Leaving Sicily. Greeting Italy.

There are days when there’s no need to move on and the temptation to stay pulls strong. 

We have a ferry in four days. 

We could cover the distance in a morning. 

Or we could see more and be out of the (Taormina) tourist trap. Out before it fills on Saturday morning. 

We opt to drive, and I’m keen to take the harder route over the middle, skirting Etna’s east and north faces. 

By Randazzo we’re feeling confident of our route choice. The view of the volcano is the best we’ve had, but we’re about to turn our back on it. 

We stop for a few last photos, and a sustaining sandwich. 

The road climbs. And climbs. At Floresta we’re over 1300m and the temperature has dropped a few notches. 

As soon as we start the descent the north coast comes into view, including the volcanic islands. The most evocative has to be Stromboli, the world’s most active volcano, yet still it has houses at its base. 

We’re cruising, taking the constant bends with ease, the driving feels good.

Then a diversion knocks our calm sending us down donkey roads which should never see a beast like ours. The diversion, and a stupidly low bridge, adds 17 miles. That 17 miles took an hour.

Everything comes to an end and after that tense hour we swung into the auspiciously named Area 51. It’s no American base. It’s a beachfront camper stop run by skinny manic Fabricio and it’ll serve us well for a night or two. 

Perfect sunset over the sea.

At 20.30 four girls on the beach photograph their silhouettes against the memory of the sun set.

Cefalú.

My research partner found Cefalú. It looked too good to miss given that it’s en route to the ferry. We drive a motorway that’s as much tunnel as open road and an hour later we’re parked at a great campsite.

A swim in the sea (warm already). 

Lunch. 

Then wait for the bus to take us to explore our last Sicilian town. 

Cefalù. Our last town before the big ferry. 

Camping Cosata Ponente is easily the smartest we’ve used on Sicily. It has facilities we associate with resorts including a huge pool and a good bar and restaurant. It’s a bus ride into Cefalù (too hot to walk) and there we join only the second crowds of tourists we’ve seen on this trip. 

It’s worth it. Narrow winding streets with tempting restaurants and interesting craft shops lead to a small harbour with views along the sandy beach. 

Behind the town The Rock soars and offers great views for those willing to climb it. The jewel though is the cathedral with its magnificent mosaic Christ and windows made from slithers of stone rather than glass. 

Return to Palermo.

It’s as hard to get to Palermo’s port as it is to escape. We did the wise thing and drove during siesta time. Good job. You need your eyes on the road to avoid potholes that would swallow a small car. There are no signs to the port, and when you get there everything is as random as we have experienced anywhere. After all that boarding was simple enough and we settled in for our 20 hours on board. 

Farewell Sicily.

Two and a half weeks, or was it months?

Short drives, but big scenery changes leave you wondering how long you’ve been on the road. 

Our arrival at a crazy early hour in Palermo less than three weeks ago feels a distant memory. 

Since then there we have cooked great van meals and enjoyed great meals out, all washed down with excellent vermentino whites and Nero d’Avola reds. 

You can spend money here. But you don’t have to. The smartest places we’ve eaten at, or stayed at, have not been the most expensive. Often the bill would leave us wondering what they’d missed.

Going to the pub when we get home is going to come as a shock and will certainly raise a Yorkshire war cry of “How much?”  

Driving has been remarkably calm, although you can’t relax.  Indication, mirror use, obedience of road signs, are all alien concepts here. Instead you have to anticipate the other driver’s move. Anything happening behind a driver here seems to be precisely that, behind him. 

Rubbish is an issue. It seems that if you forget bin day you simply drive out of town to a lay-by and dump whatever you need to get rid of. The beaches were clean though, Italian beaches often aren’t unless they’re private. 

We’ve been over mountains, camped in wild flower meadows, seen ridiculously smart shops (only in Taormina), astonishing Greek temples, the most beautiful churches, more flowers than we thought possible and probably climbed more steps than at any other equivalent period in our lives. It has been truly rewarding, and yet it’s unlikely we’ll be back. 

It’s a hard place to get to, but so are many that we would love to return to. Whereas some places truly move us, Sicily delighted us, but no more than that. I’ve also got in the back in my mind its potential to get extremely hot. Anyone planning a visit should look to May or September. May would be my favourite because of the flowers. Having said that, the island gets nearly 300 days of sunshine a year, so you’re unlikely to have a wash-out whenever you come. 

The Italian Motorway.

Back on the mainland, winding along the coastal motorway, stealing glances down to the ridiculously beautiful coastal villages such as La Spezia and Cinque Terre. Inland it’s the hilltop villages that thrill. It’s all brief glances though, the speed, lorrys and tunnels all demand full attention. 

The motorway itself is an incredible thing. Sections are elevated for miles, hundreds of feet above the ground, like some nightmare rollercoaster to the sky. 

 Belveglio.

There’s a space in tiny Belveglio for six vans. Fresh water. Dump facilities. Even electricity. Free. 

There are only a couple of hundred houses, many of them for sale, but Marco’s bar is lively and generous. Every order is accompanied with crisps and a tapa that changes every time. Huge green olives, strong little black ones, crisps, crackers with anchovies, nuts. It would feed us if we ate all we were offered. And yet still the drinks shocked us at how cheap they were. 

All around is growing country. 

Cherries and hazel (row upon row of coppiced hazel), vines, walnuts all sheltered by stands of poplar that feed the saw mills. 

There’s a softnes to the green that you only notice after a few weeks in a hot dry place. Without the houses it could be England. 

I said Sicily didn’t touch us. This simple place does. We both felt the joy. 

We’ll seek out a vineyard for some of the finest Berberana grape, and hopefully make France by evening. There are only a few small hills (The Alps) in the way. 

This is a short post. I woke this morning and felt a slight panic as I realized it’s Saturday. Now that we’re making big miles most days my writing time has diminished, and there was also the distraction of a Strike novel – JK Rowling’s pen doesn’t ease, and this one thumps in at 1200 pages.