May Day is Labour Day in many parts of the world, but it did not look like a holiday as we loaded our bikes under threatening skies. The headwinds on the SS (Strada Statale) 113 threatened to blow Cheryl over, and I was making slow progress. Ten km down the road, we stopped at Campofelice di Roccella and took the Regionale train to Palermo. It would be the first of many times that the iron horses helped us dodge the weather on this tour.
W
e could ride more easily among the buildings of the big city. Soon we moved into an apartment in the Baglio Judica near the church of Santo Spirito. The architecture gave me the feeling of stepping into a medieval fantasy novel – just after the dragon scorched the neighbourhood. Ample courtyards behind double gates, external stairs leading to upper floors, and no straight lines anywhere.
We never saw the owner, but she had provided instructions by email and text. Sending photos of our identification documents was a big change since I left the EU seven years ago, but everyone seemed comfortable with it. A carpentry shop was operating in the courtyard downstairs. This meant that the building was open during business hours, but someone was always there, so our bikes were safe, locked to the stairs.
During the night, the front moved across the city. There would be no excuse for forgetting the sun block for the rest of that week.
On Thursday the 2nd, we walked the three-star (Michelin) sites, except for the palace and the Royal Chapel, which we had toured last time. I noticed that the beautiful mosaics in the Palermo cathedral did not cover as much of the church as the mosaics in Monreale and Cefalù. Now I understood the shortness of the Norman reign. The Arab-Norman architecture was everywhere, but only in Monreale could they finish decorating the interior of the church in the sixty-four years of Norman reign.
Palermo featured some of our favourite treats, like arancini and fresh fruit. We walked many miles, as Cheryl photographed the markets, and I sampled the espressi from the different coffee roasters.
Friday the 3rd of May presented our first major climbing challenge, 
the Strada Provinciale (SP) 1 to Castellamare del Golfo. From sea level at the edge of Palermo, the highway rose at an average gradient of 10%. We were forced to walk much of it, pushing our loaded bikes 5 km to the altiplano 700 meters (2,275 feet) above the city. The view was reward enough, but I was also looking forward to a blazing descent.
Rolling down the other side to Portinico was easy enough, but not the scorching daredevil speed run for which I had hoped.
The SS 187 from Balestrate took us along the coast to Castellamare del Golfo. The towns had a sameness to them that was almost sad: apartment buildings lined the coast with vacation flats. Poorly maintained roads in the towns contrasted sharply with the pavement on the regional roads outside them. Inland from the narrow strip-towns, olive trees and dried-out farmland struggled for purchase on the exposed granite hillsides. Construction work on the railroad and the main streets of the towns often forced us to detour among the neighbourhoods.
Google Maps proved unreliable in Sicily. I had better luck with OSMand, but neither app routed us well. Google sent me through the Sicilian equivalent of a gated community with wire fencing across the pavement. I was able to push my bike on its side under the gate and ride dirt roads back to the SS 187. I texted Cherl to stay on that highway, so she arrived well before me.
The Residenza Zagarè was so pleasant that we extended our stay to enjoy the jewel that is Castellamare del Golfo. Giuseppe, the owner, was a former president of the Sicilian Hoteliers Association and was responsible for negotiating a lower commission with Booking.com for all properties in Sicily (10% instead of 18%). Though only four years younger than I, he was visibly impressed that we had ridden over the ridge on the SP1 from Palermo. We heated up lasagna in the room that night and turned in early.
The next day, the 4th of May, we checked off a major item on my bucket list: the temples at Segesta. This Greek settlement gets three stars in the Michelin guide, and it was the only one that neither Cheryl nor I had visited, though we could see it from the heights of Erice in 2015. On the way out, I passed another milestone: 60,000 km on the Brodie that I have ridden for less than ten years.
Getting to the site started out as an adventure. The Google route crossed roads that had become fields or that had fallen into rubble since the dual-carriageway highway had been built along the valley from Palermo to Trapani. It took us two hours to ride out and less than a half hour to return (smarter on the way back).
Segesta did not disappoint. 
From the well-preserved temples and the excellent signage to the free shuttle bus to the agora and the theatre, the operators of the park have organized one of the best-run tourist sites possible. I did not want to leave.
When we returned, we walked the waterfront of Castellamare. The steep promontories that reach out to protect the gulf made an easy job of building harbours and the associated fortifications. I could imagine successive fleets of Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, and pirates, bobbing at anchor or tied to the piers, ready to strike out at a word from the watchtowers high above them.
That evening, we enjoyed a memorable dining experience at Salvinius, which Cheryl had noticed while we were walking the waterfront. I had called ahead to book a table, which led to a misunderstanding. The owner had taken the reservation while working in the back getting things ready. He must have forgotten to write it down in the reservation book. Later, the maître d’hôtel assumed we were crashing the place and tried to cram us in the back by the takeout counter. Cheryl protested until the maître d’ (a kind of head waiter, really) seated us in the main room. The owner came out, verified who I was, and everything changed. We were the only couple at first, in a room of large families ordering pizza. I guessed that most of them were in a wedding party. The children were cute, but their parents were ordering pizza and beer. Our choices, on the other hand, allowed the waiter to make up for his earlier assumption. From serving the wine to preparing the fish, he showed off every bit of skill and flourish he possessed. An unforgettable experience, followed by a leisurely passeggiata among the other couples enjoying the Saturday night.
Sunday the 5th, we rode to Trapani on the western coast of the island. Trapani being only 44 km from Castellamare del Golfo, 
we arrived in time to take the cable car to the ancient hilltop town of Erice. This was a magical place in 2015, but this time, the best views were blocked by restoration work on the Castle and the English garden. We visited the museum and the cathedral. At the museum, I got a better picture of the comings and goings of the Elymians, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Greeks (Byzantines), Arabs, Normans, and Italians during history.
We took the cable car back to Trapani, stopping at the Deco supermarket on our way back to the apartment. Sunday was a good day to be on the road, because the traffic was tolerable. We discussed where to go next long into the night. Cheryl decided to try to reach Agrigento as soon as possible. Last time, we had ridden around the coast; this time we wanted to see something of the interior.
On Monday the 6th, we rode to the train station. Private (contracted) motorcoaches have replaced all the trains in western Sicily. We knew that we were at the mercy of the driver in this situation, because officially Trenitalia does not offer bicycle transport on these substitute busses. I hung back while Cheryl asked about loading our bikes in the empty cargo bay of the bus. The driver gave a classic Sicilian shrug, while the Trenitalia employee on the sidewalk studied something interesting up the road. Quickly, we loaded the bikes and boarded the bus. Cheryl figured that the driver noticed that we were going all the way to Palermo, which meant that we really needed the train service. In fact, we were the only passengers to make the whole trip; everyone else got off after one or two stops.
The last leg of the trip to Palermo was to the train station near the airport. Soon we were pushing our bikes across the station of Palermo Centrale to the regional train to Agrigento.
That evening we moved into a comfortable flat near the Agrigento historic center. I shook my head in amazement as we unpacked. We had awakened on the extreme west coast of the island, and were turning into bed on the eastern part of the south coast.
Tuesday the 7th, we took advantage of the last fair day in the forecast to visit the Valley of the Temples, always a treat. We walked long and hard in the sun, revisiting the marvellous structures we had seen nine years earlier. That did not keep us from walking the pedestrian downtown of Agrigento in the evening.
The next day, it rained, steadily and hard. We jumped on the bus to the Archaeological Museum, which had been closed when we rode to it in 2015. It contained a very well-planned and fascinating collection of more than 5,000 pieces. I especially liked the presentation of artifacts of different ages together, so that one could appreciate the evolution of art, craft and skill from the early Neolithic Age to Roman times.
In the afternoon, Cheryl hiked into the historic centre whilst I took a load off my feet in the laundromat below our flat. When she returned, we walked through the downtown again, picking up a pair of fresh swordfish steaks from the fishmonger for supper.
Thursday the 9th saw us boarding the train again, to Palermo and then to the station below Enna. The tracks were also out of service throughout southeastern Sicily except along the Ionian coast. A moot point for us, as we planned to ride the Sicily Divide to the coast. Though we debarked in Enna, the train was only going to the next stop. We were deep in the interior now.
The seven km up to Enna, perched on the ridge, provided a demanding workout. I pushed my loaded bike up at least half of it.
We settled into a luxurious hotel in the square of the Duomo. The owner checked us into the large, comfortable, and quiet accommodation. From the appearance of the initials GPPG on signs everywhere in town, it seemed that owners of our hotel owned a fair number of the tourist facilities in the city: restaurants, bars, and hotels.
Enna is a city with stunning views on all sides. The shortage of “affordable” lodging was due to the National Exams for admission to the University. I found out that Enna has the main program for special education teachers in the country, so high school students from all over Italy were in town for the concorso, competing for admission.
Enna will occupy a unique place in my memories: a mediaeval city, a university town, and the highest provincial capital in Italy (1000 m, 3325 ft). I will remember the massive work near the castle, the steep walks and the long history of the city of Henna/Castrogiovanni/Enna (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enna)
On the 10th, we rode the Divide to Regalcubo, a small, unremarkable town that seemed to be a bedroom community for those who commuted to Enna and Caltanissetta, and home to a growing population of pensioners. Signs for the Canadian War Cemetery caused me to turn off. I did not know about this spot, but I have now visited every Commonwealth War Cemetery in Italy and most of those in France and the Netherlands. I have also been to all the American cemeteries in those countries, except the big one in Normandy (https://freewheelingfreelancer.com/2022/02/26/the-channel-coast-normandy-and-the-mont-saint-michel-2/). I arrived in Regalcubo after Cheryl found a small but comfortable apartment off the main highway through town.
Saturday, 11th of May, turned into one of the longest of the tour. We set out for the side of Mount Etna, intending to ride the CircumEtnea railway. However, I turned back about 9 km out when the owner of the flat called me. I had taken the apartment keys with me, and left my own keys behind. I rode back to meet her and exchange keys, adding 18 km to my day. I finally caught up with Cheryl at the overgrown train station of Adrano, too late to catch the last train heading north. That ride went back on the bucket list.
Adrano was not an impressive town. We took the train south to Catania. Mount Etna rose shining among the clouds on our left. In Catania, we hopped on the train to Messina, the ferry to Villa San Giovanni, and ended up in Reggio Calabria that night. Like most Italian cities, Reggio activates a ZTL (limited traffic zone) at night, creating a car-free promenade area in the downtown. After dinner on the main drag, we retired to our hotel.
Reggio Calabria is a destination in its own right, and we had enjoyed its wonders in 2015. This time, however, it served to synchronize our movements with the schedule of the night ferries to Sardegna.
On the morning of the 12th, we boarded the Intercity train to Naples. The daytime IC trains carry bikes, the night trains won’t. We spent the night in a hotel off the historic Via Toledo.
In the morning, we took the funicular to the Vomero hill, where we shopped for specialty coffee for her son, and shipped it to him. After walking back to the Via Toledo, we enjoyed supper at the 53 Restaurant, then packed and made our way through the traffic (crazy for her; familiar to me) to the piers where the overnight ferries were loading. As Naples fell behind us, I wished for more time in that crowded, crazy, dirty, but fascinating city.
One of Cheryl’s money-saving tricks is to use overnight trains and ferries to not need accommodations. The chairs in the room set aside for passengers without cabins were uncomfortable, so I joined the many others sleeping on benches and divans in the lounges and restaurants that had closed for the night.
We spent two nights in Cagliari. This was my first visit to the great island, and I was prepared to learn many new things. We spent the 15th walking around the historic centre to the castle overlooking the south coast. 
From the overlook, the cruise ships, warships and ferries filled my screen, eloquently illustrating the maritime heritage and importance of this port.
On Thursday the 16th, we left Cagliari on the Strada Statale Costiera Orientale, the East Coast Highway.
Once we passed the stadium, the road became smooth and pleasant as we passed one beach after another on our way to Tortoli. Daniela and her six-month old son Diego welcomed us to the Residenza al Centro, which she owned and managed by herself. Any town that puts a bicycle sculpture in front of Town Hall gets my vote!
Cheryl had told me often about the cruel climb that awaited us north of Tortoli, where the road rose from sea level to more than 1100 metres in just a few kilometres. Thus, I was not surprised that she would suggest that we rent a car for it. 
On the morning of the 18th, we rode to Europcar to rent a van. The operator of the agency did not arrive before we called a taxi in frustration. Giorgio Taxi showed up in a Mercedes van that easily carried us and the bikes up around the back side of the ridge to Dorgali, halfway down the far side. Cheryl commented repeatedly that she could not believe that two years ago she had climbed the ridge that rose above us.
From Dorgali we rode to Orosei on the coast and checked into the Cala Libretto. Actually, I checked in while Cheryl sought out a grocery store. She appeared after I moved in, using a side entrance. Her door was more convenient than the front, so the next morning, we left that way, and the staff never saw her.
On the 19th, we found the road past Budino and San Teodoro pleasant and easy. In the afternoon, dark clouds began to build as we approached Olbia, the major town in northeast Sardegna. We checked in to the Residenza del Centro, and Cheryl rode off to do the laundry. A proper thunderstorm fell on the city as we walked around that evening.
The bad weather continued through the night and the next day. We did not let that spoil our enjoyment of the medieval city.
On Tuesday the 21st of May, the storm continued, with a stiff headwind from the west. We had decided that the Emerald Coast would not be pleasant, but riding inland promised to be difficult, too. We opted for the train to Sassari, which should take us through the front. Sure enough, the weather cleared up nicely halfway across the island.
As we rolled off the train in Sassari, Cheryl spotted the train for Porto Torres across the platform. That was our ultimate Sardinian destination, so we dashed over and barely got on board before the doors closed. No tickets, but the young conductor could see our predicament and chose not to visit our coach during the 16 minutes it took to reach the ferry port.
Porto Torres is my kind of town: a working port with controlled flows of tourists. Almost no one was visiting the city itself. 
We checked into our apartment near the port, and walked to the Sassari road. Dinner at Piazza Garibaldi allowed me to reflect on the working-class men who dined together without the women every evening in so many of the restaurants we had patronized. Were they unmarried and unable to cook? Was the camaraderie of their peers an essential part of their lives? As tourists and foreigners, we were as conspicuous as the paint on the walls, so we had no interaction with them and could observe at our leisure.
Next time, we leave Sardegna to land in France. Au revoir!
Smooth roads & tailwinds,
JT
© 2024, JT Hine
