The next morning in Matera rose bright and clear, the kind of sun that can warm a pizza oven and dehydrate a human like a withered basil plant. Before I could descend from the Sassi and cross the ravine into an even older world, I needed a trustworthy ATM. Not all ATMs are created equal, and Google Maps updates on what I can only describe as “Italian time.” After bouncing between a few questionable machines, I finally found one I trusted. With finances secured, I filled my water bottle, ate a lunch of spaghetti pomodori which arrived as orecchiette, naturally because Italy does what it wants and began the long, winding descent into the valley.
At the ticket booth, the young woman inspected me like a mother sending a child into the wilderness. Proper shoes? Check. Water? Check. Healthy enough to survive the descent? Debatable, but she waved me through just after a quick incomprehensible explanation of the trail in broken “ engtalian”. Walking down the backside of the Sassi required the same vigilance as everywhere in Italy: always know what stone is under your foot. The steps had no consistent height, and sometimes there were no steps at all, just ancient rock carved into uneven terraces.
The final stretch on the Sassi side led to a suspended bridge which, for me marked the point of commitment. Crossing it meant entering a harsher ascent marked only by painted stones, red over white, white over red. After a few dead ends with fellow hikers, I learned that red‑over‑white was the path to nowhere. The trail zigzagged up the hillside, past scattered caves and generous piles of animal scat. I hadn’t heard of tourists being dragged off by wild beasts, and I couldn’t name a single large animal native to the area, so I pressed on. Determination is my strongest muscle.
The climb was brutal. Italy with most of Europe was under heat warnings, and the air was a still as surrounding stone. I rationed my water but ran dry near the top. Shade became my only luxury, a shrub, a rock, a shallow cave. From the plateau, the view stretched across the ancient city and the cliffs. Farmland was now visible in the distance pearched at the end of a paved road. With no shade or visible signage as to its significance I returned to the trail and began the long descent.
Reaching the bridge again felt like salvation. I knew of a small opening in the brush that led to the river, and I cooled myself with the reviving flow. Recharged, I climbed back toward the Sassi rather quickly conquering the final incline. Thankfully, I had already mapped every water spigot in the area and refilled my bottle near the exit.
This day deserved a cold beer. My Nigerian friend at the bar saw me trudging past, soaked in sweat, and ushered me inside for my reward.
As dusk settled, I showered and set out for my final dinner in Matera. I wandered up unfamiliar steps and stumbled into a terrace overlooking the ancient city complete with , what do you know but a restaurant with patio seating and a maître d’ ready to usher me in. I ordered a delicious cavatelli with sausage and basil and a beer. A young woman with an English accent was soon sat beside me, quickly disappearing into her book. We chatted briefly before my meal arrived. She looked to be in her early twenties, brave enough to travel alone or perhaps simply escaping her group for the night. Eaither way she seemed to be on a mission but before letting her back to her reading I gave her my web-site address as it seemed fitting from a writer to a reader.
Later, as I walked back through the Sassi, loud dance music echoed off the stone walls which was impossible to locate. Near my B&B, I found the source which turned out to be a restaurant I passed often just down from where I ate the first night in Mayra. A DJ blasted music while bewildered diners tried to finish their meals. A crowed formed rather quickly and spilled into the street, frantically ordering drinks and dancing to their new found hotspot. It was short lived as the police arrived and reduced the music to a whisper.
I continued a few doors down for dessert. No more termite in a glass for me. I I chose the ricotta mousse with pistachio, cookie crumbs, and chocolate drizzle. A deconstructed cannoli. When I mentioned this to the waitress, she looked genuinely perplexed, as if the thought had never occurred to her.
With another travel day ahead, I returned to reorganize my luggage, review the three‑and‑a‑half‑hour route for the morning, and confirm my next stay.
Vieste, beach town—here I come.
fscavullo 