There have been a few great battles in the History Education Wars, but well before the Content vs. Skills conflict occurred, lines were drawn between Depth and Breadth. The Depth contingent enjoyed some stirring successes, arguing quite fairly that sophisticated analysis and authentic critical thinking challenges could only take place if students were fully immersed in the subject matter. However, at some point a school administrator popped into a department meeting to relay parental concerns about the lack of Middle East coverage, or the complete omission of indigenous history, or the neglect of geography and economics, and with those reinforcements the Breadth forces charged back into the fray.
The same conflict plays out in travel, where the temptation is always strong to cover more ground, see more places, cross more hot spots off the bucket list. And yet, a week spent in one place affords one an opportunity to settle in, establish a routine, get a feel for local practices, and learn something meaningful about a place.
A walking trip can be difficult to plot on that breadth-depth axis. I’ve been on the road for 73 days now and my head has only hit the same pillow on consecutive nights twice over that time. Often, I arrive in a place by 4 or 5pm, only spend an hour or so wandering around in the evening, and then roll out before sunrise the next morning. In the most interesting towns that I encounter during a walk, I might only stick around for a half-hour. Over the course of these 73 days, how many total villages, towns, and cities have I seen? Three hundred? That screams “breadth,” doesn’t it? And yet, the pace of walking, the quintessential characteristic of “slow travel,” changes the dynamic. Instead of loose marbles, these are beads on a chain, all connected, all linked together as part of a cohesive vision. Or perhaps the routes between towns are the mortar, making the structure whole and solid, giving it integrity. On the Cammino Basiliano, maybe I didn’t get the true lay of the land in Catanzaro or Serra San Bruno, but I certainly gained some lasting connection to Calabria. It’s a depth that is less granular, more thematic, but no less tangible or revealing for the exchange.
These two days in Sicily offer the two ends of the axis, and as I’ve written at some point before, combined they illustrate the value of juxtaposition and combination. I wouldn’t want to build a trip out of either exclusively, but the alternation is inspiring, uplifting, and, in its way, relaxing.
Saturday was Breadth Day, covering 52 kilometers and thus necessitating an early departure, with more than an hour of walking through near-complete darkness. Along the way, it had seven different ascents of around 100 meters, plus a bigger climb of 500 meters near the end, and it passed through more than ten different villages and towns.
I first looped through Condrò, a place that will never be more than dark outlines in my memory, with the highway bent like a horseshoe around the sunken town. Gualtieri Sicaminò came soon after, still outpacing the sun, but one light was shining in the center, from the aptly named Caffe Duomo. It was too early for a break on such a long day, but I stopped anyway. The long, narrow cafe was empty, but out front I found a group of men circling up and preparing to head out for a hunt. The duomo was locked, so I strolled out of town, climbed the opposing ridge, and looped into the scrub-covered hills just as the sun reported for duty.
There was an orderliness to the hills in Calabria, a formal structure that meant I could always track where I was in relative terms–to the Ionian Sea, to the last village and the next one, to the dominant river slicing in between. In Sicily, though, it’s pure chaos. Hills have hills; a river valley could just as easily be at 300 meters as at sea level. Instead of building on hilltops, many of the towns are laid out like avalanches, sloping down one side of the hill–almost always the one with a sea view. This obscures where you’re headed, where you’ve been, and it traps at least a third of everything in shadow, making photography a nightmare. There are no clean views.
Even still, the first glimpse of Santa Lucia del Mela was a stunner, with a small castle like the cherry on top of a striking urban sundae. Coming in from the opposing hill, the Via descends low into the valley, and then loops behind the bridge, following a backroad into the center. While this has the virtue of avoiding all trafficked roads, it once again underscores the evasive nature of these Sicilian towns. You can see Santa Lucia in full from a distance, or you can see it up close, from the center, but nothing in between. Similarly, you can read about its ancient history, with experts attesting to the presence here of the Sicani and Siculi peoples, the earliest inhabitants of the island, as well as the Greeks and Romans, but there’s no chance of witnessing that firsthand. Little remains of the Byzantines, either. The Emirate of Sicily left its mark with a mosque, but the Normans transformed that into the Church of Saint Nicholas. Only the Great Count Roger I, with the founding of Sicily, left an indelible mark behind–that small but persistent castle.
I could still see it as I descended into the Torrente Mela, crossing the track through the broad, rocky trench. Before long, I once again found myself entering town limits, this time Cannistrà. It took up little space on the gps, so I had given it little thought, but I discovered something genuinely special, something that started just 14 years ago. In May 2011, a group of thirty-four concerned residents gathered together in the small square outside the church to discuss the future of their village. PowerPoint slides displayed the ugly truth, the garbage and filth that characterized their community. Most concerning, though, was the attitude in town. As the attendees put it, and the all-caps are theirs, “THERE WAS NO DREAM. THERE WAS NO HOPE. THERE WAS NO FUTURE.” And so, they made a commitment, to each other and to the village, forming the Cannistrà Cultural Association. Through their efforts, all the garbage was removed, the dirt was cleaned out, and public art was installed across the village. There are frescoes on many of the buildings, lampposts are decorated, hearts with messages of love hang from trees.
After wandering up and down the side streets, I pushed on, tackling the next climb to Castroreale, one of the “most beautiful villages of Italy.” As the trail switchbacked uphill, it wrapped past a chiesa rupestra, a cave church, and then through the old gate past castle ruins. Castroreale’s founding legend dates to the 3rd century BC, when an “Eastern king” named Artenomo founded a city named Artemisia, after his daughter. Artemisia then married a man named Castoreo, who founded a new settlement named Krastos, and as the years passed it shifted to Crastina, and then Crizzina, and finally, in the 14th century, Castroreale. Most legends are, mercifully, more interesting than this one. Both Santa Lucia del Mela and Castroreale had thriving Jewish communities, until their expulsion in 1492.
I had targeted Castroreale’s alimentari as my source for dinner supplies, as grocery options were few and far between in this region. When I entered the grocery store, there was only one woman shopping. The grocer was methodically taking care of her deli requests, slicing meats, and processing a couple types of cheese. I stood off to the side, patiently waiting with my three items. Two minutes passed. Three. Five. The old woman turned and, with an utterly flat affect, informed me that she would be done soon. A minute later, they both transferred over to the cash register. They were chatting. At a couple points, she moved away from the register to go and consider other items for purchase. She selected one. She left another. And finally, money was exchanged, and she gradually bagged her items. Without ever making eye contact, the stone-faced grocer ushered me over with a single “Prego,” rang up my items, and handed me a receipt. I delivered the coins and was out the door. And then I started laughing. Sicily.
Sure enough, after another riverbed crossing, the next town, Rodi, had a proper supermarket, with lower prices, no lines, and a friendly clerk. They also had “American-style,” peanut butter flavored, cheeto-like concoctions. Can’t have it all.
And because one dried-out riverbed is never enough, I soon reached Mazzarrà Sant’Andrea, a small town situated at the confluence of two such torrente, with huge nurseries extending out into the flat, open spaces on both sides. The Via Normanna turned inland along the second riverbed, the Torrente Mazzarra, and as the afternoon extended, and the sun beat down on the silver rocks, it felt like summer had truly resumed. Occasional pillboxes lurked on the hills overlooking the river, while a pair of curious igloo-shaped cement buildings were positioned in the midst of the riverbed. Along one of the protective walls lining the riverbed for flood protection was embedded a plaque commemorating Benito Mussolini’s instrumental role in Infrastructure Week.
Finally, after nearly ten kilometers, the Via climbed one of the river banks, pushing ever higher into the hills en route to Novara di Sicilia, another of the “most beautiful villages.” By this point, though, I was gunning for the finish line, with one last down-and-up leading over a river crossing and into the village of San Basilio. Even with the Cammino Basiliano behind me, Basil is apparently still looking out, as the small church in the village center offers a paradise to the occasional pilgrim passing through. While the priest wasn’t available to greet me, Signorina Daniela drove over to admit me to the parish house, showing me the remarkable amount of food available–the fruit, the coffee and milk, the jams and yogurts, the entire drawer of pasta, the two freezers full of meat, the bottles of limoncello, the cabinet with sweets and savories–and insisting that I make full use of it. The shower had massage therapy; the wifi was robust; there were two different coffee-makers. I could have stayed a week, but at least I got an extra hour thanks to daylight savings. That translated into time for four cups of coffee.
Sunday was depth day. Just an 18-kilometer stage, with no other towns or villages along the way to distract me from my ultimate destination. While the elevation profile looked intimidating enough, thanks to a sustained ascent across the middle nine kilometers, in practice the hardest part was the beginning, with a long flight of steps cutting through the center of San Basilio to its highest level. A footpath carried me along the edge of cow fields, before a short scramble onto a steadier dirt road. From that point on, the footing was easy throughout, and the grade, if consistent, was never excessive.
Sicily, unfortunately, has a long history of deforestation, a practice tied into its sustained status as a colony. For Rome, its value lay in its function as a breadbasket, so the more cropland, the better. More recently, World War II and its aftermath accelerated the clear-cutting, first through the devastation of the war itself, and then more through the transformation of life on the island in the years after. The consequences of this are staggering in the age of climate change, as 70% of Sicily is now at risk of desertification. I’ve been delighted, looking at the 10-day weather forecast, and seeing dry days extend into November, but Sicily has almost only seen dry days in recent years, and farmers are praying for a change.
In lieu of trees, I mostly walked through desiccated ferns and scrubby grass, with a very occasional cow munching away. Unlike yesterday’s circuitous tromp through the hills, then, this very steady ascent left the entire north face of the Sicilian coast open to me, and I could see the large town of Milazzo, sitting at the base of the aptly named Capo di Milazzo, a thin peninsula reaching out into the Mediterranean.
Once I crossed the ridge into the Nebrodi Mountains, I was back on a paved road that was seeing a fair bit of traffic on this Sunday, most likely from coastal folks taking a day in the hills. One small sign pulled me off, indicating a tholos. The tholos are small, stone shepherd huts. After the ubiquitous nature of similar structures in Puglia, it has been interesting to see so little sign of their equivalent elsewhere–perhaps wood was more accessible than rocks in those areas. Local archaeologists have speculated on the similarity between tholos and Mycenaean architecture, while others note that Arab incursions in the region following the death of Roger II in 1154 caused many to flee to the hills for safety, likely taking shelter in tholos and reinforcing these old structures. This particular shelter also enjoyed a million-euro view, with perhaps the finest look at Milazzo of the whole walk.
My destination, Montalbano Elicona, appeared soon after, cutting a striking figure with its crisply crenellated castle walls and confident basilica tower. Set around 900 meters in elevation, Montalbano long held a strategically valuable position, sitting on the ancient Roman road linking the Tyrrhenian coast to the northeastern shore. With no particular urgency, I settled into the nearest cafe, though I was met with a completely disinterested barista. Once he ran out of counter to wipe, he finally instructed me to go pay for a drink first, and then return. I dutifully completed this step, only to discover that the counter still didn’t pass muster. Regardless, a minute later, without ever looking at my receipt or offering a word, he made my cappuccino and plopped it on the counter, a good bit of foam slopping over onto the saucer. In a petty mood, I sat at a table angled towards the bar and the cashier, and saw nobody else compelled to jump through the hoop I just did. And I laughed. Given the sweat stains on my shirt at this point, which are largely soap-resistant, I suppose I can’t begrudge his skepticism.
Across the street from the cafe is the Sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin, built around the wooden statue of Our Lady of Providence, likely sculpted by Alessandro Pantano in 1700. As was the case all along the Cammino Basiliano, Marian cults are at the center of devotional rites here, and the feast devoted to this Madonna is one of the biggest in the region, dating to 1675–and almost certainly coopting Pagan traditions that went back far beyond that.
If prayer didn’t work, there were swords. And lances. And polearms. And morning stars. And so many other weapons, all of them tidily laid out for display in the castle. Built by the Normans in the 11th century, as were most of the castles in Sicily, it passed through many hands before serving as a monastery for the Jesuits in the 19th century and the seat of local government in the first half of the 20th. Most memorable to me, though, was a stone sarcophagus in the ruined chapel in the keep’s interior, lined with plexiglass, but also covered in coins and bills slipped through the crack by visitors. This is the tomb of Arnaldo da Villanova, a 14th-century physician whose career saw him welcomed by popes and kings, but also targeted by the Inquisition. In those years, the line between doctor and magician, pharmacist and alchemist, could be porous indeed, and many students of the occult have found a fellow traveler in Arnaldo over the years. He died at sea off the coast of Genoa, and then his body disappeared for centuries. Until, that is, his tomb was rediscovered here during excavations in 1969.
Even after all of those visits, along with a strolling loop around town, a short cannoli break, and a stamp stop in the tourism office, it was still only just approaching noon. I popped open my email, as I had reached out to my host to see if it might be possible to check in before the scheduled 3pm arrival time. Even 2pm would be a blessing. Instead, I discovered a note indicating that they had been able to reset the space quite early, that I would find the house left unlocked, and that I could pop in any time. What I discovered was a perfectly restored village home, its walls made of stone, the floors of ceramic tiles, the old wooden stairs shined to a brilliant sheen, and restored furniture and appliances all around. So perfect is the space that it was recently used for an Italian film shoot, in the upcoming Santocielo.
Breadth and depth. The only winner in this most recent showdown between these ancient foes was me. With my feet kicked up on a footstool, and a mug of coffee in my hand, I toasted two very good, very different days.
