The noxious clouds carry the stinging stench of brimstone, burning my nose and throat and closing my eyes to a scene that might have been described as breathtaking if the sulphur fumes hadn't already stolen my breath. I stand atop the volcano with the most volcanic name of all - Vulcano - and feel pleasure mingle with pain. The view to which I am briefly blinded is an Italian idyll: the crater rim of the volcano dusted yellow with sulphur crystals; the island of Vulcano tapering into the ocean; and, beyond, the entire Aeolian archipelago forming ellipses of islands across the Mediterranean Sea. Named after Aeolius, the god of wind, and described by Dante's Virgil as 'a native land of storms, south winds and furies', the Aeolian Islands are a wild place tamed by tourism. The seven volcanic islands off the north coast of Sicily retain remarkably individual characters, from castaway Alicudi to ever-erupting Stromboli and, to my immediate discomfort, sulphur-doused Vulcano. It is here I begin my visit to the Aeolians. I smell Vulcano before I set foot on it, the whiff of sulphur filling the cabin of the ferry. The smell borders on offensive, yet it is a major component of what draws visitors here, whether to walk on or wallow in it, by climbing the volcano or bathing in the sulphurous mud pool at its base. I begin with the volcano. The path to the summit, cut deep into the volcano's ancient flows, is steep but short, a 400-metre ascent to a volcanic epicentre of sorts. From here, the Aeolian Islands fade away to distant Stromboli, balls of steam rising intermittently from its summit. In the other direction, Sicily's Mount Etna, the matriarch of Italian volcanoes, billows furiously. Vulcano's geothermal activity pipes from lines of fumaroles along the rim, forming toxic plumes that become impossible to avoid. Some people tie handkerchiefs or shirts around their noses; by the time I've walked around the rim, passing through a storm of fumaroles at the end, the smell has become subsidiary to the pain in my throat, nose and eyes. Retracing my steps off the volcano, I wander to the Laghetto di Fanghi mud pool, where the smell is stronger and more offensive. Coloured like milky coffee, the mud of the lukewarm pool is said to have curative effects for a waiting-room's worth of complaints: arthritis, gout and eczema among others. I have no particular ailments (except, perhaps, for a dose of sulphur poisoning) but I consider it preventative medicine. The scene at the pool turns tribal as people coat themselves in totems of medicinal mud, from full facials to ritualistic chest stripes. Fumaroles belch from beneath the pool, bubbles rising and tickling, the pool fizzing like lemonade. From Vulcano I make the short ferry crossing to Lipari, the Aeolians' largest island. With its housing terraced into the slopes of an extinct volcano, Lipari bears the hallmarks of almost every Mediterranean town. In its narrow cobbled lanes the only things that suggest the unique prominence of volcanoes are the postcards. This is the archipelago's tourist nucleus. Most visitors base themselves here and make day-trips to outer islands. Each night, the tranquil island of the morning is transformed into a bustling version of another Mediterranean classic, the timeless evening promenade, or passeggiata. Across the sea the lights of Sicily glow like a lava trail; on this side of the water Lipari's main road fills with crowds. Restaurant and cafe tables spill onto the footpath. It looks like a celebration, but it is just an ordinary evening. Tourism aside, Lipari's greatest resource is pumice, which was deposited by an eruption that blanched a quarter of the island in about 5,000BC. The pumice has bleached the ocean on the east coast, turning it milky and - at least according to tourism legend - creating brilliantly white beaches such as Spiaggia Bianca. This is a misnomer; it is a strand without sand, half-dark, half-blond. Still, it is filled with tourists convinced a Mediterranean holiday is all about sun-worshipping. They should have headed to Stromboli, the Aeolians' show-stopper. It is the only volcano in Europe with permanent eruptive activity, and every night is Guy Fawkes' Night, with the volcano's three craters spitting molten rocks into the sea. It's a show that has earned Stromboli the moniker Lighthouse of the Mediterranean. At its foot, three villages have merged into one. There are virtually no street signs and the lanes are so narrow that golf buggies serve as taxis. Below the villages are beaches as black as the volcano's intentions, strips of stark beauty like negative images of the finest resort beaches. But Stromboli is all about the mountain. Walk to the end of the villages and the roads merge into a trail that meanders up the slope. Before the 2003 eruption it was possible to follow the track to the summit, but now it is too dangerous. If I needed a reminder, it comes in the brown clouds that regularly plume over the volcano with each new explosion. Visitors are warned not to venture above 400 metres on the 920-metre peak. As I climb the air is rich with wildflowers, not sulphur. Soon, the path comes to a bar and restaurant and the first view towards the angry, open wound of the craters. Stromboli's most remarkable sight is the Sciara del Fuoco, an enormous black lava path that is cannibalising the island from summit to sea. A year or so before, lava had poured like syrup down this barren slide for months. Now there are just tendrils of dust stirring in the wind. I climb higher as a loud bang, a volcanic spasm, is followed by an avalanche of rocks, some as large as cars, careering down the slope. Dust fills the sky, enveloping me in a brown fog. That night, I accompany one of the island's fishermen to watch the volcanic extravaganza from afar. Rocks spit like tracers into the sky and the fisherman recalls nights during the 2003 eruption when the Sciara del Fuoco glowed like neon, the ocean boiling at its feet. The night lights of the volcano contrast with the villages as we return to shore. The lanes on the island are almost entirely unlit and the only lights are those of torches as people search for restaurants. I am forced to chart a dark, stumbling course of memory towards my hotel. How strange that on the Lighthouse of the Mediterranean the most essential item should be a torch. Getting there: Cathay Pacific ( www.cathaypacific.com ) flies from Hong Kong to Rome. Alitalia ( www.alitalia.it ) flies from Rome to Sicily, from where ferries sail to the Aeolian Islands. Where to stay: Villa Diana, the former home of Swiss artist Edwin Hunziker, offers low rates and views across the rooftops of Lipari town. See www.villadiana.com .
