Stone upon stone: an Italian sojourn: A smile amidst rock and ruin

Today was essentially a driving day; yet it was the day I fell in love with Sicily. No UNESCO ruins; no Byzantine mosaics; no fish pulled from the sea served up on silver platters. Just shepherds on hillsides, and in fields, caring for their flocks, and lone men and women out amongst them, foraging for food.

We are moving from the coast, inland: towards the centre of Sicily. Rural Sicily: there are no cities of note within cooee, yet the road between Agrigento and Caltanissetta is new, multi-laned, massive, built with tunnels and viaducts suited to a very mountainous region that has a constant stream of fast traffic racing through it. This area does not have that: these are hills, pure and simple; and we see a lone car on it about every 10 kilometres, or so, except when we get close to a hilltop village then there are one or two more. Traffic is infrequent.

This stretch of new road reminds us a little of the roads that are engineering masterpieces connecting the top of one mountain to another in north-western Spain that have recently been built with EU money. This likely was too. One wonders why. As it is all seems so totally unnecessary given its usage.

The money used on this road might have been better utilised to fix fragile infrastructure in some of Sicily's crumbling inner cities that so desperately need it. Clean water. Improved electricity. Garbage solutions. Now it looks too much like a fast lane for the wealthy on the north of the island to make their way down to their summer holiday homes in the south: quickly.

So, with that making us crotchety, it was surprising to be so constantly enchanted by the charming countryside that this ridiculous road crosses. Tops of hills in the distance looked like crumbling castles of fairytales. When you got close they are mostly just tumbles of natural rock: in England you would call these outcrops a tor. And the romantic word torre, probably comes from that: a tower.

From afar, though, they do look like magical towers rising up from old rock castles. Though some really have been amazing castles: long long ago. People once chose to live here: to clamber down these rocks each day with their herd, to return each night to their place of abode, to protect their liege lord. Their castle, their fortification--a shell today: a place for wind to howl and rock lizards to lounge.

It is quiet everywhere. Old barns that once held animals sit on hillsides growing prickly pear. Or are tucked away beneath a windy hilltop, in a sea of green they stand, waiting, perhaps, for a day when they might be useful again. Hay. Lambs. Machines.

Then, far over on another hill, we see yet another amazing Sicilian cemetery--we have seen many these last few days--with extravagant mausoleums toppling up and down the hillside with a mix of Arabic domes and Christian crucifixes, identifying the blend of the population, even from here.

As the fields tumble down from the high rocks to the road we occasionally see individuals foraging. Often with a ragged jute sack and an old digging stick attacking the ground. Many are collecting greens: very likely for lunch or dinner, to be served with risotto or pasta. Fresh, green and iron-rich.

One man came solely for wild fennel stems. They grow all over Sicily and are rich and tall with heavy thick fronds. He worked with a rusty twisted blade and slowly filled his sack, then tied it with string when he had collected enough. Mangiare, he said, when I asked him what he would use it for. To eat.

Or maybe to sell at tomorrow's market. We see bundles of them in many markets.

Further on a more rustic road heading to our place of abode, derelict farmyards lie completely fallow: their once beautiful old farmhouses slowly falling asleep. Their aged olive trees twisted and pitted and gnarled: but still, after centuries, bearing fruit. Another derelict farm with a once glorious front gate, bearing exquisitely curled roses in metal, has, too, been left to rust.

Yet, as the afternoon begins to close we come upon a shepherd herding his sheep, with almond blossoms hanging from above, and yellow and orange wildflowers beneath. He has a crook to guide his herd, he has home-made cheese in his sack, he has a smile on his face. He is a long way from that ridiculous new road. He probably does not know it even exists. He is here with his sheep--and he is happy. Life is good.