Wildside

Louise Roddon dons her walking boots and head torch to dodge the volcanic vapour and ash in one of Europe’s most extreme hiking destinations

From somewhere up ahead of us, a gigantic baby as big as a mountain is calling for its mother. Vast toys are being tossed from an angry pram; huge childish feet drum a thunderous plea for attention, as we continue to walk towards the sound of it, through the dark Sicilian night.

This is what it’s like climbing a volcano when the action’s already started.

I am on a “volcano hike” with my fellow madmen through Sicily’s bright Aeolian Islands. We are essentially devoting ourselves to the splutterings and mutterings of Earth’s inner core by making three separate ascents on three peaks over several days – always stepping towards the promise of fire and brimstone. Call it trophy walking if you like, it’s perfect for those who find country strolls a little too tame, and is the most atmospheric way to get to know the islands.

So here we are, climbing a narrow lane towards L’Osservatorio, the observation point on the island of Stromboli. Head torches illuminate the way, and our guide keeps up an eccentric commentary, which adds to the surreal quality of the night.

“You know the Italian for eruption is errutare? Well, we also have the word rutta for burp. You see a connection, eh?”

I laugh, but just then a particularly loud series of explosions shakes the smile from my lips.

“Quick! We may see some action!” says our guide, a master of understatement.

There is even a word, strombolian, which describes the kind of eruptions you can witness on this island. And when a volcano creates its own words, you’re left wondering how wise it is to meddle with nature. Tolkien’s Middle Earth tower of Barad-dûr was inspired by Stromboli. So too was Stromboli, Rossellini’s film of doomed love, and it’s not hard to see why. The end of the hill-pass uncovers a frighteningly sheer trail of grey, smoke-swathed solidified lava up to 900m above sea level – the famous Sciara del Fuoco, where nothing grows.

The crater continually chucks out menacing puffs of vapour and ash

Take the walk during daylight hours, and you get an altogether different picture. But one that’s just as visually powerful. At Stromboli’s summit, the crater continually chucks out menacing puffs of vapour and ash. Rocks of all sizes tumble towards the sea, where their impact sets off whirlpools fringed with foamfl ecks onto the water’s surface.

The last major eruption started in December 2002 and caused the closure of the island to non-residents for months. It set off landslides and tsunami waves – creating serious damage. The volcano is of course constantly monitored, yet it is sobering to see road signs illustrated with the sorts of matchstick men usually found on the doors to gents’ toilets (only this time, in fleeing mode) above the warning: “When the siren sounds, abandon the coast and head for the waiting station.”

Finally, breathless from stumbling over slippery volcanic sand, our small band of adventurers reaches the giant baby itself, taking up position at l’Osservatorio’s terraced café. Here, the velvetblack sky parts to reveal a fan-shaped orange flare – plumes of neon-lit flame spitting heavenwards, as the crater burps out the contents of its belly. We wait about 15 minutes or so before the next set of pyrotechnics, and at times it feels a little like watching a reluctant dad taking half-hearted charge of a firework display. The urge to say “Ooh” and “Aah” is hard to resist. The difference, however, is that the show here goes on all night.

The sense of discovery, danger even, remains undiminished when we eventually turn our backs on the spectacle and make our way by moonlight, with many a backward glance, down the hill to the charming sea-facing hotel.

That’s the thing about volcanoes. They add drama to a landscape, and if walks in parks put to you sleep then this sort of trip is the way to go. But even the hikes we’re taking are tame compared with the challenges faced by a group of lycra-clad Frenchman we meet en route. These slick-limbed, frighteningly fit guys, brimming with barely contained energy, call themselves “sky runners”. Their mission? To sprint up each of Sicily’s main volcanoes in record-breaking time. Each to their own.

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