Sicilian Honeycomb - a cycle to Noto in Sicily

Today’s ride is a 92 kilometre circuit to Noto, a historic Sicilian town, famous for having more churches per square kilometre than anywhere in Italy.

It begins in the cool early morning at our B&B outside Ispica in south-western Sicily. We take a quiet back lane two kilometres through olive groves to the beach road, turn left and cycle with the Mediterranean on our right and pastel-painted Casas on our left. There’s a gentle breeze and the Council workers are out whippersnipping the undergrowth. For a few kilometres, we feel back home in Australia with frangapani blooming and eucalypt trees dusty and tall by the roadside. A plant that looks suspiciously like wattle crowds the footpath. At any moment, I’m expecting to see a flattened cane toad on the road. 

No, just a hedgehog.

In one village, a enterprising local is cultivating a small vineyard in sand. The plants looks green and robust. Cathie and I enter into a debate as to which country is directly to our right, across the sea. I suggest Lebanon or somewhere in the Middle East, she lumps for Tunisia. In fact, we’re both wrong. It’s Libya, although Cathie is out by only a few hundred kilometres. I’m out by... well, let’s just say that for the rest of the trip, I won’t be offering suggestions for the correct direction. 

The next ten kilometres are lovely, with easy cycling beside the beach, counting the number of  ‘closed for the season’ pizzerias. It’s seems as if every fifth householder has erected a temporary building at the front, put up a ‘restaurant’ sign, and hoped for the best.

My reverie is disturbed by a familiar growl, as five Ford Cobra convertibles bully past us. It’s the fourth time we’ve seen them in Sicily. They all have Swiss number plates and fancy racing-stripe paintjobs. I've dubbed them 'the wanker bankers.' The thought comes to me that, as they pass, each driver probably looks at me and thinks, I’d much rather be in the car than on a bike. And, of course, as they rumble into the distance, I think, I’d much rather be on a bike than in a car. Such is life. 

Two ever-present roadside plants in this part of Sicily are bamboo and cactus. The bamboo grows to a tremendous height and regularly sways across the road shoulder, so we’re constantly ducking and weaving. Sicilian drivers have a pleasant habit of lightly tooting the horn, warning us of their approach. 

At Pachino, we stop at a cafe for two croissants, filled with ricotta washed down with cappuccini. The cost... four Euro. The road now heads north between vineyards, lemon or pear groves and hundreds of ramshackle hothouses, fifty metres long and three metres high, ripe with tomatoes. It’s fun looking through the torn sides and spying all that fruit. Last night we’d eaten our share of pomodoros in a beachside restaurant. They taste as good as they look. 

On one flat section, an old guy on a scooter passes. I can’t resist, I pedal as fast as Craig, my bicycle, will go and draft him for a kilometre. The old man looks in the rear-mirror, mystified. If only I had my road bike here. 

The road gets busy and climbs steadily towards the old town of Noto, well-known for its 18th Century buildings, many in the Baroque style. Cathie and I ride slowly through the cobblestone streets. The most distinguishing feature of Baroque on the houses seems to be ornate wrought-iron railings. The churches, of which there are simply too many to visit, are all of a uniform colour which would be described by the Dulux Advertising Department as either Italian Wheatfield or Sicilian Honeycomb. We stop at an Enoteca for lunch and eat bruschetta (there’s those tomatoes again) and local cheese drizzled in honey. Yep, Sicilian Honeycomb it is.

After lunch, we wander the alleyways. ‘Now is that the Church of Santa Caterina? Santa Chiara? Santa Maria della Scala? Santa Maria del Gesu? Or Santa Maria del Carmelo?’

The best time for riding on the roads in Italy is during the 1pm to 3pm siesta. We cycle home with the wind at our backs for most of the journey. Back near the beach, we stop at a seaside bar. Everyone is slumbering in beach chairs, bottles of Heineken stacked on the tables. We have a celebratory cafe crema before heading home to our B&B. On hearing that we've cycled all the way to Noto and back, the kindly owner presents Cathie with a gift of an ornamental horse and carriage in a plastic cube.
Lovely.

a cycle up Monte Erice, Sicily

I can think of no better way to finish the perfect day than with a cycle up a Category One mountain in Sicily. We started today with a swim in the chilly Mediterranean of clear water and rocky headlands at Scorpello. 
For lunch, we tried the local workers meal of Pane Cunzato - a doorstop-sized sandwich of olive oil, salt, tomato, cheese and sardines. After that, I needed a bike ride.

Beginning at the fishing port of Trapani on the north coast of Sicily, I cycle up what must be one of the widest main roads in Italy. For a country of Fiat Bambini and Piaggios, here was a road fit for Hummers. Consequently, Italians drive three abreast down the Via. I wobble into the gutter and take the first right-hand turn and find myself confronting a 13% gradient out of town. 

Craig, my bicycle, is a staid hybrid with twenty-one gears and is not suited to climbing. He prefers a slow wander on a bike path beside a river. But, we both have no alternative, so I press on and soon join the main road to Monte Erice. It’s a lovely day, with a sea-breeze blowing north from Africa and the poppies are blooming along the roadside. 
There’s not much traffic and I soon maintain a steady rhythm. The road surface is excellent, smooth with a half-a-metre high sandstone rock barrier on the drop side. 

There are a few small olive groves but much of the landscape is given over to stunted pine trees, scotch broom and cactus. Foxgloves bloom in every roadside ditch and occasionally Craig and I glory in the site of a meadow of yellow, purple and white wildflowers.

Craig is beginning to creak loudly, but I prefer to think of it as squeals of delight, not a whine of pain. I try and gently explain to him that I have two weeks of excessive consumption of pizza and pasta to work off so he’ll just have to bear the extra weight. 
The gradient is now a steady 6 to 8%, with hairpin bends leading over the occasional one-way stone bridge. Every bend affords me a view down to Trapani and the ever-widening panorama of Mediterranean coastline. The water is a deep turquoise with patches of azure, if you’ll pardon the colourful hyperbole. 
Back to the grind. 
There are a few restaurants perched to take in the views and one brave soul has even planted grapevines in the rocky soil. I imagine he has a better chance of harvesting tourists than grapes up here.

At five hundred metres, the clouds start to sweep in from the sea and the temperature drops considerably. Around another few bends and I join a cyclist coming up from the east side of the mountain. He is riding a gleaming road bike. He takes one look at Craig and stands on his pedals and powers away. 
Ha! Craig and I ignore such a flagrant display of arrogance and continue to slowly grind up the hill. We’re overtaken by a few tourist buses as we near the arched entrance to the old town. The cloud cover is now dense and chilly. 

Craig and I ceremonially ride under the stone arch and I have a celebratory crema de cafe, while Craig respectfully leans against a 12th Century stone wall. After a short rest, the cloud parts enough for the obigatory photos. From here, it’s downhill all the way to Trapani.

Erice is a 12 kilometre Category One mountain climb, with an elevation gain of 750 metres. Maximum gradient is 18%, but only for a short time. The average hovers around 6%. On a clear day, you can see Africa. On a cloudy day, you can enjoy the cool clear air. At either time, I’d suggest adding an extra day to the itinerary and climbing from both sides. It’s worth the effort.

A cycle through the Piedmont hills

There’s a haze over the Piedmont hills as we begin our cycle from the B&B to Casale Monferrato. As the crow flies, it’s perhaps twelve kilometres. As the cyclist wanders between hilltop towns, it’s thirty kilometres one way. It’s the early morning of May Day, so the roads are quiet. 

Every time I see the church at Camagna, I shake my head in disbelief that a village of less than 600 residents should have such a crowning glory towering above the town. As we cycle through, a bunch of teenagers are playing a curious game in the main square. It reminds me of royal tennis, where a number of players stand each end of a court, sometimes measuring up to eighty metres and hit a hard tennis ball with a racket that looks like a tamborine with a skin stretched tight over the circular frame. When the teenagers hit the ball, it shoots off the racket with a sound akin to a rifle shot. 

There’s a full-size court in Vignale, the neighbouring village. A few years ago here, I watched a tournament game. It was tennis on steroids. Players would smash the ball at their opponents who used the tamborine to return it. I felt like I was at a rifle range! 

Today’s ride includes five hilltop towns, which means nearly every minute of the sixty kilometres will be in furious descent or slow climb. It’s downhill time from Camagna. 

A group of yellow-suited, shielded beekeepers are smoking the hives on the hillside. Next door an rusted yet still regal set of gates stand permanently open, wreathed in creeper. The driveway is overgrown with knee-high grass, the farmhouse abandoned. 

At Frassinello, seven old men sit outside a cafe, their caps at a jaunty angle. Above the town, a family walk home from the cemetery, two children run ahead, racing each other to the shop. Their parents talk in loud voices that echo down the narrow alleyways. We cycle along the ridge to the next town, Olivola, where I vaguely remember a cafe from years ago. Luckily, it’s open on this holiday. 

It’s the perfect cafe with tables inside, outside under the portico and across the alley with a view of the spendid stone church fifty metres down the road. We order two strong macchiato at the ridiculously cheap cost of 2 Euro and contemplate what to have for lunch. Casale Monferrato is a famous rice-growing region, so we decide on risotto, if or when we make it to the regional town.

From Olivola, it’s a brisk downhill to a pristine meadow of yellow wildflowers. For three kilometres, the road is mercifully flat. A peloton of cyclists sweep by. A roadsign warns that the route ahead is barred and the deviation takes us up to the glorious village of Cella Monte, a town of churches and old ladies talking on street corners and in parks. We ask one of them the way to Casale and receive a operatic score of language fuelled by caffeine and music. it’s a beautiful sound, but I have no idea what she’s saying. Luckily, she points us in the right direction. We nod and say ‘grazie’ over and over. she answers with the obligatory, ‘prego.’

Cello Monte has a twin hilltop town 2 kilometres away, called Rosignano. Pity the only way to get there is a 10% gradient downhill and a corresponding climb back up. It’s like being on a medieval rollercoaster. I tell Cathie that this is the last climb before the rice plain of Casale. I was wrong about the 10%. It’s 12%. But in the hazy distance sits Casale. 

We descend past a small church where a wedding party is arriving. Is there another culture who like to dress up as much as the Italians? Everyone looks beautiful. We slink past in sweaty lycra.

Casale Monferrato is a busy town with a number of 16th Century palazzo and cobblestone alleyways. In the main square, Piazza Mazzini, is an equestrian statue of King Charles Albert of Piedmont. The locals call the square Piazza Cavallo, relegating the King to a secondary role behind his horse.

When we were here three years ago, we ate in a restaurant a few times and on each occasion, they’d offer us a small pizza free of charge. Without a common language, we had no idea why, other than that they were typically friendly and valued our custom. Unfortunately, the ownership appears to have changed, but the food is just as good. I order a risotto with prawns and zucchini flowers and Cathie orders a risotto with lots of cheese. Before the dishes arrive, we’re offered a complimentary bruschetta. Last night at a restaurant in Vignale, we were given free limoncello at the end of our meal. It’s a lovely and surprising tradition in these out of the way places that never fails to amaze me. The risottos are creamy, salty and incredibly delicious. After thirty kilometres, including 470 metres of climbing, we feel we’ve earnt the right to indulge. 

After all, there’s another thirty kilometres and more hill climbing to return to our B&B. It will be very difficult to cycle past the gelato shop around the corner.

cycling from Briare to Gien, Loire Valley, France

Last year, I had the pleasure of cycling from the Atlantic Coast of France to Ulm in Germany, nearly 2,000 kilometres alongside numerous rivers and canals. One of the highlights was staying in the restored barn at the B&B of Jean-Paul and Regine in Saint-Firmin-sur-Loire. They fed me excessive amounts of satisfying French food and allowed me to dry off after my first rainy day of the trip. They also offered to bike-sit my red hybrid, named Craig, at the conclusion of my time in Europe.

This year, accompanied by my wife Cathie, our first stop in France is a two-day sojourn with Jean-Paul and Regine. Once again, they are the perfect hosts, offering a five course dinner. I won’t go into the sumptuous detail other than to say Jean-Paul’s cassoulet is premiere-class and the cheese plate of five fromages was perhaps too indulgent! We promised to ride off the calories the next day, if only it would stop raining.

Voila! The morning dawned dull and cloudy, but sans pluie, so after a breakfast of croissants, yoghurt, grapefruit, baguettes with home-made confiture and huge bowls of cafe, we took Craig and Cathie’s new velo, nicknamed Jenny, for a spin. 

First stop, Briare, a town on the confluence of the Loire River and the Canal lateral a la Loire, famous for the  Aqueduct which was the longest navigable aqueduct in the world between 1896 and 2003. It’s a curious site, a canal crossing a river - water flowing over water. At six hundred and sixty-two metres, the Briare Aqueduct is bookended by two ornamental columns styled on the Pont Alexandre in Paris. It’s an elegant and timeless construction, all the more atmospheric and regal in the early morning with no-one else around. 

We cycle along the Loire Velo path towards Gien, famous for expensive and artistic earthenware crockery, from the factory founded in 1821. The cycle path leads us through forests and alongside small landholdings. Although it’s a chilly 11 degrees, the fruit trees are bursting with colour and the tulips are lovely in their champagne-glass spendour in ornamental flower boxes at each village we cycle through. Many household gardens we pass are well-tended with vegetable patches taking up most of the space. The typical frenchman is more interested in cultivating food from his jardin than mowing the lawn. The Loire flows swift and wide and there’s a smell of dark wet earth in the air.  

We pass a Frenchman, wearing a long overcoat, walking his dog; two young men fishing in stream no wider than a metre; an enterprising jogger running beside his daughter who cycles at a gentle pace and two cross-country riders laden with panniers front and rear. 

At Gien, we enter a glass-fronted restaurant and order the formule menu, an entree of cold buffet servings - salami, terrine, hard-boiled eggs, salad - followed by grilled fish smothered in a butter and parsley sauce with vegetables. All this for 10Euro... $16 Australian. The woman at the table next to us eats a huge four-fromage pizza, her husband a mushroom version. It’s perhaps obvious that in a country so enamoured with fromage, that the french pizzas are excessively cheesy. 

We return to Saint-Firmin via a route away from the river and cycle past a chateau commanding the high ground above the Loire flood plain. A moat elegantly spans the entrance with intricate wrought-iron gates. Deep in the moat is an exhibit of ancient wooden battle weaponry, including a rather impressive twelve metre high catapult. 

We can’t resist another detour across the Aqueduct. On the Briare side a chocolatier has set up shop in the old lockmaster’s house. Although we’re tempted to eat chocolate and watch the slow barges putter along the canal, we continue into town and sit in a bar in the town square, admiring the grey stone Cathedral. 

It’s uphill all the way back to Jean-Paul and Regine’s farmhouse. We promise ourselves a large dinner to compensate.

Distance cycled: 41 kilometres.