Marvejols and the Beast of Gévaudan

My journey back through France takes me north on the A75 Mediterranean Motorway past many places that I have already visited: Roquefort, Brioude, Issoire and Vichy.

This year I stop at the town of Marvejols, once a Royal borough and the capital of the Gévaudan. The town was fortified during the Hundred Years War but later, during the 16^th century, much of the town was destroyed when the Catholics, led by the Duke of Joyeuse, massacred the protestant population, burned their homes and destroyed the fortifications.

Henry of Navarre, who later became King Henry IV, stepped in to save Marvejols, rebuilding much of the town, including the three main gateways.

The former province of Gévaudan is synonymous with a terrible tale of the Beast of Gévaudan. Not some mysterious myth but a real story of terror which took place between 1764 and 1767. Research of historical records show that the ‘beast’ may have killed up to 100 people as it hunted throughout an area of about 80 square kilometres. Witnesses who survived attacks described it as being similar to a wolf, but as large as a calf and with red hair. Some people have speculated that it may have been an escaped exotic animal such as a lion or hyena and the attacks do seem similar to man-eating lion accounts from Africa.

The first recorded attack was of a young woman tending cattle in the Mercoire forest in the summer of 1764 and the first fatal victim took place soon after when 14-year-old Janne Boulet was killed near the village of Les Hubacs. The attacks continued throughout the year, victims being mostly lone men, women and children tending livestock in the forests around Gévaudan.

On January 12, 1765, Jacques Portefaix and some friends were attacked by the Beast but managed to drive it away. Louis XV heard about this and compensated the men, declaring that the French state would help find and kill the beast. Two professional wolf-hunters, Jean Charles Marc Antoine Vaumesle d’Enneval and his son Jean-François, were sent to Gévaudan. They arrived on February 17, 1765, with bloodhounds trained in wolf-hunting. For four months they hunted Eurasian wolves believing them to be the beast but the attacks continued. In June 1765 they were replaced by François Antoine the king’s Lieutenant of the Hunt and on September 20 he killed a very large grey wolf, nicknamed Le Loup de Chazes after the nearby Abbaye des Chazes. The animal was stuffed and sent to Versailles where Antoine was received as a hero and well rewarded. However, the attacks continued.

When Jean Chastel shot a large wolf during a hunt on June 19, 1767, the attacks finally stopped. Some writers suggested that it was shot with a blessed silver bullet and when opened, human remains were found in the animal’s stomach.

There are no wild wolves in the region today but just north of Mavejols is the Parc Les Loups du Gévaudan, where some 100 wolves from Poland, Siberia, Mongolia, the Arctic and Canada can be visited. There are exhibitions about the Beast of Gévaudan as well as educational displays about wolves to dispel the myth that they are ferocious, deadly animals. Perhaps one day they will be reintroduced to the wild here, as has occurred in other places in Europe.

 

 

Santa Rosalia and the Black Madonna

It’s not an auspicious start to my pilgrimage up Monte Pellegrino, a large rocky promontory to the west of Palermo. I’ve decided to catch the bus up the mountain but I’m standing on the wrong side of the road. Luckily, the driver has seen enough wayward tourists to realise my intended destination and stops to beckon me over. There’s only one other passenger and he seems intent on explaining the best spot for the views. This seems to be up front, next to the driver who is swinging wildly round hairpin bends with one hand. In the other is a cigarette. He honks his horn loudly at each blind bend to warn oncoming traffic of his intent (not to stop) and narrowly overtakes the masochistic cyclists who are practising to be ‘King of the Mountains’.

We reach the sanctuary of Santa Rosalia in one piece and I give an offering in thanks for my safe arrival. Rosalia was probably the daughter of the Duke of Sinibaldo who decided to reject her wealthy life and live as a hermit in one of the caves on the mountain and ultimately died there in 1166. Her bones were miraculously rediscovered in 1624, just in time to save the city of Palermo from the plague, and since then she has been honoured as the patron saint of the city.

Her cave is now hidden behind the Baroque façade of a church, but inside it is still just a cave. The ‘miraculous’ water dripping down the walls is captured by metal plates artistically arranged to direct it into a stone basin.

 

 

 

 

 

Rosalia is everywhere – a statue in a glass coffin with one of her bones in a reliquary, another smaller statue on top with a tooth embedded in its heart, a bust half hidden in a cavity above, another statue at the end and a fresco on the wall. In the entrance are traditional silver votive offerings as well as less traditional ones which mostly seem to be children’s clothes or toys, though I do spy the odd football scarf.

I return to Palermo on foot using a very scenic cobbled pilgrim’s path which passes through the pine forest and then zig-zags down a gorge where it finally emerges into frantic downtown traffic. I pass a few more masochistic cyclists who for some reason are straining up the cobbled path instead of the smooth tarmac road. Perhaps it is their form of penance.

100 kms to the east I’m driving to another rocky promontory (there are quite a few along the north coast of Sicily) to visit another religious sanctuary. This one is dedicated to a Byzantine Black Madonna which arrived from Constantinople in the 9^th century and has been known to perform miracles, such as producing a soft cushion of sand to break the fall of a child who fell from the cliffs above. 

I arrive at the large lower car park and find it completely empty with no sign of the promised shuttle bus, so I continue up the road and park in the higher disabled parking area which is also completely empty. After several months of observing the driving rules (or rather lack of them) in Greece and Italy, I’ve finally gone native.

The sanctuary was built in the 1960’s to replace a much smaller chapel but it’s not over-the-top like many others I have visited, In fact it’s quite tasteful with paintings of the life and death of Jesus lining the walls, colourful stained-glass window of saints and a large apse where the Black Madonna is enthroned, looking down upon those who have come to pray for her help.

Beyond the sanctuary is the archaeological site of Tyndaris. It’s a beautiful sunny day and I’m keen to clamber around some more Roman remains but I’m to be disappointed for this is one of the poorest maintained sites that I have visited in Sicily. There are no information boards, even in Italian, and no marked pathways. The paths that do exist are completely overgrown, and very wet after a night of showers, and high wire fences stop me from reaching any decent viewpoints.

I’m a little placated when I finally find the partially restored Basilica and a Roman house which has some interesting mosaic floors, though these would be even better if someone bothered to sweep and clean them occasionally. I’m tempted to ask for my money back but the staff at the reception desk made it quite clear that they didn’t understand any English and my Italian is certainly not good enough to argue my case.

As I leave I spot a police car that has driven up to the viewpoint. It’s unclear whether it is patrolling or if the occupants just want a nice view for their coffee break. It makes me wonder if Trixie might have been penalised for her poor choice of parking spot but when I get back to the car park there is no ticket, no clamp and not even any other cars. Perhaps I’m being protected by the Black Madonna or, more likely I’m just benefitting from the laissez-faire attitude of the Italian police.

 

 

Caccamo, Cefalu and Castelbuono

In my last week on Sicily, I potter along the northern coast. The S113 runs close to the shore, criss-crossing the railway line, which does the same, providing wonderful views out to sea and occasionally I can spot the volcanic Aeolian Islands. However, I manage to drag myself away from the coast and venture inland to the mountains where the Normans erected some pretty impressive castles.

The first of these dominates the town of Caccamo. Built in the 12^th century, it is a memorial to the art of defence. Thick walls, steep approaches, plus twists and turns all combine to confuse would-be attackers. Not to mention the boiling oil, sling shots and arrows that any invader would have to face if they did get that close.

Captives were slung into the prison cells where they doodled on the plaster walls until they were freed or, more often, killed. There’s also an oubliette for those unlucky enough to be forgotten and left to starve to death in the dark hole.

On the scenic terrace above is a plaque which details the story of two prisoners who escaped the hangman’s noose by using sheets as parachutes to jump from the walls. One died and the survivor, badly injured, was put back into the prison until the lord of the castle felt that he should be freed for his bravery, or perhaps his stupidity!

 

 

Most of the rooms are decorated with period pieces, such as furniture, clothing and arms. They are also being used to exhibit artwork by Sicilian artists.

In the small chapel I learn of another gruesome tale. Undesired guests were brought here believing they could pray, but when they knelt at the altar, a trapdoor opened and they fell onto spikes in the chamber below. It is commonly known as the ‘Trick Room’.

Leaving behind the medieval torture tales of Caccamo, I head back to the coast and the town of Cefalu, which sits below a rocky promontory known as La Rocca. I’m here to see the cathedral, built by Roger II in gratitude for his safe landing during a violent storm. The 12^th century Duomo features an apse with a mosaic of Christ Pantocrator, much like the one in Monreale, but overall I’m disappointed with the visit.

More interesting is the Saracen lavatoio, a stone wash house near the beach which I arrive at just before a large school party of Palermo teenagers.

I head back into the mountains to see the beautiful castle of Castelbuono, although it’s not actually that beautiful and, after Caccamo, is a real let down. Even the fact that the chapel on the top floor houses the skull of St Anne is not enough to hold my interest.

 

Luckily, the 14^th century Church of Matrice Vecchia charms me. The interior is not that special but a trip down into the crypt causes my jaw to drop. The walls are covered with amazing 16^th and 17^th century frescos depicting Christ’s life from the Last Supper to the Resurrection. They are so vibrant in colour that I find it hard to believe that they haven’t been retouched.

 

 

Another charming aspect of the town is its determination to be eco-friendly. Greengrocer trucks selling local produce are parked at the edge of town, a water dispenser offers locals (and me) the chance to recycle bottles and fill them with cheap, clean water (5c per litre) and best of all, donkeys patrol the streets to collect the rubbish. Unlike the 5* hotel at Eze in France, Castelbuono wants to retain these cheap and cheerful animals instead of replacing them with electric golf carts!

 

The Cappuccini Catacombs – I See Dead People!

In a northern district of Palermo, surrounded by ugly concrete apartment blocks, hides the church of Santa Maria della Pace where, in tunnels beneath the church the Capuchin monks have been storing the preserved bodies of the dead for nearly 500 years. It all began in 1534 and it was initially only the bodies of the monks who were left in the colatoio (preserving room) to dry out. Later, local prominent families bought their dearly beloved here for storage.

I’m alone for my visit and it is quite creepy down below. The corridors are literally lined with bodies, some mere skeletons clothed in their Sunday best, others with leathery skin and hair. They are segregated into sections: Clergy, soldiers, professionals, virgins and babies. Indeed, it is the children who are most scary, still wearing their best bonnets. In the furthest corner I find one of the last to be interred in the catacombs and one of the best preserved. 2 year old Rosalia looks like she is asleep in her glass-topped coffin. Doctor Alfredo Salafia had trialled a new process in 1920 which seems to have preserved her features perfectly. Luckily he died before he could work his magic on more cadavers or the catacombs would have ended up looking like a wax museum.

Out of respect for the dead there are signs asking for no photos to be taken, so those illustrating this blog post are taken from the internet.

You may be asking yourself if the Capuchin Monks had anything to do with the delicious cappuccino coffee that has become very popular all over the world. Well there is a connection but the exact truth is hard to decipher.

Some people believe it is because the colour of the coffee matched the colour of the monks’ robes. The word ‘cappuccino’ comes from Latin caputium and the Italian form means ‘hood’ or something that covers the head, and it is the hooded robes worn by monks and nuns of the capuchin order that it is named after.

 

Others think that a monk invented the drink in the 17th century and named it after his order. Legend says that in 1683, following a victory over the Ottomans in the Battle of Vienna, soldiers fighting for Marco d’Aviano, a monk from the Capuchin order, found a hoard of coffee. They found the coffee alone too strong and so they diluted it with cream and honey creating a new version of coffee drink.

 

The Churches of Palermo and Monreale

As I’ve mentioned many times before, I’m not a religious person but I do find it hard to pass a church without popping inside. I’m drawn by the amazing architecture and interior decoration that I usually find within, as well as the opportunity for a moment of peace in what is sometimes a busy town or city.

Most people who visit Palermo will find themselves at the Cathedral. The exterior is a beautiful mish-mash of styles; Norman arches, Gothic turrets and Baroque capitals. However, the interior is a disappointment. The Royal Tombs are screened off and inaccessible without paying a fee and the chapels are rather plain.

Luckily, there are plenty of other churches in the city and, although they may not be as grand in scale, they are actually a lot more interesting and beautiful. The first church I find near to La Cala, in an area that was mostly destroyed by WWII bombing. Santa Maria della Pieta has a very theatrical feel – red curtains, and gold wooden boxes topped with organ pipes.

 

 

 

I only have 5 minutes to see the Church of San Francesco d’Assisi as the guardian is about to lock up but he patiently waits while I wander and examine the exquisitely carved marble apse and a marble tomb by Domenico Gagini that seems so lifelike that I half expect the occupant to wake up and wander off.

Probably one of the most visited churches in Palermo is also one of the smallest. The 12^th century San Cataldo was built by Maione di Bari using Arab labour, hence the Arabic influenced décor in the windows and the domes on the roof. There is also a lovely mosaic floor and it is a very peaceful place. Bizarrely, during the 18^th century it was deconsecrated and used as a post office.

Next door is the 12^th century La Martorana, so called because Eloisa della Martorana, who founded the nearby convent, used to decorate the church with marzipan fruits which are still a local Palermo treat. The ceilings are covered with a mixture of golden mosaics and Baroque frescos but somehow the two complement each other and it is one of the most beautiful churches that I have ever visited, and I’ve seen quite a lot.

 

 

 

 

I want to visit the church of San Nicolo which is advertised as having a 13^th century watchtower offering some of the best views of the city. Even though I am not far from the Cathedral, I find myself in the Albergheria, the oldest and now the poorest area of Palermo. The streets are full of graffiti, dripping laundry, abandoned broken toys and immigrant youths. Changing direction, I duck into the 17^th century Il Gesu, also known as Casa Professa. Founded by the Jesuits, it took more than 100 years to complete and was later badly damaged in WWII. However, the church was lovingly restored to its former Baroque splendour and even featured in the 1963 film Il Gattopardo (The Leopard), based on the book by Tomasi di Lampedusa.

San Salvatore church, on the main thoroughfare of Corso Vittorio Emanuele, is an unusual shape, almost completely circular. The original church was founded in 1071 by Robert Guiscard as a convent for Basilian nuns. In 1682 the nuns decided that they needed a new structure and the present elliptical design was proposed by architect Paolo Amato. Like many other buildings in Palermo, the church suffered severe damage during WWII causing the collapse of the dome but it was restored and found a new use as a concert hall.

I decide against visiting the Palatine Chapel in the Palazzo Normani due to the extortionate entrance fee but, just around the corner, I stumble upon the church of San Giorgio di Kemonia which is frustratingly closed. However, for €2 I can climb the tower for a proposed view of the city. I’m given a hard hat to wear before I set off and, at first as I climb the interior stairs, I wonder why, but when I reach the spiral metal staircase which is loosely fixed within the tower, all becomes clear, as does the vista. The tower is not that high but it does offer a great view across to the Palazzo Normanni, the Cathedral and Monte Pellegrino in the distance. I can also see down to the red domed roof of the 12^th century church of San Gregorio degli Ermiti and the charming little cloister in the garden.

Monreale

8kms from Palermo, in the foothills to the south, is the town of Monreale (Royal Mountain). The cathedral and adjoining monastery were endowed by King William II in 1174 and he employed some of the best craftsmen to build and decorate them.

Having already seen the marvellous mosaics of the churches in Ravenna, I have a good idea of what to expect from the Duomo of Monreale. However, what I really find distinctive about the mosaics in this cathedral is their ability to tell a story. The bible has literally been lifted from the page onto the walls and ceilings. It’s easy to appreciate God creating the earth, then Adam and Eve, Cain killing his brother Abel, Abraham about to sacrifice his son and Noah leading the animals onto and then off of the ark. The New Testament is also featured and Christ stands proudly in the central Apse, arms outstretched in a welcoming posture.

In a side chapel I find the tombs of William I and William II, and beyond are the cloisters, accessed through and external doorway off the piazza. More than 200 columns with intricately carved capitals surround the open courtyard. Again, they tell biblical stories, illustrate battles and depict other historical events, such as William II giving the church to the Virgin Mary. Some feature tradesmen, others depict animals, both real and mythical, and a few are rather sexual in nature. I’ve seen several beautiful cloisters in my travels but this is one of the best and I spent almost an hour in the tranquil space examining the capitals, amazed at the artistic skill of the men who produced them more than 800 years ago.

Palermo – 2500 Years of History

Arriving in Palermo after 24 hours of continuous rain does have its advantages as I don’t have to play dog shit hopscotch as many other visitors have done in the past. Although incredibly busy, the streets are remarkably clean. With a population of 700,000, not including the many illegal immigrants living here, it’s hard to imagine what the city would have been like 2500 years ago when it was a small Phoenician colony.

I start my tour of historical Palermo at the 16^th century Porta Felice, the main gate next to the quaint, old harbour of La Cala. Although the area was badly damaged by WWII bombing, some ancient buildings survived, including the fortress-like, 14^th century Palazzo Chiaramonte, which housed the inquisition between 1685 and 1782. The walls still feature graffiti of the former prisoners and it is a popular tourist attraction managed by students of the university which is now located in the building. It overlooks the jungle-like Giardino Garibaldi where some very old and very large fig trees still reside.

Down a side alley, I locate the 18^th century Palazzo Mirto which boasts original décor and furnishings. A visit is like stepping back in time, with carriages stored in the stables, collections of china and artwork, black & white family photos and even a secret passage hidden behind a Greek marble statue. The Filangeri family lived here until 1982 when the house was donated to the Region of Sicily.

My favourite places to visit are often the ones not mentioned in the guide books and it is only thanks to the lovely lady in the Tourist Office that I dare to enter the Municipo (Town Hall). With half a dozen intimidating police officers stood in the doorway it’s easy to assume that there is no public access but I am welcomed inside and directed up a large marble staircase to the council chambers where I’m allowed to roam around at will. Some of the rooms are quite sumptuous, filled with statues and busts of famous Palermitani and a collection of golden guns presented to Palermo by Napoleon.

Outside in Piazza Pretoria is the beautiful 16^th century Florentine fountain, so called because it was originally designed for a villa in Florence. Its alternative name is the ‘Fountain of Shame’ due to the presence of naked female figures fondling their breasts. The lower part of the fountain is surrounded with all manner of beasts spouting water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beyond the 12^th century Cathedral, next to the impressive 14^th century Porta Nuova, is the massive Palazzo dei Normanni. Built by the Saracens in the 9^th century, it is one of the oldest surviving structures in the city. The Normans enlarged it and the Spanish expanded it further resulting in hundreds of rooms, many of which are used by the Sicilian Parliament. Sadly, the Royal Apartments are closed when I try to visit and the main exhibition happens to be ‘Treasures of the Sicilian Seas’ which I have already seen at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford.

Instead, I move on to the Salinas Archaeological Museum, named for its most important Director of Antiquities. It is currently being refurbished and only the ground floor is open to visitors. However, because of this it is free. I mainly want to see the metopes from Selinunte and fortunately they are on display in one of the ground floor rooms. I’m interested to discover that many of the founding pieces of the museum once belonged to the English Consul Robert Fagan who funded many archaeological digs on Sicily and amassed a large collection of artefacts. When he committed suicide in 1816, due to concerns over huge debts, the Sicilian government took possession of his collection before his widow could sell them off.

The narrow backstreet between the Museum and the Massimo is lined with puppet theatres and I’m lucky to find someone cleaning the puppets in preparation for a weekend show. Palermo has a long history of puppet theatre. Pupi, the large Sicilian rod puppets, date from the 1600s and traditional stories enacted often tell of the adventures of Charlemagne. However, other famous Italians are also featured, such as Garibaldi and King Vittorio Emanuele.

The 19^th century Massimo Theatre is the largest opera house in Italy with an impressive neoclassical design. The façade was influenced by the temples of Agrigento and Selinunte and the entrance is guarded by two lions. Inside are five rows of boxes and an opulent gallery with a beautiful ceiling fresco, but I don’t see them as, although it’s possible to have a guided tour inside the theatre, at €8 per person for 30 mins I decide to save my money for other things.

Just down the road is another theatre, the 19^th century Politeama Garibaldi. It’s not as beautiful as the Massimo but the bronze chariot and horses above the entrance reminds me of St Mark’s Basilica in Venice. However, instead of pigeons, the pedestrianised square in front of the theatre is populated by skateboarders and homeless men.

 

Odysseus and George Clooney

My path has crossed that of the mythical Odysseus several times already on this trip. The Nekromanteion in Greece is mentioned in Homer’s Odyssey, as is Nestor’s Palace in the Peloponnese where Telemachus sought help from the king while searching for his father Odysseus. In Sicily, the port of Aci Trezza is supposedly the site where Odysseus escaped from the cyclops Polyphemus and the picturesque islands in the harbour are said to be the rocks that the blinded cyclops threw after him.

Now, I find myself having lunch in the Bay of Guidaloca, believed to be the place where Naisicaa found the shipwrecked Odysseus and helped him to set off on the final part of his return journey to Ithaca.

Not far away is the Tonnara di Scopello, an old tuna fishery set in an idyllic cove, guarded by ancient watchtowers built upon rocky columns. Since it closed down in the 1980s it has become a tourist attraction and was also used for the filming of ‘Ocean’s Twelve’ with George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Catherine Zeta Jones.

In Castellamare del Golfo, the largest of the local fishing ports along the coastline, I learn more about the tuna fishing industry in the Museum, which is housed in the Norman castle overlooking the harbour. I’m amazed at the size of the tuna fish shown in the black and white photos and wonder if any of the tuna are allowed to get that big these days due to overfishing.

Erice is Melting

Like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz, Erice is melting. After several days of storms, during which the hilltop town was blanketed in snow and cut off, the sun has come out and is turning the streets into slushy streams. It’s not the most romantic of conditions under which to view the ancient city of Eryx, supposedly the site where Daedalus landed after fleeing from Minos. In season, a trip to Erice usually starts with a ride on a cable car offering exciting views back down to Trapani, the coastal salt pans and the Egadi Islands. This time of year it involves a drive up a steep road to get the same views but it is definitely worth it.

I’m disappointed that the museum, the castle (built on the temple of Aphrodite Erycina) and all of the churches are closed but I guess that they weren’t expecting anyone to be visiting given the extreme weather. I have the streets to myself most of the time but I do chat to a lovely local man, out walking his dog, who had no idea that he’d been cut off from civilisation. Hopefully the few residents that do live in the town year-round had a good supply of food in their cupboards as there are no supermarkets in Erice. As a last resort I’m sure they could raid the souvenir shops which stock an extraordinary selection of local products at equally extraordinary prices.

Opposite the post office is a small café where they could also dine on arancini and marsala. When I enter my nostrils are assailed with the scent of mulled wine and, though it is tempting, it is still only 10am so a hot coffee seems more appropriate. Having warmed up I continue my wander around the town, taking care not to slip on the icy north-facing steps but enjoying the magnificent views down towards Trapani and also to the east where my next destination lies. San Vito di Capo is a beach resort, though somehow I don’t think I’ll be doing any sunbathing.

 

Being Threatened, Followed and Propositioned in Western Sicily

I’ve been having a wonderful time in Sicily despite the recent inclement weather. The sites are interesting and the people are very friendly, especially in the smaller towns and villages. There have also been plenty of Italian motorhomers around to make me feel safe. However, the far west of Sicily is proving to be a bit more malevolent, or maybe I’ve just been unlucky.

I pull into the large port parking of Mazara del Vallo where two Italian motorhomes are already established and I set myself up facing into the strong wind. While I’m organising myself outside the motorhome, two young Italian men approach, one flashes an ID card and claims to be the guardian of the car park. I had read about these parking scams and so reply that I think it is municipal parking. ‘Si’, he responds and then tells me it is free but he is security. I feign ignorance and say that I don’t understand. ‘I’m English. Tourist.’ In the end they just walk off, never having even asked for any money. I know the weather will be awful so I can’t imagine anyone attempting anything and the encounter is so relaxed and casual, I’m not worried.

The next day, I explore Mazara del Vallo, once an Arabic capital for the region. The narrow backstreets certainly give it a North African feel. I stumble across the Civic Museum in the old Jesuit College where I find displays of shipwreck treasure and piles of barnacle-encrusted amphorae. Next to it are the remains of the Chiesa Madre, open to the elements and continuing to collapse. Luckily, the cathedral is in a better condition with a richly decorated Baroque interior and ornately carved tombs.

I move on to Marsala, determined to try some of the famous local product which shares the name of the town. The reason marsala wine exists is thanks to an Englishman. John Woodhouse visited the town in 1770 and, already having some knowledge of port, recognised the commercial opportunities in exporting this local fortified wine. The coast road is lined with large warehouses, some empty but some still operational. I find another English connection in the Chiesa Madre which is dedicated to the patron saint of Marsala, Thomas a Becket. When the Archbishop of Canterbury was forced into French exile in 1164 he was welcomed into the court of King William II of Sicily and, after his murder in 1170, King William II refused to marry the daughter of English King Henry II in protest. Only 7 years later and after the canonisation of Saint Thomas a Becket did the marriage finally take place.

Like the rest of Italy, everything closes for a long lunch so I don’t venture out until 5pm and it is already getting dark. I’m on a marsala mission and, just beyond the Garibaldi Gate, I find Enoteca La Sirena Ubriaca. The bartender, Sonja, explains the different marsala products with the help of a chart painted on the wall behind the bar.

She then offers me samples of the dry and the sweet versions of the wine. I much prefer the 7 year old sweet marsala and order a glass to sip while I chat to two charming young pilots who are also in town to taste the wine. Sonja treats us to a steady stream of spreads and pastes artistically applied to small pieces of bread and very useful in soaking up the alcohol. I’m quite taken with the spicy onion marmalade but find the almond and pistachio pastes too sweet and sickly, very similar to Nutella.

The €30 bottle of marsala is out of my budget so, after saying goodbye to Sonja, I stop by another wine shop along the street where I locate a cheaper but equally nice wine. It’s at this point that I notice a man, who I had already seen outside the first enoteca, is now taking a keen interest in me. As I pass, he says something and then begins to follow me down the street, at a reasonable distance. I wonder if I am letting my imagination run away with me but I stop at the busy intersection by the Garibaldi Gate to confirm my suspicions. He is clearly stalking me and I have no idea why. Feeling like I’m in some Hollywood spy movie, I change direction a few times and dodge down some small side streets, eventually losing him but not the uncomfortable feeling that the incident has created.

Moving on to Trapani, I spend the first day hiding out in MacDonald’s and the motorhome as the weather is appalling. Heavy rain and hail showers occur with little warning due to the strong winds which are carrying them across the Mediterranean. Luckily the next day is better and even the sun makes an appearance, so I get the chance to explore this gritty port town.

The streets are lined with crumbling palaces and churches giving Trapani old town an air of decay. As I walk by the gardens of Villa Margherita, I notice a good-looking, young man is following me. I stop and feign interest in a shop window filled with local football kit which forces him to make his move. All I catch is the word ‘bellissima’, which means beautiful, but when I reply that I don’t speak Italian, he scarpers. I guess I should feel flattered but actually the whole encounter seemed a bit seedy.

Luckily, there are a few shining lights in the old town to take my mind off it, such as the 17^th century Town Hall with twin clocks, and the Jesuit College Church, a feast of Baroque marble and stucco, where the staff make me feel like one of their flock and send me on my way with a little prayer card and some hope.

My walk along the breezy but deserted Lungomare (seafront promenade) is uneventful and my faith in Sicily’s friendliness is further restored when I pass through the fishing quarter and find a local fisherman mending his nets. I watch him for a while, then ask if I can take a photo, and he’s happy for me to do so. In my poor Italian, I ask about the black and white photos on the shelf behind him. His father and his brothers were also fishermen but he admits that the younger generation are not interested in the hard life of fishing. It seems to me that they are too busy scamming or propositioning the tourists!

 

Gibellina – A Town Buried in Concrete

The road to the old town of Ruderi di Gibellina is so cracked and deformed that it is hard to imagine that the earthquake which flattened it occurred nearly 50 years ago. Up to 400 people died, a thousand were injured and 100,000 left homeless when the 5.5 tremor hit south west Sicily on the 15^th of January 1968. The surviving inhabitants suffered even more until the new town was completed 12 years later nearly 20 kms away. Much delay was caused due to corruption and Mafia threats regarding building contracts.

It’s a sunny day and I stop briefly at the cemetery of Ruderi di Gibellina, the only structure to have survived. A simple memorial remembers those who died on that dreadful day. The road winds down to the site of the former town, now almost completely covered in a layer of concrete, looking like a misplaced glacier. In fact, Alberto Burri’s modern art installation is named ‘IL Cretto’ (The Crevice) and the cuts in the concrete represent the positions of the roads that ran through the town. It’s almost as if the artist has sought to bury the pain of the past. However, a few derelict and crumbling buildings remain to serve as a reminder of what happened here 50 years ago.

The following day, on the anniversary of the earthquake, I visit the new Gibellina. It is Sunday morning and the streets are empty, so I can drive around and check out the modern art which is dotted around the place. It’s clear that they applied lessons learned from the earthquake when they designed the new town. Houses and flats are only one or two storeys and the streets are very wide, but it is devoid of any real character and feels like a 1970s council estate. I wondered if there would be a memorial service at the church but perhaps it is too early as it is all locked up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I move on to Salemi, high on a hill and not quite as badly affected by the earthquake, though the ruins of the Chiesa Madre are a reminder of that time. The sacred art from all the affected churches was collected up, restored and is now displayed in the Museum of the Jesuit College where there is also, bizarrely, a replica of ‘Mary’s House’ of Loreto. As well as the sacred art, the museum has a small archaeological section, a rather disturbing Mafia exhibition and some memorabilia related to Garibaldi. On the 11^th of May 1860 he landed at Marsala with a thousand Red Shirts and managed to defeat 15,000 Bourbon soldiers at Calatafimi. Neighbouring Salemi became the first capital of the Unified Italy and proudly flew the Tricolore flag, if only one day.