DAY 8 | 11/06/2017–Travel Diary
The Nebrodi hazelnut, which for centuries has formed a substantial part of the agricultural economy of these mountains in north‑eastern Sicily, lends itself to a remarkable range of uses in pastry thanks to its extraordinary aromatic spectrum. A breakfast of warm Sicilian brioche filled with hazelnut gelato at Bar Calamunci in Sinagra will make this clear enough. To preserve the idyll, should you find yourself cycling around Sicily, we recommend checking your chains carefully before setting off again and easing the pressure on the pedals when shifting uphill.
It hardly seems wise to report here the exact thoughts—and still less the exclamations—that occupied us when Marco’s bike chain snapped, after a noisy gear change on the climb from Sinagra toward Castell’Umberto. The mishap felt all the more bitter with the taste of local hazelnut gelato from Bar Calamunci still lingering on our tongues, eaten only minutes earlier on the advice of Vittoria Piccolo. The debate over whether one should ease off the pedals while shifting uphill faded as quickly as it had arisen: partly because our obvious ignorance of cycling technique would never have allowed a satisfying resolution, and partly because the more urgent matter was practical—the chain lay useless on the asphalt beneath Marco’s bicycle.
In our inexperience we were also without a chain tool or quick link, and therefore unable to carry out an effective repair. By good fortune we crossed paths with another cyclist, who generously tried to help by giving us an old chain of his own; yet it was clearly unsuited to our bikes and rattled terribly whenever we attempted to pedal. Never mind. It would have to do until we could reach an open workshop, which on a Sunday morning in these parts seemed almost a desperate undertaking. We turned toward the coast. Another cyclist sped past; I tried to call for help, but he was too fast, and as I later discovered—after chasing him with considerable expense of breath and energy—he was listening to music through small earphones.
Following his suggestion, we headed toward Gliaca di Piraino, a few kilometres in the opposite direction to our route, where we found a closed workshop with a telephone number posted outside. The owner answered and arranged to meet us a few hours later to replace the chain. Opposite the workshop, a vendor of “cirasi” (cherries) from Mount Etna held his ground admirably against the bargaining attempts of several local elderly women.
It was already late morning when we set off again. There was no point trying to regain the road to Castell’Umberto as planned: we would continue along the coast to Rocca di Caprileone, where the climb toward Galati Mamertino would begin. In Brolo we made a brief detour to see up close the crenellated tower of the castle that once belonged to the Lancia family. One wonders whether, from this very fortress, Maria La Bella truly let down her blond braids so that a fisherman—her lover—might climb up to her.
At the centre of the village stands the imposing medieval tower. We circled it and passed an elderly woman seated at her doorway, smoking. Evidently pleased by the unexpected visit, we willingly submitted to her questioning.
“So, you’re riding all around Sicily? Good, well done”. We doubted she could fully grasp the scope of such an undertaking; yet we were content with her affectionate smile and her repeated advice to be careful. She did not even know our names, and already she worried something might happen to us. This southern and Sicilian maternal warmth is difficult to convey, and certainly difficult to encounter elsewhere—especially in non‑Mediterranean, non‑Latin countries. It is unmatched, sometimes almost overwhelming: the concern of someone who, since your birth, has worried in order—whether you were healthy, whether you had eaten enough, whether you did your homework, whether you kept good company, whether you would one day “settle down”. An affection easily extended to the friends of one’s children, who, when invited to eat, will sooner accept indigestion than refuse another helping of parmigiana.
As for affection, the paternal care shown to us by Giacomo Emanuele was no less remarkable. Giacomo is the producer of Sicilian black‑bee honey whom we had intended to meet that morning in Galati Mamertino; when we informed him of our misadventure, our assurances that we needed no help proved useless. Just past Capo d’Orlando we saw him driving toward us in his white van. With the bicycles loaded aboard, we were silently grateful not to have to climb the eight hundred metres of elevation at which Galati lies. The events of the day began to give us the feeling that what linked the stages of this journey was not so much the motion our legs imparted to the bicycle chain, but an invisible chain formed by those who, with little or no warning, had been willing to help us. As in many human stories, the selfless solidarity of many can surely accomplish more than the ambition and determination of a few.
More than the lift, it was his company that pleased us. “Do you see these valleys? Once the sea level was higher, and they must have resembled true fjords”. Greek vessels likely ventured here in search of water, timber, and above all fresh meat: the name “Nebrodi” derives from the Greek nebros, meaning fawn, a reminder of the abundance of large fauna on these mountains.
On our right, as we climbed, lay the valley of the Zappulla stream, narrowing into canyons of pale, vegetation‑stripped rock. At the lower elevations, olives gave way to citrus groves, late‑ripening like those in the Sinagra valley. “Citrus fruits were once dipped in beeswax and shipped to Sweden, where they were eaten for the feast of Saint Lucy in December”.
So renowned was the quality of timber from these mountains—used extensively by the peoples of the past for shipbuilding—that some hamlets still bear names such as “Botti”: it is said that Frederick II of Swabia demanded the oak for his barrels come from here. No less important was the cultivation of mulberry trees for sericulture: all Sicilian silk in the sixteenth century, by decree of Philip IV, was to be exported from the port of Messina.
“Each of the abbeys that arose in these mountains, sheltered from Saracen incursions”, Giacomo continued, “specialised in a particular activity. The monks of Fragalà, for instance, were scribes. In Galati Mamertino, by contrast, the settlement around the abbey was composed of families devoted to sericulture”.
The name Galati was already known in the Arab period and is recorded in the Book of Roger by the geographer Al‑Idrisi: “Galati, a defensible stronghold among lofty mountains, is populous and prosperous; it has arable land and livestock; much flax is cultivated there in irrigated meadows”.
According to Giacomo, the origin of the name Mamertino dates to the repopulation of the town after the earthquake of 1783 by families from the Calabrian locality of Oppido Mamertino. “That might explain both the excellent pork‑butchery traditions of these parts and the fact that my daughter would put chilli pepper even in milk!” We passed beyond the town and stopped at a viewpoint to admire its eagle‑shaped outline before taking the winding road toward the forest of Mangalaviti.
At around 1,500 metres of elevation, we admired the entrance to this expanse of beech trees, dotted with elderflowers in bloom, in the last light of day. Nearby stood a watering trough for grazing animals, its perimeter stones worn smooth by the sharpening of shepherds’ and hunters’ knives until they had lost their original shape.
It was time to return to Galati, where we would spend the night: the road slipped into low clouds, heavy with warm light and the moisture held by the woodland, towering above the Rocche del Crasto and the valleys of the Fitalia and the Rosmarino.