Mount Etna
The ash reached Malta first, so we took the ferry to see where it came from. Warm lava, combed pines, roadside pistachios, and what a hotelier would tell a guest planning Etna in 2026.
The smell arrived before the mountain did. Sulphur, hot stone, something like a struck match left burning, and it was everywhere: in the car, in our clothes, in the bread we ate that night. The lava on the lower slopes was days old and still warm. Pines lay flat where the flow had pushed through them, their trunks pointing downhill as if the forest had been combed.
Provenance: Walked
We had come over from Malta by ferry. The ash had reached Malta first, settling on the island before we decided to go and see where it came from. That is the honest order of events: the volcano invited us, from about two hundred kilometres away, and we went.
It was late 2002, by my best reckoning. I did not keep a diary and I was not a photographer, but two pictures survive from that day. In one, there is snow on the slope behind me, fog over everything, and a yellow digger at the edge of the frame, moving fresh lava off the track. In the other, the souvenir huts at the top of the road are open for business, Kodak signs and all, while another digger works on the lava bank behind them. Etna's large eruption of that period began on 26 October 2002 and ran until late January 2003. Within a day its ash had reached the Greek island of Kefalonia, and the University of Malta's own magazine records that the ash of 2001–2002 covered both of the main Maltese islands. On the first day, the lava destroyed the tourist station at Piano Provenzana on the north side and burned into the Ragabo pine forest. Trees like those are the ones I remember.

On the way down, farmers sold pistachios and other nuts at the roadside. Bronte, on the western flank, grows the pistachio Sicily calls green gold. The sellers recommended them, with straight faces, as an aphrodisiac. I bought a bag. I make no claims for it. I remember the colour, a green you do not see in supermarket pistachios, and the fact that the people selling them farmed on the side of a mountain that had just tried to bury their neighbours' trees.
It was an unbelievable view, an unbelievable smell and an unbelievable day. Twenty-four years later, this is what I would tell a guest planning the same trip.
Etna works like two resorts and a farming district on one mountain. A hotelier reads it that way.
The quality is in the third layer. The first layer is for the crater, if the mountain allows it that week.
Who may not enjoy it: travellers who need a fixed plan, a guaranteed summit or a quiet viewpoint in August. Also anyone who wants Etna and the rest of Sicily inside three days.
Score 1 is low friction, 5 is high. These are editorial scores for three nights on the mountain with one guided day high up.
The reddish-brown plume was not new magma, but old material emptied from the crater's conduit. Marco Neri, volcanologist at INGV, on the ash of late September 2026 (as reported by La Sicilia and AeroCorner; our paraphrase)
That sentence is the mountain in brief. Not every plume is an eruption, and not every quiet week is safe. The people who live on Etna read it daily, the way a hotelier reads the morning occupancy report. A guest should borrow their habit: check, then go, then be ready to turn back.
What stayed with me was not the photographs. It was the smell, the combed pines and a bag of green nuts from a farmer who was not worried. The mountain had moved again and he was still selling. So were the souvenir huts.
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Ahmet Can Yeşildağ is the founder of Orophile Journeys and editor of Orophile Edit. His work connects a career in hospitality with considered travel advice.
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