Summer In Sicily

A sunshine trip and shared memories shows that love comes around more than once

How many thirty-four-year-old women holiday with their grandfather? Not many, I muse, as we drive along the sun-drenched roads from Catania Airport towards Siracusa.

Concentrating on driving on the "wrong" side of the road as we pass rocky crags and fruit farms, I say to Grandpa, "I can't wait to get in the sea." He turns in the passenger seat of the hire car, blue eyes bright. "It's a grand island, Lauren. You'll love the beach." "And you the churches and museums," I say, braking as a truck joins the road.

What neither of us says is that I'd anticipated Mauritius and Jacob rather than museums and Grandpa.

Unfortunately, Jacob had other plans, and I was left with a hollow ache whenever I thought about his chestnut hair or his laugh.

Then, Grandpa's holiday plans came under threat. Having spent a summer in Sicily as a young man, he wanted to go back. We'd lost Nan a few years ago and his friend Alan was divorced, so they'd decided to become travel companions.

But Alan's health took a plunge, and he embarked on a round of radiotherapy.

Mum and Dad had already booked a holiday. I remembered Mum hugging me.

But you could go with Grandpa, Lauren.

We'll pay for a hire car so you can make sure he sees all the museums and churches he wants. It'll take your mind off things.

Take my mind off being dumped.

The car whizzes past signs for Carrozzier and Magrantino and Grandpa sighs contentedly. "Sicily"s more modern than when I was here, but Ortigia won't have changed much, being the old city part of Siracusa."