Gioia, an English teacher from Catania, tells me about the "community" this joint mode of travel creates. "It's very sociable, together with everybody on deck," she says. "You really feel the travel because all the senses are involved." She notes that being on the ferry pulls people into conversation – "about why are you going up, where are you going and so people talk about politics, feelings, many things…"

The sea crossing itself takes around 20 minutes – long enough to stretch your legs, grab a snack and feel the swell beneath your feet before returning to your cabin. A visit to the arancini counter on the main deck has long been a ritual of the crossing. I'm told that the eastern Sicilian arancini are pointed in honour of Mount Etna, while Palermo's are round. Salvatore, a Messina man who works the counter, is used to seeing the excitement in his fellow Sicilians at this point on the trip. "When we smell the scent of the sea and see the little Madonna statue, we say: 'We're home'."

He was referring to the gilded statue of Our Lady of the Letter at Messina Harbour, blessing the city as she is reputed to have done in 42 CE. Like so many passengers before us, we watched her grow larger above the swirling blue of the strait. When we reboarded the train carriages, we walked to the front to watch the crew link the chain of carriages. Brake pipes hissed into action, and the Intercity Notte was pulled off the ferry and onto the perfectly aligned tracks in Messina, equally slick with rain.

The sea was a stone's throw away down much of Sicily's east coast, waves breaking white on the rocks as we curved past Taormina. Though Etna was hidden, the land views provided plenty of interest: lemon orchards blending into the outskirts of Catania, where red velvet banners embroidered with 'A's heralded the festival of Santa Agata. Twenty hours after leaving the monumental edifice of Milano Centrale, we arrived into the more modest charm of Syracuse station.