More than Montalbano
Byzantine mosaic, Cefalu/Damesnet
The first time round, it was an ode to Ispettore Montalbano. That was close on two years ago, my original blog for Damesnet. This one could have been following in Montalbano’s footsteps…but instead it’s going to be a tale of falling in thrall to his island of mythical origins: Sicily.
The trip came about as a windfall, loyalty points which had to be used or lost, and we decided to use them for a city break. Too tired to even look at any guide books beforehand, we were just happy to find ourselves on the plane from Gatwick. But what followed was a trip that gave us an appetite to return in the not too distant future.
First, there were the belly laughs. A walk which ended up near the harbour made us want to rest our legs so we sat on a bench facing the sea. Five minutes on, we started to be sprayed with water. Fearing a downpour, the husband turned round to put up his brolly, and found his rear end soaked: it was sprinklers on a time switch. We moved to another bench, having first inspected the ground and then, you’ve guessed it, with a slight whirring noise it was a case of ‘up telescopes’ and the next load of sprinklers started.
Belly laugh number two: a short train trip along the coast led us to Cefalu, with the Duomo’s stunning mosaics. Enjoying lunch in the sun (yes, sun, after days of greyness) what should appear but a troupe of Morris dancers who proceeded to trip the light fantastic before a crowd of bemused locals and tourists (see the video). Turns out this is a group of enthusiasts who each March take a trip to a different locale complete with straw hats, bells and wooden sticks. The only prerequisite is that Stansted has to be the point of departure.
Morris dancers in Cefalu/Damesnet
Belly laugh number three was prompted by my husband’s scarf, a memento of a match between Borussia Dortmund and Ajax. From kids of eight in the street to pensioners in our local bar, all wanted to talk football. When he disappeared for a bit, I told the waiters that he actually supported West Ham, to which they echoed, with an impeccable cockney accent, “West ‘Am”, and proceeded to engage him in earnest discussion about Paulo Di Canio. He was greeted by a chorus of “West ‘Am” whenever we visited the bar (ie every night).
And then there were the cultural benefits. A visit to Palermo’s Opera House, the third largest in Europe – behind Paris and Milan – ended up as a private guided tour with one other couple. We were even allowed to sit in the Royal Box for a spell to listen to a rehearsal of La Fille du Regiment. We were lucky, the next tour was packed.
Virtually the same thing occurred when we visited the Galleria d’Arte Moderna, housed in a 15th century palace that was then converted to a convent before its current reincarnation. Who knew the richness of the paintings and sculptures of Sicilian artists from the 19th and 20th centuries? Sadly, neither of us before now.
Breakfast at Grand Hotel Et Des Palmes/
Damesnet
And best of all, a hotel that had played host to Wagner, Liszt and Renoir but now, like much of Palermo, seemed caught in a time warp of faded paintwork and tarnished mirrors – yet was still determined to make visitors welcome. Its breakfast room was spellbinding, dwarfed by a monumental chandelier hovering over a spread of Olympian proportions.
We may not have caught up with Inspector Salvo Montalbano (although I did look up every time I heard someone call Salvo) – the dedicated tour appeared a mite pricey – but we will return. We just need to save up.