On the pilgrim's trail (and tales of a bungee)

  Monte St Angelo, Italy
Thursday, May 25, 2006

Phew. After two or three pretty intensive days agonising over my bungee jumping (and subsequently dead) computer I eventually bit the bullet and bought a cheapie travelling lappie to get me through the last couple of months on the road. Being Italy that wasn't as easy as it sounds, but in spite of some more grey hairs we're back in action and that's the main thing. The new machine is a little quirky however, especially considering it's an Italian version of Windows ("Disco Removable", "Si!" - love it!) so please excuse any little hiccups or technical faux pas that might find their way into the next few entries.

Anyway, back to the pilgrimage I promised. Before the Pringle name became Scottish, a version of it was Norman - those crazy and generally bloodthirsty 'north men' that descended from Scandinavia in continental Europe around 900AD and conquered large swathes of it including Britain and much land all the way down to Sicily in the Mediterranean. They led the Crusades and shaped the course of history in the Middle Ages, allowing modern-day countries to coalesce and eventually setting the stage for the Renaissance.

History is a little sketchy but it seems that the Pringles of old were good God-fearing Christians that probably participated in a Crusade or two and definitely embarked on regular pilgrimages to shrines dedicated to their patron saint, St Michael, located in Italy, France and southern England. So to share the old-worlde spirit of the 14th century right now in the 21st century, I've decided to retrace the footsteps of some ancient Pringles and visit the same churches as I wind up my personal journey of enlightenment.



So from an early morning ferry arrival in Bari it was a bus to the station (on which my daypack and computer fell to their combined fate) and then a train to Foggia through some absolutely magnificent countryside. I love the beauty and diversity of Italy and a stint up the eastern coastline didn't disappoint. One stretch featured bizarre rounded stone pyramid structures of different ages (and stages of decay) amongst vast vineyards that stretched for kilometres. Gradually these gave way to beautiful fields of red poppy-like blooms and then further on to golden fields of reaped hay. Some of the buildings along the way I could only guess at - bizarre.



Eventually a bus took me up the Mont Sant Michel giving startling views over terraced hillsides and the silvery plain of olive trees by the sea. It's a shame a large refinery punctuates the vista but there's plenty else to look at. Also I was a little pre-occupied by then as the disaster with the laptop had been revealed to me in all its blank-screen, powerless glory by then, with probably the same result as an fire-and-brimstone, apocalyptic vision would have had on my forefathers...



To take my mind off that, and the bloody expensive but very comfortable room in the cheapest hotel in town, I set out to complete the first stage of the pilgrimage - a visit to the cave sanctuary of St Michael on Mont Sant Michel in Italy. Being a discening fellow attracted to the very pleasant climate here, St Michael took up residence in the cave after serving the faith to the best of his abilities, probably by slaying evil whenever confronted by it, as illustrated by the statue on the facade of the church (that should look very familiar to anyone who read the Rila Monastery entry). This seems to be a favoured image of St Michael for hundreds of kilometres around and I was surprised to find out that it was actually him.



After descending past crosses and icons, down marbled staircases worn smooth over the ages by pilgrims - many of whom have inscribed their names and initials in the soft stone of the walls - you come to the cavernous sanctuary itself. Busloads of devout Catholics cram in here to hear non-stop litanies but it somehow retains its dignity despite them and the quite commercialised wings to galleries and icon kiosks off its sides. A nicly lit gothic-arch nave, complete with a trio of grand iconic statuary was my favourite part of the church itself. Still, too religious for my liking so I bailed out pretty quick.



Outside the town is typical of the region, except for its overly religous leanings. The Normans built a fort on the peak to protect the sanctuary and there are churches everywhere throughout narrow, cobbled laneways that wind their way down the hillside. Stalls line the side streets selling everything a pilgrim would need to fulfil their spiritual duties. As a long-haired hippy backpacker I was just a little out of place here...

Later that afternoon a mist descended over the peak which was pretty cool, but I was tired, crazed and couldn't even find a decent meal, so I decided to retire with a couple of beers and a slice of pizza in order to regroup. In the end that would take a few days, but these pilgrimages aren't meant to be easy and maybe the technological debacle was designed by a higher being to test and humble me as a globe-trotting technotrekker.

Or maybe, in the words of St Homer of Simpson, 'it was just a bunch of stuff that happened...'.

Will we ever know...?

Next entry -> Roma to fixa the computer