Ragusa

The arancino came first, warm from a supermarket rosticceria, spinach and rice bound together with mozzarella, eaten standing up outside.

The wind had been there long enough to feel like part of the place. By the time we reached the

The road drops gradually toward Ragusa, though it does not feel like an arrival in the usual sense. Limestone hills

The first thing Modica offers you, before you’ve parked, oriented yourself, or figured out which direction the old town lies,

The bus from Modica stretches out its lateness into something generous. Thirty minutes, €2.70, the delay paid in light rather

We told the taxi driver we came from Manchester – heaven knows why – that’s how tired we were by

The climb up is a slog. There’s no other word for it. By the time the gradient eases and the

Twenty-five kilometres. That’s the actual distance between Ragusa and the sea, though it’s possible to live alongside that fact for

The old town announces itself before you reach it. From the road, or from the window of a bus still

The first step down the Percorso delle Scale is almost ceremonial, though nothing here was planned as such. My foot