Inland, the hills rise up and greet the sun, patched with golden fields of grain, vibrant citrus orchards, and the vineyards that produce Sicily’s fragrant nero d’avola wines. The skies are blue, the weather is warm, and somewhere, a few steps down a narrow street, someone is rolling fresh pasta to tempt you back from the shore.

There’s no mistaking Sicily for part of mainland Italy. Though Sicily has been officially part of Italy for nearly 150 years, it has also been ruled in turn by Greeks, Romans, Arabs, and Normans, and the island has kept the flavors of each passing wave of conquerors. Only a few blocks beyond the monuments to Vittorio Emanuele II outside the train station in Palermo are palaces and churches with the domes, mosaics, and geometric loveliness of medieval Arab architecture.

Baroque details line graceful, decaying buildings that shade sprawling markets and tanned children playing soccer in the streets. Most visitors come to Sicily for the weather: the climate is warm year-round, and in the summer months the sunshine is constant and temperatures hover around 86 degrees Fahrenheit. But in Sicily, history, culture, and natural wonders are layered on so thick that the trouble is in choosing the adventure, not finding it.

One adventure worth having, though, is a voyage to the Aeolian Islands off the north coast. The ancient Greeks and Romans called these islands the home of the winds, and their breezes offer some relief from the constant beat of the sun. One boasts the forge of the fire god himself: Vulcano, a volcanic island reachable by ferry or hydrofoil with sulfur baths and dark umber beaches.

Here, the intrepid and long-winded can climb to the top of the sleeping volcano that spewed forth much of the island and peer into the crater once said to be the entrance to Hades. Though it hasn’t erupted in a century, Vulcano’s main crater is far from extinct, its peak smoking with sulfur from multiple exhaust holes and the giant divot of its mouth still muddy-looking and dangerous.

The rock that surrounds the crater is as brittle and sharp as ceramic. Signs warn that hikers should spend no more than a few minutes at the top, lest the fumes intoxicate or poison them. Still, with the wind blowing freely on the sweat spent making it up, the feeling and the view are well worth the scorching hour-long climb.

While the ancient Greeks assigned their gods’ homes on the outer islands, though, they worshiped them on Sicily itself. And after experiencing Vulcano’s primordial power, you can remind yourself of the force of human culture in the Valley of the Temples in Agrigento. Here a complex of Greek temples was hewn from the native red sandstone and erected on a ridge overlooking the countryside, with the hazy cerulean smudge of the Mediterranean visible below the swell of the fields. Modern Agrigento rises to one side, and majestic sandstone forms cascade down the slope, linked by a pale road the Romans called the Sacred Way.

Each temple has its own appeal. The temple to Hera offers the best view and perhaps the most picturesque profile, perched atop the high point on the temples’ ridge. The sanctuary to Concordia is nearly intact despite the twenty-odd centuries since its construction, and dark shadows hide its inner depths even at the height of the day.

The temple of Zeus, meanwhile, is massive and almost completely destroyed, its ruins now poetically crumbling courtyards and staircases among the aloes and olive trees. The temple of Heracles demands humility, one row of its massive columns still standing and each one three times as wide around as the arm span of the average man. Together, the complex inspires awe—after two millennia, its structures are not only standing, but ethereally beautiful and seemingly indestructible.

Sicily’s mysteries are too many and too varied to explore in one short trip. But like the striking beauty of the island itself and the cultural marks so many have made on it, the memory of them will surely endure.
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“Transport?” queried a smiling young man on a sidewalk in Ubud, an artsy town in the south-eastern hills. It’s a frequent offer on the streets of nearly every town in Bali. Everyone with a car will offer you a ride for a small price. You may say “no thank you” seven times on Monkey Forest Road in Ubud. But what’s heart-warming is that you will always receive an enthusiastic “Welcome!” in response.

As one of Indonesia’s luxury destinations, Bali is a truly service-oriented society and economy. Away from the resorts on the coast, there is less commercial zeal and more genuine friendliness. Culturally, Bali differs from other Indonesian islands, and indeed is an exception in this predominantly Muslim country with its Hindu-Buddhist history. It is this history that shapes the Balinese approach to life and the Balinese landscape.

Exploring the surroundings of Ubud on bike is perhaps the best way to take in the beautiful landscape, with all its rice terraces, temples, villages and cackling roosters. I signed up for a daytrip with Arung from Bali Moon Group. We began with a morning stop at an eclectic orchard growing everything from mangosteen, papaya and peanuts to cacao, coffee beans and tea leaves. Arung also introduced us to salak, a fruit with a brown, snake-scaled skin that looks like a nut inside and tastes like mixture of apple and pear.

After an invigorating ginger tea we were driven up to the edge of Mount Batur. The mountain bikes were unloaded and we were ready to start off downhill back towards Ubud. Arung had assured us back in the office that it was “all downhill”, but some of us were taken aback by how steep downhill can be. And the road was just a rocky path. One of the English girls on the excursion already wanted to make use of the trailing van service that carried our backpacks, but was persuaded to stick with it since it would get easier.

Our reward, when it began to level out, was a school full of excited children running towards the road to greet us. Six and seven year old boys were exploding with excitement, seemingly overwhelmed by such an unexpected visit from strangers. “Hallo! Hallo!” they squealed, vying to make eye contact with any one of the cyclists and jumping for high-fives. Wide-eyed awe and giggles rippled through the crowd as our group responded to their eagerness. It felt like the Tour de France. A few boys ran with the bikes until they were out-paced or came to the end of the village.

We cycled along rice paddies, many of them flocked by ducks feeding on leftover grains. In the rolling countryside I could hear the lovely sound of bamboo music and wind chimes everywhere. We passed through several more villages, all laid out on a sloping north-south axis and flanked by walled enclosures that are the typical Balinese. Each had an elaborately carved gateway and immediately behind it a wall, the aling-aling, to keep floating evil spirits from sweeping in through the open gateway.

In one village an old man on a moped scooted up beside me to ride tandem and indulge in conversation. His smile was wide, his questions direct. “Where you from? Where you stay? Where you go?” He exudes a pride in managing dialogue with a foreigner and brushes off the cajoling of youngsters. As we neared the open countryside he veered off back into his village and signalled his final sentence with a wave,”The Balinese people welcome you. Good time.”

Everyone, just everyone, genuinely wants to have contact and wish you well. When we came to the end of our cycle we were invited into a family home. The residential compound had sleeping pavilions for extended family members, a fountain in the middle, a temple and a low table for us to share dinner. A typical Indonesian meal is a selection of hot and cold plates, with spicy meats, peanut sauces and sautéed vegetables. Everyone was exhausted from the combination of heat and pedalling, and completely ready to feast on the buffet.

When our host came to collect our finished plates, she asked simply “Happiness?”