There are two kinds of volcanic explosions at Mount Etna. Summit explosions grab the headlines. These are just as the name suggests–spectacular events when Etna quite literally blows its top. They happen staggeringly often, with the most recent eruption taking place in February 2021. And yet, for all the shock and awe, they rarely prove threatening to the surrounding communities. The bark is far worse than the bite.
The other kind is a flank explosion, when a seam is ripped open on the side of Etna, typically due to a blocked magma passage. These can occur almost anywhere along the mountain’s side, meaning that they can originate perilously close to adjacent towns. Flank explosions can often coincide with earthquakes, making for a dire double-whammy. Far less showy than their peak peers, these pose the greatest threat to life and home.
The old road leads pilgrims south from Montalbano Elicona, and some overnight drizzle left the cobblestones slick on the initial descent. Before too long, though, dirt tracks replaced the rock, and a credible ascent began. I’d listened to the winds whipping through town over night, sending the small recycling bins flying like tumbleweeds down the narrow streets, but that was only a preview of what lay ahead, as I topped 1300 meters and entered turbine country. Clouds shifted wildly overhead as yesterday’s late summer feel was abruptly supplanted by early winter gloom, and even on a steep climb I gave consideration to donning my warm layer. Just as suddenly, though, the clouds broke to my east and, as though the curtains had parted at the show’s climactic moment, I found Etna looming overhead. My first view was no obstructed glimpse, but rather the full monty. In my mind, Etna was merely the matching pair to Vesuvius, but that was disrespectful to the Sicilian peak, which at 3400m and with a basal circumference of 140 kilometers, is two-and-a-half times the size of its Neapolitan sibling. The Greek respect of Etna’s violent capacity was reflected in the story of Typhon, a deadly monster that came shockingly close to supplanting Zeus, who was subsequently trapped beneath the volcano. The great forges of Hephaestus also reside somewhere under Etna, channeling that devastating heat to good effect. There’s a lot going on down there!
While the curtains closed soon after, I carried on over the ridge, past a few tholos, and onto Floresta, the only town along this stage. The clouds pressed in on all sides, providing a gray backdrop. The buildings, almost without exception, were all varying shades of gray. Woodsmoke pervaded the late-morning chill, adding its own gray to the mix. And then the clouds burst, dumping rain while I sheltered in the central piazza.
The world reopened, gradually and then suddenly, as I descended from Floresta along a track that paralleled the flow of the Alcantara River. At times, the river’s persistent and prolonged assault on the neighboring rock face produced craggy cliffs, though robust plant and tree growth framed and partially obscured the scene. Elsewhere, the valley broadened, and as the clouds burned off and late summer heat reasserted itself in force, Etna reappeared, straight ahead. A pack of cows blocked the trail at one point, a group of statues staring me down, and then they proceeded to follow me after I passed, though their pace couldn’t match mine. Later, just as I began to ration my dwindling water supply, I reached a lovely rifugio, Santa Maria del Bosco, which had a fountain and a huge, shaded picnic area. The walking experience on the Via Normanna has been uneven, it’s fair to say, but this final stage was an absolute delight, every step of the way.
The town of Randazzo takes shape in the valley below Etna over the last few kilometers, and the Alcantara River slices between the Via Normanna and the lava ridge on which the town sits, prompting the walker to swing northward, admiring the town walls and its skyline en route to a bridge crossing. The “city of 100 churches” might be an exaggeration, but several prominent domes dominate the town center, and the black, volcanic rock used for nearly all the buildings and roads casts the whole scene in a distinct light. One might be inclined to say ominous or menacing, especially given Etna’s towering presence in the background.
And sure enough, over its long history Randazzo has endured plenty of hardship. There were certainly ancient settlements here over the centuries, but the current town dates to the Byzantines. As late as the 16th century, it had distinct language districts for Greek, Lombard, and Sicilian residents. Tragically for the town, in World War II Randazzo was established as the headquarters of Germany’s military command in Sicily, making it the target of repeated aerial bombardments by the Allies. After decades of rebuilding put the town back together, it seemed like those heroic efforts were going to be wasted on March 17, 1981, when a flank explosion on the north side of Etna resulted in a cataclysmic series of fractures along the mountain. As lava broke through and came in contact with the snow-covered peak, violent explosions triggered a wave of additional fractures, leading to the flow of multiple waves of lava directly towards Randazzo.
Within 24 hours, the town seemed to be genuinely in peril, leading to a dramatic effort to orchestrate a complete evacuation of Randazzo’s residents. There were two major concerns. The first, obviously, was that the lava would reach the town itself. The second, though, was that it would pour into the Alcantara River, an event that could trigger dramatic explosions and a complete reshaping of the river gorges. Fortunately for everyone except the wine aficionados out there, the lava flow tapered out as it moved into the flatter area outside of Randazzo, and as a result the evacuation was canceled and the town was saved. Only a few farmhouses were lost, along with a whole bunch of vineyards.
For all I knew, Randazzo might have been evacuated on the afternoon I arrived. I’m discovering that Sicilians observe the siesta with a level of fundamentalism that exceeds anything I’ve encountered elsewhere in Italy. Aside from an isolated straggler here and there, the towns empty out completely. Even the bars are abandoned. I had hopes of checking into my accommodation early, but my messages to my host went unanswered for an hour-and-a-half. I sat on the steps outside the church, chilled by the relentless winds, and caught myself stewing. After such a brilliant day of walking, this reaction seemed misplaced, but it also reflected the ongoing trend in recent days. Thinner skin, more impatience. Less enthusiasm and little staying power behind those positive moments.
Intellectually, I can recognize what is happening. The convergence of two major tracks. Seventy days of walking, and the accompanying exhaustion that I’m generally able to evade or ignore. And a rapidly approaching endpoint, with all the emotional complexity bound up in the conclusion of pilgrimage generally, and this six-month odyssey specifically. Not to mention the turning of attention to re-entry and some of the awaiting obligations. Perhaps it would be simpler if I could just blow my top, let off some steam, clear the tanks and emerge refreshed. Instead, though, the pressure is more internalized and steady, and the moments of dissatisfaction or frustration only compound the difficulty, as I grapple with my own sense of disappointment with myself over the recurrence of these challenges. Surely, by this point, I should be able to manage this better!
I shook myself out of that cycle of recrimination and decided to find a supermarket. Might as well do something productive. And sure enough, when I returned I discovered the front door of the old boarding school was open. Tucked away in the back was the library, where my host welcomed me and showed me to my room. The massive, aged building is battling its decline into decrepitude. Most of it seems abandoned, but a few rooms have been lightly restored to accommodate pilgrims, and the kitchen is functional enough, though I can’t imagine the faces a fire marshal might make if visiting this space in the US. The most exciting development, though, was the arrival of another pilgrim–a Dutch woman who started her walk from central Sicily. Both of us were, I think, badly out of the habit of being sociable. If the conversation moved in fits and starts, to some degree we both enjoyed just having a comrade in the room, a break from absolute solitude. Especially given that we both had the same game plan of departing quite early the following morning, taking advantage of first light.
The first stage of the Via Fabaria sets the bar low, following the provincial highway for the better part of the walk. Even still, it’s easy to appreciate the rich agricultural land flanking the road, and a reminder of the same allure that existed around Vesuvius. For all the risk that comes with living with a volcano as your neighbor, the upside is that volcanic soils are tremendously fertile, and the vineyards and orchards here produce rich and distinct crops. The sprawling town of Bronte offered my lone stop, and yet the town made practically no impression. Even looking at the map, it’s striking how chaotic the town’s layout is, with almost no major arterials moving through its twisting lanes, nor any discernible center. I nearly exited before finding a bar, but was relieved to encounter a gas station cafe at the last minute.
The road climbs steeply out of Bronte, and the map had left me concerned that I once again faced hours of provincial road. Soon after entering the Parco dell’Etna, though, the world changed. The consequences of Etna’s past eruptions dominated the landscape, with mounds of volcanic rock rippling across both sides of the road, which soon transformed into a narrower stone track–the Strada Basolato Roccia Lavica. I walked through the wasteland, the obliterated vineyards, the humbling and terrifying reminder of just how temporary all of this is, and I kept thinking about how I couldn’t get enough of it, and also how badly I wanted to get away from it.
In time, the basalt road transitioned onto a dirt track, circling southward now from the peak, leaving Etna at my back. When I emerged from the park, a paved road led gradually–all too gradually, with the sun beating down on a surprisingly hot afternoon–into Adrano. I checked the gps to calculate how many more kilometers I had to walk. Fifteen minutes later, I repeated the process, ridiculous as it was.
While I had left the Via Normanna, I couldn’t escape the Normans. Sitting at the center of Adrano is the blocky, imposing Castello Normanno. It’s no accident that I continue running into castles with Norman roots in Sicily; the Normans are known for spearheading a process of encastellification across the island. There were already, of course, fortifications left behind by the Byzantines and Arabs, but the Normans expanded and reinforced those older structures, while also adding their own, creating a hybrid architectural style that wove together elements from all three traditions.
And it wasn’t just the architecture that exemplified a multi-cultural approach. In Sicily, John Julius Norwich extols the virtues of Roger I, or Grand Count Roger, and Roger II, or Roger the Great, who oversaw Norman expansion across much of the island–a process that culminated in the creation of the Kingdom of Sicily. Much has been written about the “convivencia” of Al-Andalus on the Iberian peninsula, but Norman Sicily might be an even better example of multi-cultural, multi-religious, multi-lingual coexistence. While Roger I promoted the large-scale integration of Catholicism across the island, he also built a dozen Greek monasteries and preserved Islamic mosques in all the cities. Many Greeks and Arabs played critical roles in the government. Sicily proved to be a crucial place for scholars, bringing together Greek, Arabic, and Latin speakers and texts to a degree that didn’t exist anywhere else in the world.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. It would be easy to blame this on failed leadership. After all, Roger the Great was followed by William the Bad, and those sobriquets don’t offer much nuance. However, the pressure was building not from the top, but from the sides; Norman nobles had grown increasingly dissatisfied with Roger II’s absolute approach to rule, along with those plum jobs handed over to Greeks and Arabs. The pope was only too happy to embolden those nobles in their efforts. While their attempted revolt failed and William was saved by the people–a key piece of evidence in the case against what many view as a “Bad” and unfair nickname–the tenuous harmony had been thoroughly tarnished. The castles, though, were as solid as ever.
I barely had the energy to circle back to the castle after completing the walk in Adrano. By 5pm, I was exhausted, ready to call it a day and barely hanging on. Even accounting for the time change, this was still staggeringly early to go to bed. I stared at the laptop blankly for a while, thinking about the handful of things I really needed to accomplish–first and foremost this write-up–and eventually gave up, after accomplishing nothing more than burning ten percent of my battery.
On the bright side, an early bed time set me up well for the next morning, for which I had set a 4:30am alarm. I’ve generally avoided those extreme hours in Italy, but the next walk was a bear. The creators of the Via Fabaria looked at the area surrounding Catania, shrugged, and abandoned any attempt at route design. The official website puts a positive spin on this, offering that this is a “very special stage, connecting three major centers by train. To avoid the heavy human settlement of the Catania plain… the traveler reaches Catania more conveniently.” Even the stage leading into this “special” section is largely highway-bound. As a consequence, I was looking at 37 kilometers from Adrano into Catania center, with nearly all of it on well-trafficked roads. As it happened, the lone stretch that followed a dirt track was quite overgrown and thus a bit of a slog. And once again, the sun was beating down, with precious little shade. I lowered my head and pushed, pausing only briefly in Paterno, which is a lovely town. Otherwise, I witnessed the rhythms of the Sicilian morning–the working men gathered around the “chiosco,” or bar kiosks on street corners at 5am, the retired men taking their spots around 8am, and the bags of garbage lowered on cables from the upper balcony to street-side pick-up, like soggy tetherballs. The road from Adrano continued along a ridge, overlooking the Catania valley far below, and then gradually descended. One last, steep ascent from Paterno gave me a glimpse of my destination on the coast, and then it was all downhill, on busy roads with minimal shoulders. Bakeries, bars, and delis moved past in quick succession as I advanced through Catania’s outskirts, along with the occasional auto mechanic with the now-familiar sidewalk operations filling half a block. Part of a Roman theater has been preserved in the midst of an intersection. A pedestrian street, filled with shopping, leads south from there to the piazza outside the duomo, with an elephant statue at the center. The piazza, though, was blocked off for a film shoot, and the duomo was closed. And I was done–hot, dehydrated, and sore from the on-again, off-again nature of Italian sidewalks. I couldn’t check in for another hour, so I detoured to a Lidl supermarket, loaded up for the next two nights, and staggered over to my apartment just as the clock struck 3pm.
And once again, my body just wanted to sleep. The whole city of Catania was right outside; the next day, I had plans to visit Syracuse. I couldn’t have been less interested. The idea of visiting Syracuse, in particular, became increasingly onerous. An hour-and-a-half of travel each way. Lots of walking around the town to reach the disparate sights, and to link the bus station to the center. The need, upon returning to Catania, to still make time for all the postponed work. It felt miserable to go, but worse to stay–a missed opportunity to see something profoundly historic and significant, for a reason as banal as “I’m tired.”
In the end, though, there was no choice. The answer was obvious, undeniable. I stayed in Catania. I woke up early, but enjoyed a leisurely morning. I strolled down to the fish market, then popped into the duomo. While there, I saw the remains of the Blessed Cardinal Giuseppe Benedetto Dusmet, “the angel of charity.” Catania, even with some added distance, remained in Etna’s line of fire. In 1886, Etna had a powerful south flank eruption, resulting in a river of lava that poured down to the coast, destroying part of Catania’s port. Cardinal Dusmet lifted the town’s most cherished relic, the Veil of Saint Agatha, long believed to be a great force in support of Catania, and led a procession towards the lava. The lava flow’s advance halted. The city was saved.
Perhaps that’s not the most prudent strategy, marching towards the lava. There’s still wisdom, though, in taking challenges head-on. And sometimes, the challenge is best met by doing nothing. I’m sacrificing Syracuse and sorry about that, but sitting here around mid-day, I can feel that pressure on the flanks ebbing, and I’m excited to go tour the monastery here in a little while–something I certainly wouldn’t have done if I had been scrambling around the southeast coast today. More than anything else, I want to finish these six months with the same enthusiasm that has characterized the many days of walking leading me to this point, and I’m confident that this day will serve me well in that regard.
