A wild (boar) day — Where my wheels go

A sense of abandonment

The day is body-wrap warm, the sky as blue as a Madonna’s cloak and the chain of mountains as mystical as ever. The grass-stone track is sure, the riding none too demanding and the woods shady. Other than my breathing and the wheels rubbing the ground, there is stillness and silence. I ride happy until I sense rather than see, movement in the shadows of the trees.
I stop. Put a foot upon the ground.
There is no sound, no rustle, nothing.
I’m about to pedal off, when there’s heavy sigh, followed by a snort. A small black eye peers at me from the undergrowth a couple of metres away. A snout, bristly hair arced on a grey-brown back. Another snort.
We stare at each other, both uncertain as to the protocol, our amygdalas processing the dangers. Fight or flight?
The boar’s brain makes a decision quicker than mine. Suddenly there is a commotion. Twigs snap, dead leaves fly off the floor. Grunts and snorts, followed by a charge.
Not at me, but across the path, a metre in front of the bike. A family of wild boar pour out of the woods, two large females and nine shoats race across the space and at the back, a huge and heavy male, all tusks and bristles. He stops mid path - his braking power is staggering - and he offers me a challenging stare. He sniffs, his head nods, his eyes never leave me.

So we stand. Two males.
Seconds pass.
Then with a muscular burst of speed, he is off into the filigree shadows of the trees.

The route I am taking follows the tracks high above a deep ravine, dug during the passing millennia by the Orta river. It is a route through abandoned villages and along the flanks of mountains, passing fields which until not so long ago sang with mattocks striking the earth and the chatter of the peasants whose land this was.

I ride for an hour away from the spa town of Caramanico and stop briefly in the stone-damp silence of a Norman church. It is rarely open and for reasons unexplained, the double doors are today, wide apart. I sit awhile in the dark shade of pillars and frescos, watched over by St. Nicholas who stands in a river with the Christ-child comfortably sitting on his shoulder, whilst fish and an eel nibble the skin of his feet.

The road continues through the white concrete houses of the modern village of Salle, from where a broken road winds up the hillside to the old village. There is a Norman castle which is shut, as is the restaurant nearby. Both have notices stuck to their doors stating that today they will be open. Trees grow in rooms where children’s laughter once bounced against the stone walls.

For a while the tarmac continues as it winds up the hill; then slowly it withdraws and the road becomes stoney and rough. There’s feeling that this is the end, that I am entering another world. The softness of the morning ebbs and is replaced by naked blue light. Slumbrous fields grow brambles and bracken. Wild dog roses climb over dry stone walls which themselves are sinking and falling back into the mountainside from whence they came.

Somewhere far below a shepherd minds his sheep. His dog, an Abruzzi sheepdog, a massive mound of white fur and muscle, spots me. He runs through the scrub, managing to bark and sprint at the same time. The breed is famous for its ability to see off wolves. Cyclists don’t stand a chance against such warriors. But as fast as it began, it stops. It sits on a rock nearby, its massive tongue falling out of its mouth, its chest heaving and it nonchalantly watches me pedal away.

The route continues up hill on a twisting and easy gravel surface. I pass a fountain whose basins are dry, its bottom covered in summer dust and loose stones. The metal pipe, like a severed artery is hot and useless. Nearby trees are changing into their autumn clothes. The whole scene is one of picturesque aimlessness - a winding white road, autumn drifting down a hillside, silent villages where nothing stirs far away in the valley below and an empty well.

The grass path - which should be signed as MTB 9

After the pigs I ride on some more. I stop to admire a view of the distant Maiella mountains and notice on the ground beside me tyre, an elongated sausage of hair. I poke it with a stick and it’s soft, the bristles held together by a soft, black residue. The scat is fresh. Last night a wolf shat here, having digested a boar.

At the pass of Passo San Leonardo, I join the road which is empty of cars and I swoop around bends, like a falcon riding their air roads. There’s a turn off along another white track, and this leads to an abandoned grey ribbon of road, where the restless earth is slowly removing the cuticles of tarmac and tossing great black chunks down the hill.

The old road from Sant'Eufemia a Maiella to S Nicolao

In S Nicolao, at a small Trattoria, the Senore agrees to give me lunch. He tells me first that I am too late, but after a little speech, he relents. He places a plate of wild boar ragu with fettucine in front of me. ‘Buono’, he adds. I eat and drink black wine and watch the swallows dive across the harsh light through the glass windows. The kitchen clatters, the bike rests against a wall. It will not be far back to the car.

To read the article attached to this ride, click here

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