From time-to-time, I indulge in a bit of travel writing, although I haven’t done it for a while. This week’s Speccie features yours truly travel writing on Sicily, one of my favourite places in the world and a place where I once worked on an archeological dig.
‘Muslims will not blow anyone up here,’ the proprietor of my Siracusa local assures me, ‘we have our own people who do that’. Opting to take one’s annual leave in Sicily is to be confronted by a reminder of southern Italy’s once terrible poverty and local corruption – unused and fantastically expensive elevated roadways and tunnels leading nowhere, often sprouting vegetation, litter the landscape. The Mafia appears in the form of children selling cigarettes sans health warnings, pervasive fly-tipping, and not otherwise. Sicily is remarkably safe. The winding, twisting detours Sicily’s roads take are remarkable in their own way, vaulting over Luigi’s Lemons, Giuseppe’s Goats, Pietra’s Pears and Everyone’s Olives. One suspects there have been many conversations of the I-don’t-like-that-highway-there/Would-you-like-me-to-move-it? sort.