.

... because I don't speak Italian

The landlady welcomes me and another pilgrim with a torrent of words lasting at least five minutes at an immense speed. I usually respond to such situations with the only sentence I can speak fluently in Italian: "Mi scusa perché non parlo italiano." In response, I usually receive a euphoric "brava, brava." This is usually the beginning of a mental friendship and the end of verbal communication. Everything else is then done by pointing and often ends in a warm hug.

But since my fellow pilgrim listens attentively to the waterfall and nods in a friendly manner, I keep my inadequate knowledge to myself. The landlady finally leaves after several appearances and I ask my companion what it was all about. "No idea." He hadn't understood anything. That's how it works.