Italian Fireworks

A beacon of beauty and power, deceivingly still it dominates the sea, rising through it, defying its swallowing depths. It is Stromboli, the most active volcano in Europe.
A signpost details the path ahead: volcano viewing point, altitude four hundred metres. The trail turns and the sea breeze along with lights of the town below evaporate into the heat. Dusty footprints trail behind torchlight as I wander away from the comfort of ignorance. The higher I climb the warmer the night becomes. The heat of the mountain unnerves me. And as the mercury rises, so does my anticipation.
My thoughts are as loud as the night is quite. I strain to hear it rumble; daring me on. I twist and turn; I stumble and scramble; an hour passed, a conquered climb. I look up and see its glow; the delicate ember on the craters edge dancing like a cobra to a Pungi flute; swaying in the darkness. I am entranced by the charmers spell, hypnotised by the beauty of its movement.
Finally, Stromboli erupts and Mother Nature spits out her fireworks of fury upon the world. Molten rocks rain down like beads of gold, they tumble and play like children upon hills before spilling into the secure clutches of the sea below. Lava bleeds down the mountain side. Thin streams pulse within each crack and crevice like the veins on the back of my grandmother’s hand. It shows age, wisdom. I tremble with uncontrollable force like the mountain itself; my tension as fierce as its fire, as long as I stay.
As the moon hoists itself higher, I must return to the calming sounds of civilisation. I descend to the beach. Stromboli’s waters are warm with wealth as the yachts of the Italian elite are anchored offshore and white uniformed staff, glide upon their decks like ghosts of service. But I have no yacht. I am beyond the boundaries of a backpacker budget; a borrowed deck-chair; my bed for the night.
And yet these are the unplanned adventures I live out of a bag for.