Middle-aged flash packers

 I did wonder if the road block on the way to Passo Leonardo was an omen. 

We were comfortably driving up the windy but wide road when about half way up we were confronted by huge concrete blocks across the road. Argh! No idea how to get to the start of our planned walk if we couldn’t access the rest of the road. Desperation had me jumping out the car and measuring by eye whether we could get through. Luckily our Ford Fiesta squidged through with a bit of room both sides – phew!

Had to do this again further up then when we got to the junction there was a sign saying road closed. There was definitely no sign from the direction we came from! Just as well really.

We found the Refugio where the walk started from without any trouble and we were on our way by 10am. We chose a partly wooded walk so we could get some shade. The temperatures here are mad at the moment, well into the 30’s. Our packs were heavy because of the amount of water we needed to carry.

Beautiful walk through the woods, then out into meadows full of the most gorgeous flowers. The insects were very busy and we were constantly buzzed by bees , indignant at being interrupted.

We had a bite to eat, sitting watching people pick some kind of wild green leafy stuff growing on the mountain side. I saw this in Sicily and I think we ate it in a restaurant but I’m not sure what it is.

The next section took us up towards the peak of Mont Morre. Again, the flora was stunning. Ahead of us I could see a pack of wild horses. They watched us nervously but not as nervously as I watched them! At my insistence we took a slightly lower path to give them a wide berth. I know I must drive Steve mad with my horse and cow phobias!

Eventually we got to the top which was amazing. (2061m). A woman had left a buff and dog tag attached to the cross at the summit. A plaque below said it was dedicated to Carlos, her love. Very poignant. 

And here is where it all went wrong. 

The book we have got all our Abruzzo walks from told us to follow a track down the side of the mountain. There was no track. 

Now, the Italian parks are very good in that trails are named and blazed and they are very easy to follow. But only if you use their main trails. I am very happy to use their trails, in fact if you’ve read earlier blogs I am not a lover of getting off the beaten track as it usually involves stumbling about amongst overgrown God knows what, putting my feet down animal holes and generally getting very irritated because I don’t know where I’m going.

Obviously this is exactly what happened. To make matters worse, in the distance I could see the small hut we would eventually get to and there were loads of cows there. 

After much blundering about and trying to persuade Steve there was definitely a path we could take that circumnavigated the cows, we got to the refuge and luckily the cows had moved on.

Next, we had to walk through a wood until we came to a road/track. Great – except we had to descend very steeply and we both struggled to stay upright on the super-slippy limestone scree. It took us ages as we had to slow down considerably so as to avoid breaking our necks.

By this time, the man who wrote the walk book was known as “prat” for sending us on such a ridiculous hike and timewise we were way behind where we should have been according to him.

We heaved a sigh of relief when we reached the track and our good humour returned as we viewed the very picturesque village of Roccacaramanico . I had toyed with the idea of stopping for a gelato but a) it didn’t look big enough to have a shop of any kind and b.) it was 4pm and we needed to get moving. According to “prat” we should have been back at the car by now.

I could see the Refugio we originally set off from in the distance, but worryingly it really was in the distance, like a very long walk away in the distance.

 Never mind, we were back on the proper trail again so it was just a matter of following the trail markers – what could go wrong? 

Within 15 minutes we had lost the path. At some point there had been a huge mud slide and no trail blazes could be seen. We stumbled and struggled our way over the cracked mud. Thank goodness it hadn’t been raining or we’d still be there now. As it was, we just couldn’t find a navigatable track. 

I was beginning to feel that just lying down in a heap, crying and have someone come and rescue me might be a good idea. It didn’t matter what we did, we didn’t seem to be getting any nearer to the Refuge. Obviously I kept my histrionics to myself and let Steve continue to optimistically struggle to find the path – which he did! 

We hauled ourselves up a bank and into some woods where I spotted some trail blazes on trees. Hallelujah!

Er …. don’t get too excited. Next we had to cross a massive land slip of boulders and stones. By this time we were very,very tired. The “prat” was being called far worse names as we clambered and twisted our knees and ankles hobbling over the rocks. There were at least blazes when we reached the other side and we dragged our weary bodies the last mile to the refuge. It was 6.45pm, nearly 4 hours later than prat stated in his book. 

Taking off my boots felt like the best thing I had done all day. 

It doesn’t need to be said that on arrival home, after the most wonderful shower in the world, much beer was swilled, prat was again thoroughly cursed, food was eaten and it was a very early bedtime.