Ballroom dancing made a man of me,
Lyrics from ‘Ballroom Dancing’ by Paul McCartney
One, two, three, four,
I just plain adore your
Ballroom dancing, I’ve seen it on TV,
I got what I got from ballroom dancing.
In April, The Man of Kent and I went to Sicily.
We didn’t go to Mount Etna, or see the Valley of the Temples, or hit the beach. Instead, we explored an abandoned city, embraced driving the Sicilian way, and danced ’til after midnight at the local social club. This was not a tourist-trap trip; it was a taste of real Sicilian life.
This is the story of that visit, and why Sicily and dancing will always go together in my heart.
From dancing in Gateshead to dancing in Maidstone
When I was growing up in Gateshead, dancing was a big part of my life.
I started classes when I was about 3 years old. In those days, my brilliant teacher, Debra, was holding classes at the Broadway Ballroom in Pelaw (now sadly demolished).
Life in dance, for me and my sisters, was disco and rock ‘n’ roll, with ballroom and Latin added later. We chasséd, spin-turned, and high-kicked our way through twice-weekly classes, weekend competitions, and annual dance shows and presentations. Debra polished our routines, technique and posture, making sure chins were up, toes pointed and every move finished to the fingertips. Our Mam and Nanna made our dance costumes, often staying up into the wee hours sewing on sequins, diamantes and other embellishments. I have great memories of dancing with Debra. Even now, decades later, I can still remember some of the routines!
I gave up dancing when I moved away from home to college and university. But my love of dance never went away, and I always hoped that, one day, I’d meet someone who enjoyed dancing like me. Not just a life partner, but a dance partner. Someone who could twirl me round the dancefloor like they do on Strictly…
The Man of Kent showed no such inclination at first. He was happy to strut his stuff in nightclubs, but actual dance classes? Absolutely not. His foot was put down firmly on that one.
I didn’t blame him. I think it’s fair to say that plenty of men feel uncomfortable with the idea of dance classes, or dancing generally. Some feel embarrassed about wanting to dance. Some worry that they will be rubbish, or laughed at, or accused of wanting to show off. General British reticence and stereotypes don’t help either. This means chaps can feel like dancing is not for them unless they have been learning from a young age, and men who do want to learn are as shifty about it as Stanley Tucci and Richard Gere in Shall We Dance?
But I have always believed that, deep down in every man, even though some would never admit it, there is a part that wants to dance. A part that wants to trip the light fantastic like Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers, or dominate the dancefloor like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. A part that just needs the right sort of encouragement and environment to flourish.
This part of The Man of Kent revealed itself in the kitchen one Saturday night in the early noughties. We were at his Mum and Dad’s house, and everyone was watching Strictly Come Dancing in the living room. Halfway through the show, The Man of Kent wandered off to the kitchen for a beer. I followed to make a cup of tea between the dances. The living room door was open, and I could hear Strictly head judge (at the time), Len Goodman, talking to the contestants about the importance of frame and the man needing to have “strong ballroom arms.”
What do I find happening in the kitchen when I get there? The Man of Kent, in a ballroom-dance pose, attempting to do ‘strong ballroom arms!’ This was a man who had pooh-poohed any idea of the two of us doing ballroom dancing, yet here he was, practising strong ballroom arms when he thought no one could see him!
“Aha!” I said. “You do want to try dancing!” He could no longer deny it; I had caught him in the act. Shortly after, we signed up to a beginner’s class at Margaret Preedy’s dance school in Maidstone, and our life in dance began.
Dancing at Margaret’s
Waltz, cha cha cha, tango, foxtrot, quickstep, rumba, jive, samba, paso doble, salsa, meringue. Thanks to Margaret, we’ve learned all these classic ballroom and Latin styles, and more besides. We’ve even had a go at the Viennese waltz and the Argentine tango. Strictly Come Dancing is now a religion in our house, and we can’t hear any tune without working out what dance would go best with it.
We’ve made many dancing friends over the years at Margaret’s, and each couple’s story of how they started dancing is similar to ours. She (for it is usually the woman) wanted to try dancing. Eventually, through a combination of persuasion, cajoling, bribes, wiles and/or threats, her chap agreed to go with her “once”, so that he could magnanimously say he tried it and she could, in the words of one friend, “get the idea out of her system.”
Guess what happened in all these cases? Yep, the chaps enjoyed it as much as the ladies, and we’re all still dancing, many years later!
This is not surprising, because Margaret is a fantastic teacher – encouraging, enthusiastic, with a great sense of fun and abundant patience. The Man of Kent and I have sorely tested that patience in our attempts to do a graceful waltz, or just distinguish left foot from right foot. Margaret’s studios were exactly what you imagine a dance studio to look like – wooden dance floor, mirrors on the wall, twinkly lights. Those studios became as familiar as home. As well as weekly lessons, there were many fabulous dance nights and parties. The emphasis was always on having fun and enjoying the dancing, and we loved every minute.
Goodbye Maidstone, and ciao Sicilia!
Margaret recently retired and moved to Sicily. With Sicily being so close to Malta, we couldn’t miss the opportunity to visit Margaret and her new home as part of our holiday earlier this year.
Apart from seeing Margaret, there was one thing we were particularly excited about doing in Sicily. It wasn’t admiring baroque architecture or sampling limoncello cocktails. No. It was the Saturday night dance at Villa Bruna, which had already become the stuff of legend at our classes in Maidstone.
More on Villa Bruna shortly.
First, we had to get from Malta to Margaret’s guest apartments, Casa Picaro, running a gauntlet of Sicilian drivers along the way…
Arriving in Sicily
We travelled to Sicily on the ferry from Valletta, landing at Pozzallo on the south coast. The ferry journey is easy; you just hop on an hour before departure and make yourself comfy in one of the airline-style seats on the passenger deck. The Man of Kent and I sat right at the front for the glorious views, and so I could pretend I was steering the ship. We took the evening departure from Valletta; the alternative being leaving at the ungodly hours of 5:00am or 7:30am.
Waiting to depart, we watched the ships sailing in and out of Valletta. Small crafts chugged along beside enormous liners. We watched a whopping beast of a cruise ship slowly turning in the harbour, laboriously manoeuvering its huge bulk around. It’s not until you see one of these cruise ships up close that you realise just how offensively massive they are. The city behind looked tiny in comparison.
Once sailing, we watched the sun setting over the waves, with Valletta’s Grand Harbour receding into the shadowy horizon. A tranquil hour and a half later, the lights of Sicily started sparkling in the distance. It was pitch black by the time we collected our hire car. This meant it was also dark when we had our first encounter with…
Driving in Sicily
Sicilian drivers take no prisoners. It’s every man and woman for themselves, everyone apparently has right of way at all times, and speed limits are merely decorative roadside signage. Anyone attempting to stick to a speed limit (like The Man of Kent) is overtaken ruthlessly.
There’s apparently no need to slow down on blind bends or corners either. Instead, everyone just barrels round at top speed like they are on a Formula One race track, showing no mercy to anyone who might be coming in the other direction. If the person coming the other way is Sicilian, they’ll miss you with millimetres to spare, right at the last second, after you have seen your entire life flash before your eyes. (Thankfully, Sicilian drivers have lightning-fast reaction times). If the other driver is not Sicilian, well…good luck.
The journey from Pozzallo to Casa Picaro in the dark was not for the faint-hearted.
Thankfully Margaret, always a fabulous host, had a delicious dinner, cold beer and Aperol spritzes ready to soothe our shredded nerves.
Casa Picaro
Casa Picaro stands on a hill overlooking the Cava Picaro valley. It’s a scenic haven, with views stretching over the mountains, olive groves and countryside down to the Mediterranean. There’s no noisy neighbours, no traffic and no stress; just birdsong, peace and quiet.
From Casa Picaro, you can stroll to various places of interest from the front door. On our first morning, we ambled down to the Convent of Santa Maria Scala del Paradiso. Later that afternoon, Margaret and her husband, Paul, took us on a walk from Casa Picaro to the abandoned city of Noto Antica.
On the way to Noto Antica, we bumped into one of Margaret’s neighbours, who kindly showed us around his lovely home and garden. I could feel waves of envy emanating from The Man of Kent as we were shown verdant olive, orange and lemon groves, and copious fruit and vegetable plots. His Gillingham allotment cannot compare to a Sicilian garden with a sea view!
Noto Antica
Noto Antica means ‘Old Noto’. It’s where the city of Noto used to be before it was destroyed by an earthquake in 1693. After the earthquake, the city was moved to where it stands today, about 9-10km south of Noto Antica. Little remains of the old city, and what’s left is overgrown with vegetation and forest.
You can wander around Noto Antica’s peaceful, atmospheric ruins and woodlands for free. There aren’t any information boards or maps to tell you about the area, so you’ll have to freestyle your route and take a guidebook if you’re interested in the history. The footpaths are dusty and rocky. Wear decent walking shoes if you’re going here; the terrain is not suitable for sandals or flip flops! However, even decent footwear won’t protect if you’re not careful, as I learned to my cost.
My Granda always used to tell me to “watch what you’re doing.” A classic Geordie phrase that one. It didn’t matter where I was going. Even if I was just going up the road to Aldi for some shopping, Granda would say, “Watch what you’re doing.”
Well, I wasn’t watching what I was doing on the way home from Noto Antica; I was too busy admiring the view (sorry, Granda). Result: I fell over, spraining my ankle. The only time (touch wood) I’ve ever injured myself on holiday.
Adrenaline kicked in and I managed to hobble back to Casa Picaro, insisting my ankle was OK. The next day, however, as The Man of Kent had confidently predicted, my ankle was not OK.
Rest, recuperation and Sicilian home cooking
By morning, my ankle was swollen and covered in purple bruising. There was nothing for it but to spend the day resting, foot up. I parked on the sofa, mainlining tea and reading Kairos by Jenny Erpenbeck, continuing my quest to read more books this year.
The Man of Kent was determined to have the complete Mediterranean holiday experience despite it only being 19 degrees Celsius with a stiff breeze. Staunchly setting up a sun lounger, he did a bit of sketching, applying the same level of artistic self-criticism to the results that I imagine caused Van Gogh to chop his own ear off.
That evening, we drove out with Margaret and Paul to Cucina Tipica da Eva e Zio Pippo Marino-Marinello, a rustic farmhouse restaurant serving delicious, home-cooked food. We kicked off with an enormous antipasti board, followed by rabbit stew, sumptuous cheesecakes, and the owner’s homemade, boozy pistachio liqueur – yum!
Syracuse and Ortigia
After a day of rest, and with ankle slightly improved, it was time to head out again. While The Man of Kent does not regard himself as being on holiday unless it’s hot and sunny, I’m not properly on holiday unless I’m out and about, photographing every sight there is to see like a paparazzo on steroids (even with an injured ankle). With only one full day left in Sicily, we needed to go somewhere where I could get plenty of photographic bang for my buck.
We decided to head to Syracuse, which meant another battle with vertiginous mountain roads, hairpin bends and fearless Sicilian motorists, and one very close encounter with a tour bus. The Man of Kent said he felt like James Bond driving on the steep, twisty route to Syracuse from Casa Picaro. Sensibly, he did not attempt to drive like 007; he left that up to the Sicilians.
Syracuse Cathedral and Argentine tango!
Syracuse is a UNESCO World Heritage Site that was founded by the Ancient Greeks in around 734BCE. The small island of Ortigia is the historic centre of the city.
Regarded as one of the most picturesque squares in all of Italy, Ortigia’s Piazza Duomo is dominated by the creamy baroque façade of Syracuse Cathedral on one side and the comparatively dinky Church of Santa Lucia alla Badia on the other. When we arrived, a couple was dancing Argentine tango in the square – serendipitous, considering the reason for our trip!
Syracuse Cathedral is unusual because it started out as a Greek temple to Athena, built in 480BCE. Over the years, the building was transformed into the Christian church we see today, and now houses the relics of St Lucy. Remarkably, the original Doric columns are visible inside and out. We noted that this cathedral had the same Vatican-inspired spiral columns we saw in St John’s Co-Cathedral in Malta. Obviously the Sicilian cathedrals wanted to keep up with the papal fashions like everyone else!
The ruined Temple of Apollo
Ortigia is also home to the ruins of the Temple of Apollo, considered to be the oldest Doric temple in Sicily, dating to around the 6th century BCE. The Temple has been through several conversions, having been used as a mosque, a church, a barracks and a private house before being rediscovered and excavated by Italian archaeologist, Paolo Orsi.
Vases with a gruesome history
All over Ortigia are shops selling limoncello, pistachio liqueur and Teste di Moro (‘Moors’ Heads’). These striking vases are symbolic of Sicily and you can’t go two steps in Ortigia without seeing one somewhere.
The legend behind the vases is a dark tale. Depending on which version of the story you prefer, the vases are either a grim reminder that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, or a symbol of a young couple’s eternal love. Either way, a most unusual souvenir to bring home!
Parking in Ortigia
Parking in Ortigia is horrible. It felt like the entire world had arrived in Ortigia and tried to park on the same day we had. Cram a load of drivers into an ancient city with tight roads, a weird one-way system, and the local carefree driving style, and the result is Much Stress and Shouting from both driver and passenger. Get there early if you’re driving, is the only advice I can offer.
Dancing the night away at Villa Bruna
We saved the best part of our trip for our last evening; the famous Saturday night dance at Villa Bruna.
Friends from Margaret’s dance school who had been to Villa Bruna were unanimous; it is brilliant, and you have to experience it for yourself.
It was brilliant. We had the best time.
Villa Bruna is like an Italian version of the traditional social clubs back home in the North East. Clearly the place to be on Saturday night, it felt like everyone from the local area was there, dressed up and ready to enjoy themselves.
The dance floor was packed with people of all ages doing sequence dancing, and traditional ballroom and Latin styles. Everyone danced, and danced, and danced until well after midnight to classic songs and modern pop bangers, some of which we were delighted to hear again in this year’s Eurovision Song Contest. Tutta l’Italia and Espresso Macchiato are permanent earworms for me now. It was so much fun, I hardly noticed my aching ankle, although the most movement I could manage was shuffling through the slower dances.
Everyone at Villa Bruna was friendly and welcoming, and it was a delight to be surrounded by so many enthusiastic dancers. Everyone also kindly tolerated our dodgy Italian. At least dance is a universal language!
Villa Bruna’s dance night is the sort of experience that you just don’t get on a typical holiday, and we would never have discovered it without Margaret and Paul. We are so glad we did – it was the highlight of our trip. I’d go dancing at Villa Bruna every Saturday night if I could.
The road to Catania and views of Mount Etna
All of a sudden it was time to go home. We were flying back, so steadied the nerves, took a deep breath, and motored to Catania Airport.
Now, this was a lovely drive. First – a four-lane motorway! A luxury compared to the narrow mountain roads around Noto. Such space, such smooth road surfaces, and everyone driving mega-fast in the same direction for a change. And a view of Mount Etna standing proudly against the blue sky almost the whole way to Catania! You don’t get that sort of scenery driving from Medway to Gatwick.
Once home, the 70mph motorway speed limit felt tame after our weekend crash course in Sicilian driving, and giving way at roundabouts seemed terribly polite and British. Our trip certainly changed our perspective on driving. Whenever The Man of Kent and I encounter someone driving with no fear now, we turn to each other and think, “Must be Sicilian.”
Strictly Sicily
Ask someone to list things they associate with Sicily, and they’ll probably come up with ruins, volcanoes, olive groves, limoncello and Inspector Montalbano.
Ask me to list things I associate with Sicily, and I’ll give you dancing. From being the new home of one of my favourite dance teachers, to tango on the streets of Ortigia, to bopping away at Villa Bruna, Sicily and dancing will be forever intertwined in my heart.
Who would have thought that those first baby dance steps in Pelaw were actually the first steps on a path that would take me to dancing in Sicily?
Although Margaret has retired, our dance journey continues. The Man of Kent and I have new teachers, Jonathan and Emma, and we still have plenty to learn. Mastery of the foxtrot (in fact, most dances) continues to elude us for one thing, and I still can only tell my right from my left half the time. And of course, we plan to return to Sicily for more dancing and sightseeing.
And finally
Visit Sicily – it’s gorgeous. Hire a car – if you dare – and delve into the history and culture of this beautiful island. If you’re walking around ruins – watch what you’re doing. If you’re hovering on the edge of taking a dance class, do it. It might feel nerve-wracking at first, but it could lead you to some wonderful new experiences, friends and places.
And to my fellow dancers at home and abroad, as they say on Strictly, keep dancing!
