Stromboli
Mum calls the day before the holiday. Unfortunately, she's watched the news. "You're not going to Etna are you?" I told her the truth. "No! No. We're going to Naples and then we'll get a ferry to an island." The news in the UK did not mention the name of my island. The news in Italy did. She did not ask me the name of my island. I did not tell her the name of my island. Later, an unholy rumble - a roar - the sound of the earth being torn open. The sensation of a slow moving monster looming above, like the stop motion creations of Ray Harryhausen come real. Warning sirens. A thick black cloud rises to the heavens, blocking out the sun, and spreads like treacle across the clear blue sky. We watch the street as people rush inside. The carabinieri look like actors, rushing down to clear the tiny, rocky cove of people. They reappear, sweating in their berets and padded jackets. What a chore! Ten minutes pass and a older man appears squinting and sw...