The length and depth of Italy

Going to Trento was the beginning of the end. Once I was there, racing my last Italian 800m of the year, I knew that I wouldn't really stop travelling until I was back in Dorset, England. As I looked out of the car window, Tuscany's soft cloud like mountains vanished and became dramatically green and vertiginous on either side of the motorway, like raw emeralds jutting from the uniform rows of vines that clothed the valley floor. The roofs of the houses were different, to cope with the snow and there was a northern simplicity to the architecture. Most people that didn't speak Italian spoke German instead, and 'speck' featured heavily on the menus. Post-race, Trento's historical centre was almost deserted as we wandered the pretty streets looking for a bar in which to console ourselves with a negroni or two, laughing off our tactical blunders. The next day we were back in Siena, and all of a sudden I found myself having to say  goodbye to my companions, and it seemed the cat had got my tongue.

My next stop was Rome where I met up with some great friends of mine and in turn, their great friends. We ate a casual supper of biscuits, cheese and salami with a good slug of Campari to accompany it; the perfect partner to our lengthy evening's conversations. It was all over too quickly as we wolfed a pitstop farewell lunch the next day in Trastevere. At the Osteria ditta Trinchetti we gorged ourselves on figs with hot stringy scamorza and crispy prosciutto accompanied by a very refreshing glass of house white that really merited more time than we were able to give to it. Sad but sated, I scurried off to the airport in search of Sicily.

As I flew further  and further south, the heat of the sun became visible on the water and my smile broadened by the second. I was welcomed at first by a gelato at the side of the road from Marta's father who had just the same youthful good  humour as Marta herself. Then by Briciola the terrier's kisses, and then again by a huge dinner prepared by Mamma Pellegrino including the most wonderful parmigiana di melanzane that concealed boiled eggs amongst it's rich layers. That night, Gianpiero insisted on picking us up in his truck after dinner, and carted us off to his friend Fausto's house where we drank salted coronas with green lemons picked straight from a tree that hung over our shoulders. After a swift introduction to the Sicilian dialect by the 'picciotti' (boys), we headed off to an unknown destination, down a long and uneven dirt track. Eventually we arrived into a moonlike landscape, isolated and illuminated only  by the plethora of stars carpeting the sky; the 'Punta Bianca'. Out we clambered and flopped down onto the undulating white clay, where we rested for hours trailing our feet in the translucent black water and absorbing the silence.

The following days passed in an equally beautiful and typically Sicilian manner. Taking lunch with us from the bakery across the road, we would go off exploring on the moped taking care to park it in the shade so as not to grill ourselves on our return. Thus we spent afternoons at the beach, watching through the cut glass waves as fish swam about our feet, falling asleep to summer songs and daubing our bodies with the recurring white clay, this time found at the Scala dei Turchi. We ate out at a local pizzeria with friends, where I chose the delectable combination of pesto, sun dried tomatoes and rocket as my topping to be followed by a palate-cleansing lemon sorbet.

A family dinner on the balcony one evening provided me with ample opportunity to practise my Sicilian to raucous laughter as we feasted like kings. Barbecued meats were piled high onto the plates and we painted on  the dressing with a sprig of rosemary. Grilled zucchini, roasted balsamic peppers and stuffed tomatoes complimented it perfectly. Watermelon and ice cream followed, with the grand finale being produced from the freezer in a slim, frosted bottle. Pale yellow and with a hand-written label, I knew that this was something special; home-made frozen limoncello cream to be poured into shot glasses as soon as we could manage to unplug the ice from the neck. I am hoping to recreate my own one day at home having been lucky enough to be told the family recipe.

Another time, grinning mischievously, Marta's father brought home a roasted chicken and a beautifully wrapped square parcel which he quietly slipped into the fridge. Dolci! The famous cannoli stuffed with fresh ricotta, dipped in pistachio and cherries and every other confection possibly able to be constructed with ricotta, pastry and almonds were set before me as the family regarded my every mouthful with satisfaction and insisted that I try everything.

Having been shown around the old Agrigento, seeing the schools, piazzas and churches so familiar to my friend, and the offices of the carabinieri where her father works, I was taken to the best Gelateria in town, 'Le Cuspidi'. There I went against all of my purist notions about ice cream flavours and plumped for a decadently creamy  and over the top scoop of 'cheesecake'. This fuelled us for an evening stroll at the Valle dei Templi, whose ancient floodlit pillars stand out from afar but grow ever more breathtaking with every stride taken towards them. At dusk is the very best time that one can go to see the temples of Giunone and Concordia as the view from the hills, the dramatic sun setting and the balmy temperature combine to make a truly incredible atmosphere. The addition of a huge bronze torso in the classical style of polish sculptor, Igor Mitoraj, only enhances the scene.

That evening we drove shorewards on the 'motorino', our dresses fluttering in the warm breeze, to San Leone, the hub of local nightlife. Dinner was the first stop, at the best fish restaurant there is, 'Trattoria Il Pescatore' where a friend of Marta's works and personalised our platters with balsamic names. Never have I tasted fresher seafood and so I savoured every mouthful of tender squid and nut-encrusted bass. When we arrived at the bar quarter, the car park was alive with lights, music, chatter with parked vespas being used as seating. Extravagant greetings were given every few paces as we twisted through the throngs and over to the bar, everybody appearing to know everybody somehow or other. Later on, the party moved onto the beach where people danced and sang at the kiosks to well known Italian songs that I had never heard before.

Marta would catch me at times, knowing that I was contemplating my departure, and smile sympathetically. On the last day, the smell of freshly crushed basil and pine nuts greeting us as we returned home for lunch didn't make my leaving any easier and it was with a heavy heart that I boarded the bus back to the airport at Trapani. Marta's family had been the most welcoming and generous hosts and shown me so many beautiful things, I sincerely hope to be able to return the favour one day and also to keep on returning to Italy. I am thoroughly addicted and now I am going to have to go cold turkey for quite a while.