The three-legged island (as depicted on the flag)

 

In 1992 I sat on the Brindisi railway station and pondered whether to travel to Sicily or Rome. It was my first time in Italy, and although Sicily called wantonly, Rome won, simply because the train to Sicily wasn't due to depart for some time whereas a train heading north was leaving within the half hour. An easy decision. And so it took another couple of decades before I finally visited the southern island. I don't know what it would have treated me to back then. But I can tell you a little about Sicily today, or at least a small corner in the south-east, from the perspective of a disappointed bike rider. It is no accident that eighteen men riding in the 2014 Tour de France, including the yellow jersey rider Nibali, hail from Sicily. Anyone who can cope with extreme heat, skinny roads, erratic drivers, scenery consisting of endless olive and citrus groves and weeds and household rubbish, and the violent rises and dips of the island's mountains, is certainly made of stern stuff. Much sterner than me and my riding buddies. And so it is with regret that our bikes have left us, bound for Istanbul and London to be picked up prior to departure and carried home on a plane, which hopefully will not fly over the Ukraine, but that's another story altogether as I know you know.

Arriving in Palermo we just kept driving until we found somewhere that did not hem us in. The density, ugliness and relentlessness of Palermo and Catania kept us moving. A stop at the pretty Fontane Bianche on the shore failed to yield accommodation, Siracusa looked too fearful to even attempt to enter, and Ragusa and Modica, UNESCO cities, were to be kept for a day of relaxing sightseeing. And so, that is why we ended up in was Noto, a baroque city in the south-east.

the falconer in Noto

the passiagata in Noto

strolling bride and groom in Noto

Wide streets in the old city, honey coloured stone, some twenty churches and almost as many grand palazzos set the scene for an evening of graceful passiagata Italian style. A couple of brides with their grooms wandered along, personal papparazi snapping their moves and poses. Men and women, children, babies and dogs put on their finest and strolled the thoroughfare, stopping to purchase pastel gelati or a toy or a balloon from one of the many street vendors. Des was offered a falcon, but fortunately it was only for a moment or two. Musicians and a magician entertained for those wanting more than the passage of humanity to keep them interested. In short, a cornucopia of the best of Italian life.

Rocco the dog at the villa

beachside on the south of Sicily

Then to Avola and a villa almost impossible to find along the narrowest of country roads. A garden and a swimming pool to keep us cool, and comfortable beds. Our host offered her thirty-six year wedding anniversary glasses and pulled the cork from some passable Italian sparkling and we breathed out.

Sicily is poor. Dirt poor. The landscape is rugged, arid and inhospitable. People have clung to the land wherever they could, stone walls marking off tiny allotments which in the main are now weed beds. Dusty olives and citrus and disused greenhouses by the thousands, although somewhere the delicious Sicilian tomatoes must be grown. Men younger than me with few teeth in their heads set up a couple of boxes of grapes or tomatoes to sell. Other men sit around in the streets, smoking and talking. Kids do blockies on their bikes, that is if they haven't joined the ranks of the seriously overweight, something not seen to the same degree elsewhere.

volcanic stone cottage on the slopes of Mt Etna

Everywhere we went, the cry goes up from the locals, 'Sicilia is bella'. But we couldn't agree with much enthusiasm as for us, it was molto brutto and we couldn't wait to catch the ferry to Calabria.

the ferry to Calabria

 

 

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