Italy Bound – Landslides, Albanian Villages and Becoming a Local Celebrity
Day 18 to Day 20 – Deep Into Southern Italy
02.06.26 – 04.06.26
There comes a point during a long motorcycle trip when the famous places disappear.
The guidebook highlights are behind you.
The tourist buses are gone.
The souvenir shops disappear.
And suddenly you find yourself in places where nobody speaks English, nobody cares about Instagram, and the biggest local drama is whether the bar owner opens ten minutes late.
That’s usually where Italy becomes really interesting.
And honestly?
That’s exactly why I came.
The last few days had been about escaping the Amalfi circus and diving deeper into the mountains of southern Italy.
Less famous.
Less crowded.
Less polished.
And infinitely more authentic.
What I found was exactly what I had been hoping for.
Fantastic roads.
Tiny villages.
Road closures.
Unexpected friendships.
And somehow becoming famous in a village of two thousand people without actually doing anything.
But let’s start at the beginning.
Day 18 – Vallo della Lucania to Lauria
02.06.26
The day started with what can only be described as a sugar overdose.
Two croissants.
Not one.
Two.
Now that might not sound dramatic.
But after several weeks of Italian breakfasts, this is basically a feast.
Because Italian breakfast follows a simple philosophy:
Sugar.
More sugar.
And if possible, additional sugar.
Forget sausages.
Forget cheese.
Forget bacon.
Forget eggs.
The average Italian breakfast seems designed by a six-year-old with unrestricted access to a bakery.
Croissants.
Sweet pastries.
Jam.
Cake pretending to be breakfast.
Coffee strong enough to restart a diesel engine.
That’s it.
At first it’s charming.
After three weeks you start dreaming about German bread and cheese.
By now I was honestly looking forward to leaving breakfast culture behind.
Still.
Two croissants.
Small victories.
The engine fired up shortly afterwards and the old RT rolled south again.
And almost immediately the day turned brilliant.
The Old SS18
The first fifty kilometres followed parts of the old SS18.
And mate…
What a road.
Curve after curve.
Twist after twist.
The occasional view opening up over valleys and mountains.
Just enough traffic to remind you civilisation still existed.
But not enough to become annoying.
The sort of road where the old RT settles into a rhythm.
Second gear.
Third gear.
Lean.
Straighten.
Lean again.
Repeat.
Motorcycle meditation.
The funny thing was that the hotel owner had strongly recommended staying on the modern SS18 all the way south along the coast.
A perfectly reasonable suggestion.
For normal people.
But when I looked at the map, something became obvious.
The coastal route passes through endless towns and villages.
And you know what towns and villages mean.
Traffic lights.
Tourists.
Delivery vans.
Traffic jams.
Clutch abuse.
Sweating inside motorcycle gear while moving slower than a shopping trolley.
No thanks.
Mountains win every time.
Sure, mountain roads occasionally become goat tracks.
Sure, they sometimes try to shake your fillings loose.
But at least they’re peaceful.
The Most Annoying Germans in Italy
At one point during the morning I encountered a group of six German motorcycle travellers.
Lovely people.
No problem there.
But they absolutely destroyed my statistics.
Because before meeting them I had barely seen anyone all morning.
Almost no traffic.
Hardly any vehicles.
Just me and the mountains.
Then suddenly:
Motorcyclists.
Humans.
Conversations.
Civilisation.
Honestly, I love travelling like this.
Not because I dislike people.
Well… maybe a little bit sometimes.
But because empty roads are becoming rare.
Finding stretches where you can ride for ten or fifteen minutes without seeing another vehicle feels almost magical these days.
And southern Italy still offers that.
Especially once you leave the coast behind.
Arrival in Lauria
After around 180 kilometres I arrived in Lauria.
A small town in the region of Basilicata, surrounded by mountains and forests.
The accommodation sat slightly outside the town itself.
Quiet.
Good views.
Fresh air.
Exactly what I wanted.
The only problem?
No food.
The nearby restaurant had apparently gone out of business.
Permanently.
Which is never ideal when you’re arriving hungry.
Still.
Small problem.
Manageable.
The room was excellent.
The surroundings peaceful.
And the day had been nearly perfect.
The roads had delivered.
The weather had behaved.
The mountains had once again justified ignoring coastal recommendations.
As the sun disappeared behind the hills, I found myself genuinely excited for the next few days.
Southern Italy was getting better and better.
Day 19 – Lauria to Santa Sofia d’Epiro
03.06.26
The B&B in Lauria deserves a special mention.
Mainly because it was the strangest accommodation of the trip so far.
Not bad.
Just strange.
Because I never actually saw the host.
Not once.
Nobody checked me in.
Nobody checked me out.
Nobody appeared during breakfast.
Nothing.
It felt like staying in a house run entirely by friendly ghosts.
In the morning breakfast magically appeared.
Homemade muffins included.
Quite delicious actually.
The coffee machine and I had a brief disagreement about how coffee should be produced.
Eventually I won.
Or maybe it won.
Hard to tell.
Coffee happened.
That’s what matters.
By 9 am I was back on the road.
Back into the mountains.
Back into the endless cycle of curves, fresh air and scenery.
At this point describing southern Italian mountain roads becomes difficult because they’re consistently good.
Twists.
Forests.
Views.
More twists.
Repeat.
Life is hard.
Road Closure Number One
Then something happened I had never experienced before during this trip.
A road closure.
Actually two road closures.
In one day.
The first one appeared somewhere deep in the mountains.
A landslide.
Not a fresh one either.
Grass was already growing on it.
Which raises some interesting questions.
Mainly:
“How long has this road been closed?”
Apparently quite a while.
The landslide looked almost natural by now.
Part of the landscape.
Italy simply seemed to have accepted its existence.
“Road gone.”
“Okay.”
No rush.
No urgency.
Maybe next year.
Maybe next decade.
Who knows.
Fortunately I wasn’t alone.
Two Italian riders arrived shortly afterwards looking just as confused as I was.
Three motorcyclists.
Three GPS systems.
Zero useful ideas.
Eventually we all turned around and searched for alternatives.
Road Closure Number Two
The second closure was entirely my own fault.
Well.
Mostly.
There were road signs.
Several road signs.
I ignored them.
Repeatedly.
Because motorcyclists possess an incredible ability to believe that warning signs apply to everyone else.
Eventually I discovered why the road was closed.
Another landslide.
This one much fresher.
Recent heavy rain had clearly done its work.
And there I was.
Standing at another dead end.
Looking at another pile of earth.
Wondering whether perhaps I should occasionally listen to road signs.
Probably not.
Tradition must be respected.
Goodbye Coast
This second closure happened on the route towards the coast.
The Mediterranean was somewhere ahead.
Probably.
But honestly?
I wasn’t interested anymore.
The mountains had spoiled me.
Every time I approached the coast recently, the same things happened.
Traffic.
Tourists.
Heat.
Crowds.
Chaos.
Every time I stayed in the mountains:
Peace.
Cool air.
Empty roads.
Decision made.
Forget the coast.
Stay high.
Stay happy.
Drying Landscapes
Another thing became noticeable today.
The landscape changed.
Quite dramatically.
Until now much of the trip had been green.
Very green.
Forests.
Fields.
Lush vegetation everywhere.
Now things started drying out.
The further south I travelled, the more brown colours appeared.
Grass looked tired.
Fields looked thirsty.
The landscape became harsher.
More Mediterranean.
More southern.
You could really feel Sicily getting closer.
Arrival in Santa Sofia d’Epiro
After another 180 kilometres I rolled into Santa Sofia d’Epiro.
And honestly?
I was exhausted.
Not physically broken.
Just mentally tired.
Mountain riding is demanding.
People who don’t ride often imagine mountain roads as relaxing.
They’re not.
Beautiful?
Absolutely.
Relaxing?
Not really.
Your brain works constantly.
Scanning road surfaces.
Reading corners.
Watching for potholes.
Looking for gravel.
Avoiding surprises.
After days of this, you feel it.
Fortunately I found another brilliant B&B.
Forty Euro per night.
Safe parking.
Friendly owners.
And immediately after arriving I was offered two important things.
A beer.
And laundry facilities.
Hospitality at its finest.
Needless to say I booked two nights immediately.
An Unexpected Piece of Albania
Then came the biggest surprise.
Santa Sofia d’Epiro isn’t a typical Italian village.
It’s one of the Arbëreshë villages of southern Italy.
Several centuries ago, between the 15th and 18th centuries, thousands of Albanians fled the Ottoman invasions in the Balkans.
Many settled in southern Italy.
Remarkably, some communities preserved their language, traditions and identity for over 500 years.
Santa Sofia d’Epiro is one of those places.
And you notice it immediately.
Street art everywhere.
Murals showing traditional Albanian clothing.
Historical scenes.
Cultural symbols.
Things I had never seen anywhere else in Italy.
The village felt different.
Unique.
Interesting.
Almost everyone greeted me while walking through town.
The atmosphere felt incredibly welcoming.
Not tourist-friendly.
Actually friendly.
Big difference.
That evening I took a long walk.
Partly to explore.
Partly because after sitting on a motorcycle for days, the human body starts protesting.
Legs need exercise.
Back needs movement.
Everything creaks slightly.
The walk helped.
The village impressed me.
And suddenly my planned two-night stop seemed like a very good idea.
Day 20 – Santa Sofia d’Epiro
04.06.26
Today was officially a day off.
A proper day off.
No motorcycle.
No navigation.
No curves.
No kilometres.
Just rest.
Because honestly?
I needed it.
The last days had been fantastic.
But also exhausting.
And long trips require recovery.
Not the kind where you edit photos while checking maps and planning routes.
Real recovery.
Doing very little.
Thinking very little.
Moving slowly.
Drinking coffee.
Existing.
Exploring the Village
After breakfast I explored the village properly.
Before the afternoon heat arrived.
Santa Sofia d’Epiro isn’t spectacular in the traditional tourist sense.
No medieval towers.
No famous cathedrals.
No world-famous landmarks.
But it has character.
And character matters more.
The murals fascinated me.
Everywhere there were artworks celebrating Albanian culture.
Traditional dress.
Family life.
Historical migration stories.
Local legends.
Many of them incredibly detailed.
Honestly some deserved to be in galleries.
Instead they decorated ordinary walls.
A beautiful way to preserve history.
And for me, a reminder that travel isn’t always about landscapes.
Sometimes it’s about understanding people.
The Great Restaurant Mystery
Then came dinner.
Or at least the attempt to find dinner.
Google confidently informed me that several restaurants were open.
Google lied.
The first one?
Closed.
Doors locked.
Lights off.
Nobody there.
Fine.
Walk to the second one.
Also closed.
At this point I started questioning reality itself.
Maybe Google was using information from 2018.
Maybe restaurants only opened during full moons.
Who knows.
Then suddenly I heard somebody calling my name.
“Andreas!”
In German.
Now this was surprising.
Because I had never met this person before.
Not once.
A woman approached and introduced herself.
She had been born in the village.
She and her husband were visiting family.
And somehow she knew exactly who I was.
How?
Simple.
Small village mathematics.
Step one: become friends with your host.
Step two: entire village knows about you.
Apparently that’s how things work here.
Honestly I loved it.
Becoming a Local
The evening turned into one of those unexpected travel moments that stay in your memory.
Lots of chatting.
Lots of laughter.
Stories.
Food.
Drinks.
People introducing other people.
By the end of the evening I felt less like a visitor and more like a temporary resident.
I learned about local life.
Families.
Businesses.
Village politics.
The owner of the fancy bar.
The family that owns half the village because they’re exceptionally good at business.
The medium aged bloke with the brand-new Harley-Davidson who spends his days cruising between cafés.
Apparently funded largely by his mother.
Which honestly explains a lot.
The more people I met, the more fascinating the village became.
And perhaps the most surprising thing?
Almost everyone greeted me now.
Not because I had done anything special.
Not because I was famous.
Simply because people knew who I am.
In just two days.
That’s something that never happens in cities.
In big cities you’re anonymous.
In villages you’re part of the story almost immediately.
And sitting there with pizza from the famous “two sisters” restaurant, a cold beer and an Aperol Spritz, I found myself thinking something dangerous.
Maybe one more night.
Maybe.
Because sometimes travel isn’t about moving.
Sometimes it’s about staying long enough to understand a place.
And Santa Sofia d’Epiro had become one of those places.
The roads had brought me here.
But the people made me want to stay.
#dustysocks
