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| | | | Raining fire and brimstone on my head
From the Mail on Sunday
'You must go now,' said Gioacchino, the captain of our chartered yacht, tapping his watch and smiling his goofy smile. 'Five o'clock, yes? Your guide is waiting for you.'
In other seas and on other boats you may land on an island. On Stromboli, you tie up to a volcano: a massive cone; a giant, black and grey mountain of cinders; a huge, menacing iceberg of burnt rock. Our little anchor was now lodged on its enormous flank, like a staple in an elephant.
We clambered into the rubber dinghy. I turned to Bob as he lowered himself on to my hand. 'What are those things on your feet?' He looked down. There had been instructions to wear hiking boots. He was wearing his Johnny Moke cowboy loafers. 'Well, they'll do,' he muttered. The last of a few Sicilian bathers was picking her matching black-bikinied form and sable froth of curls off the black beach. Bob put a foot in the surf and squeaked.
The eight of us hurried up the pavement-wide lane between the squat, earthquake-proof houses. Behind low clay walls were gardens and caper bushes, weathered boards and broken roofs. Stromboli may lack the polish of Panarea, its neighbour in the Aeolian Islands, where the wealthy have imported an airbrushed lotus-eating style (from Indonesia for some reason), but here, where the hot 'bombs' might fall out of the sky at any time, the place seemed more lived in.
Under the cafe, opposite the church, was a little room papered with giant maps of Etna and Stromboli. It was full of swarthy men concentrating on the serious business of taking money off tourists. A fat bloke in red shorts raised two hands spread out towards me: 'Otto?' 'Si.' He pushed a pink ticket at me and I wrote out my name laboriously in triplicate. 'I just think he wants you to sign it,' said Robert. 'Sign it Otto.'
Red Shorts handed out eight torches and plastic hard hats. He looked up at Bob, and then down at his shoes. He made vigorous gestures. 'No, no,' he said and passed him some ill-fitting climbing boots.
It seemed we eight were now part of a much larger group of about 20. The man with the officiousness of a short Italian possessing something signed in triplicate started gesturing again. 'Duo!'
'I think they want us in some sort of crocodile.' 'How many does that make then?' Robert counted as we marched off. 'Difficult to say. I don't know if that man is coming on the mountain trip or just walking his dog.' We were walking, two by two, along what appeared to be a perfectly ordered promenade. Joggers whistled by. A little boy on a tricycle tootled on ahead. I took off the hard hat and tried to attach it to my rucksack.
Travel guide: Sicily
Soothed by Sicily's sensuous charm
From the Daily Mail
Mid-afternoon in Sicily. The sun beats down; the only sound is of whirring cicadas. The tiny station of Enna is deserted for the siesta. In the bar a stubbled barman pours espresso, and a three-legged dog hops across to make my acquaintance.
The suspicion that someone from the Sicilian equivalent of Central Casting has made arrangements for my reception grows with the arrival of the local taxi driver, a Mafioso type in wraparound sunglasses. We race up the hill and pull up in Enna's town square with a squeal of brakes.
'Ecco!' grunts the driver. We're here. Now that's the way to arrive in small-town Italy.
Taking a train around Sicily is the best way to appreciate the charm, and people, of this ancient, quirky island - and the beach is never too far away. What's more, train travel won't send your blood pressure soaring, unlike driving. In a taxi heading to Palermo's Stazione Centrale, I'd lurched and swerved through the gridlocked traffic as my driver's temperature rose faster than that of the capital's sweltering streets.
The Sicilians have an expression for this situation: 'Che camurria!' which translates as 'I can't stand it! Let's get moving!' I couldn't stand it, either.
The 12.05 diretto to Enna was waiting at the platform, a modern diesel train with bright yellow destination plates on each carriage. We left on time, running along Sicily's sparkling north coast before climbing inland through hills carpeted with wild flowers.
My travelling companions were a group of schoolchildren, some peasant women dressed all in black, two priests and a moustachioed gentleman in a battered trilby. He offered me a drink of wine from his bottle, bowed, and disappeared at the next station, doffing his hat. I'd been on the Sicilian rails less than an hour and already I felt among friends.
Travel guide: Sicily
In Sicily with the Roman bikini girls
From the Mail on Sunday
Sicilians consider themselves to be a different sort of Italian, and we all know what that means. Sicily, for instance, attracts a distinctly different type of tourist from the rest of Italy.
The elegant cliff-side pool of my Palermo hotel, with its built-in fragment of ancient Greek temple, was populated by a familiar variety of thickset American: burly, greying at the temples, invariably with an implausibly uplifted blonde in tow.
'Hey Mikey, my main man. Whaddya doin' here?' 'I'm in town to hook up with Fat Tony. Louie and the boys are flying in from Chicago tonight to see to Santorini, y'knowwhaddamean?' What did he mean? Perhaps he and his friends were simply interested in the finer points of Doric architecture.
That's the way it goes in Sicily: fragments of the old contrasting with the brash and new. But what fragments. Long before the Romans, Sicily was Greek, the land of Archimedes and Dionysus, and the Greek legacy survives in a series of stunning set-pieces.
There are mighty temples to rival the Parthenon in the hills at Segesta, by the sea at Selinunte (sacked by the Carthaginians in the 5th century BC, the ruins still piled high) and on a ridge below the town of Agrigento. The latter, a complex of huge temples several miles across, is Sicily's most famous site, but I preferred the other two.
Agrigento's temples are fenced off from the tourist hordes, with the traditional competing irritations of ice-cream vans, over-flowing bins, wasps and traffic. Segesta and Selinunte have rural charm, and you can clamber over the remains of a civilisation two-and-a-half millennia old to your heart's content.
The Romans are remembered in Sicily though, thanks to Piazza Armerina, the palatial home of the Emperor Maximianus, who ruled in tandem with Diocletian in the 3rd century. The walls and roof were swept away in a medieval mudslide, but the mud preserved the most outstanding collection of Roman mosaics anywhere, which remained invisible until the Fifties.
Here, countless millions of tiny coloured tiles illuminate an area 3,500 square yards across. There are vibrant scenes of 3rd century Roman life, with clear contemporary echoes. Ten girls in skimpy bikinis play ball and work out with weights in a gym. Huntsmen follow the hounds in pursuit of a fox. Lions and elephants are brought from Africa to be displayed in the circus. Crowds roar on racers in the national stadium. A half-dressed young couple embrace.
There can be few places so guaranteed to create both a feeling of empathy with our ancestors and a sense of our own mortality.
Travel guide: Sicily
From Don 'til Dusk
From the Daily Mail
When we arrived at Bar Eden in the central square of Forza d'Agro, high in the eastern Sicilian hills, it was eerily quiet. Barely a soul stirred in the mid-afternoon heat.
There was not much to the place: just a few tables, a mute television set and an impassive bartender.
But there, hanging on one wall, was a set of black and white photographs taken 30 years ago, each depicting scenes from the filming of The Godfather movie in this remote village.
One picture had a youthful Al Pacino marching through the square; another had the director, Francis Ford Coppola, playing the tuba.
Coppola's masterpiece about the Corleones - an Italian-American mafia family - used a number of locations on the island.
It was easy to see why Forza d'Agro had been one of them.
With its winding, cobbled streets, its astonishing views of the Mediterranean, its ruined castle and ornate church, it perfectly evoked the rich beauty and sense of the past which so infuses the island.
'What makes this beautiful country so violent?' Anthony Corleone asked of his father Michael, the character played by Al Pacino, when they are in Sicily. 'History,' replied Michael.
The island's long history of oppression and occupation has created a culture which still views outsiders with suspicion.
It is a place where Anglo-Saxon expectations seem naive.
Timetables, directions and traffic regulations - all so necessary to tourists - can be confusing because, to Sicilians, they are transient.
Travel guide: Sicily
Doctor in the villa
After five years of filming the House Doctor television series in Britain, I understand why people here are forever going on holiday.
It's called survival. Coming from California and Mexico, I took blue sky and sunshine for granted. But not any longer.
Deciding where to go is an interesting process. I tend to steer clear of packaged trips, but when I was presented with the option of a week in a villa in Sicily, I began some research.
I learned that Sicily is the largest island in the Mediterranean (translate to miles of beautiful coastline), has an incredible history which includes Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Muslims and a brief period of British rule (translate to incredible architectural and cultural mix) and that the weather is almost guaranteed to be perfect at this time of year.
Then I received an e-mail from UK agency Tuscany Now, with information and photos of the villa.
The word villa can have many meanings, but this was the real thing.
Torre Castelvetrano, a 250-year-old olive 'fattoria' in the district of Trapani, beautifully restored, surrounded by olive groves and orchards, with a lake and swimming pool.
Within days, my partner Timothy and I were zooming down the autostrada in our hire car, heading for Castelvetrano.
Its outskirts were uninspiring, to say the least - row upon row of bland shops and houses.
But as we rounded the corner we gasped. Surrounded by lush countryside and flanked by two palms, a magnificent stone tower gleamed in the sun. Was it possible this storybook vision was our home for the week?
Travel guide: Sicily
A holiday with the Family
Come to the capital of Sicily in search of 'Godfather' images and you'll be in for a surprise. For this is no dusty, rock-strewn battleground of grizzled gangsters.
Sitting at a cafe in the Tribunali quarter of Palermo I found myself overwhelmed by the flurry of traffic, the grandeur of the baroque architecture and noise of street stalls selling spices, fresh fish and souvenir puppets of medieval knights.
The Normans built much of old Palermo and the Spanish ruled it for many years. As a result, this city is much grander than I had imagined.
It's also the noisiest capital in Europe. Buzzing motor scooters tear past and police sirens rend the air.
Traders in the old Arab market of Vucciria sing as they chop up eels, and just in front of me passes yet another wedding party for the bride to pose, laughing, amid the 20 life-sized statues of gods and heroes that flank the famous Fontana Pretoria.
Piazza Bellini, where I'm sitting, is one of the most popular squares in Palermo, and visiting its fountain is a must for Sicilian couples who queue up to have their wedding photos taken here.
The fountain, and the church of Santa Caterina behind it, date back to the 16th century, a time when Palermo was a hugely prosperous city, and Sicily an independent kingdom.
Looking at the profusion of Renaissance and Baroque architecture, you could almost be forgiven for thinking you were in Rome.
Today, Palermo is a bit ragged at the edges - not every facade has been fully restored and the pavements are frequently cracked, but the Palermitans who bustle through this brash city know how to have fun.
Their cooking, in particular, is renowned throughout Italy. Lunch, known as pranzo, is a very big event.
I have it in mind to wander up and find a restaurant in Piazza Giuseppe Verdi but I know that wherever I eat, there'll be a five-course meal ahead of me.
Travel guide: Sicily
A passion for more than pizza
From the Daily Mail
For those who think they know Italy, Palermo comes as something of a shock. The capital of Sicily, the Mediterranean island at the foot of the country, it's a brash city with an exuberant reputation. It's noisier, earthier and livelier than the cities of the Italian north, with a cultural mix that blends elements from an Arab, Norman and Spanish past.
Lining its narrow old-town streets and cobbled squares are Baroque churches, patched-up mansions, sculpted fountains and ornate Renaissance palaces. Food is an all-consuming passion, in riotous street markets, trattorias and ice-cream parlours. And with the pound at a favourable high against the lira, you'll be able to indulge yourself all weekend.
Scheduled flights are via Milan but, even so, a lunchtime departure from London Heathrow can have you in Palermo in time for a sundowner either in one of the city's bars, or overlooking the fine sandy beach at Mondello, just seven miles to the north.
ESSENTIAL INFORMATION
Do you need to worry about the Mafia? In a word, no, since Sicily's most famous export, organised crime, has little relevance for tourists. But Palermo does have a petty crime problem, so keep your wits and your wallet about you in crowds and at night. Leave jewellery in the hotel safe, carry shoulder bags slung across your body (as local women do) and hang on to your camera.
MY FIRST STOP?
Make a pilgrimage to the Antica Foccaceria San Francesco (Via Pater-nostro 58), Palermo's oldest traditional pizzeria, in business since 1834. Then cross the square for a homemade Sicilian ice cream.
AND THEN?
As long as you don't fly out on a Saturday, first stop next morning should be the exciting Vucciria market (closed on Sunday). Best buys? Dried herbs, preserved olives and chillies, porcelain pasta bowls, espresso cups stovetop coffeemakers. Snacks to avoid? Chopped boiled octopus and fried tripe sandwiches.
Wind through the city streets, ducking down alleys little changed in centuries. Pass the Piazza Pretoria and its Florentine fountain surrounded by nude statues, on your way to the serene church of La Martorana. Then on to the Cathedral and the Royal Palace, whose mosaics in its Palatina chapel (closes at noon on Saturday and 1pm on Sunday) are one of the city's artistic gems.
Travel guide: Sicily
Oasis of calm in the shadow of Mt Etna
From the Daily Mail
Mount Etna has been at it again. Plumes of smoke, fountains of red sparks and a slow-moving lava flow down its south flank have held the world's attention all week.
Close-up, it looks terrifying. But from a comfortable distance - such as Catania, 20 miles south-east of Etna's green foothills - it is said to look quite beautiful.
Far from it being a national disaster, most parts of Sicily are functioning pretty well as normal. Etna has been erupting for half a million years; it is the world's most active volcano.
This month's fireworks are by no means the most spectacular, and the trickle of lava, nearing the rather bleak ski resort of Nicolosi at 700m, is thought to be slowing down.
The only interference with daily life for east coast Sicilians has been a light dusting of ash which closed Catania airport, five miles south of the city, for two hours on Monday.
But the main tourist areas, Taormina, 15 miles north-east of Etna, and Syracuse, 40 miles to the south, have merely enjoyed the spectacular view of the volcano's smoking summit.
For the scores of tour operators featuring Sicily's most glorious coastline, it is business as usual.
Catania, for one, has seen far worse. Nature has wiped the resilient city off the map no fewer than seven times, and each time it has rebuilt itself.
In the 17th century, after the worst eruption in Etna's history swiftly followed by an earthquake, it was rebuilt as a showcase of Sicilian Baroque, wowing young aristocrats on their Grand Tour of Italy. Today it is known as the Milan Of The South for its buoyant economy.
As we sped through miles of grim suburb, it seemed hard to imagine anyone putting Catania on their Grand Tour. But then Tarmac gave way to paving stone, and ornate facades and wrought iron balconies replaced concrete.
Travel guide: Sicily
Fiery charm of volcanic Italy
From the Daily Mail
Black sand, a sea bath hot with sulphurous steam, the orange flashes of regular nocturnal eruptions - these are some of the surprises to be found in the Aeolian islands, the bizarrely beautiful volcanic archipelago that rises starkly out of the sea just north of Sicily.
Once the home of a tiny population scratching a living, and a haven for pirates and exiles, the seven islands in this remote group are now slowly opening themselves up to the juicier rewards of tourism. Their geography, fortunately, doesn't make it easy for them.
Even Lipari, the largest, has no airport. Access is by hydrofoil from Sicily or Naples. Long may it remain that way. For, stepping off the boat at Marina Corte, I found myself in one of the most charming little Mediterranean harbours I'd ever seen.
The tiny ticket office on the stone mole nudges up to a beautifully crumbling church. A few steps beyond, brightly painted fishing boats jostle for space in the narrow harbour. Cliffs of off-white lava rock rise sharply to the Castello, a picturesque jumble of churches, houses and a museum within 16th-century walls.
Beyond is a little square with a trio of cafes. Here I sat while my luggage was taken up on one of those toy-sized Italian vans to my hotel, the Rocce D'Azzurre, perched on a low cliff above the blue-green sea.
Heading out to discover the wider island in the morning, I found it similarly unspoilt. Eventually, I found the track I wanted, which led out to the open coastline: a spectacular sweep of low bushes, cacti and strewn stones plunging to a silhouetted pair of rocks.
The next morning, I made things easier for myself by recruiting a guide. Together we sped round the narrow backroads of the island. The rocks I had seen the evening before turned out to be the celebrated faraglione, the centrepiece of a famous view from the observatory at Capistella. Through a nature reserve of squat gum trees, olives and broad-leaved cacti on the far side of the island, we came to San Calogero, where you can swim in hot springs.
Travel guide: Sicily
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| | | | A godlike guide on the path to the heavens
The clay walls and low houses dropped away. We took an upward turn. Student couples coming down the mountain gave the party curious looks. It was getting darker. We had pitched our comments up, hoping to needle the guide, but we still weren't sure which one he was. The man in the red shorts was too fat to be climbing nearly 3,000ft twice a day. He'd stayed in the cafe to count his pink slips.
It had to be the lithe blond with the little curly Greek-god beard. He had a professional sort of tube poking out of his rucksack so that he could access fluids while still hanging by his fingernails. His shorts looked equally rigorous. Made of some new-age material, they were spray-moulded to his buttocks and winked disconcertingly at us.
'Do you think he shaves his legs?' whispered Rebecca. They were the colour of a glass of sweet wine lit by a shaft of Aeolian sun and disgusting to behold. When we reached the last house, Adonis turned casually and called to a young man, who looked at him nervously and began to translate with apologetic gestures.
'I am a qualified mountain guide.' He wasn't, of course. He was a bespectacled young student from Genoa. 'We will be ascending to 900 metres to the, er, ben, to, er, examine the volcano.' This was good translating. 'We will be stopping, er, every 20 minutes.
'After 400 metres,' he swallowed nervously, 'it will not be possible to go back.' He was sweating now and fiddling with his collar. Luckily we weren't relying on him, but the actual guide who stood next to him looked both laconic and businesslike, an oddly reassuring combination.
He swept our pallid faces with his mountaineer's steady gaze. Behind him, next to a battered Union Jack, the notice proclaimed, in a kind of English: 'It is not permitted to return for parties after the sundown.' And even as he finished, a setting sun worthy of Judith Chalmers was turning the Tyrrhenian sea a lurid scarlet.
Circumnavigating Mt Etna
Enna is a mountain town built on a high rocky bluff, a traditional bastion of defence against the many invading armies - Greek, Roman, Saracen, Norman - that have tussled over Sicily's territory in the past few hundred years. From the 13th-century castle there are spectacular views across the rugged countryside to Mount Etna.
At twilight, the streets are noisy with the passeggiata evening stroll, but the crowd falls silent as a funeral cortege drives by. In deeply traditional Sicily, death is treated with maximum respect. I turn in early at the town's only hotel, the Grand Albergo di Sicilia, and fall asleep to a lullaby of church bells.
The best way to see Mount Etna is from the Circumetnea railway. This ancient train rattles around Europe's biggest volcano, from the suburbs of Catania - passing so close to the buildings that you can almost reach out and touch - them to the open spaces of Etna's lower slopes. Here citrus plantations, vines and nut trees add a splash of colour to the black lava. Etna last erupted a few years ago, and even now her snow-capped cone gives the odd puff of smoke.
Halfway round we stop at a tiny station, and what sounds like a pair of competing foghorns start up at the other end of the carriage. It is two old boys from a mountain village who have just joined the train. They sit opposite each other, bellowing and cackling in that peculiar Sicilian dialect that adds a granite-like edge to every vowel and slurs everything else. By the time we reach the coast near Taormina my ears are ringing.
Taormina is Sicily's most famous resort, with a Roman amphitheatre and a glorious mountain setting. But after the humble villages of the interior, it seems too sanitised, too eager to attract tourists, and a bit too pricey. But the local ice cream is wonderful. I have a huge dollop of produzione propria - home-made vanilla - then, refreshed, I rattle down the coast to Syracuse.
If Taormina has seen better days, then Syracuse went permanently out of fashion 2,000 years ago. This was once the most important city in the Western world, but centuries of misrule by various tyrants slowly destroyed its power. Now it's a sun-baked backwater with an astonishing mixture of architectural styles, from Classical Greek to Italian Baroque.
I sit outside the ornate cathedral, people-watching and reading, then find a hotel where the desk clerk is contentedly asleep over his newspaper. He is only slightly put out at being woken up.
The Norman bequest
After the Romans came the Arabs, who founded a mosque or two and the labyrinth that is Palermo market. Then the Normans left a series of castles perched on vertiginous crags. But more than this, they left the magnificent cathedral of Monreale, decorated with huge, glittering mosaics of a more spiritual kind.
Completed in 1182, and dominated by indigo and gold, the nave boasts Old Testament scenes (including a detailed Noah's Ark), the aisles and choir display the teachings of Christ, while the side apses show Gospel stories. Great bronze doors illustrate more Biblical scenes, while the inlaid mirror tiles and richly carved pillars of the cloisters are unparalleled anywhere in Christendom.
The view down the mountain to Palermo (which also contains a number of gorgeous Norman mosaic churches) is breathtaking, even with a distracting slice of pizza in your mouth at a balcony restaurant. The countryside that punctuates the great milestones of human achievement does not, sadly, provide a fitting backdrop.
Sicily is, by and large, a land of dry scrub, what views it can muster all too often intruded upon by cement works or rusting chickenwire. Modern Sicilian towns - although they often follow a jumbled medieval layout - are usually a mass of tower blocks, jostling for position with each other right up to the edge of town.
In fact, I don't think I've ever seen so many tower blocks. Picturesquely rotting they may have been in places, with painted shutters and lines of washing hanging out to dry, but tower blocks they were nonetheless. If high-rise living engenders crime, then perhaps all that Mafia activity has finally been explained.
To be fair, on an island prone to earthquakes, it's unreasonable to expect the past to linger, except in its most solid, magnificent manifestations. A scattering of baroque buildings along the south coast bears witness to destruction.
In fact, Sicily really has only one city that is entirely harmonious to the eye, a gorgeous confection piled up a cliffside: Taormina. Picturesquely situated beneath smoking Mount Etna, perched high above the bays of the Ionian Sea, Taormina has certainly been discovered by tourists, but in the nicest possible way.
Elegant hotels with flower-bedecked balconies afford delightful views of beach umbrellas far below. Designer shops line the cobbled medieval main street, where no cars are allowed. A cable car ferries holidaymakers between the town and the many beaches.
Some of the candlelit bars and restaurants, where I enjoyed freshly caught local swordfish with rocket salad, are exquisite. It's the Mediterranean holiday cliche made deliciously real.
Travel facts: Italiatour (01883 621900) offers a range of holidays to Sicily, including return flights to Catania from Heathrow. The eight-day Jewels of Sicily escorted tour is includes return flights, full-board accommodation in four-star hotels and travel by air-conditioned coach.
General spirit of anarchy
What really seems to matter on the island is what endures: the family, the church, the miles of unspoilt coastline, the vast blue skies and the mountains, which are both mysterious and protective.
The Sicilian violence which Anthony Corleone referred to is not obvious to the visitor.
For all the pull of history, many of the younger Sicilians are desperate to be rid of the island's Mafioso image and are eager to embrace a modern, European future.
Superficially, Sicily appears as safe as anywhere else in Europe: indeed, I experienced far less anxiety walking through the back streets of Palermo, the capital of Sicily, than I usually do in South London.
We began our stay in an apartment in a small complex overlooking the seaside town of Patti, which lies about two hours drive north of the international airport at Catania.
Though the neighbourhood gave us a flavour of the terrain of Sicily, Patti itself was a disappointing town with little to see.
We were grateful to leave after two days and move westwards to Palermo.
The coast road from Patti to Palermo is probably the most exhilarating I have been along in my life, with mile upon mile of fabulous scenery: rich blue sea on one side, rolling green mountains on the other - though it was not always easy to appreciate the beauty from behind the wheel of a car.
I'd been warned about the problems of driving on the island, but nothing could have prepared me for Palermo, where a general spirit of anarchy prevailed.
Drivers honked incessantly, scooters zoomed from one side to the other and any concept of respect for lanes and traffic lights disappeared.
At times I felt I was in a particularly demanding video game.
Their welcome gifts
As we drove through the iron gates, Signor and Signora Falco emerged, smiling, from the gatekeeper's cottage.
They presented their welcome gifts - local wine, freshly baked bread, cheese, a bottle of the olive oil for which Castelvetrano is renowned, fresh tomatoes-and olives from the garden and good, strong espresso - and then showed us around the villa.
The dining room's French windows opened on to the patio leading to the pool and lake. Inside, two antique olive presses flanked a grand dining table.
The stuccoed living room was decorated elegantly with antiques and perfectly co-ordinated soft furnishings. Even wearing my House Doctor hat, I could not fault a thing.
Of four upstairs bedrooms, we chose the one with a balcony and a view stretching to the sea. We opened a bottle of wine, fixed a light antipasti and headed for the villa's tower to catch the sunset.
Shining in the distance was the dome of a 16th Century cathedral and, as we sipped our wine, the moon rose slowly over the Mediterranean. Life doesn't get much better than this.
Our first morning started with a swim in the turquoise pool, breakfast under olive trees and a leisurely walk around the grounds.
Before we knew it, it was nearly midday. This became our daily pattern and because in Sicily, as in most of Italy, everything shuts down from 12.30pm until at least 4pm, we would arrive at our first destination just in time for the main meal.
Sicilian cuisine is spicier and sweeter than in other parts of Italy, with an Arabic influence. And the wine selection is amazing.
The air is fragrant
Pranzo is the main meal of the day and if you like seafood, you couldn't be in a better place. Mussels and squid are a speciality and spaghetti alle vongole (clam spaghetti) appears on most menus.
The Arab influence is very noticeable, too. Couscous is a common alternative to pasta in Palermo's restaurants, and cassata, one of the most fattening desserts in the world, is also of Arab origin.
The majestic Piazza Giuseppe Verdi should be on every tourist's hit list. A huge open space carved out of the city's western wall, the piazza is dominated by Il Massimo, the third-largest opera house in the world when it opened in 1897.
Unfortunately, The Big One was closed by the Mafia during the Seventies, reopening in 1997 only after the charismatic mayor fulfilled a pledge to drive Cosa Nostra from the city.
Broad and Corinthian in design, flanked by palm trees and guarded by two bronze lions, Il Massimo's steps provided the backdrop for the finale of The Godfather: Part III, when Michael Corleone's beloved daughter, Mary, gets gunned down as he leaves the opera.
Spring is, without doubt, the best time to visit Sicily. The orange and lemon trees are heavy with fruit and the air is fragrant with almond blossom.
In summer, things can get too hot - not surprising given the fact this island is in commuting distance of North Africa.
Fortunately, just to the north-west of Palermo lies the old bathing resort of Mondello which was developed from a fishing village in the Twenties.
There are still traces of the old 'Liberty' style architecture (Italian Art Nouveau) on the shores of this tranquil spot and the pier is a particularly antiquated delight with local fishing boats tethered alongside it, each a riot of colours: blues, reds and greens.
For a real break from the bustle of Palermo, drive up to Monreale, a hill town nearly 1,000ft above sea level which overlooks the Gulf of Palermo.
This small settlement has plenty of restaurants around the main piazza and a belvedere constructed just below it which offers stunning views.
What makes Monreale remarkable, however, is the Norman cathedral which was built on the orders of William II and subsequently served as a burial ground for kings of Sicily.
Remarkably, it is virtually as William built it, with a stunning blaze of golden mosaics inside. The apse is dominated by a 13th-century portrait of Christ Pantocrator (governor of all angels) which has been called one of the greatest works of Christian art.
After visiting it, why not sit outside in the piazza with a jug of vino da tavola and drink in the last of the sunshine?
You could always stay on for a typical Sicilian cena (evening meal). Although a smaller affair than lunch, it still runs to five courses. People on this island really know how to enjoy themselves.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Sunvil Discovery offers long weekends in. Call 020 8758 4722 or 020 8758 4747 (brochure line).
Convent of horrors
DON'T MISS?
The Cappuccini Convent west of the Cathedral (take the bus from Piazza Independenza). Visitors walk through corridors lined with the bodies of 8,000 local bigwigs which have been preserved since the 18th century. It's like being in your own horror film. Not for the young or easily rattled.
GETTING AROUND
It's a long ride in from the airport (up to an hour) and taxis cost around £25, though there is a bus (just over £2) which drops you at Central Station. Don't even think of renting a car or bike. It's easy to walk to most of the old town sights, though be careful of scooters that seem to buzz around everywhere. Buses charge a flat fare of 50p a ride and there's a circular minibus service to the most visited destinations, including the market. Taxis are a safe way to get around at night.
DAY TRIPS
With a day to spare, make the five-mile trip to the hill town of Monreale and its magnificent mosaic-clad Cathedral - take the bus from Piazza Independenza. Locals picnic on the Pellegrino mountain with its shaded paths and shrine to Santa Rosalia, Palermo's patron saint. There's a torchlight procession and fireworks in July to celebrate the annual festival in her honour.
EATING
Try an arancino (a deep-fried rice ball) available in any market or bar. The pizzas at the backstreet Pizzeria Italia (Via Orologio 54) are legendary, though it's much more atmospheric to sit outdoors in the pretty Piazza Bellini. Try Sicilian ice cream at Ilardo (Foro Italico Umberto I), while locals head to the beach at Mondello to parade around in their finery and eat seafood - buses run there all night.
Catania delights at every turn
Our hotel was in a cool courtyard at the top of a steep street lined with orange trees. The proprietors - young and beautiful - seemed unused to tourists.
They showed us our sumptuous rooms with high, frescoed ceilings and antique furniture. 'It is good?' It was more than good; it was extraordinary.
This was not the only surprise. Perhaps because of its lack of hype (guidebooks are unanimously sniffy about the city), Catania managed to astonish and delight at every turn.
We ate simple, exquisite pizza that night alongside the city's in-crowd, young people curious to know what we were doing there. We suddenly felt adventurous and rather pleased with ourselves: this was no tourist trap.
In the bright morning sun, it seemed the most exhilarating city on earth. Straight, sweeping Baroque roads gave staggering vistas at either end - of the sea, or of Mount Etna.
There was a great sense of light, wind and space. Every corner turned gave an unexpected view - some grannies deep in conversation, their kitchen chairs parked in a row on the steep pavement; or a building built on top of a rolling, black lava flow.
Other tourists were rare. We encountered a few curious and well-dressed northern Italians, for whom Sicily is another country. And indeed it is: there is a different vibe on the street and in the air.
The palm trees seem more raffish, the cake shops more kitsch, the baroque architecture more exuberant.
Nowhere did I feel this foreign flavour more than in Catania's famous fish market (daily except Sunday).
An oval arena hemmed in by buildings, it resembled a stage set for The Pirates Of Penzance.
Wild-looking men with eye patches and gold teeth shouted strange dialect over their wares: coils of silver eels, thick as your arm; swordfish heads set on a slab, their snouts rearing up like chain saws.
It was unexpectedly hard to pull ourselves away from Catania, but we were bound for golden Syracuse, an hour to the south, a city that tourists love.
It was a shock to find ourselves among coachloads of Germans, but Syracuse still manages to retain its identity despite the hordes.
This was, after all, the most important city in the Western world from the 5th to 3rd centuries BC; the thriving metropolis of Magna Graecia, home to Plato and Archimedes. Greek reminders are everywhere - the fabulous Baroque cathedral is built around Doric columns.
Mud pools and 1950s tunes
I took the boat the next morning to neighbouring Vulcano, which as its name suggests, is not much more than a volcano rising directly from the sea. Beyond the extraordinary black sand beach, I climbed a narrow path up to the huge, open crater at the island's summit, which spits out boiling steam and brilliant yellow sulphur from fissures in the rock.
On my way back to the boat, I came to the oddest sight yet. The open-air sulphurous mud pool, where 20 or so visitors sat up to their necks in hot, bubbling, foul-smelling water the colour of mushroom soup. Holding my nose, I plunged in. With pop hits from the late 1950s ringing out from the nearby kiosk, it was one of the most surreal half hours I've ever spent
On my last day, I took a boat out beyond steep, chestnut-covered Salina and bite-sized Panarea to the huge triangular cone of Stromboli, the other semi-active volcano in the group.
Pottering around the craftshops that abound in San Vicenzo, the little port perched at the bottom of its dark slopes, you can only marvel that anyone would dare live here at all. For once night falls, an orange glow is clearly visible at the peak of the volcano, and as we bobbed offshore we were rewarded by bright spurts of orange flame rising high into the sky.
Not a place to stick around for life, perhaps, but extraordinary for a visit.
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| | | | The forge of the eternals
Our ragged, unfit, middle-aged, jumble-sale-dressed troop heaved up and stomped off up the main track, following our guide up the ben and into the spreading gloom. This was it. The path gave out at 1,300ft. So did the Murray Mints. So did the jokes about lunch packs, the Joe Simpson recollections of dead sherpas and litter on Everest, and the goat-like jumping. They gave way to a regular panting, groaning rattle.
On Stromboli there are no fears of paths being worn away Peak District-style by tourists. The mountain has a self-renewing audit. It is always spewing up a bit more shale, but the tracks are crumbly, nonetheless. At the next stop we switched on our torches and cursed our plastic hats.
'Ooooh, ahhhh,' went everybody suddenly. I turned. Had our guide taken off his parka? But they were looking up. The cloud that hung around the peak was closer now and was clearly a billow of smoky fumes. It was suddenly illuminated from within, as if by a subterranean special effects unit.
'No wonder the ancients thought these places were the forges of the eternal gods,' I mused inwardly. Outwardly I said 'ahhh', chiming in with the rest, a bonfire night crowd on Highgate Hill. With some justification. A spectacular display had just erupted, shooting a flurry of sparks into the air.
'Those must be the bombs, then,' Bob chipped in out of the darkness. 'It says in the guide book that they weigh tens of kilos and have a temperature of thousands of degrees.' I pondered this. 'These hats can't be much use.'
'No, it says that. "No amount of protective clothing will save the human body.' But we went on, clambering across little chasms of red rock. The temperature began to fall, the sweat congealed and at the next stop we needed to fuss about in our packs for wind-proof polypropylene heavy-weather gear, or the old T-shirt that we had actually brought.
The dark and the wind, the black ash at our feet and the little cairns of stones made us feel we were approaching a truly primal place - and without the proper boots.
'Er, we will stop here for half an hour,' said the interpreter. 'The volcano is doing, er, strange things and there are too many people ahead.' There were chains of torches dancing above us in the darkness. 'It's like the witches in an experimental production of Macbeth,' observed Matthew, another of our party. The weak artificial bulbs contrasted oddly with the huge, illuminated spume of smoke.
I became aware that there were parties all over the mountain. Far below another necklace of lights was threading back home. We watched it jog down. We were beginning to think we sort of wanted to follow. The sweat had got cold. The chatter had died away. It was dark and we wanted something to happen. So we had our picnic.
Rolling back the years
In the morning, like most travellers who have come to this sleepy place in the past 2,000 years, I move on. The next train is a regionale - the slowest of the slow, with grimy plastic seats and black-and-white photographs of the Italian riviera on the walls. The ticket collector studies my ticket as if it is written in code.
Now we are moving through the green heart of Sicily, with fields of corn rippling in the breeze, and peasants raising their hands in greeting as the train passes.
At Modica there is time for a stupendous lunch of baked aubergines, pasta, and ham and cheese wrapped in breaded veal. Strong local wine is served by the carafe, and the formidable lady owner refuses to take no for an answer when it comes to seconds. 'Manga! Eat!' she barks, dumping yet another helping on my plate.
I toil up the hill to the station feeling like a wine cask on legs, catch the next passing diretto, and promptly fall asleep. There are times in Sicily when you feel as if you've slipped back hundreds of years. This is one of them.
When I awake, the train is running through a valley below the town of Ragusa. The medieval quarter, hewn out of rock and clinging to the sides of a ravine, rises up in a jumble of pale stone houses, mysterious winding streets and Gothic churches.
Best of all are the public gardens, cool and shady with breathtaking views. On a bench someone has contributed some lyrical graffiti: 'In questo giardino pieno di misteri, sono morto e rinato' - 'In this garden full of mystery, I am dead and reborn.' My feelings exactly.
From Ragusa the train drops down to the coast, rattling across tiny level crossings, on towards Agrigento. Here are three magnificent Doric temples on a bluff overlooking the sea. Unfenced and devoid of tourists, they stand noble, dramatic and serene, the finest ruins of their kind outside Greece.
Sumptuous and elegant
It was with some relief that we reached our hotel, the Grand Hotel et Des Palmes in Via Roma.
Sumptuous and elegant, the Grand turned out to be a haven of peace.
Despite the traffic, I found Palermo a fabulous city, full of energy, imposing architecture and palm tree-lined avenues, of theatrical brightness and shadows, of fountains and squares.
The highlight was a visit to the Teatro Massimo opera house, which was the setting for the penultimate scene in the Godfather trilogy.
We were lucky to have seats in the box where Michael Corleone and his family sat.
The Teatro must be one of the most magnificent arenas in Italy, with its marble-floored corridors and gilded auditorium. It is worth a visit even without watching a show.
Afterwards, we walked, as the Corleone family had done, down the grand stairway outside, stopping at the very spot where, at the end of the third movie, Michael fell as an assassin's bullet hit him and killed his beloved daughter, Mary.
In the Godfather scenes in the Teatro Massimo, one character choked on a poisoned connoli (an Italian pastry).
Our experience of Sicilian food, however, was nothing like as negative. Whether in little trattoria or more expensive restaurants, we enjoyed superb meals.
I have never tasted better squid or clams. The drink was almost as good, and I adored the Sicilian lemon liqueur, limoncello.
Ideal for people-watching
Our most memorable meal was in San Vito lo Capo, as guests of our villa's owner (they also owned a fabulous beach resort hotel and restaurant).
We dined on the sand overlooking the gorgeous cape, said to be one of the most exquisite vistas on the island, and each course was more sumptuous than the last.
Castelvetrano was peaceful and idyllic, but I began to crave some nightlife. So I convinced Timothy we should spend our last night in Palermo, Sicily's capital.
There we dined alfresco in a courtyard off the main square. Not only was the food divine, but it was ideal for people-watching.
The 'passeggiata' had begun and up and down the square strolled starry-eyed couples, families - from grandparents to young children - and groups of friends.
People shared food, drink and lively conversation under the stars.
There is something wonderful about a culture that still takes the time to enjoy life's simple pleasures. Back in London, in February, I will do my best to recall this moment.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Torre Castelvetrano is available year round and sleeps up to 14. Contact Tuscany Now on: http://www.tuscanynow.com tel: 020 7684 8884.
The setting to beat them all
After the grandeur and swaggering scale of Catania, the island of Ortygia is on a more intimate,
secretive scale. The honeyed stone walls are tighter, the streets more twisted.
But it is no less sophisticated: culture aside, there are excellent shoe shops and a clutch of ritzy bars, perfect for an aperitif while the last of the daytrippers trickle out of the elegant Piazza del Duomo.
We stayed at a newly opened little hotel, all bleached wood, white linen and sunlight streaming in from tall windows facing the sea.
From here we walked straight into another, more tourist-friendly market the next morning - a good place to stock up on food for Sicily's most inspiring picnic spot: the Greek Theatre.
This is Syracuse's set piece, a 15,000-seater carved out of rock, one of the top venues of the Greek world.
There is more. A Roman amphitheatre, a soaring cavern known as the Ear Of Dionysius, in which hordes of school-children sang Nessun Dorma for its fine acoustics.
The trouble with Sicily is knowing when to stop. For just when you think you've seen the Greek ruin to top all ruins, another one calls.
Taormina, north of Catania, is a must - even if you are allergic to tourists, and Taormina has them by the coach load.
Italy's honeymoon capital is endearingly romantic, perched on its clifftop with fabulous views over the hazy straits of Messina.
We had lunch up high in Castelmola, a serene peak overlooking Taormina, then descended for a little light shopping (lots of pricey boutiques).
And just as the tourists were returning to their coaches we set off for the ampitheatre, picking up an ice cream en route (a delicious legacy from the Arabs, and not to be missed).
This must surely be the setting to beat them all, with Etna looming behind and the deep blue sea ahead, framed by Greek and Roman columns and arches. How could you concentrate on any gladiatorial action, with such a view?
We sat and gazed until the sun touched the ocean. It was suddenly obvious why so many - from invading nations to wandering bohemians - had found their inspiration in Sicily.
Travel facts: Flights to Catania with Meridiana cost from £130 return. For details, telephone 0207 839 2222. Holiday Autos rents cars from £160 for a week. Tel 0870 400 4441.Villas are available through Tuscany Now on 020 7272 5469.
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| | | | A burp from the Almighty
Higher up, the pricks of light organised themselves into a chain, and began to bob towards us. 'Don't go up there!' said a German accented voice. 'Huge hot rocks are coming to kill you! Ha, ha, ha!' The picnic over, we continued on up until we reached a ridge of ash and stepped up, emerging on to the picco, the ben. The wind was biting. Below us to the left was the source of the great spout of smoke.
There were the shapes of people in the darkness - some with blankets, some huddled in little groups or crouched down behind walls of stone. A couple were hugging and gazing out and downwards. It was biblical. Their faces lit by the glow of the luminous smoke, they were there, I realised, to commune with some great mother earth goddess. Their glowing features bore the unmistakable rapt gormlessness of the spiritually overcome. I tiptoed past them, not wanting to disturb their fierce self-consciousness.
The ground was gritty and light; not sand exactly, more an expensive modern gardening surface: volcanic ground-pumice, sixty quid a bag, but there were no plants, no ropes, or markers, or signs. This was a very wild public place. You were your own responsibility. There was no one except the guide to tell you not to walk too far in the dark. And he was chatting with other guides over in the blackness somewhere.
There was a great rumbling sound from below and again the smoke glowed and burned. Moving cautiously, just in case I fell into some hidden ravine or something, I approached a blacker shape. It was a squat, alien, electric thing, a solar panel feeding some prong, obviously monitoring the death and destruction that might be unleashed at any moment.
'They know if these volcanoes are going to go up though, don't they?' I ventured. Bob was lurking in the shadows. 'It's supposed to go off at 20 minute intervals.'
And suddenly it did. There was a rumble and the sepulchral glow, and then the volcano obligingly did what we'd all come to see, spewing forth a great froth of glowing rocks, up and through the smoke, arcing into the night and cascading back down. For the first time I could get some sense of our geography. These burning fragments glowed for a while, lying where they had fallen. What had seemed a dark void was really a shelf-like plateau, about 100 metres away, and was now littered with dying coals.
There were three separate craters and the explosions were bubbles of magma farting up at irregular intervals. We murmured appreciatively and settled down to wait for the next burp.
The family Corleone
Time for the long haul back to Palermo. Another diretto, another lunch of station sandwiches and wine, and another chance encounter - this time with Lucia, a graphic designer who has lived in London. Lucia is an odd mixture; old-fashioned and proud of it, yet in other respects - her jeans and skimpy T-shirt - thoroughly modern. She also has the fatalism I'd come to recognise as typically Sicilian.
'Things change very slowly here,' she says, as the train rolls through the hills near the village of Corleone, home to the real-life Mafia family that gave its name to The Godfather.
Tourists will never come across the Mafia, but its influence is still strong. According to Lucia, even the super-trials of Mafiosi in recent years in Palermo will make little difference. 'The Mafia goes too deep. You can never defeat it. Never.'
Despite all this, she has chosen to settle on her native island. 'I am Sicilian, not European - not even Italian. I can't be happy anywhere else,' she says.
We finally reach Palermo in the early afternoon. The city is an immobile mass of honking, overheating cars. At an unmanned level-crossing the train is blocked by an impatient truck, and I watch the trucker and another driver engage in a heated argument.
Lucia and I finish our lunch in a leisurely fashion. 'Che camurria! indeed,' I think. The drivers just don't know what they're missing.
Exquisite seaside town
Unfortunately, the town of Corleone itself, south of Palermo, has been so built up in recent decades that it could not be used by Coppola.
But on the east coast, near Taormina, we did find the two villages that featured in the Godfather.
Perched high in the hills, and utterly unspoilt by the passage of time, Savoca is the setting of one of the most memorable scenes in the film.
It was here, in the church of Santa Lucia, that Michael Corleone was married to his first wife, Apollonia, in a picturesque, rustic ceremony.
The wedding party then took the winding road through the village to the Bar Vitelli, a simple place with an arbour at its front, which remains exactly as it was in the film.
After Savoca, we drove on to the isolated, beautiful mountain village of Forza d'Agro, portrayed in The Godfather as the birthplace of Don Corleone, Michael's father.
Forza's superb cathedral, the Annunziata, appeared in several scenes, while the rugged hills around the village formed the backdrop for the episodes when Michael was in hiding in Sicily.
During part of our time on the east coast, we stayed at the excellent Baia Taormina in Marina D'Agro, a modern, tastefully furnished hotel with its own large pool, fine restaurant and sea views.
Our final stop was the Cupo Mulino, an exquisite seaside town. Its marina is filled with colourful boats and restaurants whose terraces extend to the sea.
We sat in one of them, drinking tangerine juice and watching the sun setting over the Mediterranean until it was time to drive to the airport.
As we left Cupo Mulino behind, it was as if the show that Sicily had put on for us had ended.
The curtain had come down and the opera was over. We had to go back to home - and reality.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Italian Journeys: (tel: 020 7370 6002) feature the Baia Taormina Hotel.
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| | | | Triumph of the middle-aged misfits
In truth, even though 'no amount of protective gear could save the human body' something in me rather wanted Stromboli to blow its top off too. We'd climbed the mountain. We had done our bit. It had done its bit. But I'd have liked something really out of the ordinary. We would have been there. A crispy cinder of flesh, or perhaps one of those lava figures in Pompeii, but decidedly there.
As it was, we now had to get back down the slithery path in the cold and dark. We edged our way down the ridge. A ferry had come around from Lipari on its way to Naples. It was lit up like a space station and tied up to the jetty, warm and glowing and safe some 1,300ft below us.
But, give a pie to the little bossy man in the red shorts. His tour still had surprises. We took a different route down, turning left at the bottom off the ridge and straight off the side of the mountain.
A cascade of volcanic ash stretched before us. It was a piste of dust. Twelve-year-olds on a municipal rubbish tip, we slithered, skated, bumped and skittered at high-speed straight down a chute of grey, sandy pumice, gradually filling our boots. The first few stones were agonising, then after a minute, the whole boot filled up and then the other one, and it didn't matter any more.
We were suddenly back among the feathery bamboo reeds that cover the lower slopes of the volcano, slipping along a narrow gully, and dodging through tunnels of vegetation, past the first isolated house and back down by the side of the 16th-century church to come out in the square again.
And then we were pretty cool. We swaggered into the cafe, through the forecourt crowded with our fellow climbers, some in special mountain trousers, clutching alpenstocks and water bottles and chattering about old smokey and the great boulders of fire that had rained on to us, ordering brioches and granitas from the surliest waiter in the world, swapping volcano lore with other watchers who told us that it was second only to Puerto Rico for fireworks, and tipping out our boots on the pavement.
And finally, perhaps most startling of all, we discovered that, after all that, the climb, the fire, the smoke and the ash, it was still only half past ten in the evening.
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| | Available rental properties in Sicily |
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| |  | | Casale la Zagara - Pomelia
Relax, SPA, carnival, temples, good food and wine, warm, safe and sunny environment close to the best beaches and city center. Air conditioned, TV Sat
|  | | Casale la Zagara - Hibiscus
Relax, SPA, carnival, temples, good food and wine, warm, safe and sunny environment close to the best beaches and city center. Air conditioned, TV Sat
|  | | Oasi del Borgo | "Marte" Cottage, Sicily
Self Catering Cottage located at Borgo Bonsignore in a peaceful resort with panoramic pool and private parking.
|  | | Oasi del Borgo | "Nettuno" Cottage
Self catering cottage perfect for families in a little seaview Resort with pool and next to the beach.
|  | | Oasi del Borgo | "Urano" Cottage
Self catering cottage perfect for families in a little seaview Resort with pool and next to the beach.
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Holiday Rentals in Sicily |
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