Magna Via Francigena, Sicily

A last wander along the shoreline before we turn inland to walk across the mountains and plains of Sicily on the Magna Via Francigena. Fishermen mending their nets. A large-scale mural; a memorial to the magistrates Falcone and Borsellino, both assassinated by the Mafia. It is bold in its presence and tender in its rendering.

The 185-kilometre route from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Mediterranean follows transhumance paths and old ways once used by pilgrims to travel to Rome, Santiago de Compostela and Jerusalem. Many of these ancient roads were lost to memory until a group of resolute Sicilians began retracing and waymarking them. The Magna Via Francigena is now attracting a new era of pilgrims keen to engage with the history, culture and traditions of the island.

Our journey starts at the Palermo Cathedral, built by a Norman bishop in 1184 on the site of an earlier Arab mosque. It’s a grandiose example of how the interplay of Western, Greek-Byzantine and Islamic cultures gave rise to new forms of architectural and artistic expression.

We walk out of the city through throngs of tourists on this Republic Day long weekend. The commemoration of the day in June 1946 when Italy voted to be a Republic seems to pass without fanfare in Palermo. No tricolour flyover, no pomp and ceremony, no fireworks.

Beyond the Porta Nuevo arches, we stop for a lemon granita to soothe our crowd-jangled nerves. Then it’s on through a brutalist concrete jungle that was once forests and citrus orchards. The Mafia’s sack of Palermo destroyed a green oasis and replaced it with this desolate expanse of grey, now decaying apartment blocks.

We climb up a stone staircase into the foothills that lead to Monreale. From our high vantage point, we look back across the plains to Palermo as a thunderstorm rolls in from the sea.

King William II of Sicily built the cathedral in Monreale as a place of royal worship in 1174. Its interior shimmers with golden mosaics, so stunning they take your breath away. Byzantine in style, they tell the story of the Old and New Testaments, beginning with the Creation story. From the terrace of the Cathedral, you can see into the cloister of an ancient Benedictine monastery. It has 228 twin columns decorated with beautiful carved Romanesque capitals that depict scenes from the Bible. In Mediaeval symbolism, the cloister represented Paradise on earth.

The morning is hazy with smoke from fires. There’s an eerie metallic glow on the horizon where the sea and sky merge. We walk across plains once sweet smelling with orange blossom before climbing the rugged hills to Altofonte.

The proprietor of the bar where we stop for a coffee recognises us as walkers on the Magna Via Francigena and offers us a timbro (stamp). Even though this is a recently waymarked route, the locals know of it and are quick to wish us a buon cammino.

Walnuts forming, mulberries ripening. A lake and a town named for the Piana degli Albanesi (the plain of the Albanians). In the late 15th century, Albanian refugees fleeing the Ottoman advance in the Balkans were given land and permission to settle in this mountainous area. They still maintain their traditions and religious rites along with the Arbereshe language.

We come across an obelisk commemorating Garibaldi and the Expedition of the Thousand. In 1860, a corps of volunteers led by Garibaldi landed in Sicily. They planned to conquer the Kingdom of Two Sicilies and advance the unification of Italy. The audacious campaign pitted a thousand men against a larger regular army and more powerful navy. The expedition was a success and concluded with a plebiscite that brought Naples and Sicily into the Kingdom of Sardinia. It was the last territorial conquest before the proclamation of the Kingdom of Italy on 17 March 1861.

Out of Santa Cristina Gela, we find ourselves in wild country. Sheer rock faces, dramatic peaks and steep mountain passes dominate the landscape. We walk on trails high above the valley before arriving at a farm/restaurant near Sant’Agata. Once the Sunday bicycle riders leave and a birthday party winds up, we’re the only guests here. Despite this, the owner cooks us a delicious dinner based on local produce. He takes the time to explain the ingredients and delights in our appreciation. The next morning he’s up at dawn to ensure we have breakfast before we set off.

Last night’s rain persists. As the thunder rumbles, we follow a winding track up through the mountains and across the high plains. Undulating fields of golden wheat patchworked with green. A profusion of wildflowers. Small stone houses, abandoned when their inhabitants left to find work in the north and now in ruins.

In the rain, the track turns to mud that clings to our shoes and attracts more mud. Walking is a hazard but we have no other option. We press on, past solar farms that are a miracle to some and a cause of concern to others. They provide the income to keep farms viable but reduce the labour needed, thus disrupting a centuries-old way of living on the land.

We come to the pine-fringed Sanctuary of Santuario Madonna di Tagliavini. There are two young monks tending to the altar flowers but no sight of the older monk who tends to pilgrims. A vending machine seems to have replaced him. Still, we’re pleased to have a respite from the rain and enough coins to extract a hot coffee.

Fields tinged bright red with French honeysuckle. Cows and sheep grazing in the lush summer pastures, their bells alerting us to their presence.

It’s rough country and the going is slow. Eventually, we reach the tarmac and walk into the mountain town of Corleone. We meet a young Mexican couple, Godfather fanatics, who travelled all day from Venice to spend a few hours here. We hadn’t made the connection but Corleone is the Mafia stronghold immortalised in Mario Puzo’s novel The Godfather and, later, Francis Ford Coppola’s film of the same name. While the Mafia provided a dramatic storyline, the reality of their reign is one of murder, oppression, terror and fear.

One of the saddest stories we hear is that of Giuseppe Letizia. A young shepherd boy, he witnessed a Mafia murder while tending his flock. Struck dumb with trauma, his father took him to hospital. Tragically, the doctor on duty was a Mafia boss. Rather than risk the boy finding his voice, he killed him with a lethal injection.

The Mafia has lost its grip on Corleone and there is now an anti-Mafia museum in town. Our guide explains that until recently, it would have been unthinkable to talk openly about Mafia-led violence and corruption, let alone the collusion of politicians, police and the business community. The turning point was the murder of Falcone and Borsellino, prosecuting magistrates who jailed many Mafia bosses. After their assassinations, the State had to act. They arrested hundreds, including the real-life Godfather, the notorious Totò Riina. He died in jail in 2017.

Breakfast in the town of ruined churches. A warm, custard-filled cornetto to sustain us on our 19-kilometre journey. We walk without pausing. The rain so heavy that there is no joy in stopping. The wind so bitter that we need to keep moving to avoid the risk of hypothermia.

The Sicani Mountains are named for the ancient people who lived here before Greek colonisation. When the Greeks arrived in the late 8th century BCE, the Sicani had worked this land for centuries. Pasture still grows on the hilly areas of clay & sandstone. The peaks, many over 1,000 metres, are the domain of rare birds of prey, including the Golden Eagle. There’s a wild beauty to the landscape and a complexity to its folds, uplifts and rugged forms.

We are walking on the same ancient road as those who came before us; Greeks, Romans, Arabs and Normans. In the higher reaches of the mountains, we meet shepherds who continue to live an age-old, semi-nomadic lifestyle. Their guttural calls echo across the mountains like some ancient song. The sheep they are tending are pinziritas, an endangered breed of domestic sheep indigenous to Sicily.

As we approach the hilltop village of Prizzi, a ridgeline of rock formations comes into view. It’s hard to distinguish what is human-made and what is natural, so markedly has the terrain shaped the vernacular architecture. We stay in accommodation provided by Sikanamente, an organisation promoting the traditions and culture of the people of the Sicani mountains. When the rain stops, we wander the maze of narrow alleyways and climb steep staircases up to fog-obscured belvederes.

The mist rising. The sun shy but promising to show itself. We walk past a high arched railway bridge and onto a via interpoderale, a lane between farms. The musky scent of fig leaves, cherries ripening. There are cows on the move. We try to find a way past but their owner suggests we stand still while he ushers the animals into an enclosure. He warns us that the track ahead is muddy underfoot due to the rain, the cows and the ruts made by his tractor.

Before long, we walk into a forest in the heart of Monti Sicani Park. The menthol-scented air is green and cool. Holm oak, strawberry trees, maples and downy oak grow here. As do magenta-hued pyramid orchids. This part of Sicily has more than 400 types of medicinal and aromatic herbs. People harvest capers, lavender, ancient grains, wild fennel, thyme and infinite varieties of sage. If you’re lucky, you might see a rare Red Kite.

Out onto the high plains, past an abandoned church and its ruin of a village. Later, we come across a herd of goats with horns twisted into a spiral form. They are Girgentanas, a domestic goat indigenous to the province of Agrigento. Like the pinzirita sheep, they are in danger of extinction.

Monte Kasser looms over the town of Castronovo di Sicilia. We tread warily around its base, concerned by the great gashes in the steel mesh designed to hold back landslides and the fallen rocks strewn on the road. On the other side of town is a sobering memorial to ‘all the victims of the Mafia’.

Francesca, our host for the evening, warmly welcomes her ‘first Australian guests’. She presents us with a bowl of new-season cherries, a tin of homemade biscuits and an array of breakfast treats.

Mint underfoot as we clear town. Mulberries ripe for the picking. Orchards of walnut, pomegranate and apricot trees. Sheep grazing on the steep, cleared slopes. Up higher, grapevines and a stand of eucalypts. We wonder if returning migrants planted them, nostalgic for the scent of the country that was their home for years.

We walk through a farm to the Grotte di Capelvenere, a system of caves dug into the rock that served as a necropolis for the Sicanian people. Then it’s across the Platani River and on to Casale di San Pietro. This mediaeval farmstead was once a hostel for wayfarers and pilgrims travelling along the Via Francigena. All that remains is a church and a crenellated stone tower.

It’s perfect walking weather. We climb up to Mt Cammorata, past the Magna Via Francigena-inspired murals that welcome pilgrims into the twin towns of Cammarata and San Giovanni Gemini.

In the daytime, San Giovanni Gemini strikes us as the domain of old men. They drift back and forward to their seats in the piazza or their favourite bar. Later on, though, the town is buzzing with young people. Who knows where they’ve been or what they’ve been doing all day but come night time, the town is theirs.

The earth’s shadow, a pink smudge above the horizon. The planets bright this clear evening. In the morning, a blue sky and a waning moon.

We leave behind the Platani River and find our way onto a trazzera. Wheat fields and, lower down, orchards planted with peaches, pistachios, almonds and prunes, brought from the Middle East by the Arab & Berber people who settled here.

The village of Acquaviva Platani is decorated with elaborate floral carpets to celebrate the feast of Corpus Christi. A local we speak to tells us that they reignited this tradition ten years ago to foster a sense of community and attract visitors. Many young people leave villages like this, but he’s developed a successful business in virgin olive oil and DOC pistachios that enables him to continue living here as his family has done for generations.

The day bright with wildflowers and butterflies. The landscape patterned with crops and divided by weathered stone walls. The rock of Sutera, a great gypsum rock rising up 820 metres, shelters the town of the same name. On a clear day, you can see My Etna from its sacred summit.

Just before Sutera, we look back and see a couple of walkers off in the distance. They’re quickly out of sight and we doubt that we saw them at all. But later in the day we meet not only these two pilgrims but a third Magna Via Francigena walker, the only people we’ve seen on the trail in seven days.

Hill towns and mountains surround us as we walk across the Monte Conca nature reserve. Birds of prey hovering. The warm air aromatic with wild herbs.

On the streets of Milena, we meet Matteo, dressed impeccably this Saturday morning. Because he cuts such a fine figure, Michael asks permission to take his photograph. He agrees on the proviso that we will send him a copy. So that we might get his address, he leads us to a bar where he finds paper, pen and a friend who can write.

A burial structure belonging to a Sicanian prince; uncovered in the past two decades. A young man of proud bearing riding a horse bareback through the main street of Racalmuto. A statue honouring the writer, Leonardo Sciascia, near the bar where he enjoyed eating Sicilian cannoli.

Last night, everyone in Grotte was out, watching soccer on the big screen set up in the piazza. This morning there’s not a soul about as we set out on our last and longest day on the Magna Via Francigena.

A falcon hovering above its prey. From high up on the ridge we look down on a fractured landscape, shaped by thousands of years of natural catastrophes and human endeavour.

We walk through the old sulphur mining town of Comitini and on to Aragona. Here too they are preparing to honour Corpus Christi. A group of people are creating a ‘floral’ carpet with sand and coffee grounds that the procession will walk upon. Pietro, a devout Catholic, takes us in hand and explains the symbolism of each section of the carpet. A young boy, confident in English, tells us that the feast day is important for the nation and, even more so, for the Catholic church.

Despite there being little available for lunch in Joppolo Giancaxio, we are full of the joy of walking. The 32-kilometre day glides by. We follow the valley floor and meander around hills until we are close to the outskirts of Agrigento. There the day deteriorates. The heat intensifies, the rubbish dumped by the side of the road mounts and the way into town is re-routed. It’s kilometres longer than anticipated. We trudge along a shadeless road and up a steep, rough path, scrambling over fallen trees that we curse, our water bottles long empty and us parched.

Past our best, we arrive at the pilgrims’ office in the cathedral just as it is opening. A last stamp in our credential. The issuing of a testimonial. A view of the Mediterranean Sea. An open bar. A salt-tinged Sicilian beer in hand. We regain our equilibrium and toast our walk together, across the wild mountains of Sicily, from one coast to another.

The next day we explore the enthralling Valley of Temples. This archeological site dates back to the 6th century BCE when it was one of the wealthiest cities in Ancient Greece. The Temple of Concordia, named after the goddess of harmony, is one of the best-preserved Greek Temples in the world. The poignant statue of Icarus that lies fallen at its base is a modern work by the Polish artist, Igor Mitoraj. His broken-winged Icarus, inspired by the concept of broken beauty, together with the magnificent and monumental nature of the valley, sums up Sicily to us. It’s a fitting place to end our Magna Via Francigena.

If you enjoyed wandering across Sicily with us, then you might also like our story of walking the Via Francigena from Canterbury to Rome and from Rome to the heel of Italy.