The vicinity

Closest to our house is a small village, the one with the amazing restaurant from the other day. Only a few kilometres in the other direction there is a slightly bigger town, which, in spite of being a proper town with lots of cars, people and even banks, has managed to keep a village feeling. The Italians we’ve met so far come across as very relaxed and friendly. They’ve only shown their passion when they’ve been talking about or watching football, but aside from that life seems to have a certain “piano” about it. Though not in traffic, of course. The driving we see here every day is spectacular enough to give anyone with a poor heart an attack, since traffic rules only seem to be advisory not compulsory. Cars, people (sometimes even people carrying half a pig) can just jump in front of the car without even looking in that direction, like it was the most natural thing in the world. For an English driver, this is everything but natural and our car trips have become something of a “watch out!” game, trying not to hit or to be hit by anyone.

Ribera, like most cities on Sicily, has a luxurious mid day break, when everything apart from small “tabacchios” is closed for a siesta. We speculate that this is a necessity during the hot summer months, but we also wonder if it’s because most Italian men like to go home to their “sposatas” (wives) or their mamas for lunch.


It seems to be a part of the world where combining family and working life is still somewhat of a dream, with most women staying at home and tending to their husbands and children. During our midday walks we did not see many women on the streets but quite a few well dressed elderly men, all wearing sunglasses and a little cap, exactly as you might expect if you’ve seen certain movies set in this country. Sometimes preconceptions do match reality.

The first feast

Being a Catholic country, most of Italy’s shops and cafés are closed on Sundays. Perhaps it’s to encourage families to stay together at home, enjoying “la mama’s” wonderful delights. Since we don’t have any family in Italy and because we arrived late on a Saturday when all the shops were already closed, our Sunday meal plans were going to be placed solely in the hands of somebody else’s “mama”. After inquiring after a recommended restaurant in the area, we were directed to the one (of the two) in the village, called “The Lucciola”.

After we had all fought our way through the hanging beads in the doorway, our first impressions of the place were good. A young mother, possibly our age, was playing with her little toddler at the counter, whilst a smiling and energetic middle-aged man waved us passed the café section into the restaurant proper. The “mama” of the house, hearing that some customers had arrived, came out from the kitchen and regarded us with a curious, but warm smile. There was only one other customer in the restaurant, an old Sicilian gentleman who was enjoying his lunch whilst watching the football on the television in the corner.

After a few staggering sentences, we made some kind of an introduction and before we knew it we had ordered the recommended “antipasti della casa” – starters of the house, with what was promised to be Sicilian specialities. It didn’t take long for our large table to start filling with a variety of delicious looking dishes, and they just kept on coming. There was shellfish and calamari salad, tuna with fresh vegetables and juicy capers, omelettes with wild asparagus and fava beans, a wonderful sweet, Sicilian version of ratatouille, sausages, veal meatballs in a tomato sauce, fresh, smooth ricotta, young goat cheese, steamed romanesco, parmiggiano, olives and the most amazing wood stove baked bread. All seasoned with the local perky olive oil that resembled something that we normally would cherish for special occasions. Our compliments to the “mama” were possibly the only things we managed to say to our hosts, in between our “oohhs”, “aahhs” and “have you tried this one?”. We were so absorbed by the culinary delights that were laid in front of us that we forgot to take a picture and immortalise this incredible feast.

Even though the amount of food was perfect for a lunch, it was technically only antipasti, so we felt compelled to order some pasta to show that we weren’t total Philistines. A large plate of perfectly cooked fresh pasta in a simple tomato sauce was duly delivered and thoroughly enjoyed. By the obligatory espressos at the end of the meal, we had managed to get a conversation started with the family who own the restaurant, partially facilitated by our little one, who seemed very keen to chase the proprietor’s three year old boy around, to everyone’s amusement (except the little boy’s).

Waddling back to the car with full stomachs and smiles on our faces, we all agreed that if all our people and food experiences in Sicily were this good, then we were going to love it here.

The first encounter

As the plane began its final approach, Sicily beckoned below with rosy hills lit by the sinking sun. The landscape was more mountainous than we had imagined, with rolling hills and endless rows of olive trees. The small airport was clean and our arrival was handled surprisingly smoothly. The arrivals hall gave us our first glimpse of the Italy we were expecting; a buzzing meeting place full of people hugging, kissing, laughing, talking on the phone and embracing each other in loud “Benvenutti!” My father-in-law was quietly waiting for us after taking a heroic car-trip through the whole of Europe. His first observation was about how different Italians are to the British – both in their cars and in arrivals halls.

The car journey to our new Italian home started on bumpy motorways which turned into bumpier side roads and later into serpentine country roads climbing into the Sicilian hills. We finally pulled up to the house around eight O’clock, making it something of a frenzy getting the little one her dinner, preparing all the beds, unpacking the essentials from our suitcases, putting together a quick meal for us, all whilst trying to get a fire started.



A fire was essential, because the house was freezing! I can’t even remember the last time we felt so cold indoors. Luckily we came prepared - so it was on with the warm jumpers and on with the ancient electric heaters. As the night wore on a large storm brewed outside, and in the battle between gale-force winds and tiny heaters, unfortunately there is only ever going to be one winner.

The next morning we awoke to shutters clattering against windows, as the storm continued to rage outside. Everyone put on a brave face and the forced smiles turned to real ones after our first hot cup of tea and a (not very Italian) porridge breakfast. Opening the blinds gave us our first view of the surroundings – seemingly endless undulating olive tree hills as far as the eye could see. As soon as the rain stops coming in sideways and the dark grey sky gives way to blue, I’m sure it’s going to look beautiful.