On the advice of a you-tuber, we took the train from Naples to Syracuse in Sicily. Staff at our Naples B’n’B’ were politely incredulous. “That’s romantic,” one said. Romantic is not quite what we were going for. Most travellers take the ferry to Sicily — or fly Ryan Air for 10 euros. But we wanted to travel sustainably (no planes) and to see the stunning coastline south of Naples, which the you-tuber had promised we would. Well, we caught only glimpses of the coast — we would have seen more from the ferry— and the trip was eight tedious hours long. In Julian’s mind, the best part was watching the train being loaded onto the ferry for transit across the Strait of Messina to Sicily.
When we arrived in Syracuse in the early evening, starving — the only food on the train comes from vending machines — we breathed a sigh of relief. Not many train passengers had come this far south. The streets were deserted and quiet. “There’s the Temple of Apollo.” The cabbie pointed casually to some ancient Greek ruins in one of the old town’s piazzas.

Like the rest of Sicily, Syracuse has been occupied by successive waves of conquerors over the past 2700 years. The Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Normans, the Holy Roman Empire (Swabians) and the Spanish have all ruled here, each leaving their mark on the culture, architecture, and food. So, Sicilians are not really Italian — or at least not northern Italian. They are a unique blend of all the cultures that have gone before. As a result, they are remarkably friendly and tolerant of different cultures. Strangers who pass us on the street make eye contact and greet us with a cheerful “buon giorno!” Whether they speak English or not, Sicilians want to communicate.
The cabbie told us that the street was too narrow to drop us off at our B’n’B, but we could easily walk the rest of the way. Not a Vespa to be seen (or heard). When we commented on the quiet, the young woman at the front desk explained that it would get busy in the following days. Liberation Day is on April 25, which was early the following week. Liberation Day marks the end of WWII.
Rookie travel mistake! We hadn’t checked where we would be staying on national holidays. Our mistake — and shame — deepened. Have we completely forgotten how to travel? May 1st or Workers Day is also a holiday, so many Italians take a “ponte” (bridge) between the two. As Julian’s friend Antonio remarked, “Only Italians would celebrate the death of Fascism and the birth of Communism in the same week.” He’s allowed to say that because he’s Italian.
Italians have mixed feelings about Liberation Day. The former lawyer who rented Julian a bike in Syracuse confessed that Italians don’t like to talk about the war. Either because they’re embarrassed it happened or because they wanted the Fascists to win…
Liberation Day has special meaning for me. Eighty years ago, my 18-year-old father was a British Royal Navy sailor who saw his first combat during the invasion of Sicily (July 1943). His job was to ferry soldiers and supplies from battleships onto the beaches near Marzamemi, about an hour’s drive south of Syracuse. He was handed a revolver and ordered to shoot anyone who resisted. To everyone’s surprise and relief, the Sicilians didn’t put up much of a fight. The soldiers were starving and offered to help unload supplies in exchange for food. Later, the Allied forces learned that they hadn’t eaten meat in more than two years. Dad spent several months in Syracuse and Southern Italy. As a child, I was fascinated by his album of black and white photographs taken during his time here.
Dad loved Syracuse. He had grown up Catholic in the overwhelmingly Protestant, and virulently anti-Catholic, country of England. I wonder if he felt at home in Sicily with its ubiquitous Catholic Churches and iconography. In his later years, Dad wasn’t a very religious person. He enjoyed a good irreverent Pope joke. He loved music of all kinds and liked to dance and drink Scotch. However, when he was stationed in Italy, he had just left the home of my very Catholic and very severe grandmother.
In the 17th century, earthquakes destroyed most of the buildings in Syracuse, so the city was rebuilt in the Baroque style of the time. Ortigia, which is the original island on which Syracuse was built, is a maze of narrow alleyways. The ornate churches and palazzi are built of honey-coloured stone. Most buildings have been renovated to accommodate Italian tourists and weekend owners.

The town is photogenic and clean. A salty breeze freshens the air. As befits a tourist town, the restaurants are fabulous. Our favourites were A Putia — the shared seafood appetizer plate is to die for — and Al Mazari. The latter is Michelin-star rated, but offers an excellent lunch at a reasonable price. Both restaurants serve a mashup of Italian and Arabic dishes.

Every day, Julian and I walked the waterfront, which winds around Ortigia’s perimeter. Every day, there was something new to see.
One day, we visited the inside of the 13th century fort, Castello Maniace, built by Frederick II, the Holy Roman Emperor (Swabian).


On another afternoon, an impromptu traditional dance broke out when some strolling couples met a group of women doing aerobics.

When I returned home, I realized that the waterfront is largely unchanged in 80 years. Except for the navvies and the warship.

We spent a week in Syracuse. By the next to last day, which was Liberation Day, the evening passeggia on the waterfront was a mosh pit of Italian families with their children, which we gamely braved.
In the Piazza Duomo, at the Chiesa of Santa Lucia alla Badia — a building I recognized from Dad’s photos — we saw the reproduction of a Caravaggio. The original was painted in the short period after he broke out of jail on Malta and sought sanctuary in Syracuse, but before he developed sepsis and died after a knife fight in Naples. (Caravaggio was quite the guy).

The painting depicts the martyrdom of Lucia, an early Christian saint who died in the 4th century. The story goes that she wanted to show her love for God by remaining a virgin. However, not knowing this, her mother betrothed her to a wealthy pagan man (Roman, most likely). When she refused to marry the young man, the Roman governor of Syracuse ordered her to be defiled and tortured. Most paintings depict her gruesome death, but Caravaggio painted her burial in the Catacombs, with her grieving mother slumped to the ground beside her and a priest reading the last rites. I was transfixed by the reproduction and wanted to see the original, which, after some inter-church tussling, now hangs in the Basilica of Santa Lucia Sepulcho in the city of Syracuse.
We didn’t make it to the Sepulcho until Liberation Day. That morning, a party was happening in the piazza in front of the church. A large crowd engaged warmly with young priests wearing backpacks, priests wearing t-shirts and Teva sandals with their cassocks. We waded through the crowd to enter the church. The Caravaggio, which hangs behind the altar, lights up for three minutes when the requisite number of euros is inserted into a box located on the wall. It is more sublime than I can describe. It is the most moving painting I have ever seen. To think that Caravaggio dashed it off for room and board.

After admiring the Caravaggio, we returned to the piazza outside the church. The priests brought out an electric fiddle player who performed covers of pop songs — including a couple by Ed Sheeran (my fave). Julian and I applauded as we drank our morning cappuccinos and ate pastries at a cafe on the piazza. When the music finished, the priests led the crowd inside the church for a Liberation Day service of thanks.
Dad would have loved it.
