Our port of call in Sicily faces the Strait of Messina and carries the same name. During the second world war Dad passed through Messina on his way from Egypt to Italy. Up on deck at dawn as the city came into view I tried to pick out which of the buildings Dad would have seen and imagined how he might have felt with the clouds of war hanging over the city. My own approach could not have been more different – here I was on a luxury P&O cruise liner whilst Dad would have been on a very basic troop carrier. But enough of the war – how did I spend my day in the Land of the Godfather? Needless to say it involved yet another adventure trying to find a cemetery!
As I entered the terminal building I found a tourist information booth was just opening up. I asked for a map and enquired the way to the “Messina Cimitero Monumentale” in Via Catania. As always I received a surprised look – obviously cemeteries are not on the normal tourist trail. On this occasion I received excellent help and the exact route to the main gate of the cemetery was pointed out on the map. The young lady even wrote down an Italian phrase that I should ask for within the cemetery so that the Office could point me in the right direction. I was told I could take the light rail from outside but said I would prefer to take the half hour walk. It was far too early for anything to be open but this was fine as it gave me a chance to negotiate the streets with ease and soak up a little of the atmosphere from the imposing architecture.
I reached the cemetery with no problems and spent a little while wandering around wondering where on earth the “Foreigners” section was in this huge Sicilian cemetery. In the end I had to admit defeat. I made my way to the main gate and noticed a small office with the word “Portiere” over the door. An emaciated gentleman stood outside and I enquired of him the way to “Zomo Inglesi” in my best British accent. Obviously he had no idea of what I was trying to say! I tried several more times, each time adding more of an Italian lilt to the words. He waved his hands about in frustration trying to tell me that he spoke no English and did not understand what I was asking. Then all of a sudden the penny must have dropped and he shouted excitedly “Campo Inglesi?”. Just as excitedly I nodded my head and repeated the words that he had said – hoping aganst hope that this was actually what I wanted. He took me over to a small mini bus that was parked by the gate and which was filling up with passengers who were loaded down with bunches of flowers. The Portiere spoke to the driver and I was told to board the bus. I did as I was told – goodness only knows where I was going to be taken!
As I boarded I noticed that there should be one seat free at the back – unfortunately the three passengers taking up this back row were of such a size that they took up all four seats. There was a two seater row in front of this but these two seats were taken up by one lady with masses of flowers. The driver shouted at her to make room for me to sit down (at least this is what I think he was saying). She shouted back in a very angry voice and I told her it was “OK” I would stand. Then an elderly Turkish gentleman tried to get up to offer me his seat but again I said it was “OK” – how could I take a seat from him? So, mini bus full and me standing with head bent we set off into the heart of the cemetery. We climbed and climbed and negotiated many hair pin bends before coming to a halt at the very top of the steep hill. Most of the passengers alighted carrying with them their flowers and I was able to take a seat. I enquired as best I could whether this was where I was meant to get off but the driver shook his head and had an animated conversation with the one other passenger who was left. I heard the work “Inglesi” several times so they were obviously talking about me and my mission.
We set off again this time going down hill and negotiating more hairpin bends. I had completely lost my sense of direction by this time and just hoped that by some miracle I would be able to find my way out of the cemetery when the time came. The bus came to a halt and both driver and passenger pointed out a small pathway between the trees. I thanked the driver profusely – but what was “thank you “ in Italian, I had forgotten and just smiled broadly and said Thank You many times. I made my way down the path, peered over the wall and noticed some dilapidated English graves on the other side. Then I came to a gate outside of which was a notice stating that in 1925 King George V and Queen Mary had visited the graves of the British soldiers and sailors who were buried here. I had found the section I was seeking !!
Inside I found the graves of English, French and German. It was a very showery morning and large droplets of rain fell on my head from the trees. My feet were becoming wetter and wetter as I was having to plough my way through overgrown vegetation. A family of locals noticed that I was taking photographs and this sparked their interest and they wandered in. I doubt that they had ever entered this section before – they did not stay long. I spent an hour doing what I could to photograph the headstones and then bid my fellow countrymen farewell. I now had to find my way out of the cemetery.
Fortunately, right next to the “Foreigners Section” I spotted a side gate which seemed to lead out of the cemetery onto a lane. I was now at quite a low level and I reckoned that if I followed this narrow lane downhill then it SHOULD lead me back to the main road, Via Catania. Thankfully it did. Phew I had not become totally lost.
Back on the right track I passed the main gate and popped in to thank the Portiere for his help. The only Mediterranean phrase for thank you that I could think of was “Gracias” but wasn’t that Spanish? Oh well, Gracias and Thank You will have to do. He seemed to be delighted so he must have got the drift of what I was trying to say. I found my way back to the ship for a sorely needed cup of coffee.
At noon I was in the main square to watch the clock spring into life. The rampart lion roaring and waving his flag, a cockerel screeching to the gathered crowds and the twelve apostles circling. All of this was done to the chants of a priest and the strains of Ave Maria – most impressive.
The afternoon was spent wandering the little back streets of Messina. Every corner revealed new shapes or new colours. What photo opportunities. But then the rain came down in torrents and I got drenched. Back to the ship soaking wet but with such very happy memories of Messina.
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