Palermo, Sicily

We woke this morning to find the ship docked in the port of Palermo, Sicily, Italy – with shafts of sunshine splitting thunderclouds surrounding Monte Pellegrino to the north.

After fighting the good fight in the breakfast buffet we left the ship and boarded a tour bus to take us towards the wine country in the middle of Sicily, and the family winery Alessandro di Camporeale.

The rolling hills of inland Sicily were beautiful – bathed in sunshine, and striped with vineyards, olives, and endless fruit trees. Palermo itself was equally interesting – crammed with the evidence of multiple cultures over the millennia – having been invaded by the Romans, the moors, the Spanish, and more over the years.

I remember my grandad talking about watching a harbour being bombed from a hilltop during the Second World War – he was in the Eighth Army – it could well have been Palermo – and would have placed him near Pellegrino. It’s a small world.

The winery was straight out of The Godfather – with a long driveway lined with tall trees, and an old Tuscan farmhouse. A tabby cat sat in the shadows watching us assemble, while chickens gathered on the near-side of their run.

The tour of the workings of the winery with the youngest daughter of the Alessandro family was wonderful – and ended with our group sitting in the sun for an hour trying out (and buying) various wines. Perhaps the most interesting part for me was that each wine had a story attached to it – when it was first made, who it was named after, and so on. Everything was connected, and had history wrapped up in it.

To accompany the wine, the winery served focaccia bread, olives, and tomatoes – all grown in the grounds of the winery too.

Worth noting – buying a couple of the bottles of wine from the winery cost far less than buying it from home. We found it listed in several supermarkets at home for triple the cost from the winery. I guess everybody makes their cut – from the transport company, to the importer, to the government, and the eventual shop you purchase it from.

We eventually re-boarded the coach a little after lunch. I felt sorry for the driver – a typically handsome young Italian man – who only got to drink water all day. I spotted the tour guide – a pretty Italian lady – sneaking a small glass of wine in-between looking after everybody.

On the way back towards Palermo a few passengers on the coach asked if we might be dropped in the middle of the city, rather than back to the port – that we might have a few hours exploring before returning to the ship. We took our chance to escape for a few hours, and dove into down-town Palermo together.

While Cadiz was wonderful in its own way, Palermo was chaotic, busy, noisy, and incredibly beautiful – but beautiful in the way only ancient European cities seem to be able to be – with crumbling facades, narrow streets, and precarious balconies stretching out over the rivers of people below.

The main market street running through the middle of the city smelled of every fruit you could imagine – and the restaurants – all spilling out onto the streets – all claimed to have the best arancini. We walked perhaps a mile into the mayhem before choosing a bar, and ordering. All I can say is we chose well.

While my other half wrote postcards home, I sat watching people pass by in an endless torrent of cultures and colours. Guessing nationalities became a game of sorts – settling on the vague assumption that nearly all Sicilian women are beautiful, and nearly all of their boyfriends are really quite sinister.

Eventually time marched on and we needed to get back to the boat. Thankfully we gave ourselves an hour longer than we really needed to get back – and we needed some of it; there were no signs to the ferry port, and it was only too easy to take a wrong turn, and find yourself a hundred yards from the ship, but with no way to reach it – which we did. I’m half tempted to visit the promenade deck just to watch the panicked passengers that don’t make it back in time after making the same mistake.

While walking around to the ship I found myself wondering how many people miss cruise ships when they are in port – and how they catch them up? Presumably it requires a day sitting in an embassy somewhere awaiting a temporary passport, and then a plane flight to a further port along the way.

Fingers crossed that doesn’t happen – although I can see how it might, given the speed (or rather lack of it) among a huge number of the passengers on the ship. It was brought into stark focus today – and reminded both of us why we generally avoid guided tours of anything, ever. Getting on the coach this morning was delayed while waiting for passengers. Getting off the coach was delayed while waiting for passengers – who then held everybody up again by going to the toilet en-mass (because of course they can’t last an hour without going to the toilet). While walking around the winery there were a couple of stairways that caused another huge delay – waiting for people to make their way up or down them in the same manner you might if blindfold, with your legs tied together.

On the way both to and from the winery, an elderly man behind me managed to bugger his coach seat up while fiddling with the recliner buttons – he wasn’t the only one –  and then spent the entire journey clinging to the back of my seat – shaking it back and forth as a toddler might. When he did it on the way back too, I couldn’t quite believe it.

Escaping the group on our return to Palermo was more of a relief than we’re willing to admit.

You find me now safely back on the ship, emptying my head into this blog post. An empty cup of cappuccino sits next to the keyboard. I’m debating another coffee, or a move to a bar that sells tall drinks. Scratch that – I just got told off for making a certain person move every ten minutes. Looks like we’re here for the duration.

Tomorrow we arrive in Valletta, Malta.