the great sicilian cat rescue -...

Tomyfather,George,whotaughtmecats

werecreatedtobecherished.

Contents

TitlePageDedicationPROLOGUEONE:ACATCALLED

LIZZIETWO:AROMANTIC’S

VIEWOFITALYTHREE:INTHESHADOW

OFETNAFOUR:SYRACUSE–A

SICILIANFAREWELL

FIVE:THESECRETLIVESOFFERALCATS

SIX:THECATSOFTHEPUBLICGARDENS

SEVEN:SOMEENCOUNTERSWITH

CATLADIESEIGHT:ANAPPOINTMENT

WITHTAORMINA

NINE:GOODBYELIZZIETEN:WELOVETHEM;

BUTDOCATSLOVEUS?

ELEVEN:IGLIMPSETHEDARKSIDEOFSICILY

TWELVE:ELKE,CAT‘MOTHER’TOA

MYRIADFELINESTHIRTEEN:ILEARNTHE

SADFATEOFLIZZIEFOURTEEN:GIOVANNI,

THEMANWHOLOVESFLOWERS

FIFTEEN:ILAUNCHCATSNIP

SIXTEEN:OPERATIONCATSNIP

SEVENTEEN:NINO’SCATS

–LAUGHTERANDTEARS

EIGHTEEN:GENOVEFFA,THELITTLECATLADYWITHABIGHEART

NINETEEN:THETALEOFGINGERANDLUCKYSTAR

TWENTY:ACRASHCOURSEINTHESICILIANPSYCHE

TWENTY-ONE:ATIMEINROME

TWENTY-TWO:IHAVEMYDOUBTS

TWENTY-THREE:HOWELKEBECAMEACATLADY

TWENTY-FOUR:DOGSNEEDTOBERESCUEDTOO

TWENTY-FIVE:A

YORKSHIREMANANDMARSALAWINE

TWENTY-SIX:THEENGLISHWOMANWHOWONASICILIAN’SHEART

TWENTY-SEVEN:FORTHELOVEOFCATS

TWENTY-EIGHT:CATSNIPARRIVESINTHEHOUSEOFCOMMONS

TWENTY-NINE:LIFEATVILLAPACE

THIRTY:IDISCOVERTHE‘REAL’SICILY

THIRTY-ONE:VALERIA,AVERYSPECIALCATLADY

THIRTY-TWO:ETNA–ABROODINGPRESENCE

THIRTY-THREE:AHOUSEINSICILY

THIRTY-FOUR:THECOMPASSIONATETOURIST

THIRTY-FIVE:THECATSANCTUARIESOFTRIESTE

THIRTY-SIX:SADIE,KATARINAANDTHEINCREDIBLERESCUEOFABLINDKITTEN

THIRTY-SEVEN:ICOME

TOTERMSWITHSICILYADDENDUM:A

PRACTICALCHAPTERUSEFULCONTACTSACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

GLOSSARYPlatesCopyright

Prologue

amstandinginaSicilianbus park, waiting for a

man I have never metbefore. We are to drivealong narrow twistingroadstoasmalltowninthemountains in search of abadly injured cat. It is a

balmy evening in June2002,theairladenwiththesensuous fragrance ofjasmine, which steals intomy mind and conjures upimages of my past in thislittle town ofTaormina.Ashawl of magentabougainvillea isslungoverthe wall to my left, whileswallows dart through theduskysky.

There is a

voluptuousness of thesenses about Sicily; youforget you are no morethan a twenty-minute ferryride from the toe of Italy.Perhaps its history ofinvaders – Arab, Normanand Phoenician to namebut a few, each leavingtheir stamp on thelandscape – gives thisisland its sense ofotherness.

Fromthetrattoriaafewyards down the road comethe tantalising scents ofgarlickytomatoandbasil.Iimagine the tables packedwith holidaymakersenjoyingtheirmeal.Drunkon sunshine, a day spentbasking like lizards on thebeach at Isola Bella orMazzaro, they throw offtheir northern reticence,speak in loud voices, call

for another carafe of thelocal wine. Gales oflaughter, they haven’t acareintheworld.Howmystomach growls! I wouldlove to be among them,forking up chunks ofaubergine, savouring therich sauce of Pasta allaNorma with its sprinklingof smoked ricotta. Ormaybe I would choosePasta con le Sarde, the

dish that derives fromArabic cuisine, with itscombination of sultanas,pine nuts and saffron. Yetthe ingredients themselveshave been native to Sicilysince the time when theGreeks first landed onNaxos beach and settledthere. Wild fennel comesinto it and anchovy fillets,as well as the ubiquitoussardines.

Busesroarinandoutofthis park while I wait,musing on food. Theairport coach disgorgesnew arrivals; a youngwomanwith red hair tearsherself from the arms of ayoung man and boards,waving desperately as thevehicle bears her away. ItremindsmethatmystayinTaormina, unlike thoseothertimes,islimited.

Iaskmyself:WhatamIdoing here, bound on thismission with only a fainthope of finding the poorcreature? Who knows, bynowitmayhaverunofftohide and die.Why can’t Isimply enjoy this beautifulevening? But that is mynature:alwaysdividedbyasenseofdutyandaragetolive. I am poised betweenstaying and going. If this

mandoesn’tarrivesoon…A car swings into the

bus park; the man at thewheelcallsoutmyname.ItisGiulio.

A Cat Called Lizzie

hat I didn’t knowatthat timewaswhere

this rescue of a small cat,white with smudges ofblack, would lead me.Perhaps itwas justaswell

for I was about to embarkon a journey that hasalready stretched overtwelveyearswithnoendinsight. It has been one ofhard work and manyobstacles but also success,and on the way I havechanged from that personwith her overly romanticview of Sicily. She, thatother Jenny,with her verydifferent vision of this

island, now seems remote.Myeyeshavebeenopenedtoanother,shadowysideoftheplaceIbelievedIknewsowell.

Thatmorning,aswesatwith our coffee,my friendand travelling companionAndrew and I, gazingdownfromtheapartment’spicture window onto IsolaBella, I could never haveimagined how the day

would turn out. From oureyrie,250metresabovethecoast, people looked likeants crawling over theisthmus, a narrow path ofsand connecting the rockyisland to the mainland,constantly shaped andreshaped by currents andtides. Taormina is perchedon the side of the rockyMonte Tauro and so wehad a wonderful view of

the bay nestled betweentwo high cliffs. Thenorthern one, CapoSant’Andrea, with itsfamedBlueGrotto,sheltersthebayfromnortheastandeast winds; the southernone, Capo Taormina,screens west winds. Thejewel they encircle is apainter’s paradise of ever-changing light. Thismorning it was

magnificent, with the sunspread like molten silverover the sea so that oneside of the island was indeep shadow, the otherluminous.

Yesterday evening, aswe made the steep walkback, pausing every nowand again to regain ourbreath before we tookanother flight of steps, thelightwaslimpid,pearlgrey

and pink; you could seequite clearly the outline ofCalabria, the lightstwinkling at the ferry portof San Giovanni. Theisland seemed afloat intranslucent mist while astrange-looking sunhovered and then set, andthe sea towards Messinahadaglassysurface.

Irevelledinthethoughtthat this view would be

mineforsixweeks.IfIhadhad any misgivings aboutmy prolonged stay inTaormina, they vanishedthefirsttimeIsteppedintothis apartment. It wasgorgeous: its great beddressed with flowerycoverletsandcushions, thebathroom stacked withfluffy towels, and therewas plenty of hot water.Thekitchenwasefficiently

equipped with microwave,cooker, refrigerator and acupboard full of everypossiblecleaningmaterialImight need. My Germanlandlady,Elke,hadthoughtofeverything.Butthemostdelightful thing was thishuge, wonderful windowgivingontoIsolaBella.

Icouldhavesatthereallday, reading or writing,sometimesraisingmyhead

to see the way the watercrept across the peninsula.I would watch time passfrom morning when thesun rises scarlet over thelittleislandtonightandthemoon silvering the sea,where one or two fishingboatsmightbeseen.

Andrew interrupted mythoughts. ‘What shall wedotoday?’

I considered. It was a

long time since I’d sat inthe Bar Turrisi and sippeda glass of Vino diMandorla, beginning withthe first sweetness butdeveloping into the bitterand characteristic taste ofalmond.

‘I know, let’s take thebus up to Castelmola,’ Isuggested. ‘You’ve neverseen it, have you? Andthere’s a very odd place I

wanttoshowyou.’I have said that the

views from Taormina arebeautiful, but those fromCastelmola, a naturalbalcony above it, are evenmore spectacular. Yougaze down over the hillsand valleys, traced withsnaking pathways, and thefaint tinkle of goats’ bellsfloats through the still air.Onacleardayyoucansee

notonlyEtnabutas farasSyracuse and Augustaalong the Ionian coast,even the coastline ofmainlandCalabria.

The town is a place oflavastone-pavedpiazzas,amaze of small windingstreets, where often thereseemsnosignof lifeapartfrom the cats scurryingaway at your approach.You’llmaybecatchawhiff

of lunch being prepared,frying fish perhaps, andalways the scents of basilandgarlic.Along themainstreet, Via de Gasperi,there remains the sense ofstepping back in time;therearenocars incentralCastelmola. Here you canbuy lace and embroideriesmade by the localwomen,whositoutside theirshopsand call out to friends as

they pass. Then there arethe armoured and glaringmarionettes for sale, thepupi belonging to an oraltradition handed downfrom father to son. I oncewenttoapuppet theatre inCatania. The performancewas all clashing swordsand declamations. Mycompaniontoldmethatthetheme was based on aFrankish romantic poem,

the ‘Song of Roland’perhaps or ‘OrlandoFurioso’, but I have toadmitIdidn’tunderstandawordofit.

We had arrived inPiazzaSanAntoniowhere,years ago, I sat in theBarGiorgio on a chillywinter’s day, feeling I hadsomehow strayed into analpine village. I almostexpectedtohearyodelling.

About me there was amurmur of voices, theSicilian dialect, which Inever succeeded inmastering, except for theodd few words andphrases. ‘Muh’ is one ofthem, that ever-presentexpressionaccompaniedbya shrug of the shoulders,which can mean so manythings: ‘I don’t know’,‘What can one do?’, even

‘I’m not telling youanything’. Then there ispazienza, which sums upthe resignation to fate oftheseislanders,whetherthepassingofahusbandorthedreaded hot and humidwindthatblowsinfromtheSahara,theSirocco.

There seemed to be noother foreign visitors atthat time of year andCastelmola was almost

deserted; only about athousand people live therepermanently.Mytablewasan oasis amid all thatimpassioned conversationwhere, as always, I wasbusilywriting.

But today the goalwasBar Turrisi. I wanted tosurprise Andrew with itsbizarre collection. Phallusimagesofeverysize,shapeandcolourcrowdtheplace

– on counter tops, carvedinto stair railings andchairs, hung on the wallsand drawn on the menu.Visitthebathroomandyouwill find yourself washingyour hands under a tapshaped like a malemember. The obvioussymbol is fertility and thebar owner’s boast ofprocreating three sons infive years lays claim to

that.The sun burned in the

vividbluesky,reflectedoffthe paving, and I couldthink of nothing I shouldlikemore than tosit in thedim, cool depths of BarTurrisiwithaglassof thatice-coldwine.

But Andrew hesitated.‘Later,’hesaid.

Andhewasoff,dartingdownsomestepsthatledto

alowerlevel,whileIinmyheeled sandals followedmore cautiously, throughthe narrow, uneven streetsofthislabyrinthinevillage.Here,onestreet looksverymuch like another, thefront doors of the housesgiving directly onto them,andweseemedtobegoinground in a circle. I pausedto admire a window boxstuffed with gaudy

geraniumsandlostsightofAndrew.When I did catchup, I found he had haltedandwasstaringinsilence.

‘What?Whatisit?’And then I saw. Lying

on thegroundwas a smallblackandwhite catwith aghastlywound–abacklegso shattered we could seethe bone protrudingthrough its skin. Wecouldn’t understand why

the fur surrounding thewound was stained withwhat looked like a pinkdye. She did not move, inthe way of cats enduringwithoutasoundwhatmusthave been considerablepain.

‘We’ve got to dosomething,’Isaid.

I glanced upward. Atthat moment a group oflocal people passed along

the street above us,speakinginloudvoices.

They halted and peereddown. ‘Poor creature,’ Iheard one of them say butthentheymovedon.

‘What can you do?’askedAndrew.

‘Something,’ I repliedfirmly.‘Wecan’tjustleaveherlikethis.’

I went up the stepsagainandscannedtheroad

for any sign of a humanbeing.Itwasnowdeserted.Then as I turned intoanothersmallstreetIsawayoungmanintheforecourtofahouse,workingonhismotorbike.Ihurriedacross.

‘Can you help? I needto find a vet, there is abadly injured cat overthere.’

He was a big, beefyyoung man, wearing a

black leather jacket. Iexpected him to laugh orjust turn away, but helistenedtome.

‘I knowavet,’ he said.‘But he isn’t from here. Ifyou like, we can call himonmyphone.’

Thatwas themoment Ifirst spoke to Giulio. No,he couldn’t come at themoment–hewasworkingwith farm animals in the

centre of Sicily but hewould be in the vicinitylater on. If I liked, wecould return to Castelmolaaround eight, that night,andseewhathecoulddo.

I went back to tellAndrew. The cat in thefastidious way of felineshad been trying to cleanherself. I wondered againaboutthepinkdyestainingher fur. There was no

question now of going toTurrisi to enjoy thatalmond wine. We hungaround, eyeing thewretched creature, feelinghelpless.Timepassed.

Andrew glanced at hiswatch. ‘The bus is due inten minutes,’ he said,‘we’dbettergetgoing.’

BynowIwascrying.‘I’m not leaving her,’ I

toldhim.

‘If we don’t catch thisone, it will have to be thenext because it’s the lastandthere’snootherwayofgetting back to Taormina.What can you do until thevetcancome?’

Hewasright,ofcourse.With one last look at thepoorcreature,Itoremyselfaway and we hurriedthrough the streets to thebus stop. The sunlit,

carefree sense ofCastelmola seemedreplaced by gloom: it hadbecome a hostile placewherepeoplecouldleaveasmallcattosuffer.

Back at the apartment,we sat at thewindowwithaglassofwine,waitingforthe time to pass until Icould go back to the buspark, where Giulio hadarrangedtomeetme.

If he thought I was amad Englishwoman, hemadenocomment;perhapsin this tourist townhewasused to it. He had comepreparedwithatorch,thickgauntletsandahumanecattrap.We took thewindingroad again, back toCastelmola.

Night falls suddenly inSicily. Pools of light layover the streets from the

cafesandrestaurantswherepeople laughedand talked,darting a curious glance atthe man and womanhurrying past, carrying atrap and a torch. I feltdisorientated as weprowled the little streets,trying to find the onewhere I’d last seen her.Wasitthesestepsorthose?It was hard to tell in thegloom. Beginning to lose

hope, I was afraid thatGiulio would growimpatient and suggest weabandon our search but heseemed to be equallydeterminedtofindher.

At last he snapped offhis torch. ‘She is probablyhiding,’ he said. ‘Let’s goto that restaurant and askforsomefoodtoputinthetrap.’

‘Muh!’ said the

proprietor but neverthelesshehandedovera small tinof meat. We set it in thetrap and moved away tohide round a corner, towatch and wait. It musthave been almost half anhour later when we heardthereleaseofthetrapdoor.We rushed over and therewas a small black andwhitecat,scrabblingat thewirebars,frantictoescape.

Then we drove down toGiulio’s surgery inGiardini.

Giardini…thenamehassuch resonance for me. Itwashereat thestation thatI arrived for the first timein Sicily, thirty years ago.Candelabra hang from itsmarvellous booking-hallceiling, an exquisite pieceofartdeco.

Cunningly disguised as

Bagheria on the westernside of Sicily, the stationfeatured in the filmGodfather III. Here,Michael Corleone awaitedhiswifeandchildren,whowere visiting for his sonAnthony’s debut inCavalleriaRusticana.

Giardini station is thegateway to thenorth; fromhereyoucantraveldirectlyto Milan or Venice, but

whenIarriveditwasfromRome.When I step inside,I see again the young girlclimbing down from thetrain with her suitcase,bemused after so manyhours’travel,whofindsthestation cafe and drinks herfirst cup of Sicilian coffeewith the scent of harshcigarette smoke in hernostrils.

Tonight, however, we

stood in Giulio’s surgeryunder the brilliant neonlightwhilethecat,releasedfrom the trap, flewdemented round the room,even up the walls,searchingforescape.

Giulio burst outlaughing and I joined in.‘What are we doing?’ heasked.

Somehow he managedtograbholdof thecatand

give her a sedative, then Iwent to sit in the littlewaiting room while he setand plastered the break. Istared at the clock on thewall: it was eight hourssince we had taken thatfateful turning inCastelmola.Whyhadn’twestuck to my plan? I askedmyself. We might bestanding in Taormina’sPiazza IX Aprile by now,

gazingovertotheredglowof Etna, that moodyvolcano, as every Sicilianfeels drawn to do, at leastonceaday.ButIknewmyanswer: it seemed fatehadtakenusdown thatnarrowstreetperhapshoursafteravehiclehadstruckthelittlecat. Had it been anyoneelse I doubt they wouldhave bothered, if theattitude of those passing

Sicilians was anything togo by. But I hadmade upmymind:whatever itcost,I was prepared to do all Icouldtorestoreher.

‘What was that pinkstuff?’IaskedGiuliowhenhe finally emerged,carryingthecatnowsafelysecuredinabasket.

‘Bleach,’ he replied.‘Some mistaken idiotthinking it would disinfect

thewound.’‘They don’t seem to

understand anything aboutanimalshere,’Iobserved.

Giulio gave the ‘muh’shrug.

Thequestionwas:whatnow?Thecatcouldn’tstayhere, that was obvious, sowhere? Scarcely thinkingwhat I was saying, I toldGiulioIwouldnurseherintheapartment.

He gave me a wrysmile. ‘For at least twoweeks!Areyousure?’

Isighed.‘WhatelsecanIdo?’

It was almost midnightwhen we arrived back atthe apartment and I rangthe outside doorbell.Andrew came hurryingdownthesteps.

‘What’s going on?’ heasked.

Giulio shook my hand.‘Imust go, but I’ll call byin a few days’ time to seehow she is getting on,’ hetold me beforedisappearing down thelittlestreet.

‘I’m going to call herLizzie,’ I said, as Andrewcarriedthecatbasketuptothe apartment door.‘Because she is my queenofCastelmola.’

‘You’re mad,’ he toldme.

A Romantic’s Viewof Italy

canseeclearlywheremylove affair with Sicily

began: I spentmy teenageyears reading about life

while my peers were outexperiencing it. Illnessconstrained me to livevicariously through thenovels of E.M. Forster,Henry James,Flaubert andTolstoy.

TherewasDaisyMillerwho flirts with theunsuitable moustachioedItalian and, defying thewarnings of her sensiblerelatives, succumbs to

malariaafterstayingupallnight with him in theForum. Then there wasEmma Bovary and AnnaKarenina. The lesson Ilearned from these storieswas that, even ifexperience proved fatal inone sense or another, itmustbesubmittedto.

Iwrote–andpublished–women’smagazine shortstories. In all of them

providence stepped in,disappointments wereovercome and a solutionoffered, though often thatsolution was to move onafteratransientloveaffair.Allthiswashardlythebestpreparation for success inthe eyes of the world butsuch tales of women whodefied common sense andpursued their lust for lifepersuaded me it was

necessary to sacrifice allfor romance.Worse, Ialsobelieved there was somedestiny or fate that wouldtake over and guide me; Ijust had to get myself outthere and see whathappened.

At twenty-two, I wascompletely recovered andreadytodivein,inshort,tolive!Butwhere?Andhow?I was young, already a

successful journalist, andlife in Brighton wasbuzzing.What should I dowiththepartofmyselfthatlonged for ‘something tohappen’?

I arrived in Florencealmost by accident.Travelling with a friend,we caught the midnightStrasbourg–FirenzePellegrino. I think therewassomekindofromantic

involvement in Alsace; Ididn’t want to leave andGillian had to push meontothattrain.

In a parallel universe,Italy had always beenthere, waiting for me.When we stood on thePiazza Michelangelo andgazed down onto that cityof ochre and terracotta,illuminated by the settingsun, it appeared like one

huge palazzo. Magic! Iknew therewasno turningback, all would now berevealed. With hindsight Irealise this was eitherwishful thinking or thecontrived ending of aromanticwriter;real lifeisnotlikethat.

Allthesame,nowIhadlaunchedmyself onto ItalyIcouldnotstop; itbecamea drug. I was really only

happy when on the move.Life in England was aninterlude, a timeofgettingabitmoremoneytogether,planningmy next journey.Nothing could comparewith the excitement ofboarding a train in Parisand rushing through thenight. The couchetteattendant would arrive topull down the beds and Iwould lie, sniffing the

scentofcleanlinen,dozingfitfully to be wakened byechoingKafkaesquevoicesannouncing themysteriousnamesofstations,orbytherandom shunting of ourtrain from one track toanother.

In the early hours I’dtumbleoutofbedandgotoqueue for my turn in thenowsmellytoilet.Myfacein the mirror looked ugly

andpuffyfromhoursintheconfined space of thecompartment.Itiscertainlynot the most comfortableway of travelling but Iloved it, love it still: thatsenseofanticipationasthehours pass and you go tostand in the corridor towatch for the long-awaitedstationtoslideintoview.

Those trains took menotonlyfurtherandfurther

south but on a voyage ofself-discovery. Inretrospect I see suchjourneyingashavinga lifeof its own, springing froma deep needwithinmyselftoescapefromthebookishyounggirl, to discovermysensuousself.

‘ThesunisGod,’astheartist J.M.W. Turner isreputedtohavesaidonhisdeathbed. At that time the

sunwasmygod.Ipinedforit, basked in it; under itsbenign flame I exploredbeautiful cities, enteredcool museums andgalleries; crossed theLagoon to the island ofMurano in a vaporetto,climbed towers and gazedover arcadedBologna.Butall the time a part of meremained detached, as if Iwere watching myself, the

heroine of one of thosenovels I had devoured, towhom something mighthappentoaltermydestiny.However energetically Icourted this ‘life’, in anobscureway I remained inonepiece.

Of course there wereencounters. I flirted,laughed a lot, drankwine;met men with mysteriousdouble lives for lunch,

neverdinner.Iwoketothesound of goats andchickens, the Tuscan sunslanting across thebedroom floor with amannamed Dante beside me;and in spite of thatcautionary tale of HenryJames’, Daisy Miller, IstayedupallnighttowatchthesunriseintheForum.

All this until, one late-spring evening, I stood in

Rome’s Borghese gardens,admiringthefamoussunsetview from the PincioTerrace. Iwatched the skyblaze with light, swallowsdarting across it like inkdrawings in a Japanesepicture. Spires and domesseemed to float in the air.MyheartliftedasIrealisedthis delightful relationshipI’d entered into with Italycouldcontinueindefinitely.

Like the swallows etchedagainst the sunset glow, Iwasfreetocomeandgo,toenjoyabitof ladolcevitawithnodangerofbreakingmyheart.

WhythendidIgotothePressClub?Whatbadfairydirected me to little ViaMercedesatthehourwhenforeign correspondents,having filed their day’sstories, would be in the

bar? I could have strolledthrough the coolingeveningstreets,crossedtherivertoTrastevere,satatapavement table in one ofthe trattorie andenjoyedapizza and somewine.Or Imight have joined theevening crowds, had myportraitdonebyanartistonthe Spanish Steps. Like somany life-changingevents,it was launched by a

random decision. Had Iknownwhereitwouldleadme,Ishouldhaveturnedinthe opposite direction,steppedintoaphoneboothand called my friends,Mario or Antonello.Hindsight,astheysay,isawonderfulthing.

Icanseemyselfclearly:I’msittingata table in thePressClubbar,myhaircutin a shiny bob, and I’m

wearing the pink trousersuit my mother made forme.On the table isaglassof white wine and I’msmoking one of the Italianworkmen’s cigarettes myboyfriendDanteintroducedme to, during my time inFlorence. I hear my namecalled. Glancing towardsthe bar, I see Leslie. Hedoesn’thavemuchtime,issnatching a beer before he

goesouttodinner.I’vemethim before – I’ve met themajority of Rome‘stringers’.

Leslie asks me aboutEngland but in the vaguemanner of someone whohascutalltiesandbecomean expat. Naively, I gushabouthowmuchI’dliketostay on in Rome; can heputanyfreelanceworkmyway?Inreply,hepointsto

myglass.‘Another?’Suddenly he seems

anxious to get away but,before he leaves, hesuggests it: ‘Why don’tyou go down to Sicily?Have a look at Taormina,it’sacornerofparadise.’

Andthatwasthat.Two days later, I went

to Roma Termini stationand bought my ticket. I

returned to the hotel,packedmycaseandcarriedit down the several flightsof stairs. There was noporter; this was a verycheaphotel.

‘Al mare?’ the elderlywoman at the receptiondesk asked me. ‘Are yougoingtothesea?’

I shrugged, the Italianshrug.

What Icouldn’t tellher

because I didn’t knowmyselfwasthesignificanceofthisjourneyIwasaboutto undertake. It seemed tome just more interminablehours on a train rewardedby the light and joie devivreofyetanotherpartofItaly.

Notso.Sicily was my

epiphany. It altered meprofoundly and I wonder

about that change. I hadlonged to escape England,to travel south, to ‘live’like those heroines in thebooks I read. What I didnot bargain for was theconflict of cultures, theinfidelity of the Sicilianmalewho‘doesnotwanttoeat spaghetti every day’,butwhocanequallyjustifyitallbyadding,‘thewifeisthe wife, the foreigner is

the foreigner.’ I was notprepared for Sicily’s‘terrifying insularity’, asdescribed in DiLampedusa’sTheLeopard.

I had yearned forromance but I did notreckon on how muchinnocence one needs tolose in its pursuit, how fartheinteriorjourney.

This was the ultimatelove affair because it was

not so much with a manbut a deep and abidingpassion for a place.DangerouswhenthatplaceisSicily,mythicalislandofthe monsters Scylla andCharybdis, home of Circethe enchantress; composedof somany elements, blueseasandsky, sun,butalsoshadowsandsuffering.

Thereisnotamountainoravalleythathasnotrun

withthebloodofinvaders.Sicily, gateway to theMediterranean, NorthAfricaandtheAdriatic,hasalways been a covetedlocation for trade andcolonisation. Here, theMafia began as a way oflife, ameans of protectingthe family and loved onesfromtheunjustauthorityofwhatever dominantconqueror was in power.

Sicily’s oppressive historyof many corrupt andjudicially inept rulersfostered a mood of self-reliance and respect forfamily and friends. Thishistory provided theestablishment andnecessity of the Mafia, anatmosphere where, if youwere crafty, you couldwork the system to youradvantage andwinwealth,

powerandstatus.When Rome took

control of Sicily in 241BC, the Romansintroduced their feudalsystem called latifundia,large landedestates,whichproducedgrain,oliveoilorwine for the benefit of theowner.Itwasratherlikeanearly form of intensivefarming and depended onslave labour. There was

also a new justice systemwhere decisions of onearea versus another wereoften very different. TheSicilians,whowereusedtosustenance farming,growing just enough foodto feed themselves andtheir families, challengedthis but Rome upheld thelandlords’ authority. Thissocial structure of apecking order paved the

way for the Mafia toemerge.

In AD 826, Sicily’snextrulersweretheArabs.Although non-Muslimswere permitted to practisetheir own religions, theisland came under theinfluence of Islam.On thepositiveside, thespreadofliterature and the arts wasencouraged, but, morenegatively, itpromoted the

maltreatment andsubordination of women.Later, the Mafia was toadoptthisideaandtokeepwomen out of its affairs.AnotheraspectofArablawadopted by Sicilians wasthe ideaof internal justice:instead of having a solidsystem to deal with crimeanddelinquency,theyusedpersonal justice to avengemisdeeds.

Next came theNormans, who annexedSicily in the eleventhcentury. Their systemrevertedbacktothatoftheRomans, of estatemanagers whose onlyallegiance was the king.Together with theirlandlord bosses, they livedbytheirownrules,creatingan even greaterinconsistency of justice

throughout the island. TheSicilian man in the streettook to creating his ownsmall groups and dealingwithmattershimself ratherthan going to theauthorities. La Famigliawas now most important,the unit you could rely onand it has continued so tothisday.

When the SpanishAragonesetookoverpower

of Sicily in AD 1300, therulers set a strict limit oninformation arriving fromtheoutsideworld; thiswasalmost the reverse of theArab culture. Sicilianswere deprived of theartistic, scientific andagricultural developmentsarriving with the ItalianRenaissance, somethingthat surely made themdraw more closely in on

themselves. Differences injustice between estateswereexacerbatedwhentheSpanish embarked on theInquisition. By 1487, itwas using this to furthercontroltheSicilians.Taxeswere lifted for someinfluential Christians,while others werefinancially blighted. Signsof unrest were quelled byexecutionsand,aswiththe

Mafia, the Spanishgovernmentdidacover-upjob. The reaction amongtheislanderswastoturntointernal justicewithin theirgroup: an early form ofMafia.

Moving on to thenineteenth century, not sovery long after theunificationofItalyin1860,powercontrol inanumberoftheisland’ssmall towns

concentrated on fourelements: the Church, ofcourse; the localaristocrat,who could also be animportant landowner,enabledtocollectrentsbutperhapsnottaxes;thetownhall; and a respected‘gentleman’.

In reality, thisgentleman was Mafiosowhose army of bully boyswould intimidate, extort

and even kill. The Mafia,asweknowit,wasborn.

Nevertheless, thequestionhastobeaskedofhow it is this organisationhas survived into thetwenty-first century. It is aquestionofthemorethingschange, the more theyremain the same. Therecontinuestoexistalackofconfidence in thecompetence of law

enforcementanddistrustofthe state. Probably themainreasonwhyorganisedcrime continues to be sopowerful in the south ofItaly is the overallfurtiveness of the people,bredoutof thosecenturiesof domination. Theyassume that theirpoliticians are greedythieves. Businessmen areconvinced their associates

are poised, ready to steal.Unions expect employeeswill be exploited; couplestake it almost for grantedthat infidelity is just to beexpected. The reaction isnot togiveanythingaway,to be crafty and beat theothersattheirowngame.

Looking at Sicily fromthe outside, many peopleviewtheMafiaasthecauseofsomesocialproblems.In

truth, it is the effect, aresult of centuries ofentrenched customs. Thereistheraccomandazioni,thefavouringofonecontenderover another for personalor expedient reasons,certainly not for those ofmerit. This colours manyfacets of Sicilian modusvivendi, making it a ripebreeding ground for allforms of corruption,

dishonestyandcriminality.Then there is nepotism, a2008 article in theEconomist reported: ‘thisweek news emerged of auniversity rector who, thedaybeforeheretiredon31October,signedadecreetomakehissonalecturer.AtPalermo University, asmany as 230 teachers arereported to be related toother teachers’. In such a

climate, organised crimerepresents just one smallstep beyond theunfortunate conditions thatalready exist. Sicilianpoliticians literally buyvotes with promises ofemploymentorothergifts.

In the Shadow ofEtna

knew nothing of thisbackground that first

morning, that first arrivalafter the journey travelling

the length of Calabria, itsinterminable bays, sittingupright for hours, mycompanion a tiny Sicilianwoman offering paninistuffed with salami andpungent cheese, blackbittercoffeefromaflask.

As we crossed thestraits of Messina and Istoodontheferrydeck,thelightchangedfromgrey topurple, then purple to rose

and the tip of the sunflamed over the sea. Ilooked out at desertedbeaches where gold-tippedwaves broke over theshore.Theairwaswarmatfive in the morning. Wemust have stopped at adozen stations, eachseemedidenticalwithcurlythirties’ lettering andpottedoleanders.

Suddenly, Taormina –

the station locked in anexquisite time warp, aceiling of carved panelsandVictorian ironwork ontheticketbooths.

In a bar filled with thescent of coffee and strongtobacco I ordered acappuccino. This was aworld where things‘happened’, I told myself:‘NowIbegintolive.’

And then that drive up

toTaormina,theserpentineroads and villas crouchedbehind blowsy shrubs,palm trees. And alwaysthat glimpse of blue skyandEtna’splumeofsmokeonthestillair.Ididnotseeany shadows, not untilmuchlater.

When something soprofoundhappens,whatdoyoudo?Avoid.Stayhomeor travel to other places;

but all the same, andespecially if you ventureonce more into Italy, it isinevitableyouwillhearthesiren call. Which, if youare sensible, you willignore. Until that momentwhen, like the bird whosenest is plundered butreturns and returns, youexperience a desire tocreate a meaning out ofloss.

AndthatiswhatIdid.When the offer of a

‘small apartment lookingover the sea’ came up, Idecided to take it for sixweeks and embark on the‘Sicilian’ book I had longplanned.

I did not reckon on theadventofLizzie.

Syracuse – ASicilian Farewell

ehadtakenadayoffto escape to

Syracuse,choosingitastheone Sicilian city Andrew

shouldn’t miss. It was apainful decision. ShouldweleaveLizzieallday?wepondered. Was there apossibility she could getout of the apartment?Wouldshebeallright?

But Andrew’s ten-daystay in Taormina waspassing and we’d hardlydone anything. He’d beenvery good about all thechanges of plan, spending

afternoons at the table onthe lower terrace with abook and cans of beer.Admittedly,itwasn’tmuchof a sacrifice, with thatincomparable view overthe bay of Isola Bella.We’d done some localthings, sat in the shade ofthe town’s splendid publicgardens, taken the busalong the coast. It hadn’thelped that this spring had

been disappointing, unlikethe Sicilian springs Iremembered from yearsago. When we tried toswim,theseawasicy.

Lizzie had taken nonotice of us. She sufferedher imprisonment insilence under the bed,though managing to scoffthe tasty morsels we putdown for her; but wehadn’t felt we could leave

her alone for a whole dayuntilnow.

Syracuse lay prostrateunder the sun: filled withtourists, each wearing ashady hat. We trailedbehind them along thecrowded Via Cavour,making for the narrowlanesof theoldpartof thecity,Ortygia Island. It is alovelyplace,thelightclearand blue, evoking a

definite sense of Greece.The sun glared down.Ironic that on the firstreallyhotdaywe’dleftthebeachbehind.

It was a relief to reachtheMarina and step underthe ficus trees, which linethis waterside promenade.And so we arrived atPiazza Duomo. But it waslunchtimeandthecathedralwas closed so we would

have to content ourselveswiththeguidebook.

TherewasabookcalledACypress in Sicily, whichI used to read over andover againwhen I lived inTaormina. Author HowardAggdescribedSyracuseasthe one-timeNewYork ofthe ancient world, thethriving metropolis ofMagna Graecia. It oncerivalled Athens as the

largest and most beautifulcityinGreektimes.Ifoundit a labyrinth of intricatelypaved streets that open upintosquares:anexpansive,vital place unlike manyother Sicilian cities, withtheir narrow roads andpocket-sized piazzas.Ortygiaisconnectedtothemainland by severalbridges and ringed byancientcitywalls,relicsof

the defences designed byArchimedes.Consideringitisamoderncity, the senseremainsof continuity fromtheperiodofantiquityandthe mythological themesdominating that epoch:temples, castles, fountains,amphitheatres, piazzas andpalazzos, all awash withthe light and air of thesurroundingsea.

The present cathedral

stands on layers of pagantemples.Itisanexampleofthe sacred/profane aspectofSicily,wherepicturesofthe Virgin Mary standcheekbyjowlwithringstoward off the Evil Eye.Religious festas may startoff with the parade of aneffigy – Saint Pancrazio,patron saint of Taormina,for example – but the dayfinishesupincarousing.

Westaredatthefrontofthe cathedral and tried toimaginewhat itmust havelooked like as the DoricTemple of Athena:magnificent, stuffed withart treasures, the goldenshield of the warringgoddess reflecting thesun’s rays. I had an evenstronger sense of the past,of violation and blood, aswe stood before the Altar

of Hieron 11, where theguidebook told us 450bulls were sacrificed toZeusinaday.

While Andrew went toorder beers, I sat at a cafetable and thought of feralLizzie.Whatareliefitwastohaveescapedforaday.Ihadn’t realised howdifficult it would be tokeep her closed up in theapartment. She had soon

released herself from theElizabethan collar Giuliohad put on her; all shewanted was to be outroamingfree.

I don’t think any cat iswholly domesticated. Oneinteresting thing I’velearned in my ongoingdialogue with my catSheba is that cats lead adouble life. In the housesheisanovergrownkitten,

gazing up at her humanowners. Out on the tilesshe’sherownboss,afree-living wild creature. Themoment a cat manages topersuadeahumanbeingtoopen a door she is off andaway without a backwardglance.While a dogmightlook back to see if thehuman pack mate isfollowing, not so the cat.Her mind has floated off

into a totally feline world,wheretwo-leggedcreaturesdon’t exist. Cats have thedualcapacitytoevolveandrevert to atavisticprinciples. InLizzie’s caseshe had never known ahome, a warm hearth, andfood put in front of her.Her life was spent inwatchful survival. Was itanywondersheconsideredmehercaptor?

Iglancedatmywatch;IhadanimageofLizzieandfelt anxious: shouldwegoback?

It had beencomparatively easy to gettoSyracusebut,assooftenhappensinSicily, it turnedout to be much moredifficult to return. Therewas a two-and-a-half-hourwait for thenext train.Weresigned ourselves and

went to sit in the stationcafe. I drank a cheap butgood red wine at a fewlirasaglass,whileAndrewhad a beer. It wasobviously the localbar.Ata neighbouring table agroupofmenplayedcards.Everynowandthenoneofthem shouted out ‘Scopa!’It took me back to winterevenings in Taormina’sArcoRossobar.

I’d sit in a corner,nursingaglassofwine.I’dwatch the groups of mencrouched over cardsfancifully designed asknights on horseback,swords and daggers,goblets, sheaves of cornand golden coins: theSicilian game Briscola.Hawkish eyes wouldfolloweverycardasitwasthumped down until

someoneshouted‘Scopa!’Sitting in that bar, I

used to wonder what onearth Iwas doing there.Avision of Brighton wouldrush into my mind, theflags flying straight out inthebreezethatneverreallydrops, my mother waitingalone in the seafront flat.AfterafewmonthsIhadtogo home to see her; thecordbetweenuswasnever

trulybroken.Just asweweregetting

quite merry on the localbrew,werealisedour trainhad arrived while we’dbeguntoenjoyourselvesinthis shabby little stationcafe. Sicily is like that.Within hours you canbegin to imagine yourselfthinking: OK, we’ll stophereandfindapensione.Ifyou did stay, I would bet

that within days you’denter into the domanidomani mentality. D.H.Lawrence was right, theSouth does cure you ofcaring.

It was one of thedreaded locale trains,which scarcely get upspeed before they start toslow down for the nextstation. They’re prettystations hung with baskets

of trailing geraniums, butthere are far too many ofthem.

About fifteen minutesout of Syracuse, a youngman got on; he wore thelatestindesignerjeansandan Inter-Milan sports shirt,an Italian computermagazine tucked under hisarm. At first sight I’d puthimdownasoneofanewbreed, which had broken

thehabitof livingathomeuntil the ageof forty.Thiswas an Italian man who’dstruck out on his own.Then Inoticed thebulgingplastic bags he depositedgently on the seat. Ah! Iknewthosebags. I’dcomeacross them on many ajourney in Italy:cornucopiasof food, everytype of delicacy, fromchicken fragrant with

rosemary, pots ofaubergines and tomatoessott’olio, whole cheesesand salami. Theyrepresented La Mamma’sobsessive fear that herchild might face famineduring the journey, or notfind the quality food hewasaccustomedto.

The young man madehimself comfortable andopened his magazine. We

settled back with ourbooks.

‘Soon be home,’Andrewsaid.‘Shallweeatouttonight?’

But the train didn’tmove. Another fiveminutes and it remainedstationary,notawhistlefordeparture, not a judder…nothing. Giovanni orStefano, or whatever hisname might be was not

about to be whisked awayfrom his Sicilianhomeland. He began toreadbutIcouldseehewaslosinghisconcentration;hedidn’tappearsococky.Ashe looked across he metmy eye. We shrugged.Another few minutes andhe dived into one of theplasticbagsandpulledouta panino. And what apanino! It bristled with

nourishment: mozzarellaand ham, tomato andolives. He bit hugely andolive oil trickled throughhisfingers.Icouldimaginethe authority of itspreparation. His fathermight have been ditheringabout, clapping his son onthe shoulder, saying itwasgoodtoseehimandnottomake it so long before hecame home again, but it

was only thanks to LaMamma the household ranlike clockwork. Early-morning calls would beorganised, coffee madeready and those plasticbags stacked with foodagainst likely starvation.MenmayrunItalybutitisthe women who run men.When I thought about it,everything made sense.WhatdoItalianscalloutin

times of distress?MammaMia!

The mystery of thebecalmed train was nowrevealed: we had beenwaiting for somebody.Here she came, a slenderyoung woman in jeansappearingat theendof theplatform, a young manbehindher,strugglingwithtwo large suitcases. Theretinue that followedmade

agreat deal of noise and Iprayed they wouldn’tchoose our carriage butthey did, halting outsideour window, laughing andtalking and giving the girladvice. ‘Be good, phonethis evening’, ‘Take care’and the ubiquitous ‘Ciao!’Our companion glancedup, gave an audible sighand went back to hismagazine. Iwasfascinated

by this group: there was astrong-featuredwomaninatwo-piece, whose thicklegsendedincourtshoes,atall, thin man withwonderfulmustachios, anda little man with a weaselface, wearing a trilby.There was also a muchyoungerwoman, jigglingafatbaby,andaboyinaT-shirt and shorts, trying torestrain a dog with floppy

ears and a long muzzle.The young woman kissedthemallonbothcheeksbutshe wouldn’t get away aseasilyasthat.

Andheretheycame:thesuppliesagainstthefamineshewasabouttofacewhenshe started travellingNorth. At last she wasseated with her two casesstowed above our heads.She glanced round at us,

resembling a prettypussycat with large browneyes.Andrew and I glaredback:her enormous familyhad no right to hold up atrain. But now, as it drewaway,theypressedforwardand presented themselveswith every accessory andbehaviourasthoughtakingpart in a sentimentalVictorian scene, ‘TheFarewell’. They shouted,

wept and wavedhandkerchiefs; thedog justwaggedhistail.

Andrewand Ihadbeentreated to another sightingof ‘The Family’ stickingtogether out of blindinstinct, fearful of everbeing alone. The Italy ofthe family is thequintessential Italy. Ofcourse there are feuds;there are even, in Sicily,

members of the samefamily skulking behindprickly pears with rifles,waitingtokilloneanother.But as a rule the family isthe family and it revolvesaround children –everything is done for thebambini. Their smallestwish must be granted.Italians love children. Acrowd will gather round apretty baby just to admire

suchawonderfulobject.I’d had my own

experiencewith the Italianfamilyand its lesspositivefeatures when I first cameto Sicily and fell in lovewith a Sicilian. Amadeoand I got on swimmingly,laughing, loving, andgenerally being young andinlove.AllwentwelluntilLaFamigliadescendedforthe obligatory August

holiday. They expected Iwould spend all my timewith them and could notunderstand my need forsilence and space to readandwrite.Everysingledaytheyshoppedatthemarketand cooked enormouslunchesanddinners.Once,when Amadeo’s brotherwas called away for a dayonbusiness,hisreturnwasreminiscentoftheProdigal

Son, complete withfeasting until dawn. Likecuckoos, they finallyusurpedmynestandthrustmeoutintothecold.

On the train, the youngwomanopenedamagazineand settleddown.Shewasgoing away, but youknewshewouldreturn.

Sicilians travel theworld but Circe’s islandalwayscallsthemback.

The Secret Livesof Feral Cats

kept Lizzie captive foralmost three weeks

whileherlegmendeduntilshewasat last ready tobe

released. Looking back, Imarvel how I did it andwhether I was completelymad. She was my firstexperienceofferalcatsandI had no notion of theirlifestyle. As a child, therehad always been cats andkittens in our household –myfatherinparticularwasa feline fan. Tabitha, MrsWhite Puss, Ginger andBiscuit… they were

purring, friendly creatureswho loved to be strokedand petted. They liked toplay and to snuggle up onanyavailablelap.

Feralcatsareaswildastheirancestorsandlikeanyother wild creature theyhave an innate mistrust ofhumanbeings.Themothercats take a firm paw withtheir kittens, training themtobequietandstayput.A

meow might attractpredators, as could themovement of kittensrunningaboutandplaying.Often a feral cat that istaken into a home orshelter will revert to aplayful kitten, making upfor its childhood. Motherswillalsomaketheirkittenswash and wash to removethescentoffoodfromtheirfur, which again could

attract the enemy. Theirgames have grimundertones preparing theoffspring for the life of aferal. A mother may playvery roughly with thedominant male kitten,traininghimtobeanalphamale. She will teach herkittens to go to the fooddish, forever watchful andpoised to run, should ahumanappear.Itisagame,

butoneofsurvival.Dogs like wide, open

spaces; cats like security.The mothers make theirkittens follow them in arow like ducklings, anddiscipline those who getoutofline,anothersurvivalinstinct.Theyallowplayatdawn and dusk when thenight predators are notaround but it is lightenough for them to see

well, but they make theirkittensgointoasafeplaceatnight.

Many of them havespent their entire existenceliving rough near a sourceof food: a waste heap,dustbinorinthevicinityofahotelor restaurant.Theirlives are based onscrounging for scraps offood, often very scarce,and reproducing. They are

likely to be riddled withfleas or ticks and certainlyhave worms. The tomcatbattles for supremacy andcaninflictnastywoundsonthe female in their savagemating.

A human cat bond canbeforgediftheferalkittenis handled early enough inits life. Even so, not allkittens are the same andtheirdegreeof friendliness

depends on other factors,such as the father’s genes.Also, because the femalewill have mated withseveral toms there can bedifferent temperamentswithin the same litter ofkittens aswell as differentcolourings. The older theybecome, themore difficultit is to alter their wildnature, as I found withLizzie.

When we opened thattrap in Giulio’s surgery, Ihad no idea what I wasabout to take on. Lizzie’sone thoughtwas to escape– throwing herself againstthe walls, dashing roundthe room; anything to getaway from us. During hertime in the apartment shewas constantly stressed,wanting to be outdoorsleading the life she knew.

Anyonewho takes it uponherself to tame a feralfelineisinforalonghaul.Humans have to learn tothinklikeaferalandneverto force contact: touchingis viewed as a threat anddirecteyecontact regardedas aggression. If she isfrightened she is likely toattack, and feral catscratchescanbeverynastyindeed.Astimepassedand

I gained experience inworking with feral cats, Icametorealisethatthebestway to help them is tocatch them and have themneutered before returningthem to their colony. Itmight seem a brutalexistence to us, but it isusually farmoreunkind totakethemaway.

Afewdays later, Iwasin the bus park seeing

Andrew onto the airportbus, bound for England. Iwaved him goodbye andshed a few tears. This hadbeenanextraordinary timetogether.ThenIwentbackto the apartment andLizzie. Now I was aloneand free to enjoy mycontemplation of IsolaBella.

Every time I left theapartment,my little tower,

Inoticedagroupofpeoplestanding on the nearbyBelvedere gazing down atThe View. I photographedit at different times of theday: morning, noon,evening, it was never thesame. Fluctuatingwith themood of the weather, itseemed to have a personaof its own; I had becomeenchanted by thisconstantlychangingscene.

The light changed allthe time and the bluethroughshadesof ceruleanto turquoise to jade.Sometimes the waterresembled ribbed silk asthe currents from theMessina straits streamedin. Other times the sunpainted it with moltensilver so dazzling youneededdarkglassestogazeatit.

I never grew tired oflooking.

The Cats of thePublic Gardens

was sitting inTaormina’s Public

Gardenstalkingtothecats.The gardens house a

colony of feral felines,whichgrowsordiminishesdepending on the numberof animals abandoned andwhether someone throwsdown poisoned meatballs.AlotofSicilianslookuponferalsasvermin.

Lily was sitting on mylap, her eyes narrowed toslits as I gently scratchedunder her chin, a favouriteplaceforcats, thougheach

is different. I thought thatshe must be over eightyearsoldand,unlikesomeofhercompanionswhoranaway, she had worked outit was politic to allowstroking because then shewould get the lion’s shareofanytitbits.

The afternoon was sohotitseemedtobeholdingits breath; time wassuspended. I’d chosen to

come here and sit in thisgreen shade rather thanbakeon thebeachof IsolaBella, hundreds of metresbelow the town. I couldn’tfacebeing squashed into abus packed with people –all that tourist panic ofwhere or where not to getoff.

As I stroked Lily, Igazed at a truly picturepostcard view: huge pots

overflowing withgeraniums, pink and red,standing on a stoneparapet,andfurtherbeyondgrumpyEtnarisingagainsttheperfectlybluesky.

Lilypurred. Itwouldn’tbehardtonodoffmyself.

‘Sera.’ Rounding aflowerbed, the familiarfigureofMariaarrived,outof breath, carrying twolargeplasticbags.

‘Sera,Maria.’Sheand Ihadmethere

too often to stand onceremony. Besides, it wastoohot.

She set the bags down,gathered up the feedingbowls and gave them arinse in the fountain.Immediately the catssprang into action. Lily’seyeswidenedandsheflewfrom my lap. The air was

filledwithmeows.Thecatsmilled round Maria,pressing themselvesagainst her legs as sheemptied out great moundsof pasta cooked with fish.Then there was a lot ofgrumbling,alashingoutofpaws as they fought fortheir place. They were apretty sad bunch, but evenwhentheyarestarvingcatsretaintheirtablemanners–

about twenty of them,ginger, black andtortoiseshell; the big greytom had a weeping rawpatch behind his ear,several were thin andmangy and there was asmall white cat with oneeye. I knew how he lostthat: a vicious infectionakin to feline chlamydia,which is actually part of afeline upper respiratory

disease complex, mostoften appears in cats asconjunctivitis, which isinflammationofthetissuesof the eye, also known as‘pinkeye’.

Unless it is treated intimewithanantibioticlikePensulvit cream, theanimal loses its sight. Icarriedatubeofthiscreamin my bag but it reallyneeded two people on the

job:onetoholdthecat,theother to spread the cream.The two sickly gingerkittens I noticed the otherday were absent. Theirs isagrimworld.

Maria plumped herselfdown on the bench besideme and began to speak intheSiciliandialect.Shedidthis in the understandablebelief that, because weshared a love of cats and

the desire to help them, Ishould be able tounderstandher.Inaway,Isuppose I did, at least thegistofwhatshesaid.It’salanguage packed withguttural sounds and withonly a noddingacquaintance with Italian.Pronunciation is easier foraBrit because the ‘r’ isn’temphatically rolled. AtMaria’s age she was no

longer jealous of foreignfemales, thank goodness!Often I’d been the subjectofapenetratingglarewhenI tried to befriend otherSicilianwomen.

She was beautiful, notoutwardly, I should add.Elderly, with a strong-featuredfaceandgreyhair,she wore the typicalmatron’s dark frock. Hervaricose veins gave her

trouble,she’doftentoldmeabout them: ‘Mi fannomorirenelcaldo’(theykillme in the hot weather).Withoutgrace,shesatwithher legs splayed, showingher knee-highs. But Mariawas beautiful within. Shehad a generous, lovingheart, a childlikesimplicity. The severalbadges of animal welfareassociations she wore on

her collar announced herdevotion.Shewasawidowand had moved from ahouseintoanapartmentsoshe couldn’t keep cats ofher own. But every day –whatever the season – shebought fish from themarket, cooked it up withpastaandbroughtithere.

She related the troubleshe was having with herneighbours, who were

suspicious of her strangebehaviour; this isasocietywhere anything new orunusual is mistrusted andher eccentric feeding ofcats was not tolerated. Asshe described the nastytricks they played on her,like watering their plantsjustaftershehadhungoutherwashingonthebalconybelow, I gazed round thegardens.

Nearby were somegigantic terracotta potsfilledwithcascadingplantscovered with tiny scarletbells; the label said theycame from Mexico. Theroses were already inbloom and thebougainvilleas as I alwaysremembered them: gaudyand riotous, a clash ofmagentaandcrimson.

‘Iworry–Ireallyworry

what would happen tothesebambini if I couldn’tget here anymore.Sometimes I’ve been illand missed a few days.I’ve lain in my bedimagining them waitinghere for me and I don’tcome,’Mariatoldme.

Some Encounterswith Cat Ladies

aria’s voice broughtme back to myself.

She stroked a grey andwhite cat with blue eyes,

surely a touch of theSiamesethereandprobablyabandoned when thenovelty of kittenishbehaviourworeoff.

Maria was a gattara, awomanwhofeedscats.

Occasionally I haveseen elderly men standingin piazzas or amongancient ruins dishing outfoodfromWhiskastinsbutusually the gattare are

women. Some people jokeabout them, sneering thatthe creatures are a childsubstitute. But they don’trecognise the heroicdedication of the often-elderly woman, draggingher basket on wheels,heavy with cat foodtowards ‘her’ colony. InRome,itisthesecatladieswho care for many of theestimated 180,000 stray

cats prowling the city’sstreets. One of the mostfamous was the beautifulactress Anna Magnani,whousedtofeedthecatsatTorreArgentina every daywhenshewasappearinginthe nearby theatre. In theUK, former supermodelCelia Hammond, whosefaceoncegraced thecoverofVogue magazine duringthe 1960s, is a dedicated

gattara. For decades shehas been rescuing,neutering and re-homingstray and unwantedanimals.

‘It’sveryhardtodothisjobandhaveanormallife,’she has been quoted assaying. ‘Relationships justfall apart, I’ve had threemain ones and I neglectedall of them, which is whyI’monmyown.’

She sometimes ends upworking twenty-two hoursadayhelpingcatsandsayshermodelling days feel sofar removed from her lifenow. It is as though theyhappened to a differentperson.

‘You only get one life,you have to do what youfeel is rightwith it. If youhave a lifestylewhere youhave spent your whole

existence taking drugs,going to parties, flying allovertheworldandlyingonthebeach,whatwouldyoufeel at the end of yourlife?’

Maria’s fear of lettingthe cats down is commonamongthesewomen.Theirlives are composed ofconsiderable sacrifices andsmall gratification.As oneofthemtoldme:‘I’vesold

everything, my rings, mygold,everythingbutIcan’tabandon them.’ She hadbeen feeding cats fortwentyyears.

Iwantedtoputmyarmround my companion, shelooked so sad and alonesitting there, but then Lilypushed herself againstMaria’s leg. She nevermissed thechanceofa lapto make herself

comfortableon.In a while, Maria

heaved herself to her feet,rinsed the bowls that hadbeen licked clean anyway,and filled one with water.She gave me one of herrare smiles. ‘A domani,’shesaidandtrundledoff.Icould see her legs weretroubling her this sultryafternoon.

AsIwanderedalongthe

paths, gazing at flowers, Irecognised some of them:hibiscus, oleander,Africanmarigolds, but otherswereunknown to me. You’vechanged, I told myself.Fifteen years ago, you’dhavelovedthecoloursandtheperfumesofthisgardenbutmore likelyyou’dhavebeen thinking about thelatest amore you weremeeting that evening. You

certainlywouldn’thavegotall these cats’ hairs overyourwhitetrousers!

Shewaslikeastranger,that other Jenny. Did sheevernoticethateachoftheold olive trees lining thelast path towards the exitgate bears a plaquecommemorating a soldierfallen in the First WorldWar? Did she bother tofind out that the nickname

for those strange askewwooden pavilions is ‘thebeehives’? I don’t thinkshedid.Inthegapbetweenmy visits I’d changed andTaormina hadn’t – only itseemed different to mebecausemyviewpointwasnew.

I arrive at the bust ofFlorence Trevelyan in alittleenclosure.Herhair isdrawnback intoabunand

she wears a locket on herhigh-necked blouse; she’ssmilingasecretlittlesmile.Florence,daughterofLordEdward Spencer. Born inNewcastle in 1852, QueenVictoria called her ‘mylittle niece’. Photographsof the period show heramongflowersanddogsinthe royal parks. No oneknows exactly whathappened to Florence until

shewastwenty-sevenyearsold. It was then in April1879 that she left Englandtotravelformorethantwoyears.Shedoesn’t seem tohavebeenveryenthusiasticabout this; rather than apleasure trip, it seems shewasgoingawaytoforgetalove affair rumoured to bewith Victoria’s sonEdward.

She and her travelling

companion, Louise HarrietPerceval, arrived in Italy,where they visited all thebigcities.Florencewasanavid diarywriter. ArrivinginMessinainaFebruaryofthe early 1880s, she noted‘nothing worth the troubleof visiting’ and promptlyleft by train for Taormina.This was a different storyaltogether, as shewrote toher‘dearcousin’.

The journey fromTaormina railway stationwas ‘marvellous, great,stupendous, immense,verypicturesque, beautiful,seductivewith the view ofEtna. The sea is blue andthe mountains: it isimpossibletodescribehowbeautifultheyare.’

Like many othervisitors, she finally felt athome in Taormina and it

was a regretful departure.OnherreturntoEnglandinAugust 1881, lifeapparently ceased to be afairy story. Somethingserious happened betweenLady Trevelyan and theRoyalfamily.DinoPapale,author of TaorminaSegreta, suggests that in1884 she once moredeparted England, leavingeverything behind ‘as if

she were running away’and journeyed toTaormina.

It is said that QueenVictoria had ‘invited’ herto travel abroad for alengthy period in order totry to make her forgetEdward. But on her returnand with the renewedinterest of her son, HerMajesty appears to havedecided there was nothing

for it but to exileFlorencefortwentyyears.

Florence arrived inSicilyoneFebruaryandsixyearslaterbecameengagedto Professor SalvatoreCacciola. The couple metwhen Florence banged onthe door of his villa,demanding he treat herterrier.‘I’madoctor,notavet!’ he protested.Nevertheless, he not only

cured the dog but alsomarrieditsowner.

Florence turned herbackonthepastandthrewherself into life inTaormina, created thesegardens and built littlepavilions where she couldtake afternoon tea. Whenshe died in October 1907,she left her gardens to herbeloved husband on thecondition that ‘the trees

must not be cut down andno houses built. All thecreaturesofwhateverkind:dogs, cats, parrots, raven,doves, tortoises, canariesand other birds must belooked after with lovingcareasIdidinmylife’.You’re a lady after my

own heart, Florence, Ithought.

I photographed sixblack kittens playing near

theentrancetothegardens,oblivioustothecars,whichswing round from ViaRoma.ThenIspottedsomeother flowers with hugeobscenestamens luring thebees. In spite of waterproblems,Sicily isgreenerand lusher than itsneighbours in theMediterranean.There isanastonishing fecundity ofswift blossoming and

fruitfulness, which asquickly fades. Thisreminded me of the loveaffairs in the town, of thespoilt-for-choiceattitudeofthemenwhoselectwomenfrom the coaches thatarrive and depart eachweekfromCataniaairport.

If I’ve learnedanythingabout life, it is change istheonlyconstantthingandlovesooftentransitory,not

the ‘happy ever after’ Iusedtobelieve.Icouldnotimagine I could becomeagaintheJennywhoturnedherbackoneverythingandgaveherself up to the sun,the girl who foundeverything ‘lovely’ butwhose eyes failed to seethe plaques on the olivetrees. Could I fall in lovewithanotherSicilianman?Itwashardtoimagine.

Opposite a ceramicshop there is a series ofsteps leading down to anarrow street. Motorbikesand cars rush past, yetagainst a garage door aresetaseriesofbowls,asuresign of gattara territory.This colony is morenervous than that of thegardens. Tourists don’tcome here as a rule. As Iapproached, they ran

across the road almostunder the wheels of amotorbike and peered outatmewarilythroughsomerailings. After a while asmall woman approached:itwasGabriella.

She resembled a baglady. Her broken sandalstied to her feet over thickstockings, shewore anolddressandwhat looked likeseveral cardigans over the

top.Butitwasherfacethatalways held my attention:itwas rather round,with asmall chin and wide-seteyes.Shemusthavebeenabeauty when she wasyoung but now that skinwas sallow and leathery.And she smelled musty –unwashed – anoverpoweringstink!

When I mentioned thisto a friend who lived

nearby, he laughed andsaid, ‘You mean LaBaronessa.Ohyes,Iknowher!When she comes intothebank,weallmakesurewe stand upwind. Shesmells ten times worsewhenit’sbeenraining.’

It was an appallingstench but I stood myground while we talked,this time in Italian, aboutthe cats. She toldmeonce

againhowshespentallherpension money on themand, although in badhealth,shestillcamedownhereeveryday.

Then she launched intothe story everyone hasheardadnauseam:howshewasborninMilan,marrieda Taorminese and camehere when she was veryyoung.Howthefamilyrana restaurant at Isola Bella.

They were happy days,such happy days all thattime ago. Now she wasovereightyandsomedaysshe didn’t know how shegotherselfdownhere.Butifshedidn’t,whowould?Iwatched as she doled outthe food, talking softly toanother raggedy littlegroup. I couldn’t end uplikeher,couldI?

Later, I called at the

butcher, averting my gazefrom the sight of theskinned rabbits, lookinghorribly human, hangingoverhead. Instead, Iwatched the red worms ofbeef exuding from themincer. Everything isspotless and absolutelyfresh in Sicilian butchers’shops.EvenI,avegetarian,had to admit that.When Iarrived back at my

apartment I’d cook themeat slowly, then addlentils and rice to give itbulk.TomorrowI’d take ittothePublicGardens.

And I asked myself:Was I to become likeFlorence Trevelyan, astrange Englishwomanwhoreinventedherselfandfound fulfilment in helpinganimals?WhetherIlikeditor not, the factwas, Iwas

fastbecomingagattara.

An Appointmentwith Taormina

s theweekwentby, Iwas feeling the strain

ofhavinga feralcat in theapartment. I missed

Andrew’s down-to-earthapproach, although wespokenightlyonthephone.There was the daily choreof cleaning out her littertrayandtripstothebutcherfor mince, which sheseemed to thoroughlyenjoy. Itmusthavebeenawelcome change to hernormal diet of scraps. Shehad become less timid ofme and came out from

under the bed when I wasaround. But if I made anymove to touch her, shedarted away – her motherhadtrainedherwell.

My stay in Taorminawas turningout tobeverydifferent from the one I’dplanned: the excursions,theinterviewsformylong-imaginedbook,allmustbeabandonednowbecauseofthissmallfeline.ButIonly

had to remember thatimage of Lizzie with herterribleinjurytobecontentwithwhatIwasdoing.

Onemorning, Idecidedto walk through thebackstreets of this littletown. Away from theCorsoanditsnightlystreettheatre, you step into theworldofday-to-daylife.InVia Numitorio, a cagedbird sang its heart out. I

paused to read some ofthosewry ceramic plaquesshowing theSicilianbitingsense of humour andpleasure in philosophising.One I knew: ‘A guest islikeafish–afterthreedayshestinks’.Otherswerelessfamiliar:‘Theviperthatbitmy mother-in-law died –poisoned’ and even: ‘Eatwell, excretewell and youneedn’tbeafraidofdeath’.

Some builders sang aSicilian melody as theyworkedon anewhouse inViaGiardinazzo.

I stopped atAuteri, theironmonger-cum-everything else shop thatnever failedme, nomatterwhatIneeded,fromgluetoa toilet plunger. The twoelderly owners gaze at thecustomerovertheirglassesand then rummage and

produceexactlywhatsheislooking for. I could neverfathom how theyrememberedwhereitmightbe among all those boxesand shelves of theircavernousstore.

I went up and downflights of steps, up anddown. Taormina is not forthe lazy walker, if youtrulywant toknow it. Inabackstreet Ipausedoutside

the kitchen of Cyclopesandheardachefsinging.Isniffed the delicious scentoffishbeingcookedinthesimpleway:SanMoriglio,with parsley, garlic, lemonand oil. A little open-backed van skimmedalong, loaded with fennelandredonions.

This might have beenTaormina before thetouristsinvaded.IwishedI

could have seen it. Butbeautiful as it is, you stillwonderhowithasreachedtheseheightsofpopularity;inAugustyoucanscarcelymake your way along theCorso. One significantevent in its tourist historywas the chance visit of ayoung German painter towhatwasthenapracticallyunknownSicilianvillage.

WhenOtto vonGeleng

setout fromRome tovisitSicilyin1859,therewouldhave been no road linkingthevillagetothecoast.Hisjourney through theprecipitous ravines fromGiardiniwasonthebackofa mule. He stayed inTaormina for two or threemonths and it must havemadeagreatimpressiononhim because two yearslater he returned. Soon he

wascourtingthesisterofaSicilian baron; he marriedherandsettledinthetown.The natural beauty of theplace inspired him andbefore longhehadpaintedenough oils andwatercolours to hold anexhibition in Paris. Scenesof Taorminese gardensaflame with tropicalflowersinbrilliantsunlightwhile Etna glittered with

snow,paintedinthewintermonths, astonishedvisitors, who could notbelieve such a climateexisted in Europe. Gelengwassurelymakingitup!

As a kind of wager,Geleng invited threeofhismost sceptical critics tocome and see forthemselves this fishingvillage situated betweenCatania and Messina. If

they did not find it wasexactlyashehaddepicted,hewould foot the bill. Heknew he was on a safewicket for, of course, hehad not exaggerated. Theywere enchanted by theexotic colours andbeautiful views and wroteback to friends in Franceuntil articles aboutGeleng’s Taormina begantoappearinnewspapers.In

the Place du Tertre,Montmartre, all theycouldtalk about was thisunknown fishing villagesuspended between aturquoiseseaandsky,witha smoking volcano, whileatthesametimetherewerealmond trees in blossom,oranges, lemons andcactuses. Soon Gelengrealised that Taorminacould flourish if more

visitors were encouragedbutthetownwouldhavetosmartenitselfup;therewasroom for a lot ofimprovement.

Involving himself inlocal affairs, heemphasised that, if theforeignerwas to undertakethe necessarily longjourney, he must finddecentaccommodationandat least some of the

amenities he wasaccustomed to in his owncountry.At that time therewas no hotel or inn in theplace, no light or runningwater, only stone cisternsfor collecting rain. Refusewasthrownintothestreetsand conditionswere ratherprimitive. But Geleng’sforceful personalitypersuaded the Taorminesetoput theirhouseinorder.

A hotel, the Timeo, wasopenedin1873withafewrooms(latertobeenlargedby the redoubtableFlorence Trevelyan). Thestreets were cleaned,running water wasintroduced and no longerdid the tourist have togrope his way throughdarkenedstreetsatnight.

At one o’clock all theshutters inTaormina clang

down and everyone goesfor lunch, but I wasn’thungry. I took a left turnandwalkeddownthestepsto the old Naumachia, amonumental Romansupporting wall in brick,some 122 metres long,punctuatedbyhugeniches.The name ‘Naumachia’literallytranslatesas‘navalbattles’.Infact,atonetimeit was believed that the

monument was an aquaticcircus representing suchbattles. In reality, it was ahuge aqua theatre, acolossal fountain playingwater.

I remembered it as adank, insalubrious placebut now I saw it had beencleaned up and plantedwithflowers.Anoticesaiditwastheworkofthelocalgardenersgroup.

I admired the lilies,roses and marigolds, thencaughtsightofablackmancrouchedbythedooroftheArcate restaurant,devouring spaghetti with adab of tomato sauce. TheTaorminese have tenderhearts: if they have neverbeenhungry, racememoryrecalls those who sufferedunder Sicily’s conquerors.Tenderbutalsopassionate,

their tempers are easilyprovoked. Quarrels canbreak out, insults hurledthat would sever anEnglish friendship for life,but not here.Youwill seethe combatants next daystrolling along the Corso,arminarm.Theyhavenotforgotten the incident butthey do not intend it tocreate an eternal rift. TheTaorminese knows when

the moment has come todrawinhishorns.Hedoesnot commit himself toanything, not even anappointment, alwaysallowing a loophole forescape.It’sfoolishtomakea man an enemy, hereasons, you might needhim tomorrow or the dayafter.

I hesitated, wonderingwhether to go inside the

Arcate. I had a dimrecollectionofthelasttimeI saw Turri; that I did notpart on very good termswith this sometimeacquaintance.

The restaurant wasempty. From the kitchen Iheard the sound ofclattering pans, sniffed theunmistakable scents ofSicilian cooking – thegarlic, the basil, the pesce

spada. Iclearedmythroat.Turri, an incorrigibleTaormina ‘character’,appeared in the doorway,an apron tied round hiswaist.Hestared.

‘Good heavens, you!’was all he said. But heseemed pleased to seeme.‘I’vejustgottofinishwhatI’m doing. Go up to theterraceandI’llbewithyouinaminute.’

Beyond the flight ofstepswas a delightful areagazing out over therooftops. I could see thecare that had gone intocreating it – the whiteawning overhead, freshflowers on the tables,pretty linen – but it wasdeserted.

‘Iknow.’Turrinodded,pouringwine from the juginto our glasses. ‘I don’t

know what to do. It’s thekind of people who comeonholiday,thesedays.’

‘I’m surprised theydon’t want to come to alovelylittleplacelikethis.’

‘Things aren’t whattheywere.Peopledon’tgoin for proper lunch, thesedays.They’llbuyasliceortwo of pizza or a burgerand then go and sit in theIrishpub.’

‘But you can’t hearyourself speak,’ I added,thinking of another pub Ihadsat inbriefly theotherday but had to leave,unable to write or thinkbecause of the constantloudmusic.

‘Do you really needpubshere?’Iasked.

‘Muh!’For a moment we

sippedourwineandlooked

backontheTaorminaofallthoseyearsago.

‘Not married then?’Turridemanded.

I pondered aloud onwhy my romantic dreamshave never been realised.Howall theseyears Ihavecome and gone,increasingly drawn to thelittletownbutIhaveneverfoundanyonewhomatchesmyromanticimage.

Turri charged me withthis:‘Romanticsarealwayssad. You should forgetabout romanticism, get onwith life!’ And then: ‘Areyou going to havesomethingtoeat?’

I ordered arrabbiata,angry pasta – itwentwithmymood.

While I waited, Ithought about what he’dsaid. I mused that,

whatever foreign womenbelieve, the Italians arepractical, earthy people,awarethatlifeisfleeting.Iremembered my firstSicilian love Amadeo’sfavourite saying: take lifeas it comes. And if youretort that life is difficult,alwaysreadytoriseupandsmack you on the nose,they refuse to know aboutremorseorrecriminations.

Ifit’sOK,it’sOK,whythink about tomorrow?Noproblem! And if youmentionsurelyactionsmayhave repercussions andresponsibilities, how canone live in this fatalisticway,‘Muh!’theyshrug.

Turricameback,settheplate in front of me andrefilledmy glass.A groupofpeoplehadappearedandthey were sitting round a

largetableconsuminglargequantities of wine. Turri’sattention wandered; likemothers, restaurateurs, itseems, have a supersensibility to desires evenbeforetheyareexpressed.

‘So you’re here forgoodnow?’Iasked.

‘Yes,Isupposeso.’‘Don’t you miss the

cruiseships?’‘I had a good life,’ he

grinned. ‘Girl in everyport,buthomeishome.’

I thought of that song,‘La Terra Amara’ (TheBitter Earth). ManySicilian villages areabandoned because theyoung don’t want to workon the land anymore.They’ve left for the cities.And yet, as Turriconfirmed,thereisthispulltoreturn.

‘What about yourwife?’

Heshrugged.I remembered the

dissatisfied woman whodisliked anything that wasnot Irish. Marriage hasmade a cynic of Turri.Though they are oftencriticised, it is not alwaysthe fault of these men.There are foreign womenwhoarriveinthetownwith

only one idea in mind: tohave a good time, to bewinedanddinedandtopayfor it with their bodies.ManyayoungTaorminesein search of his inamoratahas been met with: ‘Whoare you? What are youdoing here? It was just aholidayromance!’

Turri’s marriage wasover; he accepted itphilosophically, almost

passively. Meanwhile, theday was to be enjoyed.Follow your instincts,feelings may develop ornot…

Therewassomethinginme thatstilldidn’twant tohear this. I, with myromantictemperamentbredout of misty castles andghostly visitations, couldnotacceptthisverypresentview. On the other hand,

they were probably right.That way you cannot bedisenchanted because younever had any romanticillusions in the first place.Perhapsitisintheirgenes,a part of their past; theirpassive waiting for yetanotherculturetodominatethem, an innate self-preservation.

Take life as it comes…IwishIcould.

Goodbye Lizzie

finally calledGiulio andasked him to come and

giveLizzieacheck-up.Herlegwas nowwell in placeandwe agreed itwas timefor her to return to her

colony in Castelmola. Theproblem was how to gether into a carrying basket;she had no notion that weweretryingtohelpherandretreated to her usualhidingplaceunderthebed.We were forced to pokeheroutwithastick.Atthisshe went wild, dashingfrom cover to cover andfinally throwing herselfagainst the open window,

almost breaking themosquito netting. At anymoment she would bethrough and there wasnothing to stop her fallingmany feet onto the gardenbelow. Fortunately, Giulioclad in those stronggauntlets managed to grabher and unceremoniouslystuffherintothebasket.

Asthecarwoundupthenowfamiliarsteeproadsto

the little village, I gazedoutofthecarwindowwitha sense of nostalgia. Ilooked back to that dayAndrew and I haddiscovered Lizzie and theweeks that followed,sharing her recovery. I’dbecome attached to mylittlewaifandnowIhadtolet go. My stay inTaorminawasalmostatanend; once I had deposited

this small cat, only a fewdays remained before Ireturned to England. I feltaltered by the experience,already beginning to viewSicilywithadifferenteye.

We found her streetwithoutdifficulty this timeand, setting the basket onthe place where AndrewandIfirstsawher,openedthedoorandsteppedback.Lizzie shot out, hesitated

for a moment and thendashedaway.

‘Notevenathankyou,’Isaid.

‘You don’t need one,’Giulio remarked. ‘Lookwhat you’ve done for her.Shallwego?’

But I felt I couldn’tleaveitatthat:ItoldhimIwould stay there inCastelmolaforawhileandreturn by bus. We shook

hands.‘Thankyou.’Hegavemehisamused

smile. ‘It was a pleasure,Jenny. Call me the nexttimeyouareinTaormina.’

I watched him go,swinging thebasket.Therewas no sign of Lizzie.Giulio was right: I’dcompletedmymissionandshe was back where shebelonged. Maybe I’d go

backtoTaorminaandhavea few hours on the beach.Behindme, a door openedand a slender womanwearingaflowerypinaforestood there. She spoke tomeinItalian.

‘Soitwasyouwhotookthat poor cat to the vet?She is part of the colony Ifeed. I looked for her andwondered where she hadgone.’ She held out her

hand. ‘I am Antonella.Please come in, I wouldliketoofferyoucoffee.’

Another cat lady! Ifollowedherupa flightofstairs and into the salotta.Theroomwasnotlargebutwasfullofdarkandheavyantique furniture. Therewas a big sideboardcrowdedwithphotographs,some of the family andmany more of Jesus and

Mary. A red velour clothcovered the long table,surrounded by a lot ofchairs.

Theroomhadasenseofan old-fashioned parlour,rarely used. Antonellabrought small cups ofblackcoffeeandaplateofalmondbiscuits.Isensedamelancholy about her andher smile did not quitereachhereyes.

‘Idon’toftensitinhere,only when the familyvisits.’

As I wondered howseldom that might be, Imadeapretenceofsippingthe coffee, wickedly blackandstrong.Yuck!Sicilianshave a lethal relationshipwith caffeine. Not just abeverage, it ismore like aconstant companion. Theyfind a way to enjoy a

coffee on many occasionsthroughout the day. Itmight be meeting a friendfor coffee, having a coffeefor breakfast, oneduring abreak at work, after lunchor after dinner. ‘Vuole uncaffe?’ – it is seen as rudenot to accept the offer.Thereisashortstoryaboutamanwho did the roundsofhisSicilianrelativesandpolitelyacceptedtheiroffer

of coffee. He ended updrinkingtendarkespressosand nearly had a caffeine-inducedheartattack!

Afterawhilewemovedintothekitchen,hungwithbunchesoforeganopickedfrom the country. It isfashionable in Britain toforage, though we used tojust call it ‘picking’, butthe Sicilians have beendoing it for a long, long

time. Nature offers abounty free for the taking.In summer and autumnthey pick thyme andmint,stock up on fennel seeds.From November to April,it’s the season of foragingfor wild greens: borage,bitter chicory, mustardtops, feathery fennel, wildasparagus and pricklynettles. Most of thesegreens are eaten simply

steamed and dressed witholiveoil.They’realsousedinsaladsandthepastadishbucatini with wild greensandricottacheese.

Antonella wanted toshowmehowshepreparedpeppers, aubergines andpepperoncini in oil. Oftenserved as part of anantipasto, theyarenotoneof my favourites. But Isampledwhatsheputona

plate and told her it wasverygood.IsuspectedthatAntonellawasoneofthosehousewives who maketheirownpastasauceusingfresh local tomatoes. Itwould simmer for hoursand probably be served atmidday. Lunch istraditionally the mostimportant meal in Sicily.Most shops close for thepausa pranzo, the lunch

break between 13.00 and16.00 hours. Typically, itconsists of a first course(pasta, rice or similar), asecond course (meat, fishorvegetables)andfruit.

Suddenly,allthistalkoffood took a different turn.Antonella’s longing toconfide was almosttangible.

‘I have suffered a lotand sometimes I feel my

onlyreasonforbeingaliveis the cats. They rely onme, you see. My husbandwas an alcoholic but hewastoldheshouldn’ttouchanother drop.’ Sheshrugged.‘I thinkwhenhegoes out he does drink.And he smokes. How Ihate the smell of smoke! Imake him stand on thebalcony.’

I gazed round the

immaculate kitchen witheverythinginitsplace.Butthere was no soul about itand this woman seemedverylonely.

‘We all used to live inthis house,’ she continued,‘the children, my mother.When Mamma died and Iwasout,myhusbandthrewaway all the photographsof her.He destroyed someofherfurniture,too.’

I sat in silence andlistened as all this camepouringout.Itwasasifshehad never had anyone totellbefore.Hereyesshone,as she stared around thekitchen.She seemed likeacaged animal yearning tobe freeand to live.At lastshewassilent.

‘Tellmeaboutthecats,’Iprompted.

‘Ah, the cats!’ she

smiled. ‘They are mybabies.WhenIgoout intothestreetwithfoodtheyallcomerunning.Thegreycatis your cat’s mother andthe other black and whiteone, her sister. I have fedthem since they werekittens. Poor beasts, somany people here dislikethemandwish themharm.But what have they done?All they want is a bit of

affection and enough foodtoeat.’

She paused and eyedme curiously. ‘You paidthevettotreatthatcat?’

Inodded.‘Itmust have cost a lot

ofmoney.’Inamedthesum.She shook her head.

‘That was very good ofyou.’

‘I can’t bear to see

anything suffering,’ Ireplied. ‘Someone had tohelpher.’

Antonella’s gaze wentto the crucifix hanging onthewall.‘Itoocannotbearsuffering,’shesaid.

AfewdaysbeforeIleftforEnglandIwentbacktoCastelmola.Itookthepaththat I now knew so welland there was Lizziecoming towards me. I

opened a tin of Whiskasand she began to eat it.Thenhermother,theprettygrey cat, arrived andtucked in. As I strokedLizzie and took somephotographs, I felt sohappy.My little one couldnow lie and enjoy thesunshine. Her leg mightnever be the same again,butshewashomewithhermother and sister. I felt so

glad I had restored her.Giulio had been right: shewas returned to her worldbut therewasapartofherthat I liked to thinkremembered me,affectionate in her ownway. All I could do nowwas pray she would besafe.

A woman approachedwith a rather strange-lookingdogonalead.The

tips of its ears weremissing and its coat wasbald in places. She caughtmy gaze and shrugged.‘Thisdogcouldhavebeenasignor,’ shesaid, ‘buthewasbadly treatedwhenhewas younger and so he iswhatheis.’

I told her about Lizzieand she said she believedthatpeoplewhodonotlikeanimalslikenothinginthis

world. She moved on.Then I caught sight of theyoungmanwhohadhelpedme to find Giulio thatafternoon.

He smiled broadly. ‘Ithought I heard you returnthatnighttolookforher,Isawthelightofyourtorch.Iamhappysheiswell.’

The sun shone downonto that little road and Istayed with Lizzie another

half-hour. Those weeks inthe apartment hadsomewhat tamed her and,now she was returned toher small domain, sheallowedmetostrokeher.Imade to leave but camebackagain– I didn’twanttogo.Intheenditwasshewho got up and strolledaway down those steps,oblivioustothepainofmypartingfromher.

‘Goodbye, Lizzie,’ Isaid. ‘Take care ofyourself.’

Therewere tears inmyeyesasIwalkedaway.

We Love Them;But Do Cats Love

fewmonthslaterIwasback in Taormina.

During the summer, I had

sent several postcards toAntonella asking afterLizziebuthad receivednoreply.Itookittomeanthattherewasnothingtoreport.My little cat had resumedherferalexistence.

Sicily had got into myblood again and, though Ihad a series ofcommissioned articles towork on throughout thosemonths of 2002, I was

restless. It was a fairEnglish summer but Ilonged for the intensity ofthat Sicilian sun, the vividblue sky. I contacted mylandlady, Elke, andtowards the end ofSeptember2002,Ireturnedtoherapartment. Itwasaswelcomingasever,butasIwalked up the slopetowardsTaorminacentre,Ibegantowonderifitwasa

mistaketohavecomebacksosoon.

The sky was overcast,theatmosphereoppressive;not a leaf stirred: Sirocco,the bane of Sicily’sclimate;thatdrydust-ladenwind, which blows fromthe Sahara. Although thiswasadulldayofcloudandmist, Sirocco can arise outof a clear sky and at anytime of the year. It brings

excessive humidity and anintolerable pressure of airthat frays the nerves,sharpensthetemperand,asmany people claim, itaffects their health. Forsome, and I am amongthem, it brings on acrushing sense ofdepression, making lifeseem hopeless, workmeaningless, past andpresent a hideous mistake

andthefutureridiculous.‘Thereisnoneedtocall

a friend to make anappointment,’ theTaorminese say, ‘you justhave to take a stroll alongCorso Umberto and, atsome point or other, youare bound to bump intothem.’

Today that wasprecisely what I didn’twant to do – I needed a

little time alone to easemyself back into theexuberantSicilianlife.SoIturned away and took thedownward winding roadthat led to the PublicGardens. Iwanderedalongthepaths,identifyingsomeof the flowers: there wereFrench marigolds,amaryllis, those fountainsoflittleredbellflowersthatmust have continued

throughout the summer.Therewerestillsomerosesand also Michaelmasdaisies, a glorious clusterof them. Huge bananaplants reared against theclear sky of a still-bakinghot summer. Theyremindedme that this is asemi-tropicalclimate.

AsI reached theendofthe gardens I came acrosssomething Ihadn’tnoticed

before: it was FlorenceTrevelyan’s dog cemetery.Two poignant inscriptionssummed up the oftenincomprehensible, forSicilians, British love ofdogs.

Dear Fanny. FaithfulFriend and Companion.Poisoned June 27 1899aged15years.

Jumbo Perceval

(Terrier) TrueHonourable LovingLittle Friend andHelper.September 3 1887 –Murdered July 24th1904. NeverForgotten.

I turned back towards theentrance and saw anamazing sight: a cat hadjumped up into the

fountain and was sittingthere, her tinymouthwideopen, catching the fallingwater. Tourists weregathered round and sometook photographs. Shecontinued drinking anddrinkingbutwhenshehadfinished I think she felt abit odd – perhaps she hadtakenintoomuchair.

‘Sera,’ a voice calledand I turned to see that

Mariahadarrived.Shewasweigheddown

withladenbagsandIcouldsee her legs were stilltroublingher.Thecatshadbeen waiting for her andmilled around, their tailsheld upright, the endsslightlycurvedover.Itisasignal of friendliness, I’velearned.Kittensuse this togreet their mother andadult cats continue to treat

their favouritehumans likea trustworthy mum, theirtails held high. Cats whosensenohostilitywillgreeteach other with uprighttails. A relaxed cat’s tailcurves down and back upin a gentle ‘U’. The moreinterest she feels, thehigher the tail. No doubtthe interest here wasMaria’ssupplyoffood.

It was clear that she

loved cats in the way oneloveslittlechildren.

‘Micio, micio,’ shemurmured, as she filledtheirbowls.

Butdocatsloveus?Oris this kind of show ofaffection cupboard love?True, they don’t respondwith the tail-thumpinggreetingofadogwhenhisowner returns. Researchhas shown canines

experience positiveemotions, like love andattachment, meaning thatdogs have a level ofsentience comparable tothatofahumanchild.Catsare less demonstrative andsome people dub themaloof.Butsurelyitfollowsthat,ifacatbehavesinthesame way towards certainhuman beings as she doestowards other cats, then

undoubtedly she isshowingshe is fondofherowner. Domesticated catstakethismuchfurther;theyuse kneading behaviour,the front paws treading onsoft surfaces, a hark backto kittenhood.Kitten pawsknead against the mothercat’sbreaststoinducemilkto be released. Adult catscontinue this behaviourwhen they’re feeling most

relaxedandcontent.My cat, Sheba, has a

habit of arriving on mypillow and kneading intomy bare shoulder, purringloudly in my ear.When acat throws herself on theground at your feet androlls around, she is askingfor attention. Presentingher stomach in this wayputs a cat in a vulnerableposition so cats generally

reserve the rolling aroundfor people they trust andmaybe love. The thing Ilove best about Sheba isher sometimes slow ‘eyeblink’ from across theroom; I have beenhonouredwithacatkiss.

The feral catssurroundingMaria while Imusedonthisweresimplyintent on having as muchas they could of the pasta

and fish mixture she wasdispensing. They weresilent.Incontrast,domesticcats can be very talkative.Over time, Sheba hasdeveloped a number ofmeows to suit differentoccasions. They rangefrom the little chirrup thatgreets me if I wake herwhen coming into a roomto a plaintive high-pitchedmeowonherarrival in the

house and not seeinganyoneabout.Thenthereisthe quite desperate meowwhen she sees a packet ofher food being opened.Andofcoursetherearethepurrs. While these aresometimes a signal ofcomfort and contentment,research has shown thatpurringisanattempttogetsomething done. Iremember my other cat

Fluffy’s loud anddisconcertingpurr,whichIinitially failed to recogniseas a cry for help. New totheworld of felines, Iwasunawarethattheywillpurrwhenstressedorindistressor pain and are simplytryingtoattractattention.

The cats thatMaria fedhad no need of theseniceties except perhaps forLily, who had now settled

herself on the elderlywoman’s lap while theothers, having washedthemselves, disappearedbackintothegarden.

Iwenttositbyher.‘How are things?’ I

asked.She made the ‘muh!’

shrug. ‘Always the same,my neighbours are up totheir usual tricks. As forthese cats, they have done

well enough during thesummer. So many touristsfeed them, but winter iscoming.Therewillbe rainandmaybethoselittleoneswon’tsurvive.’

AsIgazedather large,work-worn hands passingover Lily’s fur I sensedagain the essentialgoodness inMariaandherlove of these trovatelle,abandoned creatures; a

devotion that marginalisedher from the society shelivedin.

‘Iamsosorry,’Isaid.Shegavemeher lovely

smile.‘Pazienza.’

ELEVEN

I Glimpse the DarkSide of Sicily

hose small thingsrestored me and I felt

ready to faceTaormina. Inthe evening I went in

search of some Sicilianmusic, climbing the stepsofftheCorsothatledtotheGrotta di Ulisse. SomeonegrabbedmyhandandIwaswhizzed right across therestaurant andunceremoniously plonkeddown at the table of anAmerican couple whodidn’t seem to mind thisintruderatall.

So we relaxed and

talked. And mycompanionsofthiseveningtold me they had been allover Sicily to visit onceagain theGreek templesatAgrigento, the mosaics atPiazzaArmerina.Theyhadbeentotheisland’s‘navel’Enna, marvelling they hadforgottenhowsplendidarethose billowing hills ofgoldendurumwheat,spenta day on the beach at

Acireale, gazing at therock, which in Greekmythology was hurled bytheone-eyedgiant into thesea.

‘Buttheverybestday,’commented Anna-Maria,‘waswhenwewentbackto“our” village. We droveinto the country andwatched my uncle’sshepherd make the ricottacheese and drank wine

fromhisvineyard.Forme,thatistherealSicily.’

‘Doesitmakeyouwantto come back here?’ Iasked.

‘Maybe,oneday,whenweareold.’

In the meantime, therewas America thewonderful, the bounteousto seduce them. Theyowned a hardware store,they toldme, had loads of

friends. The problem withcomingbacktoSicily,theyadded, was an ongoingfamily squabble over apieceofland.

‘Weneedourspace.’Gaetanoreachedforhis

wallet and handed me hiscard. ‘If ever you findyourself in Brooklyn, lookusup.’

We joined in thegeneral clapping to the

musicand I felt awaveofjoyonhearingitagain.Themusiciansmightbeplayingfor the tourists. Theymight, asoneof thegrouptold me, travel intoTaormina from thesurrounding villagesbecause they needed toearn money to feed theirfamilies. One of thembuttedintoaddthathehadfivechildren, thinkofhow

manymouths to feed. Butthere is something aboutthe Sicilianwhen he playsandsingsthatistruetohisnature. Reaping the corn,fishing by the light of sunor moon, riding a mulealong the mountain path,hissongsexpressemotionstinged with nostalgia andhistory. They come fromthesoul.Thereis‘LaTerraAmara’ (TheBitterEarth),

the earth thathas senthimallovertheworldtoescapethe tyranny of earning hiscrust in agriculture; theresentful earth of Sicilydemanding back-breakingwork under a scorchingsun,unyieldingofwaterasa revenge for itsdeforestation. It is hard tobelieve that the rivers,especially the Simeto,Salso and Belice, were

once navigable. Now theyare silted up, or dryriverbeds, which are oftenusedasrubbishdumps.

There came themournful tremble of themandolin,butnotall thesesongsaremelancholic.Oneof the best loved has thesingerimitatingthebrayingof a donkey. It might becorny, it might becalculated,butI’maneasy

target. ‘La Terra Amara’,which nevertheless drawsback so many Sicilians totheir land, to this bitterearth.

The boom of theterracottajar,thequartara,as the player twirled it inhis hands and blew into itandthefischietto,asimple,three-stopped cane pipe,which in the right handscan produce a virtuoso of

sound.When I first heard this

music,yearsago,Ifounditall ‘so romantic’. Therewere candles on the tablesand painted jugs full ofscarlet wine. Romantic! Icould imagine that coupleattheoppositetablesayingit in German, Dutch,Swedish: ‘So romantic’.And that is what my wiseSicilian friends trade on.

They have a commodity:La Sicilia! Blue seas andskies, wine and anexcellent cuisine, why notsellitforthebestpriceyoucanget?

Tonightitamusedmetowatch the German touristspay an inflated price forlocal wine, clapping theirhands and shouting‘Wunderbar!’

‘Jenny?’

I glanced up and sawthe owner, Filippo, hadcometoourtable.

‘There is something Ihavetotellyou…’

His expression wasgrave. ‘The cat, theone inCastelmolayoutooktothevet…’

His voice was almostdrowned out by a loudburst of applause and Itriedtoconcentrate.

‘Whatisit?’‘She and many others

werepoisoned.’Ihadavisionofthelast

time I had seen Lizzie,lyingsocontently,blinkingin the sunlight. I broughtmyhandstomyface.‘No!’

‘I’msorry.’Stricken, I was gazing

atFilippo,tryingtotakeinhiswords.

‘Don’t be sad,’ he told

me.Don’t be sad! When I

felt the earth had shiftedbeneath me and I wasfallingintoablackhole.

The music continued,people shouted and sang;theyclappedtheirhandstoits rhythms. I stayed on,there was nowhere else togo and I didn’twant to bealone in the apartment.Then I remembered what

Antonella had told meabout the people inCastelmola who dislikedcats.Itmusthavebeenoneof thosewhorolledpoisoninto balls of meat andthrew them down for theunsuspecting creatures toeat. I felt such a rageagainst them and theterrible act they hadcommitted.Anger like thisisfertilegroundfornotions

ofrevengebut,asthenightwore on and my furyturned to grief, I made upmymind I wouldn’t leaveit there.SomehowIwouldhelpthesecats.

TWELVE

Elke, Cat ‘Mother’to a Myriad Felines

had never realised thatmy landladyElkewas a

gattara supreme until thedayshe invitedme tovisit

her house. It was a fewdays after I’d received thedevastatingnewsofLizzie,and I welcomed thisdiversion from mythoughts. She called mewhen, as usual, I wassitting with my coffee atthepicturewindow.

‘Come up and see myhome.’

Iknewthatthepropertygazed out over the Ionian

Sea, perched on the top ofCapo Sant’Andrea, but Ihad never been able todiscern exactly where orhowyoureachedit.

‘There’s a little roadthat leads up on the leftside of Isola Bella beach,’she told me. ‘If you waitthere, I’ll come and fetchyou.’

The tall gate swungopen as if onto a magical

domain where few peoplewere admitted. Then camethe slow drive along arough road windingupward and flanked byrocky outcrops and thetowering prickly pear. Aswe turned into the finalstretch,Elkeslowedthecarto a crawl and I saw thereason why: several cats,which had been sunningthemselves, scurried away.

Sheledthewayupaleafy-lined path into the garden:the lush beauty of aMediterranean gardenwhere pots spilled brilliantflowers and there was astraggle of ferns, roses,bougainvillea and thatstrange bird-like plant, thestrelitzia. But mostbeautiful of all were thecats, so many of them:lurking in the shadows,

skulking among plants,having a playful fight in apool of sunlight. Thegarden was a cats’paradise. Tiny kittensregarded me with hugeeyes, other cats pressedthemselves against Elke’slegsandshebenttotalktothem, calling each byname. Found, saved orabandoned by uncaringpeople, these were the

lucky cats who had foundElke. They had their ownlittleshelterssetamongtheplants and she fed themtwice daily from her hugestoreoffoodkeptinanoldabandoned church in thegrounds.

We moved into thehouse, awashwith light asif it were an extension ofIsola Bella, its terracesseeming to hang over the

sea. Then I noticed all thesame lovely touches thatmade my apartment sohomely:theprettycushionsand throws over the rattanchairs, a fat tassel hangingfrom a basket. Thereweremore cats, too: Freddi,fluffy pale-grey Nuovolaand a huge ginger tom.Theydid notmixwith theoutdoorcatsbutcarriedona luxurious existence in

thiscoolinterior.This was a revelation

for me. While I had beensecretlycaringforLizzie,Ihad had no idea that Elkecontinually rescued allthesefelines.

Idyllic as this settingappeared, it was also oneof violence and death. Aswe sat outsidewith a colddrink, Elke told me aboutthe tomcats that grab hold

of the females and biteholesintheirneckstokeepthemstillwhiletheymate.

‘Somanyof thekittensdie. There are some nastyviruses in Sicily and theirimmune system isn’t verystrong. It’s heartbreaking.You have to be strong ifyoudothiskindofwork.’

Later on I was toremember those wordswhen I too encountered

cruelty and fought death.And so I related a part ofthestoryofLizzieandhowupset I was over thepoisoning. I made nomention of the fact I hadnursed her in theapartment.

Elke nodded. ‘A lot ofpeopleherehatecats; theybring their children up toviewthemasahealthrisk.You should have brought

herhere.’Ifeltterrible,guiltyand

terrible,butthenhowwasItoknowthatElkewasalsoagattara?

THIRTEEN

I Learn the SadFate of Lizzie

n the subject of thegattare, the

sometimesmockedwomenwho care for a number of

cats,itcertainlyseemstruethere is a strong bondbetween the two. We gobackalongwayandhavealotincommon,butperhapsthe biggest thing we shareis our history of beingpersecuted by the Church.After all we’ve beenthrough, we have everyreason to stick by eachother.

In evolutionary terms

the cat family is fairlymodern, being only 3–5million years old. Theywere domesticated, if youcan ever say a cat is trulydomesticated, by theEgyptians and considered,among otherwild animals,tobetherepresentativesonearth of gods andgoddesses.One city in theNileDelta had as its chiefdeity a woman with the

head of a lioness calledBastet. She was attributedto sexual energy, fertilityandchildnurturingandhercultspreadtootherpartsofEgypt.AwildandraunchyBastet festivalwas held inAprilandMay,attendedbyasmanyas700,000peopleandwhoknowshowmanycats. Ferals came topossess a special protectedstatusinEgyptanditwasa

capital offence to kill one,evenbyaccident.

But the fortunes offelines had changedradicallybythelateMiddleAges. From being laudedassymbolsofmotherhood,theyweredubbedagentsofthe Devil and thecompanions of witches.Felinephobiareigned.Thiswas largely because theestablishedChurchwanted

to stamp out all traces ofpagan religions and cults.From the twelfth to thefourteenth centuries, bothwomen and cats werepersecuted for their so-called involvement inwitchcraft. A solitaryfemale who believed innatural remedies and hadas her sole companion anamiable puss catwould bedenounced by suspicious

neighbours and hauledbefore a court. There arestoriesofanimalsbeingputontrial,too.

Along with this hatredofcatscameanelementofhatred of women, inparticular the link betweenfemale sexuality and thesexual habits of femalecats. The very quality offertility admired by theancient Egyptians was to

becondemnedandstampedout by the early ChristianChurch.

In these so-calledenlightened times it isawful to imagine a singleandperhaps lonelywomanwith her cat companionjudged and horribly put todeath. But then perhapsthingshavenotchangedtosuchalargedegreewhenIthink of Maria, whose

neighbours spited her inevery way they could andgossiped about herstrangeness justbecauseofherloveofcats.

I longed to talk tosomeoneaboutthedeathofLizzie and the rest of hercolony. There were somanyquestionsIneededtoask.Thepersonwhocouldbest answer them wasAntonella and yet I kept

puttingoffthatbusjourneytoCastelmola.A fewdaysbefore I was due to returnto England, I couldn’tprocrastinate any longer.Whenthebusdrewintothepark, I hesitated again,feeling anxious, afraid ofwhat I was going to hear.In Castelmola, I set offdown the streets and for amomentlostmywayuntilIsawthenowfamiliarslope

downwardstoViaCanone.It was strangely desertedwithnotasignofacatbutfor Lizzie’s mother andanother small feline.Several times I rang onAntonella’s bell but therewas no reply. I wasbeginning to thinkIwouldhavetoleaveanotewhenIheard footsteps and sawher approaching. She wasdelightedtoseeme.

‘How did it happen?’ Iasked the question I’dasked myself so manytimes.

‘I received yourpostcards,’ Antonella said.‘Whenthefirstarrivedshewas always on the streetanddoingwellwith ahintofalimp.Ihadplannedtosendyouaphotographbutthenshedisappeared.’

‘Whendidithappen?’

‘It must have been inJuly.’

July!All thoseweeks Ihad felt happy that Lizziewas living a good lifewhen, in fact, she wasdead.

‘Thefirstcatwasfoundlyinginthestreetnearthatoldhouseandafterwardsinvarious parts ofCastelmola. They had acurious appearance as if

they were made of stone.When I heard what hadhappened, I ran aroundlooking for your cat but Icouldn’t find her. I havenever been able to findher.’

So the mysteryremainedofwhathappenedtoLizzie.Hadsheescapedthe poisoning? Or had sherun off to hide and die amiserabledeath?

‘Ikeptonexpectingherto turn up,’ Antonellacontinued, ‘but she neverhas.’

She tookme to a pieceofwasteland,wheretwoofthe cats she fed wereplaying. ‘It is so easy towrap thepoison inabitofmeat and throw it downhere, no one would knowwho it was who had doneit. The world is a horrible

place and sensitive peoplelike us have to suffer somuch–wehavetotakeonthesinsoftheworld.’

I remembered thecrucifixinherhouse.‘It ishard to be sensitive,’ Inoted.

Then Antonellaconfided: ‘I have someideawhohasdonethisbutI cannot report thembecauseIdon’thaveproof.

However, there was thiswoman who complainedabout the mess the catsmade roundher house andthen two days later theyweredead.’

I could see she didn’twantmetoleave,enjoyingthe company of anotherhuman being who felt asshe did. We kissed andhugged,andIsaidIwouldcome again. As the bus

drew away, I stared out ofthe window, shocked andupset.IhadbelievedLizziewas in good hands but, asAntonella said, no onewouldhaveguessedthat iswhat these people coulddo.

It was a sad journeydowntoTaormina.

FOURTEEN

Giovanni, the ManWho Loves

Flowers

he first Saturdaymorning of October,

early: the Public Gardens.

Itisallsolovelyandfresh;I feel full of hope, in themoment. I have anappointment to meet thebotanist Giovanni Bonier.He arrives with hisbulldog, Bimbo, who isvery interested in the cats.They arch their backs andspit at him, run up treesandglare– inparticular, alarge black one. Incontrast, Bimbo seems an

amiable bulldog who onlywantstoplay.

Itistheperfectmorningto be strolling along thesewell-remembered pathsstriped with the nowlengthening shadows. Thesun has begun to relax itsgrip on the earth, the lightis softer; there is a subtlechange of colour on themountainsandonthesea.IloveeveryseasoninSicily,

butperhapsautumnbest.I am to have a guided

tour of the flowers. AsGiovanni explains, theycome from all over theworld, the names assumptuous as the plantsthemselves.

There is Capparisspinosa, part of the caperfamily, whose small budsarepickedasarelish.ThenCuphea from the Greek

‘kyphos’, which means‘curved’, alluding to thecurved fruit capsule; ithassprays of orange-redtubularflowers.

Every plant has itshistory.HereistheBirdofParadise, the strelitzia,named after Charlotte ofMecklenburg-Strelitz, wifeof George III. Its name isapt, the three-sepalled,two-petalled blooms

curiously resembling anexoticbird’shead.Thereisthe Jacaranda, its nameoriginating from theBrazilian/Indians. Thisvariety, Mimosifolia, hasnumerous leaflets andsmall purple blue flowerswithawhitethroat.

The nuts of themandorla (or almond) treeare used widely in Sicilyfor all kinds of

confectionery. This varietyis thePrunus dulcis (Asiaminor), easy to spot withitsverydarkbarkandpinkflowers.Brugmansia sanguinea

lives up to its name, withits bright-red ‘Angel’sTrumpets’. Originally,theseflowerswereusedbythe American Indians as ahallucinogen; it takes itstitle from another ‘name’

in natural history: JustineBrugmans,who livedfrom1763to1819.Salvia leucantha is a

white version of the morefamiliarfieryredSage.Thestamensofitsflowersworkonarocketmechanism:thevisiting bee has pollenpressed onto its head as itpushes against a sterileprojection from theanther.Theword‘salvia’meansto

heal or save. Usedherbally, it is medicallyapproved in Germany.Extracts taken internallyhave been recommendedfor anxiety, insomnia anddigestive problems. It issometimes used externallyfor insect bites andinfections of the throat,mouthandskin.

London apothecaryJohn Parkinson (1567–

1650) gave his name toParkinsonia. The morepopular name is theJerusalemThorn – a spinyshrub with little sprays ofyellow, pea-like flowers,dotted with orange. Itcomes from CentralAmerica.

We pause by a hugecedar tree, magnificentwithitsblue-green,needle-like leaves, but, as

Giovanni explains, it isovershadowingotherplantsand drawing all thestrength from the soil.Lofty though it is,he feelsitoughttocomedown.

Iaskhimwhatitisliketo be young and educatedand living in Sicily. As abotanist he gives me ananalogy in plant life: therootsofakindof fatalisticthinking are planted so

deep that it is impossible,inhisopinion,tochangeit:‘They cannot see the bigpicture, cannot gettogether.Eachhashisownpoint of view and won’tcompromise.’

The garden is amishmash of differentperiods. There are treesthat Florence Trevelyanalmost certainly broughtfrom the East and many

rare plants and flowers,which should stay exactlywhere they are. But thereare others planted withoutany forethought and theseshould be severely prunedortakenout.Hepointsoutplants in thewrongplaces,such as the sun-lovinghibiscus positioned amongthose plants that enjoy theshade.

Thepavilions, designed

by Florence Trevelyan,were christened ‘thebeehives’.Theyweremadeof a variety of materials,from stonework facing invarying cuts anddimensions at the base toalternating brickwork andthe lava-stonedetailof theturretstorusticlogsonthelittle balconies and jetties.Now they are beingallowed to fall into ruins.

There is also the ‘Alice inWonderland’ behaviour ofthose who tend theparterre,whichisamixtureof stones and bricks.Giovanni explains wrylythat the gardeners spendhourssweepingitwithold-fashioned bristle brooms.Amachine exists, but it isnotused.

We come to the cactusgarden, where I say that I

think it’s not in keepingwiththerestofthegarden.Giovanniagreeswithme.

‘It has always takenoutsiderstogetthingsdonehere,’ he explains. ‘We’vebeencolonisedbysomanydifferent invaders, but,although the people havebeen enriched by theircivilisations, they havenever gone on to developthese ideas. [Di

Lampedusa’s classic] TheLeopardsaysitall.Inspiteof that, I wouldn’t liveanywhereelse.Theclimateisperfect.AndIamnotanemployee of the councilbut a consultant so not asanswerable, even ifsometimes one feelsunappreciated.WhenIfirststarted to work in thegardensIcataloguedalltheflowers. But do you see

anylabels?’‘Thereare twokindsof

people,’headds.‘Yougivesome money, they eat thelot;yougiveittoothers,ofcourse they eat some of itbuttheydosomethingwiththerest.’

And so we continue, Itosmilewithdelight,hetolist all these flowers: thedaturawhite,yellowcreamand rose striped, purple

Salvia, bright-yellowtagetes, the roses andhibiscus. Giovanni is amineofinformation.Thereis the fascinating Dragontreewithitssmall,fragrantflowers.The resin from itsstems is the source of‘dragon’s blood’ used invarnishes and photoengraving. Good that it ishere – in the wild thiselegant tree is endangered

duetooverexploitation.Wegazeupintotheodd

whorled branches of theAraucaria (the MonkeyPuzzle tree); its leaves arewhorled too. The fruitingcones takeseveralyears todevelop and, as theymature,theybreakup.Andhere is a ginger tree,Zingiber,soundingstraightfrom Edward Lear. Therhizomesofthisspeciesare

usedforthemanykindsofginger we find in theshops:fresh,greenorroot,crystallised,dried.Anothervariety, Alpinia, has threelarge,loballowerlips.

Butwhatisthenameof‘my’ beautiful weepingshrub, which I’ve stoppedto admire since May?Russelia, Giovanni tellsme, named after DrAlexander Russell –

sometimes ‘coral plant’,‘fire cracker’ or ‘fountainplant’. It has pendantstems, simple leaves andtwo-lipped, five-lobalflowersthatgoonandon.

We part by the newstatue given to the townhall by sculptor PieroGuidiinthepreviousyear:two travellers cast inantique bronze sit on thebench by the entrance

gates. Her head leans onhis shoulder; she has asmallcase.

The only strange thingabout them is that bothsproutafullsetofwings.

FIFTEEN

I Launch Catsnip

could not get Lizzie outofmymind.That image

ofherlyinginthesunshinewithcontented,half-closedeyes kept returning. Backin England, well-meaning

friends tried to tell me toput it behindme: theyhadsimilarstoriestorecountofholidays in Mediterraneancountries where they toohadcomeacrosshungryorsicklycats.

‘You do what you canwhile you’re there but,when you leave, you havetoput it outofyourmind.You’ddriveyourselfcrazy,otherwise.’

But I couldn’t forget.TheangerI’dfeltthatnightat the Grotta di Ulisserenewed whenever Ithought of the dreadfuldeed some animal haterhad committed. If I coulddosomethingtohelptheseferal cats, then Lizzie’sdeathwouldnothavebeeninvain.

So what should I do?Whatwasreallyatthecore

of this cruelty towardsanimals,whichappearedtoextend throughout theMediterraneancountries?Itwasn’t the first time I hadcome across it. Travellingin Cyprus, Greece andTunisia always there wereskinny and sickly cats thatappeared by magic themomentyousatdownatarestaurant table; alwaysunfeeling waiters, who

chasedthemaway.‘Next timewe’ll take a

holiday where there aren’tany cats!’ Andrew wouldsigh.

But there were alwayscatsandthevisitstoalocalsuper-markettobuytinsoftuna,alwaystheawarenessthatsoonerorlater,Ihadtoleave them to their fate.Lizzie, I realised,represented a symbol,

awakening my energy toact.ButIdidn’tknowhowto begin. And thensomething quite fortuitoushappened.

Notlongaftermyreturnfrom Sicily, I’d met upwithaphotographerfriend,also called Jenny, todiscuss feature ideas forour county magazine,SussexLife.

‘There’s always

something happening inBrighton,’ I said. ‘Whydon’t we offer a series ofmonthly features on the24/7City?’

My friend wasenthusiastic.

‘Iftheycommissionus,’I added, ‘it would meanthat somemonthswe’d beupatanunearthlyhour.’

‘It will be fun,’ shesmiled.

I sometimes remindedherofthatremarkwhenwetalked to the homeless atmidnight, or shivered inBrightonMarketat four inthemorning.Butitwasthe10pm slot that was thecatalystforme.

A white VauxhallCombo came to a haltoutside Hove station. Onits sidewas the distinctivelogooftheCatsProtection

League. Beverley Avey,Welfare Officer for theBrighton and Hove Citybranch, waved us aboardand off we went. A stray,unneutered black cat andher three kittens had beensighted in a Hove garden.Ourmissiontonightwastocatchthem.

‘Wehavesomanycallsfrom people telling us ofcats seen in the

neighbourhood scavengingfor food,’ Beverleyexplained as we drovethroughthenight.‘Ownersmove away and just leavetheirpetsbehind,believingthey will fend forthemselves.Catsarenotasstand-offish and self-sufficient as people think,they crave love andattention.’

She told us she was

never really off-duty.Workinglateintothenight,shejuggledthiswithbeingawifeandmother, aswellasholdingdownajob.

‘I come home to findthe answer machine jam-packed with messages.Calls range from lost catstoreportsofilltreatmentoraccidents, to those whohave given one of “our”cats a home and want to

report on its progress.Other people have decidedthey don’t want their catanymoreandcanwetakeiton.’

Felines are twilightcreatures so our bestchance of catching themwas now.We knocked onthedoorandtheownerledus through to thegarden. Icarried the food, strong-smelling pilchards, and

Beverley lugged in thetrap. Unlike the one I hadseen Giulio use, this wassprung by remote control.It meant we could sit adistance away, ready topresstheswitchwhenorifthe cats took the bait. Sowe sat on a garden benchinthedarkenedgardenandpreparedforalongwait.

Beverleystifledalaugh.The house owner had

apparently let her own catout and, notoriouslycurious as felines are, thisone was sniffing aroundthe trap. We managed topick him up and take himindoors.

While we waited,Beverley told us aboutsome of her latest cases.There was Luca, whowaitedpatientlyoutsidehisso-calledfamily’shouse to

beletinuntilhecollapsed.WhenhecametoBeverley,he wouldn’t eat for sometime. Happily, he decidedthere was life beyond hisfirst unkind owners andwasnowbeingfostered.

The week before,Beverleyhadcollectedtwovery small kittens, whichhadbeenshutinsideashedforaweek.

‘They were desperately

hungry and crying sopitifully until I squirtedsyringesofkittenmilkintotheir mouths. It was amiracle they had survivedthatlong.’

Whenalovelysurrogatemother called Trinaaccepted themas her own,thisresultedinastorywithahappyending.

‘There won’t be muchdifficulty finding pretty

little kittens like those ahome,’shewenton.‘Oldercatshavesomuchtooffer,although they are never aspopular. They have awonderful serenity aboutthem and are truly theultimate stress busters, ifonly people would givethemachance.’

Suddenly, we were onthe alert: a shadow darkerthanthegloomofthenight

was making its waytowards the trap. Andanother… Beverleypressed the switch and thedoorclangedclosed.

They didn’t like it, notone bit. Their big greeneyes gazed at us throughthe bars and I tried to tellthem we were doing thisfor all the right reasons.But theyweren’t listening;instead, they were leaping

about,tryingtoescape.We decided to call it a

night. As Beverley said,Mum and her other kittenhadbeenalertedandwouldnow give the trap a wideberth.Shewouldreturnthefollowingevening.

We drove towardsBrighton,wherefostererJowaswaiting. Beverley hadateamofpeoplewhowereprepared to take on cats

and kittens and care forthemonashort-termbasis.Jo led the way outside toher tinygarden,which shehad given over to a seriesof purpose-built pens.Released, the kittens shotout of the trap,understandably freaked bythistransition.Oneofthemclimbedup to theroofandthenhungthere,wonderinghow to get down. As Jo

said, in a couple of daysthey would have calmeddown and realised theywere in receipt of lots ofTLC.

Over a cup of tea,Beverleyoutlined thehugeproblem Brighton andHovehaswithcats.

‘Somany peoplewon’thave themneuteredandsotheycontinuetobreed.Didyouknow thatone cat can

be responsible for 20,000descendantsinfiveyears?’

No, I didn’t, but I waslearningfast.

Beverley shares herhome with eight cats, notto mention several felinesin the pen near the backdoor. Further down thegarden is a log cabin,which her long-sufferinghusband imagined wouldbe an office. Here, there

aremorecats,liketheaptlynamedAngel.

‘I can’t turn themaway,’ she explains,fondling Boris, a cat thatwasn’trescuedbutdecidedto move across the roadfrom his former home.‘And the joy they give inreturn makes it allworthwhile.

‘But I still find it hardto talk about William, a

lovely old gentleman. Heneeded permanentmedication for a kidneyproblem and I had terriblemisgivings about lettinghimgo.

‘I was persuaded bysomeone who vowed heloved cats and would giveWilliam a good home.When thisman’sgirlfriendreturned to him, hemovedout of his house and left

the helpless cat to its fate.William crept into acardboard box and died. Ishall never forgive norforget.’

There was such apassion in her voice. AnechoofhowIhadfelt,thatevening sitting in theGrotta di Ulisse, whenFilippohadbroughtmethenews of Lizzie’s death. Itwas late but I couldn’t

leave without telling hermystory.

‘I can’t get her out ofmymind,’ I finished. ‘I’mso angry about the waythesepeopletreatcatsandIjust feel I’ve got to dosomethingaboutit.’

Beverley listened andnodded. ‘I know exactlyhowyoufeel.’

‘But Sicily,’ my friendJennyput in, ‘surely that’s

abitcrazy?’‘Do it,’ Beverley said

decisively. ‘Someone hastohelpthem.’

It was nearly midnightbefore Jenny and I startedonthedrivehomebutIhadmadeupmymind.

Beverley’s words rangin my ears: ‘If only catswereneutered thenumberswould reduce and theywould be chosen by those

who reallywant to offer alovinghome.’

‘It all stems fromoverpopulation,’ animalwelfare campaigner SuzyGale confirmed. ‘None ofthese countries has anefficient neuteringprogramme for feralanimals; consequently,they breed at anoverwhelming rate. Themother cats are weakened

by continuously givingbirthandthekittenstooaresickly. And local peopleseem to think the onlymethodofcontrolistokillthem.’

I’dcomeacrossSuzyasI researched people whoworked for cats. Forseveral years she hadorganisedandcarriedoutaneutering programme inCyprusandhadachieveda

greatdealincontrollingthecolonies.

‘Itinvolvesalotofhardwork and heartbreak, too,’she told me. ‘But if youdecide to have a go, I’mhappytoadviseyou.’

Brighton isn’t calledbreezyfornothing.Asyoustep out of the railwaystation and start downQueens Road, you receivea blustery greeting. That

autumn of 2002, it wasparticularlywild,withhighwinds and rough seas; thepoor old West Pier tookanother battering. By theend of the year, part of itcollapsed,thebeginningofthe end. One man wasswept out to sea, havingclung to the girdersunderneath the pier andcalled for help. I battledmywaytoacosytearoom,

where I met another catlady, Angela Collins. Theworld was beginning toappear thronging withthese feisty women whotookitonthemselvestodosomething practical forfelines.

Angela’sproject,Care4Cats, concentrates on theBalearicIslands,whereshehas made considerableinroadsintocontrollingthe

catpopulation.‘Several years ago, I

was on holiday in Ibiza,’she told me. ‘I washorrified to discover themany thousands of straycatsandkittensallovertheisland, having either beenabandoned, or born on thestreet. There was no helpfor them, and they weresimply left to die ofstarvation or diseases such

ascatflu,leukaemia,AIDSandenteritis.’

This sad situationpreyed on Angela’s mindandsoshedecidedtotrytodo something aboutalleviating it. In theMillenniumyearshesetupCare4Catsandthecharitybeganitsworkofneuteringthesestraystodecreasethepopulation in a humaneway. She echoed Suzy

Gale’swords.‘It’sanuphillbattleand

youhavetobepreparedforlocal opposition.Sometimes you get sodownhearted when theyjust don’t seem tounderstand what you aretryingtodo.’

Iwas to remember thisadvice during my ownstruggles in the yearsahead,butat that timeand

withthepoignantimageofLizzieinmind,Irefusedtosee obstacles; I wasdetermined to go ahead. Iftheycoulddoit,socouldI.

So what should I callmy project? It’s beenshown that people preferwords that are easy topronounce andunderstand.My search revealed thatmany such names hadalreadybeentaken.Finally,

I plumped for Catsnip,liking the play on thewords ‘cat snip’. I openeda building society accountandsetaboutraisingfunds.I’d never done anythinglike that before and I soondiscovered it wasn’t easy.Take car boot sales, forexample.Ibeganbytakinga stall at my localcommunity centre. Thisproved to be a steep

learning curve. I arrivedearlyformyfirstsale,witha pretty cloth to lay overmy table and set aboutarranging my goods. I’dscarcely finished when afatwomanarrived.

‘New to this, are you?’she demanded, picking upandexaminingsomepiecesof porcelain donated by afriend.

‘I thought the doors

didn’topentillten,’Isaid.‘Oh,I’mnotthepublic!

Mystallisoverthere.’She held up a pretty

glass, one of a set of six.‘I’ll give you a couple ofquidforthese,’shesmiled,showing a missing tooth.‘Take them off yourhands.’

I hadn’t priced theglassesbutinstincttoldmetheywereworthmorethan

that.‘I’m selling them for a

pound each,’ I said,surprised at how firm Icouldbe.

Thesmile faded. ‘Well,I hopeyouget it,’ retortedthe woman and waddledaway.

I’d learned my firstlesson. Seasoned car bootsellerswilloftenprowltheother stalls, trying to pick

up a bargain, which theycansellonforalotmoreattheirownpitch.

On another occasionsomeone had donated acollection of costumejewellery – necklaces,bracelets and earrings. I’dbrought in amirror,whichI propped against the wallso that people could trythem on. There was onewomanwhomIsweartried

oneverypieceandtookhertimeaboutit.IstruggledtokeepmyeyeonherwhileIservedothercustomers,butnotlongaftershehadgoneI found a pair of earringswas missing too. Lessonnumbertwo:carbootsalescan be very susceptible tothieves. Far better if youcan persuade a friend tohelp out, otherwise you’realso stuck behind your

tablewithoutthechanceofabreak.

I’d embarked on thesesaleswiththeidealismofamissionary but I soondiscovered that, nevermind my worthy cause,these canny shopperswereset on knocking the pricesdown to as low as theycould get. They weren’tprepared to paymore thanthirty pence for a

paperback and were quicktopointoutiftheythoughtonelookedabitdog-eared,lowering their offer totwenty-five pence.Sometimes they weresimply out to swindle. Itstill hurts to rememberWeasel,thenameIgavetothe tall, thin man whoarrived at my stall shortlyafter the public had beenletin.

‘Got any books?’ Histonewasnasal.

As a matter of fact, Ihad a large number ofthem. Some friends I’dknown from our days ofdemonstrating against liveanimal exportshadclearedouttheirattics.TherewasalargeboxofthemIhadyettosortthrough.

Weasel laughed, anunpleasant sound. ‘Oh,

don’tworryaboutthat!Letme have a quick look atthem.’

At that moment, ayoungwomanarrivedwhohad read my poster andwanted to know moreabout Catsnip. Her eyesfilledwithtearswhenItoldher about the death ofLizzie.

‘I don’t want to buyanything,’ she said, ‘but

here’s something for yourfunds.’

Iwasstillbaskinginthefactsomeonehadshownaninterest when I realisedWeasel was holding out afive-poundnote.

‘I’vehadaquicklook,’he said. ‘And I’d like tobuy this little lot.’ Heopened a large checkedbag, where I could seeabout five books already

stowed inside. ‘I think thatshouldcoverthem.’

And he was off, hislong, thin body slitheringinto the crowd, and I wasleft with a strong feelingI’d been cheated. Therewas something about hismanner,theswift,practisedway he had gone throughthose books and packedthem away that convincedme they were far more

valuable than the pricehe’d paid for them. AfterthatIwasalwayscarefultoexamine every donationbeforeIputitonsale.

Those car boot saleswere mortifying,threatening to crush myenthusiasm formyproject.Thefinalstrawcamewhen,after spending hours onhand-stitching a series ofcushion covers, absolutely

nooneshowedtheslightestinterest. I calculated myoverall takings, £67.13p.Thatwouldn’t takemefar.SoIturnedmybackonthecommunity centre anddecided to try somethingelse.

Time was passing and,if I wanted to launchCatsnipthefollowingyear,I’dhave togetamoveon.Perhaps selling wasn’t for

me. I was, after all, ajournalist and writing wasmy forte. Suzy’s voicecameintomymind.

‘We contacted variouscharitiesandsomeofthemwere very good in givingusagrant.Icangiveyoualist,ifyoulike.’

The letterwriting cameeasily enough and I wasable to explain my aimsclearly: ‘to take a team of

vet, nurse and helpers toSicily to treat and neuterferal cats, considering thatthe local authorities donothing to ameliorate theproblem’. I alsohad to fillin application forms,something I more thandislike but seem to have ablock about. Nevertheless,I put my head down andsoontheywereinthepost.

I wrote articles about

Lizzie’s story and one ofthem appeared in a littlemagazine called Animals’Voice. Betty, Jayne andTracy are three wonderfulwomen who rescue andcareforwildlifeintheNewForest area of Hampshire.Their magazine covers allkindsof animal issues andthey were kind enough toincludemine.Theresponsewas excellent; I was so

touched by the readers’letters.Oftenwomen, theywerebynomeanswealthybut sent me what theycould afford. The balancein my building societygrewand,when I receivedsubstantial cheques fromthree of the charitableorganisations I hadwrittento, I knew I could goahead.

So I phoned Elke, my

landlady.Before I had leftTaormina we had had along talk and she hadagreed to help in anywayshecould.

‘How’stheweather?’‘Don’t mention it,’ I

replied. ‘We are havingawfulwindandrain.’

‘It’s sunny here,’ camethe cheery voice, ‘not allthatwarm,butsunny.’Shelaughed. ‘But you don’t

want to talk about theweather! How are youdoing?’

‘Good news, I’m readytostartplanningthetrip,’Itoldher.‘IhavethemoneybutIdon’tknowwherewecanoperate.I’veaskedmyvet if he’d be part of theteam,buthe’sbusy.’

Therewas silence for amoment. Elke wasobviouslyabsorbingthis.

‘I have an idea,’ shesaid at last. ‘RememberInes,thewomanwholivedinthedownstairsapartmentwhereyoustayed?’

Yes, I rememberedher,a rather eccentric Germanwoman but undoubtedly aloverofcats.I’dheardhercalling them in to be fed,everyevening.

‘She has asummerhouse–it’sbigand

secluded. It would be theperfect place. No onewould see what we weredoing.’

‘Andthevet?’‘Leave it with me, I’ll

seewhatIcando.’Within days she was

back tome. Yes, Ines hadsaid we could use thesummerhouse and she hadmanaged to persuade anAmericanfriendwhowasa

vet to volunteer hisservices. All I had to dowaspayforhisflightfromthe States. Frank Caporalewasonboard.

That year, I hardlynoticed Christmas. Themoment it was over Ibegan to assemble theequipment I would need.Thereweretrapsandcagesto order, which would besent by road and delivered

upon my arrival in Sicily.Guy, my sister’s vet, hadgivenmealistofthedrugsand other things I wouldneed for the ‘surgery’. Astheideaofthisprojecttookshape, I becameincreasingly bolder inasking people to give methings. I wrote to severaldrug companies and someof them donated necessarymedicines. My local

hospital in Worthingoffered forceps andscissors.OtherequipmentIhadtobuyfromveterinarysupplyfirms.

Daffodils appeared inmy garden and the dayslengthened. There werecopies of the May 2003Brighton Festival brochurein the library.SometimesIdespaired I would ever beready in time. During the

weekbeforeIleftEngland,I was still rushing roundcollecting last-minutesupplies. Finally, I wasfaced with the problem ofhow to get the drugs andsurgical supplies from theUK to Sicily. And here Imust say my ignoranceproved a blessing: I hadabsolutely no idea of thenature of ketamine, thedrug used by vets in the

absence of inhalantanaesthetic.Iknewnothingabout its use as arecreational drug, strongerthan the same amount ofspeed or coke and withunpredictableeffects.Drugtaking has never appealedtome, thoughIdoenjoyaglassofgoodwine.WhereIwasconcerned,itwasjustone item on my list ofveterinary drugs and I

treated it as such. Ofcourse, I know better nowand I shudder to think ofwhat I was doing when Ipacked everything into alarge box, covered it withbrownpaperandlabelledit‘SICILIAN CATWELFARE’.

SIXTEEN

Operation Catsnip

n themorning ofmydeparture I unloaded

the box from the taxi bootand onto a trolley totrundle it through tocheckin. The man at the desk

took one glance at it andsaiditwouldhavetotravelas an oversized parcel. Hedidn’taskwhatwasinside.Idon’twanttoimaginethealmost certainly differentscenario in these days ofhighsecurity.AsIwatcheditdisappearintothechuteIheavedasighofrelief,butagainIwasunawareofanyriskIhadrun.OntheplaneI relaxed and ordered a

glass of wine – I was onmyway.

Eleven years ago,Catania airport was quitesmall and I don’tremembermuchinthewayof security. When myoversized parcel appearedon thecarousel, I snatcheditoffandhandeditovertothewaitingtaxidriver.Offwe went, through Catania,withitsBaroquebuildings,

wide avenues and squares,splendid churches andmonasteries. The city wasrepeatedly destroyed overthe centuries by eruptionsofEtna.In1693,amassiveearthquake levelled muchof it, but its citizensbounced back, using lavastone to create an evenbetter city. An aura of theeighteenth century stilllingers over much of its

heart.Every year, for three

days, thestreetsofCataniasurge with thousands ofpeople following theprocessionoftheirbelovedpatron saint, Agatha. Thesecond evening, 4February, is probably themostemotionalwhen,afterasleeplessnight,thousandsof Catanese crowd thecathedral at dawn to greet

the image of their saint asshe is carried to the highaltar and then placed, bythe faithful, in a silvercarriage. The figure bornehigh above the crowd isadorned with jewelsdonated by celebrities andsovereigns, including acrossthatwasgivenbythecomposer VincenzoBellini. This spectacle,which combines cult

devotion and tradition, isalmostuniqueintheworld.

Forcenturiesthepeopleof Catania have lookeduponSaintAgathaas theirprotector in times oftrouble.OnAD1February252,ayearaftertheyoungChristian woman wasmartyred, the story goesthat aviolenteruptionwasmiraculously halted byholding up the virgin’s

veil.Sincethen,thepeopleof Catania have turned tothe veil to conquer themenace of Etna. In 1444,and again during thecatastrophiceruptionoftheseventeenth century, itappeared to stop thethreatening flow of lava.Indeed, the veil continuesto be brandished againstthe volcano to the presentday.

WeturnedourbacksonCatania, then took thefamiliar snaking roads thatlead upwards to Taorminaand,at last, turnedintothelittleroadleadingtoElke’shouse. She was waiting atthe gate, lookingglamorousaseverwithhermass of blonde curly hairandwonderfulsmile.

‘I’ve made it!’ Ilaughed and we fell into

eachother’sarms.The huge parcel was

unloaded and carried intothehouse.

‘I can’tbelieveyougotthat thing through!’ Elkemarvelled. ‘There musthave been an angelwatchingoveryou.’

In retrospect, I thinkthat might well have beentrue.

As I stood on her

terrace,gazingoutoverthesea glittering in theafternoonsunshine,Icouldhardly believe I had doneit. All those months ofplanning had been asuccess. There I was inTaormina, poised to beginmyadventure.

Once more I sat inElke’s comfortable roomwith her cats. Nellie,Freddi,NuovolaandGiulio

strolled about, sniffing atthis visitor. I stayed withElke overnight and wechatted over a leisurelybreakfast; I was getting toknowher better and likingwhat I found. I told herabout my childhood inSurrey, the housewith thebig garden and all ouranimals.

‘My mother reallypreferreddogs,I think,but

my fatherwas crazy aboutcats. We had one calledGinger;hewasmyspecialcat and I cried for dayswhen someone poisonedhim. We suspectedneighbours who had amentally retarded son butwe had no proof. Therewasanother,atortoiseshellwhowasconstantlyhavingkittens, but I supposepeople didn’t think so

much about neutering thenastheydonow.’

Elke refilled our coffeecups.

‘I was five months oldwhenmy father, amedicaldoctor, was called up bythe Army to work duringthe Second World War,’Elketoldme.‘Igrewupinthe little German town ofWestphalia, and as wewere so close to the

industrialpartofGermany,heavy bombing startedafter a few years. Myparents had a little rough-haired dachshund and thatwas my first love for ananimal. Every night ourtown was bombed and weall had to sleep in bunkbedsinthebasement.Ihadanupperbunkandtookthelittletremblingdogintomybed. I would tell Biene,

that was her name, inEnglish Bee: “Let us fallfastasleepsowedon’thearthe airplanes coming, thewhistle of the bombsfalling down, and we willnotrealiseifweshouldgethit.” Thank God we didnot.

‘In 1945, my mothertook my three sisters andme to friends in Bavaria.She thought that it would

be safer there than inWestphalia.We livedon afarm with cows, pigs,chickenandsheep. I lovedthe calves and I found outhow good fresh cow milktastes.But I also saw howcruellytheykilledchickensand poor piggies. I felt sosorry for them, but Iguessed it had to be likethat.

‘I made friends with a

little mouse and broughtsomefood to it.OnedayItookit inmyhand,butthemousedidnotlikethatandbitme onmy little finger.That’s how I learned thatwealsohavetobecautiouswithanimals.

‘When I was abouttwelve or thirteen wemoved intoanearby town.My father had come backlate from war and prison.

Everydayonmywaybackfrom school, I met thisbeautifulshepherddog;shewas thin and very hungryand seemed not to belongto anybody. I always fedher some bread and wewould sit together and Ihad to caress her. I foundout that she belonged to asick man in theneighbourhood and, whenhe died, she disappeared.

Somebodymusthavetakenheraway. Iwasvery,verysad not to see my goodfriendanymore.’

Twowomensittinginagarden, sharing theirchildhood affection foranimals: one German, oneEnglish, whose countrieswereonceatwar.Theloveof animals transcendsnationalityandalltheothercategories we rely on to

define ourselves. And thehuman–animal bondtouchesthedeepestpartsofourheartandemotions.

‘So, what brought youtoSicilyinthefirstplace?’Iwascurioustoknow.

‘After I finished schoolI studied at an aviationschool in Frankfurt in1956.Inthoseyearsitwasveryprestigious tobecomean air steward or

reservations clerk. At theend of my studies I wastaken on by Lufthansa,whichwasjustcomingintoserviceagainafterthewar,towork in themain officein Frankfurt. Here, I metmy future husband, theMarchese Emilio Bosurgifrom Messina, Sicily. Hisfamily owned the mostimportant citrus essencedistillery in Europe at that

time.‘When Pan American

started to fly Boeing 707fromNewYorktoEurope,I was employed as an airstewardess – such a goodjob in those times. Then Imet my future mother-in-law and she offered me agoodjobinherindustryasherpublicrelationsperson.Not many people spokelanguages at that time in

Sicily and her companyhad internationalcustomers. The mostimportant one was Coca-Cola USA, customers forlemon oil, which theyneeded for their basicsyrup, sent all over theworld.InthosedaysIlivedin a beautiful palazzo inMessina…’

Intrigued, I wanted toknowwhathappenednext,

but at that moment Elkeglancedatherwatch.

‘Oh, lookat the time! Ihave tobe inTaorminabyten. If you can get yourthings together, I’ll dropyouoffattheapartment.’

I should have to waitpatiently for the nextinstalmentofElke’sstory.

‘Take tomorrow tosettle in,’ she advised, aswebumpedourwaydown

the stony path. ‘Then,when the traps and cagesarrive,wecan startgettingthesummerhouseready.’

She dropped me off inlittle Via GuardiolaVecchiaandIletmyselfin.Once again I sat at thepicture window, gazingdown onto Isola Bella andmarvellingyetagainat theview.Thesundancedoverthe sea in a myriad points

oflight,theblueflowersofthe plumbago hung overthe sunlit path. It felt likecominghome.

Next day, I wonderedanxiouslywhetherthetrapsand cages would arrive.What would I do if therewas a hitch? Time passedand I was on tenterhooks.Itwashalfwaythroughtheafternoon before I heardthe sound of a large van

drawing up in the streetbelow and I rushed downto direct the driver up totheterrace.

Then it was down towork. Elke’s friend Inesopened up thesummerhouse and wecovered a large table withplastic sheeting and laidout the drugs, instrumentsand dressings. Anothertablewasorganisedforthe

operations. Thesummerhouse boasted itsown bathroom, whichmade us self-contained.Elke brought in high-powered lights, bowls forthe sterilising liquid andthe ever-welcome kettle.Whatatransformation!Westood gazing round withsomethinglikedisbelief.

‘Allset,’saidElke.On 6 June, Frank

Caporale, the vet, togetherwith Ross, a doctor whowas to assist him, flew infrom the USA. Elke hadorganiseddinneratasmallseaside restaurant and wewere all in high spirits aswe tucked into pizzawashed down with redwine.

‘Ihearyou’re intodrugsmuggling, Jenny,’ Frankteased. ‘It must have been

those innocent blue eyesthatfooledthem.’

‘Oh, there’s more toJenny than you know!’Elkejoinedinthejoke.

I shook my head. ‘Ihonestlydidn’tknowaboutketamine,’Iprotested.

Whichmadethemlaughevenlouder.

Frank leaned over andrefilled my glass. ‘Comeon, folks, she’s done a

great job!’ He raised hisglass and the othersfollowed.

‘ToJenny!’This was my first

experience of Frank’sgentlekindness.Iglimpsedit many times during thatweek asweworked in thesummerhouse for hetreated every cat as anindividual and kept acarefulwatchonthemafter

theiroperations;theymighthavebeenhisownpets.Hewas always calm andreassuring when I wasupset by the effect ofketamine injections. Manyofthecatsseemedtogoona ‘trip’, jerking around thecage until they finally fellasleep.

‘It looks worse than itis,’ he told me. ‘Theywon’t remember anything

whentheywakeup.’I knew Ihad tobelieve

him.‘And think how much

better lives they’ll havewithout constantly havingkittens.’

Now I agreedwholeheartedlywiththat.

Our main problem wasto sustain the supply ofcats. Frank was highlyskilled and worked very

quickly.Hetoldushewasprepared to operate dayand night, if we couldbring in the cats. Everymorning Elke and I wentoffwiththetrapsinsearchof colonies. Earlier, shehad visited the various catladies in the beach areasand explained what wewere going to do. Theywere ready and verywillingtohelpbut thecats

were not so cooperative.Catching a feral cat is awaiting game. They werevery wary of the traps,even though there weretasty morsels waitinginside, but gradually theircuriosity got the better ofthem and we would hearthe satisfying snap as thedoor came down behindthem. Then, with a towelthrown over the top to

quieten them, we rushedback to the summerhousetounloadthemintocarriersbeforereturningtostartalloveragain. In thiswaywecovered a large area,clambering up and downthe steps that led to thebeach, crouched behind aconvenientwalltowaitforournextcustomers.

Angela was one of ourmost dedicated helpers.

Herloveforcatsvergedonthefanaticalandshethrewherself unsparingly intothiswork.Shewasasmallskinnywoman,whobattledconstantlywithhermotheroverthisdevotion.Mammaresented her taking anytime away from therestaurant they rantogether.

‘Don’tletherknowI’mgoing out with you again

this morning,’ Angelapleaded, ‘or she’ll fly intoaterribletemper.’

We were treated to anexample of this, one day,when the older womanstoodon the terrace of therestaurant,screamingatherdaughter, careless of herstartledcustomers,whodidnotunderstandSicilianandhadn’t a clue what wasgoingon.

‘Angela’s wearingherself out,’ Elkeremarked. ‘She eats like asparrowandpushesherselftotheextreme.’

Certainly, she lookedexhausted, with darkcirclesunderhereyes.Shehadapermanentlyanxiousexpression and agonisedover every cat she caught.Whenoneofherowncatsdied,shewasinconsolable.

‘I should have donemore, I should have donemore,’shewailed.

‘Have you hadsomething to eat?’ Elke,alwaysconcernedforotherpeople,asked.

Angela nodded. ‘I’vehadanapple.’

‘You need to keepyourselfstrong,’ Iadded. Imyself had suffered fromanorexia in the past and

couldreadthesigns.Diligent as she was,

Angela taught me avaluable lesson: anyonewho works for animalsneeds to safeguard theirownhealthortheybecomeweakandgoodfornothing,thus defeating the object.We have to accept ourlimitations–noonepersoncansolvetheproblem,findloving homes for every

animal, or rescue everywild creature in distress.Yet together we canmakea huge difference andchange the world for thebetter, one animal at atime.

Thestoryofthestarfisheffectsumsitup.Amaniswalking by the sea after abigstorm.Ashewalks,hestops and picks up thestarfish that have been

washed ashore and throwsthembackintothewater.

A passer-by stops andasks: ‘Why are youbotheringtodothat?Thereare so many that you cannevermakeadifference.’

Inreply, themanbendsdownandpicksupanotherstarfish, throws it into thewater.‘Itmadeadifferenceto that one,’ he sayssimply.

Noonepersoncansaveevery homeless animal outthere,norcantheystopallthe cruelty in the world.Whatwecando,however,is make small differences.We can choose to adopt apetratherthanbuyone;wecan volunteer our time tohelp a shelter or animalwelfare organisation andwe can teach the world’schildren that animals need

to be treated with respect.Ifwecan’taffordanythingelse, we can still helpspread the message andreach those who have themeans but might not haveeven known there was acauseneedingsupport.Theimportant thing torememberisthatweshouldnever feel we cannot giveenough and thereforethere’s no point in even

trying. If everyone in theworld would do just onetiny thing to help animals,the change would betremendous! Thedifference we make is feltby each and everyindividual animal that wesave.

Angelawasdefinitelyacat person. I couldn’timagineherreactinginthesame way towards a dog.

Askmost people and theyare likely to dubthemselves as either a cator dog person. Researchsuggests thatourchoiceofa furry friend sayssomething about who weare. It seems there aredifferences between catpeople and dog people. AUniversity of Texas studyfound that those whodefine themselves as dog

people are more extrovert,agreeable andconscientious, while thosewhopreferfelinesaremoreadventurousbutalsopronetobeneuroticandanxious.Where a sense of humouris concerned, those whopreferdogsaremorelikelyto enjoy slapstick, whilecatloversmaypreferironyand puns. Both groups,however, talk to animals,

see themselves as close tonature and are generallyoptimistic.

SEVENTEEN

Nino’s Cats –Laughter and

day or two into ourendeavour, the locals

joined in, amazed by the

success of the traps I hadbought. In spite of ourattempts to keep ouractivities secret, peoplefound their way to thesummerhouse, wanting towatch the operations, andwehadtoshoothemaway.Besides the traps I hadbought some sets ofstacking cages, whichallowed three cats to beseparately housed one on

top of the other, thussaving a lot of space. Onthewhole, thefelineswereremarkably quiet and, inthemidstofallthiscomingandgoing,FrankandRosscalmly carried out theirveterinaryduties.

The atmosphere wastense with concentration.Wefeltwehadtospeakinwhispers.OnthefirstdayIwondered if I couldwatch

the operations. Elke wasalready accustomed to thisandencouragedme.

‘Yes, come on, Jenny,’Frank added. ‘If youwantto take photographs anddocument the project, youneed to see what it’s allabout.’

He lifted ananaesthetised cat onto thetable and covered its sidewith a drape. Elke handed

himascalpel.‘Oh, dear!’ I muttered

andshrankaway.‘OK, OK!’ Frank

murmured. ‘You’re notabout to see a load ofblood. Once we used tomake a big incision butnowit’smorelikekeyholesurgery.’

Hewasright.Iwatchedhis skilful fingers moveswiftly and surely and in

minutesitwasover–with,ashesaid,verylittleblood.Elke gently lifted the catand laid it in a recoverycage. Soon I was an oldhand, helping withsterilising the instrumentsand handing overmedication. But many ofthe female cats werealready pregnant and Inever got used to thenecessary aborting of

kittens.In thePublicGardens I

found a beautiful greytabby,whichhadobviouslybeen abandoned as shecametomequitereadily.Ifell for this pretty littlething and was anxiouswhen it came to her turnfortheoperation.Unabletostay to watch this one, Iwent outside and stoodstaringdownatIsolaBella

without really seeing it.After a while Elke cameoutofthesummerhouse.

‘Don’t worry, she’sfine,Jenny.’

Isola Bella swam backinto focus, thebougainvillea seemed amore intense magentaagainst the blue sky; I feltabsurdlyhappy.

There was tragedy too.One evening, Nino came

overfromhistrattoriawithatinykittenwrappedupinablanket.

‘Thiscatissick,Ithink.Can you do anything forher?’

She was a scrap of athing with milky, newlyopenedeyes.Theystaredatme andmyheartwent outtoher.Elkegavemesomespecialmilkforkittensanda pipette and I fought to

save her, not sleeping fortwo nights while she laybeside me in her littleblanket on the pillow. OntheseconddayIwasclosetotears.Iwilledhertolive,givingher allmy strength.Therestoftheworlddidn’tseem to exist – itwas justthistinyscrapandme.

Elke left thesummerhouse and cameovertowhereIsat.

‘Letme take her to thehouseatIsolaBella,itwillbequieterforherthere.’

‘You’ll look after her?’Iqueriedanxiously.

‘OfcourseIwill.’The next day she told

me gently that my littlekittenhaddiedon thewaydown and I realised shehad wanted to spare methis.DearElke!Infuture,Iwould remember her wise

words: ‘You have to bestrongifyoudothiswork.’

Iquicklyrealiseditwasthewrong timeof theyearto choose for this venture.June in Taormina is amonth of intense heat andwe worked in conditionssometimesexceeding40°C(104°F). Elke had broughtin fans for thesummerhouse but, themoment you stepped

outside, the sun burnedfiery hot. I dreaded thetrips I had to make to thepharmacist, rushing alongthe Corso under thatscorching sun to pick upmore sterile gloves andothersupplies.

Asthedayswentby,webecame increasinglyanxious that word wasgetting round. We wereengagedon something that

was technically illegal,flouting Sicilianbureaucracy, whichinvolves mountains ofpaperwork and so-calledlawsnevercarriedout.Forexample, the public sectorof the veterinary service,ASL, is supposedlyresponsible for theneuteringofferalcatsbutitdoeslittleifanythingaboutit.TheTownHallagreesit

is necessary but moneyalways goes somewhereelse.Tosetupasaprivatevet, as my friend Giuliotoldme,youmustconformto a tome of rules beforebeing issued with acertificate. All this isexacerbated by twounpleasant traits in theSicilian character: envyand craftiness, a readinessto inform on anything that

mightbeanother’ssuccess,adding complications tomy apparently simple aimof helping the cats.Nevertheless, during mytrip, over a hundred catswere neutered and treatedsuccessfully withantibioticsandeyecreams.

We were terrified thatsomeone would report ustothepoliceandhadtobevery careful it was only

feral cats we neutered.Towards the end of theweek we had a drama.OncemoreNinocameoverfromthe trattoria.Wehadmanaged to catch andneuter a number of theferalcatshefedoutsidetherestaurantkitchen.Nowhebrought a large handsomecatandaskedforher tobe‘done’ as well. Was sheferal? Oh yes, of course.

Frank operated on her thateveningandweputherinacarrier to recover. Wecouldn’t understand whyNino was so anxious tohaveherback.

Later that evening hecalledusinapanic:thecatdidn’tseemwell.

‘Let her rest,’ Franktoldhim.

Nino called again. ‘I’mreally worried about the

cat,Ithinkshe’sdying.I’mgoingtocallalocalvet.’

This was the last thingwewanted.Ifaprivatevetbelieved, at leasttheoretically, thatweweretaking money out of hispocket, then we wouldalmost certainly bereported.

‘I’ll go over and seehim,’Franksighed.Hewason thepointofpackingup

for the day to go back toElke’shousefordinner.

‘Guess what?’ he saidwhen he came back. ‘Thatcat wasn’t feral, it is hiswife’s cat – shewas awayfor a few days and Ninothought it was a goodopportunity to get itneutered. Now she’scomingbackinacoupleofdaysandhe’spanicking.’

We were appalled. If

anything happened to thisfavoured feline, therewouldbetrouble.

‘Don’t worry,’ Frankcontinued. ‘There isnothing wrong with thatanimal, she is just gettingover the anaesthetic. Giveher another twenty-fourhoursandshe’llbefine.’

He was right and Ninocame over, full ofapologiesandan invitation

to eat in his trattoria onour last night. We madedoubly sure all cats wereferalafterthat.

By the end of ourweek’sworkwewerewornout, but jubilant, too: allthe cats had come throughwithout problem, cats thatwere now going to have abetterqualityoflife.Itwastimeforacelebration.

Nino stood in the

entrance of his restaurantbeaming broadly. It wasobviousthecathadmadeagoodrecovery.

‘Welcome, welcome,my friends!’ Hewaved anexpansivehandtothelongtablesetoutontheterrace.It bristled with wineglassesandcutlery.

‘Make yourselves athome.’

Themeal began: itwas

sumptuous,beginningwithantipasto. In English wecall it the ‘appetisercourse’.FortheFrenchitishors d’oeuvre, in Italy it’scalled theantipasto. It canbe hot or cold, cooked orraw, a delicious invitationto the feast that is tofollow: the smooth textureof a tuna pâté contrastingwiththebrilliantcoloursofparsley, lemon slices and

olives, marinated withherbs,stuffedoliveswithanutty almond or hot spicyfilling, or dark purplekalamataolives, all addingtheir own flavour andcolour. The colours, theartful composition,reminded us that it wastime for pleasure,relaxationandindulgence.

Glasses were refilledand we tucked in. Then

came the first course, myfavourite Pasta allaNorma, and then fish,simply grilled with lemonand herbs.More wine andapausebefore thedessertsarrived, the cassata andpannacotta,theicecream!

A special guest joinedus: Dorothea Fritz, thelegendaryGermanvetwhodirects Lega Pro Animalefor the sterilisation of cats

and dogs in Naples.Dorothea studied inMunich, then worked inGreece before finallyarrivinginNaples.Visitstothe canili, the cruel dogshelters provided by thestate, left a lastingimpression. She saw morethan 450 inmates, livingskeletons of dogs, whoendured a life of sicknessand uncontrolled

reproduction. Dorotheadecided she could not turnher back on this terriblesituation. She acquired aplot of land and in 1986Lega Pro Animale wasborn.Asmallwomanwithcropped grey hair and alovely smile, the years ofcombating authorities havehoned her into a toughfighter, unafraid to standup to any authority. She

had come to Taormina fora few days and agreed toaccompany me on myproposedforaytothetownhall.

This is a seventeenth-century building in CorsoUmberto,near theDuomo,Taormina’s main church.Its pinkish façade,featuringanarchedporticoandmotifssuchasaStarofDavid, resembles

something one wouldexpect to see in Venice.Inside, there is luxuriousmarble inlay andimpressive framedwindows sporting coats ofarms.A cloister, enclosingan impressive flight ofmarblestairs,bringsyoutothefirstfloor.

Here, there is the sceneofmuchcomingandgoing,of people standing in the

corridor, clasping theirdocumenti.Theywaittobeadmitted, glaring at theclosed doors. Suddenly,onesuchdooropensandapersonage shoots out andoff down the stairs, calledawayonanurgenterrand.

‘Comebacktomorrow!’The mayor’s voice floatsbacktothosewhowaitandshrug:‘Muh!’

Atadesk inonecorner

a man like the dogCerberus, Hades’ loyalwatchdog, guards theentrance to the councilchambers.But the conductof the mayor and thecouncillors is a constantsource of argument alongthe Corso. Faults inadministration, rising ratesand taxes, the cost ofliving… all this is chewedover. The people of

Taormina are great talkersand one of their favouritesubjectsispartypolitics.

‘He’s not going to behere,’ Cerberus told mewhen, for the third time, Iclimbed that magnificentstaircase.

‘Butthisisimportant,’Iprotested. ‘I knowTaormina lives bytourism,’ I added, trying adifferenttack.‘Youneedto

sort out the feral animalsituation.’

‘Why don’t you go tothe touristoffice?’ thehelldogshrugged.‘Ifitistodowithtourism.’

‘It is the mayor I needto see. And I have a veryprestigiousvetarrivinginafew days’ time. She hasasked me to make anappointment.’

BynowIwasdesperate.

I knew that Dorothea wasonlythereonaflyingvisit.

‘Muh!’saidCerberus.The following day, as

soon as I could take abreak from cat catching, Iwas back at the town hall.Cerberus was deep inconversation with anotherman and they eyed medisdainfully. I was only awoman,afterall.

‘You know what I’ve

come about,’ I said.‘Surelythemayorcanfinda few minutes? Severallocal vetswant to attend ameeting too, people likeDottoreGrasso.’

‘Grasso?’Inodded.The men exchanged a

look; thevisitormurmuredsomething:Ihadobviouslystruck a chord. Cerberusroseandwenttotaponthe

illustrious one’s door. Hedisappeared inside.After amomenthereturned.

‘Monday at 10am,’ hesaid. His tone wasbegrudging.

I wondered how mycause had been described.ThementionofGrassohadobviously turned the tablesin my favour but I was aforeigner and naturallysuspect. It putme inmind

of the phrase esseresistemata. Luigi Barzini,the Italian writer whodelved deep into thenational character, hadsomething to say aboutthis.TheItalianpeoplelivein constant political chaos,unabletotrustgovernment,public institutions or theirneighbour. Envy andjealously are rife. To besistemata is to create a

protective shield againstthisprecariouslife.Asafe,secure job, not aspiring togreatness (such as auniversity degree), notdrawing attention toyourself, marrying andhaving children provides asense of inner and outerorder – in other words,beingsistemata.Weretheyfearful I was trying todisturb this comfortable, if

deafandblind,existence?Frank returned to

America and Elke and Icleared out thesummerhouse. Thefollowing day, I met upwith Dorothea and wedescendedonthetownhallfor our meeting with thelocaldignitaries.

The mayor, the vicemayor and about a dozenSicilian vets were

assembled in one of thechamberstogreetus.

‘So, what is all thisabout?’ the mayordemanded. ‘Are youanimalactivists?’

I felt Dorothea stiffen.She had obviously beenaccusedofthisbefore.Hervoice was firm, her tonecool.

‘Spaying and neuteringofstraycatsinItalyshould

be performed free ofcharge by the publicveterinary services, butveryoftenthisservicedoesnot work well or thenumbers neutered are nothigh enough to make adifference in the territory.Weshouldnotforgetthatacat at five months of agecan already be pregnantandtherecanbeuptofourlitters in just one year.On

average there are threekittens in a litter, but wehave found cats pregnantwithtenkittens.’Ten! A collective gasp

went round the chamber.This was news to thecouncillors and maybe thevetstoo.

‘And where do youstand in all this?’ themayorwantedtoknow.

‘Iwant to stress to you

how vital it is to have aproper programme forneutering feral animals,’Dorothea continued. ‘Iftheyarelefttobreedinthisway,theysufferandpeopleemploy other, more cruelmethods of control. In theyears I have lived inNapleswehaveestablisheda spay/neuter clinic and ithasmadearealdifference.If a place to operate could

be provided in Taormina,we could initiate a similarprojecthere.’

‘I don’t see why not,’observed the mayor. ‘Itseems like a good idea. Ishould think we couldprovide such a placesomewhereinthetown.’

He turned to conferwith the others, whonodded their heads andmurmured agreement. I

noted a surreptitiousglancingatwatches–werethey thinking about lunch?It certainly appeared ourtime was up; our handswereshakenandwefoundourselvesoncemoreoutinthe blazing hot CorsoUmberto.

‘What do you think?’ IaskedDorothea. ‘They didseemtolistentoyou.’

But Dorothea gave an

expressive shrug. ‘Wordsareeasy.Whethertheywillactually do anything isanotherstory.Themomentit becomes a question ofmoney they’ll find ahundred other things thataremoreimportant.’

I was silent in the faceof such cynicism. A fewminutes ago I had reallybelieved the assembly hadseen reason and Catsnip

wouldbeabletooperateona more legal basis. It wasgoing to take some timebefore I arrived atDorothea’s resignation tothis inherent apathy, onethat has been voiced sowell in the novel TheLeopard: ‘Sleep, my dearChevalley, eternal sleep,that iswhatSicilianswant.And they will alwaysresent anyonewho tries to

awakenthem,eventobringthem the most wonderfulofgifts’.

EIGHTEEN

Genoveffa, theLittle Cat Lady with

a Big Heart

he heat intensified.Throughout that July

of 2003, I visited the

various cat colonies in thetown. I had two aims: totreat cats with antibioticsand, more specifically, aneyecreamforaparticularlyvicious ailment that, leftuntreated, results in thecats going blind, and tomake friends with thegattare, those wonderfulcatladieswhotakeituponthemselves to feed acolonyofcats. In thisway

ImetGenoveffa.Towards the end of the

Corso, gazing out towardsEtna, is the pastel pinkbuildingofPensioneAdelewith its white balustrades;italwaysremindedmeofahuge pink and white icedcake. Once a palazzo, ithad been turned into ahotel. Inacourtyardat theback I had seen a smallcolonyofcats.Nowitwas

timetomeettheirgattara.I rang on the bell and

the door clicked open,lettingmeintoacavernoushallway at the foot of awide,curvingstaircase.AsI looked upwards, I sawGenoveffa’s smiling facegazingdownatme.

‘Comeonup!’The high-ceilinged

breakfast room wasfurnished with the

traditional Sicilianfurnitureandchandeliers.

‘Vuoleuncaffe?’‘Thankyou,but…’‘I know!’ Genoveffa

nodded and smiled. ‘I’llmake you a cappuccino. Ihave so many foreignershere,everyyear–Ishouldknowtheirtastesbynow.’

I sat down in anarmchair and, leaning myheadagainstthelace-edged

antimacassar, I toldGenoveffa about my plansforthefuture.AslongasIcould find somewhere tooperate, I intended toreturn the following yearfor another neuteringsessiontotrytocontroltheferalcatpopulation.

Genoveffa might havebeensmallandslightbut Ifound in this woman apassionate supporter of

cats, angered by theattitude of people in theneighbourhood. Shewelcomed my plan andthanked me for trying tohelp.

‘Come and meet mycats.’

Wewentthroughtothestoreroom,wheretherewasabigstackofcatfood,andthen out into the yard tosee her colony.Theywere

a strange little group: onewith half a tail, anotherwho limped – victims ofthecarsthatswungintotheparking space behind thehotel,driverscaringonlytofind a space. I mentionedtooneortwoofthemtheyshould be careful but theyjust shrugged. Genoveffaspoke to the cats by nameand they rubbedthemselves against her

legs.Shetoldmeabouttheobject she found that shethoughtwasmeatwrappedin newspaper only todiscover to her horror itwasadeadcat.

‘They have no heart,’shesaid.

Pensione Adele wasfounded in 1957 by theCascio family, around thetime of the golden age ofmass tourism. A different

breed of visitor began toarrive in Taormina, whereonce wealthy independenttravellers had spent thewinter months. The Adeleoffered clean, spaciousrooms and warmhospitality at a reasonableprice.

OverthenextfewyearsI often visited Genoveffa.Shewasalwaysanoasisofkindness and

understanding while Istruggledtohelpthecats.

NINETEEN

The Tale of Gingerand Lucky Star

atsnipwasnotevenayear old but was

alreadyestablishinganameas a resource for cat

welfare. I set up awebsiteand wrote of our firstneuteringweek.Therewasan unexpected result: Ifoundmyself becoming anadvice centre. Touristsvisitingtheislandwouldbeconcernedabout ananimaland go online, where itappeared I was almost theonly point of contact. Ireceivedemailsaskinghowcats would survive in

winterwhen hotels closed,reports of chained dogsspottedinsmallvillagesonthe side of Mount Etna,looking half-starved andill. One couple called me,concerned about a smallcat they had seen, whichtheyhadcalledGinger.

‘She’shardlymorethana kitten,’ Terry told me.‘We’vebeengoingtotheircolony to feed them every

day and we’re worriedabout her. She seems tohave something wrongwith her eyes. Is thereanythingwecando?’

I knew very well whatthey were talking about,the problem that showsitself as conjunctivitis butis often linked to upperrespiratory infection,common among cats andkittensinSicily.

‘GotothepharmacistintheCorso,’ I advised, ‘andbuyatubeofPensulvit.’

‘Thepharmacist?’Terrysoundedsurprised.

‘Oh yes, they sellproducts for animals, too.’I told him. I knew thatbecause I had marvelledmyself when I bought myfirsttube.

Obviouslytheytookmyadvice.Onmynext trip to

Taormina Iwent in searchof her, clasping aphotograph Terry had sentme. It took me a while toidentify herneighbourhood, wanderingin the small streets belowtheCorso.Butthenasmalland seemingly fragile catcame running towardsme,unmistakablyGinger!

ImetupwithTerryandNatalyawhentheycameto

Brighton to show me asheaf of photographs oftheir beloved Ginger. Shenow appeared to bethriving and already theywere planning their nextvisittoseeher.

Overthenexttwoyearsthe continuing story ofGingerunfolded.TerryandNatalya returned severaltimes to Taormina, theirprincipal aim, apart from

sunning themselves by thehotel pool and enjoyinggood food in theevenings,being to check on Ginger.We all agreed that she(ginger cats are usuallymale, but this Ginger wasfemale) should beneutered.

The stumbling blockwas a local gattara whofed her; Marika put herfoot down. Shewas afraid

the cat would die underanaesthetic.

‘You’ll have to get heron your side,’ I advisedthem. ‘You can’t just rideroughshodoverherwishes.After all, she feedsGingerall year round, while youareonlythereforaweekorso.’

So the neutering ofGinger was delayed andanother year passed. One

morning, I checked onmyemails and saw that Terryand Natalya were back inTaormina once again. Iexpected to have a goodprogress report but Terrysoundedconcerned:Gingerwas very poorly and herbodywas covered in whatlooked like scabs, whichshe was continuallyscratching. I suggestedthey contact Oscar La

Manna, my wonderfullocal vet, who concernshimself with the plight offeral animals, and ask himtocomeand takea lookather.

‘He says it’smushrooms,’ they wrotelater.Mushrooms! I puzzled

over this for a while andthenrememberedtheraisedrings on my sister’s skin

and mine when we werechildren, infected byvarious family cats. Itwasringworm, of course,caused by a fungus thatgrows on the skin like amushroomonthebarkofatree.Ihadtolaugh.

‘Sheisbeingtreatedbuthealsowantstoneuterher.Apparently, she’s hadseveral litters of kittensthat have all died and he

thinksitforthebest.’It was arranged that

Oscar La Manna wouldreturn the followingmorning, but when Terryand Natalya arrived theyfound that Ginger hadbeaten everyone to it.Overnight she had givenbirth to kittens and tuckedthem all away in aninaccessibleplace.

As Oscar said: ‘I can’t

treat her while she isfeeding thekittensandshewillhavetostaywheresheis.’

Sadly, Ginger’s kittensdied but it meant thetreatmentcouldbestarted.

Marikaagreedtotalktothe couple when theyexplained, ‘Wedon’twantGinger to go through thisexperience again. It’skinder to have her

neutered.’This time, the gattara

agreed.Another case of

‘touristitis’, as my friendKathy described it. Shelives in the north of Italy,Trieste, where sentimentstowards animals are verydifferent. Terry andNatalyawere typical of somanyBritishandNorthernEuropeanvisitorswhofind

it difficult to understandthe locals’attitude towardsanimals.

Lucky Star was indeedthe most fortunate ofkittens. Local people inTaorminawonderatLaura,the young woman whonever takes a holiday butchooses to spend her timeandmoneycaring forcats.Even her doting fatherfeelsthatherattitudemight

beabitexaggerated.‘It’s fine to love cats,’

he says. ‘But I’mconcerned by how muchstressitgivesher.’

Nevertheless, every tendaysorso,thetwoofthemdrove to an out-of-townsupermarket, where Laurastockeduponcut-pricetinsand packets of cat food.Taormina, as I’ve saidbefore, is beautiful –

indeed, the guidebooksclass it as one of theloveliest places in theworld.ThePublicGardensareanoasisofcalm,wherethetouristcanstrollamongpalm trees along shadypaths, dreaming greenthoughts. Laura knowsdifferently,though:shehasglimpsed the dark side ofthisperfectlittletown.Sheunderstands only too well

the violence, theindifference of itsinhabitants, and the realityof this so-called corner ofParadise.

‘Come and see mycats,’sheinvited.

I followed her downuneven stone steps awayfrom the main street withits boutique shops andpavement cafes – thethrong of visitors taking a

walk after the heat of thedayhadcooled.Wewalkedalong a narrow streetwhere several motorbikeswere parked against a rowofgarages.And there theywere: her cats, the colonyshe fed and cared for…ginger, black,white, blackand white and tabby, allmeowingandpressingtheirbodies against Laura’slegs. Each of them had a

name.‘That’sMarchetto, here

isBiancaandthisisNino,’shetoldme.

The black cat had ahealing wound across thetop of his head. He waswary of me and wouldn’tcomenear.

‘Someone hit him,’Laura explained, ‘someimbecile.Ninodisappearedfor several days and came

back with this awful cutacross his head. I rushedhim to the vet and, thankGod,heisrecovering.’

Just as she was fillingplasticbowlswithcatfood,a door shot open and awoman came towards us.Shewasfurious.

‘Stop that! Just stopthat! If you want to feedthese miserable creaturestake them to your house

anddoitthere.’Sheaimedakickatone

of the bowls, but Laurasteppedinherway.

‘If you continue doingthis,’ thewomanhissed, ‘Ishall report you to thepolice.’

Lauradidnotreplyand,after a while, the womanretreatedtoherhouse.

‘She can’t touch me,’said Laura. ‘People are

always threatening me butthereisnolawthatforbidsfeedingthesecats.

‘Itisthehatredofthesepeople towards animalsthat upsets me,’ shecontinued, as we climbedthe steps again and joinedthe crowds in the mainstreet.‘Theytreatthemlikevermin. There’s been aspate of poisoning, but ofcourseweneverknowwho

hasdoneitandsowecan’treportthem.’

The light was fading.TouristsgatheredinPiazzaIX Aprile, the huge mainsquare, to lean on therailings and gaze towardsthe twinkling lights alongthe coast, the illuminatedGreek Theatre. The scentof jasmine intensified.Childrenchasedeachotheror crowded round the ice-

cream cart. It was a sceneof such tranquillity;incongruous with thelandscape Laura waspainting. This place beganto seem like a theatricalillusionoflight,colourandlaughter concealing asordid truth. Now that Iunderstood Laura’s‘reality’, it all seemedflimsy and somewhatcorrupt.

‘There used to be somany cats here,’ Laurasaid, aswe strolled amongthe roses and lilies of thePublic Gardens. ‘Nowthere are very few; it’scertain someone ispoisoningthem.’

Wecame across oneofthe gardeners hummingunder his breath as hewatered a yellow hibiscus.The sun shone through the

stream of water creating aminiature rainbow – heseemedhappy tobecaringforthisgarden.

‘Where are the gingerkittens?’ Laura called out‘I can’t see themanywhere.’

As he glanced up, wecouldseehismoodchange.Heshruggedandthenwentbacktohiswork.

‘You see, they really

don’tcare,’saidLaura.AfewdayslaterIwent

in search of Laura andfound she was very upset.Someone had put fourkittens into a bag andliterally thrownthemawayin a rubbish bin. Animal-loving friends of Lauranoticed a faint meowingand rescued them. Theywere tiny; probably bornonly a coupleofdays ago.

Two were dead but theothers were blindlysearching for food. Theircrying was breakingLaura’sheart.

Togetherwewenttothepharmacist to buy thespecialmilkforkittensanda small pipette. It is anonerous task rearingnewborn felines – theyneedtobefedeverytwoorthreehours.

‘Idon’tknowhowwe’llmanage,’ Laura confessed.‘I’m working all day andmy father certainlywouldn’tallowmetonursekittensinhisshop.’

Fortunately her friends,the couple who had foundthekittens,saidtheywouldtakeresponsibility.

OnceagainIwasstruckby the juxtaposition ofpeace and violence in this

place. Here was a cafewhere people laughed andwere tipsy on sun andwine,withoutacarein theworld. I wanted to tellthemthatafewyardsawayfrom this jolly scene therewasapileofrubbishwheresome cruel individual,having snatched thosemites from their mother,haddumpedthemhere.

IwasremindedofW.H.

Auden’s poem ‘Musee desBeaux Arts’ and of howsufferingtakesplaceinthemidst of ordinary, carelesslife.

Auden visited theMuseum of Fine Arts inBrussels in 1938 andviewed Icarus Falling byBruegel. The theme of hispoem is the apathy withwhich humans viewindividual suffering. You

might say Breugel’spaintingdoesn’ttakeitthatseriously – if you lookcloser at the untroubledshipsailingby,youcanseethe foolish and drowningson of Dedalus, legsakimbo,stickingoutofthewater.Istheartisttryingtosay that life is absurd,suffering insignificant? OrwasitmeanttoportraytheIcaruseventasbeingofno

consequence in order tostrengthen the point of thepainting?Would these happy

travellers be shocked bywhatI toldthem,orwouldthey resent that I haddisturbed the calm surfaceoftheirstay?Iwondered.

Laura told me that oneof the kittens had died butthe other one was fightingon; however, there was a

new problem. Her friendsweregoingonholiday,onethat was booked monthsago. What was to happento the kitten? Wouldviolencewinafterall?

She got out her contactbook and we phonedaround. A cat lover in aneighbouring villageapologised profusely; shehad to take her ailinghusband to hospital. We

sentemailstoothersbutnoonebotheredtoreply.

The best way forwardwas to pay a vet but thefirst, a truly caring man,was up to his eyeballs inwork and could not takeanything more on, he toldus.

Meanwhile,thedaywasfast approaching whenLaura’s friends woulddepart. I was also on the

verge of leaving forEngland. Laura wasbecomingdesperate: if thistiny scrap of life wasn’tfed, she would die. Laurawasintears.

And then the smallmiracle occurred: anothervet didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, Iwill take the kitten. Thereis a young and newlyqualifiedvetinthesurgery.SheiswillingtohelpandI

will be in attendance tokeepmyeyeonthings.’

Time passed and thetinyfelinethrived.Sheeatslike ‘a little pig’, Lauratold me, ‘she purrs, sheplays – there are somepeople in this apatheticworld who aren’tindifferent to animalsuffering.’

Laura drove to thesurgerytoseeher.Shewas

now a ball of white, withsmudges of grey fluff. Itwas clear the youngwoman vet had fallen inlovewithher.Thekitten’smiserable past wasforgottenand therewasnoself-pity.

As another poet, D.H.Lawrence, observed, he‘never saw a wild thingsorry for itself’. Lawrencelivedfornearlythreeyears

in this place, a torturedsoulforeverwandering,butwho found a degree ofharmonyhere.

On my return, Lauratook me to see the kitten.Back with the animal-loving friends, she wouldsoon be adopted into aloving home. Scuttlingabout our feet, she playedwithmyshoelaceandthen,like all young things, she

suddenly tired. She curledinto a ball and went tosleep…andsleptwithsuchtranquillity.Allwaswell.

‘What will you callher?’Iasked.

While Lauraconsidered, I looked backover these days and theundertones of cruelty andviolence I had witnessed.Certainly there wassunshine here but also a

worldofshadows.Laura had been

watching as the kittenwoke, yawned andimmediately settled off tosleepagain.

‘Stella Fortunata,’ shesaidatlast.

ItranslatedthewordstoEnglish:‘LuckyStar’.

Oblivious, the kittenslept on. Suddenly, all thequestions and

imponderables faded and Ifeltmyself in themoment,rejoicing that one smallbeinghadbeensaved.Iamnot religious in theaccepted sense, although Ihave my own beliefs, butnowthewordsofthehymn‘Amazing Grace’ broughttears to my eyes: ‘I oncewas lost and now amfound…’

IsmiledatLaura.

‘Oh yes, let’s call herLuckyStar!’

TWENTY

A Crash Course inthe Sicilian Psyche

For the attention oftheMayor:DearSir,followingourvisittothetownhallinJune

of this year whenyou agreed toprovide a room forthe neutering andtreatment of feralcatscanyouconfirmthat this will bemadeavailable?

Sir, please canyou reply to myemailofOctober?

I am presentlyplanning my nextvisit to Taormina tocarryoutmoreworkwith the feral cats.Can you please letme know howarrangements haveproceeded for theprovision offacilities?

Silence. I did not hear

anotherword.‘Words are easy,’

Dorothea Fritz had said.‘It’s whether they actuallydosomethingaboutit.’

Howrightshehadbeen.As so often, I turned backtoTheLeopard:‘Itdoesn’tmatter about doing thingswell or badly; the sinwhich we Sicilians neverforgive is simply that of“doing” at all. It’s not a

case of universal apathy:the people who try to dothings are invariablychecked by those whodon’t’.

But I was not preparedtogiveup.Throughout thewinterof2003Icontinuedto raise funds and tocampaign for the freemovement of foreign vetswithin EEC countries. Ieven lobbied then Prime

MinisterSilvioBerlusconi!Susan Dale from the

Anglo-Italian Society forthe Protection of Animalslistenedtomywoeswithasympatheticear.

‘Iwondered if itwouldbe possible for DorotheaFritz to bring her mobileambulance fromNaples,’ Iventured. ‘I could payexpenses.’

‘That would be a way

forward. I’ll talk toDorothea and see how sheisfixed.’

SoIcalledElke.‘That’swonderful news

but where are we tooperate?’

We had decided it wastoo risky to use thesummerhouse again.Nino’s panic over hiswife’s cat, the way wordhadspreadroundTaormina

in spite of our attempts atsecrecy, had more or lessputpaidtothat.

‘Well, ifTaorminaisn’tinterested,’ she said, ‘I’lltalk to the Mayor ofLetojanni. I’m on goodtermswithhim.’

She was true to herword and a week latercalled me to say he hadagreedtoallowDorothea’sspaymobiletobeparkedin

a large garage in the littletown. Not only that, heoffered Dorothea and hertwo colleagues free boardin an apartment andmealsin local restaurants.Catsnip could spring intoactionagain!

IleftEnglandon4May2004. My plan was tospend the twoweeks priorto Dorothea’s arrivalspreading the news of our

programme among thelocal people and locatingcoloniesofcats.

Letojanniisonlyashortbus ride away but a verydifferenttouristvenuefromTaormina. Situated on thecoast, it has wide shinglebeaches, unlike the bay ofIsola Bella. It has, in myview, the normalatmosphere of acommunitygoingabout its

business, although tourismis steadily on the increase.At one time it was just asmallfishingvillage.Whenthe railway line and themainroadwereestablishedin 1866,Letojanni becameincreasingly important andmany influential familiesmoved down from themountains of Gallodoro totake up residence there.One of these was the

Durante family andFrancesco Durante was tobecome a famous ‘son’.His father wanted him tostudy engineering but Fatetook a hand the day hevisited the MessinaUniversity of Medicinewith a friend who wasstudying there. Amazed atDurante’s comments andobvious scientific bent, aprofessor urged him to

study medicine and hebecame an outstandingstudent. Later, the youngDurante moved to Romewhere, in 1872, heconceived and founded ageneral hospital. WhenMessinawasdevastatedbythe terrible earthquake of1908, Durante was therewith medical supplies,working with a group ofvolunteers to create field

hospitals.Sicilyhadcalledhim back as it does somany of its countrymen.His accomplishmentswerehonouredin1923whenthe‘poor’ofLetojannierectedamonument,abronzebustby Ettore Ximenes,celebrated Palermitansculptor, in what is nowcalledPiazzaDurante.

WheneverIstrollinthissquare I am startled by its

grandeur: wide, light andairy and fringed by tallpalmtrees, itseemsas ifagiant hand has plucked itfrom a far larger city anddroppeditdownhere.Barsand cafes surround it,including the Niny bar,famed for its granita anddelicious ice cream.Whenit became too hot tocontinue my ramblingsroundthevillage,I’dsitat

one of the outside tablesunder a huge whiteumbrellaand spoonup thecoffee ice crystals toppedwith whipped cream;servedwithabriocheitisafavouritesummerbreakfastamongSicilians. I’dwatchthe to-ing and fro-ingacrossthisbeautifulpiazza.OnoneoftheseoccasionsIwas intrigued by a tall,dark-haired figure clasping

a black document folder,who strode with suchpresence I was sure hemust be a person of someimportance, an actorperhaps. Later, I was todiscovermyguesshadnotbeenfarfromthetruth.

After some delay, Elkehadmanaged to secure theprized permesso, theofficialdocument from thetown hall permitting our

team to carry out theirwork with feral cats. Thistime,therewasnoneedforsecrecy or fear of thedreaded denuncia. It’s athreat you often hear inSicily: ‘I’mgoing tomakea denuncia to the police,’aniratehousewifewillsayasyouspoonWhiskasontoaplasticplateinthestreet.The denuncia had been avery real threat during our

Taorminaepisodebuttherewas no fear of that thistime. Now, I could gopublic. I contacted ajournalist who worked forLaSicilia,whofounditaninteresting human intereststory – a change from theusual daily diet of politicsandsport.Heinvitedmetohis house inLetojanni andphotographed me holdinganunwillingcat.

On 23 May, Dorothea,together with Naples vetAnnaMariaandcatcatchersupreme Teresa, travelledon the night ferry fromNaples to Catania. ElkeandIwaitedby thegarageto greet them. And therethey came, driving inconvoyalong theroad thatran by the sea, thespaymobile followed by alarge van. People stopped

to stare. Letojanni hadnever seen anything likethis before. By the timethey reached the garagethere was quite a crowd,curious to knowwhat wasgoing on. Calmly,Dorothea and her team setabout unloading cages andtraps,morethanIhadseenso far. They obviouslymeant business. Weorganised ourselves in the

garage, which housed thetwovehicleseasilyenoughwith plenty of spacearound them to set out thecages. Emilia from thePalm Beach Cafe on theother side of the piazzaappearedbearingatray.

‘I thoughtyoucoulddowith some coffee,’ shesaid.

You could see she toowas curious to find out

what was going on. Hereyes widened at the sightofsomanytraps.Dorotheadrank her coffee swiftlywhile she darted questionsatElkeandme.Whatareawere we covering? Werethere any local peoplewilling to help? No, shewouldn’tstopforlunch.We’re in for a tough

week,Itoldmyself.Soon Teresa and I set

offonthefirstofourmanycat-catchingtrips.

Feral cats are verycrafty. Several entered atrap and delicately ate thebaitwhilemanagingnottoput a paw on the springmechanism. We also sawseveralmothercatspickupand carry away theiralmostgrown-upkittens intheir mouths. It wasincredible how they

seemed to intuit what wasgoingon!Nevertheless,wecaught enough to keepDorothea and Anna Mariaworking from early in themorning till mid-eveningwith scarcely a stop forlunch.

‘They must eatsomething,’ Emiliaprotested when she heardDorothea had decided notto go to the restaurant for

lunch.She packed up large

panini stuffedwithcheese,ham and tomato and sentthem over to the garage,where we perched onboxesinthesunshinetoeatand relax for half an hour.Butitwasalwaysonlyhalfan hour. I learned a lotfrom Dorothea, whoworked with Germanefficiency. Her years in

Naples struggling withcruelty and the plight ofsickly animals had givenhera steely resolve,whichsometimes made me feelineffectual. I was still anovicewithalltheidealismthat implied and had a lotof toughening up to do.Even though I knew wewere doing it in their bestinterests, Iwas finding thecapture of these cats an

increasingly stressfulexperience.Myheartwentouttotheircriesandfranticattempts to escape and Iwas always relieved whenthe time came to releasethemagain.

Every cat we caughtwas put in a labelled cageensuring theywouldreturnto their own colony. Thevets also tattooed eachfeline to indicate it had

been neutered. Only onecat had to be put to sleep;hehadanulceratedtumourin the mouth and wasincapable of eating ordrinking. All the others(seventy female and forty-fivemale)recoveredwell.

Thanks to the local catladies, most of the catswere quite well fed butthey did suffer from fleas,ticks and worms, which

hadtobetreated.Catswithrespiratorysymptomsweregiven long-actionantibiotics and eye drops.Follow-up treatment isimpossible; these animalsare used to being free sothatkeeping themincagesany longer than isnecessary for recoveryfrom their operationsconstitutesmaltreatment.

Early on in the week a

couple turned up at thegarage. Cheery-facedMaria Annunciata and hertall German husbandNorbert had heard aboutthe spaymobile and werecurious to see what wasgoingon.

‘We’ve heard so muchabout you and thewonderful work you aredoing.Butwhatmadeyoucome toLetojanni?’Maria

wantedtoknow.Dorothea, busy as

always and bent over aninertcat,jerkedherheadinmy direction, where I waschecking on some of thesleepingcats.

‘Thank you, thank yousomuch!’Maria enthused.‘Mamma mia, what awonderful thing to bedoing!’

‘We’d better go

outside,’ I said, notwishingtodisturbthevets’concentration.

‘We’d really like tohelp you, wouldn’t we,Norbert?’Mariacontinued.‘Whatcanwedo?’

‘Please, help me findsomemorecats.’

I was feeling a bitdesperate. At the rateDorothea and Anna Mariawere working, we would

soon run out. I knewwhatthatmeant:withnothingtodo, she would pack upearlyand leave.Therewasno messing about withDorothea.

Sowe spread ourselveswider, Maria and Norberttaking me to parts ofLetojanni I had nevervisited before. These wereareasoflargerhouseswithbig gardens and plenty of

cats. Anxious to keepDorothea supplied, Itrespassed withoutscruples,wanderingamonglemon and orange trees,stalking felines. I wasdown on my hands andknees crawling insomeone’sshrubberywhenI heard a voice demand:‘Who’s there?’ When Iemergedwithmyhairawryand my face streaming

with sweat, it took someexplaining as to whatexactlyIwasdoingthere.

Onanotherdayaskinnyyoung man in a yellowcouncil jacket turnedup inthegarage.Hehungaroundthe ambulance, fascinatedby the two vets at work.The following day he wasback. Dorothea seemed toappreciate Alfio’sintelligent questions and

didn’tturnhimaway.‘I’d really love to have

been a vet,’ he told her,‘but I left school when Iwas fifteen and startedwork.’

Alfio was probably inhis twenties but hisfeatures seemed to belongto another era: a narrowface with a high foreheadanddarkhairslickedback.He worked as a refuse

collector,which seemed tobe a job that gave himquite a lot of the day tohimself. Dorothea soonenlisted his help and heproved to be a tirelessworker, learning quicklywhat to do. He helped uscarrythecatsintheircagesto and from their coloniesand watched, fascinated,overthemastheyemergedfromtheiranaesthetic.

‘She’s woken up!’ hewould call triumphantly.‘She’sfine.’

I think he would havemadeagoodvet.

It was an exhilaratingfeeling: Letojanni wasrallying round. Myjournalist friend couldn’tkeep away. He kept onturningupat thegarage tointerview us and we werefeatured in La Sicilia at

least three times duringthatweek.

Teresa was a trueNeapolitanwith theclassiclooksofanOldMasteranda loud, infectious chuckle.As we drove around thecountryside on our catsearch we became goodfriends. One day we werewalking past someramshackle, empty houseswhen Teresa suddenly

stopped.‘Shh,listen!’It was the sound of a

puppy whining but wecouldn’tmakeoutwhereitwas coming from. Weretraced our steps untilwecametoahousewhere thelower panels of the doorweremissing.Teresawentdownonherhaunches.

‘It’s in there,’ shemuttered and clambered

through thehole.Soonshereappeared and handed upasmallwhitepuppy.Itwasshiveringandwhimpering.

‘What was it doing inthere?’Iasked.

‘I don’t know, but it’stooyoungtofendforitself.It’scomingwithus!’

‘What shall we callher?’ Teresa asked as wedrovebacktothegarage.

I mused that the little

doghad somehow restoredmy belief in what I wasdoing. We were there tohelp animals live a betterlife and that wouldcertainly ring true for thisone. Teresa had alreadysaid shewasgoing to takeherhometoNaples.

‘WhataboutSperanza?’I suggested. ‘Hope, inEnglish.’

‘I like it. That’s what

we’llcallher.’It’s good to know that

little Hope is now inNaples having a great lifewithTeresa’sotherdogs.

When we began to runout of cats, Elke came tothe rescue again, this timetaking us further afield tothe area around MazzaroBay, below Taormina.Wedroveupintotowntocatchsome of Genoveffa’s

colony. She was waitingoutsideherkitchenand,aswe approached, put herfinger to her lips andbeckonedusinside.

‘Thank you for comingbutwe have to be careful.There is a neighbour whois spyingonmeand if sheseesuswith the trapshe’llgotothepolice.’

The permesso extendedonly as far as the borders

of Letojanni so we had totake care no one saw us.WesatinthesalottawhileGenoveffa hovered in theyard, watching theneighbour’s movements.After about half an hourshecamein,smiling.

‘I’ve just seen her gooutwithhershoppingbags.Hurry before she comesback!’

As I have said before,

cats take their timebutwewereable tocatch threeofthem and stow them awayin the car before thesuspicious neighbourreturned.

By early afternoon ontheFridaywehadtoadmitdefeat; we could find nomore cats. For the firsttimethatweekwecouldsitdown to a meal at arespectable hour rather

than nine or ten at night.WewenttoCiaoCiao,myfavourite eatery inLetojanni, set right on thebeach.Itwasawonderfullywarm night and we couldhear the soft sough of thewaves breaking and watchthe moon laying its silverpath across the water. Asallthetensionsoftheweekmelted away I realised Iwas ravenous. I ordered

anddevouredahugepizzaSiciliana. It was loadedwith capers and anchoviesand I knew from pastexperienceIwouldpayforit with a great thirst lateron but I can never resistthis dish. The others duginto their pasta and pizza,and the wine jug wasrefilled.Withthevoicesoflocalpeopleinmyears,onthis perfect night I felt at

peace with the world. Westayed late, chatting andlaughing, high on thesuccess of our amazingweek.

The following day theambulance and van werepacked up ready to leave.In those few days theintensity andaccomplishments of ourwork had drawn us closetogether; we hugged and

kissedandafewtearswereshed.

Before I left forEngland once again Idiscovered the identity ofthe figure I’d watchedstrollinginPiazzaDurante.His name isMario and hehas acted and directed inthe theatre formany yearsofhis life.Iwastalkingtothe man in Letojanni’sInternet shop when Mario

came over to join us. Heseemed delighted to findsomeone who spokeEnglish andwewent for acoffee.

‘I’m sorry, it’s time toleave,’Isaid.

Mario smiled. ‘You’llbeback.’

And 2005 had scarcelybegun before Iwas indeedback in Taormina. I reallyshould have learned by

now that proposals bySicilian authorities aredelusive as will o’ thewisp, offering false hope,which is never fulfilled.Nevertheless,thereIwasinchillyJanuary,stayinginadamp apartment andawaiting summons to thecity of Messina for ameetingwithSicilian vets.And waiting; I calledMario and caught the bus

to Letojanni. We met fortea at Il Gabbiano cafe. Iwas curious to know whyhecontinuedtoliveinthissmall village where heobviously didn’t belongspiritually, among peoplewhodidn’tunderstandhim.

‘You understand, dearJenny?ItseemsImightbean agent of the BritishSecretService!’Henoticedmyquizzicalexpression.‘I

mean it, that is how theyseemehereinLetojanni.’

But I didn’t knowwhether he was joking ornot. I glanced down at theblack and whitephotographs scattered overthe cafe table: Mario’stheatricalhistory,theplayshe’d acted in all overEurope, taking him furtherand further from hisSicilian roots into the

worldofBrecht,TheatreofCruelty, Theatre of theAbsurd. There were somereviews written in Englishspanning thenineyearshelivedinLondon.

As he had explained tome during this shortwinter’s afternoon, thatwas his most serious falsestep. He went against hisbetter judgement to movefrom Rome to Norwood,

wheretherewasnothingtodo in the evenings but goto the pub – his reason: asummer affair with anEnglishwoman, which wasprolonged because shefoundherselfpregnant.

‘The moment she wasback in England, shechanged.Shewentback toherworkasalecturerandIwasleftfloundering,afishout of water. I stayed for

the sake ofmy daughter –untilshewasoldenoughtounderstand. Then weseparated but, youunderstand, I’d lost allmytheatricalcontacts.’

Nowhewas ‘exiled’ inSicily, inwhat he called amiserable trap. It wasnearlyayearsinceI’dmethim in the Internet shop,checkinghisemailsas if itwerealifeline.

IthoughtofthefigureIsawstridingtowardsmeasI sat waiting outside IlGabbiano, enjoying thewinter sunshine. He hadswept along the street, hislong, dark overcoatflapping, dark glasses,film-stargoodlooks.Mariowastallandhandsomeinaslightly sinister way. Hiseyeswere dark and intent,his smile wry. He had the

most wonderful gravellyvoice and spoke Italianbeautifully. Moreindefinably he had theelegance of another age;his manners weredelightful. You couldimagine Mario belongingtosomeMittle-europecafesociety seated in one ofthose Grande Caffes yousee in Turin, his constantcompanionswickedly dark

coffee and a smoulderingcigarette.Cometothinkofit…

‘Well, you do lookratherlikeasecretagent,’Isaid.

Mario laughed andshookhishead.Herefilledour cups. I stared at thetranslucent liquid with amomentary longing for acomforting English brew,something to warm me.

The conversation on thebus as I rode to and fromTaorminafor these teatimerendezvous with Mariocentred on the normallyAnglo-Saxon subject ofweather. No one had everknownSicily tobeascoldas itwas this January.Theelderly woman muffledfrom head to toe in coatand scarves leaned over tooffer the driver a sweet,

speakinginahighkeeningvoice about ‘il freddo’.And he – taking one handoffthewheeltoacceptit–commiserated: ‘Da famorire.’ (I smiled tomyself.Enoughtokillyou.Hardly!)

‘Comeon!’ Iwanted tosay. ‘It’s not that bad.Look out the window, seethe sun on the sea, you’renotsnow-boundlikeNorth

Italy.’ We were swingingdown the curving roadstowards Letojanni, paststone walls covered withbougainvillea.‘Cold?Whatkindofbloodhaveyougotinyourveins?’

The driver’s mobilephone rang and heanswered. A friend, itseemed, who wanted tomeet up that evening.‘Dependere del tempo (It

depends on the weather),’hesighed.

I knew about the trulyfreezing weather innorthern Italy because I’dbeen watching the RAInewseverynight,sittinginmydampapartmentwithaglass of red wine. I wasgrateful I’d brought warmpyjamas and a hot waterbottlewithme.

Taormina was dead at

this time of year; the barsclosed at 20.30, a fewpeople scuttling along theemptystreets likecrabsonthe bottom of the ocean.There was nothing to dobut go back to theapartment, eat and watchtelevisionuntil itwas timeforbed.I can’t see you doing

thisfifteenyearsago,Itoldmyself. If youwere tucked

up cosily in bed then, itwouldbeamatrimoniale,ahuge double bed, with aSicilian lover. Certainlynot cuddling a hot waterbottle in my narrow, notvery comfortable bed,which must stand awayfrom the wall because ofthedamp.Surreal.

Severaltimesovertheselast two weeks I’d askedmyself, What am I doing

here? although I knew theanswer. I was awaiting ameeting with the head ofveterinary services inMessina – a meeting thatshould have happened theweekIarrived.

‘Pazienza,’ Sergio,president of the NationalCanine Defence League(Taormina branch), toldme.‘Thebossisverybusy,he has people coming to

seehimeveryday.’‘Doesn’t he know that

I’vecomeallthewayfromEngland to see him?’ Icomplained.

Sergio gave anexpressive Sicilian shrug:‘Muh!’

I was trying to bepatient because there wasso much at stake. Themeetingwas todiscuss thenecessity for a permanent

clinic for feral cats inTaormina. If I succeededwith this, the next part ofmy plan, it would be anenormous breakthrough inwhat had otherwisebecome a gridlocksituation.Butonnightslikethese, watching people inMilanandTurinstrugglingthrough snow, hearing akidnappedItalianjournalistpleading forher life, I lost

heart.That’swhyIescapedto Letojanni to have teawithMario,whenwecouldat least commiseratetogether.

Every time we enteredIl Gabbiano, heads turned.Iknewtheywere trying toworkoutwhetherweslepttogether – indeed,whywewere together at all.Already they’d found thislengthy stay of Mario’s

mysterious and then heturns up with a foreignwoman – just what wasgoingon?Iimaginedthemasking each other as theyturned back to their tablesand leaned their headstogether.

What they didn’t knowwasthatwewerelinkedbyacommonsenseofexile,akindof existentialwaiting.I, themeeting inMessina;

Mario, confirmation of adrama workshop he hadproposed at nearbyRoccalumera. If he didn’tdo something concrete, hesaid,hewouldgomad.

But with Mario therewas a mutual reticence, atacitunderstandingthatourconspiracy should remainat this cerebral level.Hardtoexplain,a sense Ididn’tunderstand myself: taboo.

Of course, I had had myinitial fantasies – Iwouldn’t be Jenny if Ihadn’t. But there was anactor’s narcissism abouthim,whichwarnedmethatany involvementwould beadisaster.A complicity ofattente then but we wereboth aware that it wasprobable nothing mightoccur. Thiswas Sicilianitaas the author of The

Leopard, Tomasi diLampedusa, confirmed inthe voice of the Prince ofSalina:

The Sicilians neverwant to improve forthe simple reasonthat they thinkthemselves perfect;their vanity isstronger than theirmisery; every

invasion byoutsiders,whethersoby origin or, ifSicilian, byindependence ofspirit, upsets theirillusion of achievedperfection, risksdisturbing theirsatisfied waiting fornothing.

Mario passedme the plate

of dolce and I took acannoli – a kind of creamhorn. Then I regretted itbecause they are squishythingstoeat.

‘Here you are watchedand checked every day,whomyoufrequent,whereyou take your coffee,withwhat linguistic vocabularyyou express yourself, whoyou are, politically basedon country and tribal;

politics and so on. It’stragicandgrotesque.’

And I was right – acannoli is not somethingyou eat in public. I wipedmy fingers, took a sip oftea.

‘And that’s withoutmentioning their penchantfor destruction and self-destruction,theirgratuitousslander,’ Mariocommented.

Itwasalltoomuch.Wecould not stay here, hesaid. We must move onsomewhere else. I stood atthe counter waiting whilehe paid, conscious of theeyes boring into my back,followingusaswe left thecafe. Outside, I zipped upmy jacket. A chilly windblew through the desertedPiazzaDurante.Theleavesof the palm trees rustled

mournfully. We crossedswiftly and pushed openthedoortothePegasusbar(sadlynomore).Itwasthehaunt of the intelligentsiaor what passes forintelligentsia in Letojanni.I’d had some heateddiscussionsonthemeaningoflifeinhere,sittingrounda table and eating theirspecial bruschetta, whichare nothing like the

ubiquitous toast with a bitof chopped tomato andonionon top.ThePegasusbruschetta were chunkyladen affairs and the redwine to wash them downnot the often wateryvariety, which I suspectedcamefromthecartonsyoucanbuyinthesupermarketforseventypence.

Tonight Fabrizio washere, just arrived from

Florence, where he nowlived. ‘It’s good to comebacktoSicily,’hetoldme,‘but only for two or threeweeks.’ You got theimpression that, if, bymistake, he stayed longer,his re-entry into Florencewould somehow bemysteriously refused.Nowand again, Mariodisappeared outside tostand in the cold night air

and smoke. He was aninveterate smoker,althoughsomedayshetoldme he had given up. Iunderstood. There was atimewhenIcouldn’twritea word without a cup ofcoffee and a cigarette.WhatIfoundextraordinarywas that somehow thesmokingbanwasobserved.Sincethebeginningofthatyear it had become

forbidden to smoke inrestaurants,bars andcafes,forbidden with draconianforce – alien to the usuallaissez-faireattitudeofthiscountry.

Mario returned to takeupwherehehadleftoff.

‘SoIamaBritishsecretagent,huh!Theonly thingyoucandowithpeoplelikethese is to have a goodlaugh. That’s if you don’t

shudder at how it’s linkedwith serious psychologicalproblems mixed withignorance,lackofcommonsense and petty provincialimaginings…’

Peppe behind thecountercaughtmyeyeandshrugged.

‘…Thedeadlyboredomof a subculture, ofsuspicion, frustration andmortalapathy.’

Hewasright,ofcourse,Ithought,rememberingthetime when I lived brieflywith Amadeo. By the endof the day ‘someone’would have told him myprecise movements: thatI’d taken a stroll in thePublic Gardens, where I’dbeen spotted talking to anold man. In the market Ihad again spoken to anelderlystallholderforwhat

seemed like a suspiciouslylong time and then I’d satin the Oranges Bar with aglassofwineinthemiddleoftheday!

Every Sicilian is anislandwithin the familyorgroupofthosewhodirectlysurround him. He can becourageous, generous andfearless. On the dark sidehe is also capable ofdealing death in a real or

metaphorical way if hethinks it is necessary. Hisintelligence is ofteninterpreted as furbizia orcunning. ‘Fatti furbo,’ youwillheara fathercallafterhis son as he leaves thehouse. (‘Don’t let anyonegetoneoveryou.’)Itisnoinsult to call someone‘furbo’. It means that,whereas most peopleaccomplish a simple

project with a chat over adrink, or a letter, to aSicilian it becomes anundertakingofPrometheanproportions.Eachsidewillbe involved in cooking upawickedschemetogetthebetter of the other whiletrying to foresee theschemes the other mightinvent; in fact, being evenmore furbo. The result isvery often stalemate, the

paralysis of two equallytalented chess players, the‘feelingofdeath’describedbyLampedusa.

It was that kind ofstalemate I was facingnow: every move I madewas checked by theauthorities as ‘not legal’,coupled by the vice of‘domani,domani’–alwaystomorrow.

AsIremarkedtoMario:

‘Ithinktheymakeuplawstosuittheoccasion.’

‘Muh!’hesaid.By the time he was

eighteen he had turned hisback on Sicily as anySicilianwho‘makesit’hasto do. He cited Pirandelloand Verga: ‘People aresurprised when you tellthem these artists wereSicilian.’

‘Any news?’ we asked

each other on yet anotherof these wintry afternoonsatIlGabbiano.

‘Thisenforcedstaywillpush me to write a booksoonerorlater.Butnoonecanliveinthisplacewhenthey feel so alienated anddisenchanted.Thesepeoplebelieve theyknowme, butthe truth is they haveabsolutely no idea! By theautumnIhavetomakemy

choice – but it isn’t muchof a choice, somehow I’vegottogetoutofhere.’

I looked at him andremembered something hehad said to me last yearwhen I was upset abouthavingtoleave.

‘Remember, caraJenny, life is beautifulbecauseitisvaried.’

But his was stoicismakintodespair.

A scarlet sun glareddown at the grey sea. Itwas cold tonight, I had toagree,andeveryoneonthebus appeared dressed forthe Arctic. My apartmentlookedlikeaTurkishbath,so much humidity, thewindows were all steamedup. I settled with mysupper and a glass of redwine, feeling nostalgic forthe past, for the life that

other Jenny used to live. IthoughtofArtandthelongletter he wrote, saying hewouldneverforgetthedaywe spent together. Neitherwould I: a chancemeetingat a beach trattoria, asnorkelling expeditionwhenthecurrentsweptmeout to sea and thischarming Americanrescued me. It was a daythat went on and on and

extendedintoevening.

It was mystical thewaywemet and theconversationand thebeach,andyouwerelostandfoundagain.And thatmarvellousplaceyoutookmetoeat: Neptune’sGrotto, wow! Thelinguine… love thename, and those

candles. It was loveand death and allthose big things. Ithink of you often.Where are you? Inyour beloved Sicilystill?

Sergio’s rapping on thedoor broke in on thisdream. His face was half-hiddenbyahugescarf.Hewasjustofftotakehisdog,

Duke, for a walk. ‘I’vebeen trying to contact youall afternoon,’ he said atriflereproachfully.‘We’vehad a call from Messina,there’s an appointment onFriday.’

I should have beenpleased. Of course I was.But therewasapartofmethat had become used tothis time of waitingwithout hope, almost

Sicilian really with itssenseoffatalism.I’dcometo enjoy my complicitafternoonswithMario.

TWENTY-ONE

A Time in Rome

n Paradise Lost JohnMilton compares Satan

to a will o’ the wisptempting Eve to eat fromtheTreeofKnowledge.Tome that seemed to sumup

mysituationprettywell asI pursued a goal that ledme ever onwards but wasdifficult or impossible toreach. Over the past threeyears I had had tantalisingglimpsesofwhatmightbeachieved until Sicilianbureaucracy crushed meinto helplessness. ThereweretimeswhenIhonestlywished I could return tothat naive vision I’d once

hadofSicily.HadAndrewnot turned into thosebackstreets of Castelmola,hadwekepttoourplannedroute to Bar Turrisi for aglass of almond wine…if…if…At the same timeIknew itwas too late;myeyes had been opened,therewasnogoingback.

On the morning SergiooftheNCDLandIarrivedin Messina for that long-

awaited meeting, Iremembered when I hadfirst heard its name.Yearsago,duringthebrieftimeIspent with Amadeo, therewas a charming, elderlyman who occupied theapartment below ours. Igave him English lessonsandduringoneof thesehespokeofMessina.

‘I grew up there and Ilove my city, but I would

never go back to live.Thereisalwaysthefearofanotherearthquake.’

Hemusthavebeen justa child when the terrible’quake of 1908 struck,destroying the city andkilling so many of itsinhabitants.Buthewasoneof the lucky survivors.Messina holds no suchhorrors for me. I havealways liked this place,

with its view across theStraits to Calabria’s SanGiovanni. Perhaps becauseof its proximity tomainland Italy, theinhabitants seem to memore open and certainlytheyhavetheirfairshareofnotable ‘sons’– saintsandartists, architects andcomposers. Only thosewho have experienced thedestructive power of an

earthquakehaveadifferentviewofMessina.

On 28December 1908,a huge tremor occurred,centredonthecity.Reggio,on the Italian mainland,also suffered heavydamage.Thegroundshookfor about 40 seconds andthe destruction was feltwithin a 300-kilometre(186-mile) radius.Moments after the

earthquake, a 12-metre(39-foot) tsunami strucknearby coasts, causingeven more devastation; 91per cent of structures inMessina were destroyedand some 70,000 residentswere killed. For weeksrescuers searched throughthe rubble and wholefamilies were still beingpulledoutalive,dayslater,but thousands remained

buried there. Buildings inthe area had not beenconstructed for earthquakeresistance, having heavyroofs and vulnerablefoundations. And as theinhabitants know only toowell,itcouldhappenagain.

As we arrived at theState vets clinic to meetDottore Donia, I wasfeeling optimistic. On thesurface,atleast,heseemed

charming and eager tohelp.At lunchweoutlinedour hopes for a permanentclinic for feral animals inTaormina.Yes,heknewofaplaceandhewouldmakesomeenquiries.

AfewdayslaterSergioknockedonthedoorofmydankapartment,whereIsatnursing my evening glassof red wine, watchingtelevision. He was

beaming.‘Donia justcalled.He’s

coming to Taormina theday after tomorrow toshowusapossiblelocationfortheclinic.’

On that sparklingFebruary day, as wewalked briskly along theCorsoItrulybelievedIhadgot somewhere at last.Doniametuswithasetofkeys and we toured some

spaciousrooms in thenowdisused Taormina hospital.Perfect! There would beroom for a surgery, areception area, even aspace where meetingscould be held with invitedforeignvets.

My journalist friendseized on the story withglee and once again anarticle appeared in LaSicilia.

During the followingdays,whenIstrolledintheCorso, people stopped tocongratulate me on myendeavour.

Willo’thewisp!Atonepoint I even received acontractandconfirmedthatyes, indeed, I would beresponsible for setting upthe clinic. But then therewas a mysterious silencefrom Messina. By mid-

February I was back inEngland,feelingdefeated.

‘No progress,’ I toldAISPA’s Susan Dale.‘After all that time theykept us hanging around,nothing. I honestly don’tknowwhattodonext.’

‘Why don’t you go toRome and see what theyare doing at the TorreArgentina Cat Sanctuary?’shesuggested.‘Thatbegan

on a shoestring in theninetiesbut it’sgrownandgrown. You might findsome inspiration. By theway, they’re holding aGala Benefit evening inJune andDorotheawill bethere.’

A trip to the EternalCity in June! It soundedvery tempting and, whenthe invitation arrived,Andrew and I decided to

accept. Where would westay?Wewanted to spendten days there and Romecanbeanexpensiveplace.Susan came to the rescue,putting me in touch withDeborah D’Alessandro,oneoftheprincipalpeopleinvolved with thesanctuary.

‘Hello, Jennifer,’ camethecheeryAmericanvoiceoverthetelephone.‘We’ve

heard somuch aboutwhatyou’ve been doing inSicily.We’redyingtomeetyou.’

The apartment shefoundforuswassetintheheart of Rome’s historicalcentre, with the Forumclose by and theColosseum a short walkaway.Weonlyhadtocrossa neighbouring square,dominated by the Papale

Basilica of Santa MariaMaggiore, to reach asupermarket, where westockeduponsupplies.Onourfirsteveningwesatbythe open window drinkingwine and gazing out overthe vibrant streets. Thesound of Rome enjoyingthe evening passeggiatafloated upwards. Wecouldn’tbelieveourluck.

The following day,

Deborah called and wearranged to meet her atLargodiTorreArgentina,aRoman square that hostsfour Republican RomantemplesandtheremainsofPompey’s Theatre. In1503, the Papal Master ofCeremonies JohannLudwig Burckhardt (whocame from Strasbourg andwas known as‘Argentinus’)builtapalace

in nearby Via dei Sudano,to which the tower isannexed.

In the 1920s,Mussolini’s town plannershad ordered a largedepartmentstoretobebuilthere. Old houses werepulled down and then,during the demolitionworks, the colossal headandarmsofamarblestatuewasdiscovered,bringingto

lightthepresenceofaholyarea.Workhadtobehaltedand, as it turned out, thiswasveryfortunateforferalcats.

Here,intheAreaSacra,livehundredsofthem–bigand small, ginger, tabby,tortoiseshell and black.Kittens play around fallencolumns, cats doze on thetemple steps or strollaround gracefully. Try to

count them and there willalways be more – a fluffygrey cat stretching fromher sleep, a black felineunder a pillar, having agood wash. These ruins,sunk below road level andwithprotectiverailings,areasafehavenforthecats.

I first discovered theLargo di Torre Argentinawhile I was on a workingtripinRome,around1995.

Afriendhad rentedmeanapartment at a ridiculouslylowpriceinnearbyCampodeFiore,which seemed tome very much the ‘real’Rome. I’d shop for fruitand vegetables in themarket that took placeevery day and in theevening sit at a pavementcafe with a glass of wine,people watching. I didn’tknowthenbutitseemsthis

square once witnessedpublic executions. InFebruary 1600, thephilosopher GiordanoBruno was burnt alive forheresy,andallofhisworksplaced on the Index ofForbidden Books by theHolyOffice.

I was standing on thekerbside trying to cross abusy street when I saw asmall white kitten launch

itself out into the traffic. Iwas pretty sure where ithad come from, the ruinsofnearbyTorreArgentina.Several times in the pastweek I’d stopped to gazedownonthecatswhotookrefuge there. Circling thezone I found some metalstairs that led downwardsin the corner closest towhereViaArenulaleadstothe Tiber. With the kitten

in my arms I clambereddown them and stoodgazingaroundat thefallencolumns of temples, thehollowed-out slabs ofstone. There were catseverywhere.

‘Can I help you?’ Adark-haired young womanin dungarees stood therewithacanoffoodandatinopenerinherhands.

‘I’ve found this little

kitten.’The girl came closer.

SheworerubberbootsandI saw that the ground wasunevenandmuddyinparts.Carefully she took thekitten.

‘Shewillbefinehere.’Paola was one of the

volunteers and came heremost days. She gaveme atour of this primitive catsanctuary: a dim, smelly

grotto with a roughconcrete floor, minimallighting and a tiny officespace.Thecatcageswereamixture of sizes andshapes, some new, someold, sitting up on plastictables.Paolatoldmeaboutthe two extraordinaryRoman women, LiaDuquel andSilviaViviani,educated and multi-lingualgattare. They’d begun as

so many of us do, byfeeding stray cats, thosewho roam the Romanstreets and populate itsmany historic sights.Aftera while, they managed topersuade the authorities toallow them to use theancient site of TorreArgentinaasashelter.

‘There’s no runningwater or electricity,’ Paolaexplained cheerfully. ‘We

have to carry buckets toand from the nearestRoman fountain. We’vetried to solve the lightingproblem with this big gaslanternonthattablebuttheplace is very damp anddifficult to keep clean,howeverdedicatedweare.’

Later, she wrote to mein England to tell me thatmy little white kitten haddied.Manyof thecatshad

chroniccoldscausedbythedampness of the area andthe unhygienic conditionsspread the deadly diseaseofgastroenteritis.AtleastIhad saved her from theRomantraffic.

All these years later Ihad returned toRome, thistime it was for the GalaBenefitevening,butalsotomeet DeborahD’Alessandro.

Dark-haired andvivacious, she was theimageofRomanchicandIwasn’t surprised to hearshe had worked in thefashion industry until shewas forty. Itwas then thatthingschanged.

‘Ican’tsayIwasreallyunhappy but my life wassomehow in black andwhite. That was seventeenyears ago. I turned my

backontheStatesandtooka house-sitting job inMilan. Gradually, I foundmyfeetandworked inmyfield of marketing forseven years. Then I madeanother decision: I movedtoRome.IknewIwantedachange but had no realsenseofdirection.Itwasahot, hot summer. I waswalking by the TorreArgentina and someone

invitedmedowntoseethecats. I remember that a lotofthemweresickandtherewas thissmallcave,wherepeoplewereworking.ImetLia and, after just a fewmoments, she said: “Doyou live here? Why don’tyoubecomeavolunteer?”Ijust froze. OK, I lovedanimals and I had alwayshad cats of my own, butthiswasatotallynewidea.

Ibelievetherearetimesinlife when the light bulbgoes on and you knowwhereyouaremeant tobegoing.

‘I worked with Lia,cleaning out cages andlitter boxes, feeding andgiving the cats theirmedication. There wasnothing like theorganisation we havetoday. At that time we

didn’thavetheshop,whichis a great help in raisingfunds, just this small cave,andwedesperatelyneededmoney. We knew we hadone very important asset:this ancient site whereBrutus murdered JuliusCaesar.

‘The area was alwaysthronging with tourists.Theywouldstoptogazeattheruinsandthenyousaw

them do a double take asthey realised there was ahuge number of catsroaming among them. Weencouraged them to comedown and visit and thenplucked up courage andbegantoaskfordonations.It was incredible, themoney we needed startedtocomein.Eventoday,wehavenofinancialhelpfromthe local authorities: we

survive on people’sgenerosity. Now I workhere full time and earnsome pocket money to“feedmyanimalhabit”byteaching on Tuesdays andThursdays.My life took adramaticturnthedayImetLia. It had certainly neveroccurred to me before toworkinthefieldlikethis.’

Inspired by the arrivalof one feline, Deborah

wroteabook,Nelson: TheOne-Eyed King. ‘A bigwhite cat was brought tous, its eye dislodged, shotby a kid with a “toy” BBgun,’ she explained. Hisimposing size andgentleness earned him aname derived from LordNelson,thefamousEnglishadmiral. Soon, as heperched on the Romanwall,hisfurrymanefluffed

over his large body, heattracted the locals.Tourists,too,pausedtopayhomage.

‘People would come,calling out his name,’recalled Deborah, ‘withgiftsofgourmetcatfoods.’

After a year or two hewas the undisputed KingCat of the colony, oftensitting at the first step ofthe stairs leadingdown, so

the passing tourist couldmarvel and maybe evenwalkdowntocontributetohis and his fellow cats’welfare.

His fame grew.Meanwhile, Deborah’sbook, Nelson il Re Senzaun Occhio, won a literaryaward in Italy and wastranslatedintoEnglish.

Alas, Nelson is nomore:hishealthsufferedas

a result of the dampconditions in the sanctuarybut he is a legend and asymbol of the wonderfulworkatTorreArgentina.

It was time to visit thesanctuary once more,climbingdownthosemetalstairs. What a differencefrom the last time I washere! The place wasbuzzing with activity.Therewasawell-litcentral

area, which housed theoffice and reception areafor visitors. Someone wassitting at the computer,answering the emails thatfloodineveryday.

‘It’s here we planneutering campaignswhileother volunteers talk tovisitors,’Deborahtoldme.

A Dutch couple wereasking how they couldadopt a cat and other

tourists were shopping forcat tea towels, catcalendars and, of course,Deborah’sbook.

To the leftwas a large,light enclosure,where catsroamed. Deborahintroduced me to Tatiana,twice-injured before shefound a safe haven there.Then there were cats whohad lost their legs like thebeautiful ginger tom who

was nevertheless gettingaboutquitewell,aswasthethree-legged Don Camillo.The walls were lined withcageswhereothercatsthatwere being nursed or hadrecently been neuteredwere housed. DeborahgreetedonevolunteerfromAustralia,anotherfromtheUSA.

‘It’s a kind of UnitedNationshere!’shelaughed,

adding: ‘Our workdaysbeginat8amwithcleaninganddisinfectingcages.Dueto our confined quartersand the ease with whichdiseases spread, this job isone of the most importantfor our volunteers. Next,food is distributed to thecats in the undergroundshelter along with thosethat live permanentlyoutdoors among the ruins.

While feeding the outdoorcats, the volunteers mustkeepavigilant eyeout forsick or newly abandonedones,whomustbecaught,treated, vaccinated, spayedandneutered.

‘Someofthevolunteersdon’t think they have theconfidence todo thisworkso I do a convincing jobandtheysoongetthehangofit.

‘One woman visitedwith her husband and saidshe would be back tovolunteer the followingyear, without him.We arealso supporting 40 othercolonies, which have aminimumof 20 cats and amaximum of 120. Weliaisewith thegattare andgivethemsuppliesoffood,help them with medicaltreatment; in this way we

are supporting 1,500 cats.We have certainly made adifference. At times whenit seems impossible to goon,somethinghappensthatraises hope andencouragement. Perhapsone of our mosthandicapped cats isadopted or a generousdonationhelpspayanotherbill. In the end thehundreds of abandoned

cats and kittens that havebeen placed in lovingfamilies and the thousandswe manage to havesterilised every year makeitallworthwhile.’

A day or two later wewere all dressed up andmaking our way to thegrand Piazza Venezia,where Italian fascist leaderMussolini once haranguedthecrowdfromthebalcony

of Palazzo Venezia. Weclimbed to the top of abank building to the wideroofterracewheretheGalaevening was being held.After accepting a glass ofwine, we gazed around.What an elegant Romancrowd! The men woredark, beautifully cut suits;the women had not a hairout of place.But how thatelegance swiftly vanished

when the foodwas served.They fell on it as if theyhadn’t eaten for a week,pushing their way in toempty plate after plate.Talkabouta rugbyscrum!ButBritishhabitsdiehard:weheldbackpolitelywiththe result that we scarcelygotasandwich.ThencametheraffleandhereIcaughtsight of Dorothea drawingthe tickets from a box. In

contrast to many of thewomen, she was simplydressed but her smileoutshone them all. Therewas time for aquickwordbefore she was whiskedawayforphotographs.

‘Would you come backtoLetojanni?’ I asked her.‘I think Elke can get thepermessoagain.’

‘CertainlyI’dcome,butnot in summer again. It

wasfartoohot.’‘I was planning on the

autumn,’ I said rashly,thinking,ifshesays‘yes’Ishall have to get busy andraisesomemorefunds.

‘Glutton forpunishment,’ Andrewmurmured,aswecameoutintothepiazzaagain.

‘Maybe,andIcoulddowithsomefoodrightnow!’Ilaughed.

We turned left past theilluminated Forum, whichwas swarming withtourists. It struck me thatRome is a place almostworn out by being lookedat. People wereeverywhere; it was as ifeveryonewasonholiday.

As we walked throughthis balmy night, I felt asurge of joy at just beingalive and in Rome. I love

this city and I alwaysvisitwith a sense of cominghome.Wemadeourwayinthe direction of theColosseum.Withoutsayingawordweknewwherewewereheading:Luzzi.

With its long tables setout on the street coveredwithcheckcloths,it’snotaplacetogoforacosytête-à-tête. Conversationcompetes with all those

whosurroundyou.Butwelove it! Love the crazywaiters and the cheap andtasty menu. Luzzi doesn’tservesomeofthebestfoodinRomebutitisfun,cheapand some of its dishes arepretty good, including theAmatriciana, or theantipasto that you serveyourself from the array ofveggies and other goodiesin the back, and you’ll be

charged depending on thesizeofyourplate.

In the evening, though,yourbestbetatLuzziisthepizza with a proper thinRoman crust and freshingredients.

Asweate, I thoughtofthe saying ‘Eat, drink andbemerry for tomorrowwedie’, attributed to theNeapolitans, living in theshadow of Vesuvius.

CarpeDiem,seizetheday:this one had offered mesuch encouragement andthe will to continue withCatsnip; it had been aparticularlysignificantday.

TWENTY-TWO

I Have My Doubts

hesceneissurreal.I’mstanding in the

classroom of a Sicilianschool talking to thechildren about cats. I canhardly hear myself speak.

Under the beady eye oftheir teachers, theymaybewell behaved but myappearance is treated likesomething of anentertainment. Handsflutter, they all want tospeakatonce.

‘Signora, I have twokittensIfoundinthestreet.Oneofthemhassomethingwrong with his eye. WhatshouldIdo?’

‘I love my dog,Signora, but my parentsdon’t want him in thehouse.’

‘Signora! Signora!Listen, I want to be a vetwhen Igrowup. Iwant tohelp all the animals.WhatmustIdo?’

Lovely, innocentchildren who have yet tocome under their parents’mistrust of animals, the

general ignorance of thesecreatures as sentientbeings.Over the course ofthat week I visited fiveschools. At one, where Ihad distributed fifty ofmybooklets on animalwelfare, the childrencrowdedroundme.

‘Signora, please willyousignit?’

‘Andmine,andmine!’Talk about being a

celebrityforfiveminutes.Theseschoolvisitswere

awelcome break frommysecond catch/neuter/returnweekinLetojanni,whichIhad found upsetting anddifficult.

After my return fromRome to England, thesummerof2005hadbeenabusy one. Catsnip hadtaken over my life but itwastimetoconcentrateon

work. My play, End ofStory, had been chosen asoneofsixtoformatheatretrail during the ArundelFestival;nowwewentintorehearsal. The play dealtwith the relationshipbetween Harold Shipmanandhiswife,Primrose. I’dalways been fascinated bythe evil doctor and hisapparenteaseinmurderingso many of his patients

before he was found out.What intrigued me evenmore was the wayPrimrose supported himwithout question. Whatkind of woman can sit incourt and suck sweetswhile her husband is ontrial for mass murder? Ihad not only written theplaybutalsocastmyselfinthe part of Primrose andspent hours in charity

shops, looking for suitableclothes. Primrose was notknown for her sartorialelegance. As I am quiteslim, I had to pad myselfouttoachievehersize.Theplay ends with news ofShipman’s suicide andmyunearthly shriek of horrorechoed round the disusedprison cells, where wewereperforming.

Whileallthiswasgoing

on, I had to jugglefundraising and planningCatsnip’snexttrip.

‘Education is animportant part of thiswork,’ Suzy Gale, myfriend and cat lady, hadtold me. ‘Unless the localpeople understand therationale for what we’redoing and respect animals,it’sanever-endingtask.’

Shewas rightandwhat

better place to start thanwithyoungpeople?

‘DogsTrust do a lot ofeducationalmaterial,’Suzyadded. ‘I’ll put you intouch with ClarissaBaldwin.’

Clarissa proved to bevery helpful, sending meproofs of the publicationtheTrustwaspreparingforRomania. I planned asimple illustrated booklet

and, having written it inEnglish, persuaded anItalian friend to do thetranslation.

‘I think it’s a greatidea,’ Jayne at Animals’Voice enthused. ‘We takewildlife into schools andtalk to the children abouttheirwelfare.I’llpassitontotheothers.’

A few days later shecalled and said the

magazine would sponsormy booklet, so off I wenttotheprinters.

Then Elke called mefrom Italy: ‘There’sanotherproblem.I’vebeentrying to get the permessofor Letojanni but there’s alot of talk about mobilesurgeries like Dorothea’sbeing illegal. Yes, I knowthey allowed it last yearbut…’

Thecapriciousnatureof‘Those in Charge’ wasgetting to me. ‘Eventhough the local state-paidvets don’t carry out workthey are supposed to doand get paid for?’ Iretorted.

Elke sighed. ‘That’stypical Sicily. But don’tdespair,I’llgoontrying.’

I’d been to the printersto collect my bundles of

bookletsandwasalmostonthe point of packing mycase when at last Elkecalled.

‘I’ve got it! I went tothe town hall thismorningandtheygaveittome.’

IflewbacktoSicilyon26October.ThisgaveElkeandme a few days beforeDorothea arrived with herspaymobile. Time tocontact the gattare and

checkonthelocalcoloniesofcats.

My arrival coincidedwith two importantreligious festivals: AllSaints Day and All SoulsDay, 1 and 2 November.These days are verysignificant for Catholictraditionbuttheirrootscanbe found deep in a paganpast.TheRomansdinedbytheirancestors’graves.

The invisible world ofthe departed souls is everpresent in the Sicilianpsyche.When I livedwiththe Galeano family, Iwould often encounter thelittle Signora carrying abunch of flowers andhurrying towards thecemetery to visit herhusband’sgrave.

During All Saints Day,the whole family will

spend time in thecemeterieswith theirdead.Lamps glow among thegraves; there are flowers,and families picnicking.Often the gravestones areelaborate and displayphotographs of thedeparted.Far frombeingadayofsadness,it isoneofcelebrationandlove.

Andwhatbetterway tocelebratethanwithsweets?

AtonetimetheDayoftheDead rivalled that ofChristmas in terms ofpresentgiving.Eventoday,children are told that, iftheyaregood, thesoulsoftheir relatives will returnwithgiftsandsweets.Shopwindows are filled withdisplays of uncannily real-looking fruits. They aremoulded from martorana,an almond-based dough

that is much nicer thanmarzipan and exquisitelyhand coloured. Legendtells us that this traditionbegan in Palermo at theconvent of the Martorana.Thenunsdecidedtoplayajoke on the Archbishopwhen he arrived for hisEaster visit. They createddozens of the marzipanfruits and painted them toappear natural. Then they

strung them from trees inthe cloister garden. TheArchbishopdrewhishandsto his head in amazementgazing at the trees’miraculous fruit-bearingseason.

Another spookyconfection is the verywhite, almond-basedbiscuits called ‘Bones ofthe Dead’. They are longandflatwiththeoccasional

knob and a tray of themwillbeamusinglyirregularinshape, resemblingapileof bones.Creepy?A little.Delicious?Absolutely!Theossi dei morti, as they arecalled, are made with theseason’s first almonds,which are harvested inSeptember. These nuts arealways delicious but thereis nothing like the intenseflavouroffreshlyharvested

almonds. Torrone, thechewy white nougatsprinkled with almonds, isanotherautumnaltreat.

Several elementscombinedtomakethistripunlike the previous ones.When Elke told me theapartment overlookingIsolaBellawas on a long-term let, I wasdisappointed. I had begunto think of it as ‘my’

apartment. Where would Istay? ThenGenoveffa,mygattara friend, came upwith the answer: ‘Don’tworry, Jenny.We have anapartment close to thePensione Adele. I’ll giveyouaspecialpricebecauseyou are doing all thiswonderful work for thecats.’

This time I had noexquisite view across the

bay, but there were otheradvantages. I had only toopen thedoorand Iwouldstep out into the centre ofTaormina. At that time ofyear when the eveningswere dark, it wascomforting to find lifegoing on around me.Acrosstheroadwasacafe,where I could meet catpeoplelikeLisa.

Gaunt with a small

pinched face, Lisa seemedto carry the world’sworries on her narrowshoulders. Life, she toldme, was almost too muchto bear. Years ago, on aholiday from Sweden, shemet Salvatore. There hadbeen the initial romanticcourtship, the coming andgoing between the twocountries. Dazzled bySicily and the kind of

attention she had neverfound at home, Lisa hadfinally turned her back onthat life and come to livewith him. This is a storythat I have heard over andover again of NorthernEuropean women seducedby the light and colour oftheMediterranean. It takesa strong woman, however,toenduretheItalianmale’sattachmenttohismother.

IaskedSilvia,anItalianfriend, to give me herviews of the Italian male.Thisiswhatshesaid.

Italianmen:hopelessMamma’s boys whocan never cut theapron’s strings ordark, broodyhandsomeheartthrobs? Femaleforeign visitors to

the country seem toholdtheopinionthatindeed Italian menare charming,handsome, romantichunks who call allladies ‘bella’ and‘bellissima’ andthink nothing ofhiring a gondolacompletewith operasinger to serenadeyou from a Venice

canal. Italianwomen, on thecontrary, are not sosure.Maybebecausethey know Italianmenwellastheyaretheir partners,brothers,husbands…maybe because theyfeel a bit guilty.After all – alas –they are often theirsons and they have

contributed tocreating thatstrangest ofcreatures: an Italianman.

Convinced to beby God’sappointment theKingofCreation,anItalian man stillshunsdomesticworkeither completely(‘e’robadadonne’)

in the case of morematuregentlemenorputting in a tokeneffort that doesn’tremotely approach a50/50 share of thework in the case ofthe youngergeneration, even ifnowadays mostwomen work out ofthe house too. Forthem every

opportunitypassedisan opportunity lostand even the moreseasoned men thinkit is their absoluteright, nay, duty toflirt with all womenbut especially thoseconsiderablyyoungerthanthem…one of the reasonswhy SilvioBerlusconiwassadly

so popular for solong.

They also seemto think thattestosteronepreventsthem from beingable toholdan iron,learn to programmea washing machineorsweepafloor;butif they cook, thenthey are certainlyworth at least two

Michelin stars, ofcourse! They areoutwardly romanticwithpretty strangersbut emotionallystunted with theirspouses: we love orhatethembutinanycase we arelumbered with them– unless, like me,you marry a Britishman.Naturally!

Lisa and Salvatore eachhad their own side of thestory. She thought him abully,hebelievedhertobeneurotic, but whatever theups and downs in theirlives, on one thing theywere united: cats. Theymight glare at each otherbut could then be seenexchanging a smile at thesight of a feline.Passionately devoted to

cats, they treated them astheirownchildren.

‘We have six at themoment apart from theones we feed,’ Lisa toldme. ‘Two of them youneuteredwhenyouwereinTaormina,buttherest…’

‘I’ll bring a trap up toTaormina,’ Ioffered. ‘Andif you can get the cats tous,we’llneuterthem,too.’

She gave me a wry

smile.‘IfSalvatoredoesn’tmurdermefirst…’

The Pensione Adeleapartment was ratherstrangefor it seemed tobea repository for furnitureand crockery. A hugesideboard with glass-fronteddoorsheldanarrayof plates. Once, lookinginto the equally hugewardrobe, I was surprisedtofindalargegapbetween

its base and the wall andfoundmyself gazing downonto the shop below. Butthe bed was comfortableandIsleptsoundlydespitethenoisynearbytrattoria.

Newshad spread roundLetojanni and once againtherewasquiteacrowd towitness the arrival of thespaymobile. This timeDorothea brought anothervet, Rafaela, and two

German volunteers. Thefortytrapswerenolongeranovelty as they had beenglimpsed enough timesaround Letojanni the timebefore. Quite a queuedeveloped as local peopleturnedupandjoinedinthecat-trapping exercise.Dorothea and Rafaelaoperated almost without apause from early morninguntil evening. By the time

we went for a meal wewere almost too tired toeat. The two Germanvolunteers were alsodedicatedworkers.As oneof them told me, theirholidays are spent on suchexpeditions. Over the nextfour-and-a-half days weneutered 140 cats and 3dogs.

I knew that a hugeproblem in Sicily is the

many purebreed dogs,which are adopted as petsbut later abandoned whenthe owners tire of the ideaor want to go on holiday.The number of dogsthrown onto themotorwayfrom a moving car duringthe summer months isappalling. Some of themare rescued and find alovinghome;othersarefarlessfortunate.

One afternoon myphonerang.

‘Jenny?It’sCesare!’heshouted. ‘Listen, I have adog with me that is verysick.Willyourvetshavealookathim?’

Dorothea looked upfrom the operating tableandnodded. ‘Yes, tellhimtobringithere.’

Thedog,aGreatDane,was skeletal. This big,

beautiful creature wasreduced to a miserablewreck, every bone in itsbody protruding. Itslathered at themouth andwas in apitiable state.Westared at it, shocked.Dorothealeftherworkandcameovertoexamineit.

‘It looks as if it issufferingfromleishmania,’shepronounced.

Leishmania is a

dreadfuldisease,whichcanaffect the skin, creatingawful lesions or, moreseriously,vitalorgans.Itiscaused by a bite from asand fly already infectedfromsuckingthebloodofadiseased animal or even ahuman being. We realisedthat this dog had probablybeen abandoned by itsowners anddumped in thecountryside, where these

sandfliesarerife.‘I don’t think there is

anything we can do,’Dorotheaconcluded.

‘It’s young,’ I said.‘Can’t we find someonewho will look after it andtreat it? Don’t put it tosleep.’

As far back as I canremember, I have found itdifficult to accept the ideaof death and indeed

euthanasia. As myBrightonvet,Guy,toldme,whenyouaredealingwithit on an almost daily basisas vets are, their initialexperience of raw emotionnecessarily has to bereplaced by a patina ofcompassion. They are stillkindly and warm, but thisis weathered by watchingowners say goodbye totheirpets. If itwasn’t they

wouldbecomeemotionallyexhausted, compassionfatigue would take its tolland they could end up inself-destructive behaviour.It’s known that those vetswho don’t manage to findhealthy ways of handlingthe euthanasia ofcompanion animals oftenlook for a specialty in anon-euthanasia field or gointo another profession

altogether.As far as we know,

animalsareblessedwithoutthis dread of death. Guiltand regret are humanemotions: that sense oflack, of having ‘let theanimal down’ whentreatment fails. Animalsseemtoliveentirelyinthepresent:theydon’tbecomeangry or judgemental,theirs is a simple joy of

being with us. When mycatShebajumpsonmylapandkneadsherpaws,sheisasking: ‘Notice me now,’andrevelsinthesatisfyingattention she is beinggiven. I have oftenwondered what her cheek-rubbingpurrsmean.

‘Cats do this to depositfacial pheromones onpeople or objects in theirenvironment,’ Dr Meghan

Herron, professor ofanimal behaviour at OhioStateUniversity, is quotedas saying. ‘The headbutting is actuallysomething that we callbunting.’

People assume that it’sa sign of affection oracceptanceintothefeline’sdomain but, according toDr Herron, bunting is alittlemorecomplicated.

‘Rather than territorialmarking or “claiming”someone, as is commonlythought, cats do this tomark something as safe…leavingasignalofcomfortand safety; so you couldthink of it as a sign thatthey are “trusting” thatpersonorenvironment.’

When your cat comesface-to-face with you andbuntsorrubs,enjoyit!It’s

thenextbestthingtoakissonthecheek.

If only we humanscould be so unaware oftime passing, of thisenjoyment of the momentwithouttheknowledgethatlifewillend.

That afternoon I turnedawayintearsandwentoutinto the sunshine feelinghelpless that I could notsave that dog. It brought

hometheterriblecrueltyofsome people towardsanimals and underlinedwhywewerethere.

When I related theincident to Guy, later on,he agreed with Dorotheathat it had been the onlyoutcome.

‘We have to learn todifferentiate betweencompanion animals whoseowners are prepared to

nurse and medicate them,’he explained. ‘It’s harsh,but true that unless a feralanimal has a problem thatcanbetreatedwithfirstaidthey can’t be helped withanythingmoreserious.Thecriteriahastobequalityoflife and that may comedown to putting them tosleep.’

Ouronlyother casualtywas a cat, which escaped

andwentunderacar.Lessserious but annoying,someone stole one ofDorothea’s traps and oneof my expensive crushcages.

I was finding thesesessionsverystressful.Theincident with the dogpreyed on my mind and Isaw again and again thatghastly sight; I was alsohaving difficulty dealing

with the team. Accordingto both Dorothea and theGerman couple, everyanimal, no matter howyoung,mustbeneutered.Itupset me when I saw tinykittens being given ananaesthetic. Surely theywere not sufficientlyformed to withstand it?When I was out on a cat-catchingtrip,Ideliberatelydidn’t bring in these little

ones.OnedayIwentintoarickety old building andfound a mother cat withkittens. They were rightnext to a road, where carspassed all the time. TheGermancouplemanagedtocatch them and I arguedwith them and so acoolness developedbetweenus.

When the spaymobileanditsteamleftoncemore

for the ferry, althoughgrateful to them forvolunteering their time, Iwaved them off with atingeofrelief.

TWENTY-THREE

How Elke Becamea Cat Lady

lke invited me to alunch party at her

house and it felt good toexchangemyworkclothes,

jeans and T-shirt for adressand jacket. Itwas11November and Taorminawas enjoying a SaintMartin’s summer. Autumnis no sad affair in Sicily;leaves linger on the treesand it is warm enough toswim.Againstanazureskyveiledwithwispsofcloud,the pale globes of lemonsripen for the second orthird time. Saint Martin,

thebraveandthegoodwhocaredfortheunderdogandsought social justice, is afitting name for thisseason. Summer has notspurnedus,merelydividedits bright cloak and issavingsomeforlater.

Autumnisalsothetimeof the vendemmia, theharvestingofthegrapesforwine. Years ago, somefriends invited me to join

them.Wewere up before the

suntodrivetoFrancavilla,closetothenorthernslopesofEtna.Fromthereweleftthe car and rode on sure-footed mules along steepand rocky paths into themountains. I remember thesun-dried skins of a groupofwomenwecameacross;their hair bound up inscarves, full skirts spread

about them. They werehavingbreakfast,theysaid,would we like to jointhem? Sicilian hospitalitydemands you accept. Thebreadhadbeenbakedinanold open oven, the cheesewasmadefromthemilkofmountain sheep; heavenlyflavours eaten in the openair, washed down withcountry wine. Nine onvendemmia morning and

wewerealready tipsy.Butthen itwas down towork.If I’dbeen led tobelieve Iwas invited as spectator, Iwasmistaken:anextrapairofhandswaswelcome.

You take a sharp knifeand bend double over thevines to clip each bloomybunchof grapesuntil yourbasketisheapedhigh,thencarried away and emptiedinto a large canvas sack.

My teacher was a girlcalled Antonia, who wasaboutfifteenyearsold.Shehad left school to work inthe country. Soon theywould be picking thelemonsagain,shetoldme.

The grape gathererssang as they worked, onethen another taking up thetune of a traditionalvendemmiasong.

When the last sacks

were carried away wemade our way back to thefarm. Here, in a stoneouthouse heady with thescentoffruit,thementrodthe grapes emptied fromour baskets and sacks.With their trousers rolledup to the knee and legsstained purple with juice,they tramped solemnlyround, hour after hour,ignoring the hordes of

buzzing wasps.Meanwhile, the crimsonliquidtrickledintothevatsto fermentandbecomethenewwineoftheyear.

When I walked onceagain through Elke’sgarden I saw long tableswere set in the sunlight.Withhersenseofoccasion,shehaddecoratedthetreeswith coloured lanterns andset the tables with flowers

and wine. I spottedStellario, an old friend,chatting to Ross,whowason a visit from America.Another guest, Mariella,told me she was psychicand said I would write abook – ‘When you decidewhere you are going tolive, England or Sicily’.Conversation ranged overmany topics but by tacitagreement Elke and I

stayed away from thesubjectoffelines.

The cats were there, ofcourse, slinking round thetables, fascinated by thescents of so much food. Ifelt the sun warm on myface and, taking up myglass, savoured the robustSicilian wine. For a whileat least, Iput theeventsofthe past week out of mymind.

Later, while her guestsstrolledaboutthegardenintwosandthrees,ElkeandIwerealone.

‘Have you heard fromDorothea?’sheasked.

‘Not yet but they canscarcely have got back toNaples.’

‘It went well, she is soefficient.’

‘Yes,but…’Ihesitated,remembering the strainsof

that week, my loss ofconfidence and a growingdoubt as to whether I wasright in what I was doing.It all came pouring out:howanxiousIhadfelt,thedifficulty of going alongwith themission, neuter atall costs, even the attitudeofthetwovolunteers.

‘Ifounditverydifficultthis time,Elke,’ I toldher.‘AndIgotveryupsetover

the age of some of thosekittensoperatedon.I’mnotsure I’m cut out for thiswork – perhaps I’m nottoughenough.’

A grey cat had strolledup and Elke bent down tostroke it. ‘I understandwhat you say, it isn’t easywhatwedo.Wedon’tstartout tough but we canlearn,’shereplied.

Irememberedthenwhat

shehadtoldmeonanotheroccasion.Wehadarrangedtomeetforlunchandweresittingon the terraceofLaMarina, a little restaurantnear the cable-car station.Bruschetta had beenbrought to us, thatdelicious appetiser ofgrilled bread topped witholiveoil,basilandchoppedtomatoes.It isbelievedthedish originated in ancient

Romewhenolivegrowers,bringing theirolives to thelocal press, would toastslices of bread to sampletheirfreshlypressedoil.

Elkedescribedherlatestproject, working as anexporter of olive oil andotherItalianproducts.

‘You’re veryenterprising,’Inoted.

‘I have learned to be asurvivor – I’ve worked

since I was fifteen and,don’t forget, we livedthrough the SecondWorldWar,’shetoldme.

‘How did you come tobe so involved withanimals?’Iaskedher.

‘When I was living inItaly,mymothercalledmefrom Germany and askedmeifIwouldliketohaveawell-trained shepherd dog.I agreed and some weeks

laterIownedAjax,areallyfantastic, fun dog. He hadhad an excellent trainingand listened and obeyedmanycommands.Hecouldeven fake being dead andon command wake upagain. From then on thisdog was always with meand slept in front of mybed.Hewas thirteenwhenhedied.

‘From thenon I always

bought trained shepherddogs in Germany andbrought them to Sicily toVilla Pace, Messina andIsola Bella, Taormina. Ihad very nice doghousesbuilt for them, but the bigproblem was the heat insummer, also therewasnobrandeddogfoodavailableaswehavetoday.Thedogssuffered a lot. Iwould notdo it again unless they

could live in an air-conditioned home in hotweather.SomefemaleshadpuppiesandsuddenlyIhadfourteen dogs, a cat, agibbon monkey and abeautiful EnglishWeimaraner. I had myhands full, you canimagine.

‘Whenwesoldthevillain Messina, the newowners asked me to leave

the last three dogs aswatchdogs there. I alwayssent money every monthfor their food. Later on, Iheard that one dog haddied, which made mesuspicious. I went fromRome, where I now lived,to our ex-villa inMessina.Nobody was living therebutIknewhowtogetintothe big park. No dogs!Then I remembered the

place where they wouldhide, when they did notfeel well: a largeunderground space. Iwentand called them. After awhiletheycameslowlyoutoftheirhidingplace.Whenthey recognised me theystartedtocrybitterlyandIcould not believe what Isaw,twoskeletonswithouthairandtheirskinscrustedby ticks and fleas. I

caressed them and tookthem into my oldbathroom, washed themwith anti-parasite liquid,dried them; I put them inmy car and drove back toRome, where they slowlyrecovered and becamebeautiful again.Nero livedto be fifteen and Sabbiauntil he was seventeenyearsold.

‘Butlivinginaflatwith

twobigdogswasnoteasy,notforthemnorforus.SoIdecidedafter theypassedawaytohavecatsinfuture,and we got our first blackPersianfromGermany;hisname was Flory. DuringtheflighttoRomethattinylittle thing managed tosneakoutofhisbasketandsuddenly there came anannouncement from thecaptain over the

loudspeaker: “We have alittle black cat in thecockpit. Would the ownerplease come here and pickitup?”

‘Swiftly, my youngdaughter,Adriana,obeyed.Thank God the captainwasn’t superstitious aboutblack cats, as are someItalianpassengers!

‘When we rented thehouse in Taormina, I

remarked to my daughterthat Iwould like tohaveagarden full of cats. Andthat is exactly whathappened. One day therewere five hungry cats infrontofmydoor.OfcourseI gave them food but, atthattime,Ihadnoideathatferalcatsshouldbecaughtand sterilised. Suddenly Ihad fifteen cats, later ontwenty and then about

thirty.AtthatpointIaskedvetswhowerefriendswhatI should do.We started tocatch them with traps sothattheycouldbeneuteredand it worked. Now, aftermany years, I still haveabout thirty cats but all“done” and looking fine.Of course sometimes I getthe surprise of a pregnantnewcat,whichdeliversherbabies in my garden.

Meanwhile, together withsome friends, we aremanaging the wholeneighbourhoodanditsferalcats. We feed about ahundredcatsandcheckontheir health. Lots of timeandmoneyareneeded!Butwhen I complain a bit,Adriana says: “Mummy,you once said you wantedmany cats and God heardyourwishandgavethemto

you.”’Elke’s guests were

calling to her. Shesignalled she would jointhemand then turnedbackto me with her lovelysmile.

‘Don’t worry, Jenny,whatever any of us do forthese animals, we do withloveandtheirbestinterestsatheart.’

TWENTY-FOUR

Dogs Need to BeRescued Too

very year, I addedmore news to my

website of Catsnip’sprogress.Astimewentby,

I received an increasingnumber of emails fromanimal lovers visitingSicily, who had foundCatsnip. Several of themwere concerned aboutdogs,too.OneofthesewasChristine:

I was on a cruise,whichstoppedattheport of Trapani onthe west coast of

Sicily. We walkedthrough the townand found a smallsquare with shrineslet into the walls,presumably tocelebrate the fishingindustryofthetown.Here I saw a largedog lying in theshade withoutmoving and Iwondered if it was

ill. The thing thatstruck meparticularlywas thatits claws wereexcessivelyovergrown. I’vebeen thinking aboutit ever since. Canyouhelp?

Ididn’tknowhowtoreplyto this – my work so farhad been on the eastern

sideoftheislandandIhadno contacts in Trapani.However,afewdayslater,I had an email from Susietellingmeofhervisitwithher friendEsther toCefalùon the northern coast.Here, they had fallen inlove with a little grey catand had fed her. Oneevening she had broughtoneofherkittens to them.Theywonderedwhowould

feed her when the hotelclosed. Was it a verycomplicated process toadopt her and have her intheir home? Always aponderable question, itmayseemakindlyactbut,as with my experience inLetojanni, sometimestakingacatawayfromherterritory is not the bestthing to do. When Irealised what dedicated

animal lovers they were, Itold them about theTrapani dog andmy senseofhelplessness.

‘Don’tworry,we’llfindit,’Susiereplied.Andtheydid.Theirjourneyinvolvedan heroic 400-kilometre(248-mile) round trip but,withChristine’smap, theylocatedthedog.

‘He’s a Dalmatian,’Susie reported. ‘He

wagged his tail when wespoke tohim.Heseems tobe known in the area.We’ve called him Tito. Idon’t thinkhe’s ill, thoughthe claws do need to becut.’

Whatnext?I’dbeguntocreate a database of localanimal welfare contacts.One of these was theinternational organisationfor the protection of

animals,OIPA.Itsprimaryaims,Ilearned,aretoraiseawareness of the correctcareofanimalsanddefendtheir rights, including acampaign to help feralanimals, oppose huntingand any form of illtreatment. The group alsocollaborateswithpeople inthe medico-veterinarysector to abolishvivisection and promote

medical researchdevoidofthe use of animals aslaboratory guinea pigs. Icontacted Raimonda, localdelegate of OIPA forTrapani. When I spoke toher on the phone she toldme she had gone severaltimestolookforTito.She,too, thought he was aneighbourhood dog. Aftera few weeks she wrote tome telling Tito’s story,

except that the dog was afemale and her name wasnowDina.

Dina was found on themotorway in 2003with anexposed fracture to herback leg andwas taken tothe Trapani Dog Shelter.Several weeks passedbefore she was operatedon. Because of this delay,atthetimeoftheoperationthe bone was already set,

provokinganotherfracture,anditwasnecessarytouseametalrodtoaligntheleg.The operation didn’t goverywellbecausethebonewasalreadyfragileandforthis reason it set badly. Itwas thought she would beliberated into theneighbouring territory, butthen found preferable toput her in the shoppingzone as a neighbourhood

dog, considering herdifficulty in walking andthat here she would beloved,fedandcaredforbyall the residents. A youngwoman treated her withanti-flea and tickmedicineand she explained toeveryonethedog’sstateofhealth.

After a few months,when she was sleepingunder one of the parked

cars, she sustained anotherinjury. Fortunately, thistime there was onlybleeding and bruising,nothing serious and shewastreatedwithantibioticsandmedicationonthespot.About four years ago, shewas put back in the dogshelter because somefishermen noticed she hadsores as a result of herconsiderablebodyfat.Dina

was generally not verymobile. Everyone wasfeeding her so there wasalways available foodunder her nose and shedidn’t need to make anyeffort.Takentothevet,hefoundshehaddevelopedaheart problem and he saidshe must slim down. Shepassed the summer in thedogshelter,whereshewastreated and stabilised then

taken back to her place,where she was welcomedwithaffection.

Dina lived with twoother friends, one calledNevewhoisstillthere,andanother, Little DogMoon,whoin2010wasskeweredthrough the throat by thespear of a gate in a shopdoor.Havingwitnessedthedeath of her playmate,Dina is now isolated and

hardly comes through thegate.For tenyears shehaslived by the sea and, for adog, tenyears isalmostanentirelifetime.

‘SomepeopleinVeronawould like to donate akennelforDinaandoneforNeve. I have to speak tothe town hall to askauthorisation and toposition and fix them inplace because someone

mightstealthem.Ihopetogive you some positivenews soon,’ Raimondaconcluded.

Paolina found me onFacebookandwrote to tellme about her work withdogs: ‘I’dbeenworking inGermany for a number ofyears and when I returnedto Italy I was shocked bywhatIsaw.Ifoundmyselfconfronting an extremely

cruel reality – animalsconsidered to be nothing,maltreated, poisoned,slaughtered and abused.This was the order of theday; also thereweremanystarving dogs. In order tohelp them I havecommitted all mybelongings, reducingmyself to poverty, andobtained, as well, amarginalisationon thepart

of my countrymen.Becauseof this,myaim istoachieveasecurelocationwhereIcankeepthedogs,make sure they haveenough to eat, care forthem and find goodadoptivehomes.’

Over the next fewmonths she described thefighttoachieveherdream.The family owned a pieceof land but she needed to

raise enough funds tosatisfy the authorities itwouldbebuiltaccordingtotheir regulations. At thesame time, she waged adaily battle against hostileneighbours and animalcruelty.

‘I scarcely sleep,’ shetold me. ‘At night I go tothe outlying farms wherethere are starving dogs.And I am forever finding

injuredanimalsandfemaledogs, which have justgiven birth. Sometimes Ifeel so tired I don’t knowhowIcangoon.’

In spite of all thesedifficulties, Paolina hasbuilt her refuge, thanks tothe generous donations Iwasabletosendtoher.

Animalrightsisthelastbastion of morality; thereare still so many people

whodonotrecognisethesecreatures are sentientbeings, just like us. Theonlydifferenceis that theycannotspeakourlanguage.And because they can’tspeak for themselves theyundergoallkindsofcrueltyand exploitation. We haveto be grateful to thosestudents of animalbehaviour who areaccepting that animals are

feelingandthinkingbeingswith complex emotionallives. They feel joy, love,pain, fear,anxiety,sorrow;they demonstrate humourtoo. The range of animalsentiencethatisnowbeingrecognised is astounding –rats who chuckle whenbeing tickled and comebackformore,turkeyswhoaresocleverthattheyhavebeen known to hold up

heavytrafficinordertolettheirbabiescross theroad.Parrots are a wholeamazing story inthemselves: they have theemotional age of a toddlerand the intelligence of afive-year-old child. Theybondsodeeplywitheithertheir parrot or humancompanions that partingand separation cause themgreatsuffering,somuchso

that theyhavebeenknownto stop eating anddie as aresultofthis.

MotherTheresaofDogswas a badly abused andneglected greyhoundlocked up and left to die.She was finally rescuedand taken to an animalsanctuary, emaciated andshivering with fear.However,astimewentby,she grew in confidence

with the love and care shereceived and has ended upbecoming the sanctuary’sresident surrogate mother.She welcomes all the newarrivals, providing themwiththeloveandcaretheirbruised souls so badlyneed.

I have always lovedanimals, especially the cat,this divine creature: apygmy lion who loves

mice, hates dogs andpatronises human beings.Latest statistics from thePet Population Reportshow that there are 8million of them in Britishhouseholds–17percentofthe population shares itsfamily with a cat.Worshipped or reviled inthe past, there is no doubtabout it: felines reign overmany of today’s

households.Theyhaveevenusurped

the selfie and takencommand of the Internet,where photos and videosareconcerned,accordingtoresearch conducted bynetwork Three. There isalsoatrendtowardsSocialPetworking – with over350,000 cat ownerscreating social mediaaccountsfortheirfeline.

A fifth of those whocreatedanaccountfortheircat said they’d done sobecause they felt their petwas more interesting thanthemselves,and15percentshare content in the hopetheiranimalwillbecomeaviralsuperstar.

Ihavecertainlynoticedthe increase in sharingfunny or cute pet picturesonline.Recently, I became

addicted to the cartoonfeline Simon. Thinkingaboutit,however,Iwonderwhat the object of all thisattention feels about it.While dogs are naturalcomedians,tongueslolling,they often seem to beinviting us to join in thejoke; cats take themselvesfar more seriously. Theirsis a natural dignity andgrace. If, for example,

Sheba botches a leap fromfloortocountertopwhenIam opening her food, sheseems to expect me tobehave as if it hadn’thappened. Call this myimagination, if you like,but no cat of myacquaintance enjoys beingmadetolookridiculous.

TWENTY-FIVE

A Yorkshiremanand Marsala Wine

hen you considerthat, since the

seventeenth century, therehas been a large British

presence in Sicily, it issurprising that our love ofanimals hasn’t appeared toruboffonthelocalpeople.Many families settledthere, occupyingthemselves in severalfields, such as theSanderson’s essencedistillery in Messina andthe production of Marsalawine in the town of thatname. In his bookPrinces

Under the Volcano,Raleigh Trevelyan tracestheMarsala story from thetime when BenjaminIngham first leftYorkshireto travel across Sicily in alettiga, a kind of sedanchair but far lesscomfortable. He wasmaking forMarsalaon theinhospitable west coast –marshy and barren, almostcertainly rifewithmalarial

mosquitoestoo.Oneofhiscountrymen, JohnWoodhouse, had gonebefore him and set up abaglio, a kind ofwarehouse where he hadoccupied himself withdeveloping the localfortified wine, Marsala.But it was Ingham whorefinedittosuchastateofthe art that Lord Nelsonorderedgallonstobepiped

aboard HMS Victory.Rivalry was stern betweenWoodhouse and Ingham,who eventually becameextremely rich, allegedlythe greatest tycoonEngland has ever known.Ingham tamed the SicilianMafia, became a Sicilianbaron and moved in thehighest circles of Siciliansociety, commandingconsiderable respect by

loaningmoney to some ofthe nobility. He alsolearned to speak fluentItalian with a markedSicilianaccent,tingedwithatouchofYorkshire.

Ingham’s delightfulhouse in Palermo, PalazzoIngham, became the city’sGrandHoteldesPalmesin1874. His hugelysuccessful Marsala winebusiness was eventually

nationalised by Mussoliniin1927and isnowownedbytheCinzanoCompany.

It wasn’t long beforeIngham also met anattractive local lady, theDuchessofRosalia,nearlysix years his senior, butwhomheadored.Theonlyproblemwasshepossesseda string of sons who weregamblers. The astuteBenjamin, aware of the

lawsofinheritance,refusedto marry despite theconstant naggings of theDuchess. As the businesscontinued to grow, hedecidedmoreofhisfamilyshould come out fromEngland. He wrote to askhissistertosendanephew.When the preferred one,William, died of a fever,his terse response was‘send another’ and so it

was the lugubrious JosephWhitakersoonarrived.

Gradually, a dynastywascreatedwiththewivesof the three Whitakersvyingastowhocouldhavethe most sumptuouspalazzo in Palermo.Joseph’s wife Tina sweptthe board, entertainingroyaltyandcelebritiesfromall over the world. Hersisters-in-law made their

markinvariousways,suchasEffie,whowalkedaboutthe city with a parrot onher shoulder and was agreat tennis player; alsoMaud,whoworevaporousteagowns.

ItwasTinawhoorderedthe arrangement of thesplendidVillaMalfitana inPalermo, while herhusband Pip preferred tobird watch on the nearby

island of Motya or elsedisappearintotowntovisitoneofhisamours.

On a visit to Palermo Ihad the chance to visit theVilla Malfitana myself. Itis almost as it was in the1950s at the end ofTina’slife. Music by Tosti liesopen on the stands in theballroom but the grandpiano has not been tunedfor a decade perhaps. The

polar bear skin rugs arestill on the floor. As youenter the house from themainportico,youreyesaredrawn to two cloisonnéelephants originally fromthe summer palace atPeking and purchased byPip Whitaker at Christie’sin 1887 for £162 a pair.Nearby, are two 2.4-metre(8-foot)bronzecranes,alsoChinese, holding lamps in

theirbeaksandstandingontortoises symbolising thefourelementsofearth, air,fire and water. It is cooland dim in that grandcentral corridor andabsolutely quiet. The greatGobelintapestriesfromthePalazzo Colonna are stillthe prize treasures of thehouse but only a palacesuch as Malfitana couldhouse them. Novelist and

poet Hamilton Aide’swatercolours, his bequesttoTina, hang in the silent,rather sad and dustybilliard room. In theLouisSeize room, there are oneor two fine examples ofTrapani coral work andsigned photographs ofQueen Mary and PrincessMarie, Prince Oskar andKingVictorEmmanuelI.

My companion

somewhat bitchilyremarked that the pearlsaround the British queen’sneckwerenotnearlyasbigas those of the Italianprincess. She hadobviously been hereseveral times and wasimpatienttobegone;Ionlyhadatantalisingglimpse.Ishould love to have spenthours there soakingup theatmosphere, wandering

round the garden, with itshostofrareplants.

We paused to stare atthe enormous Ficusmagnolioides, a fig treeplantedbyPipWhitaker.Ithas a span of 41 metres(135feet)andisreputedtobe able to shelter 3,000people. Sadly, then it wastimetoleave.

TWENTY-SIX

The EnglishwomanWho Won a

Sicilian’s Heart

arlier in this book Imentioned Florence

Trevelyan, the animal and

garden lover who left hermark on Sicily. I couldn’thelp but think how muchTaormina has changedsince this, her descriptionofit:

When the weatherwasgoodIspentthewhole day at theGreek Theatrereading. I saw thedawn there and the

sunset. The old partofthevillageisverypicturesque withsimple littlefishermen’s cottagesand sheep in themiddle of antiquemonuments, and oldnoble palaces amidorange and lemontrees in flower alsoalmond trees whichhave a snowy white

flower. Many timeswe’ve walked downtotheseaorclimbedto the top of MonteVenere,whichis800metres above sea.From its summitthere is a wonderfulview in everydirection you lookyou can see theentire east of Sicilyuntil Syracuse. Etna

dominates a sea thatisevenmoreshiningand there are somany bougainvillea,cyclamens andanemones. It isbeautiful likea fairystory.

Florence lovedIsolaBella.Sheusedtotakeherterrierand greyhound there tobathe and would climb to

the top of the island tomeditate. In 1890, shebought the place for 5,700lire. She cultivated herhusband’s land, plantingolives, cypress and exotictrees, and constructed thelittle pavilions where shewould retire to paint evenwhen it rained. Shecollected parrots, canaries,tortoises and many otherbirds. Florence was to

suffer terribly when,havingconceivedat thirty-eight,herfirstandonlysondied within minutes ofbeing born. It was a blowthat changed her wholeattitude to life. From thenonshededicatedherself toher adoredhusband and tohelping the poor inTaormina. She was alsogodmother to eighty-sevenyoung women, to whom

she gave presents on theirweddingdays.

The cause of her deathreminded me of theextraordinaryItalianfearofdraughts. They go to greatlengths to protectthemselves from the colpad’aria, literally translatedas ‘hit by air’. This canstrike in the eye, ear, heador any part of theirabdomen.

You will see a man orwoman swaddled inscarves even though aspring day may be sunnyand indeed quite warm.Children play in parkslooking like littleMichelinmen in their padded coats.Until at least April, theymust never go outwithoutwearing a woollen vest,known as a maglia dellasalute(a‘shirtofhealth’).

Florence died frompneumonia, which seemstohavebeencausedbyherinordinate loveof freshairandcoldbaths.Sheappearstohavescoffedatanyideaof being ‘struck by air’.Barrels of seawater wouldbe carried to the couple’smountaintopvilla,theVilladi Mendecino. With thewindows wide open andthewindwhistlingthrough

thehouse,shewouldstandin her petticoatswhile thisicywaterwas poured overher. Her request to beburied in the family tombon Monte Venere wascarried out to the letter. Itmust have been a mostspectacular funeral. Peoplefrom every walk of lifethrewflowersasthecoffinprogressedpastthem.Theyrecalled her many acts of

kindness,thelastinglegacyshe had left the town. Aprocession followed thecortège to the lonely spotin the mountains underMonte Venere whereFlorence had chosen to belaid to rest. Among themourners was hergardener, carrying an oillamp to be placed in hertomb, and for years after,until he was too old to

make the ascent, he keptthe lamp filled andburning.

TWENTY-SEVEN

For the Love ofCats

hadalwayssaidIwouldnever have another cat,

not after the loss of mybelovedFluffy.Hewasthe

most beautiful feline I hadknown and, as is often theway with cats, it was hewho chose to come andlive with me. ThatNovember itwas dark anddismal and I hadreluctantly gone to thesupermarket, battling myway through driving rain.AsIturnedintomyroad,Iheard the sound ofplaintive meowing and

finally tracedwhere itwascoming from. Shelteringunder a parked car was abeautifulbrowntabbywitha ruff of fur and fluffy‘boots’and tail.Hisambereyes gazed at mebeseechingly. He made noattempt to strugglewhen Ipicked him up and carriedhiminside.

I opened a tin ofpilchards and he wolfed

them down. The next dayhe was still with me. Itwasn’t until several dayslater that I discovered hebelonged to awomanwholived across the road.Instead of being annoyedwith me for thiscatnapping, she asked meto come and talk to her.Fluffy, she told me, wasabout twoyearsold.She’dhad him from a kitten and

he had been a family pet.Lately, he had spent a lotofhistimehidingorsittingon a high shelf. Then herefused to come into thehouse. This stressedbehaviour had begun eversincesheacquiredadog.

‘I’ve been leaving foodout on the doorstep,’ thewomansaid,‘butit’snotahappysituation.’

By then I had fallen in

lovewithFluffyandIthinkhewas quite partial tometoo. The solution, weagreed,was thathemovedovertomyhouse.

It is no exaggeration tosay that I worshipped thatcat andgrewvery close tohim. He was a littlemonkeyaboutcominginatnight and my voice couldbe heard, echoing throughthe night, as I called and

called him. But once I’dcoaxedhim in, he sleptonmybedclosetome.

Over the four years Isharedmylifewithhim,heusedupseveralofhisninelives.Aboutayearlater,asI sat tapping away on mycomputer,Fluffy rushed inand sat quite still on theback of a chair. Sensingsomething was wrong, Iexamined him and found

he had an eye injury. Irushed him to the vet andfor a while it was touchand go as to whether hewould lose the sight. Idon’t know how it cameabout but suspect it wassomeone with an air rifle.It took a lot of care andtreatment before the injurywashealed.

It took a while longerfor Andrew to fall under

Fluffy’s spell. Unlike me,hehadnotbeenbroughtupwith many cats. But soonhewasascaptivatedasme.In the summer,weused tosit in the garden under anumbrella and there the catwouldcomestridingupthegarden in his ‘boots’ anddemand that one of thechairs be vacated for him.Of course, I jumped toattention. In winter, he

loved to lie close by thecoal fire. I can see himnow,mylittlelionwithhisfinetawnycoat.

‘He’slikeyourchild,’afriend once said. And Icouldn’t have loved himanymoreifhewas.

Thesecondalarmcamewhen once again I wasworking and Fluffy camesilently into the room. Ihappened to glance round

and was horrified to seethat he lay on the carpetbleedingprofuselyfromhisback leg.We racedhim tothe emergency vet, wherestitches were put in hisdeepcutandplastercast.Istill remember the joywhen I picked him up thefollowing morning andbrought him home. It wasjustbeforeChristmasandIabandoned all plans in

ordertostayinwithhim.Ibroughtamattress into thesitting room and sleptbeside him for severalnights, the risky bond ofaffection forged evermorestronglybetweenus.

FouryearsafterIfoundFluffyunderthatcar,Iwason thepointof leaving foraholidayinGreecewhenIrealised there wassomethingverywrongwith

him.Thevetsaidhecouldfeel an obstruction and atfirst thought it must be afur ball. Medicine wasprescribed but he seemedfloppy and lethargic. MysisterSusansaidshewouldlookafterhimbutIwasintears as I arrived atGatwick. On the beautifulisland of Kefalonia, Iwalked on the beach withAndrew but my mind was

constantly on my belovedcat. When, two days intothe holiday, my sisterphonedand toldmeFluffywas probably sufferingfromcancer,Imadeupmymind to return toEngland.The holiday turned into anightmare. After a daytrying to contact the repwho was nowhere to befound, we decided to takematters into our own

hands. I packed my caseandwewent to the airportwhere we tried to find aflight. I was reduced totears but Andrew wasdetermined. Finally, whenall attempts to get toGatwick had failed, hemanaged to buy the lastticket for a flight to theWest Midlands andliterallypushedmethroughcheck-in.Fromthereitwas

a three-train journey backhome, during which thewheels on my suitcasebroke. Iwas able to spendFluffy’s last two weekswith him before hecollapsed and, in spite ofall attempts to save him,died. Unless one hasexperienced the loss of ananimal, especially in suchtraumatic circumstances, itisdifficulttounderstandits

effectonme.I finished up with a

nervouscollapse.‘No more cats,’ I said,

the day we buried him inthegarden.‘Iwillnevergothroughthisagain.’

Seven years later, in2006,Shebacame intomylife.

‘I have three rescuedcats in my shed,’ Susan,my sister, told me. ‘Why

don’t you come up andhavealookatthem?’

Their story was anawful one. A man inWorthing had, forunknownreasons,shedsofcats and dogs on hispremises. Several of themwere black. What was hisreasonwewillneverknow,although there is evidencethat people use black catsin demonic rites and

Halloween was fastapproaching. Susan andsomefriendshadtakenthecatsaway.

Shebachosemewithoutadoubt:sheclimbedonmylap,settledthereandbegantopurr.AsIgazedintoherbeautiful emerald-greeneyes,Iwashooked.Idon’tknow what had happenedtoherinthattimewiththeman. Her tail hung in a

strange way and sheconstantly coughed andsneezed streams ofmucus.She wouldn’t come out ofthebedI’dboughtherandso we nicknamed her the‘IglooGirl’.

‘We might have toamputate her tail,’ my vetconcluded. ‘And she willhave to be on antibioticsfortherestofherlife.’

So I took her away. I

treated her withhomeopathic remedies andwatched her thrive. Shestopped sneezing andstarted to go out in thegarden. The tail improved,although,tothisday,itstillhas a slightly odd curve.Love was themagic wandand animals respond to itsowell,buttherewouldbeotherhurdlestocrossintheyearstocome.

Fluffy’spersonalitywasvery different to Sheba’s.Hewas a neutered tom sothe search for a mate wasnotthereasonwhyhelikedto wander. At the end ofmyroadisarailwaystationand once I found he hadstrayed as far as the littlerailway garden tended byneighbours. The backgarden and those backingonto it are Sheba’s

territory.Ifshemanagestoget round to the front sheusually panics and meowsto be let in. Fluffy andShebawerenotrelated,butToby and Richard, two ofmy sister’s cats, werebrothers. The contrast innature couldn’t have beenmore defined. Richard, atabby, was afraid of hisownshadow.Hewasneverhappier than when curled

up on my sister’s lap.Black Toby, with hisaristocratic nose, was avery confident cat and ahunter.Yettheywerebornof the same mother and,presumably, had anidenticalkittenhood.

So what is the reasonfor this? Is it Nature orNurture? As always,genetics are one of thedriving forces. Their

influencecanbeseenmostclearly in pure breed cats.Generally speaking,MaineCoon cats are very laidback. They are not overlydependent on their humanfamily either. Instead ofpesteringyouforattention,they will remain close byfor companionship. Ialways thought Fluffy,with his ruff and ‘boots’,hadatouchofMaineCoon

abouthim.Typically, this relaxed

breed develops slowly,until maturing around theages of three or four.Ageing does not eliminatetheir playful, kitten-liketemperament andreputation as ‘gentlegiants’of the felineworld.There’s no denying thepopularity of the MaineCoon. Even those who

knowvery littleaboutcatsknowthisbreedbyname.

Siamese cats are verydifferentandhaveacertainsimilarity to dogs. Whilemany people see cats asvery stand-offish, theSiamese is very friendlyand loves tobepartof thefamily.YoucanevenwalkaSiameseonalead,ifyouwant.

In ancient times, the

Siamese cats were oftenused as guard cats. Theirvery loud cries weremorethan enough to alerteveryone in the householdto intruders. And, friendlyandaffectionateastheyarewith family, your Siamesewill be much more stand-offishwithstrangers.

Frommy experience ofmy own cats, I know that,even if their beginnings

were far from ideal, theybothrespondedtoloveandattention. I have seen aremarkable change inSheba over the years. Herresponse to human beings,even those she has onlymet for the first time, isoutgoing and affectionate.When, two years ago, sheunderwent extensivesurgery for cancer in herear, the staffwere amazed

by her first reaction oncoming out of theanaesthetic: wanting to bestroked. She will doanything to get attention,rubbing her head againstvisitors’ legs and, whenthat doesn’t work, lyingsprawledonherback.Thisis a far cry from thenervouscatwhoforweeksstayed in her ‘igloo’whenshe first arrived. It has

proved tome that cats, farfrom being aloof as somany people think,respond to us not onlybecausewefeedthem.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Catsnip Arrives inthe House of

Commons

fter all our telephoneconversations, I was

finally to meet animal

welfare campaigner SuzyGale and her husband,Roger. InDecember 2005,they invited me to theHouseofCommonsforthelaunchoftheirnewanimalwelfare project. As Iwalked along VictoriaStreet, with the sound ofBigBenchiming thehour,I wondered about theprotocol for getting insideWestminster. I prowled

round the building until Ieventually found the sideentrance. It was while mybagswerebeingscrutinisedbysecuritythatitsuddenlystruck me just how far IhadcomewithCatsnip.Asifinaseriesofsnapshots,Isaw Giulio and meprowling Castelmola insearch of the injured catand then the sad face ofAntonella;Iseemedtohear

Elke’s cry of triumph asyet another feral enteredour traps. Frank,Genoveffa, Dorothea… allswam through my mind.WhatajourneyIhadmadein their company! Now Iwastomeetrepresentativesof some of the UK’sleading animal charitiesand share with them thechampioning of thosewhocould not speak for

themselves.Apetite blondewoman

waswaiting togreetme inthe central lobby, a loftystoneoctagonal spacewitha tiled floor. ‘So lovely tomeetyouatlast,’saidSuzyinaslightlyhuskyvoice.

Roger shook my hand,then led the way alongwhat seemed a maze ofcorridors, where he wasconstantly greeted by

colleagues – I felt likeroyalty.

The meeting was topresent the idea oflaunching an organisationwhosegoalwastoalleviatethe situation of feralanimals, particularly catsand dogs throughoutEurope. What interestedme was that it would beangled towards helpingthose working on a small

scale,suchasCatsnip.Said Suzy: ‘We don’t

intend to cut across theadmirable work alreadycarried out by variousorganisations in the fieldbut rather to fill a gap inthemarket.’

‘But surely there areorganisations alreadydealingwith this?’ a voicecutin.

Suzy was quick to

pursuethis.‘Yes,ofcoursethere are, on the largerscale, but I think the ideaof“onepersoncanmakeadifference” might beembodied in other ways.For example, there is thetourist who sees a case ofsevere animal abuse orneglect and has noreferencepointoraccesstoa website that could offeradvice.Ialsothinkthereis

aneedforsupportforsmallneutering and sanctuaryprojects, which at themomentisnotcateredfor.’

AsSuzyconfirmed,shehadseveralyearsofhands-onexperience:‘Someyearsago,RogerandIvisitedtheSt Nicholas Monastery ofthe Cats at Akrotiri inCyprus.Whatwe saw hada profound effect on usboth.Therewerehundreds

of sick and dying cats andkittens, exposed to thescorching sun andmultiplying unchecked. Ilaunched the Cross CatsProject, and, together withProfessor Ronald Jones ofLiverpool VeterinarySchool,we took groups ofveterinary graduates toCyprus. Over a period ofthree years, hundreds ofcatswere caught, neutered

and returned to theiroriginal territories. It wasaninvaluableexperienceofhands-on work in basicconditions for these youngpeople.’

But, she added, whenthis project was forced tobe discontinued, sadly theimprovement did not lastas thecats thenwentontomultiply again, with localvets refusing to continue

thework.‘Iwas leftwith a small

sum of money in theaccount. I approached alarge international charity,which showed an interestin such work, but has notpursuedit.’

Suzy then received aplea from‘a lonevoiceonthe Internet’ that oneperson can make adifference.Shetookupthe

cudgels and developed theideaoftourismandanimalwelfare.Sincethenshehasbeen cheered by requestsacross the political partiesseeking advice aboutanimal welfare: ‘TheConservative AnimalWelfare Group receiveslarge numbers of requestsforinformation,adviceandassistance.Perhapsthereisa need for such an

independent organisationto be formed to deal withthesematters?’

‘I’dliketopointoutthenumber of stray dogswhich are killed in theUK,’ put in ClarissaBaldwin of Dogs Trust.‘Even though this numberisreduced,westillhavetocleanupouract.’

She was more positiveabout the ‘Romanian

Experience’, where dogshad been neutered andreturned to their locationwithnogreathopeofmanybeing adopted. In fact, intwo years, they hadachieved an amazingnumberof800adoptions.

Suzy caughtmy eye. Itwas my turn to stand upand describe the work ofCatsnip.AsIheardmyselfspeak and saw the rapt

expressions aroundme, allmydoubtsseemed to fade.I had been strong; actedwhen others just sighedand turnedaway.Elkehadbeenrightwhenshe’dsaid‘someonehastocareaboutthem’. I’d felt so muchalone but was nowsurrounded by peoplewhohaddedicatedtheirlivestoneedy animals in a similarway. Amid a burst of

applauseIsatdown.‘I’ve travelled all over

the place since theCyprusexperience,’ Suzycontinued, ‘and it’sbecome clear that verylittle is being done to dealwith the problems withferal and stray animals;many horses and donkeysare also neglected by theirowners. The situationseems to be the norm in

manytouristdestinations.’She smiled atme. ‘I’ve

also realised that manysmall projects, sanctuariesandothergroupsintheUKandoverseasneedsupport,both in terms of financeandadvice.’

‘Oh, yes!’ I couldn’thelp murmuring. ‘When Ibegan, I knew nothing – Ijust had to pick it up as Iwentalong.’

This new initiative,Suzy outlined, wouldinclude a website offeringadvice to others trying toset up similar projects toCatsnip,informationonthepurchaseofequipmentanddata on available vets andvolunteerswillingtohelp.

‘Myviewisthatfartoomany tourist areas neglectthe local stray animals;they are willing to take

money from tourists butnot to address theproblems. We now expecttobeinapositiontobringpressure to bear and toassistthosepeopleworkingin the field, to alleviatethese problems with aprogramme ofcatch/neuter/return and inthe long term we wouldobviously like to seewell-run shelters established.

Animal lovers have theright to go on holiday andenjoythemselves,knowingthat the local straypopulation are receivingthe care and attention theywouldwish.’

And so AnimalsWorldwide was launched.A drink in the House ofCommonsbar,anothernewexperience for me, andthen I was walking back

along Victoria Street tocatchmytrain.Whatadayithadbeen!

TWENTY-NINE

Life at Villa Pace

versinceImetElkein2003, I had become

intrigued by her story. Itwas an amazing journeythat had brought her fromheryoung life inGermany

duringtheaftermathoftheSecondWorldWar to thiswoman who lived atop arocky crag with itsmagnificent view of IsolaBella. Although she hadtold me she always lovedanimals, I marvelled athow shehad come tobe agattara,caringforsomanycats.

Inmymind’seyeIsawa young woman with a

stunning smile welcomingpassengersattheLufthansadeskinFrankfurt.HadoneofthembeentheMarcheseEmilio Bosurgi? Was itthen her grace and warmpersonality had won hisheart?

It was a meeting thatwould transform her life,taking her from the worldofaviationintotheliterallygolden industry of the

Sicilianorange.Springtime in Sicily is

fragrant with the zagara,the local name for orangeblossom; the island isrenowned for its citrusfruit, and Lentini in theprovince of Syracuse is animportant area for theircultivation.OneyearItooka trip to Lentini andwatched the oranges beingsorted at incredible speed

and packed carefully forexport. The father of myfriend, Davide, gave me alesson in the manyvarieties and many atasting. My favourite, theMoro, has deep-red fleshand even the rind has ablush. The flavour isstronger and the aromamoreintensethanaregularorange. Lately it has beenpraisedforthehighlevelof

antioxidants it contains.With its hint of raspberrythe Moro’s flavour is lesssweet than the Tarocco ortheSanguinello.TheMorovariety is believed to haveoriginatedat thebeginningof the twelfth century as amutation of theSanguinello Moscato. Peela Moro and divide it intosegments and youwill seeflesh that may range from

orangeveinedwithrubytovivid crimson to almostblack.

It must have seemedlikea fairy talewhenElkemoved with her husbandinto the sumptuous VillaPace surrounded by itsluxuriant gardens inMessina,where they spentthe winters from 1960 to1982. The villa has beendescribedasaplaceof the

soul. Its history is anotherexampleoftheinfluenceoftheBritishonSicily.Itwas1817 when the Englishbusinessman WilliamSanderson transferred toMessina to set up hisbusiness specialising incitrus extracts.The societyof that time was sharplydivided between thematerialist middle classesandthemiseryofthepoor.

Wealthy people likeSandersonlivedontheViaConsolare Pompea. VillaPace was one of the mostimportant buildings inMessinaandthelifestyleinthetimeofSandersonmusthave been very grand. In1850, William’s son,Robert Sanderson, paid500 ouze for a piece ofland in the Pace territory.Three years later, the year

of his marriage to AmaliaSarahChild, apre-existingsmall villa was enlargedand restructured as aprestigious summerresidence, the VillaAmalia.At the same time,rare plants and expensivetrees were planted, whichovertimewouldaddtothemoneyed seclusion of theinhabitants. Later, thisgreat park was further

embellished by thebuilding of the elegantlittle Villa Casteletto –designed for the youngermembers of this large andextendedfamily.

ScarcelyayearafterthedeathofRobertSanderson,the earthquake of 1908caused dreadfuldevastation. Villa Amaliawas partially butirremediably damaged,

while the Casteletto wastotally destroyed. Thisbuilding, which only ninemonths before had hostedthe Emperor of Germany,was a pile of rubble. Theearthquake also destroyedthe Palazzo Sanderson,symbolisingthecollapseofthe economic and socialpositionofthefamilyafteralmost a century of life inMessina.

After the cataclysm,William R. Sanderson,Robert’s son, announcedhehaddecidedtosellVillaPace.InFebruary1915,thenew owner, Emilio EnricoVismara, closed thechapter of Sanderson andthatprivilegedexistence ina dwelling with itsfabulous view across thestraitsofMessina.Vismarawas born in Modena in

July 1873 and moved toSicilyin1904.Here,ontheisland he went fromsuccess to success, amongthem becoming director ofthe General ElectricalSocietyinSicily(SGES).

From 1910, severalsignificant names featureamong the great financiersof the Society. Sandersonand Sons, Oates andBosurgi formed a limited

partnershipwiththeaimofdeveloping production ofcitric acid. Apart fromproving himself anexcellent businessman,Vismara turned hisattention to helping localchildrenwhosufferedfromconsumption and rickets.His fortunes changed in1929 and he gave upmanagement of SGES andleft Sicily. This was when

the Bosurgi family cameonthesceneasnewownersof the Villa. GiuseppeBosurgi was a wealthypharmacist who had beeninstrumental in helpingenlargealocalhospital.Heattracted the attention ofBenito Mussolini, whooffered him a title inrecognition of his socialconscience. When Bosurgidiedin1935,hisworkwas

carried on by his wife,Adriana – Elke’s futuremother-in-law.

Marchese Bosurgi wasonce a very rich man. Heand his brother, Leo,boughtIsolaBellain1954,a lucky event for thedilapidated island, for theywerewealthyenoughtobeable to transform it.Together they created afabulous series of rooms

and apartments sculptedoutoftherock.Itisthanksto the brothers that theisland possesses someunusual and often exoticplants, as well as thenaturally occurringMediterranean vegetation.You can see the giantstrelitzia and the dragontree side by side withindigenous species such aswhite kale, Ionian lemon

and the curiously named‘bluebottle’ of Taormina.There are many insects,and lizards including onenativetotheisland.Averycolourful little chap, thescarletshadeofitsstomachappears to fade or deepenaccordingtotheseason.

Somebirdsliveherethewholeyear,someforafewmonthsandyetothersmaycometorestforacoupleof

days during theirmigration. You canglimpse the herring gulland the kingfisher, whilethe peregrine falcon andthe alpine swift actuallylive on the rocky walls.Shrubby vegetationshelters hundreds of birds,too, such as the colourfulhoopoeandlittleowl.

It is thanks to theBosurgi family that so

much and varied wildlifemay be seen. They alwaysworked in harmony withthe inherent nature of theislandandtriedtopreserveand embellish itsenvironment.

Celebrities,shipownersand entrepreneurs allaccepted an invitation tovisit Isola Bella.Hollywood’s ElizabethTaylor was just one guest

whose little boat slippedquietly across the bay toanchor at the foot of theisland. Passengers climbedthe secret path as ifentering a fairy tale,orchestrated by theBosurgi. All responded tothe peace and privacy thathad taken years to create.RenzoBarbera,alocalpoetwho writes so movinglyabout his beloved

Taormina, was anotherguest who remembers thescale and generosity oftheirhospitality.

AsElketoldme:‘Fromabout 1960, we wereconstantly asked to showthe island to all theimportant persons whocame for holidays,conventions or happeningstoTaormina. Iwas alwaysbeing asked for a tour of

the place and everybodywas driven for asightseeing tour in amotorboat to admireTaormina from the sea.Afterthat,weofferedthema strong drink beforeleaving and, on manyoccasions, they enjoyed agood lunch at the pool,which Emilio had built, inbetween the rocks. Wenever invited people to

comeatnight–thatwouldhave been dangerousbecause the lighting wasverypoorandpeoplecouldhavebeenhurt.

‘It was during thoseyears that a veryprestigious award waslaunched, the David diDonatello,whichwouldbepresented at the GreekTheatre in Taormina,duringtheFilmFestival.It

attracted film-makers,actors, directors, producersand script-writers. Thetown thronged withcelebrities.

‘We had everybody asourguests;aswellasmanyfamous Formula One racedrivers, importantinternational companyowners and managers, Iwelcomed scientists andwriters, and nobility from

all over the world. It wasan amazing time of mylife!’

The years have passedand Emilio is now overninety, still in thrall toIsola Bella, the subject ofso many of his paintings.From the terrace of thehouse, Elke can gazetowards that magicaldwellingonIsolaBellaandremember the happy days

spentthere.

THIRTY

I Discover the‘Real’ Sicily

aormina is a hothousebloom,aloofinbotha

physical andpsychologicalsense from the rest of

Sicily. At one time Ibelieved its romanticbeauty was the real thing,though the view of IsolaBella certainly comesstraight from an Italianmovie and is the favouriteimage of tourist offices.NowIrecognisethissmalltownasanislandwithinanisland,offering thephoneyface of the Italy travellersdream of visiting. It is the

Sicily you read about inbooksor seeon television,a feast for all the senses,but,as Ihave learned, it isa dream that doesn’t cometrue.

Apart frommy toursofthe island as a journalistwhen Ihadstayed ingoodhotels and visited touristsites,IhadseenlittleoftherealSicilynor experiencedthewaste and poverty that

sully this island. All thiswaschangedin2007whenIorganisedaneuteringtriptoMascali in the provinceofCatania.

Ican’trememberhowIfirst contactedValeria, butduring the winter of 2006she and I spoke often onSkype. In her husky voiceshe described her workwith L’Arca, an animalrefuge, in the town of

Giarre. It was the familiarstory of cats and dogsdumped, of innumerablepuppies and kittens, andthe lack of compassionamong many of the localpeople.

‘We try to get themneutered but we’re just agroup of volunteers usingour ownmoney to financethe refuge. Practicallyeverydaywearrivetofind

someone has left yetanother box of kittens orpuppies by the gate. Itneverends,’sheexplained.

Itoldheraboutthepastyears’ work in Taorminaand Letojanni and relatedthenumberofcatswehadbeenabletoneuterwithinaweek.Thiswascarriedoutdue to the generosity ofdonorstoCatsnip.

Therewas a pause and,

when she spoke, Valeria’stonewaswistful:‘Itsoundslike my dream come true.Ifonly something like thatcouldhappenhere.Doyouthinkyou could arrange it,Jenny?’

In spite of all mymisgivings of the yearbefore, I heard my voicesaythat,ifshecouldfindalocationfor theoperations,I would organise yet

another neutering week.Sheleaptattheidea.

‘Thereisavetnearherewho is keen to work likethis.He’s quite young andhe has lived in the Statesand is very open-minded.Whatdoyouthink?ShallIaskhimifyourteamcouldusehissurgery?’

Andrew’s voice swaminto my head: ‘You’re agluttonforpunishment.’

Before I had time togive it properconsideration, Valeriacame back to me. Yes,Dottore Trefiletti wouldwelcome the idea: ‘He’llputaroomatyourdisposaland your vet can use hisanaesthesia equipment.There’salsoavanyoucanuse for transporting thecats and several of therefuge’s volunteers have

said they will help catchcats. Oh, Jenny, I can’twait!’

Icameoff thephone ina daze. Of course Icouldn’t go back on myword but I really hadn’tthoughtitthrough.ItwouldbethefirsttimeIorganiseda trip completely alone,without the help of Elke.Up until now, she hadalways beenmy important

linkinSicilyandIrealisedhow much I missed herpractical approach. Ineeded a plan. Obviously,my first step should be tofind a vet willing to comeoutwithme.

Sheba’s health hadimproved and she wasbeginning to behave like aless institutionalised cat;however, she had anongoing ear irritation and

neededtreatment.Duringavisit to Guy, my vet, Iplucked up courage andblurted out: ‘I don’t knowif youwould be interestedbut I’m planning to takeanother veterinary team toSicily…’

Guy’s eyes sparkled.‘Sicily!’

I could tell he wasimagining the deep-blueseaandtantalisingpromise

ofcinematicTaorminaandsoIfeltIhadtobetruthful.

‘I’ve never been toMascali.As faras Iknow,it’s a provincial town notfar from Catania airport.We’dbeusingalocalvet’ssurgery for the operationsbut again I don’t knowwhat the conditions wouldbe like. However, it couldbe an interestingexperience.’

Guy didn’t hesitate.Hereminded me of hisbackground in his nativeSouthAfrica. From a veryyoung age, he had tendedsick animals and, in spiteof his parents’misgivings,his ambition had alwaysbeen to be a vet. Forseveral years, he hadworkedwith large animalsinthebush.Hehadlearnedto treat big cats, not the

small ones I was speakingof.

Guysetouttotraveltheworld. His planned sixmonths’ stay in the UKturned out to be a bitlonger–nineteenyearsandcounting – as he foundSussex a great place tolive. As with so many ofthe people who had cometo my rescue in Catsnipprojects, Guy’s

involvementhadarrivedatjust the right time. IrememberedElke’s remarkwhen I had carriedketamine from Britain toSicilythatanangelmustbelookingafterme!

‘I’dbevery interested,’he assured me. ‘Just giveme enough warning so Icanarrangeleave.’

So I went back toValeria. ‘I think I have

found just the right vet –butwherewouldwestay?Idon’t have a large sum ofmoneyavailableandIalsohave to feed the team, nottomentiongetthemthere.’

‘Noproblem,I’msureIcanfindsomething.LetmeseewhatIcando.’

Sheseemed tohave thesame ability to get thingsdone as Elke. Only a fewdayslater,Iheardthenow

familiar,huskyvoice.‘I’vebeenintouchwith

my friendVittorina,who’sa great animal lover. Sheowns a small hotel inMascali, where Davide’ssurgery is, and is offeringroomsforyourteam.’Team! This threw me

into a panic. BesidesGuy,wewouldneedanurseandsomeone with expertexperienceasacatcatcher.

Forthenextweek,Irackedmy brains but could thinkofnobody.ThenIbegantomuse on how my need todo something to helpanimals had come aboutlong before the discoveryof Lizzie. I cast my mindback to an event that,within a few weeks,changed many people’slives, shocking them intotaking a stand against

cruelty. Likeme, they hadprobably always lovedanimals in a general sensebut the ‘Siege ofShoreham’, as it came tobe called, was a catalyst.Starting out as an animalwelfare issue, it developedintothatofmulticoncerns,thecruelbasisofthewholedairy industry,achangeofattitudetowardstheBritishbobby – and even a

xenophobic reaction to theEU.

THIRTY-ONE

Valeria, a VerySpecial Cat Lady

he local paper hadbeen full of it:

shippers were planning touse Shoreham harbour for

the export of live animalsto the continent. The localcommunity was outragedand word went round,urging people to join theprotest. A few days into1995onadank,darknight,200ofusgatheredneartheentrance to the harbourswaddled in scarves, thickjackets and gloves. Westood in groups andshivered,waitingforwhat?

At that point we had noidea.Thenthecrywentup:‘They’recoming!’

All these years later, Ican still remember theshock of what I saw…towering trucks bearingyoung calves, heading forthedocks.Sad,bewilderedeyes peered through theslatted side of thecontainers: baby animalstorn from their mothers,

bound for the veal cratesand a short life ofsuffering. The reaction ofthecrowdwasamazing.Asif we’d done this kind ofthing before, as one wesurged forward onto theroad, our collective aim tohalt those trucks. Thatnightwetookthepolicebysurprise. There were onlyfifty of them and theyhadn’t been prepared to

find the road blocked byangry protesters. After ahalf-hour of thisconfrontation, the truckswere turned back. Therewouldbeno shipment thatnight.

On the following night,more people had joined usat the port. What wasremarkableandlaterseizedon by the newspapers wasthe diversity of these

demonstrators and theirsolidarity: a young manwith dreadlocks chatted toan elderly lady with blue-rinsed hair; a man with adog dispensed old-fashionedwintermixturetothe shivering crowd. Allages, all sizes, all drawnhere by this atrocity. Ispotted a reclusivecharacterwho livedon thecorner of my street and

whose sole preoccupationseemed to be tending hisroses. He stood a littleapart from everyone elsebut nevertheless joined inour taunting of the police.The common cause brokedownbarriers,unitingusinagrowinghostilitytowardsthe law. They were tobecome as much outsidersto our community as thefaceless hauliers

brutalising animals… butnotyet.

Sussex Police hadmerelydoubleditsnumber,which meant once againthey couldn’t stop us. Bynow the media had gothold of the story andmanagedtoturnitintooneof an anarchist riot withyobsattacking ill-equippedbobbies.As issooften theway,itwasalltakenoutof

context. A balaclava-cladactivist who scrambledontothecabofatruckfullof calves was picturedsmashing its windscreenwith a brick. It was anisolated incident, I can’tremember it happeningagain,butitwasshownontelevision over and overagainsothatitappearedtobe a multi-attack. Wedidn’t care; what mattered

touswas that these trucksof young animals wereleaving our shores for theslaughterhouses and vealcrates of JohnnyForeignerandwewere incensed,wewould do all we could tostop it. At least, for themoment, we hadsucceeded. Wheninterviewed, televisionwriter and animal loverCarla Lane said: ‘These

peoplehavedonemoreinafew days to bring thiscruelty to public attentionthan people like me havedone by peacefuldiscussionoveryears.’

It was a heady feeling.For several days our littleband had stopped the liveexports and the countrywas talking about us. Theday-to-day routine of lifechanged, centred round

tide tables and news ofwhen the next shipmentmight be due.Many of usreorganisedourdayaroundthis… sleeping at oddtimes, doing littlehousework, alert for themoment when the phonerangandavoice said, ‘I’llpick you up in tenminutes.’ Everything elseseemed like a dream, butwe hadn’t won yet.

Whatever the SussexPolice felt as individuals,andIheardseveralofthemvoicingtheirdislikeofthistrade, they were duty-bound to allow thoseshamefultrucksthrough.

Thenextthingweknewwas they had shipped in1,500 officers from otherforces and block-bookedseveral Brighton hotels toaccommodate them, to

ensure the passage of thetrucks. It was to cost£200,000anight.Withthearrival of the Met, sceneserupted you would neverimagine happening inMiddleEngland.Formanypeople, and I have toinclude myself here, itcurdled mistrust for ourpolice, which has nevergone away entirely.Imagine riot police

punching elderly ladies,throwing children againstwalls;wadingin,feetfirst,on families sitting in theroad. An exaggerated andheavy-handed attack, itwas to be repeated atBrightlingsea, Essex,where, in the same year,another attempt at exportswas going on. There,another reaction by thelocal community ensued.

As the battles raged forhours, then days, thenweeks and thenmonths, itled toover300arrestsandmanypeoplebeinginjured.But in the end, PeoplePowerwon.

DuringthoselongvigilsI talked to a lot of peopleor sat among them in thelittle cafe where we wentfor a warming cup of tea.There was Justine, a

veterinary nurse, andHelen, who had left hercleaning job to join in thesiege. The experience ofthat demo changed somanylives.

I remembered Justinehadusedherholiday leaveto go and work in anelephant sanctuary inThailand. Helen’s one-womanquesttoreleaseill-treated animals had nearly

landed her in jail. Icontacted themand, tomydelight,theybothagreedtojoin us. My team wascomplete.

We were all in highspirits when we arrived atCatania airport. I don’tknow what I wasexpecting, but the mentalpicture I had associatedwithValeria’shuskyvoicedid not approximate with

the glamorous redheadwaiting with husband,AntonioCundari.

‘Jenny!’We hugged and kissed

as if we had known eachotherforyears.

The Oasi Park hotel atMascali was just that: anoasis of calm set amongpalm trees. Vittorina waswaitingtogreetus,alarge,lumbering dog at her side.

Over the next few days, Icame toknowherasabigwoman with a chain-smoking habit, outspokenwhenitcametothedrivingbehaviourofSicilians, andwith a deep love of cats.My room was right at thetop of the building, a kindofatticwithaslopingroof,and I loved it. After ahecticdayatthesurgery,itcametobemylittleretreat.

That night, we allassembledfordinnerattheCundari’s apartment inneighbouringGiarre.Itwasto be the first of manyduring that week whenValeria conjured updelicious meals insurprisingly little time.Davide Trefiletti wasworking lateathissurgerybut finally joined us andsparredwithhis fellowvet

Guy over a glass of redwine.Weate,wedrank; itwas a riotous evening. Iwondered how we wereever going to get up earlythe following morning tostart our work, butsomehowwedid.

I soon discovered thatMascali was a verydifferent place fromTaormina. Situated ineastern Sicily, low in the

shadowofMountEtna,thetown has suffered manytimes over the centuriesfromboth earthquakes andvolcaniceruptions.

In November 1928,there was a disastrousevent, which led to lavalargely destroying thetown.ThiseruptionofEtnawas the most destructivesince 1669, when the cityof Catania was

overwhelmed. In just overa day, Mascali wasdevastated but there hadbeenanorderlyevacuationofitsinhabitants.Families,helped by the military,were able to removefurniture and fittings fromtheir houses. Evacueeswere relocated to nearbytowns, staying withrelatives,friendsorinhiredapartments. A completely

newtownwasconstructed.The style was that of anurban checkerboard layoutinfluenced both by townsin Sicily dating from thesixteenth to the eighteenthcenturies but also withmany of the buildingsreflecting the ‘fascistarchitecture’ofthetime.Itwas completed by 1937and housing conditionswere very advanced in

comparison with othertowns in the region.Manypeople seem unconcernedabout living in towns andvillages in the shadow ofEtna. However, the 1928event demonstrated thatlava is able to reach thelowerflanksofthevolcanowithin a short period aftertheonsetofaneruption.

Davide’s surgery wassituated in a small side

street and buzzed withactivity.Itwasthesceneofmuchcomingandgoingofowners with their pets.Obviously, he was apopular andwell-lovedvetinthearea.Abovehismainsurgery, he had allotted alargeroomwherewecouldstore our traps and housecats in recovery cages. I’dbought more of thestacking cages, which

saved space. LovelyCatherineatMetalcote,thecompanyIuseforsupplies,had cleverly packed myveterinary supplies insidethem and they’d travelledtoMascali aheadofus, byroad.Iestablishedasimplechecking in and outsystem, entering each catinto an exercise book andticking it off when it wasreturned to its colony.

Further along the landingwasasmallerroom,wherewe set up a makeshiftsurgery.

While Guy was settingout his instruments andarranging the operatingtable, Helen was ontenterhooks, anxious tobegin.Very thin andwiry,sheremindedmeofAngelaand I recalled that theevening before she had

eaten like a bird. But sheproved to have enormousenergyandskillincatchingcats.WeloadedthetrapsinDavide’s rather erratic vanand lurched off. At othertimes, I went out withValeria when we drovethrough small towns Ihadn’tseensincethetimeIused to visit Giampilieri,nearMessina.

Thatvillagewas set far

backfromtheroad,almostin the manner of villagesbuilt to withstand theSaracens.We had to walkfor quite a long time fromthe station pass under arailway arch and by thesideofadried-upriverbed.Allkindsof junkhadbeenthrown into it: oil-cans,clothes,furnitureandeven,I suspected, dead animals.Thestreetsweremeanand

narrow, the houses gazedinto each other’s windowsas their inhabitantswatched and gossipedabout their neighbours. Inwinter, they would standopenfires–theconce–onthestepsoutsidethehousesand, as I passed, I felt awaft of heat against mylegs.

Weroamedoverawidearea,settingthetrapsinthe

grounds of apartmentblocksandinachurchyardwherescrawnycatsroamedamong the tombstones ofweeping angels and whatlooked like small housesinhabited by the dead.Valeria had done herhomework well and knewexactlywheretodirectus.

Oneday,she loadeduphercarwithtinsofcatfoodandtoldmeweweregoing

to visit Maria, a localgattara. We stopped in agrey, litter-strewn streetandValeriaturnedtome.

‘Wait in the car,’ sheadvised. ‘Maria is out ofwork and ratherembarrassed aboutaccepting help but shetakes careof somanycatsand I try to help her asmuchasIcan.’

Afewminuteslater,she

called me over to whereMaria stood on herdoorstep,armshuggingherskinny body, clothed in athreadbare cardigan andfloral pinafore. Her facewas haggard, but she gavemeabriefsmile.

‘Jenny is here to helpwith our work,’ Valeriaexplained. ‘Over thisweekwe are going to catch asmany cats as we can and

neuter them. We’ll betreatingthemtoo,soifyouhaveanysickcats…?’

I met Maria’s eye andwonderedhowshesawme.Our worlds were verydifferent – a wealthybenefactor from NorthernEurope, perhaps? I washardly that, but it was myturntofeelembarrassed.

Valeriaspokerapidlyinthe localdialectandMaria

led theway to thebackofthe building, where therewasalargestretchofwasteground littered withrubbish, old bicycles, oildrums… all kinds ofthings. Cats gazed at usinquisitively, then ranaway.Itseemedtomesucha scene of desolation andlost hope, a kind ofacceptance of fate. Wefetched the traps and set

themabouttheplace.Maria’s dull eyes

showed the first bit ofinterest. Again, Valeriaspoke to her in dialect,explaining what we weredoing.

‘And it doesn’t costanything?’ For the firsttime, Maria seemed toapproveofme.

On another day, twoyoungwomenjoineduson

our cat-catchingexpeditions. They wereeach called Giovanna, onea tall, voluptuous womanand the other slender andpetite, prone to burstinginto tears ifshesawasickcat or kitten. They were awonderfulhelpandgotthehangofthetrapsinnotimeat all. Soon they took offon their own, triumphanteach time they caught a

feline.‘Big Giovanna’, as we

calledher,wasafraidofnoone. Once a woman shotupherwindowandbawledacross the road: ‘You aremurderers! You arecatching those cats to killthem,aren’tyou?’

Big Giovanna plantedherself fair and square onthepavement,handsonherlargehips,andhurledback

a stream of swear words,only some of which Iunderstood. She wasobviously too powerful anadversary; the windowslammedshut.

On another occasion,thetrapswereattractingfartoo much attention. Asmall crowd had gathered,wondering at these strangecontraptions and wantingtoknowhowtheyworked.

The cats were wiselykeeping out of the way.Big Giovanna lost herpatience. She pushed herwayforwardandstoodlikeapolicemanatthesceneofa road accident, orderingtheonlookersaway.Ihalf-expected her to shout:‘Nothingtosee,nothingtosee!’ Not surprisingly, thecrowd moved offsheepishly.

Davide was veryinterestedinGuy’ssurgicalprocedure, the keyholemethod I had alreadywatched when FrankCaporale, the Americanvet, came to Taormina.Oneday,clamberingupthestairs with yet another catinacarrier,Iwasintriguedto hear the buzz of voicesand a burst of laughtercoming from the surgery.

TherewasGuysurroundedby a group of young menand women. He wasdemonstrating this far lessinvasive method to them,gesturing in an animatedway to make up for hislackofItalian.

‘They’re veterinarystudents from Messina,’Davideexplained.‘They’restill being taught the oldmethods – I thought this

wasagreatopportunityforthem.’

He was right. Theystoodtherewatchingwide-eyed, as if Guy were amagician pulling a rabbitoutofahat.

ThemealschezCundaricontinued tobe sumptuousthroughout the week. Iwondered at how Valeriamanagedtojuggleteachingin themornings, doingher

stint at the refuge andhelping with the catcatching in the afternoonsbeforeshetookherplaceatthe oven, producingdeliciousfood.Someofthedishes conjured upmemories of those I’dlearned to prepare duringthe time I lived inTaormina.Spaghetti Aglio,Olio e Peperoncino hasingredients that are

deceptively simple but,when well prepared, it isvery tasty. Garlic and hotpeppers or pepper flakesare sautéed in olive oiluntilthegarlicispalegold.Thissauceisstirredintoaldente spaghetti; parsley isadded and the dish isservedimmediately.

Freshanchoviessautéedwith garlic, and hotpeppers in olive oil,

deglazed with white wine,then tossedwith spaghetti,diced cherry tomatoes andlots of chopped parsley,and topped with toastedbread crumbs was anotherofheralmostreadymeals–the Spaghetti allaSiracusana. There wasmore than a glass ofMascali’s most popularwine, Nerello, to washdown these delights.

Sicilian cuisine makesgood use of the island’swonderfully freshvegetables, which made iteasier to cater for Helen,whowasvegan.

As if she didn’t haveenoughtodowithallthesehungry guests, during thattime Valeria had alsobrought home severallitters of motherlesskittens, which Big and

LittleGiovannahadfound,and she was hand-rearingthemwithkittenmilkandapipette. A truly admirablegattara!

Isnatchedanhourorsoto wander round Mascali.The cathedral church isdedicated to the town’spatronsaint,SanLeonardo,and was consecrated in1935. It has three navesand preserves a marble

statue dating from theeighteenth century,depicting the saint. Thetown, and its surroundingarea, is littered withmanyruined churches, the scarsof successive earthquakesand lava flows.As I stoodin the little square readingmyguidebook,Icouldfeelcurious stares.One elderlyman approached me andasked what I was doing

there. Unlike Taormina,wherealmosteverysecondperson is a tourist, I feltverymuch theforeigner inMascali.

Helen had no time forany such sightseeing. Sheappeared constantly poisedto dart off on another cat-catching operation,impatient when we daredto stop for the sandwichlunch brought over by

Valeria’s husband,Antonio. When, in herview,wewerenotworkinghardenough,sheborrowedDavide’svanandwentoffalone on a reconnoitre ofTaormina.

‘Let’sgobacktherethisafternoon,’ she urged me.‘I’veseenat least twocatswesimplymustrescue.’

‘OK,’ I said, a littlereluctantly.

It is not actually faraway from Mascali,although those upward-winding roads taxed thetemperamental van. Whatworried me was that thepermesso Valeria hadobtained for her area didnot extend to Taormina.Wewouldhave tobeverycareful not to risk adenuncia.

We took the road that

curves upwards, out ofTaormina towardsCastelmola,andstoppedinVia Von Gloeden. Helenled theway towardsa rowof bins overflowing withgarbage. She set down adishwitha little tunaon itand called softly. After awhile, a small tortoiseshellcat appeared. She wasscrawny and walkedslowly; itwasobvious she

wasquiteold.‘Someone told me her

name is Macchia. Whatdoes that mean inEnglish?’

‘It’s pretty obvious!’ Ilaughed. ‘Look at the bigsmudge of black over halfher face. In fact, she’s apatchwork of them. Andthink about the milkycoffee they servehere, it’scalled Latte Macchiato,

milk with a smidgeon ofcoffee–it’sagoodname.’

Helen lifted the cat,which didn’t protest.Maybe she had once beensomeone’s pet, I mused.She held her in her armsand stroked her: ‘Well,Smudge, you’re comingwithus.’

The second cat Helenhad seen in the same areawas in abad state.His fur

was dull and matted, hisnostrils caked with mucusand his breathing wasnoisy. Although obviouslya large male, he lookedwastedandon thepointofdeath.

‘The person who Ispoke to told me that,although the local peopletrytofeedhim,hecan’teatwith this awful cold. I’vecalled him “Big Boy”, by

theway.’Big Boy might have

been ill but he had nointention of goinganywhere near the trapweset down. After a fruitlesshalf-hour, Helen grewimpatient. She went backtothecarandreturnedwitha large net. I had readabout these nets, that theywere used for animalcatching, but had never

seentheminactionbefore.Helen was triumphant.After only two failedattempts, she managed tonetthecatandgentlycarryit to a cage.He didn’t putupmuchofastruggle–hemusthavebeenveryweak.

‘Shall we have a scoutround, now we’re here?’Helen suggested. ‘I’ve acoupleoftrapsinthevan.’

‘I think we’d better go

straightbacktoMascali,’Isaid. ‘We don’t want tostressthesetwoanymore.’

As Guy was busyoperating, Davide took inthe cats and examinedthem. Macchia, hepronouncedasbeinginnottoobadhealth,justoldandin need of feeding up.ButBig Boy was anothermatter and requiredantibiotics and hydration.

Thank heaven, he finallyrallied but I think we hadcaptured him just in time.When they were settled intwocomfyholdingcages,Iglanced round for Helenbut she had alreadydisappeared,offonanothercat-catchingexpedition.

Some days, I helpedValeria with hersupermarket shopping, torestockforallthemealswe

ate. In this way, I got toknow something aboutGiarre.

Its one-time claim tofame was as a collectionpoint for the wineproduced on the hillsabove, which was rolleddown its main street inbarrels to the port below.Today,itspeculiarityisfarmore suspect.LittleGiarrehascometobeseenas the

epicentre of thephenomenon of waste – akind of architectural whiteelephantcapital.

‘That hospital tookthirty years to build and itwas out of date before itwas even ready to open,’Valeriagrimlyobserved.

Nearby was a partiallybuilt graffiti-coveredtheatre, where work hadstarted and halted at least

twelvetimes.‘We’re not a big city,

there are only 27,000inhabitants, but in Giarrethere is the largestnumberof incomplete publicprojects in Sicily. Thiswaste is so amazing thatsome people havesuggestedpromotingitasatouristattraction!’

I wasn’t sure whethershewasjoking,ornot.

Later, I researched themost notorious of Giarre’seyesores. Here, you willfind twenty-fiveincomplete structures builtbetweenthemid-1950sandthe 2000s, many ofconsiderablesize,suchasavast Athletics and PoloStadium, an unfinishednear-Olympic-sizeRegional Swimming Pool,and a tumbling concrete

palace known as theMultifunctionalHall. Theyare nothing but concreteshells, inexorablyencroached by wild grassand cacti. Nevertheless,they remain a blot on thelandscape.

Such buildings are ableakreminderofthelocalpoliticians’habitofmakingimpressive but ill-advisedclaims about what public

works they could see tocompletion in order tosecure funds from theregional government.Starting large-scaleconstructionworkhasbeenavote-winnerandawayofcreating jobs. It was alsoclaimed to combat therecruiting power of theMafia.

The week in Mascalihad proved to be themost

exhausting of all mytrap/neuter/return trips.Looking back, I saw howthe extent of what we haddone, the areas we hadcovered and the stress ofdealing with many of thecats, which were ill, hadtaken its toll. Our mealswiththeCundarishadbeenthe only time we couldrelax before another earlyandunrelentingday.Asfar

as I was concerned, itwasn’t only that. I’d hadanother attack of doubtabout whether it was rightto interfere with the feralcat’sexistence.

‘That’s nonsense!’Helen replied firmly whenIvoicedthis.HowIwishedI could have her single-mindedness.Myproblem,Idecided, was that I wasidentifying too much with

the cats and their fear ofbeing captured. I stillhadn’tlearnedthelessonofdistancingmyself,whichisessential if you do thiswork. While I knew that,logically, Helen was right,it conflicted with myemotions. I recognised Iwas becoming over-sensitised.

The following Sundaymorning, I came down to

breakfast and felt as if Ihadn’t enough strength tolift a cup. I went to sit inthegardenunderthepalmsand lay in a deck chair,feelingIcouldn’tmovemyarms or legs. Utterlyexhausted, I had thesensation of my muscleshavingturnedtowater.Theothers were flying back toEngland thatdaybut Ihadplanned to stay on a little

longer. Now I wasfrightened of being leftalone. Later, I was todiscover I was sufferingfrom volunteer fatigue, avery real thing andsomething experienced bymany well-intentionedvolunteers. Time toexchange burnout forbalance. Vittorina came tomy rescue. She toldme tostay exactly where I was

and,atlunchtime,prepareda light and delicious ricedish. That day she fussedovermelikeamotherhen.By the afternoon, I hadbegun to feela littlebetterand by evening, whenDavide arrived, I told himI’d be fine for a littleexcursion to Taormina thenextday:weweregoingtotake Macchia to her newhome.

It couldn’t have been abetter outcome for thiselderly but feisty cat. Ingawas a middle-aged artistwhohadlivedinTaorminafor many years and was alover of cats. Hersomewhat ramshacklehouse would never havefeatured in a beautifulhomemagazine but it wasa haven for these felines.Old sofas were covered

with colourful throws,where ginger and black,whiteandtortoiseshellcatsslept undisturbed. Beyondwasthewildgardenwheretheycouldroam.

Macchiasoonsawoffafew of the younger catswith a growl and a smackof a paw. She settledherselfonawallwhereshecouldoversee the territory.I could tell she would

become a matriarch in thesafe haven we had foundforher.

Helen would be veryhappy.

THIRTY-TWO

Etna – A BroodingPresence

here was always asense of anti-climax

about the end of thesecatch/neuter/return weeks.

After the hectic rushingabout, the anxiety andgeneral adrenaline buzz,yourealisedjusthowmucheveryone had contributed,even if, at times, temperswere frayed. It seemedstrange to sit down to asolitarymeal, that eveningbefore I packed my case.Vittorinahadinvitedmetostayforafewquietdaysatherapartmentintheareaof

Taormina that gazestowardsEtna.

That ever-activevolcano is a broodingpresence in the lives ofmany Sicilians. The sightof its glowing summitagainst the night sky isawe-inspiring. No wonderMongibello, as the localsaffectionatelycallEtna,hasbeen the subject of manymyths.TheancientGreeks

believed the mountainhoused the workshop ofVulcan,thegodoffireandmetalwork. Far below, inthe depths of the earth, heforged metals in his fierycaveandfromtimetotimeexpelled the hot, moltenliquidintotheatmosphere.

Another myth spoke ofa 100-dragon-headedmonster, son of the earthgoddess, Gaia, who

rebelled and was trappedby Zeus for thousands ofyears under Mount Etna.Every now and again, helosthistemperandspewedoutimpressiveflames.

Geologicalevidencehasshown that Etna has beenactive for more than 2.5million years. There havebeen 140 recordederuptions throughouthistory, which wins Etna

theprizeforbeingthemostactive volcano in Europe.Like theHindugodShiva,the mountain has not onlydestructive buttransformingpowerstoo.

The lava that hasengulfed cities and townsand driven people fromtheir homes also producesa rich soil, nurturing averdant landscape. Anexcursion to Etna, to

experience the amazingviews of the island from3,353metres(11,000feet),isprobablythefirsttriponanytourist’sitinerary.

The landscape and theclimate changedramatically during theascent. At first, it is aterrain of fruit trees; inspringtime the air is filledwith the sensuousfragrance of orange and

lemon blossom.Temperatures drop as yougo higher. Etna’svineyards, where thepopular vino d’Etna isproduced, are vibrant inautumn as the leaveschange colour. The area ispunctuated by appleorchards, the hazelnut andpistachio,andhereyouwillfind the pretty houses ofthose who live on the

slopes of Etna and havelearned to understand the‘wicked witch’, as D.H.Lawrence once describedthevolcano.

The climb continuesinto yet another landscapedominated by pine andchestnut trees, until youarrive inwhat seems tobethesurfaceofthemoon,ofdormantvents,cooled lavaandlayersofvolcanicash.

Wrapped up warmly –at the summit of thevolcano it becomes chillyon even the hottestsummer’s day – you gazein wonderment at thestunning view spread outbeforeyou:apatchworkofvillages and beaches farbelow, as far as CalabriaonthetoeofItaly.

One of the nicest waysto visit Etna is by taking

theCircumetnea,a railwayline that covers a 110-kilometre (68-mile) routeround the volcano. Therailway is an historic line,whichhasfunctionedsince1898andwasonceusedbyfarmers to reach thefields.Today, that request stop isstill available on board.Theusual route is to leavefromCataniaBorgostationandendupatRiposto.The

yearAndrewandItooktheCircumetnea, we decidedtodoitinreverse.ItwasaSunday morning and wewere dismayed to discoverthere were engineeringworks in progress. A busjourney was involved andaddedyetmoretimetotheusual three-hour ten-minute journey. However,it was certainly worth it.We felt as if we had

stepped back in time,trundlingalongtheone-railline,aswegazedoutonthemajestic volcano andadmired the lovelysurrounding landscape, thetypicaloliveandfigtrees.

But it appearedwe hadbeenfortunateinmanagingto get the railwayschedules to work. Morerecently,whenwe thoughtwe’d like to do the trip

again,wewereconfoundedby the eccentric timetableand finally gave it up.Wehad planned to get on andoff at the various stationsanddoabitofwalkingbutthe leaflet I had picked upfrom the tourist officecontained photographs butnoinformation.

It seemed yet anotherexampleofSicily shootingitselfinthefoot.

THIRTY-THREE

A House in Sicily

tna rising on thehorizon, often snow-

capped, always majestic,was the constant view ofDaphne Phelps for overfifty years. The English

woman who inherited aSicilian house, CasaCuseni,wasanotheranimallover. I used to visit herquite often and nowrememberedthelast timeIhadseenDaphne.

I telephoned her. Thevoice was sharp, belyinghergreatage.‘What’syourname? Do I know you? Idon’t remember you. Butyes, come… come when

you like. I’m always here.Cometoday,tomorrow.’

It was a still, hotafternoon; the sun blazingfrom a perfectly blue sky.Climbing up the SalitaLeonardo da Vinci, I feltthe sweat begin to tricklebetween my shoulderblades,myhair sticking tomy forehead. The housewasguardedbyhigh,blue-painted gates straight from

afairytale,buttherewasaconfident air about it all –they were not locked. Ipushed them open andstepped inside.Therewereseveralflightsofstepsthatled past an old Romancistern towards enchantedand enchanting CasaCuseni.Ipausedtogazeatit, climbed the last fewsteps to the terrace andZitto the dog ambled

towards me, barking. Hewas very old now, hisblack coat and muzzlestreaked with grey. Zittolaughed atme as dogs do,with his tongue lolling,barking and wagging histail at the same time. Nosign of life; the houseseemed to be asleep. Zittodecided I was not a threatandlaydownwithasigh.Icircled the building,

wondering how I wasgoing to make myselfheard. Then I saw, at theside of the house, a smalllodgeandthenextmomentConcetta,Daphne’sfaithfulhousekeeper, came to thedoor and called across tome.

‘TheSignora is in, butmaybe sleeping. Tryagain,’sheadvised.‘Ifyoustill can’t rouse her, I’ll

telephone.’So I returned to the

terrace and stood for amoment to gaze at thegolden stone of the villa,out at that splendid viewtowards Etna. IrememberedthefirsttimeIwas there when someAmerican lodgers invitedme for an aperitif before aparty. It was an oddexperience: separately and

indifferentways,theyeachfellinlovewithme.

There was movementbehind me and a very oldlady dressed in whatlooked like a nightdresswith a cardigan buttonedover it pokedherheadoutoftheFrenchdoors.

‘Good afternoon,’ shesaidinabrisk,no-nonsensevoice.

This was Daphne

Phelps, grande dame ofTaormina for over fiftyyears, who neverthelessremained the epitome ofMiddle England. Shedidn’t remember me butsheadmiredmy‘frock’.I’dsacrificedhalfadayonthebeach to make myselfrespectable – you did sowhen you visited MissPhelps. Zitto was like ashadowatherside.

‘What shall we drink?’sheasked.‘Wine?’

I followed her throughthe shadowy dining roomwith its beautiful Arts andCrafts frescoes of figuresin blue; there weregarlands of fruit andflowers.Inthevastkitchenshe took up a bottle andcorkscrew and in themeantimeZittohadcockedhislegagainstthetable.Of

coursethishadtobewipedup beforewewent outsideagaintositatatableontheterrace.

We talked about herbook, A House in Sicily,anditsunexpectedsuccess.

‘I’ve not been well-offallmy life andnowhere Iam,atninety,withmoney.WhatdoIdowithit?’saidDaphne.

I gazed again at the

view, the tumble ofterracotta roofs, the azureIonianSea;slopesofEtna,a sleeping giant. Purplebougainvillea spilt from agiant terracotta vase. I felttheglorioussummersun.

‘More of the same?’ Isuggested.

Daphne Phelps’ lovestory with Casa Cusenibegan in 1947 when acable arrived at the clinic

where she worked as achild psychologist,announcing her uncle haddiedandshewastoinheritthehouse.

‘I warn you, Daphne,’said a colleague. ‘Peoplewho settle in these out-of-the-way places becomeveryeccentric.’

‘My Italian was almostnon-existent,’ shewrote inherbook,‘Ihadneverdealt

with property or hadexperience coping withSicilians. I wanted to sellthe house and return toEngland.’

On arrival, she wasdazzledbySiciliansunandcolour.

‘Nowadays it’s difficultfor people who’ve alwaysbeen free to travel torealise the sense ofliberation I felt after years

boxedup inEnglandwith:is your journey reallynecessary?’sheexplained.

Soon she fell under thespellofthisbeautifulhouseand the near-perfectclimate, like her unclebefore her. ‘DonRoberto’,as he was called by thelocals, chose this locationtocreatehisvision.Heleftthe original olive andalmond trees, planting

orange, lemon andgrapefruit with floweringshrubs and creepers.Making use of the localcraftsmen’sskillsandlocalmaterials, he erectedmassiveoutsidewalls,overhalf a metre thick. Thespectacular view of Etnawasseenbetweencolumnscarvedoutofgolden stonefromSyracuse.

Daphne, taken by the

warmth of the people andTaormina’s beauty, waspersuadedtostay.

‘I had always been amaverick, enjoying theunexpected. I knew Sicilywas sure to provide that,’she wrote. ‘I would haveits history, archaeology,folklore and botany and,above all, the superbclimate and this magicalhouse.’

She soon discoveredthere were certainprinciplesthatwouldguideherthroughthis‘unchartedadventure’. The first wasnever to get into debt, thesecond never to raise amortgage on the property,ortolendtoanyone.

Facing the heavyupkeep of the villa withfew financial resources,she took,aspayingguests,

friends and friends offriends.Artists andwriterslike Tennessee Williams,Roald Dahl and BertrandRussellclimbedthosestepsin search of peace,relaxationandfun.

‘Bertie was delightful,charming andundemanding.Buthiswifesulked. I guessed that intheir little room he wasbeing hen-pecked. I asked

him if he would like aseparate room. “It wouldbe an unmitigated relief,”hesaidinhisprecisevoice.“ShedeclaimsandIamthepublicmeeting.”’

Over theyears,Daphnehad discovered the key tothe sometime enigma ofSicilian society. She wasanonymouslydenouncedtothe authorities for runninga pensione without the

necessarypapers.Theheadof police visited andconceded she shouldbecome a locandieri, thelowestformofhotelkeeper,which would keep thetaxesmodest.

Daphne was not theonly person to fall in lovewith Casa Cuseni. Therewas a trail of suitors butshe was always aware ofthe risks in such

relationships.As she told an English

friend:‘Somanymenwanttomarrymyhouse.Oneortwoofthemwouldn’tmindifIcamealongwithit.’

‘It is a mostmarriageable house,’ henoted.

To deal with thesesuitors, she devisedstrategies thatwould sparethemthesenseofrejection.

She would tell them shewas too independent andthuswouldmakeauselessSicilianwife,orshedancedwith several different menin one evening, showingshewasnothingbutaflirt.

Then there was hermeeting with Don Ciccio,whotoldher:‘Signorina,ifthere is any individualdispleasing you, you havebuttoletmeknow.’

She described him as‘quick moving, sunburnt,shabbily dressed. A scarover one eyebrow anddrooped eyelid made himhold his head back and upand added to the generalimpression of ferociousarrogance’.

A nod from himmeantshewasprotected.But sheexplained thiswas nothingtodowith theMafia inall

its ruthless drug-riddenmanifestation.

‘Don Ciccio wasdifferent.Ifthestatewasn’tproviding justice, otherssteppedin.’

Daphne’s book isdedicated to ConcettaGenio, her belovedhousekeeper and friend ofmanyyears.‘Iwouldneverhave been able to saveCasaCuseniwithouther.’

THIRTY-FOUR

TheCompassionate

Tourist

have begun to dread thebeginningofthesummer

season as I know it will

generate a flood of emailsfrom anguished touristswho have gone online andfoundCatsnip.They speakofholidaysinvariouspartsoftheislandthathavebeendisrupted by an encounterwith a small cat. Whatstarted out as blue skiesand sunshine becomesovershadowed by distressand anxiety. It takes meback to my fateful trip in

2002 when Andrew and Istumbled upon Lizzie,setting inmotion thechainof events that led to myforming Catsnip. Iunderstand only too welltheir concern and longingto help in some way. I’dbeen lucky in finding afriendly vet but then Ispoke Italian; apart fromthelargertownsandcities,it is often difficult to

communicate otherwise inSicily.Forthosewhodon’tspeakItalian,Icanimaginetheir frustration, scanningtheir phrase books in anattempt to contrive a fewsentences. I can picturethem in their hotel roomssearching the Internet foranimal welfare contacts.I’minEngland,theyareinSicily, but at least I canoffer advice and put them

in touch with someone ontheislandwhomaybeabletohelp.

Helenwrotetomefromasmall tourist townonthewesternsideoftheisland:

Hello, I found thedetails of yourCatsniponlinewhilesearching for ananimal charity. I’mcurrently in Sicily,

holidaying in SanVito Lo Capo, andhave today found astray kitten,probablyaboutnine–tenweeks.

I first saw her inthe morning andthen again later inthe afternoon muchfurtherintothemaintown, trying to getinto a local

supermarket.Everyone ignoredher and she seemedsotinyandhelpless.

I’ve brought herback to theapartment we’restaying in and havefed and watered her(she was starving),but I was hopingthere’d besomewhere that

mighttakeherinandrehomeher.

I can’t findanywhere online sofear the answer isno, but wanted tocontact you in caseyou know ofanywhere/body thatmighthelp.We’reinSVLCuntilMondaythen travelling toPalermo.

Imustaddhere thatHelenwas on honeymoon whenthe small feline came intoher life but, as she said tome later: ‘My husbandknew what he was takingon.’

IhadneverheardofSanVito as I’ve usuallyworkedon theeasternsideofSicily.ThatwasmyfirstquestionforHelen.

‘SanVitoisonthevery

North West tip of Sicily,westofPalermo.That’stheonlyway I can describe itreally. Nearest big town(other than Palermo) isTrapani. Hope that givessome clue! It’s basically atiny Italianholiday resort,’sheemailed.

The moment I saw theword ‘Trapani’ I knew Ihad a lead. Remember thestory of Dina, the elderly

Dalmatian, of Susie andEsther’s long car journeyfrom Cefalù to find her?Raimonda, the OIPAvolunteer, had filled in therest of the story. I sent anSOS email asking for herhelp once more.Meanwhile, I could senseHelen’s growingdesperation as the hourstickedaway.Shecontinuedfrantically to search the

Internet and contactedevery lead she found, butwithnopositiveresults.

Shewrote:‘Ihavebeenthrough my other optionswhich are to appeal to aCanadian-Sicilian lady wemet in a cafe yesterdaywhen we first noticed thekitten but she didn’t seemthat concerned with her atthe time. Or to cycle to avet just outside SVLC to

see if they would care forher until she’s big enoughto fend for herself. Bothare long shots. Addedcomplication is that we’restaying in a hotel wherethey aren’t very keen onanimals, which meanswe’re having to keep herout of view. I’m justdreading a situation wherewe have to abandon heragain come Monday. I’ve

even investigated takinghertoPalermoandleavingherwithsomeonetherebut(a) I can’t findanybody/place in Palermoand (b) I imagine PalermoisamuchtougherplaceforakittenthanSVLC.You’reright…Ifeelhelpless.Andsosadforher.’

By now the kitten hadbeen given a name:Gavroche,afterthewaifof

Victor Hugo’s LesMisérables. Oh dear, Ithought, once you’ve donethat it becomes ‘your’kitten rather than just astray. Throughout thatThursday, I waited forRaimonda’s response,while more emails arrivedfromHelen.

I’mgettingmoreandmorenervousby the

hour, as we reallyonly have Friday,SaturdayandSundayto find someoneandof course the longershe’s with me, themore attached I’mgetting. There havebeen a lot of tearstoday! And shereallyistinyandnotvery old at all. Idon’t think she’d

fareverywellonherown.

I’m going toexplore car hire thisevening, which willmake transportingher a lot easier(slight hitch is thatmy photo on mylicence has expiredthough, so not surethey’ll let me). Ihave never said a

prayerinmylifebutIwilltonight!

BynowIwasbeginningtoget as anxious as Helenabout the fate of this littlescrap. I dreaded howdistressed she would be ifshe had to leave the kittenbehind.

Meanwhile, it seemedthattherewerenoromanticdinners à deux on this

honeymoon.

I walked into townthis evening andspokeagainwiththelady that owns thecafe where we firstsaw Gavroche butshewasn’tinterestedin helping thoughshe does have a catofherown.

Ihavecompletely

lost hope thatanyone in San Vitocanhelpbutamnowresolute that I willnot leave her here.I’d like to get herback to the UK soneed to findsomeone who canlook after her for atleast a month andwho has access to avet.

I’m going tocycle her up to thelocal vet in the nexttown along from ustomorrow morningtoseeif theycandoanything.But if youcould also callRaimonda tomorrowI’d be very grateful.Getting verydesperatenow.

So was I. I sent anothermessage to Raimonda.Suddenly, an image ofDina appeared on thescreen. Quickly, I sentHelenanemail.

Raimonda hasanswered tonightandhereiswhatshesays:

‘To help thiskitten you should

contact the vigiliurbani (themunicipal police)and tell them thatOipa has beeninformed of thissituation. San Vitohas an agreementwith a local vet andtherefore the kittenshouldbehelped.’

Thinkthisisyourbestbet.Evenifyou

plan to take thiskittenbackyouneedtofindsomewheretoleave her for thenecessaryquarantine.

But Helen’s reply worriedme. She didn’t seem tohave read my emailproperly.

I’mtakinghertothe

local vets in Macarithismorninginhopethey’llcareforherinline with theiragreement withOIPA.I justhope toGod they are true totheir word… andthat they’re open!I’m sure I readsomewhere onWednesdaythattheyopen 9.15–1.00 on

weekdays,butInowcan’t find thewebsite I waslooking at. To behonest, I’d decidedthat comeMonday Iwouldleaveherinaboxwith a note andsomemoneyoutsidethevetsanyway.Thethought of justleaving her wasmakingmefeelsick.

Later, when we met, shetold me: ‘I couldn’t leaveher.Iwouldn’thavegotonthe plane; I would haveemailedmybosstosayI’dbe back in the UK laterthan planned. I eventhought of smuggling herontotheflight,butguessedthat wouldn’t haveworked.’

From San Vito, Helenwrote:‘I’veaskedmyhotel

toorderataxifor10amsoI’llletyouknow.Justneedtofindaboxtocarryherinnow.’

‘True to Sicilianhospitality,’Helen toldmewhen we met, ‘the ownerof the hotel dismissed theidea of a taxi and said hisson would drive uswhereverwewantedtogo.

‘At first he didn’tunderstand we wanted to

go to the vet, until he sawGavroche in the box. Helookedprettysurprised.’

But the vet wasn’tthere: Helen was told shewould be back onSaturday.

‘This is reallyworryingformebecauseifthevetisnottheretomorrow,orwillnot take her, then I havevery little time left tohelpher.We go to Palermo on

MondayandflytoEnglandon Tuesday and do nothaveacar.

‘To add to thecomplication, now that thehotel knows we haveGavroche they haveforbidden me from lettingher in the room,’ sheemailed.

Isentheraveryconciseemail: ‘Take Raimonda’sadvice and go to the

municipalpolice.Theyarein touch with OIPA andwill know where youshouldtakethekitten.Youcan call Raimonda ifnecessarybecauseshedoesspeakabitofEnglish.Youhave the number, don’tyou?’

ItwasbynowSaturdayand I was out during thedaybutalwaysat thebackofmymindwashowHelen

was getting on. Themoment I arrived home Iswitched onmy computer,once again dreading thatHelen had beendisappointed. What I readsurpassed anything I hadhopedfor.

‘Hello. So some goodnews,I think.WetookhertothepolicestationinSanVito. When we arrivedthey said, “No cats, no

cats!”I’mawomanwithacareer but I know how tobecome a helpless femalewhen the occasion arises,’she told me. ‘I sat on thefloor of the police stationand burst into tears. Thisdid the trick and theyfetched an officer whocouldspeakalittleEnglish.I showed him Raimonda’semail and we telephonedher.’

Becauseofthelanguageproblem what happenednextwassurreal.Helenandher husband foundthemselves in a police car,presumablytogotoavet.

‘Instead they stoppedjust down the roadoutsidea private house.Awomancame out, holding back abarkingdog,andGavrochewaswhiskedaway.’

AsHelenrelated:‘Ifelt

bewildered. We went onthe beach for a couple ofhours and I tried to readbut just couldn’tconcentrate. “We’ve justhanded her over withoutknowing anything aboutwhatwillhappentoher,”Icried to my husband.Eventually, he agreed weshouldgoandknockonthewoman’sdoor.Shegreeteduswarmlyandinvitedusin

tosee thekitten.Gavrochewas sitting in an armchairin the living room like theQueenofSheba.

‘The lady’s name isAntonella Siino and withbroken English/ItalianoandunpocodeEspañolweworked out that this nicelady is a volunteer withOIPA and that her dog isalso a rescue. She oftenfostersanimalsbutshehad

decidedtoadoptGavroche,whom she has renamedLondres, in our honour. Isimplycouldn’tbehappierthat she is safe and welland being cared for bysomeone who is soobviouslyananimallover.

‘None of this couldhavehappenedwithoutyouandRaimonda–thankyoufrom the bottom of myheart!At timesI felt like I

was mad for caring somuch, but you confirmedothers care too. And nowI’mgoingtogooutsideandenjoy theSicilian sunshinewithmyhusband,whoI’vebarely spoken to over thepastforty-eighthours.’

A week or so later,another email arrived fromSicily.

Hi, on holiday in

CastiglionediSiciliaand my wife hasfoundahelplesstinykitten (feral,obviously andwithout its mother).Can you help withlocatingahomeoravetforitplease?

Had they checked themother wasn’t in theneighbourhood? I queried.

Mysisterhadjustreturnedfrom Spain, where twokittens had turned up attheir apartment. She fedthem for twodays and layawake at night,wonderingwhat would happen tothemwhenthefamilyleft.

‘I prayed the motherwould turn up thefollowing day,’ she toldme. ‘Then, I was lookingoutacrossthefieldsbehind

theapartmentandI’msureI saw her. The kittensdidn’treturnagain.’

But Michael repliedswiftly that they didn’tthink there was a motheraround.Heseemedtobealost soul, crying all lastnightandtryingeveryone’saffectionsthatafternoon.

Doubt he has anowner – more like,

aswithothercats,heowns severalhumans!

OK, could they give mesome idea as to whereCastiglione di Sicilia wasinrelationto,say,GiardiniNaxos/Taormina? ‘I thinkyou are nearer to theeasternsideoftheisland?’

‘Weareaboutforty-fiveminutes from Taormina,

and certain the mother isnot around, it was cryingalllastnight.WeleavethisSunday (my wife wouldtake her home if shecould!)’camethereply.

That evening I calledthem on their mobile.Michael sounded calm butSusanwasveryemotional.I told them about Qua LaZampa,thepetshopwhere,last year, Angela and

MarcohadcaredforLuckyStaruntil ahomecouldbefoundforher.

Later,Michaelemailed:‘Piccolino has beensmuggled back into ourroom tonight, and we willtake him to Taormina inthemorning.Hopefullywecan leave him there. Thevetgavehimacleanbillofhealth(Itriedtoexplaintomy wife that he was a

street cat and therefore alittle scrawny). Anyhow,hehasjusthadthebestpartofhalfatinofRoyalCaninandisnowexploring.’

Thefollowingmorning,I called the pet shop.Angela wasn’t there but Ispoke to Marco. Hesounded very gloomy:Taormina was a chaoswherecatswereconcerned.Theywere left outside the

shopeveryday;hehadsixalready. They could boardPiccolino for a few daysbut couldn’t commit tohominghim.

I related the news toMichael.InthebackgroundI could hear Susan sayingthat perhaps the best thingtodowouldbe to take thekitten back to the vet andhavehimputtosleep.

I reacted strongly:

‘Theseferalcatsaretough.As you say, they do lookscrawny but they survive.Therewillbesomeelderlywoman in the area whofeed them. Why put ahealthylittlecattosleep?’

IwasremindedofE.M.Forster’s novel WhereAngels Fear to Tread, ofwell-meaning visitorsunversed in anotherculture, who create

mayhem and tragedy.ThoughIcouldunderstandtheir distress, I askedmyself yet again, Was itreally wise to take in asmallfelinewhenyouknewthat,inafewdays,youhadto leave? What did youthink would happen to it?This wasn’t Britain withsheltersandanimalwelfareassociations; it was acountry that for the most

part did not care for cats.What was worse was thenotion of having a healthyanimalputtosleepbecauseyou thought it was ‘best’forit.

Meanwhile, Michaelcamebacktome.Theyhadcontacted my lovely vet,OscarLaManna,andtakenPiccolino to his surgery,whereitwasfoundhewas‘suffering from every

parasite know to cat kind:roundworms, fleas etc.’.Oscar believed there wassomeone who wanted asmallcatandwouldcollectitthenextday.Latercamenews that Luigi had notturnedup.

‘Don’t know what wewill do if he is notcollected,’ Michael wrote.‘Hopefully Oscar will betruetohiswordandfinda

caringhome–hecannotgoontothestreetsasheistoosmalltofendforhimself.’

I felt defeated but wasdelightedwhen,adayorsolater,Oscarcontactedme.

‘We’ve had somedifficulties with the littlePiccolino because, as youwell know, here in Sicilythere isn’t a good culturewhere animals areconcerned. There are no

shelters or receptioncentres for ferals. Theauthorities speakconstantly of helpinganimals but they don’tspend one coin to lookafter them. This is a verybeautiful place but itsinhabitants are tooegoistical and stupid.Luckily, there are we vetswhoarefreelanceandgivea hand at our expense to

these poor little feralanimals that needtreatment. The statedoesn’t help, only profitsfromoursensibility.ThusIhave decided to keep thislittle cat and look after ituntilIcanfindsomeonetogiveitahome.’

Not all these storieshave such satisfactoryendings. Some are leftunfinished and continue to

nag.Dawn contacted me,

wondering if anythingcould be done to help asmall sick cat: ‘The poorcreaturehasscratcheditselfbald in places and sitshunchedupwithitstonguehanging partially out anddroolingasmallamountofyellow/pink-brown liquid.It seems to be obtainingfood from inside the gate

of the local residencewhere two other healthycats livebutnowseems tobe shut outside and looksinabadstate.’

The couple went tonearbyQuaLaZampaandtried to make themselvesunderstood, using a pre-recording on a translationapp. However, as Dawnsaid: ‘We didn’t get veryfar due to the language

barrierbuttheladyseemedto be pointing us in thedirection of the Corso andmentioned the police. Iboughtacoupleofpouchesand the cat has eaten one,thisevening.’

On my advice, theycalledOscarLaManna.Hetold them he would comeout to check on the cat iftheycouldcaptureit.

Later, when I talked to

Dawn, she said: ‘Wewereboth very tired after adifficult year and this wassupposed to be a relaxingholiday but we ended upworryingaboutLionel,asIcalled him, most of thetime.’

Although Lionelseemed quite friendly, shedoubted if she could catchhim without a cat carrier.Theyhadplanneda trip to

Etna the following day, soI told them, meanwhile, Iwouldcall a friend,oneofthe rarer gattaro (or catmen).

Carmelo runs a garagebacking onto a yard thatthrongs with cats. He is adedicated cat lover andspends much of his salaryon feeding and caring forthem. Yes, he said, if thecouple came round in the

early evening, they couldcertainlyborrowacarrier.

My plan failed.ReturnedfromEtna,Dawnand her boyfriend wereravenous and went for amealbeforenegotiatingthedark roads to the garage.They were too late:Carmelo had shut thegarageandgonehome.

Time was now runningout, for the couple were

due to leave a day later.They had been keeping aneyeonthehousewherethecats roamed and noticed awomancomingandgoing.

‘We are unsure of herinvolvement and have notpreviouslyapproachedher,aswedidn’tknowwhetherwe would be able tocommunicate.’

They were feelingconfused because of this

problem with language.DidthewomanownLionelor was he sneaking in tofeed with the other two,healthy-looking cats?Meanwhile, Oscar wasstandingbyfortheircall.Iexplained the situation tohim and sent Dawn hisreply.

‘These are Oscar’sthoughts: if the cat is sickandisaferalitneedscare.

Even if someone feeds ittheywouldbehappythatitwas being giventreatment.’

She remainedunconvinced. ‘I wouldprefertoknowwhetherthelady owns the cat beforewe proceed, as I am stillworried about aconfrontation and nobodybeingavailable to interpretin the event. I am also

conscious the time isticking by and not surehow long Oscar will beavailable now. Would hebe available tomorrow, ifnecessary?’

In the end, they werefaced by the situation Iknow so well, that ofhaving to pack up andleave with the questionhanging over them: whatwill happen to that cat

now?Sure enough, Dawn

continued to agonise overLionel after her return toEngland: ‘I have felt sohelplessconcerningLionel,asIcalledhim.I justwishit would have beenpossible for someone tohave called over andassisted us in getting anexpertopinionwithaviewto making him more

comfortable. I feel so sadforhim,butrealisehiscaseis just the tip of theiceberg. He was there onthe step yesterday eveningas usual at about 5pm andwe gave him a pouch,which he gobbled down.We saw him again on thestep at 11pm when wereturned from the towncentre,whichwastobethelast time–hewasn’t there

thismorning togivehimapouch, as planned. It ishardnottothinkabouthimand it makes me realisehowluckyKenny is– it islovelytohavehimhome.’

I, too, found it difficultto get the image of Lionelout of my mind. So Iracked my brains andfinally contacted Eleanor,an English friend andgattara who lives in

Taormina and looks aftertwenty cats of her own.Could she find time to goalong and clarify things?She promised to do herbestandlaterwrotetome:

Yesterday afternoonI finallymanaged tolocateLionel, sittingin a plant pot in thegardenat23aDietroCappuccini, looking

rather poorly. Iguessed he wasprobably getting fedby the owners,seeing as he wassitting in there,behind the fence. Iwanted to speak tothe owners to ask ifhewas their cat,butdidn’t know whichbelltoring.

Luckily, I met

Chiara,who lives inthe same street andshe said she knowsyou. She told methat the people wholiveinthathouseareniceandalsoanimallovers, and kindlyvolunteered to comewithmetoenquire.

We spoke to anice gentleman whoconfirmed that

Lionelisastrayandsaid that his fatherfeeds him. Iexplained thatDawnwanted to helpLionelandhasgivena donation forveterinary fees, buthe told me thatLionel has alreadybeen seen by a vet.He said that Lionelhas had bad

dysentery,andthatiswhyheissothinandhas his tonguesticking out.Apparently, he isbeing given somepills for it, but helooked like hedesperately neededto be on a drip tome.

Now I don’tknow what to think

or do.Tobehonest,Jenny,Lionellookedto me to be on hislast legs. The manspoke of baddysentery and himhaving had baddiarrhoea,butIthinkit’sduetosomethingelse, probably someorgan failure. I’veseennearlyallofmycatsthathavepassed

away go the sameway.

I could organisetrying to captureLionel and get himtoOscar,but Idon’treally know if it’sworth it. In thesecircumstances, anyvet will do bloodanalysis and at bestmaybe diagnosekidney failure. They

willkeep theanimalinacagefortherapy,which is veryexpensive and theanimal usually diesanyway. I think it’san unpleasant end,especially fora feralcatwhoisn’tusedtobeing indoors in astrange chemically-smellingenvironment.

Iaskedtheladyiftheywouldn’t like asecond opinion onLionel, especiallyseeing as the costswouldbecoveredbyCatsnip, but theyseemed convincedthat Lionel wasbeing taken care ofand is being givensomething for hiscondition.

And there I had to leavethe story of Lionel. Thereis a limit tohowmuchweoutsiders can interfere.However, I am grateful toHelen,Michael,SusanandDawn for stopping to helpthese creatures instead ofjustwalkingaway.

As Oscar La Mannasaid later: ‘It is fortunatethat there are these animalloverswhogiveahandand

try to help these feralanimals, taking them to usvets who cooperate bygiving them the righttreatment at a ridiculouslylowprice.’

I’veknownOscar for ayear, but onlycomparatively recentlyhaveIrealisedwhatatrulyremarkable and almostunique Sicilian vet he is.Howdidhebecomeavet,I

asked him, and how doeshe deal with the generalattitudes towards animalsinSicily?

‘EversinceIwasaboyI had a passion for everykind of animal, includinginsects that I loved totouch. Once, I brought anentire ants’ nest into thehouse. Thus, when I grewup,Ichosetobecomeavetand, if I had that choice

again, I would do it athousandtimesover.

‘However, after twentyyears of working in thefield here, I feel under-valuedand limited inwhatIcando.Ihavediscoveredmany things but the firstand enormous lesson Ihave learned is that morethan50per centof animalowners in Sicily areignorant and a threat to

their animals because, atthe very first hurdle,particularlyeconomic,theyarereadytoabandonthem.It would need the vet’spresence in schools toteachchildren that animalsmerit respect; they are nottoys that one can throwaway, they are livingbeingsthatneedcaringfor,even if it turns out to beexpensive.Thus,thosewho

know they can’t afford itshould never take on ananimal because it will putthetwoofthematrisk.

‘If one doesn’t have anincome, it is necessary tobe objective and notendanger the life of acompanion animal –muchbetter never to bring oneintothehouse.

‘Unfortunately,civilisation will never

arrive here, the people aretoo stupid and convincedthey are right and teachtheir own children thiserroneous stupidity andegoism.

‘In your country,England, things are verydifferent – there is order,services, much morecivilisation.

‘Here, there is nothingleftformebuttofightthis

infinite ignorance in ordertodefendthesedefencelesslittle animals from thecruelhandsofmenwhoareuncivilisedandegoistic.’

As Oscar has said tome: ‘It is fortunate for theferalcatsthatatleastsomeof us freelance vets areconcerned about them andat our own expense takecareofthem.’

ThevolunteersofOIPA

I’ve mentioned severaltimes before are anotherdedicated team of animallovers, scattered acrossSicily. Then there arepeoplelikeValeriaCundariand her volunteers at theARCArefuge,overflowingwith unwanted animals.Their daily battle ishorrendous; fightingignorance and downrightcruelty,tryingtocopewith

theover-populationof catsanddogs.Howtheywouldwelcometheverydifferentapproach of Trieste inNorthernItaly.

THIRTY-FIVE

The CatSanctuaries of

Trieste

he city where JamesJoyce once lived and

wrote has two

complementarycatsheltersthat many local peopletrust, admire and support.Il Gattile is a safe havenfor needy and ailing cats.Located in the city centrejustbehind thecourthouse,it was formerly one ofTrieste’soldhouses,whichalways had interiorcourtyards; one wall isactually shared with thecity’s jailhouse. Since

1992, Il Gattile haswelcomedmany cats fromferal colonies, adailydutyfor the volunteers whotirelessly dedicate theirlives to these needyanimals. Many of thefelines are found in thestreet in a very badcondition, others areabandoned and left to thisvagabondlife.

AtL’oasisFelinaonthe

outskirts of the city, 155cats roam happily andundisturbed in an enclosedand protected green space.Unless they are adoptedand go to loving homes,theywillliveouttheirliveshere in peace. When catcolonies are displacedbecause of constructionwork,theycanberelocatedhere.

I first heard about this

animal-friendlycitywhenIcontacted Kathy via herwebsite, catsinitaly, forpossible helpwithHelen’sfoundling kitten. She wasquicktorespond,although,happily, little Gavrochefound a kindly home. AnAmerican-Asian, Kathyhas lived in Italy formanyyears with her Italianhusband,Giorgio.

As she told me, the

veterinaryschoolinViennaistheoldestinEurope,andTrieste, close to theAustrian border, is verymuch influenced by theAustro-Hapsburg attitudeswhere animals areconcerned.Thetraditionofcaring for animals goesbackalongway.Sincetheearly1900s,forexample,ithas been obligatory toprovide bowls of water

outside shops for animalstodrinkfrom.

Kathy related the storyof her life with cats andhow she became involvedwith them. She metGiorgioatuniversityintheStates and, later, theymoved abroad. As anengineer he has beenposted to various parts ofItaly. It wasn’t until theyarrived in Trieste in 2008

that she became avolunteeratIlGattile.

‘Iguess Iwasanormalperson until then,’ shelaughed. ‘I had neverworkedwithanimalsinmylife before. I just had twocats, now they have takenovermylife.’

‘I have two specialwardsatpresent:atwenty-year-oldcolonycatwho isblind and deaf. She’s had

hercagedooropennowforten days, but hasn’t comeout by herself yet. I workwith her senses of smelland touch; she loves freshsardine fillets and I let herknowI’mthereby tappingon the cage floor so shecan feel the vibrations. Idon’t touch her, not yet.Todayatnoon,youshouldhave seenher comeoutofher curled-up lethargy

whenshesmelledthefish!‘My other feral ward

was thought to be anaggressive spitty meany;he’s just a timid, fearful,streetwise cat. Thisunneutered tom came inwith an open abscess onthewholeofhisleftcheek;he’dbeen livingout in thepark for about a year likethat. The gattara tried totrap him, unsuccessfully,

three or four times duringthe course of the year.Eventually, Magna wasbrought in at the end ofMarch.Hestillhasaboutamonth to go with histherapy. We recently lethim free in the room andhe lived, terrified, for tendays under the cages. So Iput him back in a luxurytop-floor (third cage up),withviewsouttothesunny

courtyard and viewsthrough the glass door,where he watches ourninetyorsocatsgoupanddown the stairs to theatticlivingquarters.

‘When he first arrived,he was very hissy andangry. It tookme ten daysbeforehewaseatingoutofmyhand.Onthewaybackfromafewdaysatthevetsfor laser therapy, he was

still anesthetised, I coo-edwhile walking back to IlGattile. Once back, Istroked the length of hisbody several times; thatwas to leave my smell onhim.Sureenough,thenextday he looked at medifferently – withrecognition?Withwarmth?Affectionately? And Ihadn’t opened the can ofsalmoncatfoodyet.

‘I didn’t see him for aweek, and at noon I wentupon the stepladder tohiscage and hewas finewithmeenteringhisspace.Andhe ate some sardine filletsfrommyfingers.’

This cattery isobviously a hive ofactivity. Some of Kathy’sspecial duties are keepingthe admission/releaseinformation up to date for

the sick cats (twenty-fourcages). Spay/neutercampaign and adoptionrecords are kept separatelyby another volunteer(twenty-sixcages).

‘I doone cleaning shiftaweek,thisentailsmakingsure volunteers will bepresent, usually about fiveor six. I also deal withadoptions, field telephonecalls, handle emergencies

and receive visitors anddonorsatthedoor.

‘I maintain theFacebook page andwebsite, and provide a lotof thephotos andgraphicswork. My work with cathandling involvestransferring from trap tocage and vice versa,cleaning cages whichhouse cats that areextremely feral and those

withspecialneeds,suchasbonefractures.

‘I foster feral kittens inmyhome; summer in Italyisthetimewhenwerescueso many of them. Havingspent three weeks in myfoster guest-room, threekittens went to their newhome, last night. Whew!And the remaining twobrothers will be going tothe cat sanctuary. I have

just taken them down forthe weekend to Il Gattile,where I volunteer. Whoknows, the perfect peoplemight wander in? If not,they will have a lovely,protected garden wherethey will mix with othercats and kittens. I help inthe decision of whetherthey’dbehappierifpeopleadopt themor livingat thecatsanctuary.Rarelyandif

they’re big enough, I maybe able to convince thegattara/ototakethembackin their particular felinecolony.’

The tranquil lives ofthese cats, so lovinglycared for, is currentlythreatened by the townhall’s decision to relocatethe fruit and vegetablemarket onto land occupiedby the sanctuary. This

news swiftlymobilised theentiredistrictofBorgoSanSergio, its neighbourhoodcommittee comprising thelocal residents, campersfrom the also threatenedsite, and the volunteers ofIl Gattile. They havelaunchedanonlinepetitionasking town councillorsand the mayor to changetheir plan.This followed atown hall announcement

thatthesanctuarywouldbemoved to an adequateneighbouring area, but thevolunteers remainconcerned.Howcansuchatransfer be effected? Andabove all,whypollute thisgreen space, with trafficcoming and going, noiseand refuse from themarket?

In sharp contrast to theoftencontemptwithwhich

the gattare are viewed inSicily, Trieste honoursthem. Every year, the IlGattileAssociation awardsa prize to a woman,acknowledgingherworkinrescuing and caring forferal cats. The award wasinstituted in 2001 tocelebrate the birthday ofMargherita Hack, a primemoverinthefoundationofIl Gattile. In 2014, it was

given not to a gattara butto the threatened L’oasisFelina, the space thatMargherita lovedsomuch,duringherlifetime.

THIRTY-SIX

Sadie, Katarinaand the IncredibleRescue of a Blind

Kitten

his is the story ofKatarina, of how a

small Sicilian cat broughtCatsnip, Oscar and Elketogether, to the rescue.Aboveall,itisthestoryofSadie and herdetermination to save theblindfeline.

Francavilla is a typicalsmall Sicilian town,approximately ten milesinland from the coastalresort of Taormina, withspectacular views.

Althoughmuchofthetownis now fairly modern, youcanstillseesignsofformertimes,withtheruinsoftheone-time castleoverlooking theinhabitants, and the oldwinding streets that evokeimages of its medievalpast.Nearby is the famousAlcantaraGorge,whereanimpressive torrentofwaterrushes below vertical lava

cliffs.Locatedonthenorthslopes of Mount Etna, theriver is one of the few inSicily that flows yearround. Several thousandyears ago, its path wasblocked by a large lavaflow from the volcano’sslopes. The cold waterquickly cooled the lava,which resulted in itscrystallising and formingthe unique rocky columns.

Overthenextfewthousandyears, the river carved apaththroughthosecolumnsandresultedinthegorge.

If you like to explore,there are numerous trailswhere you can hike alongthetopofthegorge.Andifyouarelookingtocooloff,you can relax at GorgeBeach.Theeasywaytogetdown into the gorge is totake the lift; for the more

adventurous there arestairs.Thereisagorgetrailthat follows the riverupstream and offerswonderful views from thetop. It takes you throughthe botanical gardens andcitrus groves, where youcansitandstare.Hereyoucan gaze into the heart ofthe gorge and thewaterfalls from the beach,so don’t be afraid to

explore. The water isadvertised as being coldbut in the heat of thesummer it is veryrefreshing.Nowonderit isa popular spot with localsduring the scorchingSiciliansummers.

SadieandherboyfriendEddie had arrived here tostayforanightortwoonafarm, the so-calledagriturismo. From the

1950s and continuingthrough the 1970s, small-scalefarminginItalycameunderthreat.Manyfarmersabandoned their land tosearch for work in largertowns. But Italians valuehighly the traditions andproduce of small-scalefood manufacturers, and,by1985,a lawwaspasseddefining agriturismo.Manyabandonedbuildings

and estates were restored,some for holiday homes,and many for this kind oftourism. It allowed thesmall farmer to augmentthe income from the farm,and for holidaymakers tosample the bounty of arurallifeinItaly.

Itallseemedidyllicandvery relaxing until thecouple noticed that one ofthefarmcatsseemedtobe

bumping into things andfallingdownsteps.

InJuly2014,SadieandEddie were on a road tripin Sicily when they firstmet Katarina. Sadierecalled: ‘We had stoppedovernight at a farm in themountainsaboutfivemilesfromthenearest town.Katwalked into our apartmentouthouse door, literally.She then fell down the

steps and tried again tonavigatethedoor.

‘At that point I didn’trealise that shewas totallyblind, but it was clear shewas struggling.Oneofhereyes was protrudingdangerously out of thesocket, and the other wasopaque and deformed. Shewas a mess and I washorrified by the gruesomestateofherface.Hertabby

furwasmattedandshewasworryinglythinandfragile.I distinctly remember herstumblingandfallingdowntwoorthreestairsinsuchapitiful way that made methinkshewasbeyondhelp.I would have rather beenresponsible for ending herlife than to leave herstumbling franticallyaround in darkness,searchingforcrumbs.

‘To my surprise, shewas remarkablyaffectionate, trusting andconfident,andquiteboldlycame into our roomdemanding food. Shedidn’tappear tobefearful,ofanythingoranyone.Shehad a sort of brazenconfidence,despitethefactthat she was at such adisadvantage. She purredwhenIstrokedherandwas

happy tobepickedupandcuddled. All of the otherferal cats kept theirdistance and hissed whenyou attempted to approachthem.

‘She slept outside ourdoorthatnightandgreetedus in the morning. Westayedfortwomorenightsat that farm and the catstayed with us, sleepingoutside alone on a chair.

She seemed veryvulnerableoutthere,curledup around herself, antscrawling around her faceand with local dogspatrollingthearea.

‘It was then that Icontacted Catsnip to getsome advice and enquireabout a local vet. I didn’trealiseatthatpointtowhatextent I would have tocommittothislittlecatand

how many people wouldbecomeinstrumentalinherjourney.’

It was that summer of2014 when I first heardfromSadie:‘Ihavefoundastray kitten, which hassomething wrong with hereyes. Ibelieveshe isblindand suffering. One eyeseems to be missing butI’m not sure, as she is amess. If this is something

that she can be helpedwith, Iwould like tobringher back to the UK.However, I am reallystruggling to find ways tofly her backwithme. Sheisveryyoungandfriendly;justarrivedinourbedroomandwillnotleave.’

I gave her Oscar LaManna’stelephonenumberandhesuggestedtheytakethe cat to his surgery,

which raised the firstdilemma: Sadie and Eddiewere due to leave thefollowing day. Weconferredonthephone.

Said Sadie: ‘The onlythingwecandoistodrivethrough on our way toSyracuse and drop her offat around 11.30am. Myconcern is that Iwould beplacing responsibility onOscar, and then leaving –

however, if you believethat the cat will be caredfor,wewillkeepherinsideand definitely bring hertomorrow. I amafraid thatshewillneedheftymedicalattention, and that I willnotbearoundtoadministerthat. If the cat can besaved,thenIamwillingtomake arrangements tobring her to London andhave her live her life with

us.’Sadie called Oscar and

made valiant attempts toexplain all this but, as shesaid, it might have beenlost in translation.However,shewasn’tgoingtogiveup.

‘Wehavefallenabitinlove with her. If he iswilling to do all requiredmedical treatment,microchipping and blood-

work, I will do whateverneeded to get her toLondonsafelyandquickly.Or, if he believes itwouldbebetter,hecouldtakeherbacktothefarmwhereshelives,butthesearebothbigaskstoa totalstrangerandit’s difficult tocommunicate with him asmyItalianisterrible.’

Thecathadnowfirmlyensconced herselfwith her

new admirers and wastuckingintounaccustomedgoodies, although Sadiewas still very concernedabout the state of one ofhereyes.Itseemedtoheritwouldhavetoberemoved.

Assherelates:‘So,withKat in a box, and theItalian farmers lookingvery bemused as to myapparent kidnapping of ablindferalcat,wedroveto

the local vet, who wasfantastically kind andunderstanding.’

Indeed, on that Fridaymorning, I imagined thesurprise of their hosts asSadieandEddieloadedthelittle cat into their car.Later,Ihadacallfromthesurgery: Sadie was againstruggling with her Italianand asked if I could speakto Oscar. I could hear

Eddie’s voice in thebackground and thereseemed to be a problem.Briefly, Oscar explainedthat to treat thecat anddoall the necessarypreparation to obtain herpet passport would costaround 1,000 euros. Sadieand Eddie were takenaback; they had neverenvisaged itwould cost somuch and didn’t have that

kindofmoneywiththem.Oscarcamebackonthe

phone. The vet soundedbaffled. So now what wasto happen to the cat? Shecertainly needed anoperation.

We agreed they wouldpay for this and I wouldsend a donation to coversome of the rest of hertreatment. The cat’s futurewasleftinthebalance.

Back home in London,Sadie couldn’t put ‘her’Sicilian cat out of hermind.Howwouldtheblindfeline manage if she werereturned to the farm? Andwhat was the alternative?She tormented herselfthinking about the littlecat’sfuture,asdidI.Whatwastohappennext?

WroteSadie:

IcanletOscarknowthe exact locationwhere I found her,butIdonotthinkthehotel owners willfeed her. They arenothostile–buttheydo not want toencourage the catsfurther, and werequite delighted, ifnot a littlebemused,atmetakingherwith

me! All the cats atthis property lookedreasonably healthy,and I imagine thatthey survive onscraps from thekitchen and foodgiventothembytheguests – but ofcourse with herblindness, I do notfeel rested orconfident on the

subject. The otheroption is that sheberehomed, whichunless Oscar knowsof someone whowould be willing tocare for her for therest of her life(which may belengthy), it lookslike it would meanthat she come to usin London. We live

in a large ground-floor flat withseveral steps downto a very large,enclosed privategarden. There is nonearby access to aroad,whichisaplus.I would want toteach her to use acat-flap as I thinkit’s important forcats to access

outside space,sounds, smells(especiallygivenherblindness). I haveread up a bit aboutblind cats andunderstand that theycan cope well, andbehappy.

At that point neither Sadienor I realised what thisdecision would involve. I

was also ponderingwhetherbringingthecattoEnglandwas thebestplan.How feral was she? Yes,Sadie had said she wasaffectionatebuthowstrongwere her links to herterritory on the farm andherbondingwith theothercats? Sadie had also toldme she had a companioncat. How important wasthistoher?

I pointed this out: ‘Ithink you have donesomething wonderful inallowing this cat to havetreatment and amtransferring funds toOscar’s account, thisevening, but perhaps itwould be better for her toreturn to her companionsthere. Cats can cope withblindness more than wecould.’

But Sadie couldn’tforget that the cat had‘found’them,turningupintheirroomandnotwantingto leave: ‘She is so veryaffectionate with humansand, after observing her,she seemed fairly irritatedby the younger cats. Sheappeared to be far morehuman-orientated.However, Iwant to do thebestforhersoamhappyto

takethatadvice.’Shetoldmeshealready

had a rescue dog and Iraisedthiswithher.Wouldthis be a problem for ablindcat?

Sadie came back tomequickly:

My dog, Thelma, isa medium size mix-breed with a verysweet temperament.

She adores cats andwould be very, verydelighted by anaddition. She is stilla young dog and isnotaversetochasingtheneighbours’cats,but we have livedwithcatsbeforenowandshelikesthem.

Having seen thislittle cat interactwith the two farm

dogs (one naughtypuppy), I do notdoubt that she canhold her own. Shewas not scared ofthem, and tactfullywarned them awaywhen they got tooclose. They allseemed to live quiteharmoniouslytogether, but as yousay, she was

definitely at adisadvantage and itbroke my heart tosee her fall downsteps and walk intowalls.That said, shedidn’t seemunhappy.

So these are myhonest concerns.Having spent timewiththecat,shewasvery quick to purr

and happy to sit onlapsandbecuddled,butIunderstandthatthefamiliarityofherold home andpossible companionmight be veryimportant for her. Istarted the processandwillnotabandoniteitherway.

After some discussion and

persuasion, the inevitablewas decided.Katarinawastotally blind and thereforeeven after emergencytreatment for her eyes,morally, she could not bereturnedtothefarm,whereshe would starve to death,if she was not eaten by apredator first. Nor wasthere a rescue option inSicily.Shewasinlimboatthevets,inacage,asSadie

andEddie had to return toLondon. Katarina washomeless,nowclockingupa massive bill at the vets,and requiring his verydedicated team tointensively treat her andquarantine her during thesummerholidays.

Said Sadie: ‘It was mynaivety that had broughther to a place that nowrequiredmydecisionabout

herfuture.Itwasmyduty,I felt, to see the processthrough to someconclusion, and this sweetlittle cat deserved a home.Myboyfriendwaslessthanimpressed by the scenario,understandably. We hadjust moved into a newhouse and already had alarge, extremely messyyoungdogtocontendwithat home. The last thing he

wanted was a severelydisabled Sicilian cat. Wehad no idea what she wasorwasn’tcapableof.’

Itwas now clear tomethat Sadie’s heart was seton giving the cat a lovinghome. She had a week’sholiday towards theendofAugust and could fly toSicily, complete thenecessary documents andbring Katarina home with

her.WhowasI tostandinher way? It was time tolook into practicalities andhere we found it was notgoing to be a simpleprocess.

In the past, if youwanted to bring an animalintotheUK,itwouldhavetostayinquarantineforsixmonths. This cost theownersalotofmoney,notto mention the distress of

being separated from theirpets for such a long time.Fairly recently, the ruleshavebeen relaxed,makingitsomewhateasier.Aslongas the cat or dog has beenmicrochipped andvaccinated against rabies,they can be issued with apet passport. After a 21-day wait, they may travelfreely within countries.The rules of the UK are

still stricter than those forthe rest of Europe, toostrict in some people’sopinion.Ontheotherhand,there has been no reportedcase of rabies in the UKsince1902.

My thoughts went toOscar, who had sent mephotographs of Katarinapost-operation and had sokindly agreed to keep herin the surgery until Sadie

could make herarrangements. It seemedthat he had fallen in lovewithhertoo.

Hewrotetome:‘IthinkthatthiscatisreallyspecialandI toowant thebest forher. The most beautifularrangement is Sadie’shouseseeingthatitwasshewho found the cat andsoughttosaveherfromthestreets. Thus I agree that

she should take her toEngland so that she canhavethebestpossiblecare.I have already told Sadiethatthecostenablinghertotake the cat home is 100euros and includesmicrochip, anti-rabiesinoculation, de-worming,threecertificatesandphialsof flea treatment. For thedays during which I keepthecatuntilcollected,with

all the medical care shewill need, I will acceptwhatever contribution shecarestogiveme.’

Itwas nowAugust andOscar was officially onholiday, although going ineach day to care forKatarina. I feltuncomfortable with all thetrouble I was putting himto. After all, it was I whohad first put these wheels

inmotion.He wrote: ‘I need to

know with certainty theday inwhichSadiewishesto come here. She willhave to stay for severaldays to organise thedocumentsbecauseshehasto go to the VeterinaryOffice inTaormina tosignthem. Iwill domybest tomake it all as easy aspossible. The cat is very

well, eating and is muchmore calm now that shehas been neutered. Letmeknowwhen Sadie plans tocome.’

A day or so later, hewrote: ‘She is an angel, avery special cat whodeservesaspecialhome.’

This was exactly whatSadie was preparing – shetoldmeshewasbuildingaramp so the cat could

easilyaccessthestairs!‘Eddie is now quite

amused by the wholescenarioand ishelpingmemake arrangements. I canfinance her coming hereand have started raisingconsiderable funds. Iworkfor a children’s charity sothat comes as secondnature. I have some bigsponsorsinmycontacts,sowhoknows?Iwanttolook

aftertheGattaTrovatella!’And I wanted to help

her but I was stillconcernedaboutablindcattravellingsuchadistance.Iremembered Elke tellingme about the plane andtrain journeys she madewith her four cats. Theyhad always travelled withher in the cabin when shewent from Sicily to Romeand also to Germany. I

knew the reassurance mycat Sheba needed onjourneys and wascomfortedthatSadiewouldbe by her side. Then Idiscovered, once again,Britishrulesweredifferent:animals had to travel aslive cargo. There were noexceptions for blind catslike Katarina. Oh dear,how would she cope withthat? Would she be

traumatised by the noiseandmovement?Oscaralsoexpressed his concerns.This was becoming morestressfulbytheday.

Sadie was alsoencountering difficulties.She wrote: ‘I’m reallystrugglingtofindanairlinethat will take the cat.Alitalia do NOT bringanimals into the UKanymore and BA has a

strictpolicywhichdoesnotpermit animals in thecabin. It will cost severalhundred to book her incargo.Thisairlineseemstofly directly to London,which is one savinggrace.Airlines are generallyuseless,havenoinfoonlineandareunhelpful.’

We were movingthrough August, Katarinahad been with Oscar for

almost a month. She wasthrivingonallthecareandattentionhewasgivingherbut she couldn’t stay thereforever.Sadiecontinuedtostruggle with the logisticsof getting the little felineinto the UK. I was stillconcernedaboutherhavingto travel as live cargo andsoIconsultedElke.

‘It does seem socomplicated compared

with the rest of Europe,’she agreed. ‘And Iunderstand Sadie beingdaunted by all thispaperwork.Tellher tocallmethemomentshearrivesin Taormina and I’ll gowith her to the VeterinaryOfficeandtranslatesothatshe can complete thedocuments.’

One afternoon Elkecalled on Oscar and the

two of them got on like ahouseonfire.

‘La Manna is a lovelyperson and rememberSicilians are veryaccustomed to problems. Iwentice-creameatingwithhim todayandwehad lotsoflaughs.’

Meanwhile, Sadieremained concerned. Shehad been double-checkingthe UK regulations for a

petpassportandwanted tobe certain everything wasin place: ‘I don’t want tobe turned back at theborderor,worse,forKattohave togo intoquarantine.The microchip has to beplaced before the anti-rabies vaccination. I amalso concerned that Oscarhasn’t factored in the 21-daywaitingperiod.’

I was now in conflict.

On theonehand, Iwantedthistransfertogosmoothlyand without hitch. On theother, I disliked having tocontinually bother Oscar,whowasstillonholiday.Ikeptonapologisingtohim.

Things suddenly cameto a headwhen Sadie saidshe had to confirm flightsby nine o’clock thatThursday evening. It wasnow crucial, she said, to

haveallherqueriesclearlyanswered. I waited forOscartoreply.Itmustbeawonderfully sunny day inSicily, I told myself.Whoknew,maybehewasonthebeach! However, at fourthat afternoon, I was abletotextSadiethatallwasinplace.

I heard nothing overthat Bank HolidayweekendbutIhadmyown

concerns, trying to makeimportant appointments inFrance,whereIwasshortlytopresentmynewnovel.IjustpresumedallhadgonetoplanandwonderedwhenSadie would go to thesurgerytobereunitedwithKatarina.

ThenIheardthatSadie,faced with all thesedifficulties,hadbeentryingto find another option:

‘This is not a simpleprocessofmecomingover.I would have to fly over(basedonwhenher21-dayperiod is over), stay inTaormina as I can’t drive,collectandsigndocumentsfrom somewhere, travel toGiardini Naxos on publictransport, collect the catand get a train/bus toCatania, fly to Rome withher, then transfer her to

anotherflightincargo.’That’s when the

bureaucratic nightmare tobringhertotheUKbegan:‘Sicilyitseemshasitsownwayofoperating,andthereare various nonsensicalhoops that make theprocess extremely costlyand slow. The languagebarrier was also verytaxing. However, with thehelp of Catsnip, locals in

Sicily, the vet and anagency in Rome, Kateventually arrived at ourhome in London… that’scutting a very long storyshort and eclipsing sixweeks of constantorganisation and changesin the plan, as new rulesand blockades becameapparent. At one point itseemed that the only waytoget thecat to theairport

for7am,fortheonlyflightthat would accept her (aflight which was not evengoing to London), wouldbe for an elderly Sicilianremoval van driver to beconscripted into the plan,’explainedSadie.

It was certainlycomplex and she haddecided that it would besimplertousethespecialistagencyRelocat.

‘They can doeverything, and adviseOscar, which seems tomake more sense than metrying to do this, via you,’said Sadie. ‘The plan isthat Kat will need to betaken to Catania airport,flowntoRome,stayoveranight there, then fly toLondonthefollowingday!!Itistheonlyway.Ihopeitwill not be too traumatic

for her. She will have astrange few hours intransport, but will then behome,andsafe.Thewholeexperience is very strangefor her, thevets, transport,a new home, a dog, etc.Butsheisaveryyoungcat,who seems robust enoughto cope. After her travelshere, she will not beuprooted again, and willhavealuxuriouslife!’

Her other life optionsweredire.

At this point anotherplayer in this drama cameon the scene. Markcontacted me from theRome agency, telling mehe would take care of allarrangements from drop-off at Catania airport todeliverytoSadie’sLondonhome.

He said: ‘I don’t think

there’s any sense in Sadie(whodoesn’tspeakItalian)coming down merely torentacar/cabanddriveforforty minutes fromTaormina toCatania. I amarranging two flights, AZ1710 and BA 547. LiveanimalsmusttravelasAVIManifest Cargo to the UKunder the Pet TravelScheme.Iwon’tbeabletobook flights until I have

copies of pet passportpages.’

In Taormina, Elke wasstandingby:

TomorrowmorningIwill go with LaManna to get thepassportofKatarina.I have theappointment at 1pmin that health office.La Manna and the

vet of ASL knowprecisely what theyhave to do. Afterthat, I will scan thepassportandemailitto Mark. He alsogave me the exactmeasurements forthe transport-basket,which I will buy,togetherwith a littlewaterdistributor.

I have to be at

Catania airport at7.30am.Thecatwilltake the Alitaliaflight to Rome at10am. Mark willpick her up and puther on the nextBritish Airwaysflight.Sothecatwillarrive at Heathrowaround 4.00pm thatsame day, whereSadiehastopickher

up and bring her toher new home. Thisway I think it isperfect and not toostressy at all forKatarina. I will letyouknowassoonasMarkhastoldmetheexact travelling day,which will not bebefore 4 or 5 ofSeptember. Katarinacan stay at La

Manna’s office, shehas completelyadapted to the placeand he will not askforanyextramoney.Iwillpickherup inthe evening beforetravelling and keepher with me thatnight because wehavetoleavehereinTaormina at 6.00amto be punctually at

theairport.Ihave found that

allthisisbeingdonevery professionallyby everybody, and Imyselfaredoingthiswhole fatiguedeliberately,becauseI like animals morethanpeople–haha!

I will tell Markon the phone thatKatarina is a very

calm cat and doesnot needtranquillisers.Please, Sadie, canyoumail your nameandaddresstomeorLa Manna againtoday; he wants tocompare it with theone he already hasbefore going to theASL tomorrow. Ihope that everything

is clear now and Iwish you good luckwithKatarina.

I am still tryingto find the righttransport-cage. Eventhat has ‘specialrules’. I cannotbelieve howcomplicated it is toshipacat fromItalyto England.Meanwhile, the cat

isdoingbrilliantly.

After a long search Elkefinally found the righttransportation basket,which conformed to bothairlines’ requirements, andwas awaiting news fromMark on the date of theflights.

It was now Septemberand I was standing in themagnificent gardens of

Claude Monet in Giverny,Normandy when Sadie’striumphantemailarrived:

Katarrivedverylatelast night. She isabsolutely lovely.She is in ourbedroom andconservatory, just sothatshegetsused tothatpartofthehousefirst.Sheisusingher

litter tray (she isveryclean).Shehadfresh salmon fordinner and atebiscuits and a littlemeatthismorning!

She certainly canjump! She slept inher little cat bed foran hour and thenarrived on our bedandsleptcuddledupon my pillow,

purring. I’msurprised by howwellshegetsaround,actually.She isverycurious, andaffectionate. Shekept us awake allnight purring andtrying to sleep onour heads. Maybesheremembersus…

Over the followingweeks,

Sadie kept me posted:‘Katarina is very cuddlyand is quite playful. Shehunts and plays based onmovement and sound – Ithink that she is a veryclever cat. She is quitefearless.’

A day or so later, thephotographs arrived. Theyshowed an adorable andcontented Katarina andbroughttearstomyeyes.

Sadie’s most recentemailtoldme:‘Sheisnowa healthy, happy eighteen-month-old cat, who notonly circumnavigatesaroundourhomewithease,but who is a talentedescape artist and climber.She enjoys the garden andwas house-trained fromday one.Her eating habitsare questionable, and wehave to compete with her

when opening cupboards,or the fridge.The dog andshe have become a tag-teamforstealingfood.Sheisveryskilledatthis,muchto the dog’s delight. Shelicks everyone that comesinto thehouse tovisit,andoccasionally has to beremoved from our guests’laps after they haveendured her groomingthem for ten minutes. She

particularly likes beards.As we speak she is lyingon her back, in a disusedbrown cardboard box bytheChristmastree.Shehasa fullbelly anda smileonher face.That prettymuchsumsuphernewlifehere.’

Elkecommented: ‘I amvery happy to know thatthe cat is in good hands.Thinking about the wholething now, I have some

commentstosay:NowthatI know how the transportand papers for the UK foranimals work, I wouldprobably do it again,because in the beginningnobodyknewhowdifferenteverything is to theUK incontrast with otherEuropean countries. Iwould recommendCatsnippass on this informationand give the appropriate

addresses – for example,Mark’s in Rome – so thatpeople know what theyhave to do. He knowseveryruleofeverycountryfor import and export ofanimals, and was a hugehelpforme.Withtherightinformation it is not toodifficult toget thingsdonebut it takes some timeandpatience.’

And money! Sadie

ended up with a £3,000bill.Asshesaid:‘It’ssucha shame that there isnot arevised/alternative way tobring rescue animals toother parts of Europe. Itactually disgusts me thatall the money I have paidhasgonetoBA,ratherthanasadonationtoOscaroracat rescue organisation inSicily. I’m imagining that£3,000wouldhavepaidfor

quite a few cats to betreated/spayed.Morally, insuchcircumstancesas this,I feel that it’s abhorrent tomake fees so high. Nowondernooneiswillingtogo through this. I wouldhavebeensomuchhappierif I knew thatairlines/organisationswouldwaivesomeof theirfees (VAT at least) todonate it so that the issue

in Sicily could beaddressed. There are somanypeoplewhowouldbewilling to help if the costwasn’t so vast. It’s justbeensoridiculousthatI’mfurious that this systemhasn’t been changed.Nothing is given towardsraising awareness in Sicilyor towards rescueorganisations.’

I thoroughly agree,

Sadie,butrejoicethatthereare people like you andEddiewhocare.

THIRTY-SEVEN

I Come to Termswith Sicily

notheryearhaspassedand autumnhas come

round again. Once again IambackinSicily.

The first chestnuts ofthe season, their shiny,charred coats splitting torevealthecreamycolouredmeat within. Prosecco incrystal, fluted glasses, avase of perfect pinkroses…It looks likea stilllife painting. We are inUmberto Martorana’sapartmentattheendoftheCorso. He has invited mefor a drink and to talk

abouttheTaorminaofonceuponatime.

The building isunremarkable from theoutside;itdoesnotprepareyou for the gem within.Every aspect is carefullychosenandexquisite, fromthe Sicilian enamels in hisbedroom to the alabasterbustsagainst thewalls, thepictures in his elegantliving room. Beautiful

carpets lie on the polishedwood floors – a propersettingforsuchacultivatedman. He paints. Hispictures are deceptivelysimple:twocountrywomenagainst a frieze of olivetrees, a shrine to theMadonna crowded withsimple offerings, waterreflecting the multicoloursof a fishing boat –quintessentially Sicilian.

Hetravels.Fromthebooksprecisely placed aroundthis room I gather he isalsoanextensivereader.

He has promised toshow me his photographalbums,theimagesoflordsand ladies, actors andwriters, socialites –memoriesofanother,moreelegantTaormina,atimeoffancy dress parties anddinners, cocktails at expat

villasandvisitingyachts.Those were the

disappearing years of abelleepoquethatreignedatthe end of the nineteenth,beginning of the twentiethcenturies:anidyllictime.

It was at the HotelVittorio in 1891 OscarWildetookaroom.Thirty-sevenyearsold,hehadlefthiswifetoembracehistruesexuality, which would

lead to imprisonment andforced labour. The literarygeniuswouldbeostracisedand live out his lastmiserableyearsinParis.

In those early years ofthe twentieth century, thebest touring companies inSicily played spectaclesand operettas at the Greektheatre.Thecabaretshadafatal influence on thenobilityfromCataniawho,

falling for a pair of lovelylegs, gambled theirmarriagesandinheritances.Some were reduced bytheir impossible andviolent passion to commitsuicideinahotelroomandoften, to save Taormina’sface, they were hurriedlydispatched.

Closing the albums, Isign Umberto’s famousvisitors book. I sip my

Prosecco and nibble thosefirst chestnuts of autumn.They seem somehowsignificant:maturefruitbutcontaining spring andsummer.IfeelIhavemadea long journey and nowcome ‘home’ as I sit inUmberto’s peacefulapartment, the sounds oftheCorsofaraway.Itisasif,thisevening,allthelongnegotiations with Sicily

have ended and we havereached a kind of truce,eventhoughitcanneverbemore than an uneasy one.A balance has beenrestored and, once again, Ican see not only theshadows but the sunshineaswell.

In the morning I godown to Isola Bella andgaze at that view as if Icannot take it in enough. I

gaze and gaze. Lightpermeates everything,piercing the heat haze thatshroudsthebay,thespumethatfansoutbehindaboat.It illuminates anotherpagan world, tranquil andjoyful. It is what oneyearns for during thosegrey days in NorthernEurope, to be made aliveagain by the light. I canunderstand how it is that

Emilio paints and paintsthis sceneyet again.Thereis another quality aboutSicily, which he oncedescribedtome.Herelatedhow he took anEnglishman – a man whowas not accustomed toexpressinghisfeelings–tostand at the top of IsolaBella.

‘He was enchanted andturned to me and said,

“Youcantouchtheair.”’As I wander over the

isthmus and back, I thinkof all those times whenleaving the place, thissmall island in theMediterranean, I wouldpauseandgazedownIsolaBella, committing it tomymemory. Isola Bella hasbeen a recurring theme inmy life in Sicily as it hasElke’s.

That September day,she was in reminiscentmood: ‘My first footstepsintoSicilywereinthetownof Messina. My futurehusband, Marquis EmilioBosurgi, took me fromRome to Messina in awagon lit sleeping car – along trip from Rome toSicily at that time. Whenwe arrived at the trainstation of Messina I was

extremely disappointed. Ihad imagined the islandofSicily similar to theCaribbean with sandybeaches,palmtreesandhotweather.Nothing like that:Messina was ugly, theweather grey and cold(February) and no Hula-Hula girls, no white sandbeacheswithpalmtrees.

‘ButEmiliosaid:“Waitand see when we get to

Taormina, everything willbe different.”We took hisAlfa-Romeo sports car toTaormina, parked on theroad in front of a littleisland called Isola Bella.Togettoitwehadtoclimbdownasteepstaircasetoastony beach,walk along ituntil we reached thenarrowestdistancebetweenlandandisland.Emiliotoldme to put on long rubber

boots and to follow himslowly, walking throughrather high water andwaves. But I did not putmy feet firmly enough onthegroundandthenextbigwave just knocked meover.HereIwasintheicy-coldwater,Emiliograbbedme by my hair and I gotback on my feet. ThankGod I had a suitcase withdry clothes, which was

carriedbya servantonhishead, so it would not getwet!

‘Here we were on thismysterious little island. Iwas soaking wet andEmilio was having thelargestlaughaboutmyfirstmeeting with the Siciliansea. There was a nicechimney in the house ontop of the island and Ichanged my clothes and

dried the wet stuff at thenice cosy fire. We hadgood Sicilian wine andEmilio cooked a hugesteak.

‘Next morning: what asurprise, no more strongwind, no more heavy sea,but the most beautifulsunshine instead, and theflat sea had a violet-bluecolour. What a changefrom yesterday! It was a

breathtakingly beautifulatmosphere. UnfortunatelyIhadtogobacktoworkinGermany, but on my nextvacation in summer I wasbackinTaorminaandaftera year I gave up my jobandmoved toSicily.Fromthenonmost of the time IspentonIsolaBella,takingcareofEmilio’s customersand friends, showing themthe island and inviting

themforlunch.‘Slowly, Emilio

constructedmanyroomsonthe island, one for eachmember of the family.Every room had abathroom,achimneyandalittle corner to boil tea orcoffee. Many times I wasangry because he spent allhis free time with hisworkers constructing newplaces and studying a

method so as not to ruinthe original look of theisland. Everything wasmade to look like littlecaves, with the wallscarefully covered with thenatural rocksof the island.The result was to create aunique work of art fromnature.

‘It was the happiesttime of my life,’ shecontinued. ‘We lived a

wonderful twenty years,andreallylovedit,doingabig favour to the town ofTaormina. Then it wasrequisitionedandwehadtoleave this corner ofparadise. It fell intodilapidation.’

Maybe one day IsolaBella will return to itsoriginal beauty.Nevertheless, it will neverforget those splendidyears

when all those importantpersonages walked on herinadmiration.

Coming from differentbackgrounds, though bothlovers of this beautifulisland,somehowElkeandIwere brought together byour love of cats and ourdesiretogivethemhappierlives.Butouraffection forSicily is tempered by thefight to rescue its felines;

there is still a longway togo.

I think of those wordsof D.H. Lawrence as heand Frieda prepared toleave Taormina in 1923.Theysatwiththeirluggagepacked up, ready to leaveVillaFontanaVecchia.

‘My heart is tremblingwithpain–thegoingawayfrom home and the peopleand Sicily. Perhaps Frieda

isrightandweshallreturntoourFontana.Idon’tsayno.Idon’tsayanythingforcertain. Today I go –tomorrow I return. Sothingsgo.’

So things go. I willreturn.

ADDENDUM

A PracticalChapter

t is now twelve yearssince the day Andrew

and I found that badlyinjuredblackandwhitecat.Although, like many othertourists,Ihadfedstraycatsforalongtimebeforethat,this was my first

experience of dealingwithsuch an emergency. Ilearned the hard way andhave continued to learneversince.

I’ve learned, forexample, to distinguishbetweenthecatwithacosyhome and loving ownerand the feline that hasnever known anythingother than life on thestreets. As Guy, my

wonderful UK vet, hassaid, the welfare of theseferal animals is paramountandabovehuman feelings,aquestionofdoingwhatisbest for them rather thanbeing sentimental. Thismightsoundharshanditissometimesdifficulttocarryout. Unlike theirdomesticatedcousins,theserandagidon’thaveanyonewho will nurse them

through a lengthy andpossibly complicatedperiod of treatment ordisabilities that makeleading a normal lifepossible. Even if they arelucky and receive somefirstaid, theirultimate fatewill be to survive on theirown. You have to decidewhether this might causethemdistressanddangeratnot being able to defend

themselves.The eye disease I’ve

mentioned earlier is rifeamong kittens in Sicily. Ifit’snottreatedintime,thisultimately leads toblindness.Thequestionhasto be asked: is it right toallowthesesmallcreaturestostruggleforanexistenceintheirferalworldif thereisnotanassuredsourceofregular food? They may

notbeabletoscavengeandwill therefore die amiserabledeath.

Unlike pet cats, whichoften don’t get on withotherfelines,feralcoloniesfrequently developnaturally.Theseareusuallymade up of groups ofrelatedfemalesandthesizeofcolonyisdirectlyrelatedto the availability of food,water and shelter.Cats are

extremely resourcefulcreatures and can adapt tomanydifferenthabitats.

Thosewithinthecolonyrecognise each other bysharing their scent throughrubbingagainsteachother.Although they appearclose, they are notcompletelyreliantupontheothersandwillhuntandeatalone. If an unfamiliar catintrudes on their territory,

they will soon see it off.After neutering, a feral catshould be released backinto its territoryasquicklyas possible – this is so thecat will not lose thecommunal scent and endup being rejected by othercatsinthecolony.

AsIcametounderstandthis, I learned anothervaluable lesson: only inrare circumstances should

you remove a cat from itscolony or indeed relocatethe entire colony.Relocation of feral cats isextremely stressful forthem,as theybecomeverydependent on thefamiliarity of their ownenvironment. Neithershouldtheybereleasedjustanywhere. An appropriatehabitat needs to be foundand the cats require a

periodof adjustmentwhilethey learn where they canfindfoodandshelter.Mostoften, thereisnoreasontoremove them from theirhabitats. Ferals becomewell adapted to theirterritoryandcanlivesafelyand contentedly inalleyways, parking lots,vacant lots, backyards anda host of other locations –urban, suburban and rural.

Yet another consideration:ifallormostofthecatsareneutered, taking themsomewhere else can createa vacuum. Otherunneutered catsmaymoveinto the area and start thecyclealloveragain.

I made a bad mistakebefore Iunderstood this. Ithappened during aneutering trip in LetojanniasIdidtheroundswithmy

trap,traipsingupanddownstreets and out into thecountryside in an amazingNovember heat. I found amother and her kittens inthe derelict remains of anempty house close to abusy exit roundabout andwas terrified the youngones might run under apassing car. A friendagreed to take them in hercar towhatwebelieved to

be a safe place in thecountry. In doing so, weremoved them from theirknown source of food andwater, and reports cameback that they had died. ItwastotallythewrongthingtodoandIregret it to thisday. Just another exampleof confusing feral withdomesticatedcats.

Remember myexperiencewithLizzieand

my first encounter with aferal cat?Shewasanxiousand fearful, her one desireto escape. Of course, shedidn’t understand I wastrying to help her. It isreally not advisable to tryto socialise a grown feralcat. If you are prepared todevote time and attention,however, you can workwith young feral kittensand persuade them to

become affectionate andlovingcompanions.It’snotsomethingthatwillhappenovernight but can be arewardingexperience.Yes,it’spossible to transformaspitting, hissing ball offluff, but the time it takesdepends on their age. Justabout anyone can socialiseakittenthat iseightweeksoryounger.Thosebetweentwoandfourmonthsofage

often demand more timeandskill.

There are really no setrules as each kitten willlearnatadifferentrateandthusbecomeaccustomedtoyou.Bepatient.

When tourists contactme for help with a smalland apparently lost kitten,myfirstquestionisalways:‘Are you certain themother isn’t around?’ The

kitten may have simplystrayed or the mother iskeepingherself fromview.It is also a good idea tocheckwhether the cats arebeing fed by a gattara, acat lady, in case she feelssome sense of ownership.ThatwasDawn’sdilemmawhen she spotted Lionel.As she toldme: ‘Wewerehaving a much-neededholiday but it was

somewhat spoilt by seeingthis poor little ginger andwhite cat sitting outsidesomeone’s gate. He hadscratched himself bald inplacesand seemed tohavea coloured liquid droolingfromhismouth.Wepassedhim every time we wentintotownand,ascatloverswith a thoroughly spoiltfeline at home,we feltwemust do something.

However, we couldn’t besurethatthepersonwesawfeeding other cats mightobject if we took himaway. We got as far ascontactingthevetbutthen,because we don’t speakItalian, were nervous ofcreating a confrontation.Reluctantly, we had toabandontheidea.’

Although no oneactually possesses a feral

cat, it is courtesy to firstcheckwiththegattaraandtellherwhatyou intend todo rather than takingcommand. Often she willbe pleased that someoneelse is prepared to pay fortreatment.

From time to time, thelocal authorities in touristtownssuchasTaorminatryto make it an offence tofeed feral cats. In my

experience, I have neverfound an enforcement offines. Just make sure youclean up any leftoverscraps and wash plates orbowls– important inahotclimate. Cats are cleancreatures; it is we humanswho, by leaving the sitemessy, give them thereputationofbeing‘dirty’.

Never, under anycircumstances, give a cat

milk to drink. Felines arelactose intolerant and itwill give them diarrhoea.Water is their natural andbestdrink.

It is very difficult tocatch a feral cat without atrap; they will scratch andbitetoevadecaptureandabitefromacatcanbeverynasty indeed. If you arevisitingSicily,youmaybelucky in finding someone

who has one of thesehumane traps. They aresimple to set, with foodplacedatthefarend;asthecat enters and movesforward, a springmechanism is released andshuts the door. If you areliving in Sicily, youmightwant to invest in one ormore. Metalcote is anexcellentUKcompanythatsupplies these at a

reasonable price and willdeliveroverland. I’vebeena customer for years, andalsoforcagesincludingthecrush cage. Soundsalarming, but it isn’t inreality.Alevermechanismreduces the size of thecage, bringing the felinecloser to the bars, andmakes it easy to givemedicationoranaesthetic.

Naturally, these feral

cats resent being capturedand put up a lot of fuss.Always cover the trap orcage with an old towel orsmall blanket to shut outlight and quieten thecaptive – and get them tothe vet as speedily aspossible.

There is agreat dealofindifference towardsanimals in the south ofItaly as well as Sicily.

There is an argument thatthese regions have morefinancial problems thanthose of the north. In myopinion,ithasalotmoretodo with education or theabsence of it, and lack ofunderstanding of animalsas sentient beings capableof feeling the same fear,pain and hunger aswe do.They also need affectionandgivesomuchinreturn.

Instead, I’ve seen parentswarning their children tokeep away from a cat ordog so that the youngstersgrow up with the sameattitude and so the chaincontinues.

Survivalisthekeywordwhen speaking of coloniesof feral cats.Not for themthetoysandtreatsofmanydomestic cats, includingmy beloved Sheba.

Essentially, it is based onscavengingforfoodand,inthecaseofunneuteredcats,reproducing. Because ofthis there is a risk of theirsuffering from FIV, felineimmunodeficiency virus.FIV and HIV are bothlentiviruses but humanscannotbe infectedbyFIV,nor can HIV infect cats.This feline disease istransmitted primarily

throughsalivabitessuchasthose incurred duringterritorial fights betweenmales. Since many feralcats are unneutered andhave to compete for food,there is a higher incidenceof FIV in such felines.Transmission between catsinagroupwhodonotfightisunlikelyas theviruscanonly survive a very brieftime outside a cat’s body,

and it cannot betransmittedindirectly,suchas on food, feedingequipment, clothes, shoes,hands, etc. (unlike thesituation with felineleukaemia). FIV infectsmany cell types in a cat.Although it can often betolerated well, it mayeventually lead toweakening the immunesystem. Domestic cats are

much less likely to beinfected unless they comeinto contact with infectedcats. In retrospect, I thinkthat was the cause of mybeloved Fluffy’s illnessandeventualdeath.Atthattime Iwasn’t awareof thepossibility of FIV but I’vesince seen its signs in themany feral cats I haveencountered. They maysuffer from diarrhoea or

conjunctivitis. Othercommon signs aregingivitis (guminflammation), sneezing,snuffling,adischargefromthenoseoreyes,orkidneyfailure.Unfortunately,loveandcarearenotusuallythelotofthesecatsaswiththedomesticpuss.Butaneuterprogramme can have athreefold benefit:controlling the population,

enabling a more plentifulsupply of food amongfewercatsandreducingthetendencytofight.

Although you cannotcontract FIV throughcontactwithferalcats,youshould obviously take carein handling them. As I’vewritten earlier, many ofthese felines are shy, evenfearful of human beingsandviewanyapproachasa

threat. Unless you arereasonably sure theywelcome your overtures –as in thecaseofSadieandKatarina–it iswisenot totry tograb themwithyourbare hands. Their naturalresponsewillbe to scratchorevenbite.Itisthereasonwe’ve always used thehumane trap during theCatsnip trips. If you arethinking of making cat

rescueanongoingventure,then invest in the toughgauntlets sold bycompanies like MDCExportsLtd.

Itneverceases toangerme when I hear a parenttell a child: ‘Don’t touchthat animal,youwill catcha disease.’ Most diseasesthatinfectcatscanonlybespread fromcat to cat, notfromcattohuman.Youare

muchmore likely to catchan infectious disease fromthepersonstandingnexttoyouatabusstopthanfroma feline.Andyet the catchand kill advocates of‘controlling’ feral catpopulations defendthemselves with theseuntruths.Theonlypossiblecarrier of a disease couldbe in the cat’s faeces andnormal hygiene dictates

you wouldn’t be likely totouch that. The belief thatferal cats spread rabies isanother vacuous argument;the risk of catching thisdreadeddiseasefromthesefelines is almost non-existent. Trap/neuter/returnis also a safeguard againstrabies because they willalso be vaccinated,ensuring that cats inmanaged colonies cannot

catch or spread thisdisease. As for the notionthat catswill unexpectedlyleap out of alleyways andbite children, it is just asnonsensical as it sounds.Sicily, likeBritain, is nowofficially rabies-free,although, according towildlife writer andpreservationist VincenzoMormino, the rare red foxmay sometimes be

infected. A timid andhuman-fearinganimal,it israrely, if ever seen.Nevertheless, anyone whowishes to transport a catintotheUKmustbesureithas had the appropriateanti-rabiesimmunisation.

Overmorerecentyears,I’ve been encouraged bythe discovery of severalItalian animal welfareorganisations, such as

OIPAandENPA.I’vealsocome across somewonderful dedicatedindividuals. Valeria andher valiant band ofvolunteers have a dailystruggle with the influx ofanimals dumped outsidethe doors of their refuge.Theirbattleisaformidableone and they need all thesupportwe can give them.Some town hall

departments recognise theproblem of feral over-population and haveagreements with a localvet. That’s what Helendiscovered with her tinykitten,Gavroche, once shehadpersuadedthepolicetohelp her.Others choose todo nothing about it. As atourist, it will depend onwhere you are staying,whether you can expect

any help. There remains agreat deal to be done toraise awareness and createanon-goingprogrammeoftrap,neuterandreturn.Mydreamofamobileunitandthe funds to run an on-going trap/neuter/returnprogramme remainsa longwayfrombeingfulfilled.

During my Catsnipyears, Ihavebeenaccusedof ‘going against nature’,

even being ‘a catmurderer’. In a RomanCatholic country likeSicily, there are inevitablythosewhoseespayingandneutering as a violation ofGod’slaw.Butthosesamepeople turn a blind eye tothefemalecats,whichhavekittens continually untilthey areworn out, and thesicklykittens that fallpreyto terrible eye disease.

They choose not to knowabout their fellowhumans’cruelty and indifference.Yes,I’vehadmymomentsof doubt when I’vewondered if I was doingtherightthingbutthenyouconsiderthataferalcatcanproduce three litters ofkittens a year, with anaverage of four to eightkittens.Insevenyears,onefemale cat and her

offspring can theoreticallyproduce420,000cats!

Not all of them willsurvive, of course, butwhat of the number whodo?Thehumanesolutionistrap, neuter and return. Ifonly the authorities couldsee it that way! TheSicilian bureaucracy is acurious thing with manyregulations but these arenot adhered to, according

to a local animal lover Ispoke to recently. I hadasked him if he couldcheck on Dawn’s catLionel.

It’s certain that I canexpect nothing helpfulfromthevetsofASL(statevets),whomIhavealreadycontacted many times.Their reply is always thesame: that the town hallmust decide to make a

payment of 300 euros,otherwise they won’tneuter. This is somethingwith which I am battlingbecause the SicilianRegional law no. 281/91for the prevention of strayanimals states clearly thatthey must neuter andmicrochipat zerocost,buttheydon’tdoit.Inthecaseof accidents or the catshould be admitted for

treatment, there is nostructureinplace.

Faced with thissituation, tourists searchthe Internet and, you’veguessed it, they findCatsnip.Severaltimestheiremails have ended with‘and I’ve fallen in lovewithherandwould like tobringherback to theUK’.At thatpoint Iholdupmyhand and say, that is a

knee-jerkreaction.Youareon holiday and probablynot thinking in therationalway you might at home.Lookatthefactsandthinkit through. The process ofbringingananimalbacktothe UK, while not aslengthyasitusedtobe,isabig undertaking both interms of time and money.But as Sadie proved, withlove and determination it

canbedone.

Useful Contacts

CATSNIPIts aims are: To pursue acatch/neuter/returnprogrammeof feral cats inSicilyonalongertermandtoalterthemindsetoflocalpeople, particularly youngpeople. To attempt to

persuade them to seeanimals as sentient beingscapable of the samefeelings as human beingsand also with needs andrights, which should berespected, particularlybecause they cannot speakfor themselves. To gainpermission to take vets toSicily on an official basisfor catch/neuter/returnsessions. To address the

running of kennels andcatteries in tourist areas,where animals live inatrociousconditions.Email:info@catsnip.org.ukWebsite:www.catsnip.org.uk

ANIMALSWORLDWIDEThe charity seeks to buildrelationships with travelcompanies and to harness

theeyes, earsandenergiesof the travelling public toidentifybothgoodandbadpractice. AWW believesthat it is in the interest ofboth the industry and ofanimal welfare that werecognise and seek toexploit this opportunity tomakerealprogress.Website:www.animalsworldwide.org

CARE4CATSAn English charity,founded by animal loverAngela Collins in 1999.Her aim: to care for andhumanely reduce thenumber of stray cats inIbiza. Catch/neuter/returntripsannually.Website:www.care4cats.org.uk

CATSINITALY

Kathy T. Hisamatsu’spersonal blog about catrescue volunteering.Intended for adopters,volunteers and catguardianslivinginItaly.Website:www.catsinitaly.com

ENPAThe oldest of the largeranimalwelfareassociationsin Italy. Its aims are

protection of animals andcaring for nature and theenvironment. It promotesanimal rights and alsooffers an educationprogramme in schools ofeverygrade.Website:www.enpa.it

GREEK CAT WELFARESOCIETYTheSocietywasformedin1992. Its aim is to

undertake neutering ofcolonies of stray cats andin doing so educate andencourage local people toalso have their animalsneutered. TNR is carriedout on a regular basisseveraltimesayear.Website:www.greekcatwelfare.moonfruit.com

ILGATTILETRIESTEThe association was

created with the aim ofcontrollingthebirthrateof,caring for and effectingadoption of street cats. Inaddition, it aims to raiseawareness and respect forfelines among localpeopleand, in particular, youngpeople.Website:www.ilgattile.it

L’OASISFELINAThis feline sanctuary was

created in 2000 with theaims of helping feral andabandoned cats, providingfood veterinary care, ahomewhere theycanhaveacosybedtosleepinamidthecompanyofothercats.Website:www.ilgattile.it

OIPAITALIAONLUSIts aims are theguardianship of nature andthe environment, the

abolition of vivisection incountries throughout theworld, and the defence ofanimals from whateverform of maltreatment:hunting, circus animals,bullfights,popularfestivalwithanimals,feralanimals,traffic of exotic animalzoos, intensive rearing,slaughterhouses, and toencourage vegan andvegetariandiets.

Email:info@oipa.orgWebsite:www.oipa.org

METALCOTEManufactures and suppliesplastic-coated cat baskets,wire pet carriers, meshcages and animal traps. Italsoprovidesmanyanimalaids to vets, such as end-opening restrainer-trappingcages for administeringinjections, or rescue traps,

for the capture andtransportationofwild feralanimals and small rodentsandbirds.Email:sales@metalcote.co.ukWebsite:www.metalcote.co.uk

SNIPINTERNATIONALA UK registered charitydedicated to improvingstandardsofanimalwelfare

around the world. Inparticular, SNIPInternational promotesneutering programmesaimed at stray and feralanimals.Itrespectslifeanddoes not endorsedestruction of healthyanimals.Website: www.snip-international.org

The Society for theProtection of AnimalsAbroadisaleadingcharityfor working animalsworldwide and thecommunities they support:‘We know that workinganimalsareessentialtothehealth and economicwellbeing of millions ofvulnerable families acrossthe developing world. Butoften these hardworking

animalslackaccesstoevenbasiccare:that’swherewecomein.’Website:www.spana.org

Acknowledgements

y heartfelt thanks goto:

Elke Bosurgi, untiringcatladyanddearfriend

Oscar La Manna,guardian of Sicily’s felinewaifs and strays andwonderfulcolleague

Guy Liebenberg, vet inamillionAnimals’ Voice, which

supportssmallprojectslikeCatsnip

Mario Pavone, wisecommentatoronSicily

Valeria Cundari,defenderofanimalrights

Nigel and Marit,Elizabeth,Barbara,Joyandall whose donations havemadethisworkpossible

Kathy, dear colleagueand translator of catbehaviour

Andrew, dearcompanion and navigatoronthisendeavour

Mybelovedcat,Sheba,constant writingcompanion and stressbuster

Andallthecatsandcatladies I have had thepleasureofknowing.

Glossary

A domani: ‘See youtomorrow’

Briscola: an Italian trick-takingcardgame

Cassata or CassataSiciliana: a traditional

dessert from the Palermoand Messina areas. It canalso refer to ice creamstudded with candied ordriedfruitandnuts

Domani domani:‘Tomorrow, alwaystomorrow’

Freddo da famorire: coldenough to freeze you todeath

Micio:pussorpussycat

Panna cotta: literally,‘cooked cream’. A dessertmadewiththickcream,eggwhiteandhoney

Passeggiata: literally, awalkbutoftenastrollwithfriendsinapublicstreetorsquare

Roba da donne: women’s

Salotta:livingroom

Sott’olio:pickledinoil

Trovatelle:foundlings

Aloveofcatsrunsinthefamily.ThisismyfatherasayoungmaninthegardenwithMuffinandCrumpet.

MyownbelovedcatSheba.

GattarasupremeElkewithwonderfulvetOscarLaMannaandKatarina,whobroughtthemtogether.

TirelesscatrescuerHelensoothesacapturedfeline.

Me,Helen,Davide,Guy,JustineandValeriaattheendofahecticday.

Gingerwasextremelypoorly,andherbodycoveredinscabs,beforeshewastreated.

AhealthyGinger,fullyrecoveredfromringworm.

BrightonvetGuy,whocametoSicilytohelpCatsnip,demonstratinganon-invasivesurgicalproceduretoagroupofveterinarystudents.

AveryspecialcatladyValeriahandrearsakitten.

AhappyendingforHelen’stinyrescuekittenGavroche.

MatriarchMacchia,whowasrehomedinTaormina.

BeautifulPiccolino,whowasfoundsufferingfromeveryparasitegoing,wasnursedtogoodhealthandtakeninbyvetOscar.

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