Blogging the blog

Let me tell you about the technical aspects of the blog.

Polly: This is Tim's equivalent of a wool post.

We write the text when we can on our little handheld computers, then save to a memory card. We then connect the memory card to a computer at an internet café (which there are a dozen within 300m of here) and cut and paste the text into the blog website.

The photos are digital, saved onto a memory card by our camera. We have some software on our hand-helds that lets us shrink copies of the selected photos to about 1/10th of their original size, crop the edges and do simple editing. We then insert the photos into the blog website.

We've been able to do this about every 4-5 days.

We've probably taken 1,300 photos so far. When the camera memory cards are full, they get burned to CD (twice) and are re-used. The cameras use rechargable batteries (I bought another cheap charger after the first fried). The hand-held computers share a recharger.

In addition, the computers also have music, pre-recorded video (about 8 hours of TV shows etc) and many hours of Ricky Gervais podcasts which we listen to together or causes Polly to laugh in the dark whilst I try to sleep. We argue for hours about the existance of Karl Pilkington. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Pilkington#Fictional_character.3F

Rome Part 2

We had set aside today as a day of individual pursuits. Polly was going to do some shopping and I was going to improve my mind and make myself a more cultivated person. But don't judge Polly for her shallow preoccupations; that's my job...

I updated our blog, read the comments and replied to a couple of emails, then took myself for a long walk. I avoided the large streets, instead taking myself along smaller streets I haven't been on before. I came to a large park near the colloseum but it was unlike Exhibition Gardens, for example - the grass was quite long, paths unmaintained, people were sleeping rough on the benches and there were groups of people dotted around, but looking like they lived here. I felt a little afraid, but without cause - there was a tour guide and her group ahead, and other people around. I put my foot up on a stone bench to do up a shoelace; an African man quickly deployed some handbags on the other end.

I went to a small interesting museum on Roman times, then wandered back to our room, full of gelati and pizza slices from the tavalo caldos, where you buy wonderful thin and crispy pizza by the slice.

Polly: I had a much more interesting time - shoes, handbags and a red leather jacket that I made the mistake of going back to ask Tim about before buying. Needless to say, I am jacketless and the accountant is inwardly smiling.

I had armed myself with two valuable phrases before setting out for the day - 41 (my shoe size) and 'do you have really big clothes?' (this last said with much gesticulation towards my hips). My first stop was the profumerie where I also armed myself with a liberal dose of Chanel No. 5. Then, shopping ... The first shop I entered was run by a thin little English-speaking woman who insisted that she did have large clothes and proceeded to pull out the 3 things in the shop that might fit me. None were really my thing, but she talked me into trying on a black poncho type thingy that made me look like the side of a house. First she assured me that her sister is 'big like me' and she has one and loves it. When I explained that I wasn't happy with how I looked in it she informed me that nothing would make me look any smaller and that if I didn't buy this top from her, I wouldn't find anything else in Rome that would fit me. I told her that if that was the case I would just buy more shoes.

I had read of a market at Campo de Fiori and decided to head there via every shop I passed on the way. I bought a couple of scarves and some gifts, but nothing really grabbed me in the shoe or bag department. After walking for 3 hours I was quite sore in the hips and wondering why I had not yet reached the market. It was at this point that I recognized Termini station up ahead. I was a block from my hotel. Obviously I had zigged when I should have zagged at some point. After a reviving lunch I went to Termini and grabbed a bus to the market. It was a food market.

Tim:I went to a wonderful museum of sculptures and mosaics and spent a couple to rapt hours taking it all in. I love this stuff! I'm fascinated by Roman times, fascinated by what they can deduce about a statue from it's location, style, pose, finish, materials and size, fascinated by the things we know and don't know about their civilisation. For instance, we know about the names of the women's hairstyles on the statues and their years of popularity, but we don't the identity of some some magnificent statutes. Historians can understand their complex calendar - very similar to ours but with 8 day weeks - where there were five types of days that controlled what could legally happen on those days such as markets, feasts and government meetings; but for only four of those types of days. The fifth is a mystery.

And the mosaics! Let me tell you... over dinner I excitedly told Polly all this until she started shoving pellets of bread into her ears.

Polly: And over dinner I discovered that every time I told a shop assistant my shoe size I was saying 40 in French and 1 in Italian.

Rome Part 1

Tim: Another uncomfortable night on
the train from Sicily to Rome, especially for Polly. We had sworn that we would get a 2 person cabin, but on a train to Sicily they are only for 1st class passengers and cost about $150 more. What price comfort? More than we had.

It all seemed to wash away anyway when we got to our tiny hotel, which styled itself as a B&B. We had been anticipating meeting the owner, Olga, who had sent us such long & friendly emails with unique & special syntax. She met us downstairs, took charge of Polly's monsterous bag and dragged it up a couple of steps into the tiny lift.


It really was a bed and breakfast. There were only 4 rooms for rent and a room, no, a breakfast salon with bookcases, an ornate table, a couch and a piano. Whilst our room was being made up we had a long conversion, almost all in Italian, primarily about our cats, her cats, the joys of cat ownership, lovable cat antics, cat longevity, and, Olga swore, the fattening and eating of cats by chinese Romans. She brought out one of hers, a 19 year old monster, half as big as her.


We rested briefly, then went out on the Metro to the colloseum. When we exited the station, it loomed above us as huge and as wide as I remembered. I looked to catch Polly's reaction, but she was squinting off into the distance at a ruin. "Is that it?". How could she not see... When she turned and saw it, she actually sagged. We looked around inside, but came away feeling somehow unsatisfied. I'd felt this before on previous visits; there was little feeling of history here. It was as if the rivers of people that have come through had washed all the history away.

The Roman forum is in much poorer condition but has much more. This is the building where the senate met. This is where Julius Caeser's body was burned - and more. But it was our final stop that had atmosphere you could carve with a knife. It was the Carcere Mamertino, the tiny prison where prisoners were thrown through a hole in the floor to starve to death. The cell itself is dark and gloomy, with a pervading sense of opression. There is a list of those that were incarcerated here, including St. Peter, and how they were finished off.

Footsore, we returned to our rooms for a nap and dinner.

Next day saw me buzzing around like a bee - St. Peter's and the Vatican Museum - gotta get there early, gotta get there early...

Polly: Ellen had said to me after seeing St Peter's that it was no wonder people believe in God when surrounded by such magnificence (paraphrasing wildly). I know exactly what she meant. The scale alone gives testament to the importance of the subject matter - although a lot of the time that seemed to be the impotance of Popes rather than the impotance of God. I experienced quite conflicting emotions for the whole time I was

in the Basilica. In some ways I belonged here - this was the tradition I had been raised in and worked in - this was my spiritual home. I felt awed by the faith and deeds of those who had gone before me - the stories of my history were played out here. But this place also strongly represented the church I decided to leave behind - the one that's very history made it inflexible, sometimes to the point of forgetting the gospel values on which it was based. The church that owned so much wealth whilst beggars sat at her doors. The church where men considered themselves worthy of statues. A very thought provoking visit.

Because time had gotten away from us
we were already a little footsore, I was doubting if this was the day for the Vatican museum. But when we followed people towards the entrance, there were no crowds at all. However, the museum was scheduled to close in a couple of hours. This was fine by me; I'm not really an art appreciator, so we cut our tour to the time and focussed on the really important stuff towards the end; Raphaello's rooms and the Sistine chapel. Whilst appreciating the wonders of the works in the context of their time and place, no epiphany ensued. Perhaps in the modern world it's difficult for sublime work to compete with the range of other media available, media desiged to directly gratify all of our needs. I think that to be properly appreciated in these times, works of art from earlier times need to be ... well, who knows? Probably not me.

Polly: Please note that the above opinions are Tim's only, and do not reflect those of the management. I was totally blown away by the absolute humanity captured in the figures on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel - such strength and almost tangibility, yet still demonstrating man at his most vulnerable. Tim: [snip] had to edit that junk down quite a bit, too many words.

We had a kebab each for a late lunch, then took the Metro back to our digs for a nap.


After dinner we set off on a short walk that ended up taking us all over inner Rome; down Via Nazionale, and through a pedestrian walkway to the Trevi Fountain and on the to the Pantheon. It was a mild night, with lots of people about. The city looked lovely at night, with the monuments lit by soft lights and the smell of good food everywhere. It, like so much of this trip, seemed perfect.

Wool news

Polly: Ok Catherine, now that we are alone...

Considering the price and variety of Italian wool at home, I was expecting to step off the plane into a bed of fleece. I was becoming a little dejected (the word completion tool suggested desperate then, and wasn't too far from the mark either ) to find some wool.

Napoli had proven barren, and Siracusa was looking just as bad until at 5pm on our last night there we got lost and drove up a side street where I spied my bounty. Tim was on a mission to burn the photos on to a cd for safety's sake, and I could sense his disapproval at the mere thought of coming to a screaming halt in the middle of an intersection to allow me to fondle some yarn, so I waited until he was safely installed at the internet café before pretending not to run downtown. Quite a disappointment in the end. Lots of overpriced acrylic, with the only really nice wool coming from New Zealand.

The next accidental sighting occurred in Corleone, and proved much more fruitful (it was at this stage that Tim started to point out that suitcases only carry so much, and he's the one who has to drag it upstairs). So I limited myself to one 200g ball of orange bulky tweed - a hat I think.

Imagine this scene - we had just disembarked from the overnight train from Palermo, arriving in Rome tired, aching and wanting nothing more than a shower and a lie down. We trudge through the cobbled streets, wearily toting our bags towards the B&B we have booked for the next 5 nights. We ring the bell and wait for Olga, the lovely owner to come and show us in. At which point, I raise my weary head to be greeted by a vision from the gods. Next door to our accommodation is a wool shop. And not just any wool shop - the biggest one I have ever seen. I had unknowingly booked us in to stay next door to the Filati mill shop. Cones and bags filled 4 shopfronts, stacked ceiling high. Some great bargains were available, but I had to avoid some of the lovely, bulkier yarns due to luggage restrictions. The most disappointing part of the shop was the signs everywhere saying "don't touch" - they seem to have missed the point of yarn shopping all together!

Corleone & Palermo

Tim: Mafia.

There, I said it. The town we had driven across Sicily to stay in was Corleone, made famous by Mario Puzo in the 'Godfather'. It was also the real-life birth place of a Mafia supremo, Riina. We arrived a little before sundown, and couldn't believe just how beautiful it was. We had come here for the Mafia museum, which also houses an extensive information and research collection - but for an English guide we would need to wait until tomorrow, so we set about looking at the town. It was really very picturesque, as were so many of the towns we had seen; but this town stood out for the number of old men standing around the town square, seemingly waiting for something to happen, or discussing what had happened just before we arrived. Everyone looked safe, normal and, well, harmless. On the other hand, the main square was overlooked by the largest carabinieri - military police - station I had hitherto seen.

As we walked further we found a wool shop, which Polly was all over. I tried on some hats; the type that I associate with Sicilians but have never actually seen on a Sicilian (i.e. Italy's Akubra) and was assured it looked ok. The cunning shopkeeper had it in a bag and on the counter before I knew what was happening, and when I protested that I was still thinking about it, all he did was put it a more ornate bag. Well, the price was good ...

The next day saw us exploring the old centre of Corleone. I was looking hard
to find something that would distinguish these narrow streets and lanes, walled in by crumbling buildings, from others that had seen. Not yet seeing it, we went and had a look at the Mafia museum. Unfortunately, the English guide was unavailable so we were helped out by a young woman in a yellow jacket who spoke no English at all.

Polly: The Mafia Museum was quite confronting - huge, close-up photographs of real dead bodies - judges, politicians and criminals all featured on the walls, but the pictures of the criminals were of people who weren't lying in blood-soaked puddles outside their homes. The picture that moved me the most wasn't even on the wall - it was leaning between the couch and the wall in the corridor. It was of a small, stereotypical Italian mother, dressed in widow's black. She was crying in anguish and being held back by policemen and other men. She looked to be on a suburban street, probably Palermo. I was struck by her pain, and wondered if she was watching her son be killed or arrested. Then it occurred to me that it made no difference - either way this picture encapsulated a mother's grief. The mafia has caused this woman loss, no matter what her connection.

Tim: The very presence of this centre in the seeming heartland of the Mafia seemed quite brave and gave me lots of hope, and this feeling was increased as we were leaving. Almost the last thing we saw was a plaque commemorating the opening of this centre, and the attendance by both the Prime Minister and President of Italy, and Kofi Annan. At last I realised what was different about Corleone; the people here were the friendliest we'd met yet.


We left and Polly drove us to Palermo, the capital of Sicily. We only had crappy little map with few streets named and we didn't know what street we were on. But eventually we saw some street signs, worked out where we were and arrived a little shaken at the train station. This city driving was a step up from anything we had experienced before and had taken a lot of concentration from both of us. I left our bags here, bought our tickets for the sleeper and bought a decent map as Polly watched the car (parked in a bus zone). All we had to do now was find the car rental place and return the car. To our deep dismay, the car rental place was on the furthest edge of the map, with the tangle of the CBD in between. We agreed an approach, plotted a course, and set out with an hour left before having to pay for another day.

Barely a km in, we came unstuck. Our road became one-way and it wasn't ours, but I had already cleared the intersection. We had no choice but drive in the bus lane, the only one in our direction, following a police car. For a few more blocks we had no option to turn, eventually getting onto a side street. Polly made up another route, but was again (and again) thwarted by one-way streets and rare street signs. Traffic was heavy and slow, and right-of-way was never offered, only seized. A couple of times I cut across 'lanes' of traffic that I thought would never let me in, yet the did without grudge. It came to me that in a place where there are no rules there is an awful lot of accommodation; drivers were almost never pig-headed or obstinate like I see, I am, back home.

We made it, only 5 minutes late and so relieved to be shot of the tiny car with the $100 tank...

A Metro train back to the centre, lunch, then a couple of buses north, then a long walk back to the train station just taking it all in with no time pressures. With sundown here at about 5pm, we've seen the interior of some churches at night and the effect is quite different. The ceilings are lost in gloom with just hints of the frescoes or carvings visible, the columns could almost be holding up the night sky, and the altars are lit with soft yellow light to pull the eye.


I am cajoled into getting a haircut, which is undertaken with extravagant flourishes, and completed with much oil - but I like, even though I am afraid my hat with slide off.

Outside on the street the municipal police are controlling traffic as a siren approaches. We are expecting an ambulance or Carabineri. A 'Guardia di Finanzia' car screams by, and the police drive off. "Did someone bounce a cheque?" says Polly. A mystery.

Night train to Rome, new chapter.

Long drive to the heartland

Tim: The next day - our last at the agritourismo - saw us do almost nothing at all, except a drive to the the local shop for some bread. Polly was also in need of a decent coffee so we drove a short distance to a place called Oil Bar, part service station, part café. I'm told it was better inside than it had any right to be.


The agritourismo had, like all working farms, a couple of dogs. They were quite friendly and we enjoyed their company on walks, but we didn't know their names until we asked. The owner of the place, Pepe, told us both of their names but I forgot the second because I couldn't believe the first. She would come when I called her, but I couldn't get used to calling her 'Al Jazzira'. Why would you ... .


On Tuesday we drove to our next stop, a town in the Sicilian hills, but to get there we needed to put in a five hour drive. The scenery was absolutely spectacular, lush green and beautiful dry-stone walls, high mountains and sandstone towns. We took photos, but next to being there they'll be poor substitutes so we just tried to drink it in. But we learned some things on the way;

* road signs point to the road they mean, not to the direction they mean - a subtle but important distinction. On a straight road, a right arrow to, say, Noto means go straight ahead if it's on the left hand side of the road. Oh, if only we'd known that on day one...

* the main arterial through Southern Sicily, the 115, is sometimes so narrow that it's a single lane through older towns (I mean a single lane shared by both directions)

* you can do anything you like in a car here if you it slow enough or fast enough. Medium speed, you're fucked.

* about 20 to 30 km above the speed limit felt about right on almost all occasions (but we were regularly passed by everyone and derided, no doubt, as driving like nuns).

* from a field of many, many contenders, special awards to the man who blindly reversed across all the lanes of traffic on a perilous hair-pin bend (deities, prophets), and, the person double parked on the wrong side of the road in my lane, blocking in a police car. Your deeds will live on.

Despite all of this, we arrived at our destination in the late afternoon.

Modica and Europe's end

Polly: Next day saw us go for a day trip to Modica. This Baroque town is without doubt the most beautiful place I have ever been. The fact that it was warm and sunny added to the magic. I just don't understand why I haven't heard of this place before - why don't people mention it in the same breath as Pompeii or Sorrento?
Within an hour I had plans for Tim and I running a little B&B, Thomas and Ellen chattering away in Italian, and all of our friends coming to visit and marvel at the amazing place we lived. Found just the place in a Real Estate window late in the afternoon....

The town is on a steep hill in 2 parts; Modica Alta and Modica Bassa, each with their own Cathedral. Four hundred steps separate the two cathedrals, and my legs can still feel every one of them. But the views were amazing, and by early afternoon I had filled my camera's memory card. And my head's.







Modica is known for its chocolate, and there were more chocolate shops than coffee shops. Of course we had to truly experience the culture of the town, so despite our inner protestations, into a choccolateria we went. The local product is very dark and has a grainy texture, as if eating pure, coarsely ground cocoa beans. This is due to the special cooking process, which ensures that the beans are not cooked. It is called cold chocolate and the process is strictly regulated in the town to ensure quality control of one of their tourism staples. The chilli chocolate was a highlight.


Tim: The churches were beautiful and quite different in decoration, one being decorated with wonderful azure highlights and the other being much simpler. It was also the first time that I had the inside of a church explained to me by a Catholic, so I got to appropriate some of the details and symbolism that I might otherwise have missed.



It was getting on towards siesta time here and the shops - those that had bothered to open on this Sunday - were closing up. The siesta was being observed with fanaticism; it was proving very hard to find a place to buy lunch and the main street, at the bottom of the ravine where we had parked the car, was nearly empty. But we caught a place that served delicious savoury pastries before we began the long drive out of the ravine.


Although we were both tired and afraid of driving in the dark we decided to take a detour to the most southerly town in Europe. All part of the adventure. It wasn't all that easy to get to - at least not on the the road we chose - and we spent time on a bad dirt road and parked as farmers loaded a little tractor on a truck. The roads were mainly unsullied by signage, but we got there. One of the amazing sites was an abandoned four storey hotel built in the grand style of a castle, with towers and crenellations, a wide terrace overlooking the sea and a swimming pool filled with broken chairs and stagnant water. It would have been so beautiful before ...what? Before you found you had to get here on farm tracks? It was a perfect folly, I think. I found a way in and had a poke round before the falling light made us push on, to the town's most southerly point, its fishing harbour; we watched the end of the day at the end of Europe.

Market day

Tim: The next day we learned of a market back in Siracusa, which was only about 15 minutes away (I say 'about' because we never seemed to drive from our place to the highway in the same way twice). It was also a test as it was my first driving in a city. We parked down at the docks, bought parking tickets from an old lady under a faded umbrella, and wandered through the market. This was principally fruit and fish in stalls and some cheese merchants, all on the sides of the road. Polly saw a guy playing a violin, and took a photo; he stopped playing and asked for a Euro.










It was a lovely sunny day, although not too warm so we ate lunch near the ruins of the Temple of Apollo and bought out first gelatis of the trip. We could still hear the hubbub coming from the market, and the sound of the violin floating over it all. It was very nice, and not for the first time did we reflect how lucky we were to be here, and here together; sitting in the sun, in front of an ancient ruin, on holidays, money in our pocket, food in our bellies on the other side of the world. Polly went to a toilet but the light was out; violin-man helpfully serenaded her through the open door.

After, we looked through the old town. Everywhere you looked it was so picturesque; narrow, twisting streets as wide as a horse and cart lined with beautiful old buildings with crumbling facades and rusted balconies. But inside, the shops are usually very well maintained and white painted. I can only imagine that the facades are deliberately kept that way.


As we re-approached the market, though, there was obviously something happening; people were stopped in the street, looking out of windows, and a man behind us was shouting something. We crossed the road to get away from shouting man but kept approaching, now hearing shouts and cries from the centre of the gathering crowd. There we saw two men struggling with each other, one highly distressed. It seemed as if the other man had driven his little truck through a market stall; there were trestles and wooden boxes and fruit strewn all around. The stall owner, with tears of rage, picked up a block of stone and pitched it through the windscreen of tne truck before he could be restrained. We both wanted to see what happened next, but could sense that outsiders wouldn't be welcome; we discreetly turned away, collected the car and returned home.

Sicily - more

Tim: And so more of our time in Sicily. We've tried to take things as easy as possible, with one of the days involving a trip to a local lighthouse and some shopping. Since we are in a place where we can do our own cooking we thought we might economise by, well, doing just that. Shopping in foreign climes is always interesting for the things they have and don't have. For instance, in the alimentari we went to they only had two sorts of breakfast cereals, and one looked pretty plain so I got the other. Milk was also hard to find - but you should have seen the shelves of pasta... we got a number 87, a type I had never seen before. They also had the type strozzapretti which translates as 'strangled priests'.



The next day, a closer look at my breakfast cereal revealed why they had so few types on the shelf; with a wholesome mix of corn flakes, wheatflakes, bran and coco-pops, this one had all the bases covered! Ingenious! Hats off to the master ceral-craftsmen of Italy!



We drove to Noto, as we had read that it had a beautiful Old Town. We drove through but couldn't see anything very interesting, but then followed a sign to Noto Antica - Old Noto - which turned out to be a distance away and something different; a ruined castle and other meager signs of habitation back 2000 years or so. But there was no information to be had here except for the initial sign so after walking through the castle we left not having got a lot from the site.

We drove the 10km back to Noto determined to visit the cathedral that we could see from a distance. But as we got closer and the roads narrowed and twisted, and split-second navigation decisions were made based on which action was likely to give us the best chance of not going under the wheels of a truck, we lost sight of the cathedral, only to have it appear in the rear-view mirror as we were on the outskirts of town. Another attempt ensued with a similarly frystrating result. See, we were making the classic mistake, forgivable to travellers from a young country where the words 'city' and 'planning' sometimes appeared next to each other in sentances. Here, the narrowness or twistiness of a road doesn't bear on the

importance of a road. Had we taken a particular steep and twisted 'street' (paved donkey-path) like many other cars, we would have been right there. But we didn't. Finally we got within a km or so of the cathedral, so we hoofed it, only to find it at the bottom of the hill we were on, and, it turned out, closed for reconstruction; apparently a thunderstorm had caused the roof to cave in several years ago. It was only cakes and lunch that restored us for the long ascent back to the car, and the drive home.

Polly: I know we are on an island right - so I understand that seafood will feature as a regular on the menu. But some places we have been have only offered one or two non-seafood choices. I feel a bit like a vegetarian, being placated by some pasta and a jar of sauce. Thank God for the coffee.