DAY 5 | 08/06/2017 – Travel Diary
The following morning, restored by several long showers, a night on a proper mattress, and the simple pleasure of finally wearing clean clothes, we find ourselves back in the main square, cameras and electronic devices at the ready. We meet Nicola, a big, easygoing man with a gentle manner who will act as our guide. We barely have time to introduce ourselves before being swept up in a steady flow of explanations and digressions that will continue, without pause, for the next two hours.
The first settlement on the site where Montalbano now stands, Nicola tells us, likely dates back to the Greeks. To the Greeks of Tindari, this mountain apparently resembled Mount Helicon in Greece, the sacred home of the Muses in what is now Boeotia. Even the river flowing down from Argimusco into the valley below was known as Eliconium, from helix—ivy, spiral—meaning winding or tortuous. The present-day Town Hall was, centuries ago, a Dominican convent, confiscated after the Unification of Italy. At the time, everything around it was open countryside. The village itself was entirely clustered on the mountain to the northeast of the square.
The coats of arms on the building facing the square identify the ancient royal dynasties—Norman, Swabian, Angevin, and Aragonese—as well as noble families such as the Lancia, Arlotta, Aragona, Colonna, Bonanno, and Mastropaolo. Later came the Jesuits and the Templars—specifically the Order of the Holy Sepulchre, the Teutonic Knights, and the Hospitallers—since this was the place where knighthood investiture ceremonies were held, in the Byzantine chapel adjacent to the castle. A little further on stood what was known as a monte agrario, or peculio frumentario: an agricultural bank that lent seed grain to farmers for sowing. In Montalbano, wheat was cultivated as high as the Favoscuro/Polverello plateau, at 1,200 meters above sea level, and along the river there were no fewer than fifteen mills. The town’s prosperity also rested, and above all, on a thriving hazelnut economy: the cultivation of the round Nebrodi hazelnut.
A clear testament to the importance of agriculture in the life of this village is the celebration of Our Lady of Providence, the town’s patron saint, held on August 24.
This Madonna holds the infant Jesus in one hand and ears of wheat in the other: a Christian image that finds its pagan counterpart in the prehistoric Great Mother and in the Roman goddess Ceres, cults that were once widespread throughout rural Sicily. August 24 is also a pivotal date in the agricultural calendar, falling between the wheat harvest—which at these altitudes took place around mid-August—and the September harvest of hazelnuts.
Embedded in the walls of some buildings are almond-shaped windows—amygdala in Greek—which, Nicola explains, are a vulval, feminine symbol meant to encourage the fertility of fields, livestock, and family alike. In one of the narrow streets, white-painted outlines mark the ground. Every year, a traditional insabbiata is held for Corpus Christi, during which these outlines are filled with religious designs created from colored sands.
Some buildings stand out, which Nicola points out as examples of what is known as Nebrodi Baroque. It is a style related to the Baroque of the Val di Noto and that of Acireale or Catania, but more restrained, owing to the material used. The local sandstone is softer and more fragile than the limestone of the Val di Noto or the basalt typical of the Catania area, and it lends itself less readily to sculptural virtuosity.
Particularly striking is the presence of little angels carved on portals in mocking, almost taunting poses. The gesture is clearly apotropaic, meant to ward off insults and the evil eye—perhaps those directed by passersby at the wealthy owners of the building. Alongside the imposing portals, the balconies of some noble palaces are often Bourbon in style, with a Spanish flavor. They allowed women to accommodate their wide skirts—Gattopardo-style—with whalebone hoops as they leaned out to watch processions.
We pass in front of the Church of Saint Catherine of Alexandria of Egypt, chosen here by the Catalan physician Arnald of Villanova as the patron saint of doctors and alchemists.
We reach the castle and just manage to cross paths with Tino, the caretaker, who kindly offers to come back and open it for us even though closing time has already passed. We walk along what would once have been the perimeter moat, with the castle walls on one side and, on the other, houses built—presumably—after the castle lost its military importance.
The castle, built in 1233, is closely tied to the history of the royal houses—Norman, Swabian, Angevin, and Aragonese—that succeeded one another in Montalbano through intermarriage rather than military conquest. Frederick II of Swabia, known as Stupor Mundi, gave his granddaughter Constance II in marriage to Peter III of Aragon. The last son born of that union, Frederick III, later married Eleanor of Anjou in Messina, following the Peace of Caltabellotta in 1302, which brought the War of the Sicilian Vespers to an end. At this point, somewhat intimidated by the sheer number of names, I decide to sit down at the piano, as if to pay tribute to the past into which Nicola’s stories have carried us.
Along the walls we observe medieval percussion, cutting, and projectile weapons; miniature models of war machines; medieval garments; and stringed instruments.
Outside, the sarcophagus of Arnald of Villanova is visible—the personal physician of Frederick II, who was the very man to advise the emperor to come to Montalbano to treat his gout with the water from the local springs. Here too stands the Byzantine chapel where Templar knights were invested, five hundred years older than the castle itself and adjacent to the throne room. Its vault is octagonal rather than circular, as in most Byzantine cube structures in Sicily, and traces of the original frescoes are still visible: imperial red, God’s golden yellow, and the sky-blue of the people yearning for the divine.
Leaving the castle, we head toward the Arab quarter. The very name Montalbano may derive from the Arabic al bana, meaning “excellent place.” With the arrival of the Normans, the name was Italianized as Montalbano, and after the Unification of Italy, “Elicona” was added to distinguish it from Montalbano Ionico in Basilicata. Inscribed on a wall is a passage from the Book of King Roger, subtitled “for those who delight in traveling through the land of Sicily,” in which the Arab geographer al-Idrisi described Montalbano.
Beside it stands a baglio—from the Arabic bahah, “courtyard”—where houses were built around a shared open space, the courtyard itself. From this comes the Sicilian verb curtigliare, referring to the gossiping of women gathered together for communal tasks such as spinning wool.
Montalbano was also an important Catholic center, serving as a diocesan seat from 1210, and its seventeenth-century cathedral is one of the six minor basilicas in the province of Messina, along with the cathedrals of Messina, Barcellona Pozzo di Gotto, Lipari, Taormina, and the Shrine of Saint Anthony in Messina.
Inside, the columns are a rare example of monolithic columns made of quartz sandstone. According to some scholars, they were fashioned from pre-existing Greek columns belonging to a temple dedicated to Apollo. The finely crafted Baroque wooden altar features helical columns that recall those designed by Bernini for Saint Peter’s Basilica.
As we exit the Duomo, Nicola pauses in front of a building that once housed a pharmacy and later an inn, focusing in particular on the window from which wine was once poured out to the public—a kind of medieval kiosk.
It is almost dusk, and from the point we have reached during our walk, Argimusco comes back into view. This is one of the highest points of the village, at around 1,050 meters above sea level, and the panorama feels like a well-earned reward for our efforts. Surrounded by medieval walls, accompanied by the evening chirping of birds, and framed by the Nebrodi Mountains, we take in a long stretch of Sicily’s northern coastline as far as Capo Milazzo. We are above a thousand meters, and on the opposing hills we can see the hamlets of Braidi and Santa Barbara beginning to light up for the night. To the west, the sun filters its soft, fading light through clouds and the silhouettes of wind turbines. After dinner in the company of the mayor and his entourage, we drag ourselves toward the neatly restored little houses of the old historic center, where we will spend the night.