I feel I don’t really understand Sicily until my final days in Taormina.
By then, I’ve crossed much of the island. I’ve wandered through Greek temples and Baroque towns, climbed volcanic slopes, explored vineyards, driven winding country roads and eaten far more arancini than any sensible person should. Yet it’s only in Taormina, on my final morning, as I climb a seemingly endless series of steps towards the old town, that the different pieces of Sicily at last begin to connect.
Standing in the Greek Theatre with Etna dominating the horizon beyond the ancient stonework, I find myself reflecting on everything I’ve experienced during the previous week. The fertile green landscapes around Menfi. The honey-coloured cities of the southeast. Cascades of bright pink bougainvillea. The black volcanic rock that seems to appear everywhere. The shimmering gold mosaics of Palermo and Monreale.
That’s when it strikes me: what I remember most about Sicily is its colours.
Green: the island that feeds empires
Before arriving in Sicily, I have my own idea of what the landscape will look like. I imagine a dry Mediterranean island baked by the sun; dusty hills, parched earth and sparse vegetation.
Instead, Sicily’s first surprise is green.
Around Catania and Syracuse, citrus groves stretch across cultivated plains. Vineyards climb rolling hillsides. Olive trees fill entire horizons. Inland, around Piazza Armerina, the countryside is far lusher than I expect.
Many visitors understandably focus on the island’s celebrated coastal towns, but some of my favourite moments unfold in this interior. Looking across the vineyards, it’s easy to understand why Sicily has been prized for its agricultural wealth for thousands of years. Volcanic soils, abundant sunshine and a favourable climate have made it one of the Mediterranean’s great food-producing regions.
In the softening light, Sicily’s green no longer feels unexpected, but essential to the island’s story.
Blue: the Mediterranean and its people
The sea is never far away in Sicily.
Glimpsed between buildings, stretching beyond a hilltop town or sparkling beneath an ancient temple, it remains a constant presence. The Tyrrhenian Sea to the north, the Ionian to the east and the wider Mediterranean beyond have shaped the island for millennia.
For centuries, these waters served not as barriers but as routes of arrival. Traders, settlers, pilgrims and adventurers crossed them, bringing languages, customs and ideas that gradually became woven into Sicily’s identity.
I think about this whilst chatting with a woman I’ve met during my travels. She’s a Sicilian-American woman in her sixties who has returned to the island for her son’s wedding. Though she lives in New Jersey, both her parents were born in Sicily and she speaks about the island with unmistakable affection. She is impossible to miss: a husky voice suggesting decades of Marlboros, a broad American accent, boundless confidence and what can only be described as strong mafia-wife energy.
Within minutes she wants to know where I’m from, what I think of Sicily, whether I like the food and if I follow football. Her daughter, she explains, is obsessed with Manchester United, and they are planning a trip to see Cristiano Ronaldo play in what she is convinced will be one of his final matches.
She belongs simultaneously to two places: American in manner, Sicilian in identity. Like so many people connected to the island, she embodies the idea that Sicily extends far beyond its shores. Its history is carried not only by the island itself, but in its people’s faces.
Sitting in cafes, wandering village squares and watching daily life unfold, I notice iris shades I do not expect to encounter so frequently in southern Italy: blue, green and grey. Some are as pale as sea glass; others resemble olive leaves or gathering storm clouds.
They catch the light and immediately raise a question: where do they come from?
Of course, the answer is Sicily itself.
Few places in Europe possess such a layered human inheritance. Positioned at the crossroads of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, Sicily has been shaped by migration, trade and conquest for more than three thousand years.
The Greeks established prosperous colonies here more than 2,500 years ago. Phoenician traders connected the island to North Africa and the eastern Mediterranean. The Romans transformed Sicily into one of the empire’s most important grain-producing regions. Later came the Byzantines, followed by Arab rulers who introduced new agricultural techniques, crops and cultural influences. Norman adventurers from northern Europe conquered the island in the eleventh century, before later periods of French and Spanish rule.
Every civilisation that arrived left something behind, and nowhere is that legacy more visible than in the blue eyes of modern Sicilians.
Yellow: stone, cities and reinvention
If green belongs to the land and blue to the sea, yellow belongs to Sicily’s stone.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in Noto. Rebuilt after the devastating earthquake of 1693, the town stands as one of the great masterpieces of Sicilian Baroque architecture. Honey-coloured churches, elegant facades and sweeping staircases seem designed specifically for Mediterranean sunlight.
Of all the places I visit, Noto quickly becomes a favourite. One evening, whilst dining outdoors, a waiter suddenly begins singing opera between serving tables. Conversations pause. Diners smile. For a few magical minutes, the entire street becomes part of the performance.
It’s unexpected, slightly theatrical and completely charming. However, not all memorable moments are quite so elegant. Whilst exploring Modica by hire car, I confidently make what must surely be one of the classic tourist mistakes and drive the wrong way down a one-way street.
The response is immediate.
A group of elderly Sicilian men, who moments earlier were sitting quietly together, suddenly spring into action. Arms rise. Fingers pinch together and wave emphatically. Expressions range from disbelief to melodramatic disappointment.
Judging by their efficiency, I suspect they have dealt with many confused tourists before.
They clearly regard it as their civic duty to explain exactly what I have done wrong.
After much apologising, several embarrassed smiles and repeated cries of “mi dispiace tanto“, they eventually allow me to retreat and correct my mistake.
Once the embarrassment fades, it mellows into a memory that makes me laugh.
Not all of Sicily’s yellow stone belongs to its cities. At Selinunte, wandering among the remains of houses, workshops and ancient streets surrounding the temples, history feels unusually tangible. It’s easy to imagine ordinary life unfolding here: families returning home, traders opening their shops, children playing in dusty streets.
Of all the archaeological sites I visit, Selinunte is perhaps the most evocative. For a brief moment, the ancient world feels close enough to touch.
Pink: bougainvillea and Mediterranean romance
Pink appears in sudden bursts as I wander through narrow streets and sunlit piazzas. A cascade of bougainvillea spills over a stone wall. Geraniums overflow from terracotta pots outside a front door. Oleander shrubs line dusty roads with clouds of blossom.
These flowers soften everything. Ancient buildings, weathered facades and crumbling walls seem gentler beneath their blooms. Balconies become gardens suspended in the air. Simple doorways become small compositions of colour, shadow and stone.
Yet this beauty is not accidental. Like so much in Sicily, it’s shaped by adaptation and resilience.
These are plants built for the Sicilian climate. Their roots search for water far below the surface. They tolerate prolonged drought and flourish beneath the summer sun that overwhelms more delicate species. There is something distinctly Sicilian in that combination of toughness and beauty: the ability to endure harsh conditions and still produce such vivid displays.
The pink of Sicily is not bold or demanding. It appears in passing, softening a street corner, a balcony or a dusty roadside, inviting me to slow down and notice how much of the island’s character is held in its smallest details.
Black: fire and transformation
Wherever I travel in eastern Sicily, I’m aware of Mount Etna. Sometimes it dominates the horizon. Sometimes it appears unexpectedly between buildings or beyond distant hills. Even when hidden by clouds, its presence somehow makes itself felt.
Etna is Europe’s most active volcano and one of the defining forces of the island. For thousands of years, eruptions, earthquakes and lava flows have shaped the landscape. Black volcanic stone appears everywhere. It forms walls, churches, roads and houses. Entire neighbourhoods seem built from cooled lava.
In places, the island feels as though it has been sculpted by fire. Yet what fascinates me is Sicily’s relationship with destruction. The volcano repeatedly damages farms, villages and communities. Earthquakes level towns and alter the course of history. The catastrophe of 1693 transformed much of southeastern Sicily and directly led to the rebuilding of places such as Noto.
Again and again, Sicily is forced to begin anew- but destruction is only half the story.
The same volcanic forces that threaten communities also create extraordinary fertility. The soils surrounding Etna support vineyards, orchards and farms that produce some of the island’s most celebrated food and wine. Creation and destruction exist side by side.
Standing in the Greek Theatre at Taormina and looking towards Etna beyond the ancient ruins, I find that contrast impossible to ignore. The volcano appears beautiful, powerful and faintly unsettling all at once.
The black of Sicily is not the colour of endings. It is the colour of transformation.
Gold: Sicily’s greatest treasure
Gold is the colour of Sicily’s finery. I find it in Palermo and Monreale.
After days spent exploring landscapes, ruins and towns, the Sicilian mosaics are something different. Thousands upon thousands of tiny pieces of gold catch the light, transforming walls and ceilings into something almost otherworldly, and nowhere is this more striking than in the Palatine Chapel in Palermo Cathedral. Standing beneath its golden ceiling, I find myself looking at one of the clearest expressions of Sicily’s identity.
The chapel was commissioned by Norman rulers. Its mosaics draw heavily upon Byzantine traditions. Islamic artistic influences appear throughout the decoration and craftsmanship. Different cultures, faiths and traditions coexist within a single space. Rather than competing, they complement one another. The building feels like a conversation taking place across the centuries.
In the cloisters of Monreale, I encounter a very different atmosphere. After the energy and noise of Palermo, the quiet arcades feel meditative. Sunlight filters through elegant columns whilst birdsong drifts across carefully tended gardens. The moment reminds me that Sicily’s history is not simply a story of conquest but also a story of exchange.
The same thought returns at Villa Romana del Casale near Piazza Armerina. The mosaics are among the most extraordinary I’ve ever seen. Their scale and preservation are astonishing, but what I really notice is how human they feel. Looking closely at scenes created nearly two thousand years ago, it’s impossible not to recognise familiar emotions, ambitions and everyday moments.
Each of its colours reveals something deeper about the island itself – its history, geography, people and resilience. Perhaps that is Sicily’s greatest achievement. Not its temples. Not its cathedrals. Not even its landscapes. Rather, its ability to absorb influences from every direction and transform them into something entirely its own.
