Tango-ing to Messina

Italy 4


We drove the length of the Calabrian coast after leaving the glorious cliff-top towns, hairpin bends and incredible views of Amalfi.
It was a lovely journey.
I'd looked for a place to stay half way to the toe of Italy, and came up with Maratea, a tiny seaside town that the Romans have taken to, apparently, as a weekend retreat.
I'm not surprised. It was just what we were looking for.

The harbour at Maratea

An iconic hill-top town, a winding, 5km road down to sea level and the tiny, original harbour, with a newer marina a short distance along the coast. We stopped for a drink in the old harbour. It was a sweltering afternoon - in the high 30s again. The harbour reminded us a little of places that we have loved elsewhere. We would probably have been happy to stay there, but the tiny town was deserted, half the world was still having a siesta, and we couldn't see a hotel or B&B that was open.

The old harbour at Maratea

Instead we drove round the corner and found Fiumicello, with it's little bay, village spread down the hillside, and a hotel on the beach.
Heaven.

Settebello, the hotel on the beach. The Redentore on top of the mountain is huge

We went for a swim, sat and watched the sun set over the sea from our balcony, and later drove up the mountain to eat in the hill-top town. From the streets of the town we could see up to the floodlit Redentore high, high above us. It is a massive statue of Christ on the actual peak of the mountain. Apparently it is second in size only to the one in Rio de Janeiro.

The beach in front of the hotel

We watched the sun go down sitting on our balcony

I think we'd have happily stayed at Settebello for the rest of the week, but Sicily was calling, so the next day we headed for the Calabrian coast - mile after mile beside a cobalt and turquoise sea, with an unbroken beach that stretched to infinity. For once we didn't mind Angelica's choice of route.
We stopped in a little town called Diamante - well, you'd have to, wouldn't you! - and, feeling distinctly less than glamorous, I went in search of a hairdresser.
I found an empty salon (as worrying as an empty restaurant!) but an elderly chap appeared from nowhere before I could back out onto the street, and - assuring me that of course he catered for ladies, ushered me to a basin. I left him to it and emerged half an hour later, if not with quite my usual hairstyle, at least with shining, coiffed locks.

We bought a map (trusting Angelica was going to take time), had a drink overlooking the sea and headed off again for Reggio Calabria and the Messina ferry.
On the way, the traffic got less and less, the road got better and better and we saw beautiful landscapes, forest fires, yet another traffic accident (we saw six in our meagre 11 days) and miles and miles of ocean. Also lots of mile-high grass of some sort - possibly the Japanese Knotweed of Italy. It is everywhere.

Grass taking over Italy

The ferry from Villa San Giovanni to Messina leaves every half hour, so we drove straight onto one.
The In-Charge was particularly interested in the Straits, as he had sailed through them with #1 Son only a few weeks before, when they'd been packed with swordfish-fishing boats performing some unfathomable ritual.
We saw no other boats at all that afternoon, so made our way to the forward deck instead, to watch Messina drawing closer.
I'm glad we did. There was a group of musicians sitting to one side playing various instruments, and suddenly a whole lot of people got up and started to dance.
We stood - along with half the ship's passengers - and gawped as, brow to cheekbone, they tango'd all over the deck. I'm not a 'Strictly' fan, but I could have watch these people all night. They were graceful, beautiful and danced as if it came naturally.

'Well, you don't get that on the Dover to Calais,' the In-Charge said as we headed back to the car deck.
You certainly don't.
I think it was truly one of the best moments of our whole trip.

Tango-ing to Messina

Wonderfully, the AirBnB we had booked at random for that night turned out to be in yet another hilltop town in the mountains behind Messina.
To be honest, I was wishing it anywhere else as Angelica forced us up narrower and narrower, steeper and steeper streets. I had reason to be worried. She had taken us down streets in Sorrento that were so narrow we had - literally - had to stop and pull the wing mirrors in on both sides in order to fit through, and even then it was touch and go.
She's probably one of those women who think they're much thinner than they really are - isn't that what they say about the women/cars/space conundrum?
Anyway - Montforte San Giorgio was proving to be even more hair-raising than Sorrento's alleyways.
At one point we had to stop on practically vertical, slickly-shiny cobbles at a red traffic light - because the gateway into the town's tiny 'main square' was so narrow that only a donkey cart could comfortably pass through, so it was definitely One Way. When we got into the square, there was a wedding in full swing in the church and the place was jam packed with cars, old men sitting around, and small children racing about.

The main square in Montforte San Giorgio later that evening. The wedding had moved on by then

We did eventually find our B&B - no thanks to Angelica, who gave up at the Church. It turned out to be an entire town house on three levels with a stable/storeroom on the ground floor and a roof terrace above - all for us. There was no one living there.
Before he left, we asked our host to recommend somewhere to eat, and the somewhat surprising answer was 'Fort Apache'. Sicily aka the Wild West.
We wandered back into town, but actually finding Fort Apache proved slightly more difficult.
We did find a couple of vehicles that I'd gladly have packed into my luggage, though.

Another vehicle I'd like to have brought home

And this one as well

Eventually, we stopped at the old mens' bar back in the square to ask where Fort Apache was, and spotted a priest chatting inside. He was that beautiful, bluish-black of many African people, and not only spoke French but offered to take us to the restaurant in his car. He wasn't, he told us, the local priest as we had assumed. He had been adopted as a child by a family in the town and was on a visit home. He was delightful.
So was Fort Apache, which was a little way out of the town.
The place was full to bursting, the food was delicious, and the olives were the best we'd had anywhere.
We sat out under their vine-covered terrace, drinking and feasting and loving every moment.
It had been a very good day.
(Alas, we didn't find out until later that the mossies were also feasting. On rare Northern meat. Us.)

A war memorial in Montforte San Giorgio

A view from the town

This is the 4th part of our trip to Italy.
You can read the first part here: See Naples and Die
Part 2: Sipping Limoncello in Sorrento
Part 3: Amalfi: The Road More Travelled
The last part: Sicily: Hot on the Heels of Montalbano

Amalfi: The Road More Travelled

Italy 3


It was stunning, the Amalfi Coast.
It seems that everyone thinks it's stunning, so all in all I'm glad we weren't there in July.
It's probably like the M25. Or the Ring of Kerry on super-steroids.

Every hairpin bend brings another wonderful view. Buildings perched on sheer mountain sides, rocky peaks towering above, boats strewn haphazardly on a jewel coloured sea far below.
It's enough to cause a traffic jam - everyone stopping to take photos.
You can't blame them. We did the same. It's a place where you can capture Italy (the south, anyway) in a single shot.

Southern Italy in a single shot

We didn't stop in Positano. I'd love to have pottered around the town, but it was too full of visitors for comfort.
We stopped further down the coast instead, at a tiny inlet the In-Charge spotted from our lofty height on the road. We wound our way down and happily paid the extortionate parking fee so that we could sit under an umbrella in the blazing midday sun drinking Prosecco. And watch some lads loading crates of beer onto a boat to deliver to a bar a few inlets along. Apparently, the only other way for them to get their beer is to tote it down a thousand or so steps.
There'd be none left by the time they got to the bottom.

We did stop in Amalfi. It was €5 an hour to park, which was even more expensive than the little inlet, but we found a vacant slot right on the front, so we did a lightning tour of the town.
It was beautiful, but to be honest, an hour was enough.
The place was packed and the locals in the shops and bars had obvious tourist-fatigue. Hardly surprising.

Amalfi

The town was packed

Everyone photographing everyone photographing everyone

I had the most expensive ice cream in the world, and then we sat looking over the sea and yacht-gazing while we had a drink before heading along the coast to Ravello.

We sat under the iconic umbrella pines overlooking the sea

A spot of yacht-watching is always fun. It reminds us of #1 Son

It was, thankfully, a good bit calmer in Ravello, despite the town's illustrious catalogue of earlier visitors.
The list of people who have visited the place, or written famous books or operas there, or just stayed with other famous people is endless.
In a more romantic era these included Ruskin, Grieg, most of the Bloomsbury Set including Vanessa Bell, Virginia Woolf, Lytton Strachey and Bertrand Russell, Vita Sackville-West, DH Lawrence and TS Elliot. Wagner wrote Parsifal in Ravello, André Gide wrote L'Immortaliste, Churchill painted and Escher drew.
And in more recent times the tiny town has been host to Paul Newman, Rod Stewart, Harrison Ford, Roger Moore, Nicholas Cage, Mel Gibson, John Malkovich and Pierce Brosnan - amongst others. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie shot parts of Mr and Mrs Smith in the town, Gary Lineker got married there and Woody Harrelson's daughter was born there, so he named her Ravello.

The view down from the old town

Inside one of the hotels. Who knows which celebrities might have been lurking within?

None of those people were in the streets on the day we visited. In fact, we didn't spot any celebrities - though to be honest, I wasn't really looking.
I got waylaid by several shops selling pottery and the maiolica typical of the area.
I loved the spotty-ware, and some of the maiolica pieces were stunning. I was very taken by an interesting platter fixed to the wall, but in the end I settled for a much simpler (and smaller) memento. A Christmas tree decoration with a bird on it.

Lovely spotty pottery

An interesting platter stuck to the wall

I bought a little Christmas tree decoration. I like birds

We decided to drive back cross-country, through the mountains, and reluctantly roused Angelica. She'd had a day off.
It was a good decision. Angelica rose to the challenge and we hardly met anyone, beyond a flock of goats, the goatherd and his dogs.
We'd loved the stunning views, the towns clinging to the mountain-sides, the yachts and the jewel coloured sea - everything.
But we were ready to head further south to quieter places.

On duty

This is part 3 of our travels in Italy
You might also like Part 1: See Naples and Die
Part 2: Sipping Limoncello in Sorrento
Part 4: Tango-ing to Messina
And the last part: Sicily: Hot on the Heels of Montalbano

Easter Sunday

It is snowing outside.
When I think back to all the days and weeks when I'd have given anything for a bit of snow, and we never saw a single flake! It was too busy blanketing most of the UK and Europe to give us a look in.
And now, on Easter Day, when you want the sun to shine and the daffodils to sing in the garden, what happens?

I don't think it's going to settle, and I have no expectations of waking up to a winter wonderland either, which is a shame - if it's going to snow, it might as well do it properly, and April Fool's would be an appropriate occasion.
But whatever I wake up to, I won't be sorry to see the end of March.
What a month its been.
A month full of buts.

The sun has shone - pretty well continuously - but the east wind has been like a scythe.

Benbulben and Knocknarea, Sligo's iconic mountains

Benwisken and Benbulben bathed in hazy sunshine

We've had the lowest tide of the year, but you had to be dressed like the Michelin Man to enjoy the beach.

The biggest beach of the year

The daffodils are in full swing in the garden, but for the first year I can remember, the Shirotae isn't even thinking of poking its nose out. And who can blame it?
So no white blossom this March.

SuperModel has been to be spayed, but now she's back to wondering if she can trust us. I suppose, when you think about it, it's not surprising. Hopefully we'll catch up to where we left off when her wound heals up and stops hurting.

Poor baby - feeling very sorry for herself

My gorgeous son flew home for a brief visit over St Patrick's weekend, which was heaven, but now I don't know when I'll see him again.

An Englishman in New York

My sore throat and cold have gone but the cough has settled in comfortably for the duration.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

But on the plus side - I've done lots of work in the garden and everything hasn't QUITE spiralled out of control as it usually does at this time of year.

The TeenQueen (pre-op, anyway) really was starting to think that life in this tiny corner of Ireland might be rather wonderful after all.

What a looh-la. The TeenQueen, when she thought I wasn't looking, squashed into the cat's bed

At last! Behaving like a proper lurcher!

We've made the mind-boggling decision to actually go on holiday later this year - life, debt and the state of the nation notwithstanding - and that is definitely one for the books. It's been 5 long years, after all, since the last Great Escape!

Yesterday's Easter Bonnet Parade and Egg Hunt was a ball at Beltra Country Market, and later on I got rid of a load of household clutter by taking it to a Jumble Sale in aid of local animal charities. Definitely a Win/Win, I'd say! I hope they raised lots of money.

My friend DodoWoman

Wondrous bonnets

My friend Axe-Woman, who (understandably) won first prize

The Stitch & Bitch group I wanted to start has started, and it's not only huge fun, but we're all learning masses. Can you believe I've managed to crochet daffodils (even though I've now lost my crochet hook!)


And I've even achieved my ambition of being a lot thinner by Easter!
But that was before I ate three doughnuts on the way home from Ballina the other day.
(Don't even ask.
I have no idea.)


All in all - a bit of a mixed month. Like most months.

But today is Easter Day.
So I'd like to leave you with something special.
There's no chocolate to speak of in this house (and certainly no doughnuts) but I have something far more beautiful to offer you.
Alas, it was not made by me, it was created by the incredibly talented, clever and crafty lady of Attic 24 fame. I hope she won't mind me sharing it with you. It certainly deserves to be shared far and wide.
(Now you understand why I HAD to know how to crochet daffodils!)

So, snow or no snow, thin or fat, with family or without, gardening or otherwise - I hope you're having a lovely Easter.

There and Back Again

Yesterday I took a day off.
Leaving the In-Charge and the dogs to looks after each other, I went to Enniskillen in Northern Ireland.
It was lovely.

Our dentist is in Enniskillen, but even that hasn't managed to put me off the pretty little town.
I wasn't visiting the dentist yesterday - just doing odds and ends and taking time out.

I got up early and set out as it was getting light. Stupidly I forgot to take the camera with me, a shame as it turned into the most beautiful day, starting with a pink dawn in a washed, cyan sky still littered with bright stars and half a moon. The mountains, Benwisken, Benbulben, King's Mountains and Knocknarea were a clear cut half circle against the horizon in front of me - a welcome change, as only two days ago, on that same road, they had all been surgically removed by lowering skies and mist.

Here is Knocknarea at dawn on another day. The cairn on the top is affectionately known as Maeve's Lump. It is the fabled site of the ancient Queen of Connacht's grave.

Knocknarea at dawn

As I drove along the road on the hip of the mountains above Glencar Lake, I realised what a mistake it had been to forget the camera. The early sun was warm on the trees that clothe the hillside opposite, and golden on the still, calm lake below. It was quite beautiful, as were the rocks of Hamilton's Leap above me.
They are called Hamilton's Leap because some dastardly Captain or Colonel or some-such, after setting fire to Sligo Town, led his troop in a triumphant charge northwards, but racing through the darkness they came to an ill-fated but well deserved end as they plunged to their deaths over the sheer, cliff-like rocks.
Or that's the story, anyway.

Hamilton's Leap?

To be strictly honest, I'm not exactly sure which specific bit is Hamilton's Leap, but the heights above Glencar on the Sligo side of the valley lend themselves admirably to the tale.

Benbulben lies opposite Hamilton's Leap, separated by Glencar Lake on the valley floor

In Enniskillen - filled with sunshine and happy people about their Saturday business - I  meandered lazily from one end of the town to the other, starting off by selecting and engraving dog-tags at the wonderful do-it-yourself machine in the pet shop. One for our new canine friend Millie, and one each for Model Dog and the TeenQueenSuperModel who both lost theirs on the same day, although both deny any knowledge of what happened. Job done, I carried on - trawling through the numerous charity shops for interesting second-hand books to add to my bed-side pile; buying some cut-price wool for my knitting basket, bumping into two friends from Sligo; snapping up rose food and slug pellets at a third of the price I'd pay south of the border, and stocking up on cartons of long-life goats milk for the cats and custard tarts and crumpets for the In-Charge - all items unavailable at home.

I also succumbed to these.

Remember them?
I haven't seen any for an age.


Unfortunately I ate rather a lot of them on the two-hour drive home, which just goes to show: nostalgia is fattening.

Later on we went to our friend DodoWoman for a DoDelightful supper party, taking with us Millie's Mother, of Talentui fame. It was DoDelicious and a lovely way to end a happy day.

The Delicate Art of Making Cake

I don't suppose Marie-Antoinette ever said 'Let them eat cake.' But she might have done.
I could understand it if she did. It would be the wish of any Queen for her people.
Bread is about survival. There's something altogether more significant about cake.
Cake is aspirational.

Arthur, Wellington's son moves to pastures new

I have been thinking about cake because yesterday we drove over the mountain
We took Arthur to his new home where he will live the life of Reilly with my friend Tina and her happy jumble of family and animals.

The mountain was silent, spare and untouchable. Drab browns and dull greens seemed dingy on a misty, wet February afternoon. The only living things we saw were sheep and the flock of wind turbines that, facing the same way and turning slowly in ghostly unison, felt like some strange cabal caught in ritualistic prayer. It felt like alien country.
And I felt like a stranger.

On top of the grey mountain with a lens full of rain

Husband and I were not inspired to chat, as we followed the lonely road.
Instead I found my mind turning to vagrancy, my feet itching.
The cake came later.


When people ask, 'Where do you come from?', I never know what to say.
And, as you know yourself, it's not an uncommon question. Particularly if you don't have a local accent.
When I was young, I used to try and explain, but it's like 'How are you?' No one wants to know about your explosive diarrhoea or bunions. They just need to place you.

For quite a few years I used to say: 'London', because that was where I'd most recently come from.
But generally though, I just say: 'I'm a vagrant.'
Because it's the easiest answer, and it feels like the truth.

I was born in Africa, I grew up in the West Indies, I lived in England for a good while, and for the last 18 years I have lived in Ireland. But none of that qualifies me to be African, West Indian, English or Irish.
In Ireland, we're called 'blow-ins' - a term applied to anyone who wasn't born within the Parish boundary, so I don't take it personally.

The Hound of the West is definitely not a blow-in. He was born in the Parish (where, as you can see, he plans a reign of terror)

The thing about blow-ins is they can blow-out again. I suppose that's how you start being a vagrant, and once your feet get itchy, there's no end to it.
The seriously good side of vagrancy: is that you get to lead an interesting life and live in loads of places.
You don't feel rooted to the land.


On the other hand, there is also a seriously bad side to vagrancy.
I don't feel rooted to the land. And quite often, I don't feel connected.
And sometimes, like yesterday, I feel like an alien.

When we got to Arthur's new home, Tina brought us into the house and fed us delicious hazelnut cake - a recipe from her childhood in Germany which she said she often makes on Sundays. We sat in her kitchen with cats on our laps and the fire crackling brightly in the stove, and afterwards we all went out and looked at Arthur, who was being eyed up by the locals.

One of the locals

The area where Tina lives is wild and open - wetland criss-crossed with small streams, tucked under a heather blanket, fringed by forest and with the bare, bleak highlands of the Ox Mountains as a backdrop.
Tina is a blow-in just as I am. But to her this isn't alien country. This is the place that - when she first saw it umpteen years ago - she recognised straight away because somehow it was already imprinted on her soul. This is the place where her children have been born and raised, the place she would hunger for if she had to leave.It is the place where she makes cake.

Tina may be a blow-in, but I don't think she's a vagrant. I think she is very rooted, and very connected.
You can tell by looking at her, and her family, and all her laid-back animals.

Lazy afternoons in bed

We drove home, Arthur-less, across the bleak, bare mountain, silenced again by the enormity of the place.
And when we got back to the lush coastal plain with its trees, its green fields and its vista of the Atlantic, I stopped feeling quite such an alien. And back inside the house, snug with the fire and the animals curled up in their beds, I had an overwhelming desire to make cake.


And I realised that cake isn't about hunger, or need, or nutrition. Making cake is something special we do when we are happy, when families get together, or friends come, when we are going a step further than just feeding ourselves. Cake is a statement of well-being, an offering, a simple but eloquent way of marking an enduring connection between people, time and place. It says that right here, right now a delicate balance has been achieved.

I may be a vagrant, an itchy-footed blow-in. My roots may not be deep, and they may not tap into the land, but they tap into home - wherever that may be.
Home is where I feel connected.
It is where I make cake.

Jack-flak - definitely a cake-of-choice