Walking the Cammino del Salento: A Pilgrimage to the Edge of the World

The Cammino del Salento wasn’t just a journey; it was a reckoning, a long walk to where the land ends and the sea begins. She didn’t set out to prove anything, not to herself, and certainly not to the world. This was a pilgrimage of a different kind. One that strips you down to your bare essentials: feet, road, and the endless horizon.

She began her walk in Lecce, a city with the kind of beauty that lingers, even in the early morning light. The Baroque facades of the churches and palazzos watched her go, their carvings of angels and flowers bathed in golden sunlight. There was something timeless about Lecce, something that made her feel small but in a way that was comforting.

The kind of smallness that reminded her she was a part of something much older and larger than herself. But Lecce wasn’t her destination—it was the start, nothing more. The real journey lay ahead, stretched out along the coast, where the land fell into the sea in ragged cliffs and the sky was an endless dome of blue.

The Cammino del Salento gave her two options: a route through the villages or one along the sea. She chose the sea. There was something in the sound of the waves, the smell of salt in the air that pulled her forward. The sea had always been there, quietly waiting for her to return. The village route, with its medieval towers and frescoed churches, would have been a beautiful distraction, but she wasn’t looking for distractions. She was looking for something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name yet.

The first day took her through Acaya, a small fortified village with its Renaissance fortress standing strong against the passage of time. The streets were empty, quiet. She stopped only for a moment, long enough to catch her breath and adjust her pack, before pressing on toward the sea. When she finally saw it—shimmering in the distance, vast and endless—she felt a pull deep inside her, like a magnet. San Foca, with its ancient watchtower and sleepy little harbor, was her first real glimpse of the Adriatic. She dipped her feet in the water, letting the coolness rise up through her tired legs. This was the beginning of her long conversation with the sea, a conversation that would last the entire journey.

Each day she walked further, her steps becoming more certain as the road stretched ahead. The path wound through rocky cliffs and olive groves, the scent of the sea always in the air. On the second day, she reached Otranto, a city that had seen war and bloodshed, its walls still bearing the weight of history. She walked through its narrow streets, past the cathedral where the bones of the martyrs were entombed, but she didn’t linger. The weight of the past was too heavy here, and she was looking for the freedom that only the open road could offer.

Onward she went, past the ruins of Roca Vecchia, where the Grotta della Poesia cut into the coastline like a forgotten memory. The water in the cave was impossibly clear, reflecting the light in a way that made it seem otherworldly. She sat by the edge for a moment, watching the ripples dance on the surface. They called this place “The Cave of Poetry,” and she could understand why. The beauty of it made her want to stay, to sit and write, to put into words the things that were bubbling up inside her. But the road was calling, and so she walked on.

By the third day, she had found her rhythm. Her legs moved automatically now, each step falling into place like a heartbeat. She passed through Santa Cesarea Terme, its thermal waters rising up from the earth, offering a kind of healing she didn’t need yet. But it was here, on the cliffs overlooking the sea, that she felt something change. The sea was no longer just a distant companion. It was with her now, in every step, every breath.

She stopped at Punta Palascia, watching the sun rise over the water. The light of dawn made the world feel new, like she was the only person to have ever seen it. It was a quiet kind of beauty, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.

The days began to blur after that. The landscape shifted, the cliffs grew steeper, and the sea wilder. She passed through Marina Serra, where the dry stone walls—ancient and crumbling—lined the path like silent sentinels. The walls were built long ago by hands that were now dust, but they stood firm, guiding her forward.

The Grotta delle Cipolliane was her next stop, a cave that felt like a hidden sanctuary, carved out by the relentless force of the waves. She stood at the mouth of the cave, looking out over the sea, and felt the weight of everything she had been carrying start to lift. The sea had that effect on her. It stripped away the unnecessary, leaving only what was real and true.

On the fifth day, she reached the end. Santa Maria di Leuca, where the land falls away and there is nothing left but the open water. She stood at the edge, her feet planted firmly on the ground, but her heart out there, somewhere beyond the horizon. The journey had taken her 115 kilometers and five days, but it had taken her much further than that. She felt the weariness in her bones, but there was also a lightness, a sense that she had shed something she no longer needed.

The road had given her that.

As the sun set over the water, she realized that the end of the world wasn’t really an end at all. It was just another beginning. She had walked as far as the land would take her, but the sea—vast and endless—was always there, waiting. And maybe, just maybe, she would keep walking. Keep following the horizon, wherever it might lead.

"In front of the sea, happiness is a simple idea."