A Lincolnshire farmer died and went to Heaven. St Peter told him that there was a custom. Over dinner on his first evening, the new arrival would give a talk to the Heavenly Host on a great world event during his lifetime. ‘That’s easy,’ said the farmer: ‘the Lincolnshire floods in 1953.’ Peter was incredulous. ‘The Lincolnshire floods in 1953. Was that a great world event?’ ‘It certainly was. I lost six sheep. Jan Stewer lost 12 sheep, and six cows. Further down the valley, a man was drowned.’ Super Hanc Petram, who had heard enough about Lincolnshire to last an eternity-time, interrupted the flood. ‘Very well. But do remember: your audience will include Noah.’
I thought of Noah over the weekend, during a tour of western Sicily organised by the incomparable Charles Fitzroy of Fine Art Travel. Robin Lane-Fox was talking us through the mosaics at Monreale. There was Noah, building the Ark, sailing in the midst of the great waters, disembarking his livestock — and finally, getting sloshed in his vineyard. Poor fellow; weeks at sea with all those animals, and no chance to scoff any of them. If anyone ever earned a drink, it was him. There were suggestions of malarkey: even incest. A generation ago, on a Saturday night, there would have been worse goings-on in many a Lincolnshire farm -cottage.
When I first visited Sicily, also a generation ago, some local wines tasted as if viticulture had not improved since Genesis (I make no judgment on incest). Not any more. If there were a gold-medal competition for improvements in wine-making over the past three decades, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies would be a strong candidate.
The Island’s restaurateurs are also entitled to laurels. Thirty years ago, after a fortnight of pasta and fish, I could not bear the thought of another healthy meal. In a good restaurant, I asked for their best carne, even if it were horse. The waiter was scandalised. ‘Niente cavallo.’ I am not claiming that I was served a piece of knackered mule. I merely doubt whether mule would have been stringier.
Those days are over. There are plenty of excellent establishments. If you see Sicilians enjoying themselves at table, you are unlikely to be disappointed if you eat what they eat and drink what they are drinking. Even so, they are still not producing many London wines. A Nero d’Avola, Duca di Salaparuta 2003, was an exception, partly because it had the bottle-age which that grape needs. But I did not come across anything as good as the best Primitivos. Barolo and Brunello — let alone the super-Tuscans — need not fear for their markets, yet. That may not be true in ten years’ time.
Sicilian wines ought to have one advantage. Their vineyards rest on ancient foundations. In the 5th century BC, Tellias of Agrigento had the largest wine cellar ever recorded. Then, Sicily was opulent. Its wine and olive oil poured across the sea to Carthage. Sicilians used Carthaginian gold to adorn their cities, their houses, and the temples: the houses of their gods.
We were on a terrace, toasting Tellias’s memory, looking up to the Temple of Concord. Robin pointed out a paradox. To us, Greek temples are unsurpassable in grandeur and beauty. But when the Temple of Concord was built, its honey-coloured stone was covered in stucco. We see perfection, where an ancient Greek might see change and decay. So is it only the ravages of the centuries which have created the illusion of an Apollonian harmony between their aesthetic and ours?
Alas, the gods have fled. These days, you move from harmony to hideousness in the twinkling of an eye, just by looking from one hillside to another. Most modern Sicilian architecture makes Norman Foster look like Brunelleschi. There is only one consolation. As ill-built as they are ugly, many of these excrescences are likely to fall down in about 20 years time. That calls for a libation.
Comments