Taormina, Sicily

Sometimes you set out and after a short while you know that this is 'the one'. This is a run to be remembered and possibly even written about so others may have a small taste - like bringing home wine from your holiday and sharing it with a friend. Actually, not like that because the wine you bring home never tastes the same; removed from the context it only provides a bit of the story and the magic is often gone. However, we do seem to want to share our experiences, like setting up a little show of holiday snaps for people to sit through; as they surreptitiously top up their glass to make the time go quicker.
So, with Karin safely ensconced in our (5 star, get us) hotel, painting her nails with the new varnish from the shop in via Umberto and getting ready to have a nap, I threw on the robo-brace and my trainers and headed up. Actually that is pretty much what I did - I ran uphill, turned round and came down again.

The path to Madonna Della Rocca was the start; a processional path that edged its way up the cliff using steps and handrails with sculptures of the stations of the cross at every bend. The air was crisp and warm and I took it steady; an earlier run had emphasised the steepness.  The hillside was decorated with spring flowers and huge cacti, and a glance back offered a hazy sea that gave hints of the sand beneath through variations in colour. It wasn't long before I was having to breathe deeply and the heat started to cut through the morning.

A very brief look at the view from Madonna Della Rocca, avoiding the curious stares of tourists clutching their cameras, children and cigarettes, and on to Castelmola. This village sits on top of a rock like a hairstyle and cars need to take a convoluted zigzag route to the ancient buildings at the top. The path was equally challenging and steep enough to be stepped all the way.
I arrived at the cosy little square at the top and was forced to walk through the groups of people gazing at the view, the traffic policewoman looking suitably nonplussed - at least I didn't give her any work as my car was down in Taormina. One lap round the tiny streets and then off to find the path to Monte Venere.

Things were hotting up now, and sweat was rolling off me. The track was concreted in ridges, presumably to give traction to the cars of the few people who lived up there, and this made for uncomfortable running. It was unbelievably steep, so steep I couldn't imagining our car making it up there. If ever there was a need for a 4 x 4 this was it; forget all those people in cities driving their all- terrain vehicles around with only speed bumps to contend with. Pride prevented me from walking so I plodded up the face of the hill with only lizards and birdsong for company.

As I gained more height, back-glances afforded me increasingly vertiginous and startling views; I appeared  to be  right over Castelmola.  The smell of broom and jasmine filled the air, and giant powder-puffs of fennel leaves lined the track.  The hillside was ridged in a way that suggested a history of agriculture - possibly olive trees, as I can't imagine anything else growing successfully on such exposed slopes.  With only the odd bird for company the winding route became a meditation on a mountain as a living thing.

Around the corner and there was Mount Etna, sat like a white-robed parent.  Hazy clouds repeatedly drifted across the peak and I was frustrated in my search for a perfectly clear photograph of the peak.  I partially blame the mountain itself, because much of the cloud was forming around the crater at the top.
One last curve, the coastline stretched out below and away, Etna on the horizon and all around steep hills looking like erosion was just beginning. I was in among a cluster of radio masts - obviously as high as it is possible to go with a vehicle.  There was more to climb as the actual peak was still above me, but no obvious path and huge silent banks of drifting mist kept me from going further. I had left Karin for long enough and so this seemed a good point to consider returning.

Running downhill is often so much harder on the legs and I didn't want to push myself too hard, so I rolled comfortably down the track with plenty of glances at the spectacular view.  Past a rather puzzled dog, onto the road into Castemola, and then down the steps that lead to Taormina.  Tourists struggling upward had to step back to let me roll though them and the air was filled with comments about the folly and impressiveness of runing in that terrain and weather.  In Taormina I somehow contrived to get completely lost amid the many one-way streets, finding myself at one point running twice past an old lady who was shocked to see a runner first time round, let alone repeating 10 minutes later.
Suddenly, a drop down some steps, round a corner and I was pitched into the main street; tourists filling the road with their trickling pace.  I decided not to bother pushing against such a steady tide, and walked along to the hotel.