It was night when they left. After eleven, coming out from San Silvestro's church, ahead was a drummer player that accompanied with his rolling beat, more than two hundred footsteps of men, some isolated gun shot, that bounced of mefisti, shots in the air simular to a rifle, inoffensive memories when going to the forest with the double-barreled shotgun. The people there accompanied them and the town welcomed them.

Thursday night, the sky overcast, slightly leaving out a piece of moon, it's still too young to light up the world. The men walk, walk without stopping, climbing through the tight forest the darkness that made it less familiar. Shadows even darker than the foliage of the beech trees, leaving their feet to rely upon, the path. They are the "ramara's" and they are climbing the mountains of Nebrodi to reach a secret place inaccessible to go touch and pick up bay leaves. A plant always destinated to encircle with its branches the most noble foreheads, which assumes a meaning, less pompous but the most pretty. It's San Silvestro's bay leaves, a humble protector of the weak and the sick, a modest reserved author of the amazing miracles. The patron saint of Troina, in these mountains almost a thousand years ago he would withdraw for meditation, he disappeared, to be found four centuries after in a cave. His body was perfectly preserved, as if death barely touched him.

All through the night children, men, women and the lesser young walked through the forest in groups, the groups at times begin to divide, depending on the strength between the young and old. Voices are heard, the sky begins to lighten, light that gleams out of the torces, walking is continued through dawn. The sun is now high and illuminates the first that reach the clearing, where a camp base was staged, tents and a great amount of woods to be used for the night to come. Little by little the "ramara's" get together, canteens are passed from one person to another, packages opened slices of vasteddu cu sammucu. The group that pursues to touch the bay leaves start to walk. Shouts of greetings are heard "Viva Diu e San Suvviestu e lu patriaca San Giusieppi e lu Santissimu Sacramentu!" They back away from the path and are greeted with gun shots. Those who remained start the camp fire. There is needed a lot of charcoals for dinner.

It's not eleven in the morning yet. At twelve thirty at noon those who remained at camp start to send forth drums, banners with the picture of the "vara" and saint. On one side, far away there are the Nebrodi covered with the green forest, on the other side a large space with San Fratello built on a hill, at the bottom right a blue shadow of the sea, of the Tyrrhenian. At the bottom, hidden from the vegetation, there's a gorge where the "ramara's" have to let down ropes to reach the bay leaves. Finally gun shots are shot and are corresponded by other gun shots from the bottom. They are returning. The first that arrive, all have branches of bay leaves. They meet.

Those who waited for the others to arrive, all formed a straight line, drums and banners are sent forth and the ones that are arriving pass by the straight line, giving each person bay leaves and a kiss. The people that went down to get the bay leaves, their facials are marked by fatigue , their eyes shine of emotion. The return to camp is very joyful, their faces are full of new satisfaction and serenity. All of this was spontaneous and now they all feel purified and renovated. At the camp base mass is held, invocation for San Silvestro, gun shots and finally the groups gather around the camp fire where charcoals are being burnt from the big central flames. Perfume of roasted meat, knives slicing large round breads, flasked bottles and glasses are passed from one hand to another. Later, the sun is low above the trees, the "massaro" the traditional figurehead who had organizied this meeting, a kindhearted person that supervises the camp, gathers men and women around the camp fire and they sing. Traditional and antique words are mixed with fairy tales and prayers, a popular and particular liturgy. Breath of peace among them.

The night between the forest is lovely, the songs seem to never end. There's not too much time to sleep, but it's not important, nobody wants to miss this fraternity, communion feeling. Coming up, it's dawn again, each return to their home. A little after twelve noon, on Saturday, the first "ramara's" cross the bridge of Troina, each of them stop at the small chapel, a chapel which is dedicated to the saint, leaving beside some branches of bay leaves. Their facial vision are full of tiredness, a fate of pride and content is noticed, full of deep satisfaction, but not ostentated. Even this year the "ramara's" have accomplished their pilgrimage.