Mountains

On the train between Catania and Taormina Giardini

It's a warm day and Etna is clear against a blue sky on my left and the sea on my right. I'm getting familiar with this route having been up and down this route twice before.

Beyond that medieval Hill town over there, that will be new country.

Already it's lusher and more fertile, lemons, plant nurseries, vines, like Nonnos garden.

Morning Glory grows like a weed over the trees close to the railway line. Lantana is grown as a pretty garden flower everywhere I've been so far.

But as I go I contemplate mountains. What compells me about them? Is it their presence over a place and the way it shapes life around it? It's ancient formation like Kunyani. Or more recent with Etna, the sleeping giant. It gives water. It gives soil to grow the best crops, that then become the wine and the food. Life.

Fiumefreddo station again now. All ahead is new.

But Kunanyi (Mt Wellington) has made an indelible impression on my soul.  LIke a body with so many parts to explore. The dry eucalypts of the Summerleas Ridge, the damp man- ferns in the valleys, the scree slopes and potato fields up higher, the snowgum belt, then the giant monoliths and wild winds that blow on top. The wind flatened plants and mosses around little pools. On days with clear blue skies you could see mountains, islands and estuaries for as far as the eye can see. Or on others be totally enshrouded in mist seeing only a few of metres in front of you at a time.

On top of a mountain I feel joy. I feel on top of the world.

My mind has slowed and I can just be where I am, in this environment, carrying just the sweat of my efforts to arrive there. There is nothing more fulfilling.

And somehow everything becomes clear. My life becomes clear. And the truth, or guidance, or God, speaks to me. Slowly, Clearly. Everything in my world makes sense. I know what is important, and what is not. I know who is important. And I see the pathways.

Kunanyi is my temple.

And it is no wonder that in a sheltered place under the organ pipes, in among the trees and shrubs and flowers and rocks with flittering birds darting here and there, are the ashes of Mum, and Lizzy and Helen. And one day my ashes too.

Now I am in Taormina, and I just wanted to finish thinking and writing about this 'montanaphillia' thing.

Because it's like a body. And Etna is in the making. However slowly. Sometimes she explodes with gas, and throws out rocks, then lava flows down her flanks, covering villages and roads sometimes.

Then over time lichen grows. It neutralises the acidity. And then flowers grow. And then later when there is enough soil to be made through the friction of water and ice, then birch forests grow. Then mushrooms grow. And sheep goats and rabbits roam. And lady birds visit.

And one day it maybe covered in lava again. It gives life and it takes away.

On Etna like Kunanyi, there were icehuts we visited. Before refrigeration, in the 1800s, they would pack ice into these hollows. Then take it to town to fetch a good price.  in Tasi they wrapped the ice in blankets. On Etna the pumicy rock provided a good insulation.

Now I've mused about mountains I will go out and explore the town of Taormina.