Stone upon stone: an Italian sojourn: Tales from the hill towns

The last day with the car we are up and down hills much of the time, though we have a sense that we have been heading downhill for two whole days we seem to be doing so much downhill driving. Albeit gentle turns, easy slopes and virtually no traffic anywhere: though we are, again, avoiding our fair share of potholes. None of us can remember driving uphill for the equivalent length of time, but we must have, or been quite high from the start.

Today we called in at Modica. It was supposed to be for just an hour or so, but we kept getting side-tracked, kept hearing stories, and we had such a lovely day that it stretched on and on: tho' we stayed entirely in Modica Basso, and had no time to even drive through the upper part of town: Modica Alta.

Modica is one of the towns levelled in the earthquake, rebuilt in Baroque style, and enjoys UNESCO status along with many others in this area. Modica feels authentic. It feels lived in. People are going about their business, getting on with life, and tourists -- there are very few at this time of the year -- fit in: not the other way around, as in most high-profile tourist towns, like Noto, where we eventually stayed the night.

Modica has a massive selection of beautiful and ornamented buildings down one very long main street. And charming alley stairwells, niches, and lanes left and right heading up and downhill. It proudly wears a whimsical ceramic version of the three legged symbol of Sicily: with its Medusa-like head, three bent legs representing the three parts of the island, separated by three branches of its major products: prickly pear, lemon and mandarine.

Often that inimitable sense of Italian style is evident in even the simplest store decorations: they have this lovely way of combining things to make a unique and stylish display. Every second shop is a chocolate shop. How they make money in the off-season is anyone's guess. There are just too many of them offering tastings of the excellent home-made chocolate typical of this area. And of course, we had to try it.

Spain once ruled Sicily. At that time the wealthy aristocrats who lived in Modica became seriously addicted to a product the Spanish had discovered in their explorations that was first made by the Aztecs in Mexico: xocoàtl (pronounced show'-co-lat), quite bitter, used to enhance meat dishes, and even touted as an aphrodisiac. Imported as it was, it was extremely expensive. Too expensive for the servants of the wealthy to enjoy, the poor folk around here. So, they found a substitute. They went foraging in the prolific countryside and collected the long beans from the carob trees, that grow in these fields. They ground these into a powder, made a paste, and their own version of a non-dairy Modica chocolate was born, flavouring it with cinnamon, ginger, honey-- and these days: sea salt and salted caramel. It is grainy, textured and quite delicious. I bought heaps of it. Perfect little bite to enhance coffee, I think.

Further along, while exploring some delightful local carob tree woodprints on linen in another shop the owner told me that the seeds from the carob tree, in days long past, were used by invaders to measure gold. The seeds that come from the carob pod are evidently uniquely stable in size and weight: so work as a perfectly effective counterbalance to weigh gold, guaranteeing the size of a portion sold. Moreover, she said, the name carat, the value of gold by weight, actually comes from the scientific name of the carob tree. History abounds here.

And exploring deeper, tucked into one of the side arches, deep into a cliff we heard another local tale which kept us exploring even longer and later than we had planned. Two young boys, 30 years ago, were playing ball in their alleyway, up the hill. The ball disappeared down an old partly-boarded up hole in the ground; they sought to retrieve it, found their way downhill, into an old cave that had long been used just for storage, and set about, as young boys do, exploring the dark moist cavernous cave-like space tucked deep into the side of a mountain, until they had seen every niche.

When they came out they ran into the director of the town museum and informed him they had seen paintings on the wall in the old cave, right here on the edge of town. Curious, he followed this up and after much mud and rock clearing, discovered a delightful remnant from prior to the disastrous earthquake of the apse of an old church, bearing Byzantine frescoes of extraordinary brilliance. It had long been built over by another church, so this cavity had not even been known. The wall is still beautifully coloured with the painted work. The old apse has yet to be completely unearthed. They have uncovered some graves, but know of at least five more, still to come. They have found the early font, albeit still under tumbled rock. It was a carved rock bowl, quite primitive, that collected spring water dripping from the mountain above the cave roof. With this they baptised their babes.

Wonderful tales, Modica tells. Far more than we really had time to fully uncover. We wished we had stayed longer.

Late, we headed off through field after field of dry stone walls and picturesque hills descending into valleys clothed in citrus, olives and carob. And so many rocks you wonder how anything grows. Still descending we entered the fertile Valley of Noto: rich, I imagine, in upturned earthquake soil enriching everything that grows in it. There are polytunnels everywhere growing plant food in huge quantities. A busy area. Road and street rubbish seem much reduced in these parts, thankfully: no doubt, the pressure of tourism helps that problem.

Noto, too, when we arrive is stylish, and many of its churches and public buildings spectacular in the late afternoon sun. It has teatro's and galleries and smart boutiques huddled down the main street between churches, and exhibitions and performances displayed on colourful street banners. It reminds us a little of elegant Valetta, particularly with its wide mainly pedestrian main street, though quiet today, with many restaurants and cafes closed until the tourist season heats up.

The locals still find it difficult to park legally. They pull up and park where they want to shop, at any angle. The best I saw today was a fellow get out of his car right at the top of one of the side lanes and go shopping: completely blocking incoming or outgoing lane traffic. How long he left his car I have no notion. But, you can bet he wasn't fined.

So, while Noto is gorgeous and its locals still anarchic, it feels more like a tourist town to me: at least in the main street. Its baroque beauty and charm, as in most of these places, quickly dissipates the deeper you go into the side residential alleys where it becomes a little Dickensian as the night begins to pool, puddle and dimly glow.

We had a quick aperitif before heading home. Our apartment just a minute away from the city centre so no distance at all and no need to drive. Tonight our abode is what, in England would be called a mews house: traditional, whimsical and beautifully comfortable. At a local bar, with our drinks, we were served gratis a huge platter to nibble on. How these tiny establishments, with just a couple of little tables, make any profit at all, remains a mystery to us.