Sounds of sunrise in Taormina

Taormina, Sicily, Italy

I have lost count how often I have tried to take the perfect sunrise photograph. Or, for that matter, sunset. It is why I am sitting on a rickety plastic chair, on a roof of a rectangular apartment block, slightly west of the Sicilian town of Taormina. It is also why, at 4 a.m. as my watch shows, I am feeling stupid for not realising that sunrise is still an hour away. That could have been longer in bed.

The sharp silhouette of a smoking Mount Etna forms the skyline behind me, while to my left is the craggy outline of Castelmola village, suspended from its peak, as if its houses will any moment topple. To my right lie the ruins of a Saracen castle, and in the distance, far across the water, is the irregular, twinkle-lit outline of Italy’s Calabria. Magical? No question. Relaxing? No doubting. It is why Taormina has attracted visitors since tourism was invented. No wonder the list of writers crafting world-class prose in Sicily is a Who’s Who of literature. No wonder, too, so many authors come to live here, promising they will be productive but, when pen reaches paper, all they do is dream.

Beneath me, on the balcony of a nearby apartment, I hear the scuffling brush-sweep of a local widow as she makes a pre-dawn clean of her roof. It is Maria, who lost her husband 18 months ago. I see the vague outline of her floral dress, tightly applied to broadening hips, an expanse of posterior, as she bends over to retrieve scattered litter, blown here by the warm Taormina wind. The wind that blows anything anywhere, the wind that picks up roofs unless they are battened down by boulders, the wind that carries the name of Sirocco.

Gone are those days when Maria would scream, “Bastardo!” at her husband. The poor fellow died within months from a vicious form of cancer. Argue they may have done, in full earshot of their neighbours, but love for 37 years they did as well. Who said peace and harmony were features of a successful marriage? No chance, should you come to Taormina.

Around me I hear the town slowly waking. In the half-darkness my hearing is acute. I realise that daylight somehow distracts me from distinguishing noises. By day one sound becomes another, making it impossible to focus on a single sound at all. But in the pre-dawn glimmer, noises are clearer, humanity is still mainly sleeping, although one by one folk awaken to prepare for the sun when it appears. I look towards the coastline of Calabria and see the sky slowly brightening above it. A faint orange illuminates the stretch of Mediterranean before me, its tiny sparkles bouncing like Christmas decorations from minuscule waves.

Then another sound, half hidden by Maria’s sweeping. A boat? I sense it is, as I hear something chug-chugging gently through the Straits of Messina - it is what they call the stretch of sea before me. It is here that Homer once described the lethal Scylla and Charybdis. The craft is small, and near its stern I see the outline of a fisherman, as he makes his way from wherever he has been angling. He heads towards Taormina harbour and a Sicilian breakfast. Brioche and granita await him.

I hear a rustling to my left and look down at some scrubland, to see the tail of a fox slinking towards a spiky bush. “Got you,” I whisper, thinking no one can hear me.

But as I utter, truly it is no more than a sigh spoken, the animal looks up, catches my gaze, gives a foxy grin, perhaps it is a silent snarl, and has instantly disappeared behind the bush, into shadow and security.

Directly to my front I sense a flutter, as a tiny bat darts from right to left, its stubby wings flapping rapidly. It knows it will soon be daylight and time for bats to sleep. I watch it do a diving turn and hurtle back past me, flitting now in the opposite direction. The bat disappears and from high on the crags to my left, the ones that carry Castelmola, the twit-twoo of an owl briefly worries me. The sound spells danger for scurrying mice and voles, and other tiny creatures that choose darkness to fill their bellies. It is risky being small and tiny when raptors are hunting.

Somewhere in the distance, beyond and below the Madonna’s cross that skylines proudly beside the Saracen castle, I hear a clackety-clack. It is the railway, as the first train of the day starts out before sunrise, heading south to the popular arrival town of Catania, the island’s second city, and 50 kilometres from my rooftop. I am sure the train will be almost empty. Perhaps an occasional sleepy passenger, certainly a guard and driver, but Sicily’s working day has mostly not started, so only early-risers will be travelling. By mid-morning the train will crammed with all kinds, heading towards work or recreation.

The twit-twoo of the owl is now joined by tweeting, as tinier birds begin to awaken. They are spreading wings, perhaps even yawning, while warning fellow tinies that an owl is nearby and set on doing harm and mischief. I hesitate for a brief moment. What was that? Another sound now joins the tweeting, and I frown as I try to work it out.

“Ah!” I whisper, as I recognise the ping-ping of a vehicle’s reversing alarm far beneath me. It is a midget dustcart manoeuvring on the road to make its first collection of the day. The dustcart, small because that is all the winding mountain roads will handle, has come early. Once full daylight appears, the road will be harder to travel, sometimes too narrow for traffic in both directions. Cars might do it, if drivers have sufficient patience, but for lorries it is harder. Motor cycles are simple, as they speedily weave left, right and anywhere, with complete disregard for an unhelmeted rider’s safety.

Far in the distance, on a short stretch of modern carriageway, I see the grainy outline of a tarmacked road vanishing into a tunnel. From its rough surface, I hear the rumble of tyres, as a few Taormina residents set out early. No train for them, the road is their selection, but an early start is certainly the way to travel. Perhaps they realise the mayhem that is a feature of Sicilian driving and wish their journey to be untroubled. The horns, the screeching, the yelling and gesticulations, that make drivers from the Italian mainland look like novices. Driving in Sicily is not a form of travel. It is a life experience verging on survival.

I hear the distant rumble of tyres become drowned by a barking dog. From the sound, the animal cannot be far away. It seems big, its bark is deep, a call that is definitely ferocious. Something has troubled it, although I do not know what. The one dog is joined by a second, then a third, a fourth, then plenty. At least six soon howl, as the canines of Taormina stir, troubled by something I cannot identify. They are now a tuneless choir.

As the dogs howl, so I hear a cockerel crowing. The bird, too, is soon joined by many others. I look towards the outline of Calabria before me, as it slowly becomes less of a shadow, its irregular peaks, unseen in the earlier darkness, now making a distant horizon. No longer is Taormina quiet, one sound has joined another, and now all I hear is cacophony. I wonder why, and then realise. The noises are making an announcement. Sunrise is only moments away.

Then it comes, first a distant blemish, then an orange flutter, with a faintest dash of red. Within almost seconds it is there, the bright orb before me in its cloudless sky, and moments later it is over. The orb has become a true sun. I reach for my sunglasses, realising that a Sicilian day has now begun. The sun’s warm energy drives through me and I feel my spirits grow. Without sun, of course, there would be no life. At least no life as we understand it. What now hangs in the sky before me is something I must treasure, we must treasure, mankind must care for.

I see that best in Taormina.