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Islands are places apart. Sciacca epitomises that split, a town on the edge of Sicily.

For some, the end of one world and the beginning of another, or the reverse, or none of the above. But rather a microcosm of Humanity.

It lies on a rugged limestone hill down to the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean.

The minute you enter the narrow, winding streets of this seaside town, you sense History.

The ancient archways and paved piazzas take you into a timeless dimension where scooters, Spanish courtyards and ancient thermal baths share the same geography.

This place has been claimed by mankind over millennia, and the locals have been shaped by this land.

A land of sunshine, bright colours, olive groves and grapes, deep cliffs and passions running like lava ready to surface at any moment.

It makes you awake, wraps your skin in a warm breeze and your soul wanders.

It is neither Italian nor Greek nor Arab nor Norman and yet it is all of them.

Deeply Christian, perhaps because across the waters lies North Africa and the Islamic world, churches and sacred imagery are everywhere.

With such rich and intricate elements, Art has flourished and tiles, arches, sundials, colourful tiles, stuccos and frescoes, terracotta faces, flowerpots of mythical creatures, palazzi, ancient walls and domes inebriate your senses.

The ocean calls, the soles of your feet rub against the chalky-mud seabed. You think of ripe golden grapes, oranges and pomegranates, your body wants to swim, naked, Neptune and Aphrodite at once.

Flanked by rows of cotton-trees covered in scented pink blossoms, is an inconspicuous gem, Santa Margherita church.

Plateresque façade, white marble from top to bottom of the nave, white stucco vaults and the most elaborate frescoes worn by the elements, precarious and imposing.

Sciacca encapsulates ancient wisdom, needs to prove nothing because it has it all.

It is a place apart.

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