A walking trip immerses you in a place in a unique way, leading you through all kinds of neighborhoods, industries, rural areas, and towns. Even the most scenic routes can’t adhere exclusively to established tourist hot spots. It would be easy to sum this up as the most authentic way of experiencing a country or region, exposing one to a genuine slice of life.
There’s some truth to that, for sure, but there can be a shallowness or a thinness to the walking experience that sometimes leaves one lacking. If an important site rests a kilometer or two off the route, it might as well be a hundred kilometers away. Heck, I’ve walked through towns only to discover later that something of interest was merely a block or two off the narrow thread I followed through those streets, and I missed it completely. Beyond that, as my walking schedule has skewed earlier to mesh with available daylight, my already limited exposure to nightlife–which is a big part of the agenda around here–has only dwindled further. It’s like pilgrims in Spain complaining about the culinary tedium. They’re missing out on one of the most celebrated foodie cultures in the world, but they’re not wrong, given the meals available to pilgrims at 7pm. No matter how close we get, to some degree we’re all stuck in the same position–seeing through a glass, darkly.
The calendar informed me that I was moving through a series of significant days. In Militello, I arrived on Halloween night. If it lacks the cultural currency of the same holiday in the USA, I had still been seeing assorted decorations on houses around Sicily, and even some trick-or-treating baskets for sale in supermarkets. On the night of, though, I saw little indication of the event aside from three young guys trolling around the center in matching shiny masks. My cognizance of All Saints Day in Caltagirone was even more embarrassingly limited. Were celebrations taking place? Maybe in the afternoon before I arrived? Or later in the evening? The bells tolled for mass, of course, but I didn’t even register a token round of fireworks, and those seem to accompany even the most inconsequential of dates on the calendar.
Finally, though, All Souls’ Day caught my attention. Sicilians celebrate this as their version of the Day of the Dead, tapping into long-standing Pagan traditions, and predicated on the belief that at some point overnight between November 1 and 2, deceased loved ones return home, visiting family and bringing gifts.
I didn’t know any of this when I set out from Caltagirone early in the morning, following a long road out of the large urban area and then winding southwestward along a ridgeline. As the houses finally petered out, a sign announced my arrival in the Monte San Mauro archaeological zone. There wasn’t much to see, but I later learned that this was the site of a Bronze Age settlement, colonized by Greek travelers in the 7th century BC. Appropriate to the day, the most notable discovery has been the Necropolis, with 58 tombs uncovered in the early 20th century.
From there, the pavement fizzled out and the track plunged into the valley below, for another round of orange and olive groves. Studying the map, I was perplexed by the routing, which cut a wide U-shape instead of making a much more direct river crossing. I decided to pursue the latter, and for a moment this seemed like it would be a poor choice. The track narrowed and then became completely overgrown by dense reeds, and then any semblance of solid footing disappeared. But I scrambled onto one bank, found a different track, and then stuck with it as it moved through trampled reeds along the riverside. Footing remained solid enough, and only a short hop was required to cross the stream itself. Climbing back along a dirt road on the other side, I felt smugly satisfied with my improvised short-cut.
And then the dirt road became a muddy bog. There was no warning. It looked the same, until the ground dropped out and my feet were consumed. Lifting toe first, to keep my shoes, I gingerly moved one step at a time, plunging ankle-deep into the muck, until I finally cleared the worst of it ten meters later.
There are two annoyances or hazards that pilgrims in Sicily complain about. One is dogs–sometimes wild, but mostly over-aggressive sheepdogs protecting their flock. To this point, those have been a complete non-issue. Every once in a while, a few dogs will raise a ruckus and put on a show, but I yell aggressively when they break the property line and they immediately retreat.
The other is the clay-heavy soil that can become a total nuisance in the aftermath of rain. Given that two full days had passed since the storm in Catania, the only real rain of any kind for a while, I thought I was in the clear. But nothing drained from these valley-bound tracks, which I have come to understand is one of the fundamental realities of clay. Indeed, the main thing that moves is the soil itself, which can erode much more quickly than other kinds. The double-whammy of deforestation and clay-heavy soil poses immense challenges for Sicily.
I wasn’t the only one muddling my way through. Further down the trail, I passed a handful of hunters, two of whom were trying to move their vehicles. One of them, though, had managed to spin a tire so deep that it was up to the wheel well in mud. An hour later, they honked at me as they drove past on the highway in the other vehicle, having seemingly abandoned the one for the foreseeable future.
By that point, I was making my final approach to Niscemi, the lone town along the day’s walk, situated atop a modest hill. And on this All Souls’ Day, it was practically transformed into a nursery, as flowers were for sale along every street, all through the center. All across Sicily, families pay visits to their loved ones on this Sunday, decorating graves with flowers–often chrysanthemums–and candles, and sometimes sweets as well. Some families hold grave-side picnics.
The less said about the walk from Niscemi to Gela, the better. After a gradual descent, the flat track moved through agricultural land, much of it recently plowed. An industrial facility on the coast sat to the left of my destination, visible throughout the walk. Otherwise, there were few landmarks of any kind. Every so often, mud reasserted itself, just to ensure that my shoes would remain thoroughly skunked for my arrival at my destination. Still, I shut off my brain and pushed on, eager to reach Gela and the coast.
The impact of All Souls’ Day in Gela was different from Niscemi. The town center had been essentially emptied out, aside from crowded restaurants–the families that favored a proper meal over a cemetery picnic. The flowers were all sold or packed away. The supermarket that Google Maps–and its own signs–insisted was open all day on Sundays was closed, as was the gelato shop. At first, my priestly contact was non-responsive for a couple hours; after that, the nuns who were actually hosting me couldn’t be reached. Gela was literally a ghost town on All Saints’ Day, and figuratively one as well.
And so my experience was one of short jaunts, pushing out to different spots around town in order to take advantage of dwindling daylight, while returning promptly after in the hope of catching a nun if she poked her head outside. The failed supermarket venture brought me past the local soccer complex. Its external walls were covered with a mural depicting “Operation Husky.” Later on, when I popped over to the seaside pedestrian walkway, I discovered a large sign that commemorated the Allied invasion of Sicily–which bore that dog-themed name–and the specific assault on Gela that occurred on July 10, 1943. Gela sat right at the center of Eisenhower’s targeted area for the initial landing assault, which ran from Catania to Licata, and it drew the Seventh Army, the 1st Division, and the 82nd Airborne. The Allies had bad weather luck, which caused their forces to scatter widely in the approach, but for the most part they met little resistance.
Gela, however, was an exception. The Italian forces, led by Major Marco Rabellino, dug in their heels and fought bravely–and died bravely. 45% of their forces fell in the defense. Reinforcements were en route from Niscemi, likely following the same route I had just walked. This was a tank force, and it could have been a great help to Rabellino, but gunfire from a US destroyer thwarted their advance.
The battle had begun at 2:40am on July 10. At 6am on July 11, the Italians surrendered. How many picnics took place at the graves of those soldiers today? I wouldn’t know; I was waiting for the nuns. As it happened, though, directly across from the old convent was Bar Lo Zodiaco, an American-style diner with huge US flags featured prominently in its decor.
Eventually, a nun cracked open the door and waved at me to enter. It was 5:30pm. As I settled in for the night, in an attic dorm space that seemed quite well-suited to pilgrims, I heard a group of nuns and priests gather together below. They started to sing. And for the next hour, as I drifted into slumber, I listened to their voices weave together in perfect harmony, and I forgot all about the frustrating wait, the thwarted shopping expedition, and the very cold shower. But not my shoes. I couldn’t forget about those. They were a mess.
