The journey begins at a brisk pace across the ancient basalt paving stones, carefully assembled into an intricate pattern of massive polygonal blocks. Beneath them lies a drainage layer of crushed stone and earth, while the surface itself was subtly shaped to channel rainwater away from the road.

Before the Appian Way Regional Park was established, the surrounding countryside was gradually occupied by the estates of wealthy landowners who slowly scratched the road off the map. Everything changed thanks to journalist Antonio Cederna. This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of his death, and his legacy lives on through more than 140 investigative articles exposing the destruction of the Appian Way. His relentless campaign eventually persuaded the city administration to approve the creation of the regional park in 1988.

The road stretches in a perfectly straight line toward Frattocchie, where, somewhat surprisingly, a McDonald’s was built directly above one of the Appian Way’s ancient side roads—a secondary branch that can still be visited today.

Further south, in the province of Velletri, a sign reads: “Appia Antica, i contadini poveri dei villaggi circostanti l’hanno squamata come un cardo”. (Lit. “The poor farmers of the surrounding villages stripped the Appian Way bare like an artichoke”) The quote dates back to 1740 and reminds visitors that concerns over the road’s destruction are far from recent.

At one point, the route comes to an abrupt end. Ahead lies a ditch swallowed by thorn bushes. Behind me, dogs bark furiously as if I had wandered onto private property. The only option is to climb down into the ditch, push through the thorns, scrape my legs on the brambles, and crawl back up the opposite bank, emerging into yet another fenced olive grove.

Surprisingly—but perhaps not, given today’s climate crisis—the day scheduled for the hike to the Sanctuary of Monte Sant’Angelo (Editor’s note: a must-visit destination in the area, though not part of the original Appian Way route) coincides with an intense storm sweeping across the Lazio region where nearly sixty trees were blown down in Rome by violent winds. At that exact moment, however, I find myself inside the Temple of Jupiter Anxur, perched high above the coast, watching a spectacular waterspout rise from the Tyrrhenian Sea and dance ominously off the shoreline of Terracina.

Figure 2: Waterspout off the coast of Terracina, June 3, 2026. Photo by Davide Severini.

The next stage leads to the Sant’Andrea Gorge, a mountain pass that cuts through the Aurunci Mountains. Until just a few years ago, this area had been turned into a massive illegal dumpsite. Once the site was cleaned up, archaeologists uncovered three distinct roadways layered on top of one another: the original Roman basalt pavement, a Renaissance cobblestone road, and an eighteenth-century Bourbon limestone road.

By dusk, I arrive in Formia, just in time to visit the Cisternone. Covering nearly 13,000 square feet (about 1,200 square meters), this enormous Roman cistern was built in the first century BC before being forgotten for centuries after medieval buildings were constructed directly above it. Rediscovered, forgotten once again, damaged by wartime bombing, and finally brought back to light by a group of students in 1985.

Crossing the Garigliano River means leaving Lazio behind and entering Campania, where the landscape changes abruptly. Here, the ancient road is gone. In its place stands a long, dirty state highway lined with abandoned furniture, piles of discarded books, and rust-covered billboards advertising buffalo mozzarella.

This was once the site of Sinuessa, a prosperous Roman spa-town whose sulfur springs still flow today. Legend has it that the city disappeared beneath the sea like Atlantis. Thanks to a local guide, however, we discover that Sinuessa is not underwater at all—it is simply buried beneath weeds and brush. A surviving stretch of Roman paving stones emerging from the vegetation, provoking nothing short of disbelief and frustration.

The province of Caserta holds even more surprises. The Aurunco Bridge, itself almost completely overgrown, is accessible only through private property after a homeowner unexpectedly found the ancient bridge sitting in his own backyard. In Mondragone, the neighborhood of Triglione—once scarred by an illegal landfill and only recently reclaimed—still preserves an exceptionally well-preserved Roman cryptoporticus hidden inside land that is inaccessible to the public.

Stories of neglect and looting. Here, all it takes is digging a shallow hole to uncover an amphora or a fragment of the ancient road—perfect, apparently, as a centerpiece for someone’s dining table. Meanwhile, the archaeological site itself continues fighting for space against the surrounding vegetation.

Before the Appian Way disappears once again into the countryside of the Ager Falernus, there is time for a glass of Falernian wine, the most prized wine of ancient Rome, at the Bianchino estate.

Figure 3: Ancient Sinuessa, the Aurunco Bridge, and the archaeological area of Sinuessa. Photos by Davide Severini, 2026.

By the time the road reaches Capua, Campania Felix has become little more than a distant memory. The fertile countryside has gradually given way to asphalt and sprawling urban development that has consumed the Appian Way piece by piece. The journey now passes through cities, industrial districts, and endless suburbs.

Where Italy’s A1 Autostrada del Sole intersects the railway, the tracks abruptly cut across the course of the ancient road. Even though the original Appian Way would have continued through what is now an industrial area filled with warehouses, walkers are forced to make a detour of about fifteen minutes. Nearby stands the impressive Caroline Aqueduct, built in the XVIII century and still capable of supplying water to the magnificent Royal Palace of Caserta. It is one of the landmarks celebrated by the Via Felix, a circular walking route created by local associations to promote slow tourism throughout the province.

From there, the road gradually climbs toward Arpaia, forever linked to the memory of the Battle of the Caudine Forks. Here the Appian Way is taken so much for granted that two Roman milestone markers have been repurposed as flowerpot stands.

The final stage offers only one way to escape the heavy traffic of the state highway: leave it behind entirely and venture into the surrounding countryside. The alternative route is completely unmarked, but after two days of walking with engines roaring in my ears, crossing flower-filled meadows and wooded trails feels like a reward. Near Apollosa, an elderly woman tells me that when she was young, the highway did not yet exist. Back then, people traveled the Appian Way every day, on foot or on horseback, all the way to Trajan’s Arch in the center of Benevento.

By the end of the journey, the Appian Way appears both indestructible and incredibly fragile. It has survived empires and centuries of upheaval, yet it can still disappear little by little beneath a fence, a cultivated field, or a road too dangerous to walk.

The Appian Way tells a uniquely Italian story because it reveals two sides of the same Country. On one hand, it showcases our ability to build works destined to endure for millennia. On the other, it reminds us how easily we allow those same achievements to disappear beneath a few inches of asphalt.  For that reason, UNESCO recognition alone is not enough. 

The Via Appia. Regina Viarum is a living landscape that depends on the dedication of local volunteers, historians, archaeologists, and community organizations—but also on the curiosity of those who come from afar. It needs people willing to walk it, to tell its story, and above all to care for it.

Cover and preview image: The basalt paving stones of the Appian Way Regional Park, Rome. Photo by Davide Severini, 2026.