Not long after Matera, I pulled over and leaned my bike against an old stone wall in order to talk to a farmer about his vines.

'We don't really train our vines that way here', he said.

'Really', I said. 'I haven't seen many vines like this here in Basilicata'.

'Young man', he said. 'You're standing in Puglia now'.

I climbed back on my overloaded bicycle and rode for a few minutes, my throat scratchy from the large lump that had formed: I couldn't seem to swallow it away. Someone had placed a large rock on the long running wall, as if they had intended to mark something, to signal something.

It won't be long now.

I'd love to hear from you.