The shrill noise emanating from my travel alarm clock pierced the darkness and as I fumbled to silence it, my saggy mattress unceremoniously propelled me onto the hard floor. Minutes later, my husband and I, flashlights in hand, gingerly crept down the staircase from our rooftop abode in our Maltese bed and breakfast. Just as we unbolted the heavy front door, a loud horn blast alerted us to the arrival of our minibus which would transport us to Valletta, Malta’s capital city.

From this small island smack in the middle of the Mediterranean, we were heading north on a daytrip to Sicily. By 6.30 am, we had cleared passport control and boarded the sleek catamaran that would make the crossing in an hour and a half. Operated by Virtu Ferries, the three-year old Norwegian-built catamaran more closely resembled the interior of an aircraft than a ferry.  

Expecting a great view after sunrise, we plunked ourselves on seats facing the sloping draped windows at the prow. Minutes after our departure, I asked one of the uniformed stewards if we could open the drapes, only to be told: “You wanna seea the insida of a wava and get sicka?”  

Remembering the apostle Paul’s experience of getting shipwrecked in a storm off Malta, I meekly returned to my seat. Beside me a row of Finnish passengers were tucking into exquisitely packed boxed breakfasts. I unpeeled my banana and began to read my travel guide. Separated from mainland Italy by the Strait of Messina, triangular-shaped Sicily was named Trinacria (Greek for three points). Eighty-three times bigger than Malta, Sicily is 175 miles wide and 110 from north to south. 

By 8.30 am our catamaran had arrived at the quaint Sicilian village of Pozzallo, which is nicknamed Women Town because so many of the men are at sea working on cargo ships. Being part of an organized tour, we were shepherded onto six modern tour buses and divided into groups according to nationality. We headed for the British/Australian bus that was hosted by the bubbly Francesca, who had a winning smile and a personality.  

With an early rise, most passengers were hungry so we pulled over to the beachside Café Mesaverde, which sold the most delicious custard croissants and café leche. As we strolled along the beach, I could feel the intensity of the Mediterranean sun. It was already 28 degrees (82 degrees F) and this was late October.  

Not what I'd expected

As we drove northeast towards Mt. Etna, I was pleasantly surprised by the beauty of Sicily. Somehow I had erroneously envisioned it to be a dusty, dry place. Instead, the roads were in excellent condition and the countryside was well cultivated and swathed in well-tended vineyards. Cactus groves abound and the fruit of the prickly pear is harvested for jam and liqueurs.  

Throughout the year Sicilians celebrate their agricultural harvests with pagan feasts. Depending on the season, they have feasts of the tomato, onion, chestnut, pistachio, almond, olive, ice cream, bread, honey, eggplant, peach, tuna and octopus. A tree that was unfamiliar to me was the abundant carob tree which was introduced to Sicily by the Arabs. Its dark brown fruit is used in cosmetics, as a medicine for stomach problems and for chocolate. Interestingly the seed of the carob was used to buy gold and diamonds and is the origin of the word karat, as one carob seed equals one karat.  

As we neared the coastal town of Catania, the massive outline of Mt. Etna hove into view. Italy boasts five other active volcanoes, the most famous being Stromboli and Vesuvius of Pompeii fame. At 3,350m (11,000 ft.), Etna is the highest and most active volcano in Europe, with more than 130,000 recorded eruptions. A decade ago, one of them claimed the lives of 11 tourists.  

Walking around the barren lava deserts and climbing upwards, I was glad I had brought good walking shoes and bottled water. Against the skyline, I could spot three craters, one of which was capped in white sulfur. Currently Etna’s lava flows are going into the Valley of the Ox, a natural depression that acts as a container. In daylight, all we could see was rising steam, but at night on the return journey, we could clearly see the pencil thin red river of lava coursing down the mountainside.  

Our last stop was a visit to the exclusive resort of Taormina, which is perched on cliffs 250m (820 ft.) above the Ionian Sea. Popular with the British aristocracy in the mid-1800’s, its visitors have included Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton and Sophia Loren. After picking up a free map at the tourist office, I headed for the Greek Theater, which dates from the 300 B.C., but was remodeled by the Romans.  

Wilting from the heat emanating off the hot stones, I headed for the town park, Giardino Trevelyan, a gift to the town from a Scottish lady, Florence Trevelyn. The walk along the shaded terraces afforded spectacular views over the ocean and the tempting exotic beaches below. 

Back in the center of town, the piazzas and streets were everything one would have dreamed of in Italy. Classy air-conditioned wine boutiques, art galleries, colorful ceramic and gift stores, gelatos galore, bistros and elderly people sitting in the shade outside the church entrance. I wanted to tarry over my cappuccino, then remembered Francesca’s  warning: “You missa my bus, you swimma 55 miles backa to Malta, eh?”   

We knew she meant it and a few hours later when our catamaran approached Malta under a full moon, I noticed no-one was missing from our group.