Last night,  sleeping with the doors open.  A spectacular lightning show out to sea.
Later, a cloudburst and a massive drenching. Rain pouring off the cliffs like a waterfall. Exciting from my elevated position. That was around 3am.
Next day.
A lollipop-swivelling Kojak was on the TV. Dubbed into Italian. It suited him. ‘Chi ti ama tesora?’
Humid as hell. I threw on some trunks and then threw myself into the sea. Gorgeous.
Afterwards, I put my towel on the car seat and drove out of dodge bare-chested and bare-footed, feeling quite the libertine and passing Italians wearing overovercoats.
Up past the stone fort on the belvedere whose dungeons held Etam manikins wearing raggedy clothes to look like prisoners. Apparently it’s claim to fame is that tge execution of Napoleon’s brother was held here.
The town had been dead last night. The waiters, wrong-footed by the rain twice, were weary of clearing the tables.
I went into a church and found a Saint with my daughter’s name. 
S. Anna looked disapproving of her cherub’s dirty dress.
Then I found a pizza joint. Waiters playing video games. I woke them up and ordered the nduja …a local spicy sausage. It was brilliant. 
In my experience that is Italy all over. The food is either fantastic or bloody dreadful. You can never tell by the outside. Or by the presentation on the inside. But somewhere, buried in a very hot cellar, is a chef who either knows what he or she is doing or not. 
Whatever… you are always guaranteed a welcome if you try a bit of charm. 
My view, for what it’s worth, follows two rules. Always be direct with waiting staff. Their time is precious. And always try to be a better guest than they are hosts. Again without getting in their way. Those two ordinates set you up for the best you can get from whatever establishment. 
But, and I guess this is a third rule, if it doesn’t look  right, if there is something off, just leave. Even if they have poured you a glass of water. Never be intimidated into a bad meal. A moment of uncomfortable confrontation is worth an hour of irritating bad food, service or indelicacy.
I really got to like the guys here.  It had the feeling of a London pub during a train strike. Everyone sequestered in the comradeship of a lock-in. The waiter, some Swedes and a local B&B owner. Good fun.
The waiter showed me pictures on his phone of local exploits to expand his waistline.  Including porchetta…suckling pig… for breakfast. I thought how even Stanley would get up early for that.
Leaving I went over to the Swedes. They were an ABBA looks-wise. Very healthy. 
‘Where are you from?’ I didn’t want to guess but I was sure they were Swedish. 
‘Sweden!’ they chorused.
I told them I knew because I’d watched a  lot of Wallander. And they all roared with laughter and invited me for a drink. 
‘Do you like Scotch whisky?’
‘I do, I do, I do, I do, I do..!’
Next day I arrived in Catania just at the right time for lunch.