It was the word “pomodoro” that did it. I’d left the campsite early, so early in fact I’d beaten the morning bread delivery to the nearby village.

With the promise of bread and pastries within the next fifteen minutes I sat and waited in a quiet shady street .

I heard the megaphone getting nearer . There was an election in Italy in a few days time, candidate posters were everywhere and I thought the megaphone was someone electioneering or campaigning for a local candidate or something.

That is until I heard pomodoro being barked out. I know Italy has had a difficult political landscape recently but even they wouldn’t have a campaign based on the Tomato Party, surely?

Of course not! What I was hearing was the sales pitch for the mobile fruit and veg seller,driving from street to street in his flat backed Piaggio moped van thing, the back piled high with salad,and peaches, melons,oranges and massive Sicilian lemons (and yes, tomatoes of course) .

The houses in these streets were basically four or five story’s high, an apartment on each floor with a balcony overlooking the street below.

As I watched the van pulled up beneath a balcony where an old chap sat. A shouted conversation later, the old chap lowered a bucket on a rope down to the van. Here it was filled to the brim with his fruity order before being pulled back up to to the balcony, lowering it again with the payment coins rattling around .

Home delivery Sicilian style and as I watched I saw that in fact every balcony had a bucket and a rope attached to it. Simple! Just don’t tell Jeff Bezos.

Cycling wise it was a 40 mile day today, again hugging the coast but on some busier roads.

As I progressed I was seeing the difference in the local cycling scene too. In Northern Spain there were plenty of “roadies” all of whom looked to be full kit semi pro racing snakes who rarely said a hello or acknowledged me. They shot past me on hills, completely aloof and composed . It wasn’t until Sardinia that I saw anything resembling a UK style club run, and these riders were noticeably friendlier. But in Sicily the other cyclists were really chatty and smiley and curious about my route and kit,one even taking a photo of my pedals (me neither 😊).

The undulating route took me through Santa Stefano di Camastra, Sicilys answer to Stoke on Trent. This was clearly the ceramics capital of the island and every shop sold a huge range of colourful vases,huge urns,pots and plaques. Some if it was pretty tasteless actually but it was clearly big business, and as I whizzed downhill out of the town I passed several large pottery factories .

I spent the rest of the ride trying without success to pinpoint the source of every cyclists irritant, the RANDOM UNIDENTIFIED NOISE .

Tonight’s campsite was Agricampeggio Alessandra whose website grandly claimed the site wasn’t so much about camping but a “way of life close to nature” which I assumed meant there was no bar. I was right .