Circumnavigating Etna in a tiny weeny train. I was late getting up when Giangi drove me to Borgo to Take ll with the little train.
I caught it within a hare's breath, leaving 20 Euro on the counter, and the ticket seller, saying 'vai subito, dirito' - quick jump on!
As I did I realised I didnt have a ticket. (writing now from a Cafe in Fiumefreddo). The little train took off, with all its little seats filled, as it headed inland on its little tracks.
When the conductor came I said 'ho pagato 20 Euro al'ufficio ma non ho un biglietto' it was fine. He gave me a ticket and 12.50 change, purely on my word.
So we go into amazing country where we can see Etna beyond rolling farm country of pistachios and a million prickley pears in full fruit of reds and oranges.
I hear a man with a loud voice behind me informing a tall Quebec man about all there is to know. A bit Daddish.
He says the core of Etna goes down 145 kms into the earth. He says Etna is the son. The father volcano was much bigger but exploded itself, giving birth to little Etna. Have we got the gender right here?
The man says pistachio trees have long roots to reach the water. They grow wildly out of the sparse soil.between volcanic rocks. As do the olives.
In some places there are only rocks, solidified in their molten states. You can see the lava flow in their form. Others are more craggy.
As the little train climbs higher we pass many little towns, picking up and dropping off school kids as we go. The man with the loud voice says this town is famous for its strawberries, and this one is famous for its mushrooms.
When the train stops at Randazzo we alight and the Quebec gentleman skiddaddles. having missed breakfast my first priority is to find a Cafe.
Once sated, I can explore. as I explore the man with the loud voice turns to me, and we walk to the Norman Church together. We talk about the dark volcanic rock of this church compared to the lightness of Siracusa.
His name is Francesco. He was born in Sicily, lived in Rome, the ln returned 20 years ago. He is a researcher at the University of Literature in Catania, specialising in WW2 archaeology.
It is a lively conversation that goes in many directions, and I enjoy some of his insights. Like about love and fear being opposite sides of a coin, and our choices as a human race. I'm able to talk about Australia and our refugee policy playing on fear for political gain.
He asked the locals for the best place to eat so we go there together. I have a beautiful melanzana dish with baked provlone, which he said was a typical Arabic dish. And we share a litre of red wine.
Except I realise I have the train to catch to continue on, and he doesn't. I have 4 mins to run to the station. He said he'd foot the bill. I thanked him and ran.
What an extraordinary encounter. He gave me the names of musicians he loved, but I didn't have any info about him.
Only that he said 'everything is energy', 'our bodies are 70% water and music resonates with this'
Mmmm.
Well on my way circumnavigating Etna in the little train. Rubbing knees with a Yorkshire couple, so we strike up a conversation. They're regulars to Sicily.
The train then hits the coast. That means we must be near Fiume Freddo. I photograph like mad, not knowing if I will reach there.
Everything is so green and fertile.
The little train finishes at Gardia. I find it is easy to catch a train to Fiumefreddo from there, and I wait less than 5 mins. 10mins later I'm there.
I ask when the next train back to Catania is. Half an hour. I got worried it might be the last one, so I didn't stay long. I roamed along some streets, then headed back. Except the road was blocked because of the train and so I missed the train. There was another train in another 30 mins. So I hung out at a local Cafe and had a Cafe Freddo. I realise you always seem to pay someone at a booth and someone else serves you.
Fiumefreddo struck me as somewhere particularly fertile. Lemons galore. Nurseries. cane. Etna was there behind the clouds. And there not too far away was the sea. And somewhere was the cold river from whence it derived it's name.
This the home of the Catalano family, the Nicolosi s and others who uprooted to migrate to Australia. Another few years and the economy in Italy also lifted and there was more work. But without this I would never have met Angelo and Nikki and Rosie would never have been born. Or maybe they would? Who knows?
But I am satisfied now, as the train finishes it's last leg back to Catania.
I have circumnavigated Etna.
