One of my earliest memories, a snap shot of a scene, is my family on a ferry approaching Sicily. I am at knee high age and look up at my mother pointing to Mt. Etna.  She’s in a flouncy, colourful skirt depicting a village scene and wears dark sunglasses. That memory, and the little Sicilian dolls she bought for my sister and me are the only connection I have to Sicily and Taormina. Over fifty years later I’m back with family and friends and Mt. Etna is a must.

We are anchored off a lovely beach beneath Taormina just around the corner from the famous Isola Bella (beautiful island) and have arranged a half day trip in a jeep to the mountain with a group called Etna Finder. It’s around 50 km from Taormina to the park area of Etna.

Our guide is Antonino (Tony for ease), a lean and slightly grizzly guy with great English which was self-taught online and by watching English speaking stand-up comedians. As we speed off down the freeway he tells us that almost a million people live on “Mumma Etna”. Europe’s most active volcano is a woman he says as she is unpredictable and volatile and must not be taken from granted.

We approach from the east side and once across a small river, just before Calatabiano, we enter the volcanic area. There are fields of citrus trees, mostly lemon, which thrive in the volcanic soil. On the west side of the mountain pistachios are grown in the only pistachio plantation in Italy. They are known locally as “green gold” indicating their economic importance. Wineries are a more recent business.  There are now one hundred wineries dotted around the almost 1200 square kilometres of the Etna area, some growing indigenous grapes. White wine is produced on the east side, red wine on the north of Etna.

We continue climbing along the east side, passing groups of cyclists. “Etna is a sports playground” says Tony, “cycling, skiing, hiking, there is a cycling event each September, 73 kilometres climbing to nearly 3000m.” Milo is the last town before we enter the Etna national park proper. The coastal area is now well behind us and we are in forest of oak and pine trees. It is decidedly cooler now, the air clear, clean and refreshing. Temperatures on the mountain can be up to fifteen degrees lower than on the coast. We pass through small villages carrying Saint’s names like Santa Venerina and Villaggio San Michele. The saints receive a lot of communication during times of eruption, when villagers pray for them to stop the lava flow just short of the village. It appears that sometimes this works, and sometimes it doesn’t.

The last eruption was in March 2017, and it’s unusual to have over a year between eruptions. The locals are well used to, and expect, Etna to do her thing. Tony says he is incredibly privileged to live on the mountain which provides fabulous soil, rain and livelihood. “For men like me, when we wake, we look first up to Mumma, then to our wives…always the mountain first….but don’t tell our wives!”

The large eruption in 1978 lasted 378 days and the eruption of 1992/1993, 473 days. We stop to look at the dried lava river from the 1978 eruption. This huge black stream is compelling and awe inspiring and has clearly collected homes in its passage down the mountain. Remnants of a stone house stand in the middle of the flow. For Tony, being born during the 1978 event makes him a “son of Etna” and he calls it “my eruption”. Being born during an eruption though is “pretty easy,” he says as “eruptions are very, very common”.

On the surface of the lava the first stabilising plants are evident. Lichen clings to the surface of boulders adding a beautiful grey and green. A variety of Valerian shoots up pink and white flowers and the air is fragrant from the yellow blossom of the local curry plant. Over 450 species of plant thrive on Etna and over 200 of these are endemic. Whilst the eruptions are devastating the eventual legacy is volcanic soil rich in silica, iron, magnesium, calcium, potassium and sodium. After the first plants establish and stabilise the area, larger shrubs and trees establish and after a short period of 400 years or so a forest is built. It surprises me, as we continue to climb, to see these huge expanses of pine forest rolling over volcanic craters. Brown cones are scattered amongst the black magma in an artistic contrast.

Tall measuring poles line the side of the road and are used to measure the depth of snow. Another surprise. In 2017 the mountain was covered with 7 metres of snow over the entire winter and through to March. Skiing is popular and skiing during an eruption even more so. Tony describes the crowds of people coming to watch the red molten lava spilling down the mountain-side. He adds “you can ski in an eruption in the morning and drive just over an hour to the beach to eat fish in the afternoon.” He is clearly proud of Mumma and the spectacle she puts on.

Etna also has a series of ice caves, carved out by the passage of lava rivers. We visit one and learn how the Sicilians had, in times long past, used the caves to collect and store ice for trade. Ice was carried down the mountain, sold at the ports and loaded onto boats for transport to neighbouring areas. Most caves are cold, but devoid of ice. One cave “La Grotta del Gelo”, at 2100m on the northern slope of the volcano, has ice all year round and is classified as the southernmost glacier in Europe.

We continue our journey up and now climb on foot. Towards the peak white birch trees stand in stark contrast to their surroundings. This variety, adapted to the local environment with tiny leaves and white trunks to reflect the heat of the black rock and debris, grow only in a patch of foursquare kilometres near the summit.

Hiking on the mountain is quite simply one of the most wonderful climbs I’ve done. It is silent except for the odd bird call and the crunching of feet in unison on the volcanic stones. The rocks and pebbles are unstable. On the downward slopes, down the sides of the craters, we walk sideways one step at a time digging the heel in first. It would be a long and painful slide down if we fell.

Tony pauses on the slopes to draw educational diagrams of the eruptions in the scree. There are four active craters on Etna, he tells us, and 300 old craters. He draws in a line the row of craters we are climbing, clearly showing the lateral eruption pattern on the flank of the mountain. “Boom, Boom,” he says, flinging the debris into the air to show how the eruption throws magma into the air which then lands around the mouth forming the typical volcanic crater. The 300 old craters are “mono genetic”. This means they blow once, deposit lakes of molten lava which cools over time resulting in a large basalt plug. Any future pressure from inside the mountain, coming across this resistance, simply moves on to find another fissure or crease from which to erupt. “Boom, Boom.”

We have climbed to around 2700m. Any higher than 2900m one needs a vulcanologist guide. At that height the landscape is lunar. Here, the landscape sweeps out in front of us. Crater after crater. Some relatively new craters remain black and barren, the older craters and surrounding landscape are greened over completely with pine trees, beech, birch, chestnut and oak. A hawk circles above. Hawks are a common sight, less so the Golden Eagles that live on the peaks. There are around 200 species of bird on the mountain as well as fox, weasels and porcupines.

Beyond the volcano we look out and down to the coast and town of Taormina. The mountain is silent and majestic. We feel a million miles and years from anywhere. We see no one the entire afternoon save for one couple and their dog climbing a nearby crater.

We descend and make our way down and pass through two areas where major roads were blocked by huge lava flows; one in 1865 and one in 2002. The blockages force us to take a bumpy, winding road through forest. “Hang on everyone, we are about to dance,” Tony warns. And we do.  We emerge onto a brand-new road built, very pragmatically, on top of the 2002 lava flow.

Sadly, the day is coming to an end as we watch the sunset over the mountain. It is understandable that Tony is so enamoured with Mumma Etna. This half day has captivated all of us. We’ve fallen a bit in love with Mumma. As Tony puts it “The day could only be made better with an eruption! I would love you to see it!” We pass through some beautiful towns on the way back to Taormina, Linguaglossa and Piedmonte, the latter where Tony was born. His mum has long since moved, my mum is no longer with us. Mumma Etna remains.

 

 

 

 

 

We arrive late afternoon a little worn after roughly 37 hours of travel. Sydney to DOHA, DOHA to Rome, and finally Rome to Syracusa. Mt Etna is visible, doing her smoky thing, as we fly from the mainland across the north eastern part of the island of Sicily. She rises, dotted with deep green vegetation and volcanic black, above the more arid surrounding plains and farmland. The island size, almost 26000 square kilometres, and hilly topography is evident from the air.

On land in Syracusa, we have only a simple taxi ride to get to the yacht and the family. Or so we think. There is nothing simple about this taxi ride, nor about tall, dark-skinned, Luca. The grey in his crinkly dark hair makes me think he’s in his fifties. “No worries Syracuse”, he says. “Yacht, old town, no worries”. “Fifty minutes, no English” he says, laughing. We seem to have exhausted his spoken repertoire, which by the way is larger than ours in Italian, and he moves into gesticulation. He signals the road is long and straight by and slots a disc into the sound system. The cab fills with Frank Sinatra’s “My Way”. Despite the length of travel and head spin we have, or maybe because of it, we join in on the chorus. Encouraged, he ramps the volume, way up. He points to the speedo…140km/hour. “Perfecto” he says. He must have missed the sign saying 80. Frank Sinatra croons on with “Strangers in the night” followed by Liza Minelli belting out “New York, New York”.  As we get closer to Syracusa, Stevie Wonder comes on to tell us “I just called …to say…I love you”.

The landscape zooms by, the music blares and we are singing away and even managing the odd harmony. As the chorus peaks he turns around and conducts and I’m not sure who is now driving the car. Cars speed all over the narrow roads.  When you’d expect them to stop, they don’t. When you expect them to go, they do but much faster than you’d hope. Giving way seems like something I’ve imagined from another life. “Tutto e possibile” Luca laughs.

We make it to the port on the front edge of Ortigia. Ortigia is the old town, dating back to the Greek Corinthians, and now with strong medieval, gothic and baroque flavours. It’s an island town, attached to the rest of Syracusa by three narrow bridges. Rather amazingly we pay nothing to moor here, right at the entrance of this incredible town. Well, we later discover we need to pay a 10 Euro fee per day for our rubbish to be collected (or not as the case often is) by two burly port staff who belligerently sit in their van until we pay up . It’s still a great deal.

The following morning, we are awake 5 and out on the promenade by 6.  A group of nine joggers are out enjoying this glorious morning and a cyclist wheels past yelling into her mobile phone mouthpiece. It’s a perfect time to explore. Locals are moving about, walking their dogs and hanging in doorways, chatting. We head off along the promenade towards Castello Maniace, a citadel and castle dating back to the 1200s, built by Emperor Frederick II.

We follow the foreshore walk, past a small beach with two sunbathers already out, then duck into the collection of narrow streets. Many of the multi storey houses were once ornate palaces, the home of the aristocracy. Today many of these are more modest… cracked limestone, rusted balconies. But the beauty is captivating still. Like a grand dame wearing a respectable age.

After a couple of hours rambling these streets we stop for a coffee and pastries, sitting at an outdoor table at a hole in the wall cafe.

Many of the local people on their way to work stand instead at the glass counter inside or out on the street.  Dressed in linen shirts, tailored pants and casual jackets they down their coffee and pastries chatting to the proprietor. Our pastries are soft flaky layers filled with either whipped ricotta or pistachio paste and are unbelievably divine. 7 Euros for four coffees and two pastries.

Continuing our ramble, we walk up a main street festooned with ancient oleanders; white, red, pink, past the ruins of the Temple of Apollo, and land in the morning fresh food market.  There are cheese vans, fruit and vegetable sellers, fishmongers and shell fish mongers with vats of live mussels, pippies, cockles that spurt little jets of sea water. You can shuck your own oysters and if you do, you get a free glass of white wine. Olives, teas, soaps, herbs and spices in colourful mounds. Just a fabulous way to stock up on groceries.

At the end of the market are a couple of eateries; Fratelli Burgio and Caseificio Borderi (makes cheese on site and gives demonstrations). We return later with all seven of us for lunch to Fratelli Borderi. These guys have been making their own meats, cheeses and conserves since 1978 and put all of these into the most incredible platters; meat, cheese, vegetarian or mixed. You can also choose from a range of salads like zucchini salad with buffalo mozzarella, caprese salad with tomatoes, basil and mozzarella or freshly made sandwiches. The food is as incredible as it looks. Fabulous. They also have a large shop selling their complete range of produce. Well worth a visit, indeed it could even be a “must see”.

To easily get to the Greek amphitheatre, we took the Jump on Jump off bus.  5 Euro for an all-day pass, enabling you to get on and off at any of about 15 spots around Ortigia and a little bit of Syracuse. Unfortunately, the amphitheatre is covered in wooden stairs/seats for the summer events. This protects but unfortunately hides the original structure. The view from it across a stand of pines to the port below is however spectacular.

Early evening, we take another walk around town; through Piazza Archimedes with its central fountain and Piazza Duomo, a beautiful piazza with the Syracuse Duomo and impressive, elegant buildings.

In the nearby streets I’m drawn to the Sicilian pottery. A stand out feature are the pairs of heads in many shops; one depicting a woman and the other a man with Moorish features. They are extravagant, with some growing plants out of their heads or turbans. There are a range of stories to explain the history of the heads, but the one I like moat tells of a local girl from Palermo falling in love with a Saracen merchant. This affair goes swimmingly until she learns he has a wife and children at home and in a fit of rage cuts off his head while he sleeps. To keep him with her, she uses his head as a vase to grow basil. It grows so well other town folk make their own clay head pots… and so the passion for the pair of heads grows.

We sit on deck after dinner and watch the parade of people go by. A dad cycles by, his curly haired toddler in the back seat. A bride and groom march past the yacht with their camera crew in tow. One can see why. The sun is an orange ball sinking behind the row of masts on the pier, a flock of about 80 swallows sweep around the roof tops of the old buildings, the limestone puts off an orange hue in the sun set.

The taxi ride and Frank Sinatra were just over twenty-four hours ago but it feels as though we have been here an age. It began with Luca and love songs, we learned about the doomed Sicilian lovers and families and a bride and groom paraded past the boat. There is a theme.