The Via Appia's Roman stretch

There is something about a pilgrimage along a great and ancient path that stirs the human soul in a way that flying or driving never can. Take one glance at the masses tackling the Camino on foot, and allow me to rest my case.

But hot on the heels – so to speak – of the Camino, Italy’s Via Appia is gathering its own dedicated band of disciples. The Roman road running from the capital to Brindisi on the heel of the peninsular boot ticks many a box: a history spanning millennia, relics along the way that are tangible enough to take you back in time, and a sense of arrival at both ends – take your pick of celebrated imperial city or glimpse of ocean that says you can go no further. Fine food and friendly weather don’t hurt either.

A 2022 article in National Geographic opened the world’s eyes just a little wider where the Via Appia is concerned. It also highlighted the one major box the trail doesn’t yet check – the modern Via is not quite ‘finished’. Work to join up parts of the trail lost in the mists of time is still ongoing, in other words. You can’t actually walk the whole thing just yet. And –  as is often the way with Italy – don’t hold your breath. But Nina Strochlic’s story did showcase the appealingly authentic section that runs through suburban Rome. And it was the prospect of walking this that saw me hopping on the night train from Vienna later that year.

My knowledge of Roman history doesn’t go much beyond being able to tell you that Caligula was the nasty one, Caeser liked a good salad and wearing a toga wouldn’t earn you a second glance. Maybe it would be different if the Colosseum were at the end of my street, but I struggle to get worked up about a past so distant.

Yet even I wanted to geek out on this Roman road. It grabbed me in a way that Colosseums and ruined temples never have. Gladiating and imperial splendour have no connection to our experience of life today, you see. And we can’t actually do them, either.

But we still make journeys. We still go places. So it’s easier to slip into a Roman’s leather sandals and take myself back in time when I know I’m essentially doing what they did. Making a journey. Walking down a road.

But covering a few miles of the Roman section is so much more than a trip back in time. Thanks to the patchy information that’s out there – National Geographic never claimed to be a practical tour guide – taking on the Appia’s early miles turns out to be an uncanny metaphor for life itself.

I’ll get into that in a minute. But I would like to provide some useful information as I do so. A few pointers for travellers whose Italian isn’t too hot. Who don’t know where to begin or what to expect. And, more particularly, for those who have a dash of OCD and want to actually follow the Via Appia’s first few miles as best one can in the 21st century.

The first of said pointers is this: lace up a solid pair or walking shoes, pack a water bottle and get set for a long day that will take it out of you. You are in for some serious exercise.

Life is like a winding road

To clear up any confusion Google and other sources might provide: If you want to get the full experience of the Roman section, you’ll need to get going at Circus Maximus in the thronging centre. And you’re going all the way to Frattocchie, which lies beyond the highway encircling the city.

This is important to know, because my partner and I spent so much time trying to figure out the right starting point that we ran out of daylight on our first stab. We had to come back for a second crack at it later in the week. Yes, there is a ‘park’ lining much of the Via Appia,  but the vast green patch on your city map only comes into play a little way down the track. And not even a detailed map of the areas in question tells you which bits are pleasant to walk and which require…forewarning.

So make a beeline for Circus Maximus – and do so early enough to allow for almost 20 kilometres of walking before the sun goes down. Unless you’re an Olympic athlete, then, I suggest 9am at the latest.

Now, as we get going, I trust you’ll indulge me as I sketch out the parallels between the Appian Way and the various stages of human life. It’s not something I planned on writing before going to Rome. Just a thought that came to me as I trudged along.

The first bit of the Via is like being a baby. Not much of the experience will stick in your mind, if anything. You won’t be up to the task of taking anything in. But that’s okay because all is chaos and little of it is worth remembering.

Circus Maximus may have its fair whack of historical significance, but to the untrained eye it is little more than a dusty, unkempt patch of municipal nothingness. The Via Appia started around here, but there’s no obelisk or plaque to mark the spot.

As you move south-east towards Terme di Caracalla, however, you’ll notice an archaeological excavation that may one day reveal an exact starting stone for the road. It’s cordoned off, obviously. So taking a picture over the fence is the nearest you’re going to get to a glorious departure.

You’re not really on the Via Appia, but you’re somewhere within spitting distance of where it was. At this stage, you’re just doing it justice as best you can.

Like I said, none of this is memorable stuff.

Hang in there, following the cycle path with the giant Terme and football grounds on your right. If you can make it through the big, ugly intersection up ahead, and into the Via di Porta San Sebastiano, it’s safe to say you’ve made it to toddlerhood. Because the next couple of kilometres are where the unsatisfactory crawling comes to an end.

Sure, you’re a little unsteady on your feet. Everyone else seems to be going at a thousand miles an hour. They’re fast, they’re big and they’re scary. But you hang in there, driven by some instinct that it’s going to get better.

The big, scary, fast things I refer to are the cars, of course. At the very moment the route turns into a pretty, cobbled road with no intersections and barely a tourist, the city takes away your sidewalk and throws you to the Roman motorists. It’s like some modern incarnation of what once passed for entertainment up at the Colosseum.

Like any young child making its way in the world, you may feel no sense of danger at first. But every close brush is a lesson in the mortal dangers that await you on your road through life. And given the average Italian driver’s approach to vulnerable pedestrians, you may be sure that you’ll have more brushes than a chimneysweep’s storebox.

It’s enough to make you want to throw a tantrum. And you’d be forgiven for doing it.

Eventually, you’ll pass through the archway at the Porta San Sebastiano. Then, on the other side of the crossroads, the road you’re on actually takes the official Via Appia Antica name. It’s right there on the street sign. You no longer need your parents to hold your hand and make sure you don’t get lost.

Okay, so navigation is easy from here. And there’s even a fountain where you can refill that water bottle. There will be more of those up ahead. But life is about to get tricky. You’re entering teenagerhood.

Because suddenly, since the crossroads, you seem to have a lot of peers trying to do the same thing as you. Their numbers build and build. The cars still think this is Autodromo di Monza and there’s still no sign of a sidewalk, so space is limited. Yet the other walkers are racing ahead as if they know exactly what they’re doing. You worry you’re doing it all wrong. It feels competitive. Passions can run high.

This is the stretch on which I witness a female tourist get into a fight with an Italian couple. They’re edging in opposite directions, but very much on the same page when it comes to stubbornness. The safest way forward here is to stick close to the western roadside wall, and neither will be the one to step out into the Via to go around the other. So there’s a silent standoff where they meet – they have no common language in which to argue – until somebody snaps and tries to push through. Then it erupts into pushing, kicking and gestures that transcend every linguistic boundary.

Just another day on the high school playground, really. Maybe it’s the fact that the heat’s getting up. And it’s bouncing off those stone walls lining the road.

Like adolescence, it’s a tough stretch to get through. Nothing we’ve experienced yet is like the quiet, cobbled path pictured on the lead spread in National Geographic. We are praying that will come later. But for now, the cars are a real problem. Maybe we’re making a mountain out of a molehill, as teenagers will. Maybe these Romans have it all in hand, and driving past our ears at 70kph on a bumpy road with no sidewalk presents no danger at all.

Seriously, though, if they ever want to encourage tourists to take on the Via Appia from the city centre – which obviously lends the experience a certain extra something – they’ve got to boot the cars off. I don’t care where they go. Inconvenience them by all means. It’s the kind of environmental statement every city needs to start making yesterday.

Your time as a teenager culminates at the entrance to the catacombs. It’s where everyone seems to hang out, so you’d better be there! Coffees can be drunk and souvenirs can be bought. The little square out front appears to be selfie spot number one. It’s important to look good.

But right after that, there’s a welcome change. Your life is moving on – and so are the cars and buses. They’re routed off to the left, thank goodness. Now, at last, you can navigate the road up ahead without a deep feeling of insecurity.

Yes, there’s still quite a throng. A lot of jostling. But these people are walkers, cyclists, maybe even horse-riders. They’re on the same non-motorised page you are. They’re out to have a good time. Let’s call these your student years.

Like examinations, the climb to the Mausoleo di Cecilia Metella requires a little effort on your part. But in the long run, that’s going to be a good thing. Because some will fall by the wayside here. And having got to the crest, you’re at that age where you’re starting to appreciate a little space of your own.

The meat of your life starts here. Things aren’t exactly boring, but you’ve settled down somewhat. You’ve found a groove that suits you, and things are comfortable. The claustrophic race, the pressure and the uncertainty of recent years are beginning to fade away. You can sense that you have a place in all this, and that you’re now sharing a path with like-minded folk. That the dedicated joggers or that woman pushing a tiny dog along in a pram will make way for you. That the tinkling bike bells behind you are just friendly warnings. Life isn’t so hard after all. You feel safe enough to stop and smell the roses.

Sure, there’s a healthy level of aspiration to ensure you don’t stagnate in this phase of your existence. Just look at all those dream mansions lining the Via Appia now! They’re set so far back from the rough Roman stones of the road that most of them are semi-hidden specks at the ends of elongated driveways. Cliché driveways, guarded by cast iron gates and CCTV. Lined by tall, trimmed trees, all of the same breed. Regular intervals, perfect symmetry.

It is only the residents of these houses who are authorised to drive this stretch. (Quite why you’d want to test out your Maserati’s suspension on millennia-old cobbles and slabs that pitch vehicles hither and thither is not clear.) Who are they? I never knew Rome had a Beverly Hills, but this must surely be it. How many famously rich Italians can I name? Silvio Berlusconi? Gianni Agnelli? (Is he still alive?) It’s a struggle.

Just like the bulk of your working life, this stretch goes on a long time. Though things are ticking along nicely now, your thoughts gradually turn to the future. Or perhaps the wellbeing of those closest to you. Will there still be water up ahead? Food? Should you have brought a picnic? There are any number of Roman relics offering themselves up as classic spots for a sandwich.

To step away from extended metaphors for a moment: the last place offering food along the Via Appia itself is shortly after the Mausoleum, where the Via di Cecilia Metella joins from the left. And so we learned – the hard way – that from here the Via only gets better for fasting philosophers, folk who stopped at eateries and people with picnics. Also, the last water fountain comes sooner than it should. Fill your bottle to the brim where you can.

But the path only grows in beauty once the comforts die out. It presses on beyond city limits and unfolds beneath trees that will have you shaking your head in wonder at their grandeur and age. Beyond the stone wall to the right, where lizards sun themselves on warm afternoons, are rolling meadows, across which you’ll see the skyline of Rome. Look carefully, and you’ll make out the cupola of St Peters. This is where you realise how far you’ve come.

After yet more trudging, another reminder that you’re nowhere near the centre any longer: the runway at Ciampino Airport. Off to the left, it’s just far away enough to be out of sight, but you may be tempted to photograph Wizzair’s finest floating above the ruins of some influential Roman senator’s villa.

When the Via di Fioranello crosses your path, the Via Appia suddenly changes in character. The paving mostly disappears, and though the way is clear enough, it’s a rough thing of dirt. The kind of dusty trail you imagine Biblical folk treading through the hills of Judea. Which seems sort of            appropriate.

And it’s like you’ve entered your twilight years. Your legs are hurting. And that’s just the headline niggle in a litany of aches and pains. You are thrilled by the prospect of sitting down. You become grumpy at the sight of any energetic young beings in your space. You grumble about how much better things were earlier on. (But not too long ago. The tumult of the early kilometres is long forgotten now.) You make peace with the fact that all you really want out of life now is good food and drink.

Alas, the next reliable feed will be at the McDonald’s. The franchise is just away to your left as you emerge triumphant between the pillars that mark the end of this fabulously preserved stretch of the Via Appia, almost certainly panting from what might be only the second uphill stretch you faced all day. Yes, there may have been a good trattoria nestled in the streets away to our right, but we were faint with hunger by now. Three-thirty on a public holiday afternoon didn’t seem like the time to risk discovering that the opening hours on Google were not, in fact, correct.

It's hard to say much for McDonald’s chicken burgers, but credit where it’s due: they rarely slam the door in your face beneath the golden arches. We were duly rewarded for chancing our lives trying to cross the maddening road between the Via Appia gates and the promise of fast food.

Also, this particular branch of the global chain provides the kicker to my analogy. It shows admirable sincerity in playing its end-of-the-road, end-of-life role. It offers a glimpse of death.

I may be indulging in a tiny bit of archaeological licence here, but it’s more or less fair to say that the Frattocchie McDonald’s was built over the continuation of the Via Appia. And what did the construction process throw up? Skeletons! And you can actually go and visit them: just head behind the branch, past the rancid bins and down the stairs to the underground gallery. Or simply glance down as you cross the transparent bit of floor within the restaurant.

For a microcosm of birth, life and death in one day of a Roman holiday, you can do far worse than walk the Via Appia from Circus Maximus to Frattocchie. Just don’t forget your survival kit.