We departed Isola Marettimo bright and early with the only witness a lone inquisitive fisherman who chugged past our anchored boat just after sunrise. The day was hazy and not a breath of wind, the prior days point-to-point sail was not to be repeated! The haze grew worse as the day wore on and with the still water it became difficult to distinguish sky from sea. Looking at the weather chart, we were right in the middle of a small local low pressure system - all around us winds were revolving, but here in the middle not a breath was stirring. We were about halfway through our crossing when the moon rose, the light perfectly mirrored in the flat sea, unfortunately the haze meant we couldn't see the stars. Around this time we picked up some "refugees" - birds caught out in the middle of nowhere decended on our boat to rest. A small sparrow initially rested on the jib sheet, but kept sliding down towards the blocks, so finally settled on puffing up his feathers and tucking his head under a tiny wing on the starboard deck sheltered by the overhang from the coachroof.
When dawn slowly overtook us we were making our way into the Golfo di Cagliari with the lighthouse of Cabo Carbonara happily blinking away on our starboard side. In the light of day it turned out we had three birds aboard, and I threw out some sesame seeds for them to munch on, but they didn't hang around for long and after a few pecks at the seeds the left us a few "presents" on the deck and took to wing.
It seemed an awfully long time to finally make the harbour entrance into Cagliari, the haze obscuring the city until we were virtually on top of it. We tied up the boat into a small and very friendly marina on the very south side of the harbour and immediately hit the hay after our overnight trek. In the evening we walked about 20 mins into the old part of town looking for a great meal to match the fantastic food we had when we cruised through northern Sardinia on our way to Rome. We ended up in a quaint Hosteria filled with locals (a good sign) and enjoyed some local specialities before returning home to "Pause" still tired from our trip from Sicily.
We had hoped to get some provisions in Cagliari, the capital of Sardinia and the largest city on the island, but the facilities were elusive: The supermarket was at the far end of town, the post office was on the other side of the harbour, the gas stores had no butane (for cooking) and the fuel dock nearby was for commercial boats only, and we were unable to locate the other one despite motoring around the harbour for half an hour. We threw the towel in on reprovisioning and departed around noon heading for an anchorage a few hours away. The wind had other ideas though, sitting squarely on our nose and growing in strength and slowing our progress to a crawl. Throwing the towel in for the second time that day, we opted for a sheltered bay at Cabo di Pula, and anchored up just off a picturesque beach in clear aquamarine water. The next morning, while enjoying our morning coffee and oatmeal, we watched a bus load of tourists arrive to view the ruins of an old Roman town situated on the point overlooking our bay. From our anchorage we could clearly see the toppled stone walls and stunted pillars still standing.
We motored all day with the wind yet again in our face (we actually headed south, west and finally north only to have the wind follow us around, blowing 10 knots in our face whatever direction we chose). We docked at the quay in Sant Antioco, where we were kept company by a rusting freighter named "Celtic Pride" who sported a Welsh Dragon on her funnel. This was the first "commercial" quay we had pulled into, and the first place the Coast Guard actually wanted to see our papers. Two uniformed coast guard officers, watched us coming in alongside and kindly helped us with our lines. I don't think many cruising boats visit this town, with nearby Calasetta and Carloforte having proper marinas, so the coast guard chaps were making the most of our visit. After checking and copying the boat papers and passports, the officers entertained themselves by asking about our trip and what we did. They were impressed that we had crossed the Atlantic and had been cruising Italy by ourselves for a few months. They also thought that it was hilarious that we used to work on Wall Street, making chopping and strangling motions with their hands as well as enquiring whether I used to work at Lehman Brothers, and then googling Credit Suisse to check if that was still afloat when I told them that was my previous employer. When I asked for a place that sold Butane, they launched on a crusade calling every gas supplier in town and proudly proclaiming they had "an Inglese" who needed gas. While waiting for the various stores to check their inventory, the senior officer suddenly declared that "you look like the actor in ghost." This guy clearly insane, I thought, either that or not only was the movie dubbed into Italian, but Patrick Swayze was replaced by a Latin imposter. "No, no, no Swayze," said my new friend, "the Bad Guy," and proceeded to google a picture of Tony Goldwyn (who played "Carl") and then call all his subordinates into the office for a comparison. "He was a broker too" joked the Captain. What humour. After a few more phone calls and laughs the group finally let me get back to the boat, and Kendra, who was convinced by this time that I had been detained by the authorities.
Despite being a small town, Sant Antioco had easy access to everything we were unable to find in Cagliari. We took our dinghy to another quay in the center of town, where two supermarkets, three fish-mongers and store that stock butane rubbed shoulders with each other. The post office was an easy stroll up the main street and we ducked into an enoteca (wine shop) to replinish supplies and buy a few gifts (guess what your Christmas present will be). We then checked out with the Coast Guard and cast off our lines and set out for the relatively short hop to Calasetta which would be our jumping off point to the Balearic Islands.
We anchored in a deserted bay for lunch, and the weather was nice enough for a quick, but bracing, dip in the clear water. We arrived in Calasetta just before the sun was setting on saturday evening. There was plenty of space in the marina, but no one to take our lines. A couple of phone calls and hailing on the VHF produced no results, we were about to come up with an improvised plan when, as if by magic, a dock hand appeared from nowhere and took our lines before disappearing as quickly as he arrived. The town, even though it was saturday night, was deserted, we caught the local products store just before it closed and bought a couple of last keepsakes from Sardinia (basically more wine) and had a very quick stroll around the very small town finding out that the lone ATM wasn't working and the next one was a bus ride away. That night we celebrated our last night in the country by cooking pasta with shrimpsj modifying the recipie that Oliver, from Amalfi, had given us. It was superb and a great way to close out our incredible time that we had in Italy.

We departed Palermo on Sunday morning for the full day run to Trapani, on the NW end of Sicily. There are a couple of different jumping off points from Sicily to Sardinia, the most usual is Capo San Vito, which has the advantage of being the most northerly. We wanted to see a bit more of the country though, and had elected to go the most westerly, and visit Trapani and then see some of the Egadi islands that lie off the western coast.
Since we left Messina a week before, we had enjoyed great weather with the last of the summer brining warm, bright, sunshine during the days, but cool evenings and nights. Our decision to come south was looking good in the sun tan department. In addition to the sunshine, we had a nice NE breeze at our backs which kicked up about lunchtime, and we motored, sailed and motor-sailed our way past Mount Pellegrino and across the beautiful Golfo di Castelmare paralleling the train journey we had taken the day before. Passing the spectacular Capo San Vito we moved into new territory and toward Trapani.
Trapani is a working town, previously it had been an important tuna processing and canning place, but that business has fallen on tough times in the med. Prior to this, sea salt, from the nearby salt flats provided income and exports, and now this industry seems to be in a bit of revival with traditional methods of manufacture. In antiquity, the sheltered port had been the harbour for geek Erice, which lay up in the hills and can be reached by cable car.
We arrived very late, as we had to stop and do a bit of diving to free up some random line that became entagled in both propellers. We were lucky and managed to find a space on one of the transient docks in the inner harbour. The dock staff had long gone home, but a group of German charter boat sailors helped us with our lines. I take everything back I said about the Germans. The Italian lady and gentleman owners of the boat next to us, "Veronica," were exceptionally kind and lent us their key for the dock yard gates instructing us (in Italian) to leave the key back on their boat when we departed.
I had hoped to look around town a little more, but with our late arrival that evening we had only time to grab a dinner and retire for the evening. We tried finding both of the restaurants recommended in our faithful guidebook, only to find one of them had gone out of business and the other was closed for the day (or possibly the season). Strike One and Strike Two - things are looking sketchy for the DK guide book after a flawless seven innings!
The next day the marina staff showed up, not at all suprised to find a new boat at their dock. The boss shrugged his shoulders and levied a steep charge, which took my breath away, this was the most expensive dock we had found in Sicily - and in a town that was supposed to be at the economical end of the scale. Fortunately it was just for the night!
We did some shopping in town for fresh goods and bread and perused the marina shops for a short while, before leaving just after lunchtime. By this time the wind had picked up nicely and we were treated to a nice sail to Marettimo, the western most of the Egadi islands. It was actually the first ever Point A to Point B uninterrupted sailing we had done since we have owned the boat - a testament to the fickle wind conditions in the Med.
The majority of Marettimo is uninhabitted and the surrounding waters are a marine reserve. We made for Cala Cretazzo on the SW end of the island, where there is supposed to be a mooring field. We arrived to find nothing. Either the field is seasonal, or someone pocketed the money for the mooring bouys and didn't bother putting them down. We didn't have a choice, but feeling somewhat guilty for anchoring in a marine reserve, put down the pick after circling around and finding a number of rocks not market on the chart. The location could not have been more beatiful and solitary. A full moon rose over the island and lit up the landscape and waters around us. Grilled fish and "House" on the DVD player was a great way to spend our last evening in Sicily. Tomorrow the long hop to the southern end of Sardegna!

Appologies to Charles.
After departing mosquito ridden Milazzo our first port of call was Cefalu. I had fancied visiting Cefalu since my purchase of the "Italian Waters Pilot" whose front cover sports a small photo of the Rocca (I guess the Sicilian equivalent to Gibraltar minus the Brits) which looms over the town and harbour. We arrived just before dark after a full day of motorsailing along the coast with a steadily building breeze pushing us nicely along, but building a fair bit of waves in the process. The new harbour was a bit exposed and since we wanted to spend a day exploring the town we elected to tie up at the dock rather than anchor nearby. An old guy riding a beat up Vespa scooter waved us onto the pontoon opposite the Coastguard and helped us with the mooring lines. We turned off the engines and sat out on the trampolines to watch the other boats come in to the spaces. An Italian family, sailing a small monohull, made it look easy and unhurried. The next boat, a charter monohull, crewed by six German guys (they had a flag up) steamed in nearly hitting us and using their next door neighbours as a fender. Much yelling in both Italian (from the same old guy who helped us in) and German (from the crew) immediately drew a dozen spectators looking for splintered fibreglass and people in the water. However the docking was completed without further incident and the onlookers soon went back to stowing fishing nets, or coiling lines.
The next day dawned sunny, with a clear blue sky and after checking the boat again for mosquitos we walked into town. Cefalu, like many of the places we visited, constists of an older town (in this case very old, with part of the sea walls dating from the megalithic period) arranged around a (in this case empty) fishing harbour, with a newer town spread out nearby. The layout of the historic center dates from medieval times, with previous building either being incorporated into it, built over or just plain torn down and used for building material. The narrow streets are paved with large oblong blocks and lined with houses three or four stories high with little balconies and lines of washing hanging from them. Cefalu has a good selection of churches, with the oversized Norman cathedral, dating from 1131, dominating the main piazza and providing an unmistakable landmark from the sea. Other, newer, baroque churches are dotted around the streets in various states of repair. Not only that, as we have seen in many Italian villages and towns, random street corners and wall niches will frequently have a small icon; a painting, or a photo or a statuette, of the Virgin Mary or the Crucifix, with flowers or candles adorning it. Quite a Catholic smorgesboard.
We had coffee in the Piazza Duomo while watching a wedding party get ready for the ceremony in the Cathedral. Then wandered the streets seeing the orginal gothic "water gate" and the old public laundry, where fresh water springs feed into a series of troughs so peasants could scrub their washing. This was in use until only a few years back - I know that Italy is a bit of a third world country, but its a bit of a stretch imagining this happening in the NY - a bunch of people scrubbing their designer jeans in the storm drains off canal steet - not! The Museum Mandralisca, largely the collection of the late Baron of Mandralisca in the 19th century was an interesting window into life gone by and important Sicilian art work. After lunch we saw another wedding underway (Brits and Americans this time) in one of the ornate Baroque churches and managed to see inside after the ceremony was finished. A lightening quick hike up the Rocca to see the ruined fortifications hiding amongst the pear cactuses and the old (9th century BC) greek Temple of Diana (not to be confused with the late lady Diana), completed our tour of this charming little town. Definitely one of our favourites. That evening we enjoyed dinner in a little trattoria specialising in Sicilian cuisine (although they were supposed to have a Spanish theme night on wednesdays). Their linguine pasta with porcini mushrooms was to die for!
The next morning, Thursday, we set off for the relatively short ride to Palermo, the self-styled "Pearl of the Mediterranean" and the seat of the Sicilian Regional Assembly. Palermo is a big city, the fifth largest in Italy (go on - name four others) with a large industrial port next door to the commercial harbour, full of cruise and ferry boats. We found a space on the edge of "The Cala", with a full view of the old part of town, which was very close. We were wedged in between a beat up rusting tramp steamer cheerfully painted blood red and named "Rosanna" and the leisure yachts owned by Palermos yachties. After a late afternoon of lazing around in the sunshine, drinking the last of the ginger ale (tragedy) with Bermuda Black Seal Rum (a Dark n' Stormy for those of you who can't remember the Bermuda blog), we took the looong walk all the way around the commercial docks and down into the old part of town for dinner in a sushi (!) restaurant. This was the first sushi we've seen since May - so give us a break. Two things became quickly apparant on the walk: One, its a bloody long way all around the docks, to what amounts to a few hundred yards as the crow flies, and, two, Palermo probably holds the title for "Dirtiest City 2008." That's a bit unfair actually, its not third world dirty. The denizens of Bangkok, Manila and Jakarta don't have worry about a new contender snatching the global filth title from them. In the dark, we walked down the main seafront road, Via Calla, and in parts the sidewalks were covered in trash, rotting fruit, dog fecces, and broken glass. Walls were adorned with grafitti (Italian and English) and the gutters were full of thousands of cigarette butts. The small parks we passed were dark, unkempt places smelling of stale urine. Beggars staked out street corners and entrances to coffee shops, sometimes prostrating themselves on the filthy pavement. In the old quarter, where nice restaurants lure in tourists and locals alike, the streets were cleaner, but still grubby, and buildings were in an incredible state of disrepair, with frazzled electrical wiring sagging from poles and walls, and patches of plaster were broken away exposing brick, and windows were either, dirty, broken or barred up (or all three). We were not impressed. Dinner wasn't great either, having been spoiled with the availability, quality and prices of sushi in NYC it was tough to think of Hanami in a favourable light. Eur 12 for a simple, mediocre, California roll isn't going to inspire. Nobu need not worry. Needless to say, we sprung the cash for a taxi back to the boat! When the taxi dropped us off we were greeting enthusiatically by one of the boat yard dogs, who we will call "Prego." Prego had tufted, shaggy, black / brown hair, floppy ears and plenty of fleas and scars. He happily relieved us of our leftover mortadella but turned his nose up at a bowl of water. Fortunately, he didn't follow us onto the boat, despite Kendras best efforts to encourage him.
The following day, armed with our guidebook, we set out to see the historic sights of the city. The shock value of the dirt had decreased somewhat, and the appearance of the main pedestrian streets of Via Roma and Corso Vittorio Emanuele were signficantly nicer and nicer than the road we had walked the previous night.
By daylight the buildings were amazing, a testament to the wealth and sophistication of prior centuries. However, many structures were simply falling down through a combination of age, and lack of proper maintenance. Everywhere there were signs of rennovations underway, but for every scaffolding where workers were restoring some faded house, ten more languished with shutter windows and broken roof tiles. We took in the newly restored Teatro Massimo, then the spectacular Cathedral (another Norman construction that incorporated the mosque that previosly occupied the site), but the real gem was the Capella Palatina, the chapel in the Norman Palace, another building by Roger II in 1132. The entire interior, walls, ceiling and arches were completely covered with golden mosaics of Christ and other biblical personages. The detail, scale, age and quality of preservation was breathtaking. I enjoyed it as much, if not more, than the Sistene Chapel in the Vatican. By this time we were ready to forgive Palermo for the dirt and grime and recognise the city for the faded jewel it once was. Lastly we took a visit past the Mercato della Vucciria, a large open air market where fresh fish, meats and vegetables compete with newspapers and clothing stalls for your attention. We stocked up on vegetables, nuts (which are strangely expensive in the Med), and grabbed a sausage in case Prego was to make another appearance. That evening, Prego failed to cash in on his good fortune and we ate on the boat while getting ready for a trip to see the greek ruins at Segesta the following day. The incredibly kind marina owner gave us a lift in his car to the train station and we caught a tiny, two car, train for the 2hr ride to Segestra Tempio (no prizes for guessing there is a temple there). According to legend Segesta was founded by exiles from Troy and our guide book devotes a whole page to the ruins, both the Temple and the Theatre which are very well preserved and date to around the 3rd century BC. I was expecting a very busy train station, over run by tourist groups enroute to the sights. So, I was a bit non-plussed to find a tiny platform, where the station itself had been converted into a bar / restaurant. A couple of grubby looking backpackers got off with us and disappeared up the road with a purposeful stride. After the train departed the only sound was the bleating of sheep and the clank of a goat bell. No tourists and more importantly no taxis and no buses. We went inside the bar and Kendra batted her eyes at the young manager who quickly agreed to drive us up to the ruins for a small fee. I can't imagine this happening in either the UK or the US. We passed the sweating backpackers about a third of the way up the hill.
The ruins are a postcard brought to life. The temple is very large and all the doric columns are still standing and intact. Unlike many other monuments we went to through Italy, there was no crush of tourists being shepherded around by guides and no ropes cordoning off the "interesting" bits. Aside from myself and Kendra there were a handfull of others and we walked through the pillars unsupervised. The temple stands alone, with no other buildings close by, and the only sounds we could hear were of farm machinery in the distance. It was quite a spiritual moment; you could feel the age of the stones and the obvious effort and (no pun) sacrifice that it must have required to construct such an edifice. The greek theatre was equally impressive, but in a different way. I was more impressed with this site than the more famous location at Taormina we had visited earlier in the week. Sure Taormina has a view of Mount Etna, but it is also in a much worse state of repair, it is also extremely crowded, with tourists clambering over the site like a group of ADD children simultaneously let loose in a playground. At Segesta a good portion of the original seats are intact and the vista of the rolling hills and the sea in the distance is very tranquil.
That evening a new four legged friend made an appearance at the boat, scoffed our sausages and then without so much as a wagging tail disappeared again. Tomorrow we are due for an early start of our trip back to Sardinia with two stops at the NW tip of Sicily: Trapani and the Egadi Islands.

OK, so a bit of an over dramatization with the title. Maybe more appropriate would be "M" is for "Messina," "Milazzo," and "Mosquito." We visited the two former places, and the later visited us in spades.
Our trip to Messina, from Salina, was uneventful. I had been expecting more from the legendary Straits of Messina, the location of the mythical Scilla and Charybids. Apparantly there used to be great whirlpools in the straits, but a large earthquake in the late 1700s changed the topography of the seabed and tamed the beasts. I could also imagine our passage, in 10-12 knots of breeze and spots of rain, could have been much more "exciting" with an Autumn gale kicking the strong current into nasty waves.
We stayed in Marina Nettuno, immediately north of the commercial harbour where scores of ferries make the crossing to the mainland and cruise ships come to dock and disgorge battalions of tourists armed with maps and cameras. Nettuno is right in the middle of the city, opposite the Governors Palace which is fronted by a fountain of Neptune himself wielding a trident and commanding the waters to flow. This pagan statue stares out across the waterfront to the harbour entrance where a huge statue of The Virgin Mary, mounted on a tall column stands guard - complete with her own blue neon halo at night time. Clearly the residents of Messina are taking no chances with their deities when it comes to the fickle sea.
On our arrival, we walked down the main street towards the Duomo and botanical gardens, ducking into a little restaurant for dinner as it started to pour down with rain. The feel of being in a big city was an unexpected surprise. Messina was largely destroyed by an earthquake and tidal wave in 1908 and bombing during the war finished the job. The new city that has grown up in its place is all wide boulevards, straight streets and wide pavements: A complete contrast to everywhere else we had visited in Italy. Also, in contrast to most of the places we had been, and despite the volume of tourists that pass through on trains, cars and ferries, this town was almost free of tourist shops. No spinning racks of postcards or baskets of dodgy ceramics lined the sidewalks. I didn't see any shops selling T shirts and sweats with the ubiqtuous "Italia" printed on the front. No placards advertising guided tours of ruins, mountains or wineries were in evidence either.
We had chosen Messina to stay so we could visit some of the eastern coast of Sicily before heading west again. We took a bus to the historic tourist town of Taormina, about 50km south along the coast. The bus ride was alone worth the trip, rambling through suburbs of Messina and then a series of small sea-side towns crowded in between the beach and the autostrada. Trucks selling fruits and vegetables were parked alongside the road, with mouth watering selections of local Sicilian produce on display. Melons, peaches and pomegranates vied for space with fresh cauliflower, aubergines and peppers. We started discussing what we would stock the refrigerators with.
Taormina is a famous vacation spot, having the feel of Capri, but without the designer boutiques and megayachts in the harbour. It sits up on a deceptively high plateau with a fabulous view over the Ionian sea and the mainland in the distance. The greeks, who founded their first colonies in Sicily along this stretch of coastline, took full advantage of the natural beauty building their outdoor theatre with a vista of the water and Mount Etna. It must have been intimidating being an actor with that as the stage backdrop! We ate in a wonderful little restaurant, sitting outside under the spreading branches of large wisteria. We weren't the first to discover this place, the walls of the restaurant were lined with famous actors and celebrities taken with either the owner (who looks incredibly like Kendras uncle Paul) or one of the inanely grinning waiters.
After lunch we wandered the town, perusing enotecas (wine shops) and ceramic shops. Unfortunately most of the ceramics were identical to those we had seen in many other places: Amalfi, Ravello, Tropea and now Taormina. I get the impression that some of these pieces might have been "hand crafted" in Shenzen as opposed to Sicily. We arrived at the greek theatre about 5 mins after it closed at 5.30pm for the evening. Hordes of disappointed tourists looked in confusion at their guide books which showed a 6pm closing time. The security guards and guides just shrugged, there must have been a football game about to start. We took the opportunity to have an early dinner (same restaurant - gotta stick with the winners) and returned to Messina. The next day showed deteriorating weather conditions, with strong westerly winds and rain expected. We made sure that "Pause" was well secured in the marina and decided to return to Taormina by train and see the greek theatre that we had been denied yesterday. The alternatives of Syracusa was too far and Catania looked of marginal interest. The train ride was fast and soon we were traipsing around the ruined theatre with about a hundred other American tourists being herded around by their Italian guides like cattle. The forecast wind soon arrived, gusting around the elevated town like a banshee, blowing maps, t-shirts and napkins around in small whirlwinds. We tried to enjoy a late afternoon coffee on the terrace of the "Wunderbar" (oh, how orignal, the owner must have really racked his brains for that one), but when the wind was strong enough to blow away not only the clipped down table cloths, but also small cups and saucers, we gave up and retreated to Messina and "Pause." That night came the first attack of the mosquitos. I have no idea where they came from, as the winds outside were well beyond the flight capability of anything with delicate wings. But all the same, Kendra woke up with 7 or 8 bites on any part of exposed skin. This triggered a witch hunt around the boat with a rolled up magazine and an evil glint in my eye.
For our last day in Messina, we had planned to raid the giant supermarket "Conad", not far from the marina, but discovered that everything was closed in Sunday. Not a surprise for our British readers, where the only thing open on Sundays are churches and garden centers, but so far we had not come across anywhere else in Italy anyone taking rest on the Sabbath - rather they take 2-3 hours every afternoon in the form of a siesta. Supermarkets denied to us, we decided on a late afternoon tour of the Duomo and the botanical gardens. We made it as far as the Theatre where we discovered there was to be a symphony (Berlioz' Symphony Fantastique) performed by the Messina Philharmonic that evening. We quickly returned to the boat and put on theatre-worthy clothing (my flip-flops and jeans garned disapproving glances from the little old dears at the ticket office) and returned to find the place teaming with season ticket holders jostling each other in line. On seeing our return, the ladies waved away Kendras preoffered Euros and printed out two complimentary tickets for us. Amazing - it must have been the tie that I was wearing.
The interior of the theatre was surprisingly small, and we were happy to find two excellent seats with good view of the orchestra. The ceiling of the auditorium was painted with a large mural. Had Michalagelo not been employed by a Pope and had dropped acid, he might have painted a scene of a naked man diving into a sea populated by all manner of sea creatures while being watched by half a dozen very shapely, and equally naked, mermaids. But he didn't - its a shame really.
The performance was entertaining, and afterwards we headed back to the boat for dinner and an early night. Mosquito attack number two came at sometime between 2am and 6am, again targetting a very unamused Kendra. Cue the second witch-hunt which yielded a solitary victim.
We set off for Milazzo, on the northern coast, after refueling at the inappropriately named "Paradiso" station. We arrived fairly early, around 2pm, and remembering the hideous expense of Marina Nettuno in Messina, declined to moor at its sister marina in here, instead choosing a floating pontoon under the hill which was dominated by a partially ruined castle personally designed by King Frederick II in 1239.
We took a hike up the hill in the late afternoon, and it was my turn to be eaten alive by the local mosquito population. Kendra, now the expert (thanks wikipedia) on mosquitos took some pervese delight in explaining the different types of illnesses that each species carried. Milazzo was fairly functional town with a postcard worthy castle and cathedral as well as some very picturesque (although very run-down) churches. There has definitely been some money poured into rennovating streets and houses (probably EU tax payers money), and numerous restaurants and hotels dot the hillside, but the view across the bay yields a huge industrial complex that would make the terminal on Southampton Water blush with shame. Unfortunately this is likely to keep a lid on the attractiveness of the town for future development. On the plus side - at least the locals won't have to put up with roving gangs of American tourists loudly complaining about the strength of the dollar and their pasta being undercooked.
Our next stop on the coast will be Cefalu and then the big city of Palermo.

Our crossing from Tropea was smooth and swift. A favourable current, water rushing south through the Straits of Messina, added nearly a knot to our speed. The day was thankfully warm, but a little close with the thundershowers that heralded our arrival into Tropea two days earlier still in evidence. Gigantic formations of clouds hovered above the land dwarfing the substantial mountain ranges below them. On the water, we were in the clear though, and the Aeolian Islands soon came into view: Stromboli, first, letting of small puffs of steam and vapour; far off on our starboard beam and then Salina, Lipari and Vulcano appearing directly ahead of us and finally smaller Paneara, on the starboard beam and then droppimg astern. Dolphins joined us, with about half a dozen playing in front of the boat by the bow wave. I managed to get a short video which I will do my best to post at some date in the future. The water here is fantastically clear and, even on a cloudy days, blue and inviting.
According to myth, the Aeolian Islands got their name from Aeolus, the Greek god of winds, who gave Ulysses contrary winds tied up in a bag. Around these islands the crew, hoping to find treasure, opened the bag and released the winds which still gust around the islands.
Our first destination is Lipari, the largest of the islands, one of the oldest settlements in the Med and home to a museum containing archeological finds on and in the waters surrounding the islands.
We arrive in the late afternoon and are waved into a berth in Porto Pignataro by three "marina" attendants in a small dinghy. We chill out of the boat that evening, cooking up some chicken and sun-dried tomato washed down with some local "Messina" beer. The next day we dinghy over to explore the museum and the town. Even late in the season, Lipari is bustling with tourists arriving by ferry from Sicily and the mainland. There are also lots of charter boats docked at the small floating pontoons on the town beach. We make our way up the main street spotting important locations such as the butcher, baker, fruit shop and, holy cow, a decent sized supermarket!! Walking past the ferry terminal, where gangs of Italians were loudly bargaining with groups of tourists for guided tours of the islands volcanos, we (and when I say "we" I mean "Kendra") made friends with a little dog we dubbed "Ponza". To say that Lipari has a lot of dogs wandering the street is an understatement. There is obviously no Chinese restaurant in town (think about it), and dogs are everywhere: Lolling around on the sidewalks, unconcerned as people step over and around them, begging with needy eyes around outdoor cafes, hoping for a scrap or two, or dashing between the cars on the street while following seemingly random people. Anyhow, "we" made the mistake of showing Ponza a little attention and he obligingly followed us around town - waiting outside shops as we went inside, crossing the street on our heels. Whenever we thought he had been shaken off the trail he would appear from around a corner or from behind a group of backpackers his little tail wagging and eyes pleading for a few more scratches behind the ears (or maybe a big fat steak), where upon "we" would cry "Ponza!!" and a very short discussion about dognapping (sorry, I meant "saving" the dog) would then take place.
Eventually we managed to ditch our shadow in the supermarket by the cunning trick of leaving through a different exit. After this escape, we had a late breakfast in a cafe before making the short climb up to the Museum. Along the way we spotted a beat up barber shop with the old, grizzled, owner standing outside. On seeing my unruly mop of hair (it hadn't been cut since Judy gave it the chop in West Palm before our departure in May) he waved at us across the street, beckoning us inside. This was an offer too good to refuse, and within a couple of minutes I was sitting in an old beat up barber chair inside the very dilapidated "salon." A couple of young workers were busy trying to fix the gas supply, and the barber would alternate between a few clips of my hair, and a rapid fire discussion with the workers. When Kendra pulled out her cell phone to take a few pictures, the scissors were downed, and he made both of us pose for a photo, as well as beaming toothlessly into the lens for Kendra. The walls had a few old faded pictures, ripped from some version of "GQ," of young italian guys with the same short spiky hair. On the back wall, however, were pictures of the owner and his victims, I mean customers. The largest picture was a fabulous one of our new friend, taken some 30 years ago where he was sporting a fuzzy moustache and hair well down over his ears. He looked like a struggling Hollywood "B" movie actor from the 70s (if you know what I mean).
That evening, sporting my new haircut, we wanted to try a restaurant in Pianoconte, a town on the other side of the island and halfway up the side of the very steep hill. The young taxi driver knew the place and took off up the narrow winding roads at a serious pace as night fell. Flashbacks of the mountain drive up to Deia, in Majorca, came back to me as Kendra repeatedly asked "what's Italian for slow-down?" The driver gave us his card telling us to call for the return trip and we went inside. We were a little disappointed to discover the garden terrace had been booked for a private party, and sat down in the inside section. Freakishly there were no other customers, so we received personal attention from the non-English speaking chef who figured it was easier to communicate directly with us rather than through the non-English speaking waiter. Much hand wringing, gesturing and pointing later, we were happily fed and had the waiter call the taxi for us.
When the cab turned up, it was an elderly lady who explained that the young man was her son, and he was now watching football (soccer for the ignorant few readers), so she would drive us back - in the family car no less. Kendra, worried about the downhill switchbacks on the way home, breathed a sigh of relief expecting respite from the youth and testosterone fueled drive up the hill. This was a misplaced expectation, and it soon became clear that the "need for speed" was a family trait, and young "Fabio" was only following in his mums footsteps. Boosted by gravity, the downhill run only took a few minutes and spectacular vistas of the harbour, mountainsides and distant Sicily flashed by in a squeal of tires as the car lurched around the bends. As we passed through town, I could have sworn I saw "Ponza" sitting on the roadside watching us fly by.
The next morning I grabbed some chicken breast (cut from a freshly plucked bird in front of me) and some swordfish steaks from a bloke selling it out of the back of a van (seriously), before we headed south to the next island over.
Vulcano Island (not to be confused with the Brazilian thrash metal band of the same name) was believed by the Romans to be the chimney from the forge in the god Vulcanus' workshop (also said of Etna as well - guess it could be a big workshop). It certainly looked the part; with sulphurous steam steadily rising from vents near the crater, lending a eirie quality to a landscape comprising of blasted rocks interspersed with flows of mud and clay. We moored up in Porto Leconte on the very bouncy floating dock and made lunch while watching a small fleet of charter boats, crewed by loud Germans and Croats, docked nearby.
We had come to hike Vulcano, and that afternoon, fueled by ice cream, we set off up the well worn trail to the top. The view from the crater rim is fantastic and an entrance to another world - the top third of the hill is devoid of plant life and the fumes belch from the earth alongside the trail. Yellow sulfur deposits add colour to the scene and the little specks of other hikers on the crater rim opposite us lend a sense of scale. This has to be a top 5, if not top 3, experience on the trip. At the end of the hike we looked at the mud-baths, that were crowded with people smearing mud on every exposed body part. It looked like fun, if you think that fun is being gassed by the smell of a thousand rotten eggs while trading bacteria with the teeny-weeny clad, fat, stranger next to you.
The next day we headed off to Salina island, the second largest of the island group and a place where I hoped to get hold of some Malvasia, a sweet desert wine made on the islands. The distance was short, so we hoisted our sails and crept along at 2-3 knots in the very light breeze while sitting on the trampolines on the bow and watching the land inch by. We anchored up for lunch in a small, deep, cove occupied by another Lagoon 420 owned by a french couple. The owner was buzzing around in his dinghy and came over to trade the obligatory greetings and compliments. We got the thumbs up when he learned we had crossed the Atlantic and had been sailing around by ourselves.
We arrived in Salina in the late afternoon and docked on the town quay surrounded by charter boats crewed mainly by Swiss and Germans - it turned out that this was a four day work week in Germany and everyone was off on vacation. I was a little confused, as I thought every week was a four day week in Germany. Heading into town at dusk (it is starting to get dark early now, around 6.30-7pm) we were suprised to find all the stores closed or closing. So no Malvasia for us, and if anyone reading this was hoping for a bottle as a gift, now you know why we are showing up empty handed. The restaurants were all fairly busy with the harbour full of boats, so I still don't understand why this little place seemed to be the only town we had come across so far that wasn't open late - maybe the end of the season was already in effect.
Tomorrow we leave for Sicily and pastures anew!

The endless summer is looking like its in serious jeapordy: Low grey clouds scud overhead the marina in Salerno and gusts of 20-25 knots whip off the mountains bearing cold rain. I could close my eyes and easily imagine being in the Solent. It is defintely time to head south, away from the cold wind and weather that gets swept down from frigid northern countries and towards the warmth of Africa where palm trees sway, the water is blue and you can swim on Christmas day. Allgedly.
Our route from Salerno will take us south to the "toe" in the boot of Italy and then westwards to the Aeolian Islands. From the Aeolians we will turn south again to Scilly and head westwards along its northern coast until we reach the Egadi Islands. From Egadi will we jump westwards again to the southern coast of Sardinia from which we will depart Italy towards the Balearic Islands and then retrace our outward steps back towards Gibraltar.
Our first day of sailing takes us south across the Golfo di Salerno and around Punta Licosa. We manage to maneuver out of our berth in the marina despite winds gusting 15-20 knots across us, although there is a moment of consternation when I get a mooring line stuck on the forward starboard cleat. The wind in the bay is favourable and we start sailing at 5-6 knots with one reef in the main (just on case). About an hour out, the wind dies down and we put on the engines as an unexplained lumpy cross-sea bumps us around. However within just few minutes the wind whips up from virtually zero to 30 knots with gusts around 35 knots. We quickly shove in a second and then a third reef as "Pause" takes off like a stung cat at 9 knots plus, before moderating out at between 7 and 8 knots. During this time (of course) the third reefing line gets caught around the boom, the turning blocks at the base of the mast get tangled and the batten in the port side of the sailbag pops out of its velcro housing. Typical. Trips onto the roof to untangle things in 30 knots with 4-5 foot waves isn't as much fun as you'd think. Still, its better than trying to get month end marks on 18 month RUSB in RUB. A couple of hours later, the wind dropped as suddenly as it had started - like someone throwing the switch on a giant fan. It wasn't until the proverbial dust had settled that the cause of the excitement became clear: About 20 miles away on land the mountains formed a funnel feeding the winds into a stream that screamed out over the bay in a relatively narrow strip. Now we know what it feels like to be a pin in a bowling alley.
That night we anchored just outside the harbour of the small town of Acciaroli, where a huge statue of the Virgin Mary, hands upturned, stands guard at the end of the harbour wall.
We leave early the next morning, and enjoy a calm day of motorsailing as the countryside and nameless hillside villages slip by a few miles off our port side. The rain that fell over the last weeks and days has suddenly greened the countryside and added texture to the landscape. The water here is getting clearer as we head away from the polution around Naples, and we can easily see down 10 meters when lifting the anchor in the morning. After a long absence, dophins make a brief reappearance near the boat before heading on their own way. That evening we arrived in Cetraro, where the fishing port is undergoing re-development into a new Porto Turistico. There is no office, and no-one around to take our money, but a older, half drunk man waves us in alongside one of the brand new pontoons and helps us with our mooring lines. We tip him 20 Euros and he shows us where to get fresh water and recommends a seriously dilapidated Pizzeria nearby as being "bellisimo". The boat moored in front of us turned out to be one that stayed a night alongside us in Amalfi, crewed by a group of Germans. They seemed horrified that some random guy was making a few euros and divulged that they had tipped him 10 Euros before they realised he wasn't an "official." We tried finding a restaurant, but all the places near the marina had closed up for the season. We walked for about 20 mins along the road before discovering a hotel / restauarnt tucked away behind the highway and train tracks. The dinning room was quite busy given the size of the village and the fact it was out of season. A huge, crazy, painted mural featuring dolphins, fish and people took up the largest wall in the place and the food was suprisingly good and reasonably priced. The young brother and sister owners were so nice to us, offering us a ride back to the marina after dinner as it was threatening to rain.
The next morning, armed with a weather forecast predicting localised thuderstorms we headed south again for Tropea. We kept an eye on the forming clouds on radar and were well prepared for the 25 knot winds and rain when it arrived. Under two reefs and half the jib we trucked along nicely at 7ish knots making better time than anticipated and arriving in Tropea as the wind dropped and the sun reappeared. We moored up the boat in the smallest space we have yet managed to fit into, grabbed a quick shower and took our trusty DK guidebook up the 200 steps from the harbour to the town to find dinner. We almost skipped Tropea, heading straight to the Aoelian islands from further north, but we had told the town is worth a visit by Oliver (from Amalfi) for its food, especially the "famous" red onions, and unsploit coastline. The town actually reminded me of Alghero, the first place we visited in Sardinia, the old town has the same narrow cobbled streets with buildings of faded yellow and stone. The town was better kept and cleaner than Alghero though, with lovely little hidden plazas and great views from its cliff-top vantage point. We ate in Restaurante "Pimms," a very smart, but tiny establishment situated in the "cellar" of one of the cliff top buildings with windows that opened up in the cliff having views over the beach and ocean. Another stellar reccommendation from the guide book and probably our best restaurant meal in a long time.
The next day we toured the quiet town, picking up some souveniers (yes, as a matter of fact, I am a sucker) and doing some boat errands (if you must know, replacing the joker valve and base gasket in the toilet - not a nice job at all, but still better than getting a reval on 5yr Capex from DB).
Tomorrow we will head out for Lipari, the largest of the Aoelians and say "farewell" to the Italian mainland.