News – Page 4

Madrid and Granada 2024

On the road (rails, wheels and wings) again

A new adventure starts and I decide it’s going to be a pauper’s trip. So Saturday finds me walking to Lee station as the drizzle turns serious. I board a train to London Bridge, a bus to Liverpool Street and then the Stansted Express to the airport.

None of the luxury of drive up and get an overnight with parking hotel deal. No priority lounge either but a rather good bacon sarnie in Perch. For once there is a shorter Priority queue at Ryanair and we board the plane a mere 30 minutes late. However they make up time with a tail wind and we arrive in Madrid at the scheduled time. On message, it’s take the 5 euro bus into town – no car rental or taxis this trip. Having spent the flight finishing Haruki Murakami’s latest book The City and its Uncertain Walls in which fictional and (f)actual worlds intersect, unicorns die in droves through the cold and people are separated from their shadows, I was relieved to observe people with shadows as I exited the terminal – not least because it meant the sun was shining brightly from a clear blue sky – a real joy after my damp and dismal start to the day.

Sadly the Express bus to Atocha Station called at all the other terminals first and was rammed by the time it got to International Arrivals. So I had some near-intimate encounters with a couple of lady passengers as the bus swerved lanes and managed roundabouts on its way into the city. But we got there and my hotel for one night only was close., I’m glad I’d seen the glories of Atocha before because the elegant structure is now clad in construction work hoardings. I check in to the Hotel Mediodia and quickly set off in quest of a beer and a snack. The cafe Argemosa proves an ideal spot and I’m even given a free tapa – an orange segment topped by some cod and balsamic vinegar and an apple slice with chorizo and migas – both very tasty and a good sign that outside tourist traps, tapas with a drink are still a thing.

This was a very local neighbourhood bar with a massive collection of bottle openers and a reminder that life in Madrid is a bit different.

The blackboard reads:

IN MADRID WE DINE FROM 10 OK.

Refreshed, I wander through trendy Lavapies and make my way slowly up to the centre thinking that Madrid was not as Christmassy as Barcelona had been a couple of years ago. But then I got to Puerto de Sol and saw this enormous tree and a green Santa, a Grinch and a Gruffalo all receiving tips from the passers by – cash not performance notes

Then I walked up to another square and came across – of course – a Christmas market. Then as it grew dark, I started noticing the stars suspended across several streets. I had an evening beer in Plaza Santa Ana – one of our favourite spots on a previous trip – no free tapas here. I had another in a bar earmarked for a longer return visit, La Descubierta, where my Estrella Galicia was served with a slice of bread topped with chorizo and manchego,

I then ventured into a well-stocked bookshop and was amazed to see these titles on display next to each other. Very woke acceptance of past history!

Then it was on to the main event of my overnight in Madrid – a session at the Jazz Cafe Bar Central. I wimped out and booked for the 20:00 gig rather than the 22:00 as my train for Granada leaves at 07:35 in the morning. I had booked the gig and dinner option from their website and as a lone diner was shoved away into a corner – not unreasonable really and the tapas style board was good and went down well with a Rioja I’d had before, Ontanon. The band was the Joshua Edelman Sextet – Edelman on piano with bass, drums and congas and a front line of trombone and flute. They played a lively set of originals and standards with a heavily Cuban feel. Which suited my neighbours well as the couple were born in Havana but had lived in Spain for 40 years. As also was a much younger couple at the next table. So immigrants get everywhere don’t they?

A 15 minute stroll down Calle de Atocha signposted me nicely back to the hotel just as Madrid was getting started for the night. Like my daughter kindly remarked a while back – I’m old. Night, night

One of many stars lighting the streets around the centre.

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Carry on culture back home

SUNDAY 9 JUNE

Back in UK on Friday evening, Saturday shopping and multiple laundry sessions and Sunday it’s off to the Tate Modern with neighbours Sean and Maria and my friend Rosa who last saw me on crutches for Pina Bausch’s Nelken at Sadler’s Wells at the end of january. We four went to see the exhibition Yoko Ono: Music of the Mind. It was back in the sixties when I first heard about her when her film Bottoms caused a great media storm. I’d then obviously been aware of the John Lennon connection but had not really thought about her as a serious artist. But my goodness she is – yes there are some stunts that may be a bit gratuitous, but taken as a body of work this exhibition shows her to be a serious, thought-provoking artist – and very Japanese in her mental processes.

Her earliest works were immaculately typed and calligraphed utterly surrealist notions in her Action Poems with a wide variety of ideas that make you think about dreams, reality and which you’d prefer to be in. So many of these contain messages like the Painting for the Wind where you think how wonderful it would be if new seeds were spread by the wind allowing new life to grow, This idea recurred many years later when she and John sent acorns to world leaders to plant trees for peace. Some of the responses they received are displayed too. It is quite shocking to realise that Yoko was doing things 60 years ago that are considered edgy today. There are far too many to comment on all of them and to read all the works in the show you’d need to be there for days not hours. I might go gain.

Then there’s the mesmeric striking and burning of a match filmed at 2000 frames a second and replayed in ultra slow motion. You can’t take your eyes off it. Throughout the exhibition there is a constant exhortation to get involved to become art yourself – one of us did..

*Drawing round projected shadows makes an intriguing new piece of art and makes you wonder who were all these people.*

The joint projects with Lennon like the Bed In for Peace were shown in films you could watch from benches or bean bags and for many younger visitors these were probably news – I’m old enough to remember them vividly from media coverage at the time. Another of their films Film number 11: Fly was truly disturbing as a number of flies crawled over the naked body of the wonderfully named Virginia Lust accompanied by a very experimental audio track with Yoko’s vocals, John’s guitar and various tape recorder reverse effects. As a producer I hope they paid Ms Lust a substantial fee for her ordeal – she hardly flinched under all those tickly flies’ feet.

I had vaguely heard of the Half a Room project that Yoko first showed at MoMA in 1967. It does make you think about completeness, wholeness and things you are missing in life and trains the eye to see things differently.

As indeed does the bullet hole in a pane of glass where she encourages us to go and look from the other side. When first shown in Germany it was punningly entitled Das Gift with its pleasant English comnnotation but in German gift means poison. It reminds us that John Lennon was tragically shot by a bullet and there are far too many still being fired in conflicts all over the world. She and John were always very politically engaged. Their famous poster WAR IS OVER if you want it can be seen in the background and in many other areas of the exhibition

Getting involved is always on offer – playing chess on all-white boards, climing a step ladder to look at the sky, watching the sky above the Tate on an old B&W TV in real time – they are all asking us to think about art and artificality, imagination and reality and it certainly gave me a great deal of food for thought and arguments to counter those who dismniss this as gimmicks not art. Politics and collaboration are featured in the last two major exhibits. One started as a completely white painted room with a refugee boat as its centerpiece. During the course of the exhibition people have been invited to write messages in varying colours of blue felt pen so that the boat itself and the walls are covered in messages – some highly legible and frequent like FREE PALESTINE, others more intimate expressions of love. And the final room asks visitors to write messages of love for their mothers and pin them to a wall that is growing ever thicker as post-it notes are superimposed on one another.

*Add Colour: Refugee Boat at the tate modern makes us all think about the worldwide refugee crisis*.

MONDAY 10 JUNE

Then on Monday it’s off to Garsington Opera for a performance of Platée, an opera by Jean-Philippe Rameau I’d never seen and only ever heard extracts from. I’m quite a fan of the Baroque and even managed once to use a piece from his opera-ballet Les Indes Galantes as the soundtrack for a infant formula corporate video I made back in the 80s. I’ve been a friend of Garsington for many years now since beinhg introduced to it by my friend Susie Stranders (now at the Royal Opera House) who was music director for several years. I love the brilliantly maintained cricket pitch and the vintage coach ride to the walled garden and especially the glass box opera pavilion all among the lush Chiltern Hills. It helps that they mount outstanding productions with world-class musicians, singers and directors.

So now to Platée with my friend Jadwiga and I keen to explore new adventures knowing little of the story except that it was the familiar theme of the Gods interfering with mortals for their own nefarious purposes. On entering the pavilion we are surprised and delighted by the set which takes the form of Studio 3 at Olympus TV – a particular delight for me having spent a lot of my professional life in such places. During the lengthy and very lovely overture a script conference is taking place where execs demand creatives find ways to boost the falling ratings of the hit show Jupiter and Juno – or should that be Juno and Jupiter as egos are involved here. There are tacky (deliberately) animations on the big screen, the occasional countdown clock that we used to hope the public would never see. There is some brilliant choreography with the meeting room tables swinging around while the creatives search for a solution and for Thespis, Momus and Thalie (Holly Brown a very convincing stomping about the set frustrated producer) as they sort out the new scenario. Now there’s, rightly, no photography allowed during the production and I’m extremely grateful to Garsington for sending me some images to illustrate this blog. Sadly none of them show the entire set in all its glory – plunge pool, colonnade, cocktail bar, fire pit and so on – so hurry and bag a ticket if you can and go and see it for yourself.

*The opening production meeting in the ‘studio’ Photo: Julian Guidera*

The plot is convoluted but what matters is the music. First heard in 1745 at the wedding of the son of Louis XV of France to Maria Teresa Rafaela of Spain, the main character is a none too attractive nymph with whom the team persuade Jupiter to fall in love. Given that Maria Teresa was said to be no beauty, I wonder if there were a few sniggers among the wedding guests. The tradition at the time as we know from Handel was to combine dance with the singing bits to keep the audience happy and there are long passages where you just revel in the melodies, the unusual inventions Rameau introduced in both time and instrumental effects – a timekeeping tambourine was a lovely surprise. I was also struck by his brilliant writing for voices – the trio for the three seen above was ravishing and the choral pieces were beautifully sung by the Garsington Chorus. In the pit was the English Concert under the baton of Paul Agnew who knows this piece really well having sung the role of Platée several times. They were lively and committed throughout. It is a comic opera and the music included some funny elements that were presented skilfully. So yes, Platée is a role for a high tenor making the ingongruity of Jupiter falling for ‘them’ (in modern day wokery I guess) all the more absurd.

First entrance in flippers fresh from the swamp. *Photo: Julian Guidera*

Jupiter enters in a glitzy gold golf buggy and after a beauty parade in Love Island style chooses the dowdy nymph rather than the very pissed off supermodels who were gracing the stage with their colour coordinated wheelie luggage.

Photo: Clive Barda

Special mention has to be made of the dancers who produced some spectacular displays. My eyeballs will never lose the image of them lying in rubber swim rings performing synchronised swimming moves. Nor will I forget the whole casts’ falling repeatedly asleep while waiting for Jupiter to come to the wedding and equally the brilliant staccato movement of their chairs across the set in another scene. As Platée becomes more excited about the impending wedding we have an interlude from a sparkling La Folie whose sheen and style are a contrast to poor Platée’s OTT wedding outfit.

La Folie entertains us. *Photo: Clive Barda*

As we drove home Jadwiga exclaimed that she’d never seen anything like it. I have to agree that Luisa Muller’s production – so different in tone from the last of her productions we’d seen here Britten’s Turn of the Screw – but so admirably suited to the harum scarum, off the wall plot and the musical twists and turns. The TV execs got what they wanted – Juno stormed in full of jealously but then saw Platée and realised that she’s been gulled and all ended happily ever after for Juno and Jupiter.

Juno reclaims Jupiter *Photo: Julian Guidera*

As I said in another post last week when gods and mortals mingle it always ends in tears for the earthlings. It was a cruel end for Platée ridiculed for her pretension and slinking off back to her swamp. But then life ain’t fair is it? What is fair is that, despite everything, Garsington Opera can still put on evenings like this despite the draconian cut backs to the arts. In fact they’ve just opened a wonderful facility on the site Garsington Studios so that rehearsals can take place simultaneously for different productions and sets can be contructed, wardrobe and props made, making the whole production process so much smoother for all concerned. And when not used for the company, the studios can be hired out to produce income. Thank you Garsington for another superb evening at the opera, I can’t wait to come back for Benjamin Britten’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream on 19 July.

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Last day dilemma

Last days of holidays are often a bit of a problem. You have to check in for a flight by a certain time but what do you do with the time in between? In my case it’s a three hour drive direct to the airport at Palermo and I need to drop off the car around two o’clock to make the two hour check-in slot. Breakfasted and out before nine, what’s to do? I have a nerdy rush of completism. I’ve been in/by the Mediterranean Sea at Agrigento and Modica Marina and the Ionian Sea at Siracusa and Taormina but Sicily is a triangle and the long top side has the Tyrrhenian Sea. There’s a town called Cefalu that sounds interesting and that’s an hour from Palermo so I’d have the advantage of puting most of the drive in first thus reducing the get-to-the-airport-on-time panic factor. On the triangle thing, I’d been ignorant of why I keep seeing three-legged figures everywhere like the one below on airport floor tiles. So I looked it up and it’s the Trinacria the symbol of Sicily first adopted in 1282 which became an official part of the Sicilian flag in 1943. The woman is Medusa with her snakey hair, wheat ears for fertility and the three legs represent Sicily’s three capes at the points of the triangle – isn’t the internet useful sometimes.

So I leave my pleasant home for four days and set off for Cefalu. The first part of the journey is a repeat of yesterday as far at Catania but then veers off through the centre of the island on the A19. The A suggests autostrada or motorway and bits of it are but I reckon 30% of my journey was in slow single file traffic through mostly invisible roadworks – the odd digger made you think some work might be going on now and then. The landscape is generally brown and pretty dull until I get to Enna where on entering the Madonie mountain chain where the massive Pizzo Carbonara (o not a duly noted) is the second highest peak after Etna. I was surprised to see a ski lift sign by the roadside but there’s a resort here, Piano Battaglia, and a further two on Etna. Then it’s a long descent towards Palermo before a side road heads off to Cefalu. I’m glad I made the detour. It’s a very pretty town in a splendid bay and therefore totally touristy – but that’s no bad thing. It reminded me a bit of the Concha beach in San Sebastian (Donostia for any Basque readers). A long promenade, colourful beach umbrellas, the fight for a stretch of the strand, warm sea and bright sun – all the ingrdients for a fun holiday. So I headed to the ‘second most important cathedral after Monreale’. It’s, of course, up a flight of steps and built in Norman style between 1131 and 1240. Like Monreale it has a lot of gold and the altar piece is a massive and incredibly detailed mosaic of Christo Pancreator. And the museum nearby has a portrait by Antonello da Messina (of Annunciata fame) of a smiling boy. He was good.

A quick coffee and then off to the car hire return place, confirm no damage to report and take the shuttle bus into the airport. As this was my first journey since the operation, I’d been a bit worried about my hip through scanners but in both instances I just pointed to it and said either “metal hip replacement” at Stansted or point at hip and “metallico” at Palermo. In both instances I had a further wand wafted over me before being allowed to proceed. I did have a photo on my phone and my hospital discharge papers just in case but they weren’t required. The flight was delayed by 30 minutes but was happily uneventful. It was clearly not a busy time but still took 30 minutes to slalom our way through passport control. My suitcase had at least arrived by then so I retrieved it, I got the Stansted shuttle bus to the long stay car park, took a few moments to realise I didn’t have to change gear any more and arrived home having had a thoroughly enjoyable holiday in Sicily.

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Sicily of the stars

So Thursday dawns bright after a another horrendous Sahara storm in the night which has left the car looking like a Damien Hirst dot painting with sand blobs or a negative Dalmatian dog. The washers work, I can see out safely and set off. I decided to head for Taormina up to the northern part of the Ionian Sea nestling under Mount Etna, Sicily’s pride and joy. A bit like Fuji in Japan, Etna imagery is everywhere and it happens to be a very good wine DOC. I’m not going to do the many tours on offer. But she looks great from the road, (it should be said there are frequent stop areas so no driving danger involved).

Movie stars, models, la belle monde have made Taormina the playground of the rich and famous since the days of the Grand Tour. I was intrigued by a Monty Don BBC series about a garden made by the Brit socialite Florence Trevelyan. The best way there is up the motorway past Catania – a place I’ve decided to omit from my trip as it looks like a sprawling industrial city – actually Sicily’s second biggest. What the road does do is give great views of Mount Etna.I bypass Catania, the second largest city as I think it will be too much for the last of my days here. From the road it looks like an enormous sprawl as the Catania plain floats into the sea. Taormina looks much more attractive, after all Wagner visited in 1881 and said “We should have fled there in 1858 and spared ourselves many torments. The children could have lived on prickly pears!” It proved a haven for Oscar Wilde when he was too gay for Capri. The composer Ethel Smythe spent time here as did D H Lawrence. I don’t have Sky Atlantic but I believe series two of White Lotus was filmed here so it must be worth a look. Giulia does a great job getting me to the gardens I was seeking but of course there is nowhere to park and I descend back to the seafront some two hundred metres below. Following my Ragusa experience I look for a hop on hop off bus to take me back up. From a sign on the exterior, there’s supposed to be an Tourist Information point in the elegant station but there isn’t, not even a closed window. I wonder for a moment if I should have come by train. I enquire of a taxi driver who says he’ll take me up for 50 euros which I politely decline, have a wander along the seafront and have a coffee to think about things.

The station at Taormina and a cove and beach.

Eventually I decide to drive back up and hope a parking space opens up. I’m amused by Giulia’s instructions to take ‘via Luigi Pirandello’. I think whoever was responsible for street names had a great sense of humour. This street from lower to upper Taormina is a hair-raising, gear-changing succession of hairpin bends – with as many twists as Pirandello plot.

The centre looks very crowded and touristy and I let her take me straight to the gardens again. They were created by Florence Trevelyan who came to Taormina after – rumour has it – Queen Victoria exiled her after an illicit affair with Prince Edward. Whatever she built a house near Taormina’s Greek Theatre, She married Salvatore Cacciola a doctor and sometime mayor of the town. She also bought the small island Isola Bella and a large expanse of land up in the centre where she laid out a private leisure garden with views of Etna and a whole host of follies (a feast for my folly guru Gwyn) which she called her ‘beehives’. They are in many different shapes and sizes and made from a variety of stone, cloth, brick, pipes, wood and other architectural salvage. There’s also a war memorial formed by an Italian wartime two man submarine, her own henge and lots of bougainvillea (one on the move?), sunflowers and fragrant plants.

Time for lunch and where better than Ristorante al Giardino? I happen to be wearing my Murakami T-shirt today (a story from another day here). It elicits an admiring comment from a couple also dining there. I tell them the story and we have an intersting conversation during which Lilian – who I think said she was from Chicago – and her companion express an interest in travelling to Japan so we chat even more. They move on and my sea bream in lemon sauce arrives with a glass of Etna Catarratto – perfect. I explore the town a bit and then head back to find my car. From up here have a great view of the station from above – glad I didn’t come by train and try to walk up! – posh dolce vita hotel and the beaches I was walking along earlier. It is a truly spectacular coastline and I can see while it appealed to so many in the belle epoque and to producers of glitzy TV.

As I set off back down the A18 I think of making a slight detour to a town the sign for which I’ve seen a few times as I pass. Augusta is the very pleasant capital of Maine. I think there’s another where people play golf. So when I see a sign claiming it as the city of two ports I visualize myself sipping an evening beer watching activity in a quaint harbour. Fat chance! After a rigorous exploration of the terrain I discover that the two harbours are #1 Military and #2 oil terminal complex. Tail between legs – back home!

Augusta – Intersting town gate, military harbour and oil refinery sprawl.

My evening beer is in the brilliantly named Civico Maltato (the malted city) near the amazing cylindrical church of St Thomas of the Pantheon where the setting sun catches the stained glass dramatically. I had food left over from last night’s culinary efforts so it’s back home to eat and pack.

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Noto bene, Ragusa rifusa e Medic-toeranneo

So after a local day yesterday and still glowing from last night’s theatre trip – I know family and friends have seen opera in Verona but this was a first for me and was just astounding – I planned to venture south to Noto and Ragusa both highly recommended both by the book and Gwyn and Von. Giulia Googlemappa took me on an interesting route when I’d clicked no motorways. It wended its way through flat areas near Siracusa with citrus fruit and olives, gradually segueing to slightly more upland areas near Avola of wine DOC fame where slopes were covered in poly tunnels and black and red vine protection nets. Necessary eyesores I suppose but not pleasant companions among rural roads fragrant with rosemary (I nicked some for later) and other odours.

I could see that Noto was a seriously hilly town so I made my way quite a way up, found a parking spot, shot the street name so I could find my way back and set off up to the centre. My first encounter in a pleasant, not quite yet awake square, was the Chiesa di Santissimo Crocifisso. I mounted its steps and entered a really splendid space. Apart from the church itself there was a pair of Roman era lion sculptures which used to be outside but were moved into the nave in 1984 to prevent further environmental damage – early onset climate change awareness, perhaps.

*Church exterior and interior and the very friendly lions.*

Walking around in 32 degrees brings on a thirst but as I’m driving and it’s only 10:30, I settle for a granita. I’d had it explained somewhere that the granita started in Sicily because they brought down great blocks of ice from the mountains to preface the refrigerator and a bright spark said we can make money out of this. Siracusa lemons are also highly regarded so I was honoured to receive this refreshing dish – served with a spoon rather than in a glass with a straw as in Spain. Off to find the cathedral and town hall both must-see buildings in a town where at every corner you are stunned by the architecture and the expense of constructing these palazzos.

*A random palazzo of which there are so many.*

So of course there are more steps up to the cathedral and from the top I look back at the town hall which was built in 1746 in a style ‘inspired by French palaces’. Well just wow. Twenty arches on thin columns defying gravity. I prefer the baroque cathedral of Saint Nicholas myself from1776.

Inside the cathedral I was able to have a moment of levity with my grandson Jake by WhatsApping him a pic of his namesake suggesting he was praying for good A level results – pre-university entrance qualifying exams for those not familiar. Poor Jake some of the worst exams of your life. But you’ll be fine, I’m sure.

I think I could have happily spent more time in Noto, but Ragusa called. The drive there was exhilarating through undulating foothills and then into switchback roads through Modica and then into some real valleys, nay gorges Agrigento, as we approach Ragusa. It’s perched across a hillside and gave me a first problem. Note to self number whatever by now: be precise with Giulia delle mappe. There are two Ragusas and she takes me quite logically to the one where you can drive, park your car and enjoy a bland modern city. However I need to be in Ragusa Ibla further across the hill. Two towns joined by a staircase threatens the guide book. I follow brown Ibla signs and being turned back by a cop at a another road sign that said ‘city centre permit holders only’, I do a U-turn and find a convenient parking place and start to walk up into the real Ragusa. At first sight it reminded me of Deja in Mallorca clinging to its hillside. However this was a really big hillside and after 170-odd steps with a few bits of level in between I seem nowhere near reaching the centre. I also missed my footing a couple of times as the steps are uneven and recalling a broken elbow in Mallorca and my daughter’s admonition “You are old” I regretfully abandon Ragusa, retrace my steps, carefully, back down to the car and head off back to Modica for lunch. This may be a major regret of my life as Ragusa sounds amazing. Tant pis! I am old!

*Ragusa cathedral, as almost an abstract painting and from a distance!*

Sitting with a beer and a ham and mozzarella cannoli in Modica, feeling a little crestfallen let’s admit it, two thoughts occur to me: Italian pastry is very stodgy and I’ll avoid it in future – understand it’s role is to be filling while hiding the fact that fillings are the expensive bit while flour and water are plentiful, Second I’m on holiday on an island and while I’ve seen the sea I’ve not really been that close or indeed to the seaside. So Giulia is tasked with taking me to Modica Marina which sounds like it should be on the coast. It is and it’s lovely. Free parking until the season kicks in on June 25, a sandy beach and a promenade which I guess would be filled with eateries when the season starts, and aloo. I sit on an bench for an hour and read Colm Toibin’s fabulous sequel to Brooklyn, Long Island. I’m biting my nails with the jeopardy at every turn. What a writer! This is what holidays are meant to be. Eilis takes a dip in freezing Irish Sea in the chapter I just finished.

*Beach and promenade at Modica Marina and yes there were lots of people swimming – well a few.*

Encouraged by this I took myself to the strand, removed my shoes and exposed the wounded Birkenstock toe to the healing influence of the warm and salty Med. Seems to have worked as it’s not leaking stuff anymore. Now I’d said to lots of people I was booking a BnB in Siracusa so I could market shop and cook one night or so, because I love markets and regret not being able to shop because I’m in a hotel. Well Monday I’d just arrived, Tuesday was the theatre trip and a huge lunch so now looked like the tine. A local supplier allowed me to purchase one potato (cubed and fried in olive oil with the rosemary I’d knicked), an aubergine, a pepper and he had a piece of pork fillet (unusual in Sicily) an attractive option after an almost entirely, and happily fish diet, it seemed a good idea. I cubed the pork and made a mini-ratatouille with the veg and enjoyed it with the only possible wine since I’d driven through Avola in the morning.

*Local street vendor and local wine. Good Night!*

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The paper gods

So it’s Tuesday and Syracuse. I’m booked for Fedra at the Greek theatre at 19.30 so decide Ito spend the day doing a tour of Siracusa’s famous island Ortygia. There are two bridges onto the island and the main street close to my apartment, Corso Umbero I, leads directly to one of them.

Confronted almost immediately by a cat on a hot car roof, I have to head off the way it’s pointing. So I go there and admire the ruins of the Temple of Apollo – grey not the golden stone of yesterday’s ‘Valley’, but impressive in scale. And it dates back to the sixth century BCE.

*Apollo’s temple remains and the arch I loved.*

I walk on through the Jewish quarter, cursing Netanyahu for giving them an undeserved bad name, and find myself enchanted by a tiny church (San Paolo I think) with a magical Catalan style multi-column arch – just so elegant. As I pass through the narrow streets I am often lured by planting displays into dead ends – hey, that’s discovery! I emerged at a seaside street and opposite was a building that made me think I’d chosen the right BnB.

Shortly after this, as a self-styled writer, I was intrigued by the Museum of Papyrus. Yes I known it’s importance and Egypt and all that but why in Sicily? So I have to go in and find out. It transpires that in times past papyrus plants came to Sicily as part of conventional trade deals and found a home on the river Caine, where it has flourished. It’s not just a museum it’s a whole research centre into papyrus ancient and modern with rooms stacked with files and specimens that we could not enter. But where we could go was fascinating with a video tracing Carrado Basile’s fascination with all things papyrus, the production process and examples of works on papyrus from many different centuries. And of course they had papyrus boats which I had heard of before. I was particularly struck by an ancient Egyptian palette and pens.

After an unexpectedly interesting hour and a half (always keep an open mind!) I walked on around to the easternmost point of Ortygia but I couldn’t see the mainland., but the sea was good and the prospect appealing.

It proved even better in that a bar with a beer was close by and restored me to walk into the main square in quest of Caravaggio. One of his paintings The Burial of Santa Lucia is in a church here. It isn’t, but there’s a technologically brilliant facsimile involving hi-res scanning and 3-D printing. It’s in a room with a modern take on the subject that I liked for it’s expressionism and a photographic tableau recreation that was quite scary.

*The ‘original’; detail of Lucia, modern response and detail from photo recreation. Chiaroscuro lives!*

This church dedicated to Lucia the patron saint of Sicily is at the edge of a very impressive main square with the cathedral and of course lots of restaurants, It’s a fine cathedral too.

*Chiesa Di Santa Lucia; the main piazza, Cathedral frontage and amazingly original Greek temple columns incorporated into the Christian cathedral. I’d never seen this before.*

It’s time for lunch and I take it back by the other bridge off Ortygia, A seafood mixed grill gives me two enormous prawns, octopus tentacles (sorry!) and a squid and a slice of swordfish, full stomach, oily fingers and a good local crisp wine to set it off,

Next step was to book a cab for the Teatro Greco and sadly do some laundry. I’d packed a few pairs of pants and a couple of tops too few. The dryer on the balcony was struck by a Saharan sand storm in the night so I had to do it all again next morning. Reassurance – I do have clean pants.

But the theatre visit was incredible. Loads of young people thronging their way in – set book at school? The amphitheatre is a stunning semicircle and despite the cushions (thanks) you can still see much of the original stone seats. It gradually filled up.

I had an interesting exchange with a group of young women who asked whether I’d understand a word. I told them I knew the story and loved theatre and wan’t going to pass up a probably once-in-a lifetime experiences. They sang Happy Birthday to me and we were friends for the duration – I did feel a little uneasy as an 80 year-old among teenagers but soon the play was the thing and we all became absorbed by a production directed by the Scottish Paul Curran. And what a production! A huge godhead formed the main set dressing, otherwise mostly scaffolding, A mix of wafty mauve-tinged shifts for the chorus, dramatic yellow for sad Oenone, black for Fedra and an amazing gold outfit for Aphrodite. The opening Chorus scene was a great dance routine The opposing armies were in rescue services hi-vis gear and helmets.. And as so often with Greek drama it all ends in tears and cheers. The audience stood as one at the end to salute the performers,

*Never was going to end well but brilliantly performed with size of auditorium and fading light to contend with – so glad I went.*

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The Valley (!) of the Temples and sea to sea

After a pleasant breakfast on a sunny terrace at the BnB with views up to the top of the old town and out to sea, I set off for Selinunte, the amazing archeological site just ten minutes from the centre of Agrigento. I noted as I went to the car, that inverted umbrella displays were not the sole prerogative of Valdepeñas where I’d first seen streets full of them a few years back.

As you approach the main entrance this magnificent ruin dominates the hill – yes hill – in front of you.

*The Temple of Juno Lacinia built between 460 and 430 BCE*

I wanted to stop the car to shoot it from a distance but the stream of visitors’ vehicles would not permit that. Just believe me it’s a breathtaking moment, like first seeing downtown Boston from the I-93 or the City of London from the M11. There was chaos at Gate V so I carried on to a gate at the other end of the site where there was no access, for no specified reason. I was told to return to Gate V. There was less chaos by now and I was able to park under a shady olive tree, buy my ticket and trudge up the hill. It is steep and it’s definitely not a valley. There are lots of useful information boards in Italian, English and French and the site goes on for a long distance from this eastern end along a ridge towards the sea. It is quite stunning.

This first temple of Juno is obviously a ruin and as I walk along the hill/ridge I pass burial chambers and evidence of multi-cultural appropriation. The Romans desecrated the Greek buildings and remade them. The Arabs had a go too and finally the Christians took over and the original worship of Gods various and Nature were subsumed by the dominant faith. Original fortifications became burial sites since they thought they were safe from invasion. I was reminded of the triple-whammy of Empuries in Spain where the Carthaginian original settlement was successively taken over by Greeks and Romans all with their own ideas of what’s to do with the place.

Then as you walk musing about all this along you come upon this:

*The almost complete Temple of Concord from 440-430 BCE.*

I really needed hiking poles (not available) to scale the outcrop to get this shot – but I was very careful, I promise. (For new readers I have a recent history of falls resulting in stitches to the head.) It is a stunning piece of craftsmanship and design and crowns the site with its awesome presence. Even I’d be inclined to pray. There are lots of other ruins, sculptures and relics scattered over the hill but there’s also a garden and you know how i like a garden. It had oleanders, rosemary, lavender and herbs I wasn’t sure about but a lovely fragrant and cooling period on the hillside at 32 degrees.

*Oleander, olives and prickly pear – very Mediterranean!*

Around this point I decided I’d gone far enough and found this excellent shady arbour for my return. The only problem was that I was accosted by a lizard and history tells what trouble that can get you into. (Again for those who weren’t there, an inquisitive lizard in Ibiza led to a group of us entering a team of plastic lizards in a local 5-a-side football tournament. Full story is in YBR 39 available from https://thewatfordtreasury.com/ or I can send the text of the article as a pdf to anyone who cares.) Happy memories of absent friends.

On my way back I passed an enclosure celebrating the return of the mountain goat to the – signboard quote – mountainside. I guess the threat of sacrifice has passed and they can safely graze. There was a cafe nearby so a late morning coffee set me up for a cross-Sicily drive. I hadn’t covered the entire site but had spent a full two and a half hours of marvelling at the ‘Valley’ of the Temples.

My next four days were to be spent in Siracusa so I needed to traverse Sicily from the Mediterranean Sea on the west coat to the Ionian Sea on the east. With a co-navigator I might have drifted about the centre from town to town, but as a lone traveller, I decided to take the A19 motorway that cuts straight through the middle. It was a scenic journey nonetheless, with the lush citrus groves near the coast, giving way to olives and almonds and then to a rugged landscape of harvested cornfields, rock outcrops and an overall brown-ness. It was very hot today but we were clearly gaining height as warnings about winter tyres being obligatory were joined by snowflake signposts and skidding dangers when icy. Hard to imagine that today. But like roads everywhere there were many stretches with road woks reducing the dual carriageway to two-way operation. What I did note was that in every lay-by there was scattered litter – some loose, some in plastic bags. From my limited experience I would say that Sicily is a mess when it comes to both clearing up rubbish – and I regret to say dog shit – which is everywhere.

Another aspect of Sicily that’s rubbish from my sample of one is the food on offer in service areas – I stopped at one for a late lunch and fuel. Everything was in bread including a soft bread bun that contained breadcrumbed chicken fillets! No salads just ciabatta, panini, focaccia and buns. I finally settled for a lemon Fanta and a bag of crisps. And I have to say that the offer was familiar from a number of the numerous ‘street food’ outlets in Palermo and Agrigento.

For once I found the BnB very easily but had to wait for someone to come and let me in. He was pleasant, efficient and explained that the breakfast part was served in the Hotel Mediterraneo two minutes walk away. He also carried my suitcase up these and into my very pleasant apartment which has this open plan living kitchen, dining area and a bedroom and bathroom and a balcony with clothes drier. Good choice I think.

Parking is free in nearby streets – narrow and mostly one way – I had to move my car to let someone else pass while waiting for the guy to arrive. So I went and parked, returned to put the phone that’s done sterling SatNav duty and charging block on to charge, unpack and then set out to explore the immediate neighbourhood. Luckily just round the corner is a bar with a much-needed post-driving beer. I start walking towards the sea and passed a garden that made me stop and think because of its very explicit signage. I’m used to Jewish quarters in lots of Spanish cities and had read that the Giudecca is one of the areas to explore on Ortygia, the island that forms a large part of Siracusa.

I make it to the twin bridges across to Ortygia but had planned that for tomorrow so I do a restaurant recce, buy some basic supplies for ‘home’ drop them off and then go to eat Siracusa-style tuna, cooked with onions peppers and tomatoes, helped along with an Etna red, half with the meal, half carried through the streets to enjoy while unwinding with music and a book. Buonanotte.

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Saturday and Sunday in Sicily

I had always planned to use my last full day in Palermo to visit the famous golden cathedral at Monreale. It’s on a steep hill outside Palermo but the guides advised the two-bus strategy for adventure and price. So I headed off for Central Station to catch the 109 to Piazza Indipendenza which Google maps showed as a 30 minute walk along a major thoroughfare. So I bought my ticket from the conveniently marked ‘Ticket Point’ for the princely sum of one euro 40 each way and waited for a 109. It came in about ten minutes and was immediately quite crowded – Sicilians have strong elbows – but I got a seat and observing the route through not the nicest area, I was glad I decided not to walk.

*Palermo Central Station ticket point, my ticket and the first bus.*

Then it was onto the 389 whIch just shuttles between the square and Monreale. It rattles along with occasional pickups so we end up with standing room only. It drops us off at a roundabout, leaving a steepish ascent up a road with great views over Palermo until finally one makes it to the premium attraction.

Palermo from the top of Monreale, the exterior of the apse and the west front.

I play my bus pass and driving licence to get a reduction and to my amazement they waved me through. I later discovered that the cathedral is free but other attractions cost. It is a truly amazing building with so much gold in the mosaics, frescos and service and ceremonial items. Built for William II , the Good, it’s a majestic church attached to a Dominican abbey. I loved the Arabic patterns in the mosaic wall panels, remembering Córdoba and Granada where Muslim and Christian faiths coalesced, the sublime vaulted ceiling and would, I’m sure have loved the huge depiction of Christ behind the main altar. Sadly I got a printed cloth showing what we might have seen were not in the midst of refurbishments.

I’ll update my pics eventually but you’ll prolly get better from here including what I couldn’t see.

The museum was absolutely packed with gold and silver chalices, crosses and wonderfully woven vestments but after a while I began to glaze so I headed for the elegant monastery cloister. No entry without a ticket and despite my entreaties the young attendant would not let me pass. I glimpsed it from a higher level and it did look like a bit of a miss.

Golded out, I wandered about the town centre which is 100% tourist dedicated. What would these businesses do if, as often requested, we all stayed home? Souvenir shops with ceramics, leather and paintings – maybe once upon a time – but these days I steer clear. But I found an unassuming bakery that would survive any tourist fall off given the number of badly parked cars and Vespas coming to collect their daily bread. The baker apologised for keeping me waiting while he took a batch of panini out of an oven. He then made me one with anchovies and tomatoes which was complemented by a Messina beer which I read from its label has salt crystals from Trapani added to give it extra bite. Salty anchovies with salty beer, what could be better. The 389 goes every half hour so I walked back down the hill, so much easier! and soon the bus arrived and took about 40 minutes to get to Indipendenza and then another fifteen back to the station. I decided to spend a little time sorting my self out and packing for my early morning Sunday departure. Well prepared I went for dinner back in La Kalsa and found a rare table on a busy Saturday night at Quattro Mani where I had more aubergine as a starter and then black sesame crusted seared albacore tuna which was superb and washed down nicely with and Etna Cotanera grape. A fine farewell to four days in Palermo.

On the road

On checking out of the hotel, I noticed for the first time that it had a small bar and a pretty garden which I would have been entitled to use as an apartment dweller. Were I ever to go back I’d happily stay there again as it’s in a great location and they were very helpful. So it’s to Central Station once more for my six euro trip to the airport to be picked up by a car rental shuttle. On arrival I made a series of notes to myself 1: If it looks good value (ie cheap) it’s probably for a reason; 2: don’t assume – no not all rental cars have SatNavs fitted; 3: not all cars start up just because you get and push a button, some need keys inserting and turning; 4: try to adjust to manual transmission – there’s a thing called a clutch – and instrument layout to avoid the windscreen wipers going when you want to turn. Having said all that the VW UP! Has got me from Palermo to Agrigento and now at the time of writing to Siracusa, it hasn’t been all bad thanks to Google maps and Bluetooth.

My destination for the day was Agrigento but on the way both guidebook and Gwyn and Yvonne said “Go to Gibellina”. So I did. It’s a very, very sad story. In 1968 the village was destroyed in an earthquake and rather than rebuild the villagers were relocated to Gibellina Nuova 18 km away.

Very sadly they left the cemetery behind so if families await to pay their respects they have to schlepp along a very deformed country road to do so. I appreciate the problems-for planners but this was a travesty. To mark the horror an artist Alberto Burri made one of the most powerful artworks I’ve ever seen.

Alberto’s installation, the Creti di Burri covered the village’s ruins in one metre high concrete blocks within which you can walk the meandering streets, climb the hill and feel a real sense of a lost community. As someone who loves the technical, in the close ups you can see the sinuous outlines of the bags that held the concrete in place. In others there’s a pink glow as if the terracotta tiles from the destroyed houses had leached their tears into the concrete. Beautiful, moving, a true work of art – and huge!

By contrast the new town, conceived by notable architects as a Utopian living place, turned out to be a soulless disaster. Despite claims as the art of living, there are many public works but no cafes, a closed supermarket and a public square that looks less than inviting. And there’s a grotesque abandoned multi-use space that dominates this sad spot. Oh progress, where art thou? Note to Labour – if you do build new towns, don’t make them like this!

Leaving the new Gibellina behind I headed for my BnB in Agrigento. The road was pleasant with frequent glimpses of the coast before the nightmare of finding the place I was to rest my head. The instructions were great if you knew the town but were confusing in that Via Atenea didn’t have a name plaque adjacent to the adjoining street where I’d been told to park. Locals were helpful and I discovered I’d have a lengthy trek with suitcase to get there. While deliberating going round the block to use the closer car park, I was waved down by someone older than me to give him a lift to the cathedral. He was carrying a silver plaque and a lanyard so I guessed he mattered. I didn’t say, but thought “I despise Christians and other religions for all the trouble they’ve caused” and meekly accepted his blessing when I dropped him off.

So I eventually parked, arranged minimal luggage into a backpack and set off. On arriving at the BnB this confronted me and gave me some further notes to self. 1: You are new at this game ask more questions; 2; Get very clear instructions and a map.

As it happened my poor weary body had to climb 97 further steps to get to my very pleasant room once I’d got up this so-called via Ficani. That’s not a road! And there were another fifteen to get breakfast on their lovely terrace. Next morning. Caveat emptor writ large.

However once installed and braving a trip back out to eat I found that via Atenea is the posh part of the old town. I was so pleased to see that proper bar service has resumed – a beer, crisps and peanuts all for three euros. Supper later was a scaloppine al limone with a carafe of unspecified but acceptable house white in a family run restaurant where the owners knew everybody but me. Then back up those 90+ steps. Night, night.

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Gardens, Masterpieces and Wagner

I had a problem with uploading photos from my camera so there area few gapsnow filled in on my return to London and a full laptop.

Oh dear, I wake up and the sky is blue, the sun is shining and I’m still in Sicily. Today’s plan is to visit the Botanic Gardens I can see from the apartment, do a museum recommended by my friend Gwyn, check out the walk to Teatro Massimo and get back home relatively early to shower and frock up for the opera.

The day started well as the garden opens at nine and has a cafe where juice (bottled not freshly squeezed like yesterday’s – trading standards might need to investigate). However with that and a good coffee hit I was ready to meander. And it’s that sort of garden with nicely laid out routes of varying lengths and also the capacity for random twiling (copyright S Todd RIP but we still twile). And the labelling is very clear, often in Italian and English so you know what you are looking at.

One of my first encounters made me think of friends Gwyn and Yvonne who had highly recommended Sicily after a visit they made a few years ago. They have an 80-year-old tortoise in their garden so I immediately felt welcomed to the Giardino Botanico. Now I’m not sure whether this creature was a tortoise, a turtle or a terrapin but it gave me a friendly nod.

The Botanic Garden was divided up into several areas and had displays of various plantings – bamboo reminding me of Bangladesh, palms, cactus including a cactus nursery and again making me feel at home an experimental coffee growing area. There were some pleasant glasshouses – but what can compare with Kew – and is was good to see a number of school groups making the garden tour.

The coffee trial plantation to see if they can grow coffee here. Interesting development and a reflexion on climate change perhaps like red wine in Kent.

My next planned visit was to a half-completed church, Lo Spasimo, which I suspect, as the world’s expert on follies, my friend Gwyn was claiming as one. It was abandoned in 1475 when stone was more urgently required for fortifications against the threat from the Turks. Sadly it was closed so I’ll take Gwyn’s word for its intrinsic value. Disappointment calls for coffee which was provided bay a barely-open bar in via Spasimo. Then it’s on the short walk to the Palazzo Abatellis which houses the Galleria Regionale di Sicilia.

This gallery contains two absolute must-see items and a lot more of significant interest. Once again it’s a magnificent 15th century palazzo and shortly after entering you are struck by masterpiece one. The Triumph of Death is remarkable in so many ways. It’s a fresco from elsewhere that was carefully removed and repositioned here. It’s from the fifteenth century by an unknown artist. You can see it here at ground level and then again from above when you go upstairs. It reflects on the devastation of the Bubonic plague in Europe. Can’t wait for the Covid Guernika-style fresco. Death is an armed skeleton riding a skeletal horse which has great yellow teeth. There are so many brilliant mini-stories going on all over the wall that it’s hard to drag yourself away but something perhaps even more special awaits.

It was also interesting as always to see a conservation team at work on one of the collection’s pieces – mahl sticks, minute brushes and multicoloured palettes. Oh we do like seeing other people work!

The gallery has a very large number of fairly gloomy religious woks – well we are in very Catholic Spain – but one of them is in joyous calm counterpoint to all these. It’s known as the Mona Lisa of Sicily and is called Annunciata and was painted by Antonello da Messina in around 1475, so predating Leonardo. It gets very special treatment in a mobile display unit in the middle of a room. She’s in great demand so you have to be very patient and wait your turn to go and monopolise the space. It’s worth the wait. It is thrilling in it’s simplicity. Mary looks off camera presumably listening to angel Gabriel telling her she’s pregnant. Her raised right hand might just be saying “No way!” The restrained colour palette, the beauty of her features and the arresting composition make this a picture I covet. They did give me a free postcard so maybe I’ll frame that.

Among the other delights are a very rude-girl looking Maddalena and a room full of paintings claiming the influence of Caravaggio. But nothing can surpass the galleries two nailed-on star exhibits. From here I decide to walk to the Teatro Massimo and then back to the apartment to check my departure time for the opera tonight.

I do walk it in stages but get waylaid by the need for a beer – it’s now after two for goodness sake. Opposite the cafe on via Maqueda is the Palazzo San’Elia another gorgeous edifice advertising an exhibition called Palermo Liberty The Golden Age. Oh if only Dee was here, she’d have loved it, We shared a love of Deco and Art Nouveau and the poster was very enticing.

It started with an immersive video room in which the walls displayed changing decorative motifs from the tiles, logos and fabrics of the period. It reminded me of the Kusama mirror rooms. The rest of the exhibit depicted life and taste of the Period and brought back vision of Casa Battlo and the furniture rooms on Montjuic in nBarcelona. There was the restoration of a famous bakery’s facade, great graphics, photographs, furniture and frocks. I really might have enjoyed living then – if I’d been among the better off.

With all this enjoyment I find I’ve basically left it too late for lunch as many kitchens close at three so I end up with a tuna panino and beer at a street food stall near the station and home. I then repair to the apartment shower and frock up ready for the opera. I discover that my trusty Birkenstock flip-flop style sandals have caused a bloody blister on the top of my middle toe on my left foot – have my toes got fat during my periods of inactivity. Well it’s socks and proper shoes for the opera and I have other options. This and my peregrinations have convinced me that the sensible option is not a 25-30 minute walk in a suit in 26 degrees and that a 10 euro taxi ride is the sensible option.

I arrive in good time and can explore the building a bit before finding my seat in a loggia box which already has one young woman installed. We say hello and admit our mutual lack of each other’s language. Later two other ladies arrive but the sixth chair is left unoccupied so we all have space and a good view. In-performance phone abuse is as rife in Palermo as in London and I feel like throwing darts at people below me. They’ve paid twice what I have to sit in the stalls. Why are they here?

It’s a somewhat strange ‘concept’ production which starts as a rehearsal with a tee-shirted conductor playing piano on stage then joining colleagues in the pit via the audience. Singers also enter via the stalls and sing first parts from scores on music stands. It then segues into a full production midway through Act 1. There’s the now familiar mix of modern and ‘period’ dress but there’s a big shout out to the naked pink-winged Cupid who made many appearances throughout. I have to question why the similarly naked female in Act 3 was allowed knickers! They were small but covered her pubes. Musically it was excellent with good orchestral colours and contrasts.

The singers especially Brangene (Irene Roberts) were excellent but at the end I was astonished at how quickly the pit cleared. I know musos like a drink – but all overboard! Shame on me for such evil thoughts. After the principals’ curtain calls the back curtain rose to show all the orchestra member within their instruments where portable. Something I had never seen before – a nice touch.

I feared for my stomach as most places close their kitchens at 11 and we were after that by the time I’d got out. However a place on via Maqueda was still serving and I had an aubergine, celery and tomato and some mistranslated sardine meatballs – surely fish balls! However they were very tasty, went well with a crisp half-bottle of local white and I chickened out on the walk back and took a cab. Well after midnight and buzzing with the music and the occasion, I slept very badly – not good preparation for my last day in Palermo – a planned trip to Monreale.

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Sicily day 2 – the fun continues

I’d booked a tour of the Palazzo Conte Federico from the UK as I thought it might be interesting to do a ‘Stately Home” tour abroad – and it was to be conducted by the current count. That was for 11 o’clock so I had a while to wander in search of breakfast and the famed Ballaro market. Previous readers will know how much I love a market. And in Siracusa I’ve arranged to stay in an apartment with cooking facilities so maybe I can buy something in the market there. But back to Ballaro – not the elegant framework of La Boqueria in Barcelona or those in Valencia, Madrid and Palma but a sprawling muddle of streets – one actually via Ballaro – with pub umbrellas (mostly Messina beer), tarpaulins stretched over metal frames and a variety of stalls with staff hawking their produce. It was hot, it was colourful, it was lively and it was fun. It also provided A stall with seats, freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee and a croissant so breakfast was ticked off. And I may well have seen the swordfish being cut up that I had for lunch later. Certainly the guy was making a fine job of carving up tuna.

I strolled through the streets in the neighbourhood, narrow, golden sandstone, church at every corner and found the Palazzo a little ahead of time. The young count, Andrea, was preparing to take tickets and asking people to wait but nobly allowed me in to use the loo. They may be one of the richest families in Palermo but they buy their hand wash in Lidl! I know the Cien brand well. The tour was fascinating and the palazzo deceptively large given it’s street frontage. It contains within it the last of 26 original lookout towers from the medieval city when it stood on the edge of the harbour. We’re now a good mile inland and most of newer Palermo has been reclaimed at various periods of history, including a large area using bomb damage wreckage after the Second World War. The website gives you a good impression of what I saw. The fun bits for me were that the 86-year-old count was and is a highly decorated racing driver and now ventures outside Italy to race since anyone over the age of 80 is prohibited from competition in Italy. His wife is a gifted soprano and we entered her studio to find a prized Pleyel piano apparently played by Richard Wagner on a visit. This is my third Pleyel – Chopin’s in Mallorca and de Falla’s in Granada. And I’m planning to hear some Wagner on Friday evening.

*The Pleyel piano, Richard Wagner and Contessa Alwine Federico soprano and champion swimmer*

It was a fascinating tour, well handled in alternating Italian and English by Andrea and gave one an insight into how the other half lives – or lived perhaps if you need to have paying tourists traipsing though your home between 11:00 and 16:00 every day except Sundays. There were lots of stairs too so the hip got a good workout.

As I exited and walked down a narrow street what should I see but a lady with a clapper board marking a take. A minimal crew was shooting what appeared from the OTT acting on show to be a dramedy, comedy drama or outright farce.

Next stop was for a coffee near the epicentre of the city – Quattri Canti where the posh streets Corso Vittorio Emanuele and Via Maqueda meet. It’s very busy but coffee is still only one euro twenty despite the tourist nature of the area.

Next was a visit to the famous, or infamous because of its nudity, fountain Fontana Pretoria. It has no water flowing but is an impressive structure.

And then on to a pair of churches – one of which had just closed! But the Chiesa de San Cataldo was wonderfully calm and simple – a blessing after the ornate nature of the majority. It also has three red domes and some impressive brickwork and a great stained glass cross.

*China’s San Cataldo’ domes outside and in, the cross with interestingly Arabic patterns behind and the one that just closed Chiesa la Martorana.*

Lunch nearby was pasta al pesce spada e melanzane – there were lots of both swordfish and aubergines in the market and it restored me for the next visit. This was only a short distance away but almost unreachable because of workmen relaying the enormous slabs that make up Palermo’s streets.

The Galleria d’Arte Moderna proved a bit of a misnomer as paintings in the collection stopped at 1935 and was almost entirely figurative. There were several paintings I really liked however so despite expectations not being met, I was glad I’d gone.

*An almost American Gothic, a Sargent-ish portrait and a seascape that reminded me of Sorolla.*

It was time to rest the feet after a day of constant movement. But on the way back passing Giardino Garibaldi I was struck by this massive Ficus macrophylla reputed to be 150 years old. It’s what we know better as the banyan tree.

As I was walking along via Torremusa I noticed white carpet on the church steps and popped in to catch a wedding ceremony in full flow. Another enormous and brilliantly decorated church like so many in the city. This one was the Chiesa Parrocchiale di Santa Maria della Pietà. I was very discreet and didn’t even offer to make a speech.

Back at the apartment for a brief rest, a shower and then out for dinner locally with a whitebait starter and some sausages to follow. They were quite spicy – close to merguez. Well as Paola said when I told her I was going to Sicily “Sicily – it’s Africa!” She’s from Rome.