A Sicilian renaissance

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.

‘The examined life is not worth living.’

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.