It’s All Downhill From Here
Anyone who’s been to the Amalfi Coast would have heard about the Path Of The Gods - a hiking path set way above the coast promising panoramic views of the beaches and towns down below. Sam had done the walk a few years ago and had encouraged us that it would be well worth our while.
Well-informed websites had suggested an early start, not only to avoid crowds but also the heat of the day. Unfortunately, unless you hire a taxi or private transport, there’s no way of achieving this goal. Reliant on the public bus system, the earliest bus to get us to Amalfi was 10:40am - hardly up with the sun. The bus stop was up about 200 stairs (giving our legs a bit of a warm up) and a crowd was swelling. A uniformed policeman had a whistle which he blasted to inform all other traffic to scoot to the sides when a lane-consuming bus was making its way around the blind corner.
Already crowded when it arrived, Ross and I had to settle for seats on the ‘wrong’ side of the bus, missing the spectacular views and frustrated we couldn’t take photos. It was a shame we couldn’t have swapped sides with the two girls obscuring our views, that slept soundly the whole way. Now the bus drivers on the Amalfi Coast have nerves of steel, twisting around blind corners with unexpected parked cars, oncoming speeding cars and buses appearing suddenly, trying to vie for road space and avoid crashing - not a smidgen of room to spare. On one side of the road, rock faces jut out to cramp the space, coming perilously close to the side of the bus and the other side drops off to a plunging chasm below. We were praying each trumpet blast of the horn, signalling “watch out, we’re coming!” would be heeded by those on the approach. Scary stuff and definitely not for the faint-hearted. We could see why lots of travellers opt for the ferry instead.
I felt indebted to our gallant driver, delivering us to Amalfi in one piece. I gave him a big “GRAZIE MILLE!”, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead and giving it a shake. He cracked up and nodded heartily. I hope they’re paying him danger money.
Though not far (as the crow flies) from Positano, Amalfi had a distinctly different feel. Completely lemon-obsessed, it reminded us of one of the towns in Cinque Terre and was filled with gorgeous shops and cafes. Standing proudly at the top of a sweeping staircase was the striking stripey Duomo di Amalfi, the medieval Catholic cathedral in the centre of town. There seemed to be an older population here; tour groups brimming with camera-toting octogenarians loading up on lemon-themed souvenirs and soaking up the atmosphere.
It was over an hour’s wait for our bus that would transport us to Bomerano and once we’d clarified where to wait, we were joined by more and more hardcore hikers, bearing ski poles and impressive hiking boots. With public transport notoriously unreliable and often arriving already packed, there was a ground swell amongst those of us that were there (mostly Italians and Germans) that if the bus didn’t arrive, we could pool together to hire our own mini bus. Great camaraderie ensued and we had a queue established amongst ourselves, honouring those who had been waiting the longest. That was until a loud tour group of about 30 Italians swarmed on the bus stop and began excitedly murmuring amongst themselves before shuffling across the road en masse. What was happening? I scurried across to see what was going on and, seeing our mates also joining the stampede, Ross suggested we’d better get across the road to the small depot, as quickly as possible to board the bus that was about to leave, half an hour ahead of schedule. The driver who was opening the door to allow the rapid influx of passengers, all of whom had arrived at the bus stop at least half an hour after us, was the very same driver who had specifically instructed us we’d be boarding across the road. It was chaos.
Ascending to nosebleed levels, the packed bus spiralled heavenwards to drop us at the charming little mountaintop village of Bomerano. We stocked up on supplies for the hike - 7/11 style chicken sandwiches (that curiously had the crusts removed) and bananas and filled our water bottles in readiness. The cute man at the bar was more than happy for us to use his toilet and gave us a warm send-off as we followed the pack.
We had researched this walk and watched several YouTube videos of the route, one memorable one had a young guy saying the hike was: “fairly easy and pretty much all downhill”. Both of these statements were big fat lies. Predominantly downhill, especially at the end, the walk still did have some significant uphill sections. As far as it being easy….maybe if you are Sir Edmund Hilary or a mountain goat?
We started off in a very rural area - so green and lush. Terraced grape vines decorated the mountain opposite and small farmhouses dotted the landscape. We came across goats and a donkey (that honestly had seen better days) and as we walked, we heard bells jangling and roosters crowing. For the first part we were only joined by a smattering of people but then at one point we seemed to reach a traffic jam. A fit looking tour guide was commanding his predominately Italian group of about 30 people whom we were now stuck behind. This section of the “path” was rocky, treacherous and unpredictable. With a sheer drop of about 500m down to sea level and not a guard rail or handrail in sight, the rocks underfoot were uneven, slippery, loose and easy to trip on, with deep, plunging “steps”; very hard to get a foothold. Add to that the blazing sun and lack of shade and I did ask myself once or twice: “are we having fun yet?” I also wondered how many people do actually fall off this mountain.
At one point we came upon a little oasis - a farmhouse that had set-up to sell, you guessed it, lemon drinks. They had ice cold lemon juice and lemon slushies on the go and were doing a roaring trade hydrating parched pilgrims. It was so nice to take a breather in the shade.
Though the trek was arduous the views were fabulous - spectacular panoramas of the whole Amalfi Coast, making it well worth our while (I think). The water waaay down below was so blue and contrasted with the green countryside and cloudless sky; it was absolutely stunning!
After another hour or so of our downhill climb, we passed a fit-as-a-fiddle American climber who was going uphill and told us there was another opportunity for a rest coming up in about 15 minutes and that we’d only have an hour of climbing remaining after that. It was just the carrot on the stick we needed and sure enough, just as she’d promised, an old church up ahead offered sanctuary (and cans of Coke). We joined the big group of Italian climbers we’d been following, under the shade of the laden fig tree, admiring the view and patting ourselves on the back for how far we’d come.
When we were ready to leave, the Italians were still resting so we had to work out for ourselves where to go. The sign posts were few and far between. We started off downhill (a good start) but were now the only ones on the track and had niggling doubts we’d taken a wrong turn. We had! Ross went back up to the church to clarify with the guide, whose English was sketchy, which way we should go. He pointed in a general direction and mumbled “Praiano!” OK, we were heading to Praiano. As we descended the never ending staircase from hell, we hoped hard that the town we were heading for was indeed Praiano. By now we’d been walking for almost three and a half hours and were melting in the sun. Rossco was hot and tired but was faring well, while I was struggling, genuinely unsure whether my feeble legs - now shaking from the constant downhill steps - would actually deliver me safely down the 1900 steps (yes, you read that right) to Praiano.
What sweet relief it was to finally arrive! The bus timetable informed us the next bus back to Positano wasn’t due for an hour and a half. That was a bummer. Then suddenly, screaming around the corner came the bus we’d thought we’d missed, 40 minutes late. The driver was frantic to make up time and drove like a maniac, tooting his horn in a non-stop attempt to clear the traffic before him. As soon as a car would appear in his path, he’d slam the brakes on, sending all the standing passengers toppling like dominoes. We’d never been happier to get off a bus.
Tonight we had planned a special anniversary dinner at Villa Treville. I’d booked this one online from home and had been saving up. The restaurant was Fancy (with a capital F) and had sweeping views over the ocean and back to Positano and the food was Delicious (with a capital D). If the waiters had been any more attentive they’d have brushed our hair. The Villa was previously owned by Franco Zeffirelli, who had spared no expense in its design and renovation. The patio had real trees growing up through it and vines adorned the inside of the tent-like canopy. When it got dark, all the lights gave off little spots of light and it was just so beautiful! I’d read the menu online from home, assuming the prices were in Australian dollars, not realising they were actually Euros, making it a tad more expensive than I’d predicted. We scraped enough together to avoid washing dishes but have vowed to be on a staple diet of bread and water for the remainder of our holiday.
