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Monte Sant'Angelo

Ascension almost to heaven – salvation only at the descent



Manfredonia – start with the scent of salt and fish. Then: uphill, mercilessly. Monte Sant'Angelo looms like an ancient sentinel, counting every drop of sweat. The asphalt? Suspiciously slippery. Did the Giro wear out its tires here? Possibly.

Above, the plateau: cool, barren, Catholic. San Giovanni Rotondo waves with relics – we don't wave back. The embalmed Pio remains in the display case.


San Marco in Lamis greets us with a festive bustle, then we descend into the valley: a descent like a prayer that no one finishes. San Severo welcomes us with warm asphalt and the first beer.

Conclusion: A day between heaven, hell and hydration.




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