The spirit transmuted into gold

The spirit is transmuted into gold.

One of the great beauties of cycling in the hills between the Aventino and Sangro rivers isn’t necessarily the landscape - although it is wild and beautiful throughout - nor is it the almost traffic-free roads, but it is the air which comes off the Maiella mountains and mixes with that of the nearby sea. It is wild and pure, and when blended with the whirling light which characterises this part of central Italy, it makes the blood dance in the veins. So intoxicating is this combination of light and air, that together they cast out ‘the fog and taint from the spirit, to be transmuted into gold.’ *

There is no warm up to the ride - it’s out of the carpark in Selva and straight into the many twists and turns which will be such a feature of the route. After ten minutes or so of a leg-warming, heart-pumping climb, the airy views begin. First is the picture perfect village of Altino, balanced improbably on a small cone of rock. The houses, church and tower gleam white in the sun and the grey-purple backdrop of the not so distant mountains adds grandeur and majesty to the scene.

There is no let up in the climbing, although for Abruzzo the percentages are not too severe. To the left and right of the road, grey-brown fields slope down to the valleys deep below. Wild woods colonising the old abandoned farms are clothed in autumn hues, and the imperturbable grey flanks of the Maiella massif seem more like a benign grandparent than the cantankerous old mountain that it often is. Silent falcons and hawks glide under the light blue sky.

There’s relief at Roccasalegna as the road falls fast down towards its medieval castle. The walls and ruins look romantic in the soft autumn light but the history, as with most fortresses, is far from benign. In WWII, it was the HQ of the occupying Gestapo whose terrors brought a fear which lasted long after their eviction. I stop for a coffee in the village cafe and field questions from curious old men. They wonder why I’m here, riding in this un-known land.

From the castle, the road rises again. Mud and gravel tracks periodically leave the road and head towards the modern red-roofed houses with white walls which are scattered randomly over the folding hills. Occasional old stone houses crumble beside the road, ruined by time and war, their walls hugged by ivy and bramble. What traffic there was at the start of the ride is now absolutely absent. The only sounds are those of my tyres and my breathing.

After the hill of gypsies - Colle Zingaro - the road plunges down towards the Sangro river, which was so bitterly fought over in the last war. The gravel and broken tarmac of the road test my bike handling skills as I sweep around the corners. In gaps between the trees I pause, in part to rest my hands from all the braking, but also to marvel at the huge slabs of vertical rock appearing like large pieces of pastry in a millefeuille desert above the village of Pennadomo.

From Pennadomo, the road ratchets up the side of a monster hill. Percentages are in double digits. However, as I climb, I have time to see how the earth is constantly re-assessing its artistry. A whole mountainside has sheared away, leaving a cliff of raw bare earth. Boulders and bits of houses from the old village of Montebello-sul-Sangro have tumbled into the abyss and lie in messy heaps like piles of builder’s rubble.

After another valley plunge, and another taxing climb, lunch is on my mind. I do not start early on autumn mornings, for the heat of the sun is weakening and up here it can be cold and I do not like being cold. So after a mid-morning start and a thousand metres of climbing already in my legs, I’m ready for some lunch. Restaurants on this ride are rare, but the Agriturismo Il Borgo Nero in Montelapiano, is open today and Gianlucca cooks me a plate of gnocchi coated in a sauce flavoured with Abruzzese saffron. There is nothing for it afterwards, but a lie down above the village, to snooze and digest in the oh-so-still-and-silent land and to watch the falcons crossing the wispy sky.

After a short slumber, the legs are called upon once again to turn the pedals. Alongside the road, miles from any village, are fitness stations, where pull ups and presses can be done on bars. As I climb, there are the distant green hills of Molise across the Sangro valley, rising to over a thousand metres, where giant windmills turn lazily. It was, until not so long ago, the largest wind farm in Italy.

From the village of Civataluparella its ever upwards to Montenerodomo, which tops out at 1182m. Here, the trees are richly ablaze in their autumn glory, the sky is streaked with the white feathers of some giant bird. Beyond the silence of the hills, far, far away, I see the deep, deep blue sea.

The climbing is done and it is nearly possible to free-wheel all the way back to the finish. Nearly. Below Montenerodomo, I speed by the ruins of Roman Juvanum. This outpost must have been the bleakest and loneliest of postings for a centurion, especially if they did not care much for the 360 degree panorama of high hills, mountains and deep dark valleys where the rivers rush towards the sea.

The hills of Molise — Looking across the Sangro valley towards the hills of Molise

The bike sweeps on its own accord through the streets of Toricella Peligna which, like so many of the villages around here, has been repeatedly destroyed by earthquakes and war. Down, down, down goes this free-wheeling road, down to the glinting town of Gesopalena where the sunlight dances off the stones in brilliant brightness. It is as if the old town had been made of diamonds. This is no hyperbole, as the light really is glancing off large blades of gypsum crystal.

From Gesopalena, the wheels buzz over the tarmac in rubbered ecstasy on the continuing downhill slopes. I am back again in the lands of the olive whose silvered leaves catch the light of the falling sun. Powder pink cyclamen are scattered in the roadside grass. On the steep hillsides, orange tractors splutter and plough deep into the heavy grey-brown clay. The final picture is of the majestic hill top town of Casoli, burnished by a setting sun with the purple-grey backdrop of the Maiella behind. I ride the last few kilometres in a lightness of being, my spirt soaring as gold runs through my veins.