Stone upon stone: an Italian sojourn: Sculptures in sand, stone and concrete

We are surprised how pretty parts of Sicily are, especially to the right or left of these viaduct roads interrupted by short tunnels in parts on this section of the south of Sicily. On both sides there are grapes and olives, the dominant plantings, stretching as far as the eye can see. Albeit the verges are scruffy. But, scruffy and Sicily are virtually synonymous: not quite meticulous France where even the verges are mowed into decorative grass gardens. We called into Sciacca (pronounced shack-a) for coffee, and had a lovely morning. Well, after the Bankomat at the Bank of Sicily chewed up Pete's travel card while it was doing its daily update, it all eventually became relaxed and lovely. He happened to put his card in at just the moment the bank was dismantling the system: so gone. Gobbled up by the ATM. Luckily, a bank personnel was able to disable it after the reset and return his card. Only after viewing his passport, though, so he was lucky he had it on him.

Sciacca is segmented and falls from the top of a hill in layers to the sea. Close to the top of the hill we actually found an available free park that was not in a restricted zone near historical churches and remnants of ancient city gates: the old Carmelite church, with its Rose window which the nun's installed, and the lovely external emerald dome, coated in ceramic tiles, is squeezed into this cramped square. Close by, is St Marguerite's, with its ancient wooden doors, surrounded by a very decorative marble carved entrance. So much care these parishes have always taken with their religious buildings.

Then, there are the old town gates from around the 14th century with their columns rising on the back of two elephants, topped with heavily embellished Moorish friezes. All quite beautiful, still.

We walked a little way, looking for coffee, which was not easily found, when we came upon a square, ripe for the passiegiata, and already filled with Silican men leaning against the balustrade basking in the warm sun under the blue blue sky. Today we have pulled our jackets off and even wish we had summer tops: a lovely day.

On the other side of the square, their mates have pulled chairs to the outdoors, soaking in the warmth. Again, this is mid-morning: this happens everywhere we have been in Sicily, as it does in Greece and Spain and parts of France. What do these men do all day other than get together and talk? As in a traditional kraal culture. Where does the money come from to buy their drinks and their free time if they are not at work in such a prime work time as this mid-morning period to earn it? And where are the womenfolk? Few are in the coffee shops, even these days. This, one of my eternal questions on Mediterranean life, goes ever unanswered.

Outside an ancient blocky church we came across a statue of Tomasso Fazello, the persistent Dominican friar, who on his donkey, re-discovered the beautiful ruins of Selinunte that we visited yesterday.

The view down to the thriving Sciacca fishing harbour was gorgeous everywhere we looked. We dawdled, then had to drag ourselves away, to move on, though we would have loved to have spent much longer here.

We drove only a couple of kilometres for our next stop, checking to see if the venue we wanted was open: and, our luck was in: it was. We wanted to see a garden of stone sculptures, mostly faces, carved by one lonely man, now called Castello Encanto: or Enchanted Garden.

Felipo Bentivegna was the son of a poor fisherman who had immigrated to America to find work and golden opportunities. He was there only two years, 1912 and 1913 before returning home desperately disenchanted. He found Mount Kronio, bought himself a small olive farm here, then obsessively began carving heads into local stone and setting them all about his plot of land: some believe he must have been symbolically chiselling and hammering away at those who had not met his expectations on his travels, or throughout his life.

At the entrance to the garden there is a museum, telling the tale of his life and work.

He filled his yard with his sculptures. Quite literally. There is barely a space that is not covered with heads with slashed eyes, angry slashes for mouths and sometimes slashes on the forehead that look as if they might be traditional North American Indian headgear feathers -- though that is too tame an image. More likely more sinister, in truth.

People peeked and peered as Filipo worked, and he soon became the butt of jokes, even here. So, he became more and more cloistered: carving himself a network of underground caves, decorating them in a fantastic tumble of drawings of medieval castles with turrets, crenelations and banners bearing pennants, skyscrapers and floating fish. All in his unusual rule-breaking style.

After he died in 1967, his estate was left fallow so many of the stone sculptures were stolen or vandalised. Finally, his estate was bought up and turned into a tourist venue, and art critics began to assess his style, slotting it into the realm of Art Brute, classifying him as an outsider artist: one who is self-taught, creates for his own enjoyment, and follows his own rules.

And, as is often the way with such outsiders, his work is now sought after and displayed by galleries in many parts of Europe.

Today, the grounds gradually filled with bus loads of art students from Corleone and parts thereabouts: some appreciative, some thinking the poor man must have been quite tormented, quite mad. And many would agree with both assessments given Filipo's life's work.

The art on the walls of his cave I passionately coveted: I fell instantly, and completely, in love with its angularity, colour, and uniqueness: lots of straight lines topped with pointillist strokes. He created imaginary kingdoms that beckoned.

We were hungry by now and as we'd used all our picnic provisions we stopped enroute at what look like a very average roadside pizzeria to find something quick to eat to tide us over till dinner. We ended up falling in love with an 81 year old great-great-grandma, who cooked us up a seafood storm par excellence, serving it on a huge wooden platter, ornamented with a silver metal head and tail, filled with swordfish, squid and prawns, fresh today we were assured, along with a mountain of patatine fritte, that we only remembered to photograph when we were part way through. So very delicious. Along this coast, seafood, too, is synonymous with Sicily.

From here we still had many miles to go heading east, but while driving over a bridge near Siciliana Marina, we saw what looked to be a suburb of tiny houses, and couldn't quite make sense of it in the context of housing we had seen before in Sicily. Then we realised this was no housing estate this was a collection of large mausoleums. So, Pete quickly turned into an exit, and found his way back to the site, which again, was open, and we literally spent ages here: walking through this Cemetery Communal, in complete awe and amazement.

This is our first Sicilian cemetery, so we have no idea whether this is standard or unusual for cemeteries here. But this site is extraordinary, and we have seen some amazing cemeteries around the world: New Orleans and Paris spring to mind. But, this is such a tiny scruffy little community, yet, here, are long streets and cross streets of tall incredibly built, beautifully maintained mausoleums that families have built for their dead beloved.

Almost a city of the dead.

How can folk afford such memorials in this fairly remote and rural place?

Many are literally three stories high: built of marble and glass, tile and stainless steel. Probably more modern than many a home many Sicilians would ever inhabit while alive: deadlocked now, all of these, but a master curator, we were informed, has an office at the entrance gate with a key board that almost covers an entire wall where families keep their spare key.

Many have foyers built into the heart of them, with vaults rising to the ceiling on both sides: tomb on top of tomb, each beautifully marble-faced and etched with the details of the dead beloved. Here, families can gather after church on a Sunday, perhaps, and bring their memories, their votive candles and their flowers, as they chat aloud to the gilded framed photographs of their dead relatives. Most flowers in most vaults were fresh.

Some had expensive decorative murals uniquely made of metal to decorate the exterior: added extraordinary expense.

From here, we side-tripped to the coast to see a unique cliff of white shelves called the Scala dei Turchi, a natural formation of chalky marl that has slowly been eroding, like stairs, along the coastline here, since Saracen days, when Turkish or Barbary pirates would have pulled in here, and used this white staircase to ease their pillage.

Today, sun seekers who had braved the climb were sprawling along its levels, enjoying the view. A perfect day for it.