Even in paradise there are no floors to sweep. I live off the coast of Sicily, on Salina, one of the Aeolian Islands, wich are named for the god of the winds. Each wind carries its own gift to my terrace. From the beach, there is fine black volcanic sand, from the mountain, fragrant twings of fennel and branches of absinthe; from the citrus groves, leaves so aromatic I use them to perfume fish on the barbecue. Yesterday's scirocco dusted the terrace with red sand from Africa. But in paradise there are temptation not to sweep. The morning is perfect: a gentle breeze, a calm sea, and air so limpid I can see the snowcap of Mount Etna. So i take my two young daughters out on the boat to the island of Panarea, where we snorkel through iridescent columns of pulsing bubbles rising like living stalagmites from a fissure in the seabed that opened a few months before, the result of volcanic activity. For us the stirring volcano had meant the danger of an earthquake and sleeping with bags packed beside our beds. But this time the planet's violence created only bubbles. The skin of the Earth is thin here, the result of volcanic eruptions creating, destroying, and re-creating the land. Time transformed liquid magma into pumice adn obsidian, the razor-shap black volcanic glass that made the Stone Age Aeolians rich. Wind and passing birds brought flora, from cacti sprouting fruit the colors of a tropical sunset to magenta – and pina colada – hued Hottentot poppies. So, too, came the wild greens that islanders collect to add to soup and the exotic violet-stamened caper, whose buds are exported throughout the world. There are capers this evening at Alfredo's, a casual restaurant on Lingua's little seafront piazza, and black fig granita, an icy treat that comes just twice a year, when the giant fruit has ripened. The sun, setting on the other side of the mountain, turns the sea to liquid opal, and as night falls, Stromboli, about 28 miles north, erupts every 20 minutes or so, veins of red lava crawling down its etched slopes. By the time we head up to the house, a wind has begun to whip up from the north. By morning the sea is wild. I turn my attention to the terrace. The red dust has gone – with the wind.