22/07 Ali Terme to Mussomeli, Sicily

Still feeling the aches and pains of the previous days lengthy ride we set off at a leisurely pace. Struggling to feel enthused by the prospect of another ride, albeit considerably shorter. The going was slow as we humped our heavily loaded bikes through the ever narrowing streets of tiny coastal town after tiny coastal town. You’d be hard pressed to find a more apt term than ‘rustic’ to describe many of these, often, cobbled streets but it makes hard going in the local traffic.

I think Rob was getting increasingly frustrated at the lack of progress and his bike was still running rather lumpily. The idea of jumping onto the Autostrada was banded about briefly but with Siesta time fast approaching we figure that the roads would soon empty out allowing us to keep to the original plan. Our faith is rewarded and we’re soon motoring again. Soon enough we have to give in and picking up the Autostrada at Catania did little to lift our gloom about it. The road lead in-land toward the heart of Sicily and as the day grew hotter the land dried and became more and more arid. An impressive ‘lunar’ landscape of yellow and orange peaks sprawled all around. Steve somehow managed to totally miss the impressive smoking peak that was Mount Etna, Europe’s only active volcano!

We became increasingly parched and dehydrated in the scorched environment making me sleepy until we were left with no option to stop and seek refreshments in a service station before pressing on in the growing heat to just after Caltanisetta where we were back on good old fashioned country lanes, along with herds of sheep and the odd stretch of ‘off road’ (although, at least the Sicilians had the good humour to warn you first with signs). One such sign did look like it might have been suggesting a road closure and although we pushed on regardless, I suspect our initial reading of the sign may have been correct! Subsidence had caused the road to ‘fall off’ the side of the hill leading to some challenging ride-around-solutions.

Our good friend Carlo had (after his initial surprise) arranged for us to stay at his Uncle’s ‘Countryside’ house. I must admit that everything certainly was looking very countrified but as we rounded the final corner before entering Mussomeli we were met with an astonishing view of the castle. Carlo had shown me many pictures of his families home town including numerous sketches, paintings and pictures of the castle so an intriguing sense of deja vu now engulfed me seeing it for real. We pulled into the main street with a name (Laura, Carlo’s english speaking cousin), an address and some basic skills in mime.

After trawling up what appeared to be the main drag, and presented with what could only be a maze of tiny streets, we spotted a parked up Caribinieri vehicle and tried to convey to them our dilemma. We were told to follow them – back down the street and stop outside a shop, from where they fetched a young lady who, apparently, was English. She wasn’t in fact, as we’d first suspected, Laura but did translate our needs to the officers who told us to follow them once more. With our police escort we meandered through the labyrinthine medieval streets until we stopped finally in Via Fredrica. They seemed genuinely confused and shocked to not know the name Schifano – and rightly so, Laura is part of Carlo’s maternal side of the family, the family Nigrelli – a fact which had never occurred to either of us, nor to Carlo for that matter! A neighbour, interest piqued by the police presence, knew Laura though and soon showed us the right door to knock on.

I sincerely doubt that I’ll ever meet people more hospitable than Sicileans. Right from the outset a foray of activity buzzed around us as our every need was catered for. Refreshing cold drinks were poured just as fast as we could consume them (in our depths of dehydration that was at an impressive rate I can tell you!) our dirty clothing was taken almost forcibly from us and put instantly in a machine (whilst we protested and blushed awkwardly). Towels, sheets and food were gathered and we were promptly led up the road to the ‘countryside’ house. About 5 minutes out of town was a humble yet utterly fabulous abode. The view from the aromatic garden alone was a postcard, with seemingly the whole of Sicily seemingly spread before us. To the right, in the middle distance, a church stood proudly on the very top of a volcanic plug in which, by all accounts, lays rest St Peter (the something or other). A mass of hills, farms and villages fills the rest of the scene to the hazy horizon – AMAZING!

We were left alone to shower and settle in – in doing so, Steve managed to pull the handle off the inside of the bathroom door and lock himself in! A good half hour passed, with Steve shouting for help out of the tiny bathroom window and Rob pacing up and down the garden just out of earshot, desperate for a shower himself, cursing Steve for taking so long! The bikes were duly parked up in the shade of the woodstore and unloaded and we set ourselves up in the house. The trust was staggering. We’d essentially had the entire house put at our disposal an hour after our arrival. Us, two previously unknown bikers who had appeared essentially from nowhere and knocked on the door with little or no notice and a police escort! It still amazes and humbles me now!

After we’d made ourselves a little more presentable the whole family gradually started to arrive to meet us, bringing with them boxes and boxes of food and drink and astoundingly given the timescale a neat pile of freshly laundered and neatly folded clothes. Laura’s Father and Mother were brilliant – neither spoke a word of English (which is still more than we spoke of Italian) but both were so well humoured that language just didn’t seem to matter.

Laura’s Mother’s (Carlo’s Aunt) only concern seemed to be that we ate and ate well. Whereas Dad seemed to be quite insistent that we drank. We had no problem with either of those demands it must be said! Much of what we ate and drank (which was MUCH) was home grown. The figs, the tomatoes and herbs on the bruschetta, the spaghetti, even the sausage and pork was local. The food seemed never-ending and we were told that not to eat is offensive – although I thought I might explode I dutifully ate my fill and then some. What we thought was a delicious main course of pasta turned out instead to be just the starter, ahead of the “meat course” – a carnivorous feast of huge steaks and bulging sausages fit for a caveman. Neither of us had stomachs used to this kind of veritable feast after 25 days on the road… however we struggled admirably on.

Life on the road, like a travelling hobo, can have the effect of leaving you feeling like a savage of the wilds, so to be treated this well felt very odd. In fact, if it hadn’t been quite so pleasurable I think I would have found it quite unsettling – like being fattened up for the slaughter.

Laura’s brother Silvio had arrived on a Honda CBR600 and, after dinner (and several drinks), shot off at break-neck speed to return what seemed like moments later with a car. Along with Laura’s friend Enza-Rita we were all chauffeured into town in typical European style – terrifying! Squirrelled away among the towering back streets are a host of cool little bars that only a local would know or ever find. We were taken to one where a four piece band played rock classics (although, often with improvised lyrics to the amusement of the few English speakers amongst us). The place was heaving with young Sicilian revellers all having a whale of a time. The whole spirit of Musomelli was infectious and I was loving it, especially when the band broke into a medley of Guns n’ Roses tunes.

From there to yet another back street bar to meet more friends – everyone happy and friendly. None of the aggression or attitude endemic across much of Britain’s pub culture. Silvio took us home via the more scenic route, proudly showing us the many historic sites of Mussomeli including the Church of Our Lady (home to a genuine miracle no less!), the oldest building in town and Carlo’s Nan’s house. The small cobbled streets would be a challenge to any driver, let alone one with a skin full of booze – how Silvio navigated that labyrinth leaves me in awe!