Aeolian Islands
Why go?
Scattered in the Tyrrhenian Sea north of Sicily, like rocky shards
splintered from the mother-volcano of Etna, the seven Aeolian
islands are perhaps the Med's most beguiling, elemental and
inaccessible archipelago. They rise "seething out of turbulent
waves", to paraphrase local poet Rufo Festo Avenio, their "tall and
twisting flanks granting shelter to tormented navigators". The
ancient Greeks ascribed them to Aeolus, god of winds and placator
of waves, who had seven palaces, one on each island.
But they also have a softer side. Sail in on a calm summer's day,
when the sky and waves melt into the same blue, and a gentle breeze
rides on top of them to rustle the islands' palm trees and draping
bougainvillea, and they feel like a dollop of heaven on earth.
Wander ashore and you'll find ash-rich earth supporting
steep-pitched fields of vegetables – cherry tomatoes,
aubergines, capers, grape-vines – at the foot of conical
peaks swathed in arbutus woods, prickly pears and semi-tropical
flowers. And now, of course, they have a very soft side, thanks to
a handful of extremely comfortable and indulgent boutique resorts,
which have kicked all memories of lumpy mattresses and brackish
showers straight off the sea-cliffs and into oblivion.
After mass emigration to Australia in the 1950's, the islands have
come back to life, gaining electricity and phones as recently as
the 1980's, and (semi-)organised tourism thereafter. But, because
of the difficulty of access and the lack of sandy beaches, there
are no huge resorts, few tour groups and only a scattering of roads
(or none at all on some islands). Which is a blessing for the rest
of us. The busiest bit of real estate is probably the dance terrace
of the Hotel Raya late on a summer's night, when the beam of the
lighthouse mixes with red sparks from the still-active volcano on
Stromboli to illuminate a mass of beautifully bronzed bodies. At
the other end of the scale, if you hike up the 900m summits of
rugged Salina, with the entire archipelago spread at your feet like
scattered fangs, or if you take a boat to the dauntingly sheer
rock-stacks off its coast, you can go all day without seeing
another soul. And that, in today's Europe, is a rare boast.