Sicily – Are you taking the pizzo??
When we agreed that we would meet up with the antipodean branch of the family in Sicily for our summer vacation I decided that I should do a little research into the island, its history, its culture and its geography.
I already knew about Mount Etna, a highly active volcano – the last eruption being in March 2017 which was sufficient information for me to believe that we would be safe for our August sojourn. Mind you, as a small precaution I did pack (and am now wearing, in 37*C temperatures) the full Formula 1 Nomex fire retardant and heat resistant suits worn by drivers and pit crew alike. These suits are capable of resisting 800*C for a full eleven seconds which was reassuring until I read that eruptions run at between 800-1,000*C which probably means I would need Justin Gatlin’s drug-induced speed to avoid a serious singeing!
The other point of interest about Sicily is that it is the birthplace, and continues to be the epicentre of the Mafia, the criminal fraternity whose tentacles spread throughout the world, without the possible exception of China, whose Triads are equally as ruthless and pervasive as the Mafia.
One interesting fact that brings the whole Mafia thing much closer to the Ward family came to light recently.
My paternal grandfather, Ernie Ward, was an artisan bread maker with leather hands like buckets which, when he clapped them together, made a thunderous noise like Etna erupting. His standard attire would be trousers and a shirt with a detached collar (I never saw a collar) and the eponymous flat cap. As a deterrent to his recalcitrant grandchildren (or was it just me?) he would admonish us with the unspeakable threat “D’you want me hat?”
I never found out in what way I might get ‘the hat’ or what I might do with it as those four words were always sufficient to pull me into line.
The connection to the Mafia? The symbol of the Cosa Nostra is the FLAT CAP!
For those of us who live in Southend or even Sydney the Mafia is a part of history whereas here in Sicily it is still a real and present danger, such that local Magistrates continue to be escorted about their legal duty by heavily armed members of the military.
The Mafia love an anniversary. They chose to silent a prominent local priest who stood against them on his fifty-sixth birthday. Only two months ago a Mafia boss was shot dead whilst cycling through the narrow streets of Palermo on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the assassination of Antonio Falcone the anti- Mafia magistrate. This is believed to have been required to reinforce ‘omertà’ the code of silence imposed on all Mafia members.
The Mafia influence and its main revenue stream is being challenged by a growing group refusing to pay protection by joining the Contro il Pizzo society. As a unit they refuse to give into the Mafia demands.
Now you may be wondering why I am attempting a brief history into the life and times of the Cosa Nostra. All will become clear when I explain our first hour in Palermo.
The number-one son picked us up from Palermo Airport in a glamorous hired people carrier – spacious enough to take multiple adults plus a baby of some nine months and all of our accompanying luggage.
Pulling out of the airport he warned us to enjoy the comfort of the freeway as, when we hit town, we would come across some pretty narrow lanes and alley ways; so narrow that on the outward journey it had been necessary to pull in the wing mirrors as well as breathing in to enable us to squeeze through. The other major issue was that the satnav lady was insisting that we drive down a busy pedestrianised zone.
We circled the offending area a couple of times to see if we could find a road going our way that deserved the name ‘road’. Having failed in this enterprise and discovering our route down the pedestrian only precinct blocked by a dark blue car containing two armed and sweaty Polizai we decided that the narrow lane was the only option. Slowly we made our way down a narrowing road with a sharp righthand bend at the end. Credit to Andy as he manoeuvred this oversized monster truck with aplomb on roads clearly made for the eponymous Lambretta scooter and we eventually drew in the wing mirrors and I acted as the driver’s wingman to ensure that we had enough clearance on the passenger side. Several times we ground to a complete standstill to discuss the feasibility of one particularly tight alley or corner. Eventually we espied a more sensible bit of road some four hundred metres. All we needed to negotiate was the cafe tables set out for alfresco dining in this dusty thoroughfare on the one side and a corner shop on the other. We approached cautiously, at very low speed checking our distance on each side as we moved forward. Suddenly, a lady emerged from the cafe and hustled towards us before realising that there was not enough room for our vehicle, the tables and her at the same time. In horror she dived into the tables for protection, her hands flailing around in the international sign language for ‘You total arseholes, what makes you imagine that you can get that weapon down this orifice without killing someone?’
In a conciliatory manner I acknowledged her concern with a cheery smile and a salute that suggested that we had at least two inches to spare on either side.
A loud crack like gunfire echoed around the alley and car and we instinctively shut our eyes. Opening one eye I could see crimson liquid running down the car window beside me. Had I been shot and the trauma of it had caused me to feel no pain? I patted myself gingerly looking for the source of my bleeding. Nothing. Slowly two things struck me simultaneously. Firstly, it was not only ‘blood’ on the window, but also a blue coloured fluid and secondly, these liquids were on the outside of the windows. I had not been shot! We were safe!
But not for long as suddenly all hell was let loose as men emerged from the cafe and corner shop all shouting in Italian and gesticulating in that way that told us that this was not over by a long chalk. The language barrier is at its most insurmountable at times like these but one phrase continued to be slung in or direction. It took a couple of hits to discern it but is sounded like they were saying something like ‘slush puppy’. What could this mean? What was the English translation of an Italian phrase that sounds like ‘slush puppy’? Where is Google translator when you need it most? Then the bitter-sweet truth hit us. We had careered at two miles an hour into the corner shop’s precious Slush Puppy machine, spurting its colourful iced contents onto the car.
It was far from over yet. We remained impaled on the table holding the machine which was now lodged precariously against my door. The multitudes of angry Italians removed the machine back to its original resting place and we were encouraged to move slowly back, then forward to clear the alley. We were not allowed to travel too far however, as the man who was clearly the owner of both establishments but particularly a priceless Slush Puppy stood in front of the car, arms flailing, face puce with rage and voice travelling from basso profundo to soprano and back again in the space of one sentence.
Before I came away to Sicily I had done some reading about the culture a customs of the country and my image of the Mafia Don was a suave coiffured man in a sharp tonic Italian suit, white shirt and silk tie. The truth, apparently, cannot be further from the this image. In order to blend into the background the Mafia Capo is more likely to wear the simple garb of the agricultural worker. And so this scruffy unshaven maniac in front of the car had all of the hallmarks of my new vision of a very dangerous and ruthless character who murdered simply in order to join the Family.
We stepped out of the car, our palms raised in a sign of appeasement and when he realised that we were not part of a rival gang who had created this standoff to assert our authority over his, his decibel level lowered a couple of points. I think that it was my tartan shorts and ‘Grandpa Pig’ tee shirt that sealed the deal.
The catastrophe distilled down to a bit of a dent in the chassis of the Slush Puppy machine plus three cracked drip trays. In the UK we would have exchanged insurance details, shaken hand and been on our way. Here in Sicily, shaking hand could result in the loss of a couple of vital digits and the alternative currency to the insurance broker was the horses head on your pillow. The negotiations were speedy and somewhat one sided but we drove away content with our part of the bargain – our lives, our car and three cracked Slush Puppy drip trays for a mere €50. Deal!
So we’ve arrived!

Nature and me live in different worlds.
Here I sit in the depths of Kent, the Garden of England, in a National Trust estate with the reputation of being one of the most picturesque and manicured gardens in the country. Horticultural students flock here from around the world to follow in the footsteps of the illustrious writer and TV gardener, Christopher Lloyd. It is mid-summer and I am wearing the obligatory shorts and tee shirt. The weather is typical for mid-summer England: sheeting rain, gale forced winds and temperatures in single figures.
I have rejected the numerous garden options in favour of the Tea Room. This description would hardly pass any Trade Description scrutiny being, as it is, a roof (albeit a waterproof roof) suspended on half a dozen substantial wooden pillars – a timber gazebo in effect. Surely the term ‘room’ should require the edifice to contain at least three walls and, perhaps, the odd window or two. Maybe I’m just a bit too ‘old school’ when it comes to my Tea Rooms.
My foray into the world of soil, plants and creepie-crawlies is, in spite of how it may sound, a relief after too many weeks submerged by the urban challenges of ageing neighbours, infirm relatives and the growing contagion of dementia. A breath of fresh country air, the banishment of ‘to do’ lists and the freedom to just sit and observe, rather than act and advise, is just what my soul craves.
As I sit in my al fresco Tea Room avoiding, where possible, the encroaching wind and rain I feel my equilibrium returning. The soreness between the shoulder blades, my symptom for stress, becomes a fading memory and my expression morphs from a studious frown into a contented smile – not the full on grin that unsettles those who spot it, forcing them to check for a faulty trouser zip or a skirt tucked into a knicker elastic. No, this is just a smile that says “I’m fine, and so are you.”
My spirits soar still further as I spot, walking in my direction a dozen or so ladies of a certain age all favouring something purple and sporting bright red hats or whispy fascinators, the more ostentatious the better! Clearly, they must be members of the Red Hat Society whose philosophy is simply to grow old disgracefully:-
“When I grow old I will wear purple and a red hat, which do not go together and which do not suit me.” Just because I can!
I am pleased to offer up my single occupancy seat at a table made for six to this new group and am warmly thanked for my generosity.
“My Mum always told me to give up my seat to any lady wearing a red hat,” I explain to looks of concern from some of the ladies. It is not until later that I learn a new phrase, popular in the East Sussex/Kent area which is “Red hat and no knickers.”
I have never heard this before but offer the Hornchurch equivalent which is “Fur coat and no knickers.” Obviously, Hornchurch is a more affluent area than Sussex.
Some are concerned about the implications of my remark, others just see me as a sister from another mother.
The mission of the Red Hat Society is to meet new friends, visit new places and simply have fun.
When the weather closes in still further I am invited to perch on the end of the table with them. I accept gratefully and pull out my Ipad from my rucksack.
“I can’t be doing with them electronic flicky-dickies!” offers one of my new companions.
“Oh! I really enjoy my electronic flicky-dicky” laughs another, a wicked glint in her eye.
I join the debate, “I love an electronic flicky-dicky,” I claim, realising too late that there might be a double entendre lurking in this conversation, ” I’ve just been in contact with Southampton, for example.”
“Don’t like Southampton,” protests the first speaker, “now if it had been Eastbourne, you’d have had me!”
The Red Hat Society continue a lively debate about the relative merits of Southampton and Eastboune. Like a car changing gear from fourth to second without the aid of the clutch the conversation judders into a different direction.
“Can you hear that bird singing?”
“I love to listen to the birds in my garden every morning. I try to whistle back to them and see if they will respond.”
“You can whistle, then?”
“Of course, everyone can, can’t they?”
“Do you have to put your fingers in your mouth?
“Depends how I feel – sometimes I do.”
The table, as one, attempts to whistle. Scone crumbs fly across the table top like a snow storm. No-one notices, or at least no-one seems to care.
The quality of the whistling varies widely from something akin to transcendental modulation to the splutter of a burst water pipe.
They are enjoying themselves enormously and invite me to have a go.
I provide me with my masterpiece – a shrill piercing note guaranteed to get the attention of my children, when they were young, at a distance of 100 yards. This has all of the power of a four-finger whistle but without the use of any fingers! I nod my head and rhythmically shrug my shoulders like Mark Knopfler completing his seven minute guitar solo in ‘Sultans of Swing’.
My audience clap in appreciation and wonderment. The Red Hat Society call for an encore.
Stage fright suddenly hits me. My lips dry and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The best I can muster is the burst pipe splutter.
We all laugh.