Myf Adams

My father Anthony Gregson escaped from Camp PG 19, Bologna, after the Italians’ surrender in September 1943, having been transferred there from PG 21, Chieti, after making “an infernal nuisance” of himself there as an inveterate tunneller. He tried a different tack in Camp 19, making a hazardous but successful escape under a rations lorry. But his attempts in Chieti did pay dividends in that his final tunnel there was used later in successful escapes by other prisoners, news that delighted him.
Dad walked from Bologna, following the Apennines south-east and keeping as high as possible, crossing enemy lines and joining American troops near Cassino on 6th November. He died in October 2012 and we, as a family, started taking it in turns to follow his trail the following year. My nephew Teddy covered a lot of ground, taking the first leg from Bologna to the top of Monte Falterona, east of Florence, wild-camping en route.

I took up the baton from there, wild-camping also, but making rather less progress than my fitter and younger nephew! I reached Sansepolcro in the province of Arezzo. It was the first anniversary of Dad’s death, the sixtieth anniversary of my birth and the 70th anniversary of his walk, and an emotional journey for me. I found myself one day at a tiny, remote church half way up a wooded cliff, gazing over the valley which Dad would have viewed as he was shown a large house a few kilometres away where he could safely seek shelter. I was shown the same house, standing on the little terrace where Dad must also have stood, by the priest who lived alone in the church. Same spot, same date, exactly 70 years later to the day.

My eldest son Henry continued the trail from Sansepolcro to Fabriano in the province of Ancona, and in 2017 my second son Jack joined me for a few days to walk from Fabriano to Muccia in the province of Macerata. This time we were relying on agriturismi for accommodation and had to abandon the walk when we reached the edge of the Sibillini mountains national park as almost all had sadly closed or been abandoned, or even destroyed, in the previous year’s disastrous earthquake. We found ourselves walking through abandoned villages, eerily silent, grass and weeds growing through the roads and pavements, houses collapsed or with large cracks in their walls.

So Jack and I had reached the north-east edge of the Sibillini in 2017. We returned to continue the trail in late-September this year after a long hiatus. Again, we were relying on B&Bs for accommodation and, again, it proved difficult. We found a lot of construction still in progress following the 2016 earthquake, still a lot of destruction in evidence, and small businesses established in temporary pop-up accommodation. Again we were walking through small mountain villages with houses abandoned, propped up, awaiting restoration or perhaps to be demolished. I hadn’t grasped the extent of the damage which would still be in evidence nine years on from the earthquake. However, we received a warm welcome wherever we did lay our heads. I’m sure people were pleased to have visitors. An area that was previously a hub for walkers must have suffered considerably economically.

The approach to Castelluccio (left) – gateway to the Sibillini – much of which was destroyed in the earthquake, and (right) the building where we stayed the night (centre towards top) which was left standing when the buildings on either side collapsed in 2016. Cranes now dominate the skyline in many of le Marche’s towns and villages.

It was sad to see the destruction in places, but the walking was, as ever, glorious – apart from the inevitable petering out of marked footpaths into almost impenetrable scrub, often on steep hillsides that were hard to navigate. But after battling through trees and bushes, thorns and things that stick themselves everywhere, the rewards of eventually reaching and walking along high ridges with spectacular views were all the greater.

We walked along wide, open hilltops amongst horses and cows roaming free, across the magnificent Piano Grande – green with sheep and cows grazing now, but a riot of colour and flowers in the spring – and through the ruins of the medieval Castello di Castelfranco perched precariously on the steep hillside below the ridge linking Monte Moricone and Monte Patino; through beech forests, country lanes – and of course briar and bush!  We hardly saw a soul when walking, but chatted (in our imperfect Italian) with our friendly hosts, who were always interested to learn what on earth we were doing there.

The way ahead (left) and (right) our rifugio destination for the night nestled below us as we descended from Monte Fema.

The ruins of the medieval Castello di Castelfranco, built by the French with commanding views of the valley below, above the village of Capo del Colle near Norcia. The fresco (right) is astonishingly still visible (you can just make out a face surrounded by a halo) despite being open to the elements in what was the church of the castle.

One of many magnificent ancient beech trees (left), the Piano Grande (centre) – nowhere for Dad to hide here!  But he enjoyed a welcome fast walk on flat terrain. And a small hitchhiker who was reluctant to be left behind.

We didn’t cover a lot of ground along Dad’s route as we zig-zagged wildly to either side of it to find accommodation we could reach on foot. The distance as the crow flies from start to finish was only about 40 km, but we walked twice that, reaching Arquata del Tronto in the province of Ascoli Piceno (through the destroyed and abandoned town of Pescara nearby – a very sad sight) after 5 days of walking. The next stage will require a tent and all provisions – no accommodation within walking distance of Dad’s route. I might leave it to the younger members of the family! 

Above Arquata del Tronto and the end of our journey . . . for now. Mother and son still on speaking terms after a week of sharing rooms.

Finally, and most importantly perhaps, there is a footnote to Jack’s and my latest wanderings. Before leaving home I had been trying without luck to find and book accommodation close to Dad’s path, but two nights before departure I came across a farmhouse online offering accommodation in a rather remote spot just below where Dad would have walked. I called and spoke with a lovely-sounding woman, and explained to her that my father would have walked past their house in 1943. Unfortunately she wasn’t able to accommodate us for the night we needed. But later that evening I received a call from her daughter who lives in London. Her parents had phoned her to ask her to call me (she speaks excellent English, which her parents don’t speak) to ask more about Dad’s experiences as her father remembers, as a young boy, secret comings and goings in the house at night. His father was the local GP and it seems that the local group of partisans elicited his help when they were helping escaping PoWs.

Francesca (the daughter) came as my guest to the MSMT lunch in November – it was the first time we had met! I find it incredibly moving that the events of that time, and the bravery of the contadini shown towards strangers then, still have the power to generate new bonds of friendship more than 80 years later.

So we have now walked approximately half of Dad’s route. It’s only taken us 12 years to cover what he walked in 29 days! I’d better get a wiggle on if I’m to reach Cassino without the aid of a Zimmer frame.