Sicily 89

Friday had been a frantic day at work. As usual, on the day before a works shut down, every customer suddenly decided that it was absolutely essential that they received their castings before the firm closed for our six day spring holiday. Trying to accommodate them whilst half the work force are inventing reasons why they should finish work early that would qualify them for short story of the year, is more of an art form than a job.
This year the Managing Director had arranged a creative variation of his own by announcing just before lunch that at a contract would be signed at 5-00 P.M. selling half of our subsidiary Company, necessitating the dividing of Personnel plant, work in progress and raw materials with two sets of Auditors and Solicitors trying to justify their fees. At one stage the Financial Director suggested that it would be convenient if I cancelled my holiday arrangements. It was not his day.
Leaving work at 5-00 P.M. as the deal was being struck; I set off to go to the evening race meeting at Pontefract, 30 miles away. In spite of my late arrival, missing the first race due to the holiday traffic and the last race due to our impending departure to Sicily, I managed to make it a slightly enriching experience thanks to a grey named Cowley that won the 8-35 at 5/1.
Back at H.Q. Meg was attempting a more relaxing start to
The holiday by trying to snatch a few hours rest instead of her
normal Friday night Badminton session, but she was thwarted by the unexpectedly early arrival of Stephen and Amanda who had driven up from Reading avoiding the aforementioned traffic by taking a series of minor roads. They claimed that at one stage they were on an old Drovers Green lane. The evening T.V. news confirmed that they had indeed avoided M and A routes congealed with chaos.
Meg and I decided to try and get 2 hours sleep at about 11-00 P.M. This brought howls of protest from the younger generation who had been told one hour earlier that they couldn't go to the pub because it would be antisocial. Well that's parents for you.
At precisely 1-00A.M. our synchronised alarm clocks ensured that all the household that had just got to sleep were fully awake again, and 20 minutes later we joined the now relatively empty motorway and headed south.
Gatwick was reached in just under three hours instead of the four I had allowed, curses!! We could have had a third hours sleep. I drop Meg at South Terminal with luggage tickets and instructions to get us a good seat on the aircraft and I head off to park the car in one of the unjustly expensive car parks carefully noting Area G Row 242 Stop G1 I board the courtesy bus. Courtesy? who are they kidding? At the rates they charge I feel they should give me the bus. Back at South Terminal I scan the echoing halls that are filling with bleary eyed travelers...no Meg. The information boards listing which desk is checking in which flight does not include Catania. The information desk is empty. I try a desk which isn't besieged by a queue.
"What is your flight number Sir?"

"I have no idea, Meg deals with the minor details"

"The girl raises her eyes to the ceiling; the expression on her face says "poor Meg"".
I decide 4-30 AM is unsuitable for my brand of humour so slink away to find the information desk has developed an inhabitant. The initial conversation is a repeat of the above but this time I try her with a few possible solutions. Multichoice questions are clearly not her forte but she has a counter strategy of her own. She puts out a call for Meg to claim her lost relation at the meeting point which is strategically placed as far away from the information desk as possible. The occupant of the desk I asked at previously smirks as I pass at a brisk trot. The meeting point reminds me of the baggage claim conveyor in small foreign airports. It is inhabited by a group of battered, dust covered humanity who nobody wants. I hover on the fringe for 5 minutes 4-45 time to try something else, once more round the now bustling halls, smirk smirk.
One of my multichoice propositions had been "may the flight leave from North Terminal."answer negative!" One of the famous crime writers says "when you have eliminated the possible, consider the impossible. Meg and I are reunited in North Terminal at 5-08. Good job we set off at 1-00, no it isn't, the flight is delayed for 2 hours. This means, as usual, that the longest part of the trip will be the time spent at Gatwick. The Sun Island Courier seems to have spent quite a long time here; she's about 83, perhaps one off the first package holiday with a solid gold contract of employment. I hope the plane is less mature. No such luck, we board an equally ancient BAC 111 at 9-00. We seek out seats 11E Window, Meg, and 11 D Centre, me. 11C Aisle is already occupied by an extremely attractive dark eyed girl who is clearly on the verge of tears. Two Stewardesses are doing their best to stop her going over the verge. One is trying in English and the other is using Italian. Doha who is clearly of mixed Anglo/Italian parentage is responding monosyllabically to both but she is far from happy. I join in trying the direct cheery approach. Zilch, she doesn't acknowledge my existence (that was the time to give up). I try the direct but less cheery approach. No response. I seem to have cheered up the Stewardesses however as they now see the possibility of dealing with the other passengers. The indirect approach, I ask the remaining Stewardess if Doha has friends or relations on board? No, she is traveling alone to visit her Grandparents. Come on Dave, your supposed to be a communicator, what about all those expensive seminars and lectures, I offer a mintoe bought because I have a niggly cough,

"Thank you I'll keep it for later"
Progress! I try the appeal for help.
"Have you flown before?" "How do I fasten this seat belt?"
"Yes of course I have! Many times"
She leaves me to sort out my own seat belt which I do in under four minutes; I think that is a new personal best. The second Stewardess has melted away; we are still firmly on the ground.
"Ring for the Stewardess David, I cant reach the button"
David! This is real progress, The tears have receded, now lets try and get a smile.
"Certainly Doha, that is a lovely name (well it is isn't it? especially if you whisper it) Which stewardess do you want?"
Slightly puzzled look..." The one with the long hair!"
I ring. The dark haired one comes at the double, expecting tears. No problem, Doha wants to know when she can have a drink.
"Not until we take off which will be a little while yet" exit Stewardess.
"That was the wrong one! Ring again"
"No, they are busy at the moment"
"David, ring again"
"No!"
"Please"
"No"
Ring for the long haired one"
"No"
Fortunately this conversation was cut short after only 15 minutes by the Captain who announced that we had been cleared for take off and I assured Doha that the girls were not available and she would soon have sustenance. We discussed the aircraft safety regulations and it seemed likely that Doha would try on and inflate her life jacket it I didn't use force to restrain her. She explained take off to me, obtained her drink and discussed the in-flight literature, nonstop. I asked her what the various things were in Italian which she called "My country" her Italian was now very polysyllabic, but she achieved most of her communication by tone and expression.
Lunch arrived and I take the opportunity to become excessively engrossed. Doha is taking some time to divest her meal from its plastic shroud. A frantic tug to release her cutlery ends with her stale bun on the floor.
"Now see what you have made me do!"
"Here, have mine."
"You wont need your butter now will you!"
"No, I suppose not."
The long haired Stewardess asks if Doha would like to visit the flight deck? She is not sure. I am positive she will enjoy it.
Ten minutes later a harassed Captain leaves the cockpit for the relative peace of the tail section. He does not return to the flight deck until it has been cleared of visitors.
The break has given me time to draw up battle plans. The best form of defence is attack.
When she returns I ask Doha the name of every thing we can see in Italian and practice each word several times. Then I have a real piece of luck. Long hair brings her some paper and crayons. I ask what she is drawing and tell her it doesn't look right or is not very good and is upside down and back to front.
Exasperated she tells me to leave her alone as she is trying to concentrate. Peace at last.
The recompression on landing hurts her ears and frightens her. She clings to me and the original protective feelings re-emerge. I always was a sucker. We meet her Grandparents at the Airport; she's going to talk their heads off in both languages.
Customs are non existent. Remember L.A? Show the man your passport and climb on the bus. One hour later in Taormina transfer onto a vehicle small enough to negotiate the narrow streets. Terra Rossa in on a vertical cobbled lane, suspended between the town and the cliffs.
The apartment has bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom and terrace. The different apartments are arranged haphazardly in spacious gardens giving the impression of relative isolation. The area round the pool is similarly broken up by different levels separated by short flights of steps and flowers, so that you can find a relatively private area.
The view is spectacular. The brochure had mentioned a long flight of steps to the beach and when a tourist guide says long flight of steps they mean long.......
The Ridleys are fit and we go down the steps then up the cable car to the town, then back down the steps to the villa.
The town is much more up market than I expected, more like Florence. Shops and restaurants look classy. The people in them look classy. The ancient civilisations are still in evidence. The third centaury B.C. greek theatre was modernised by the Romans in 200 A.D. but has not been touched since. The tourist oriented gift shops have some odd local novelties. Sun hats are white trilbys with a black band creating the impression of a thirties gangster. Much of the jewellry is made of lava and loos decidedly ghastly, not unlike pieces of coke. Marionettes in armour abound the significance of which has eluded us to date. Loads of pottery.
Meg has been searching for something to stand her house plants in for ages. Now she has found just what she wants I have to act quickly to stop her buying ten by pointing out that they weigh more than me.
One recurring motif that interest us is the Islands three legged symbol, differing only from the Isle of Man's by having the Gorgon's head in the centre. I can't even claim that the Manx had it first since it is at least Roman and is supposed to relate to Sicily's triangular shape.
The third leg would come in very useful with all these flights of steps and slopes.
The football pitch we pass on our route to Villa Rossa is a triumph of sporting man over his environment. on one touch line the slope forms a natural grandstand. A ball clearing the netting that guards the opposite line will fall 400', the outer edge of the pitch being supported on huge spindly concrete columns. It must make playing for time a piece of cake.
The pitch is in almost constant use, it must be the home ground for every team in the district.
Our swimming pool is a decent size, twenty five strokes long by seven strokes wide but to take advantage of the whole length you have to be able to swim in one foot of water as the pool is attempting to be all things to all men. Dedicated long distance swimmers circle the deep end resembling an elementary synchronised swimming team.
Many travels ago Meg bought a universal adaptor for her hairdryer which she has used successfully in Turkey Spain Corsica U.S.A. Portugal and Germany. The first four sockets she finds in the villa are all different and all resist being adapted and it looks like we have a crisis on our hands until a well hidden fifth socket comes to light in the bathroom. Clearly this had been missed by whoever rendered the other sockets unusable.
Whilst not quite rivaling Corsica for scent laden air, the flowers are very colourful. Bougainvillea makes bright purple slashes everywhere. Geraniums, lilies, prickly pear are amongst the plants we recognise there are as many again that we do not know. the trees are mainly olive, orange, lemon, eucalyptus, almond and banana. The most common animal is undoubtedly the ant followed by and eaten by the lizard. I thought the one on the bathroom wall might alarm Meg , but she just mentioned it in passing. The dreaded mosquito appears to be absent, hope I haven't spoken too soon.
Birds are fairly ordinary by comparison, butterflies, numerous but only a few varieties. The food in unmistakably Italian. The courier recommended fish which to be honest is good but I prefer the pasta. Pizzas are cooked in a device that resembles an open hearth steelmaking furnace. The ice creams are wonderful. We normally have a two course meal, then go for a stroll. After which we share an ice. Meg loves the chocolate and nut covered cornet, I like the ice cream itself so we are a modern version of Jack Sprat and his wife.
Coffee is in complete contrast to America. In Taormina they have a competition to see who can serve the least and at the same time most exquisite coffee. Minute coffee cups are served one quarter full. In one place there was more coffee on the side of the cup than in it. We make up the caffeine deficiency by supping gallons of instant in the villa and just enjoying the taste when we are out.
There are other things missing in Sicily (Seecheelia), one is bread shops. Most countries have a characteristic bread. Its very down market to be seen in France without your pain, even if your on a bike. The Germans eat fifty varieties, forty seven of which are black and revolting. The British make butties of everything from chips to H.P. sauce.
The Sicilians don't eat it serve it or sell it. We pace the streets looking for bread shops and take four days to find one. Notice I use the word streets. Pavements are another of the items that are missing. The streets are very narrow and if your destination cannot be reached by a flight of steps you take your life in your feet.
It is considered cowardly in Sicily to wear a seat belt or a crash helmet though not to do so is illegal. They believe that if God had not meant you to use your horn he would not have fitted one on the vehicle. Coaches need both side of the road when approaching the town centre but once in the centre all vehicles drive straight down the middle with foot down and horn at fortissimo. Most places can be reached by steps. Once we have developed the relevant step climbing muscles, we set off for Castel Mola which peers down on the town from one thousand feet.
Sitting in the rarefied air on one of the balconies of the tourist bar, we sip the local almond wine which tastes like liquid marzipan. Its the sort of drink that tastes marvelous in the holiday setting and you know will taste foul if you buy some and bring it home. We buy a bottle and take it home. It tastes foul. The balconies overlook a small piazza and church. You get the impression that you are in the royal box at the opera, the curtain has just gone up on a medieval set and the performance is about to begin.
The church clock chimes hours and quarters. It seems to strike quite a lot while we slurp the marzipan with Susan and Gerald, a young couple who are staying at the Terra Rossa.
The only performance on stage today is by two young lads playing football against the church wall and three girls trying to ride a bike at the same time. From the fourth balcony I notice that the church roof has four footballs already in residence.
Several hundred steps back down to Taormina we suss out the local train times for our trip to Syracuse tomorrow and find a hitherto undetected tourist office by accident. We try the beaches but they are no good so swimming and sunbathing from here on in are confined to the pool.
We eat in a Roman Gymnasium into which a local restaurateur has had the foresight to set some tables where the Romans performed aerobics two thousand years ago.
Wednesday we are up with the larks which are still in bed and gulp a quick grapefruit before pounding up the steps to the bus depot to catch the bus to the station only to discover another deficiency. The eight o'clock to Syracuse is running an hour late. As the journey was scheduled to take two and a half hours we decide that the extra delay has tipped the balance in favour of a trip to the local market. I buy a pair of shoes for the price of the train fare, Meg busy earrings for the price of the bus fare. We discover the beautiful botanical gardens with a panoramic view of the coast. wandering back through the town encounter a religious procession of young girls each carrying a white lily. They are not enjoying it and give the impression that they would much rather be somewhere else.
This is in total contrast to the participants in the festival of the carts.
The cart with it's horse or donkey must have been a terrific asset in this hilly area and the significance has resulted in the gathering of the carts. The horse are decorated . the carts are decorated with carvings as well as flowers and ribbons. The occupants are decorated as are the instruments of the musicians , most carts carry a band. Everybody is enjoying themselves immensely. Meg is high jacked by cart number 27 but I get her back after a short while. One of the ponies panics but nobody else does. Folk dancers perform long dances which tell stories of the life of the fishermen and their families. Its a bit like Neighbours but live in song and dance. Across the square of April 19th (we never did find out why my birthday was commemorated with a square) where the dancers are performing, a real wedding emerges from a church. The bride totally eclipses the fisherman's bride. The day ends with a firework display which suitably matches the colour and noise of the day. As darkness falls and people drift home, almost the last to disappear are the genuine bride and groom who stroll round the near empty streets being followed at a discrete distance by a wedding guest carrying a video recorder.
Etna is calling. The fourteen thousand foot volcano, the most active in Europe dominates the skyline. there is always a wisp of something at the summit but from down in the town you cannot tell whether it is steam or cloud. We have booked our one coach trip and board carrying sweaters and cagoules and wearing our boots. Stopping at a number of hotels, the coach mainly fills with septuagenarians some of whom have difficulty climbing the bus steps and all of whom are wearing thin cotton frocks or short sleeved shirts. OH-OH.
Once we are all on board the courier announces that we will be driving to ten thousand feet where we can stop for an hour to buy souvenirs and refreshments unless anyone wants to go on to the top which involves transfer to a land rover and a very uncomfortable expensive and potentially dangerous ride and a protracted wait for those who don't make the trip. The tone of her voice makes it clear that it would be positively anti social to head for the summit. There are four of us who came with the intention of getting to the top and we lobby four others to seize the day. Woollies and waterproofs can be hired and we are soon bouncing up the dusty track across the lava slopes. Each lava flow has a sign telling the date of the eruption. there are several in the 1980's. There is an awful lot of lava and very little else. Just the wreckage of hotels and ski lifts that rash entrepreneurs had built a little too high up the slopes. It was noticeable that all the shops at the place where the coach stopped were fitted with wheels.
After a further three thousand feet the land rover draws up beside a shack. Inside is a free drink of something hot and alcoholic, outside the ground is steaming and the air is sulphurous. The whole atmosphere is hostile. There are roped off areas and unfortunately not the remotest chance of getting to the crater. To be honest the disappointment is only slight.
The trip has been fascinating , the photographs will be very boring.
Back in trinket land the septuagenarians have become malevolent.
We haven't the heart to tell them that two of our party missed our land rover and they will have another half hour to wait, it gives us a chance to look round and confirm that we didn't miss anything.
We want to visit the gorge of Alcantare and had been undecided between public transport after the Syracuse failure. Etna has swung the decision and we catch the two buses without problem.
We cant imagine what the zimmer frame team do on this trip because to get to the spectacular gorge cut through lava you need a lift, steep stairs and a walk along a rough river bed. At the entrance to the lift they are hiring out waders. The postcards on sale convince us that waders are a good thing.
Most of the gorge can be seen if you wade in three feet of water. Meg's waders are only two feet eight. I am assured that waders that are full of water are not a good thing. Even I can't see the whole gorge. One or two intrepid individuals swim the last part but the water has come down from the mountain and is freezing. Walking in the opposite direction the gorge is less spectacular but attractive and an hours sun bathing has Meg dried out.
We have quite a long wait for the bus but the time passes quickly thanks to the cabaret. Two Carabinere are playing a game. They stop each lorry that comes past. The driver is pretty sure he has not committed an offence and expects a short delay leaving his engine running. One Carabinere reads the documents proffered by the driver very slowly and passes them to the other. They shake their heads. Words are exchanged with headquarters over their radio. The driver switches off his engine and dismounts. The drivers never argue. One officer inspects the vehicle in great detail, the other talks to the driver or his radio. Suddenly on hearing another waggon climbing the hill the driver is bidden farewell and, mystified, drives on as another unsuspecting victim comes in view.
The bus drops us at the bottom of our steps. Meg starts the long climb as I make a short detour to buy some groceries. The shop is having an extended siesta so fortunately I am not far behind. Meg is receiving some very unwanted attention from a local male. His interest appears to be amorous rather than robbery but she cannot get him to stop. Suddenly she sees me sixty steps below her and shouts for help. As she has shouted at him before her assailant does not realise that the situation is rapidly changing. I am now pounding up the steps still in my walking boots, he is still looking at Meg when I grab him by the throat. I swing him off balance and he falls spread-eagled over the small wall alongside the steps.
In some places the wall protects the pedestrian from the long drop to the beach but in places vegetation obscures the view. To improve his chances of molesting in private he naturally chose a secluded spot which is why his head is now in a cactus thicket.
Now I have a problem. If he fought or ran away, I could react to his action but he goes limp crying mi scusi! mi scusi. I push his head further into the cactus. His cry becomes a wail. I don't know what a constitutes a satisfactory outcome and consider throwing him completely into the briar patch. Meg has recovered somewhat and considers herself suitable rescued so I release my hold and he scuttles down the steps extracting spines as he goes.
The incident was soon forgotten and our lasting impression of Taormina as a classy colourful town with lots to see and do and plenty of scope for doing nothing in style remains very favourable.
There was a major eruption on Etna three weeks later._________________________________________________________________________________________