Part One

In front of me I have a copy of the Lonely Planet guide to Italy. It is a hefty volume, totalling 924 pages; it is the 2006 edition, and has the front and back covers missing. 

On the bookshelf reside further Lonely Planet guides, to Amsterdam and to Venice. They, too, are 2006 editions; they, too, have no front or back covers.

The reason for this curious distinction is that they come from the time when I worked in outdoors retail. At one time, during my early rucksack-selling days, the Lonely Planet guides we had on display were to be replaced by new editions. We proletariat were informed that we could have the old ones, as they were to be thrown out otherwise. The only condition was that the front and back covers had to go into the bin, presumably so that we could not re-sell them. This all seemed like a rare gift from the company, and the more cosmopolitan amongst us gobbled up the chance.

In truth, Lonely Planet guides tend to be rather prosaic affairs. They are useful for providing general information about places and regions, and cater for people who do not have enormous financial resources behind them. People like me. At the same time, they generally have little original to offer - thanks, internet. And the pages of information on places to eat and to sleep are best treated as hopeless, since they come and go at the drop of a hat. Sad to say, really, but you are most likely better off reading reviews online, once you have learnt how to do this properly; in particular, that there are some people who are never satisfied, and not to take the one-star reviews because you had to wait thirty seconds for the lift too seriously.

It is no surprise that Lonely Planet's offering on Italy finds much to be enthusiastic about, albeit in the muted way that Lonely Planet expresses joy, delight, wonder, and the rest. The lower rated towns and areas tend to be described non-commitally, in terms of being nondescript, and of not warranting more than a day's attention in your life. The guide is reluctant to condemn. Personally, I sometimes find these 'nothing special to see' places more fascinating than the conventionally five-starred attractions. Go and check out around the corner, that little church over there. Full of unexpected surprises.

However, the limit to Lonely Planet's indifference is reached when we finally arrive in the deep south of Italy. Check out Catanzaro, embedded in the heartland of Calabria, Italy's southernmost region. "The best view of Catanzaro is of it fading into the distance as you leave town."

And then there is Potenza, the regional capital of Basilicata, a land more forgotten than Calabria. "The best way to see Potenza is quickly and by night." And it expands: "That way you will avoid the sight of some of the most brutal housing blocks you're ever likely to see." Additionally, being set high in the hills and away from the coast, Potenza is "cloyingly hot in summer and bitterly cold in winter."

I found these descriptions quite amusing. And then it came to me that I had once passed through Potenza, and lived to tell the tale.

 

Part Two

It would have been some time in the mid-1980s, and the first occasion when I had gone to Italy with my then-girlfriend. We spent a couple of days in Rome, before rising at some unearthly hour and heading to Roma Termini station to catch a ridiculously early train. The old couple who ran the pensione where we stayed were exceedingly sweet, and got out of bed to see us off and wish us well, all of which was completely unnecessary but very nice.

It was October, and we wanted some warmth and some sun. I figured that the further south you went, the warmer and sunnier it was likely to be. Hence we embarked on a long and, it transpired, very slow trip to the south, about as far south as I could find anywhere to stay. Calabria, the eastern coast, the Ionian. What could go wrong?

Past Naples, and onto Salerno. Unfortunately, by now the train was late, and we missed the connection. We needed to wait for the next one, quite a bit later in the day. Still, no mind: the weather was balmy, and we found a comfortable spot to sit on the platform to enjoy the autumn sunshine.

Eventually, a train appeared. It was very long and very slow. To begin with it passed through flat agricultural land. We seemed to stop at every tiny village, and some places in between. Hens would run around, people stop and chat. A sense of simple rural well-being, even if frugal, prevailed.

After a while, however, things changed, and soon changed dramatically. Gone were the fertile fields and valleys, the farms and animals. Instead, we were passing through an increasingly desiccated and hostile mountain landscape. Bare off-white limestone cliffs rose vertically on either side of the valley, which took on the appearance of a gorge or canyon as the minutes passed. The train seemed to be the only animate element in this weird and slightly scary bone-dry world that we had entered.

Already slow, the train now decreased gear to a crawl. We were climbing into the hills, and the gradients were, well, impressive. And then we hit the tunnels.

I had never experienced anything remotely like this before. Enormous long tunnels cut deep into the limestone, or near-vertical sides of the mountains hewn out so that the railway could snake along the edge of a precipice. The outer section would be constructed of series of arches which let in air and light, but which supported the hillside above, preventing it from crashing down upon us. 

It was an unbelievable feat of engineering; I had seen nothing remotely like it in the UK, which suddenly seemed like a very small and parochial place. Mussolini must have had the boys working overtime to get this done, I thought to myself. Actually, the railway was opened in 1880, three years before Benito was even born.......   

At last the tunnels were over, the mountains left behind, and we re-entered the land of light - of sorts. By now it was late afternoon, and the thickening cloud above the high-altitude landscape cast a pall of grey over everything. I distinctly recall our passing a large settlement situated high in the barren hills, and noting the dreary dismal atmosphere which seemed to hang over it. Characterless high-rise blocks were the main living places on view, and I felt relief as we left it behind. This, have no doubt, was Potenza. 

From here, the train trundled steadily downhill towards the Ionian coast. Uneventful, aside from a couple of southern Italian youths who took residence in our compartment, clearly taking a liking to the unusual sight in these parts of a non-Italian female on the local trains.

Change train again, I suppose - I don't actually remember. Anyhow, by the time we were winding our way around the long curve of the Gulf of Taranto darkness had descended. The pitch black was broken by little fires which had been lit by some of the beaches, reason unknown. And then, as we tortuously proceeded, the dark evening sky began to be cut through by brilliant flashes of lightning out at sea.

 

Part Three 

By the time we tumbled out of the train at Corigliano, our final destination, rain was falling in torrents. All was pitch black and deserted, an eerie silence punctuated only by the sound of the rain drumming on pavements and rooftops. 

The power had been cut by the storm, and we wandered around this black and empty town in search of some life. We eventually stumbled upon a bar, where three men were sitting at a table drinking beer by candlelight. Bedraggled, forlorn, soaked to the skin, we were quite a surprising sight.

One of them, a rather rotund and fierce-looking man, could speak some English.

"Where are you going?" "Schiavonea." "Schiavonea! Why are you going to Schiavonea? It's a dump."

Thanks, dude, that's just what I wanted to hear.

He phoned our hosts, who were anxious as we had failed to turn up when expected and hadn't phoned them up. And he delivered us to their front door by car, which was very kind of him, not to say life-saving.

We had an apartment in their spacious house. Both middle-aged, the woman was German, and seemed out of place in the wilds of southern Italy. And the man was in the police up the hill in nearby Rossano; not the best of occupations in mafia-style bandit country, home of the dreaded 'ndrangheta, I considered. My girlfriend was convinced that the two of them were not getting on well together; I can't say that I could tell.

The first morning in Schiavonea our hosts took us to see the beach. In England people go to the beach because it's a warm, sunny day. In Italy they go because it's beach season. Mid-October is definitely not beach season, and a desolate sight awaited us as we neared the sea. Grubby sand mixed with bits of stone and gravel; bits of rubbish, some detritus from the previous night's storm, maybe. Most conspicuous was a large sheep's skull just hanging around in the middle of the sandy area. Our hosts did not speak much English. They just looked at us a bit sheepishly (no pun intended) and we went back for lunch.

My girlfriend and I went to the beach a couple of times, and lay down in the tepid warm sun with not another soul on the sand-and-stone. Except for when teenage voyeurs came to have a gawp at this strange sight of northern Europeans lying on the beach outside of season. Truly eccentric.....

I don't know that Schiavonea really was a dump. It was nondescript, and not used to many non-Italian visitors. One afternoon I went into a supermarket for some food shopping. A young boy stared at me. Open-mouthed he took me in slowly, weighing me up from head to foot. "Tedeschi? (German)" he finally enquired. "Inglesi" I replied. His mouth dropped open still further, and he scrutinised me once more, in silent amazement.

 

Part Four

There is nothing left that I want to write about this trip. There is no special esoteric reason for putting down these words at all. It just came to me. However, while doing a little research for this post, two topics that expanded on my experiences presented themselves to me.

'Christ stopped at Eboli' is a book-made-into-a-film which I have neither read nor watched. Nevertheless, the little I know dovetails into the story. Eboli, a small town in southern Italy, is portrayed as the place where Christianity and morality come to a halt. Jesus never got past Eboli, and the land beyond is dominated by superstition, pagan beliefs, and the rest. A  Godless world.

What is interesting is to locate Eboli on a map. It is the exact place where the rail line bifurcates south of Naples and Salerno. The main line heads directly down the south coast, towards Sicily, while the other branch is our line, heading through the mountains to Potenza and Metaponto. It is here that the chickens and cheery farms give out, and the bare and barren limestone mountain landscape takes over. In other words, what I saw and felt on the train trip to Basilicata was a direct mirror reflection of what the book had described several decades beforehand.

The other event is a tragedy, the kind of thing that happens in southern Italy. In 1944 there was a huge disaster in the Galleria delle Armi, an especially long piece of the complex of tunnels between Salerno (Eboli, actually) and Potenza. Over 500 people died of carbon monoxide poisoning, as an overloaded train got stuck in the tunnel, unable to move forward. It was powered by two steam engines, which continued to belch out toxic gas from the low-grade coal that was all that was available, filling the tunnel with poison, and with no way out.

Needless to say, the train was vastly overcrowded, with many stowaways in this impoverished part of Europe. It is difficult to imagine - yet paradoxically easy, once you have travelled that piece of railway. And we can't blame Mussolini for this one: he was gone, and Italy had given up supporting Germany by this time.       

Nowadays, it's all changed. Nowhere is a hell-hole, it seems; everywhere has become a must-see. Catanzaro and Potenza are no exception. Nowadays, online sources inform us, we are implored to visit Catanzaro, which is 'a charming city in the south of Italy, where history, culture, and nature blend together.' Similar almost to the word, Potenza is today also 'a charming city, where you can explore its rich history and culture.' I haven't been back to check it out, and doubt that I have the stamina these days. Maybe they have knocked down all the horrendous housing blocks and replaced them with neo-Renaissance palaces, I don't know.

As for Lonely Planet, however, it remains less than enthusiastic. Its online section about Basilicata seems to miss out on Potenza altogether, reserving its attention for the city of Matera and its once notorious but now celebrated sassi. These are cave dwellings cut into the sides of the hills. Seventy years ago they vied for title of poorest and most unhealthy living places in western Europe. Nowadays, it seems, they are all done up, and people come from all over to visit and live there.  

While checking out material for this post I came across this fascinating video. It is of the Salerno to Potenza railway; the main tunnels begin about ten minutes in. See, I wasn't making it all up.... 

https://dailymotion.com/video/x2ytori

 

Images: Potenza in the past; Potenza today; Schiavonea beach in winter; modern Schiavonea, summer time; leaving Eboli