After our odd alternate-universe experience at Vulcano’s odiferous sulfur mud baths, my husband Joe and I found it hard to believe that we would consider returning to do more sightseeing. Even more remarkable, we managed to look at a house for sale – the latter among our more recent desperate forays into establishing an island residence. The combination of Italy and the sea tend to do this to us. And we certainly admit to our impulsive moments. In the process, though, we’ve learned to like Vulcano…just not enough to live there.
Nevertheless, we spent some memorable moments here away from il laghetto di fanghi (Vulcano Part I: In the belly of the volcano). A youthful-looking retired couple, whose house in the interior Piano district was on the market, met us at the main port against the unmistakable smell of sulfur fumes. They drove us across more arid environs past the Gran Cratere, or Big Crater, of the Vulcano della Fossa, once believed to be the entrance to Hades. The challenging climb on foot up the smoldering volcano takes about three hours and is best accomplished in the early morning or evening when the sun is not such an unrelenting ball of fire. The views from this vantage point are nothing short of intergalactic.
Our hosts – robust pictures of health and fitness -- drove us to a decidedly less geologically volatile area; in fact, a quiet modern suburb lined with white-stucco bungalows, a few stores and snack bars, even a well-lit tennis court. This particular home had a cozy, almost folkloric feel – a wood-burning fireplace, an intimate tiled kitchen, and each room decorated with the woman’s lush yet delicate landscape paintings. A sizable garden encompassed a small olive grove, clusters of Sicily’s spiky cactus called ficchi d’India, as well as caper bushes and low-hanging eggplant. A fairly wide gap separated this property from a hulking sand-colored dormant volcano, and the only ocean view was a mere patch of blue discerned from the rooftop terrace. Thankfully, the putrid sulfur smell did not reach this part of the island. However, Joe and I still preferred a house with an airier feel and a more prominent ocean view.
The couple suggested we spend more time on Vulcano to determine districts that would better suit our tastes. They happen to live in another home: on the water, near the island’s trademark lighthouse, and invited us over on our next visit (which happened to be the next day). They were especially proud of their designation as isolani, or islanders, adrift from Sicily proper or mainland Italy. And, over time, Joe and I regarded Vulcano not as a desolate crag with a foul-smelling geological wonder, but as a majestic mound of varied moods and faces.
Before taking an aliscafo back to Lipari, we had lunch at a lovely restaurant, La Forgia (or Forge, as in Vulcan’s Forge), not far from the sulfurous Porto di Levante – surprisingly free of the mud baths’ distinctive scent. The owner, a slight mustachioed man named Maurizio, invited us to try a number of small plates of Aeolian delicacies, most notably a small mountain of fresh-baked ricotta in the shape of the Gran Cratere and a basket of very flavorful couscous and potato bread. A fennel frittata and breaded calamari cakes preceded substantial bowls of pasta topped with tomatoes, eggplant, artichokes and swordfish. Maurizio capped our satisfying meal with a glass of the ubiquitous Aeolian digestivo, malvasia, and a light homemade limoncello-like liquor scented with cardamon. Throughout, Maurizio tended to the other diners and a mother cat that left her sleeping kittens to indulge in her own plate of seafood pasta.
Afterwards, we ambled along a small strip of shops, including one that sold reddish clay masks of smiling and grimacing ancient Greek and Roman gods – a souvenir staple on all the Aeolian Islands. We headed back to Lipari, only to set sail for Vulcano the next morning.
But we lingered a while at Lipari’s Marina Lunga and enjoyed a brioche and caffe’ at Bar Urso. We observed the onslaught of the usual stray dogs that make ports their home, along with leathery-skinned vendors, some with multiple watches displayed up to their elbows, and others hawking cigarettes and lighters.
Upon arriving on Vulcano, Joe and I rented a small mustard-yellow vehicle with open sides to explore the island (it really looked more like a glorified golf cart). We didn’t worry too much about traffic, except for the occasional Api farm mobile or motor scooter, as we drove along roads surrounded by gaping gorges, volcanic mountains and terrain the dry-wheat shade of spaghetti westerns. We also passed a few sheep, goats, cows and horses. We headed toward the silken black-sand-and-pebble beach of Gelso, far from the mud baths.
In this area, we also visited the kind-hearted couple from the previous day. Over cold drinks and sesame-seed cookies on their terrace – and the tantalizing aroma of red and yellow bell peppers sautéing in olive oil – we discussed their impressively healthy, peaceful and invigorating retirement choice. They mentioned that visitors to the luxurious Gelso beach become afflicted with “Gelsomania,” or Gelso love sickness. We also happened to spot some forestry workers pulling a medium-sized octopus out of the water. One man held it by its light bulb-shaped head, while the sea creature’s multiple legs dangled like a limp mop.
Joe and I bid farewell to our newfound friends and took a short walk along a caramel-colored path of high grasses toward a small hidden church and, eventually, Vulcano’s abandoned lighthouse -- made all the more ominous by its broken windows and boarded-up, graffiti-coated doors. We were able to peek inside the bleak, crumbling structure, and I felt it could be the perfect setting for a horror movie…or maybe I was imagining (especially after just seeing the captured octopus) the squid-faced ghouls of Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. Our eerie first impressions of the island may have proven true after all.
Then those unsettling images were proven wrong as we continued our drive up to higher ground (a harrowing climb in our golf cart) at Capo Grillo, a spectacular pine forest and scenic point where two tall poplar trees framed a postcard view of the other islands and i faraglioni (poetically shaped cliffs and rocks on the sea). We were the only souls around, later to be joined by a fun-loving middle-aged Italian couple on a motor scooter (he in a black Speedo; she in a floral sarong). As we gazed out at this mythic horizon of sea, sky, volcanoes and verdant flora, Joe and I agreed that Vulcano, an island we once considered a gateway to the Underworld, had rematerialized into a serene detour to heaven.
END
Next up: Panarea and Stromboli
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