By the time I got going on the road out of Catania it was about 8AM. I found the signage quite confusing, but after a short detour into an industrial estate I came across a little village where I could get some cash out and buy a few basic things from the supermarket. There were no satisfactory breakfast options there so I pressed on to try and find the main road that would lead me along the east coast heading south. I ended up on a busy road that took me around the airport, and I felt like I was going in circles. At a place not far from the airport there was a traditional Italian bakery, buzzing with activity so I stopped for some breakfast. I locked my bike to a fence out the front, then proceeded into the shop to order some baked savoury thing and a cream croissant (cornetto). The best thing about cycle touring is you can really load up on breakfast. I decided not to sit, because of the legendary table service charges in Italy, so thought it best to keep moving. The pastry was exquisite, easily the best I had in Italy, so it was not hard to see why it was so busy. I stood for a few minutes munching away, then reached into my pocket for the key to my bike. It wasn’t in my regular pocket, so I tried the others. Nope. A wave of panic struck me as I meticulously emptied my pockets, checked every flap and fold in my wallet, then started scanning the ground around me. Oh no. What was I going to do now. I paced up and down inside the shop scanning the floor among the crowds of people, so see if I could spot the key anywhere, then looking up to the counter I saw the man who had served me waving to get my attention. He reached into the glass pastry cabinet and produced my key with a grin. He said something in Italian as he handed it to me, and I just smiled saying “Thank you so much”. Relieved, I headed back to my bike and I was on my way again.
Finishing my breakfast on the bike, as I pedalled away from Catania, I started second guessing my directions. The GPS was telling me my bearing was South West, when really, if I wanted to follow the coast it should be more like South East. Seeing there was no other real option I pressed on, eventually heading due South, but still nowhere in sight of the coast. It seems the road was busier and more inland than the map had indicated, so as the day started to heat up, it became a weary grind along a major road with no interesting scenery to enjoy as trucks whipped past me at speed. Occasionally the variation in terrain led me through some undulating hills, with a glance of the water way over to my left. I could see villages near the coast, but was afraid if I took one of the rough, unsealed roads in that direction I would reach a dead end and have to come back out again anyway.
The time passed slowly until I came to brown coloured sign indicating a left turn towards the coast. I had a good feeling about it, so I got off the main road and followed my intuition. I rode for about 15 minutes down this rough, narrow road until I rounded the corner to find this little oasis. Some small shacks adorned the rocky coast with boats tied up in the water nearby. To the left of the rocks, there was a sandy beach stretching out as far as the eye could see with me people sunning themselves and swimming in the shallows. Eureka! After the monotony of the morning ride, this was bliss. I parked my bike up near a small kiosk, quickly donned my swimming shorts and ran down to the water. The sand was coarse under my feet, but the water was wonderfully refreshing. I paddled around in the small waves for a few minutes, looking back onto the beach and thinking how happy I was to find this secret hideaway. I got out of the water, rinsed off in the shower then sat down at the kiosk to enjoy a lemonade. It was getting into the late morning so I decided to press on.
I got back onto the main road and shortly found myself nearing Augusta. I really didn’t know anything about the place, but it had a regular train service down to Syracusa, then Pozzallo so I picked it out as good destination to stop on the coast. Entering the town, I could see it was more of an industrial place, but also home to some sort of military base. Deciding I’d had enough of cycling on the main road I found the train station, bought a ticket to Syracusa on the next train leaving in an hour so, then went exploring. The main street had a series of small shops leading down to the water where a bridge crossed to the Castello. Always up for checking out a Castello, I followed the signs through an arch in the wall and up the hill. In the area surrounding the Castello, there were a few narrow streets that must have been the old town, but it had seen better days. It was quiet and not much was going on. From this point I had a pretty good view of the surrounding area. I was running low on water, so I stopped at a fountain where an old man was filling bottles. I filled my bidon, and took a sip but it had an odd taste. I thought I’d keep it in case I got desperate. I made a lap around the Castello, which was closed to the public and had a military helicopter displayed out the front. I could see battleships in the harbour from here too, so I figured it may still be used as an operational military building. It was getting onto lunch time, so I rolled back down the hill into town. I came to a fruit and veggie store where I bought the smallest watermelon I could find, still about 3kg! I sat down in the shade of the bus stop, cutting up the fruit into large chunks and devouring it. I managed to eat half, before I felt completely full. It was a perfectly delicious way to take on some extra fluids. I wrapped the remainder and precariously strapped it to rack on the back of my bike under the towel that was spread out still drying from morning swim, then pedalled back to the station.
When I hopped on the train, the two spaces allocated to bikes were already occupied, so the conductor indicated for me to lean my bike up against the wall of the carriage. It was a short trip down to Syracusa, and as we pulled in a German couple, owners of the two touring bikes got up to sort out their luggage. The guy smiled when he saw my bike, and guessed that I was Australian. They were from Munich cycling and camping around Sicily. I told him I had cycled from Catania to Augusta today, but the road was not very good. He had read that, which is way they opted for the train. They were not staying in Syracusa long, but riding out from there to Avolva where they would camp. We said goodbye at the station, wished each other luck and I headed off into Syracusa. For once the station platform led out of the station, onto the street without having to negotiate any stairs!
Syracusa was a nice coastal town. Had I not been sick, I probably could have spent some more time there, but as it was I grabbed a map from the tourist info point and quickly did a circuit around the waterfront, through the town, then back to the station. I managed to find a proper bike shop, probably the first I had seen in Italy, with Bianchi frames displayed proudly in the window. With my makeshift repair to my brake cable, I still had the excess tucked under my pannier bag, so I went in to see if they could cut it for me and put on a cable end. The old man didn’t speak a word of English, but could see what needed to be done. He shuffled off, grabbed his wire cutters and crimp, then fixed it up. Somewhere along the line (on the way to Pompeii I think), I managed to lose one of my gloves, my favourite Roeckl fingerless gloves with gel padding, so I asked him if he had any gloves. Having helped me with the cable, I thought it would be nice to be able to buy something at the shop too. He led me into a back room with several tubs full of gloves, socks and other sundry items. I had a quick rummage through and even though I thought a pair of Bianchi gloves would make a nice souvenir, it’s hard to replace Roeckls, so I passed. In the end, he didn’t ask anything for cutting the cable, he just smiled and gave me a pat on the back.
The train trip to Pozzallo was interesting, as there was no space for my bike (despite me having a ticket for it). I had to pull all the pannier bags off and the conductor found a spot for it in his little private area of the carriage. It was a short trip, but long enough for me to fall asleep and then jump out of my skin when the conductor came through announcing the station. I grabbed all my bags, threw them on the platform, then went back for my bike. The watermelon I had been carrying had now slipped off the back of the rack and was dangling in the towel like a sack. Once everything was back in order I pedalled out of the station in search of the ferry port. I tried booking a ticket on the website, but it crashed so decided to take my chances and buy one when I got there. Signs to the ferry port were in the Italian tradition, vague, but I did manage to find my way without too much trouble. By the time I approached the ticket desk it was about 7:10PM. Plenty of time I thought to get my ticket, then go and find some dinner. The guy at the desk said go to the first window at 7:30PM and if there is space, we will sell you a ticket. Huh? I stood there, gobsmacked for a minute and then saw the other 2 or 3 people hovering around the first window. I told him that their website was broken, but he just repeated the same instruction. This is where I met Nigel. He had been on my train to Pozzallo, although we hadn’t spoken. He was an English guy on a short break to Milan, Rome, Sicily and now Malta. We got chatting and shared our surprise at the ticket sale situation. Nigel already had a reservation, but still needed a ticket apparently. Finally the first window opened, with a face that looked remarkably familiar 😉 We got our tickets, but were told boarding would start in 10 minutes. Lucky I arrived over 2 hours before the ferry was scheduled to leave, rather than getting food first! Despite their warnings, we chanced it and walked over to the only kiosk in sight. The only thing on offer that resembled food was some basic prosciutto or salami sandwiches. Nigel was reluctant, but I decided better eat something now or who knows when I will get to eat again. In the end, he also decided to play it safe. We had a good chat about many things on the ferry, travel, politics, work. It was an enjoyable way to pass the time, and we had a bit of time to pass. The ferry left late, then arrived late, with no explanation why. Nigel said his taxi driver would probably be angry, and I was thinking of poor Warrick waiting to meet me in Valletta now almost an hour late. Still we eventually arrived. I said good bye to Nigel, and spotted Warrick waiting for me. I was very happy to see him, and apologetic for the delays. Even around midnight the air was still warm, but I had made it to Malta. It was a short trip back to Warrick’s place, where I left my bike with the luggage in the hallway, crept up the stairs to the spare room and flopped into bed.