Monaci delle Terre Nere

She was crying and blubbing and all we could do was high five. It had given us a fright when she jumped us on an evening stroll. She’d looked so sane earlier; the chatty South African lady on the table beside us at dinner. Now, she was borderline delirious. She beckoned us to follow her deeper into the orchard. ‘Come look,’ she sobbed. ‘Come look. Please.’ You wouldn’t necessarily follow on Wandsworth Common but here, in Sicily, in the grounds of a boutique hotel, on holiday… What’s the worst-case scenario? She’s smashed her Kindle Fire?

When we reached a clearing, it was so obvious: they were tears of delight, not despair. And the reason rose above us on a near horizon – the gurgling, fuming spectre of Etna, slopes lit by glowing Irn-Bru-coloured lava streams, its plume dominating the sapphire horizon. She let out a whimper, saying ‘Isn’t it incree-dible?’ and then scampered off to find some more guests to startle.

As we stood there transfixed in Etna’s foothills, between the spewing orange volcano and a pink supermoon bouncing off Mediterranean waters, Mrs Smith was so excited I thought she might blow her own top and shower us with rainbow. She’d spent the last day in a lava lather – desperate to see the molten rock flows – and now we’d finally got it. What else could we do in the sheer romance of the moment? We slung each other a high five.

Zoom back 30 hours and we’re cruising downhill from the picturesque town of Zafferana Etnea, en route to Monaci Delle Terre Nere, the scent of fig and jasmine wafting through the windows. ‘Is Etna active?’ asks Mrs Smith, a question inspired as much by Dante’s Inferno as geological interest. ‘Yup – but it hardly ever erupts. Like once every 10 years.’ I bluff. As we wind the narrow lanes, we cast each other accusatory looks at the sound of faint guttural rumblings.

Before us the gates of Monaci swing open – the baroque terracotta of the 19th-century palazzo (and former monastery) visible between the pine trees. The welcome party is upon us and we’re on a tour of the one-time vineyard – the 200-year-old stone vats for grape stomping, the black lava-rock stonework, the spectacular terrace, the grand communal rooms with their bursts of modern art (Olivier Mourao’s Picasso-esque paintings and Fabio Novembre’s cheeky, nude-shaped Him & Her chair are stand-out favourites), and our simple, elegant room; no TV, no phone, just a king-size bed and an ancient door that could halt a rhino charge.

Then, there’s the pool; set amid cleared, grass-covered olive terraces with a view stretching five miles to the sea. And five miles behind us, points Nerwan – a Sri Lankan representative among the delightful staff with their universally flawless English – a smoking Mount Etna. How often does it erupt like that? asks Mrs Smith. ‘Most years,’ he answers. I nod meekly in agreement.

With that, we’re ensconced on loungers. Before we know it, a couple of Aperol spritzes sit beside us, only the distant rumblings of Etna punctuating the sheer tranquillity. A yoga class comes and goes on the grassy terrace, but we slowly dissolve into our loungers. Tomorrow, we’re going up that volcano, enthuses Mrs Smith, who has acquired Etna-mania.

Afternoon rolls into aperitifs, accompanied by olives and honey from the hotel’s land, local cheeses and nuts. And aperitifs into dinner on the terrace. Vegetables, herbs and olives all come from the hotel’s grounds, and chef plays it simple with his bounty – parmigiano with home-grown aubergines and local cheese, a creamy risotto with nutty borlotti beans, swordfish with garlicky green beans and an almond semifreddo. Wines are taken seriously and we plump for a mineral-packed carricante, a bianco superiore.

‘Burgundy, Champagne, Etna – the three best wine producing areas.’ Proprietor Guido has glided out of the shadows, a hushed, assured presence who answers questions enigmatically (You own this amazing place? ‘I feel a place like this owns you.’ Your style and decoration is beautiful. ‘You must listen to what a house like this wants.’ It’s also environmentally friendly, down to the chemical-free paint.) On the subject of his great passion, wine, he is more definitive; different lava flows, different soil types, it makes Etna unique. ‘Come for the wine tasting tomorrow.’ We have loved to, but we’re going up Etna itself. ‘Ah, then you will see for yourself,’ and he is off seamlessly to the next table, startling them as he appears into the candlelight.

Morning comes and breakfast on the shady pine terraces is serene and delicious – white local sheep’s cheese, local sausage, home-grown fruits, house-baked bread, Etna’s famous honey – then back to the lounger to soak up more sun before the hotel-arranged geologist comes to pick us up for our private tour up Etna. It’s too late to take the cable car to the very top, so still no lava.

Then back to a pool dip, more Aperol spritz aperitifs and dinner again on the terrace. We’ve been up Etna, we explain to the smiley South African on the table beside us. ‘Isn’t it incree-dible?’ It erupted the other night and we got to see the lava.’ Mrs Smith’s ears prick up. ‘Maybe it will tonight. It’s beau-tiful. What a hotel! What a location! I’ve never seen anything like it! You have one night to see it, I hope you’re lucky…’