Newsletter – October 2025
Slow Living in Sicily: Why Rushing Less Means Living More
October in Sicily feels like summer that simply refuses to leave—the season that missed the memo. The air stays warm, the hills shimmer gold in the afternoon light, and the scent of woodsmoke mingles with the olives ripening in the valley. It’s the kind of weather that makes you think, “Maybe I’ll just never go inside again…”
Beach days in the fall? Check.
Fresh local flavours? Check.
Friendly, smiling faces? Check.
Endless wonders? I need a bigger checklist!
Exploring Sicily by E-Bike (and Learning to Coast Through Life)
I’ve always loved seeing the world by different means of transportation—whether it’s by plane, train, car, hike, motorcycle, and now, e-bike. Each changes your relationship with time. In a plane, you skip places. On a bike, you earn them.
Now that our new e-bikes have arrived, Courtney and I have been putting them to good use. Some days, we pedal into Castelbuono for an evening ‘passeggiata con gelato’ (a stroll with gelato—a sport I plan to master).
Other days, we go to Cefalù for a beach day in October, which is nearly unheard of for Canadians. It still feels like we’re breaking a law somewhere. We also like to head to Bergi’s countryside restaurant for a quick treat that we pretend we “earned” through exercise.
This past summer, we returned to Vancouver Island and borrowed bikes from a friend (thanks, M.F.!). We rode around Victoria almost daily. It reminded me that cycling is really just adult freedom disguised as fitness. Sure, it takes longer to get anywhere, but that’s the point. You trade efficiency for perspective.
As we build our stamina for longer rides, we’ve started noticing details that once blurred by—the echo of church bells, the shimmer of olive leaves, and the unmistakable smell of rain evaporating off of citrus trees, which is something every Sicilian insists is good for the soul and the tomatoes.
Courtney rented an e-bike during our first visit to Sicily in 2023, but it didn’t quite have the torque to tackle our local hills. Our new ones, on the other hand, have enough power to make you question Italian speed limits. Downhill, I sometimes wonder if they were secretly designed by Ferrari’s intern department.
Our bike rides have been rejuvenating—filled with sunshine, movement, and laughter. Perhaps most importantly, they give us valuable time together without a deadline.
Pruning the Property and the Great Olive Harvest
Last spring, our friend L.F. visited for ten days, during which we became part-time olive surgeons — pruning trees that hadn’t seen a proper haircut in years. The effort paid off. Several trees are now loaded with fruit, one of which gifted me nearly eight kilos of olives.
As a Canadian who once thought ‘olive picking’ meant choosing a jar at the grocery store, I can’t help but wonder—not for the first time—how I ended up in Sicily, climbing an olive tree, shaking its branches like it’s a national sport.
We’re learning to prune our olive trees into the classic ‘umbrella’ shape, thinning the branches until, as the locals say, una colomba potrebbe volare attraverso—a dove could fly through. Trust the Italians to make even gardening sound like poetry.
Our friend Vincenzo—one of the many Vincenzos we know, each with his own expertise—has been teaching us how to read olives like tea leaves: when they shine just right, when they turn from green to violet to black, and when they’re best picked for oil versus for brining.
Before Sicily, my relationship with olives began and ended with a can opener. Here, putting olives in metal is basically a sin. “Lattina di metallo?” (Metal cans?)—the locals would gasp, religiously crossing themselves. “Noooo… per l’amor del cielo!” (Literally translating to, “No, for the love of the sky!” or more accurately, “No, for heaven’s sake!”). Apparently, that would ‘kill the soul’ of the olive. And honestly, after tasting fresh ones, I believe them.
Next comes the brining—a process less about recipes and more about family feuds. Every household has its sacred method. Some slice, others smash (usually with alarming enthusiasm), and each insists their approach is the traditional Castelbuono method. Ingredients vary wildly: fennel seeds, lemons, garlic, bay leaves, oregano, or a ‘secret’ ingredient that everyone knows but no one admits.
As Courtney and I attempt our first batches, we’ve realized the goal isn’t perfection—it’s participation. These rituals, the debates, the patient rhythm of it all—that’s the flavour that really seeps in.
Our Five-Hour Lunch at Cancila’s Olive Farm
No one mentioned that buying local olive oil in Sicily comes with a side of hospitality—and by ‘side’ I mean five hours, five courses, and zero chance of leaving hungry.
The Cancila Agricultural Company, tucked in the Madonie hills just outside Castelbuono, began as a livestock farm. When the animals retired (or were promoted to pets), patriarch Vincenzo Cancila decided to restore the ancient olive groves.
Years of care paid off in 2013 when Olio Cancila was born—extra virgin in every sense, and extra passionate in every drop. Health issues later led Vincenzo’s sons, Nicola and Lorenzo, and their mother Maria Anna, to take over the business, and they’ve continued his legacy with both grit and grace.
Courtney arranged a visit to pick up some organic extra-virgin olive oil, but Sicilians don’t really do ‘quick transactions.’ We were greeted with hugs, warmth, and what I now recognize as a universal phrase of danger: ‘Stay a while…’
Nicola led us through the groves, introducing each tree like an old friend, while Lorenzo picked some herbs and greens as he walked—ingredients for a lunch that was clearly forming in his mind. With our clumsy Italian and their patient gestures, we pieced together their story—a family bound by love, labour, and olives.
Lunch arrived as if conjured — simple, pure, and extraordinary. The kind of meal that makes you savour each bite, to linger and chew as slow as possible. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and the sneaking suspicion that we’d just been adopted.
"In Sicily, passion is the main ingredient, not a side hobby."
For Nicola and Lorenzo, olive oil isn’t business—it’s identity. We arrived as strangers and left as family. Sicilian hospitality has a way of doing that, and you never see it coming until you’re too full to resist.
Funghi Fest: Small Town, Big Laughs
In the last couple of years, Courtney and I have travelled through eleven countries, and the best moments always seem to happen suddenly when we least expect them. That was how it also unfolded as we stumbled through Castelbuono’s Funghi Fest—a yearly weekend event celebrating mushrooms, music, and the general joy of existing. We enjoyed the Mushroom Festival in 2024 as well and it didn’t disappoint.
Picture this—over a hundred vendors, the smell of roasted chestnuts wafting through the air, beekeepers, cheesemakers and local artists all set to the soundtrack of laughter bouncing off stone walls.
As we wandered through the bustling crowd, gelato in hand—pistachio and manna for me, chocolate and frutti di bosco (fruit of the woods) for Courtney—we stumbled upon a juggler entertaining in the town square.
He started with bowler hats, moved onto juggling clubs, and then invited volunteers—first a girl, then a man. Five hundred people cheered. Then came the fateful moment: he pointed at Courtney.
Before I could say, ‘Don’t volunteer for anything involving fire’, she was holding three flaming torches, an Italian man was lying on the cobblestones, a girl was kneeling in prayer, and the juggler was setting up what could only be described as an insurance liability. It felt like a Fellini film directed by Cirque du Soleil.
Courtney played along perfectly—calm, playful, even cracking a theatrical whip. The crowd erupted. The performer juggled the flaming torches above the man’s head—no casualties, just applause. I think the entire crowd was praying along with the little girl kneeling beside the flaming juggler.
One more reminder that the best stories are often unplanned. They just… ignite.
A Season of Slow Living (and Slower Learning)
October has been a gift—long sunny days, mini adventures, and lessons that take their sweet time to land. Each pedal stroke and olive picked reminds me why we came here: to live slower, learn deeper, and savour life before it speeds past.
Slowing down doesn’t come naturally to me. My instinct has always been to move quickly, especially when I have no idea what I’m doing. It’s served me well in business—and occasionally led to mild chaos elsewhere. But Sicily keeps whispering the same thing, “piano, piano” (slowly, slowly). Here, even the espresso somehow takes its time.
I’m learning that ‘slow’ doesn’t mean ‘lazy’—it means present. It means knowing that olive trees take years to bear fruit, good meals take hours to share, and that people—myself included—grow best when they’re not rushed. As Courtney often reminds me, there’s no real hurry to reach the end. The end is the same for all of us.
After my father passed away this summer, that truth landed differently. If the ending is certain, then what really matters is how we travel—not how fast.
The true magic isn’t waiting at the finish line—it’s scattered along the way. It’s found in the moments of laughter, the wrong turns, the blossoming friendships, and those little moments of gratitude that make every mile worth the ride.
