At every turn Etna loomed, smoke hovering above the crater: a family rail adventure from the UK to Sicily
11.09.2023 - 09:07
/ theguardian.com
It took the second thud to rouse me. Worried I’d slept through it, I slid up the blind to find our train pulling into the port city of Villa San Giovanni in Calabria, Italy. Not quite 6am, the last of the night’s sky was taking leave: navy clouds pulled apart before my eyes, a single neon-pink patch igniting the ridgeline of the Peloritani mountains in north-east Sicily.
As I watched the waters of the Messina Strait turn silver in the dawn light, the train jerked and we began to roll the way we’d come. Shunted back and forth, I realised the carriages were uncoupling: this was the moment I’d waited years to witness. Little legs in pink pyjamas appeared on the ladder and my five-year-old daughter climbed down from her berth. “Are we riding on the ferry yet?”
Our journey had begun a few days earlier with a Eurostar from London to Paris, followed by the night train to Nice. A series of regional trains took us from there to Venice, where we caught another sleeper to Rome. It was here that our adventure really kicked off. The 11pm InterCity Notte service from Roma Termini takes just under 13 hours to reach Palermo, first winding down the long mainland, then crossing the Strait of Messina on a ferry.
For the first hour, we’d knelt at the window watching the outskirts of the capital fall away. As factory chimneys twinkled through the darkness, we’d fallen asleep in the privacy of our two-person vagone letto, waking for the moment when the train’s carriages were uncoupled and rolled side by side on to a ferry for the 20-minute crossing. Most passengers stayed asleep in their compartments, but not us. Zipping jackets over pyjamas, we jumped down from the train and ventured up to the deck, to enjoy a slap of salty air, the cries of circling gulls and the surreal sight of our carriages locked into place.
We were here for a week-long family tour of Sicily by train – mainly for the food. I was travelling with my five-year old, meeting her dad and three-year-old sister in Palermo before travelling to Catania, then up to the small town of Linguaglossa on the edge of Mount Etna, using the little-known narrow-gauge railway line. I had heard tales of Sicily’s awful trains – delayed, old, infrequent, slow – so wondered how the trip would pan out.
On the other side of the strait, with the train smoothly back on track, we munched through the complimentary breakfast of croissants and Grisbi chocolate biscuits, watching wisteria-covered houses flit past above beaches of grey sand.
On the horizon, the Aeolian islands just caught my eye as the Tyrrhenian Sea flashed teal between buildings, before the train took a wide arc above a curl of golden sand and surf. Lemon groves exploded trackside and beach palms braced against the