Campania to Sicily: from the Chin to the Boot and Beyond

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For those from the Anglo-Saxon world, if you ever want to find out the fast way whether you're capable of driving on the right-hand side of the road, try starting out on a Naples motorway on Friday night. Carnage! For my first hour and a half in Italy I had cars and motorcycles driving up to my bumper, flashing their lights and honking for their lives until I could find a way of letting them past. No surprise they’re in a rush, considering they will probably be leading quite short lives. I was riding my way through waves of terror until we got to Salerno. Our two-week car-driving adventure in Southern Italy and Sicily had begun!

Our first day followed what was to become a familiar pattern: a slightly stressful period of travel and accommodation-hunting, followed by gastronomic redemption of the highest order. Dinners included frutti de mare pizzas, unusual types of pasta, lots of herbs, capers, fish and seafood, accompanied by litre carafes of white wine of obscure local grape varieties.

First up was the Amalfi Coast's lesser-known and less-hyped cousin, the Cilento Coast. It was here that I had my first real Italian beach experience. Readers must understand I come from New Zealand, where a beach with more than about 20 people is considered busy. Where I come from your can't hire beach chairs, there are no men from faraway countries waking you up from a sunbathe to sell you a bangle, no Chinese women offering massages, and no ice-cream buggies with lawnmower motors and canned music. Actually, I liked it! Spending an afternoon on an Italian beach can be a confronting experience, but virtually nothing can undermine the inherent beauty of the place. And if you really need to get away from it all for an hour or two, hire a pedalo with a water slide on top!

Our route plunged down into the wild and undeveloped far south of Italy - from half-way down the chin all the way to the tip of the boot. Apparently Northern Italians have a fairly scornful attitude towards anywhere south of Rome. Admittedly, we did pass through some very bleak places. If you ever have the opportunity to visit Castrovillari in Northern Calabria ... er... don't take take it. And no amount of warning from Lonely Planet not to get lost in "the ugly outskirts" of Cosenza could stop us doing just that. I unwittingly drove us into in a labyrinth of roundabouts, mass-housing and sinister car parks in the growing gloom of dusk, wondering just how many hours it would take before we found that perfect family-run pizzeria in a cobbled piazza of the old town.

Tropea, near the tip of "the toe", was the sort of place you'd imagine could exist only in fiction or dreams. The gorgeously dilapidated stone facades of the old town are built straight onto the sheer sides of a cliff face, in front of which protrudes a rocky peninsula with a palace, fronted by beautiful white sand beaches. We arrived keenly anticipating a relaxed swim, and hurried through the old town laden with beach gear, only to discover that we were at the top of a 50-metre cliff - and that the beach, unfortunately, was at the bottom. By the time we finally got down there, we realised that crashing rollers were stopping anyone going in beyond shin-level - all but a few competitive local males with a death-wish. But Ursula’s desperation was too strong, and after a few minutes bobbing perilously up and down, I watched the biggest wave whip her up and then dunk her out of sight. She washed up on the shore 15 seconds later after a pleasant journey along the rocky sea bed, and decided she’d had enough swimming for one day.

Only a short hop from the mainland to Sicily and an hour's drive from Messina was the beautiful but far-from-undiscovered Taormina, complete with its fantastic Greek/Roman theatre, framing the gigantic Mount Etna as an epic backdrop. A Mecca of tourist chintz and overpriced eateries, its classical charms couldn't quite compensate for the sheer volume of tourists enjoying them. We fled south the following day, in search of "the real Sicily" - to Syracuse, our trip's Southern-most point (on the same latitude as parts of Tunisia!) We stayed in the old town - and in Italy they don't use the word "old" lightly. Rather than pull down the 4th-century-BC Greek temple in the main piazza, Christians simply built around it - giving it a "modern" look from Byzantine to Baroque times. This piazza was buzzing with activity in the warm, humid early evening. There were crowds on the church steps watching a film crew making what looked like a badly-acted period melodrama, manically shepherding passers-by out of their panning shots. Just behind them were a male and female model acting out romantic scenarios for a music video. Perhaps most strangely, the place seemed to be swarming with newly-weds on parade, enacting the Sicilian tradition of promenading through town to pose for strangers' photos. People-watching opportunities aplenty, and none of them laid on for tourists!

Just as we were beginning to seriously flag from Ursula's high-octane itinerary, we happened across the tiny and perfect village of Scopello. We knew at once that the rest of the schedule had to go - something about it demanded two nights’ stay. Perhaps it was the nearby 'tonnaria' (abandoned tuna fishery) with its secluded cove and azure waters, where Ursula insisted on feeding a famished-looking kitten over-priced sausage panini, winning her dirty looks from the locals. Or perhaps it could have been the outdoor bar in the village's only piazza, serving a selection of 40-odd cocktails for €3 each! It was with some pain that we drove away on day 3, strongly suspecting we wouldn't find anything to match it. Despite spending the final two days of our trip exploring the rolling hills and dramatic views of the Marsala wine region, no amount of local authenticity could quite rival the generic charms of a perfectly made mojito.

Despite Lonely Planet's insistence that Palermo was "worth the effort", the city's undiscovered gems remained sadly undiscovered for us. We wandered its grungy streets on a rainy final evening, secretly looking forward to London's lack of vespas, insane drivers, and even (god forbid!) frutti di mare pizzas. They say when you're tired of Italian food, you're tired of life - but after nearly 2 weeks of the stuff, we found ourselves painfully craving a good old Indian takeaway.

Southern Italy was inspiring, intimidating, charming and tiring. Next time I think less road, more beach, and definitely more time luxuriating in that wonderful Scopello cocktail bar...!

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