Syracuse - Ortygia.

Food, glorious food.

Have booked myself in for a week's Italian lessons in Sicily. stopping overnight in Catania near the fish markets. The small hotel is in an apartment, high ceilings and beautiful tiled floors, shuttered against the searing heat even in September. I can't not go to the markets for a visual of what's in season, so off I go in the afternoon heat and come upon different coloured seasonal eggplants and amazingly diverse squash. I eat at a restaurant skirting the markets. It's swordfish with a caper, garlic and anchovy sauce is rich and smells of the sea.

Breakfast is a table spread of various homemade cakes. I've still got the Moroccan bug but I'm sure cake is a cure for all. And then I'm on the train to Syracuse. This 2,700 year old city was the birthplace of the famed mathematician, Archimedes but it's very name for me has a mythical ring to it as I studied ancient history and this was a major power in the Mediterranean in it's heyday.

The Italian school is run by an Irish woman and her sons, one of whom picks me up and drives me to the apartment. The area looks dusty, grim, buildings in various stages of renovation and lengthy decay but my little studio is lovely. It's in Ortygia, a small island off Syracuse, connected by two bridges. I settle in and have an early night.

Next morning, I meet a lady in her late sixties, an anxious American widow who is braving her new life, studying and next week, going on a bike tour. That inspires me. She has been here a week but gets us lost on the 30 minute walk to the school.

I do a brief test and am put in a beginners class where I meet my companion for the rest of the trip and another charming young man, both from the US. At break, we're given the traditional Sicilian breakfast of brioche and granita and then my new found friend and I go off for lunch together. We bond over tragedy and trying to heal from grief. We both agree that it wasn't by chance we met. She's slim, energetic, runs every morning and loves food. We walk back together and by chance, her place is just across the small piazza from mine.

We quickly establish our routine, walking through the backstreets, past the markets, alongside the old ruins of a temple in the city centre, stopping at what would become our favourite cafe, ordering at first the large size croissant stuffed with sweet ricotta and a macchiato or two, and as the week went by, swapping to the smaller size and then walking across the bridge to our school.

We struggle with studying, it's been such a long time and grief has slightly addled our memory and brain power, nerves play a part as well as we have to speak aloud in a class situation but luckily there's only six of us and there's plenty of laughter with a great teacher. Lunches are amazing. We try different trattorias, our favourite is where mama has been cooking in the kitchen for 60 years, her sons at the front of the bar. The food is regional, rustic and delicious.

Each day there's an excursion with a lot of walking involved which counteracts the food being consumed. We head off in the afternoon to Pantalica, a cliff walk to a necropolis dating back to the 13th century BC. Up to 4000 tombs are built into the hillside here as we walk down into the valley to bathe in a swimming hole in the limestone. It's freezing but all the girls take the plunge.

We're a mixed bunch, a couple from Brazil working in the US Embassy in Milan, an English woman from Bath, two lively and beautiful girls from Peru and a young Democrat full of enthusiasm as only the young have. Cooled by our dip, we head back up the steep incline, past carob trees, the bean pods full of the sweetest seeds and flowers that strangely smell like pancetta, fig trees with the last of their fruit and prickly pear clinging to the cliffs. I can smell tiglio blooms, sweet and drifting on a slight breeze and then to an Agriturismo for an early dinner.

The table is laden! Everything is made on the premises, prosciutto from their pigs, cheese from their cows, homemade jams from their fruit trees which they serve with the cheeses. Homemade breads and wine. The courses just keep arriving. We buy some goodies from their shop and home, stuffed and exhausted.

The anxious American lady appears as soon as I open my door in the mornings and we join up with my friend across the way, buying fruit at the market, smelling the sweet scent of the capsicums roasting on the braziers, cats patrolling every corner. Pumpkins are appearing, long greenish zucchini type curly vegetables which are cooked with tomatoes and potatoes, then we breakfast on our ricotta cornetti.

On our way, we pass the very modern cathedral of the Madonna of Tears, where strange, huge trees full of incredible lily like flowers grow. This cathedral was built in honour of the Virgin Mary. The story behind it was that a couple were given a painting of the Virgin Mary for their wedding and hung it behind their bed. When the woman fell pregnant, she developed toxaemia and one night she had a seizure which left her blind. In the morning she awoke and was able to see again and looking up at the painting of Mary, she saw that there were tears coming from her eyes. She called in her husband and family to verify it and there they were. If the tears were wiped away, they would return. It was hung outside the house and people would come and collect the tears and miracles would occur. Samples of the tears were taken and after that it wept for another 51 minutes and then stopped, never to tear up again. The tears were scientifically evaluated and were pronounced to be human. It was declared to be a miracle in 1954.

The next afternoon is Mt Etna. I have no hiking clothes as per me...the guide looks at my silvery, gemstoned sandals and shakes his head and I'm taken to a place to be fitted with boots and then we're off. The mountainside is like nothing I've seen before, a barren place of wind and low slung clouds. We troop up the first of the mountains but the pathway is a metre in diameter and we look down into a crater on one side and a cliff on the other. I tell the English lady that I'm too scared to go any further and she agreed but also said that we have to try. So we take each other's arms and I look ahead without looking down and we come to the top of one crater. Etna herself is covered in clouds and is erupting more than usual today so we don't go any further. I'm hugely relieved but also proud of myself for conquering a fear of heights.

My friend and I go for dinner in old Ortygia, we have swordfish caponata and we talk forever over a glass of Sicilian wine, grown in the shadow of Etna, in her beautiful rich volcanic soils. The restaurants here are incredible. We eat at a different one each night and they're all good.

The man across the road wakes me every morning, packing his three wheeled ape with vegetables for the market. That day, I book for another week and after our classes, I go through the alleyways and discover the heart of Ortygia. Through tiny streets, full of artisan shops, quirky and beautiful.

I return to our square to meet up for dinner in the 1918 restaurant. The meal is huge, caponata to die for, eggplant parmigiana and light potato croquettes. Kids play around us and a little girl is fascinated by us, probably with our English. Again we talk until late, about our lives, our philosophies and return to our studio apartments.

Lunch the next day is risotto with zucchini, soft cheese and candied orange peel and that night we meet up at the harbour at the back of Ortygia where the hero Aeneas sailed into. We watch the sunset and walk through the streets that are lit up, buying papyrus paintings. Papyrus grows on this island and in one other place in Sicily. We eat tiny fried fish with salad and then amazing dark chocolate gelato with cacao nibs and pistachios and agrumi, a type of orange/lemon with white chocolate.

The weekend has arrived and I go that evening on an old diesel train to some towns inland. There are more Italians than tourists. The train is wonderfully old fashioned but with no air con. We sweat our way through and wander two towns, the first Scicli and the last being Modica, the chocolate city where we have a very late dinner and arrive back home at 2. The Italian babies and kids are still up and chatting merrily away even though it's way past my bedtime. Walking back through the markets, I see they've just covered the stalls in plastic and some of the stallholders are sleeping there - security.

My friend has convinced me to go snorkelling. There was a mention that the boat was a sort of raft, with no covering and no lunch provided but the rumours were untrue. A proper boat! We headed out to sea and then stopped for a swim. I took a deep breath, adjusted my snorkel and lowered myself in. This is a woman who hates deep water, who won't put her face in! This woman got in with the group and refused to look down until we came to a cave and then I thought, this is ridiculous! I looked down and my whole life shifted three gears! I became a mermaid! I forgot how deep it was, I looked and looked and swam as if the sea was my playground. We swam back to the boat and I just floated amongst shoals of fish. It was like flying but being supported. Another fear faced and conquered.

Lunch was prosciutto and mozzarella panini and beer that was dark and sweet. I celebrated myself, having the courage to do something that has always terrified me. I book in for another week of studies.

The next day it poured, driving rain and crazy wind. We were almost blown to the school. Later that evening we met up with a new student from New York and she took us to an amazing shabby chic restaurant where we dined on pasta with pistachio pesto and shrimps. Musicians serenaded us with a flute, accordian and a singer with tambourine. Ah,Italia! I felt I was back in the fifties.

Marrakesh.

Of snake charmers and charming men.

The Riad is beautiful, my room feels like I'm swimming in a turquoise sea. I eat at the restaurant upstairs, overlooking the city and sleep like a princess on a huge bed.

Next day I breakfast next to a fountain, on different thin rounds of bread, thick apricot jam and a soft homemade cheese. The pottery here is beautiful.

They have found me a guide and we're off through the maze to the Secret Garden, a 16th century formal garden that had impressive irrigation for it's time and which still works and then we go to the souks where we have mint tea with the locals as I watch the donkeys pass by, laden with goods. It's as if time has slowed, no one rushes around. The shopkeepers don't harass me to buy. They call out "Madam" but then go back to their mobile phones and the donkeys trot at a leisurely pace no matter how much they are egged on by their owners. The young boys are very charming: Madam, you are beautiful. You buy? But they too lose interest quickly.

We eat at a tourist restaurant and I wish I had said no to it. The food is dry and tasteless and even he is embarrassed. And then I am left in the main square alone to wander. This is the madding crowd space, full of tourists; where the fabled snake charmers do their thing; where men with monkeys wander and it's full of amazing stalls of herbs, with every available remedy and spices that you burn to stop the evil eye.

I make my way back slowly for a rest and then out again for dinner on a terrace, listening to the muezzin calling men to prayer. I have the most amazing octopus with fennel and leaks and go home to discover I've got the dreaded Moroccan stomach bug. Luckily the bathroom is beautiful and that I have no pain. I suspect it was the lunch restaurant and I batten down fir the evening's activity.the ne

The next day I go and speak to the woman downstairs and she says she'll take me to a chemist after breakfast which she sends up to me. The appetite is still good and I'm taken to get all that's required to end the situation and I enjoy a quiet morning in my beautiful room. I open the windows and listen to the kids playing in the streets and by lunchtime I feel cured so I venture out. The antique shops are wonderful, the doors, the colours, the woodwork!

Marrakesh feels more laidback than Fez. I wander the tiny streets and the vendors either ignore me or mistake my hesitancy at buying things as bargaining and the price drops exponentially. They seem to love Australians, when they hear my accent they chat and the prices drop. I buy a few things today as it's my last day in Morocco. They must struggle here as there are so many shops. I buy a beautiful little tajine spice container which he reduces dramatically as it will be his first sale of the day and it'll bring him luck. It's 2 pm! I also find a beautiful piece of Berber jewellery which I hum and hah about and I feel bad when he drops the price to where I can afford it because I know the work involved but I acquiesce and we settle on cash. He takes me to an ATM and then asks me what else I'm interested in. I tell him I'd like to buy powdered paint and he takes me out of his way and tells the owner to look after me.

And then I find a square of food shops. There's a place where they cook sheep heads slowly over open fires in pottery jars with leather on top and there is a huge line up of locals for this delicacy. The herbs shops are amazing, the colours and scents of the fresh herbs are distilled in the heat of the afternoon sun. I buy some dried rosebuds. So far, the stomach has behaved and I've been using my rosewater spray to keep it at bay.

I wander through the spice alleys and the homemade makeup shops, the tiny exquisite coloured glass jars for the kohl that is used for the eyes and mascara, the powdered hues for eyeshadow. No plastic here.

The stomach holds out and I dine at last night's restaurant as I sit on high, staring out over the rooftops, warmed by the soft, late afternoon sun, swallows dining mid flight. Oh Morocco, how you have enraptured me, made me feel apart of an ancient history.I can feel a different rhythm here that somewhere deep within me, has been called forth and merges with this wonderful place.

On my way to Marrakesh.

After a European tourist breakfast which included chocolate kugelhof which I ate too much of, we're off again for more hours of travel. This is the way of a hundred Kasbahs. They're scattered everywhere, blending in with the mountains, made of clay and straw, baking in the harsh sunlight. Eventually the homemade bricks wear away in the winter rains and then they add more to them and rebuild.

We stop at the Rose city, Kalaat Mgouna, passing by a gigantic rose which reminds me of the big prawn, the big potato etc of back home. We try to get cash out at the bank but the electricity is out, which happens quite often out here the guide tells me. He drops me at a shop that sells all things rose and the famed Argan oil. I buy the rose oil and some rosewater spray which can be used as a toner and you can spray it on your tongue for an upset stomach, something which would come in handy in the next couple of days.

Then we are supposed to go to the Hollywood of Africa, Quarzazat which I have no interest in. The guide proudly tells me that Gladiator, Game of Thrones and Lawrence of Arabia were made here. I ask if we can move on.

Next is the largest Kasbah in Morocco, Haddou Kasbah, a UNESCO site. It's amazing, full of wonderful art shops and antiques but apart from them it's sadly empty as only a few families still live here. I purchase a ruby red Kohl container and green glass perfume bottle. The watercolours are made with crushed indigo, tea and saffron. We walk to the top where the granary was. It is sooo hot and I just want to leave but my guide says I'm too inpatient which I can't deny as even the late husband told me I was precipitous but I think my guide is saying that so he can have a rest and a smoke. I do the loop of the 360 degree view of the valley and return to him finishing his smoke and then we're off for lunch.

We eat in the village, walking past a wall crowned with tagine lids, a wall of carpets and colourful necklaces. I have mint tea which the guide hates and chicken kebabs. The kids say Bonjour as they pass by, guiding donkeys with colourful loads of carpets.

Then we're off again, passing though gorges and valleys lined with date palms and stop at a shop where I'm dressed in traditional Berber dress. I silently mouth "No" to my guide but he drops me off and he's gone to join the driver for yet another smoke. The women laugh as they pull out garishly coloured clothes, a thorny looking crown and then take me across the road to where there's a few date palms as background and then put the Berber flag in my hands. Everyone is laughing, I look like a woman not to be messed with.

I purchase a scarf in thanks for this odd moment. I try to use the Moroccan visa card they were insistent I would need at the airport, which has hardly ever worked and doesn't work now so a word of warning not to purchase one. Then we're on the road again, stopping at various viewpoints until finally, we're on the outskirts of Marrakesh.

My guide likes to joke, he opens the door for me and puts my bag by my side and says I'm on my own from now on. I start to put the address into my phone and he shakes his head with a smile on his face. Evidently there's hardly any reception in the centre and he's going to take me to my Riad.

We pass through the late afternoon traffic of people and donkeys to my Riad where he tells them to look after me and then we say our goodbyes. I will miss the boys, they've taken good care of me. And here I am in the fabled city of Marrakesh. The excitement is real.