Their story, in their words…
Our trip was immediately placed into turmoil when, just a week before our flight to Italy, the third member of our entourage dropped out. With so little time left, it was clear it would just be the two of us who would attempt to complete the Percorsi Occitani: a 110 round mile trip of Italian alps.
We arrived at Gatwick in the early hours of the morning, landing in Turin at around 11:00; a bus, a train and a subsequent bus landed us among the stunning architecture of Dronero. A half-an-hour walk to the quaint town of Villar San Costanzo, and we were at the beginning of the trail. What became instantly clear was how relentlessly muggy and humid the climate was beneath a thick canopy of grey clouds; moisture stuck to our skin, the early incline of the walk was arduous. We eventually found a place to set up our tent, with the rest important for a more success endeavour tomorrow.
The next day, now with the boiling sun beating down on our sun cream lathered necks, we came to our first villages: Borgata Castello and Sant’Anna di Roccabruna. Concern was profound from the lack of food available to purchase – our plan was to stock up on supplies as we journeyed, with our foodstuffs already scarce. We fortunately found a local hotel to serve us dinner. However, my own ailing physical state soon became apparent. Unable to eat a bite of our (four-course!) cena, I went to bed on an empty and uneasy stomach.
The next morning saw little improvement in my condition, but the hotel clerk kindly supplied us a bag of bread, cheese and apples. We planned to take a bus on the main road to save ourselves some walking and rest but managed to miss its scheduled arrival – meaning we continued walking through the villages of Pagliero and Camoglieres; myself entirely on an empty stomach, and my own physical health deteriorating. We set up camp to get some sleep. Corresponding with our parents, a decision would have to be made on whether I, lacking sustenance and stamina, could continue such a demanding and ambitious undertaking. We would awake the next morning, with the knowledge there was a flight at 20:10 from Turin back to London that would cut our trip devastatingly early.
It would be an incredibly difficult decision to make, especially with the knowledge of the loyal backing of the Mark Evison Foundation, our charitable sponsors and our own expectations and determination too. We walked down to the main road to the local bus stop where we would have to come to a decision. Perhaps I should have taken the time to step back and consider other options, remove the shadow of enormity that felt like it magnified my choice.
We would ultimately take the same bus, train and subsequent bus to the Turin airport. It is a decision I still look back on with remorse – that I had let not just myself, but everyone, down – but also discovery, about a friend who, while in a fit state, put his own desires and ambitions to keep pushing on after my wellbeing.
I also learnt a lot about myself in the Italian Dolomites, for better or worse – walking with a heavy backpack, along alien, dusty trails, under the beating heat, I wondered what I was doing there, so completely out of my comfort zone. The contrast between planning miles on an itinerary and the reality was, at times, overwhelming. Ultimately, I was to be bed-ridden the following days in London; perhaps I may have recovered had I stayed – ultimately, I’ll never entirely know whether I made the right decision. While it is mired in a palpable sense of regret, the experience will live on, and while emotionally complex, I know I am better for it.
