There is a very little crowd waiting on the quay¹: mostly men with their hands in their pockets. But, thank Heaven, they have a certain aloofness² and reserve. They are not like the tourist-parasites of these post-war days, who move to the attack with a terrifying cold vindictiveness⁴ the moment one emerges from any vehicle. And some of these men look really poor. There are no poor Italians any more: at least, loafers.

Strange the feeling round the harbour: as if everybody had gone away. Yet there are people about. It is “festa” however, Epiphany. But it is so different from Sicily: none of the suave⁵ Greek-Italian charms, none of the airs and graces, none of the glamour⁶. Rather bare, rather stark⁷, rather cold and yellow—somehow like Malta, without Malta’s foreign liveliness. Thank Goodness no one wants to carry my knapsack. Thank Goodness no one has a fit at the sight of it. Thank Heaven no one takes any notice. They stand cold and aloof³, and don’t move.

We make our way through the Customs: then through the Dazio, the City Customs-house. Then we are free. We set off up a steep, new, broad road, with little trees on either side. But stone, arid⁸, new, wide stone, yellowish under the cold sky—and abandoned-seeming. Though, of course, there are people about. The north wind blows bitingly.

We climb a broad flight of steps, always upwards⁹, up the wide, precipitous, dreary¹⁰ boulevard with sprouts

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