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Chapter 1: Scilla – Where Italy Forgot to Cater to Tourists

Leaving Tropea (Above) felt like abandoning a particularly indulgent dessert—necessary, but painful. So we slipped away from Tropea’s candy-coloured cliffs at dawn, the Tyrrhenian Sea stretching before us like a crumpled dark blue tablecloth smoothed by the morning breeze. Our destination? Scilla.

Scilla was the kind of place travel writers call "undiscovered" and locals call "home." Nestled on Calabria's coast, this tiny fishing village had two claims to fame: 

1. Being the mythological home of the sea monster Scylla (who, according to Homer, enjoyed snacking on sailors like they were tapas). 

2. Having precisely zero English speakers, which then turned every conversation into a game of culinary charades. 

Pookie, ever the gourmet sleuth, deciphered menus through a combination of wild gesticulation and strategic nodding. "That one," she declared, pointing to a chalkboard special, "is either octopus or a very ambitious mushroom."

Spoiler: It was octopus. We loved Scilla, and as the sun melted into the horizon, we joined the locals for their nightly ritual: beach football, where despite it being a league type match, the rules seemed to be: 

- No offsides. 

- No mercy. 

- If the ball goes in the sea, the youngest player fetches it. 

The Messina Strait: Where Mythology Meets Mechanical Mayhem

The Messina Strait isn't just a body of water—it's a marine obstacle course designed by Poseidon after a bad day. This 2-mile-wide pinch point between Italy's toe and Sicily's boot has: 

- Whirlpools strong enough to swallow Jet Skis. 

- Currents that switch direction like a politician in a scandal. 

- Tides that rise and fall faster than Pookie's soufflés. 

Before we made our way across the famous waterway, a fuel stop in Reggio Calabria, mainland Italy's last outpost (Fuel is a bit of a rarity for boats on the island). The fuel (in our case Diesel) station was abandoned and you had to call an attendant on your phone. The attendant took 30 minutes to arrive and took one look at our catamaran and asked, "Dove andate?" ("Where are you going?") 

"Sicilly, Tutto il mondo," I replied. (I was trying to say fill her up, turns out it means "All of it.") 

He nodded, handed me a hose pipe for water, and said, "Buona fortuna." ("You'll need it.") so we filled our water tanks as well. 

Ancient sailors feared Scylla and Charybdis (monster and whirlpool, respectively). Modern sailors fear the ferry traffic, which treats right-of-way rules as mild suggestions. Sawasdeekat’s twin Yanmar engines roared in protest as we battled the current, the rudder developing a concerning vibration halfway across. 

Cavitation.

The word floated into my brain like a bad omen. However, luckily for the non-engineering person writing this, a quick spanner adjustment later, and the noise (and cavitation) were a softly comforting distant memory—though Pookie did suggest sacrificing a biscuit to the sea gods, just in case. 

Syracuse: Anchoring Drama and Fish So Fresh It Could Still Vote

Syracuse was love at first sight— We conveniently (and illegally as it turned out) anchored right near the wall and went ashore (see little red dot). Walking through the piazzas’ and small quirky streets was romatic and engaging. We ate at some lovely restaurants and went shopping in the local markets. Pookie haggled for a tuna the size of a toddler while I marvelled at Syracuse’s layers—2,700 years of history, and yet the most dramatic thing here was still the guy at the next table arguing over how single a espresso is getting smaller. Speaking of drama, did you know the city’s Greek theatre is so acoustically perfect, a whisper on stage can hit the back row like a gossipy oracle. It’s not just old—it’s still-used-for-concerts-today old. Imagine watching a Beyoncé cover band where literal Greeks once watched tragedies about guys stabbing their own eyes out. Progress!

Now, as you can see from the red spot above, we had dropped Sawasdeekat’s anchor so close to the Fonte Aretusa spring that if Pookie had leaned overboard with a teacup, she could’ve served us fresh papyrus-infused spring water - the same stuff that supposedly made the nymph Arethusa flee Sicily in a panic (though in her defense, she’d never seen a British chef try to poach a sea bass in it). Local legend says the spring’s waters mingle with the Ionian Sea. We say it mingled with our bilge pump after a questionable decision involving keeping peaches in the bilge. Anyway needless to say we had a great anchoring location… or so we thought.

It turns out that the Marina Police disagreed. Gliding up in their dinghy like aquatic tax auditors they shouted "No, no," and pointed to a distant area far off across the bay. "Ancoraggio là." Turns out "anchoring allowed" meant "anchoring there (Green area in above pic), in this sad patch of sea where the view is mostly other people’s anchors."  We obeyed, though I suspect they kept us under surveillance.

I say that because sure enough, as we departed for Capo Passero (the "Horn of Sicily"), the Coast Guard radioed us for a full interrogation: 

- Who were we? 

- Where were we going? 

- Was Pookie that chef from MasterChef?  That sort of thing.

Ragusa: RecordGo’s Revenge and Sicily’s Transport Treachery

Marina di Ragusa was Sawasdeekat’s home for a month—a sleek, modern marina where the showers had actual hot water (a luxury that nearly moved me to tears). But Sicily’s public transport system operates on a unique philosophy: If the bus arrives, it’s a fiesta. If it’s on time, it’s a miracle. 

With an impending trip to the UK nearing upon us and an early morning flight to catch, I decided to embark on a two-bus and one train odyssey to Palermo, which unfolded like a slapstick comedy: 

- Bus 1: Departed 20 minutes late. Driver smoked a cigarette while driving and argued with what sounded like his mother on speakerphone. 

- Bus 2: Almost Broke down but arrived with a live chicken in a crate (no explanation given). 

A short train journey from Palermo got me to Palermo Airport where “car rental pickup" meant an unmarked bit of tarmac behind a building containing escalators to god only knows where.  However, after asking EVERY people carrier and minibus if they we RecordGo, finally I had a eureka moment.

They took me on a convoluted trip into the hills where cars sat on a muddy hillside. I checked over the car as normal and even did a video of the car’s condition (I now do this all the time due to the fiasco in Barcelona). I was ready. There I was, pen hovering over the contract like a bad omen, when it hit me: RecordGo. The same neon-lit, shifty-eyed car ‘rental’ outfit that, in Barcelona, had upgraded us straight into a ‘Congratulations, You’ve Been Mugged!’ package. My brain screamed ‘ABORT!’, my wallet whimpered, and my common sense—ever the absentee—sent a postcard from the Bahamas. I signed anyway. Why? Because nothing spices up a Sicilian road-trip like the looming threat of organized crime!

As I drove off, the rearview mirror framed two things:

1. The fading silhouette of my bank balance.

2. A suspiciously pristine wing mirror that would, inevitably, become RecordGo’s excuse to invoice me for ‘damages’ (read: a speck of Sicilian dust).

Pro tip: If your rental agreement includes the phrase ‘optional insurance’ and a wink, run. Or at least bring a lawyer. A good camcorder. And an exorcist.

Some lessons take repeated humiliation to stick but as I drove for 2 hours back to Ragussa I consoled myself in the premise that this was hundreds of miles away from that shady company with the same name in Barcelona (In hindsight, I really should have looked around again whilst signing, because there’s nothing shady about being stood in a portacabin in a field signing over thousands of Euro’s worth of no extra insurance agreement to the same people that shafted me last time.)

Sicily 2023: When the Island Became a Toaster Oven

(and Other Climate Wake-Up Calls) 

Let’s cut to the chase: Yes, Sicily’s 2023 heat was officially apocalyptic. Wildfires torched over 100,000 acres, turning the countryside into a smoky rendition of Mordor. We’d expected Sicilian summer to be hot. We hadn’t expected preheating the island for God’s pizza hot. Our rental car’s thermometer hit 50°C—a temperature at which: 

- Olive trees start plotting revenge. 

- The sea feels like a lukewarm bath (with extra existential dread). 

- Your flip-flops commit treason by melting to the pavement. 

As I drove past hillsides crackling with wildfires, it hit me: this wasn’t just a heatwave. It was Sicily cosplaying as a dystopian novel—complete with charred vineyards and air so thick, even the seagulls looked over it.  Global warming isn’t coming, folks. It’s here, and it brought a flamethrower.

Yes If shady car rentals were our first clue that Sicily had a sense of humour, the 50°C heat was its punchline. Three days later and we drove back to Palermo to drop the car off and get our flight to the UK.

Returning the car was a masterclass in creative invoicing: 

RecordGo Employee: "Ah, signore, these scratches on the mirror… 250 euros." 

Me: “That ‘scratch’ is a fingerprint! Also, I know about Barcelona." 

(Cue heated debate involving hand gestures and raised voices)

Eventually after telling them I had video evidence of the condition of the car before I took it they relented

RecordGo Employee: "…Fine. Go." So we did, and made it in time to their bus to take us to the airport.

Pookie’s UK Takeover: Cheesecakes, Crowds, and Culinary Chaos

Back in Britain, Introduced by Chris Bavin Pookie stole the show at the Food & Drink Festival, sharing the stage with Jean-Christophe Novelli and Matt Tebbutt. Her pièce de résistance? A strawberry cheesecake disguised as a tomato—a trompe-l’oeil so convincing, one attendee wanted to slice it onto a salad.  Next on the list of things to do was surprise Pookie for her birthday.

The Needle’s Eye: A Birthday Gift No One Saw Coming

I had organised a birthday meal out at Adams Resturant in Birmingham (If you look under the food reviews section you can see what we had previsouly thought about it).

The scene was set and Pookie's sister and boyfriend plus two other foodie friends arrived at Adams. Also sitting in the restaurant was Willard Wiggins.

For Pookie’s birthday, I commissioned Willard Wiggins, the Da Vinci of miniatures, to create a portrait inside the eye of a needle. The result? A gold-leafed Pookie-rabbit (her Chinese Birth Year) in an iconic MasterChef dress, holding a tiny plate of "Fish in a Pond," food while a cheeky monkey (yours truly) peeked around the pin. 

Pookie’s Verdict: "I’ll treasure it forever." 

Ragussa to Greece: Breaking Records (and Several Maritime Laws)

Returning back to Palermo we decided to not use a car hire company probably run by the mafia but catch a bus.

Next Up:

Our longest ever crossing! Customs Chaos, Drone Disaster and Sivota’s Secret beaches…. and another UK dash—because the adventure never stops. 

Moral of this chapter? Always read Google Reviews before renting a car. And if life gives you lemons, make a Pookalicious cocktail. 🍸Til next time!