Earlier in this book I mentioned Florence Trevelyan, the animal and garden lover who left her mark on Sicily. I couldn’t help but think how much Taormina has changed since this, her description of it:
When the weather was good I spent the whole day at the Greek Theatre reading. I saw the dawn there and the sunset. The old part of the village is very picturesque with simple little fishermen’s cottages and sheep in the middle of antique monuments, and old noble palaces amid orange and lemon trees in flower also almond trees which have a snowy white flower. Many times we’ve walked down to the sea or climbed to the top of Monte Venere, which is 800 metres above sea. From its summit there is a wonderful view in every direction you look you can see the entire east of Sicily until Syracuse. Etna dominates a sea that is even more shining and there are so many bougainvillea, cyclamens and anemones. It is beautiful like a fairy story.
Florence loved Isola Bella. She used to take her terrier and greyhound there to bathe and would climb to the top of the island to meditate. In 1890, she bought the place for 5,700 lire. She cultivated her husband’s land, planting olives, cypress and exotic trees, and constructed the little pavilions where she would retire to paint even when it rained. She collected parrots, canaries, tortoises and many other birds. Florence was to suffer terribly when, having conceived at thirty-eight, her first and only son died within minutes of being born. It was a blow that changed her whole attitude to life. From then on she dedicated herself to her adored husband and to helping the poor in Taormina. She was also godmother to eighty-seven young women, to whom she gave presents on their wedding days.
The cause of her death reminded me of the extraordinary Italian fear of draughts. They go to great lengths to protect themselves from the colpa d’aria, literally translated as ‘hit by air’. This can strike in the eye, ear, head or any part of their abdomen.
You will see a man or woman swaddled in scarves even though a spring day may be sunny and indeed quite warm. Children play in parks looking like little Michelin men in their padded coats. Until at least April, they must never go out without wearing a woollen vest, known as a maglia della salute (a ‘shirt of health’).
Florence died from pneumonia, which seems to have been caused by her inordinate love of fresh air and cold baths. She appears to have scoffed at any idea of being ‘struck by air’. Barrels of seawater would be carried to the couple’s mountaintop villa, the Villa di Mendecino. With the windows wide open and the wind whistling through the house, she would stand in her petticoats while this icy water was poured over her. Her request to be buried in the family tomb on Monte Venere was carried out to the letter. It must have been a most spectacular funeral. People from every walk of life threw flowers as the coffin progressed past them. They recalled her many acts of kindness, the lasting legacy she had left the town. A procession followed the cortège to the lonely spot in the mountains under Monte Venere where Florence had chosen to be laid to rest. Among the mourners was her gardener, carrying an oil lamp to be placed in her tomb, and for years after, until he was too old to make the ascent, he kept the lamp filled and burning.