A LAND APART

“ It’s here that you can see the real Sicily,” says Miri Salamone, staring into the abyss. Clouds swamp the valley below and fog floods mountain gullies, dissolving even Sutera’s hilly peaks from view. Visibility, as it has been for days in the veiled heartland of Sicily, is about as far as you can kick a stone; something I’ve done regularly in recent days, stumble-walking along mountain ridges in near whiteout, halfway across the interior of the island. “From there,” says Miri, squinting up to the fast-vanishing bell tower crowning the town’s highest point, Monte San Paolino, “you can often see as far as Mount Etna one way and Palermo the other.” She smiles apologetically for the unhelpful weather. “This is the ‘balcony of Sicily’.”

Even with crystal-clear views, you need to look hard to see the ‘real Sicily’ that Miri speaks of. As the Sutera native notes on a soggy tour around her town, this shapeshifting island of many identities is far more removed from the Italian mainland than the few miles of Tyrrhenian Sea would suggest. But here, in the sparsely populated inland, a place few Sicilians — let alone Italians — bother to visit, you’ve the best chance. For along ancient routes cutting a path from the Tyrrhenian to the Mediterranean is a region that tells Sicily’s story.

Along the old trade roads and pilgrims’ ways that forge a path through this forgotten land, Byzantine pottery litters the earth; shepherds’ huts sit cheek-by-jowl with churches where religious celebrations owe as much to Moorish Spain as St Peter’s; and local ‘Christian’ names are likely to recall ancient Greek origins. Here in Sutera, about as far from either coast as you can get, the town’s patron saint has Persian heritage and the domed houses of the old town, Rabato, reveal an Arabic legacy, as does the