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All my life I lived on an island. Not Inis Meain or Cape Clear but the island of Ireland itself, lapped by the Irish Sea to the east, ravaged by the wild Atlantic ocean to the west. An island steeped in culture, history and beauty; an island with its own language and a people fiercely proud of what it is to be Irish. An island that has known invasion – the Vikings, the Normans, the English – but has held tight to her identity throughout. This has always been home.
And then, early last year, newly married, newly retired and open to adventure, I travelled three and a half thousand kilometres to another island, in another sea. On our first date, my now Italian husband and I, discovered a shared dream to live in a place where, for most of the year, we’d live life in shorts and flip flops. We craved a life lived outdoors, a warmer, blue-skied, less frantic life than the one we lived in Ireland. We thought about one of the Canary Islands, or perhaps Greece. We considered Puglia and Calabria. But now, more than a year later I can see that we couldn’t have chosen a better spot. Sicily is at once new and exciting, yet familiar and comforting.
My new island home is reminiscent of Ireland in a time now past. I can remember as a child on holidays in Tralee, that the key was always left in the door in my Auntie Irene’s house. Here, that still happens. The key in the door or the door wide open. Cars left idling, while the driver is nowhere to be seen. Shops with half their wares on the pavement outside, untouched.
There’s so much the Irish and Sicilians have in common. Ireland prides itself on being the land of a hundred thousand welcomes, the céad mile fáilte and that’s exactly what we’ve experienced here. Before leaving Ireland, when people asked ‘why Sicily?’ we’d answer ‘the weather, the sea and the food’ – il tempo, il mare, il cibo. Now though, before those three I’d put top of the list, le gente, the people.
I’ve never known a people so quick to share, so generous with what is theirs, so open to passing on their traditions, recipes and local knowledge. Whatever they grow, they want you to taste. Whatever they cook, they’ll teach you to cook too. If you need an introduction to a plumber, a hairdresser or a neighbour who sells eggs, they’ll be quick to point you in the right direction.
One of my earliest encounters here was with the elderly man who owned the tiny convenience store in the little town where we were renting. At that time we had volunteers helping us clear the jungle that was the garden of our newly purchased home in Pozzallo and as they worked hard all morning I busied myself with cooking up a storm so that everyone was very well fed at lunchtime. As I began preparing our meal I realised we were out of gas. I had no way to cook. Unused to gas bottles I turned to YouTube to learn how to disconnect it but couldn’t find anything that looked remotely like what I now know was called our bombola. Armed with only the most basic Italian, I walked across the road to the mini-mart seeking advice. I explained that I didn’t know how to change the bottle and asked the owner if he could possibly help me. No, no, no was his initial response. How could he leave the shop. It was impossible. He was sorry, but no. I said not to worry, I’d figure it out and that I’d just buy the new bombola anyway. Then, we chatted a bit. I told him I was from Ireland and that I’d just moved to Sicily. And then out of nowhere, he was suddenly rummaging for his keys, locking up his little shop and crossing the road. He changed the gas bottle, explaining each step patiently so I’d know what to do next time. We walked back down to the street together and I thanked him warmly. I asked him his name. He pulled down his mask – yes Covid was still about – smiled and told me he was Rosario. I pulled down mine and introduced myself too. The smile that passed between us made up for all the words we didn’t know in each other’s languages and in that instant we became friends.
I love this new island. This island steeped in culture, history and beauty; an island with its own language and a people fiercely proud of what it is to be Sicilian as opposed to Italian. An island that has known invasion – the Greeks, the Normans, the Saracens – but has held tight to her identity throughout. This island has become my new home.
