January 10, 2026
ITALY: Rocca Imperiale
On our sixth day in Italy, we run out of road. We are tracking the E90 south across "The Boot" on a strada di servicio to Rocca Imperiale. Bicycles are not allowed on the E90 as it's an autostrada, a national highway. A muddy farm road, made muddier by this morning's rain, stretches in front of us. In the distance, there's a tunnel. Perhaps this rough section of service road passes through it, taking us under the autostrada? Trucks and buses blast past on the highway, bound for Sicily.
Our bike tour has been more challenging since we arrived in Italy from Greece (ferry from Patras to Bari). Where are the readily available and reasonably priced pensions of Turkey and Greece with their buffet breakfasts, their urns of tea, ther check-in counters? The room we booked in Bari was buried in the single-file back alleys of the old quarter (47 Euros, almost $CAN80, without breakfast). No one to meet us. No room for bikes. In Monopoli, down the Adriatic coast, same story: hard to find back alley room in the old town, transaction completed online, click a button on your phone to unlock the door. The roads in every town in the Puglia region are also choked with motor vehicles, making bike riding a test of nerves.
We pedal down the muddy farm road to the tunnel and discover litter and grass within. By the time we have backtracked to the tarmac, our tyres have doubled in width. The mud is like clay, and it takes us an hour to scrape it off with a stick. Before joining the highway, we strip down so we can pedal fast. Vehicles honk their horns at us as they pass. "Toot, toot" seems to mean, 'Interesting choice, riding your bicycles on our national highway whereas "PAAAAAAAAAAARP!" might loosely be translated as 'What kinda freaking dummies are you, riding yer bikes on the autostrada?!'
The service road peters out several times before we reach our destination for the day, meaning we get to know the autostrada quite well. We are lucky. The Polizia Stradale in their distinctive blue Mazdas do not spot us in the company of juggernauts but on an exit ramp near Policoro. Nadya waves at them cheerily.
The final 8 kilometres of our ride takes us two and a half hours to complete. It is dark now. To get to Rocca Imperiale, we must head inland from the seaside town of Nova Sili Scalo. Our room for the night is at Casa Costello, a B&B at the base of a castle perched on a hill. We can see it long before we reach it, its crenellated battlements glittering with lights. Google Maps send us along a mud road to get there (we have to get off and push), then we must negotiate a labyrinthe of narrow, mostly unnamed alleys that weave through homes built below the ramparts of the castle. The gradient is so steep we can barely push our loaded bikes up them. Dogs bark at us. Barely anyone is about to ask for directions in our practically non-existent Italian. We make a lot of wrong turns.
The next day, we ride nowhere. We wash mud off our bikes, scoff Italian biscotti, and listen to a recorded voice telling us about a 13th-century castle built by Emperor Frederik II of Swabia.
Tony
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