Aldo Moro's Grave

It was only a short way to the cemetery, on a little sandy path. Everything here is much greener, more natural and romantic than it looks like on Google Maps.

On the cemetery itself there are the alcove graves that are so typical for southern countries, but also one or two earth graves as we know them in central Europe. I walk around, do not search, allow myself to be guided, and then - a line of mausoleums, individual catacombs.

Very polished "mini villas", well taken care of ...

... no, it's not them, but there, at the very end of the line ... a building in a totally different style. Simple, no splendour ... my heart beats faster ... that's not it, is it?

 Yes, it is.

Inside is the white sarcophagus. The name: Aldo Moro.

1800 kilometres on foot, across mountains, ravines and rivers - and now I am here. Ivy grows into the mausoleum from the outside. Everywhere lies dust. A picture has fallen down next to the sarcophagus. There also is an A4-sized photograph of Eleonora Moro, who is buried here as well.

Yes, I already knew the grave from a photograph, and yes, last night over dinner I was prepared that it is "very quaint". And yet - this shatters me.
All these pretty chapels with brightly polished gates, crucifixes and gilded engravings - and next to them, shrouded in dust and ivy, lies a former statesman, a part of world history. Not even the dates of his birth and death have been engraved. And there is no cross either.

He, the practicing Catholic ... but his last remaining written statement was a criticism of the pope.

I search for "peace" at the grave. But there is none.
The sarcophagus is a scream turned into stone.
The simplicity is an accusation. No statesman rests here, no "historical figure", and definitely no "political symbol". Here lies a human being who wanted to live and to go home.

I sit down while my thoughts race like cars on a motorway. The first tears come. I visualise the many letters he wrote during his imprisonment, I physically feel the fear, the hope, the anxiety, the despair ...
And the answer to all of it is this sarcophagus.
I break down and cry bitterly. Without even realising, I say "humans are shit".

I am desperate because there is absolutely nothing I can do. I can make a pilgrimage to this place, I can cry, I can draw, but I can not travel back in time in order to help him. However, there is nothing I would love to do more in this moment.

And while I cry, it comes: the vision, the waking dream. The encounter.

A long silence. Then Aldo says to me: "Come on, let's go."

I walk back, return soon afterwards to take photographs and walk back again.

Later, I meet the father of the owner of the hotel where I am staying. Yesterday, I had eaten dinner with the family. They were CLOSE friends of Aldo Moro. He goes with me to the cemetery once again. More tears. Then he shows me the burial vault where Aldo was buried for the first year - as you can read on the internet, he was first buried "in the grave of a friend."

This friend was the father of my hotel owner. He guides me into the vault, shows me the alcove where "Aldo Moro" is written by hand, hardly legible still. Now it is empty.

"Will someone be buried there again?", I ask. "I don't hope so - at least not too soon", the friend responds, and we both start to laugh. For the first time. A little bashfully, but aware that Aldo is laughing with us.

Then he drives me to Aldo's little house here in Torrita. No luxurious villa, rather a witch's cottage. It is emtpy and overgrown.
He tells me about Aldo, who was his professor at the university. "He was able to listen for hours. During the students' revolt in 1968, many feared for his safety, but he was not afraid of the revolutionaries. He listened to them, only sighing sometimes "I find it a little difficult to understand these kids." No, he did not understand everything, but he listened.
He went shopping, alone or with his kids, even when he was a famous politician.

I meet elderly people in Torrita ... they all knew Aldo. They talk about him with deep love but also deep grief. The image I had gets confirmed. On the one hand this is very beautiful, but on the other hand my pain is increased: I see Aldo with my inner eyes, dead in the car boot, haggard, deeply exhausted, absolutely lonely. This merges with what the people here tell me. It becomes unbearably cruel.

He listened to others, but nobody listened to him. He opposed the death penalty, but he "had to die" - strangely, political faction of both the left and the right agreed on this. He was denied the kindness he had given to others.

He was plainly left do die in misery.

In a world where something like this is possible, it is no wonder that refugees' shelters burn and people are murdered or left to starve.

We go to the town hall. Aldo's friend introduces me and asked when the mayor was going to be back, because he wanted me to meet him. I am given the gift of a book about Torrita. It also contains a chapter about Aldo.
It is to some extent comforting that there are so many kind people in Torrita, who protect and shelter him. I am sure that the coming days will be very intense.

Piazza Aldo Moro

Today, for the first time, I was afraid of not finding a place to stay. We had followed the coast for 30 kilometres, from Pietra Ligurie to Noli.
My legs were hurting and, frankly, I should have turned to the mountains much earlier in order to find accommodation there.
In Noli, I asked around in the shops and was told that I would have to go quite far into the mountains in order to find places that might be appropriate.

So I got going. After crossing a couple of streets, a man came running behind us, he was totally out of breath. He talked to me and said that he had a piece of land at the edge of town, with donkeys, and I could stay there. Yes, he had heard from the people in the shopping arcade that I was looking around. And the place was not far away at all.

All at once, the worries were gone. Relieved, I looked around, with a clear head and an open mind now.
Then I saw where I was:

Pure chance? I don't think so. Aren't we a good team, Aldo and I?

By the way, this is the first Aldo signpost I have seen since arriving in Italy.

It's interesting that the bodyguards who were murdered during the attack are mentioned as well:

“E Martiri della Via Fani”

Most often they have been even more forgotten than Aldo himself.

The little paradise with the donkeys Gamin was allowed to join is ideal. I am even allowed to spend our day of rest there. Which means that tomorrow I will do important chores, but also relax on the beach.

Ford of Glory

The last night was hard. In the full sense of the word, because my insulation mattress was broken. As flat as a flat tyre. "Gomma a terra", as the Italians say.

Thankfully, Gamin's former owners were able to help me out. They came by car and brought me their mattress. How fortunate!

There had been heavy rain at night. I had to pack a soaking wet tent.

Today' stage of the journey was not easy to handle. At first, there came enchanted forest paths between oak trees covered in moss. The air was hot and full of scents. The path led down into a ravine, as deep as the subconciousness of the world.

The "bridge" was nothing but an old tree trunk and a rope as a handrail.

There was no other way. We had to go through the ford. Our first real obstacle.
For a split second I wanted to make a telephone call in order to complain or to call for help ... But it was clear: we were alone in this deep ravine and had to tackle it.
I took a couple of steps into the water. Gamin stood at the river bank and refused to move, as it was expected. I stood in the water, called and pulled on the lead. This went on for a while.
Suddenly I saw him gathering his courage. He jumped once, twice, three galloping steps, and we were on the other side.

I praised him extensively, and we shared an apple. We had made it! There is hardly anything more beautiful than having an animal as an accomplice. Slowly we are becoming a team.

The path went steeply uphill again. We climbed out of the ravine and reached a mountainside with blossoming trees and vast meadows.

Below in the next valley we could see the Rhône, Arras and further behind more mountains, the Vercors in the shadows. Somewhere behind this impressive horizon lies Apulia.

The descent to Arras meant that we had to take dangerously steep paths, often not wider than 20 centimetres. I concentrated on the cactuses and the stones in the sand in order to not look down into the deep abyss.
Gamin managed everything well.
We crossed the Arras dam. One more river was behind us.
We became very tired.

Finally we found a small place at the river bank of the Rhône, which we had been shown by the folks from a motorcycle garage. And this is where the tent is now pitched. We can hear the boats on the river.

This is the real bohemian life, walking between worlds. A great day with wonderful sceneries is coming to an end.

Where to look among the garbage and the flowers ...

These days, I practice intensely with the GPS. In a few weeks I will hike through totally unknown terrain, and I must be able to handle this machine. Today, I walked ca. 15 kilometres (a day's travel), following a track with the GPS that I had created on the computer before.

It led through the woods, underbrush and thicket, and without the device I certainly would not have known anymore where to find back and front, up and down.

Well, I still didn't know, but all was well as long as the blue arrow on the display followed the pink line.

The tour went through the forests that are so typical for the Vosgues area. Some of the paths looked like this:

A less pleasant discovery was this one:

It really pisses me off. Who dares to dispose of their car parts in the forest? There are professional scrapyards everywhere. It is definitely not more bothersome (much likely, less) to drive a scrap car there, instead of throwing the parts into nature.

But as Leonard Cohen described in his song "Suzanne", one must know where to look among the garbage and the flowers. And at the end of a path, just before a crossroad, my gaze was softly directed:

To the ground, where I found a small deer antler. I was so excited! I have always desired to find one. And in some nights I have dreamt that it has happened.

I picked it up, when I saw one ... no, TWO more!

It was like a fairy tale. An intensive moment of happiness. Quietly and strongly, magic had hit me.

Three antlers - but why three? Oh yes: one for Aldo, one for JFK, and one for myself. We are on the right track, nature talks to us, with us, and through us.

I pocketed the antlers and walked on with ease. I did not get lost even once. Everything is in a state of flow.