Italy Road Trip
Overview
Day 1
Venice
An uneventful flight through the drizzle of Gatwick to the swampy heat of Italy’s finest city on stilts. I say uneventful, but we were joined on board by none other than Jeff Goldblum, Sigourney Weaver and Lewis Capaldi. Even Tilly Soal put in an appearance.
From up high, the geography of this place is stark. 118 densely packed islands. The sun’s glint reflecting upon the million pockets of water gives the game away. This is no ordinary place.
We pick up our tickets for the water taxi, and are told to get a wriggle on because it’s leaving soon. We’re late. As we jump on board the vaporetto, the stoney faces of our fellow holidaymakers suggests dissatisfaction with our tardiness. We skip through the glass-making industry of Murano, before speeding south. The boat churns through choppy waters before hitting the main group of islands. It’s been 21 years since I was here last. I forgot how breathtaking and unfathomable the scenery is here. In every direction, spectacular, ornate, hefty buildings just balance on the water.
“Have trouble at the airport, did we?!” The English 60-something gent can’t help himself, imparting his barb as he exited the boat with his miserable looking wife at a stop near the Rialto Bridge. We weren’t that late to the boat, surely.
At dinner, dished up by Osteria Olivanera in Castello, our wedding-dominated chatter was interjected by the foodie American couple sitting adjacent. Every American I meet is apologetic about where they are from at the moment, and these two were no different. How times have changed. They gave us some tips for where to next visit in the States, and alerted me to the Acqua Alta bookstore here in Venice. We’ll make a beeline tomorrow.
As we meandered through unlit canalside cobbles back to our hotel, I pulled Em closer and closer. I didn’t think marriage would make us fall deeper in love. I was wrong.
Day 2
Venice
We considered how proud we’d be if one of our three ended up like Eliza. Very, we decided. Flipping impressively back and forth between English and Spanish to give a potted history of Venetian trading prowess, she was superb. Similarly impressive was our gondolier. He didn’t say anything, rather let his driving do the talking, expertly navigating between low bridges, seemingly too small junctions, fellow gondoliers, and the choppier portions of the Grande Canal.
An hour later and we’re back in amongst the tourists of San Marco Square. It’s busy but not as busy as I thought it would be in the height of Summer. Harry’s Bar is empty. It was here, in what appears to be an understated living room, that Hemingway would gather his thoughts, get pissed and make the place as famous as it is today. We enjoy a customary Bellini and get out before the lunch crowd descends. At €22 a glass, this is no longer the place for lowly writers to while away the hours.
The stroll to find the highly recommended Acqua Alta bookstore is sweaty. Em was hoping to find air conditioned sanctuary. Instead: books. Regular flooding means everything is elevated from the floor. Books nestle on crates, concrete blocks, wooden benches. In the middle aisle, books are piled high and displayed inside the carcass of an old gondola.
After a pizza lunch in one of Campo Santa Maria Formosa’s options, we seek out the Rialto bridge. The tight scruffy streets are maze-like. Above, bedrooms on either side of the narrow passes seem to be kissing each other they are so close. It’s easy to lose direction, looping round, spotting things you’ve already seen five minutes before.
The heat and booze (including at Aperol’s very own Terazza) take their toll and an afternoon pit stop at the hotel is welcome.
We finish our day with drinks and views from the rooftop bar of Hilton’s gloriously renovated warehouse hotel in Molino Stucky. Em’s excited by the terrible dance music being played. She’s also frustrated by the low volume and we leave in search of some late night antics. As we jet back across the water to emptying streets it’s clear this ain’t the place for such antics.
Day 3
Verona
The Venetian heavens opened to wave us goodbye. More water.
At the Sixt counter, the doe-eyed sales girl couldn’t quite do enough to extract more cash from my wallet in upgrading our package. Em and I agree on most things. Levels of insurance we need is not one of them, so we set off with more trepidation than is necessary.
Verona is little over an hour away. As if to say hello, the sun creeps in front of the clouds during check-in at our quirky, perfect Trip Advisor-toting B&B. Em The Travel Agent took a back seat in booking this trip. It’s all on me. So far, so good.
Meandering with no direction, we fall quickly in love with Verona. The streets, towers, rooftops and buildings here share the aesthetic of Venice. Yet, the wider streets and absence of constant motion of water offers calm. We instantly relax into the place.
It’s warmer here too. A visit to Juliet’s House, courtyard and balcony offers some shade. My Juliet heads inside while I, Romeo, wait below on the cobbles, ready to declare my love and snag a photo. While I wait, endless crowds are drawn to a smiling bronze Juliet, her right breast almost worn away thanks to endless groping for selfies. Shakespeare wouldn’t have been happy.
I’m trying not to look at my watch. Here, with this company, I don’t want the days to end. Well, today didn’t.
After a spot of lunch we took the funicular to the castle on the hill that stretches up from the banks of the Adige. We sat, admired the view, and earwigged the young northern girl chatting to her Dad next to us. They seemed not to know each other that well, catching up after some time apart perhaps. Now, they were entwined as travelling buddies. It was lovely to listen in and we said how awesome it would be to continue adventuring abroad with the kids, even when they’re in their twenties. If they want us as travel buddies, of course.
Slightly squiffy, we donned glad rags for our first taste of opera. The spectacular Arena di Verona presented Carmen. The subtitles being a bit too far to the right of the action made it tough to follow the narrative. But it was great; like a giant (there must have been more than 300 actors on stage) West End show (with the same daft lyrics shoehorned into songs, some of which were very familiar), just in a foreign language.
The show started at 9. By 1.15am, it was still going. By Act IV, the wine had got the better of Em and she nodded off on my shoulder. I thought it best to make tracks fearing the snoring hoi poloi might upset the aficionados.
After breakfast tomorrow, we move on.
Do what we did
Attraction Funicolare di Castel San Pietro
Music Arena di Verona
Attraction Juliet’s House
Day 4
Lake Como and Milan
By midday we are on the shores of Lake Como. After the monotony of the 80mph-limited motorway, the stretch between Lecco and Varenna on the Eastern branch is much more interesting. Four mile tunnels carve through the mountain rock. It’s why this place remains so picturesque. No main roads can be seen from the waterline.
At Varenna, we find a car park then stock up on treats at the bakery. Caprese paninis are fast becoming Em’s new sausage rolls. On the ferry to Menaggio and on to Bellagio, we gaze in wonder, at where Clooney’s place is. I don’t know, despite being one of his good friends.
With five hours until the parking ticket expires we waste no time, devouring our packed lunch before taking to the gorgeously cobbled streets of what has become the go-to Como enclave. It’s where wealthy bankers come to reconnect with their wives. It’s where old money congregates under gorgeous shade. It’s where the likes of Em and I day trip. It is absolutely beautiful, and Em wears it incredibly well.
Yet this feels different to Verona; to Varenna, just across the water, even. The constant bustle makes for impatient, rude shopkeepers. The queues for tables overlooking the glistening drink makes for grouchy waiters. Service with a smile, for tips or customers, is not something Bellagio has had to work for for decades.
On our drive south to Milan, Em takes a Power Nap while I grapple with local radio channels. 80s power ballads guide me into the centre of the city. In fear of flagging, we head out in search of the incredible Duomo and drinks. We overdo it on McDonald’s simply to qualify for their beach towel giveaway (who knew?)
Our night takes a turn on meeting Steve and Jen, an unlikely pair of friends in town for La Scala. They are not interested in hearing about our first opera experience the night before. In fact, they are not interested in anything we have to say, instead drowning us in tales of Yorkshire, being an accountant (Jen) and hating gays (Steve) despite being openly gay himself. We escaped their clutches just after 1am. Tomorrow we head south until we hit the coast.
Day 5
Milan and Levanto
It’s been a mad few days and the lack of sleep is creeping in. A dip in the rooftop pool is a welcome start to our fifth day here in Italy.
Thirty five miles south of Milan and something pretty special happened. Our stop at Autogrill, one of Italy’s premier roadside service stations, coincided with me eating the very best pizza I have ever tasted. “That’s a bold statement,” said Em, who couldn’t make her mind up between another Caprese panini and mushroom pizza so opted for both, the wedding diet now firmly a distant memory. “I know. But I think it actually could be the very best pizza I’ve ever had. The salami is slightly charred at the edges, just how I like it. The base is perfectly balanced between crispy, flaky, and doughy. The cheese is delicious, expertly cooked, and stringy. It’s unbelievably good,” came my reply. Lonely Planet needs to update its Milan pages. The very best pizza is not to be found in the festoon-lit alleyways of the Brera district. No, the Autogrill, junction 8 of the A7 is where to head.
Back on the road, our surroundings soon turn green. Hillsides lush with dense woods dominate the landscape here. The roads play second fiddle, sending cars under rocks into poorly lit tunnels. Flicking sunglasses between nose and forehead, in and out of the darkness, must be part of the Italian Driver’s Playbook.
We turn off at Rapallo and intend to head for a saunter round Portofino. Everybody has had the same idea. The Carabinieri are out in force and we’re stopped on the coastal road, told to turn around. The place is full up.
We instead tell our Airbnb host to expect us earlier. Tonight’s sojourn is in Pastine, a hillside hamlet that peers over the Med at Levanto. The Green Cactus House is the perfect bolt hole. We stock the fridge with food we got from the supermarket down the road, and make ourselves at home. While Em doses in and out of sleep while watching Luca on her iPad on the sofa, I tuck into Paul Theroux’s Mediterranean tales of The Pillars of Hercules. Even at 6pm, sitting outside is uncomfortable. The sign outside the pharmacy we passed on the way up the hill read 41 degrees. It’s sticky.
We spend the night hunkered inside the cool of our Hobbit house, fondly remembering our wedding day. Throughout today, Em has reminded me that we’ve been married exactly one week. I think she genuinely wanted to mark it in some way. Maybe I should have got her a card.
Tomorrow, we head out to sea to discover the Cinque Terre.
Day 6
Cinque Terre
It’s a mad dash to Monterosso. A mix of being too leisurely, not reading Brenda’s email properly about not even attempting to park in town, and trying to speed walk in flip flops, means we’re five minutes late to the boat.
Brenda has been running boat tours in the Cinque Terre since she left Florida to go backpacking in her late 30s. That was 14 years ago. We’ll meet her later for lunch.
For now, our tour guide Federico welcomes us on board and we join a trio of mum-daughter holidaymakers, each with their own tales, reasons for being here. We jump into the crystal clear, inky blue waters and get to know each of the ladies as we bob around, occasionally snorkelling to see the fish below us.
A magical five towns make up this incredible UNESCO protected national park. The colourful buildings of each place sit on top of each other and tumbling down towards the Med. To step inside the apartments higher up, one must walk across the roof of the one below. Other than Monterosso, these little pockets of life are only accessible via boat. Even then, the bigger boats must anchor up 200 yards from shore and be taken to the land by rowing boat so protected are these Medieval settlements. Of course there is a train line linking each of the towns, running to Levanto and La Spezia at either end.
In Manarola, we jump ashore to meander the narrow streets and watch in awe at the locals as they jump from up high on jagged rocks plunging into the gorgeous water. Sunbathers perch on the side of uncomfortable looking harbour sides, concrete jetties, hot boulders - anywhere they can lay a towel and call their own. It’s how I imagine tourists in the 1950s to have spent their time. There’s something simple and yet sophisticated about it all.
Back on our boat, our captain opens up the engine while Em and I snag the prime seats to lounge up front. Our last stop is in Vernazza for a seafood lunch. To get there we must jump on a taxi boat to row us into the tiny harbour. Among the tens of boats anchored on the outskirts, only one man operates a taxi here. He is in his 70s, the skin of a dark tanned rhinosaurus, an air of arrogance as he helps the ladies onto his tiny vessel. His unchallenged monopoly clearly gone to his head, he demands Federico hand over not only €20 to take his clients on the 90-second ride into Vernazza, but a bottle of champagne for his troubles. This place operates under different rules. Brenda joins us for lunch. A pleasant American with plenty of local knowledge, particularly when it comes to the platters of anchovies, octopus, pesto pasta and prawns that we share with the group over lunch. All of it is delicious.
We chat about Texas, the Gold Coast, each of our travel plans in the coming days. Em shoehorns in another mention about our wedding, the fact it’s our honeymoon. I can’t not mention Luca to the group, the story of which is set in the region. Brenda tells us that the Pixar crew used her boat while researching the area; the boat drawn in the film is based on hers. It’s all very exciting.
The welcome air conditioning of our Audi drives us into Lucca and our home for the night. Villa Marta is an old hunting lodge and our room is made up in the adjacent chapel. Probably not the most appropriate room to give the honeymooners, but hey.
Day 7
Pisa and Florence
Today I rode a Vespa. For 3 and a half minutes. With Em saddled behind me, shades on, I had visions of grandeur, speeding into Pisa, back in time for lunch. Winding through the country lanes on the hired moped on the outskirts of Lucca was fine. My first time on two wheels felt easy. “Justa like-a ridin’ a bike-a,” the concierge had assured me.
However, competing with the Alfas and too-fast lorries on the A road into the city, was quite something else. One slip of the throttle as I pulled out into the traffic and I misjudged the turn of the bike. We pulled to a stop on the grass verge. Em jumped off, cursing her new husband, no doubt wishing she’d married somebody more like her Dad. Back at the hotel I mumbled something to the concierge about not being quite ready for the Vespa, and she consoled me by waving the fee and wishing us a safer onward journey by car.
Pisa is choc-a-bloc and sweaty. Even the local shopkeepers are complaining about the 36 degree heat. Like everybody, we’re here for the tower. It’s leaning, yes. But it’s leaning a lot. It’s over polished, expertly restored, neatly protected state, roped off from the masses makes for a cartoony experience. It looks like something constructed for a Universal Studios ride.
After more ice cream and searching for football shirts (sorry Duds, there’s been a real dearth of kits aside from the usual Inter and Juve fayre), we head to Florence and our home for the night. The Heaven and Hell themed rooms at the 25Hours hotel offer plenty of interest. Outside we navigate sweltering streets in search of the easy to find Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the dramatic beating heart of this gorgeous city. The guide book recommendation to grab a drink in the public library cafe for views of the Duomo is well founded.
Much like our experiences of Paris, it’s hard not to get caught up in the romance of this place. Much to Em’s chagrin, we make our way to the summit of the southern banks of the Arno. It’s hot and sweaty, and we go silent (which often means Em is not at her most happy). But it is so worth it. We nestle in for drinks in one of Pizzale Michaengelo’s top spots, unknowingly awaiting the most incredible sunset. The waiter is happy to have a beer-loving Brit in his grasp, mixing it up with German crafty hops alongside Italy’s finest. Em sticks to the Spritz.
Before long we make new friends. Our waiter gives me the heads up that the bearded Brazilian chap sat behind us is about to pop the question. It’s exciting. Em snaps the moment it happens and Airdrops the results instantaneously with the beaming bride-to-be. We drunkenly exchange Instagram handles. I can see how happy the whole episode has made Em, who has spent this trip constantly, and quite rightly, remembering the romance of last weekend. As we drunkenly make our way back via the impressive Ponte Vecchio (note to self, we must return to Florence; it is just awesome), Em still hunting for more men down on one knee, it’s reassuring to know that in spite of all the shit going on in the world right now, love is all around, always.
Day 8
San Gimignano, Siena and Follonico
It was hard to say goodbye to our heavenly room and Florentine romance. On the road from the city I pondered the 900ish kilometres already covered, not wanting to tempt fate. Not one pothole in sight. Not one traffic jam. No hold ups or accidents. The Italian infrastructure is something else. Driving is easy here.
We’re on the phone to Sue when the medieval stone towers of San Gimignano appear in the distance, over the Tuscan hills. Her dulcet Scottish twang is at odds with the scenery. We get the lowdown on Pheebs’ prep for work experience which kicks off today. Blow & Blush is very lucky to have her.
Em knew how worthwhile the 216-step climb to the top of Torre Grasso would be. Her light grumble at the effort and heat was tempered by a rude American woman, upset by the 12 up-12 down policy as the staircase gave way to a ladder at the very summit.
As with visiting Rome last year with Duds, it’s easy to take our surroundings for granted. We walk under the shadows of numerous look out towers, over worn slabs of stone, past the Torture Museum, and I consider the sheer magnitude of history that has happened within this walled city. It is awesome. We grab a slice of pizza lunch and continue moving.
In Siena, I’m on the march to find Piazzo del Campo, the gigantic city square and the only star of the critically panned Quantum of Solace, Craig’s second outing as 007. This place deserves much more of our time. It is dripping in architectural pleasantries, its medieval walls begging to be explored, poured over, devoured. The oppressive heat, and promise of a pool and sun loungers at our next hotel, encourage us back to the car.
We arrive at Follonico, a beautifully restored and ancient farmhouse, deep in the Tuscan countryside. It’s an eco tourist’s dream, all organic hand soaps, and scratchy loo roll. Fabio greets us in his kitchen, gives us a tour of the grounds, the salt water pool, our room. He’s a kind man, full of love and pride for his land, and what he and his wife have created here.
As we sit by the pool, Em has a wobble over the lack of bar and restaurant. We are in the middle of nowhere without supplies, and Follonico is not a hotel. It’s not self catering either, just somewhere in between.
We ask Fabio whether he can order us a cab to the local town to get food. “Why don’t you drive!?” he wonders. Because we’re on honeymoon and we want to have a drink, Em tells him, being sure that Fabio also knows we are husband and wife and that we got married last week. Perplexed, Fabio says that drink driving is perfectly acceptable in these parts, where the economy is built on wine. How can the police possibly object?
Fabio takes care to reserve us a table at Osmosi, a place four kilometres away, just up the dusty track. Little did we know but Osmosi is ‘silly money fine dining’. As we’re invited to sit down, al fresco under the buzz of crickets circling the cypress trees, a waiter brings over a small, velvet cushioned plinth which he places on the floor by Em’s feet. It’s to put her handbag on. I look round at all the other women that have been given the same set up for their Gucci and Fendi bags. Em’s Dodgy Dawn special never looked so good.
Not having eaten since my San Gimignano pizza slice, I’m starving. The only option is a five-course tasting menu. The first to arrive is a runner bean (yes, just a single runner bean), smothered in mustard, served on a small block of stone, with two leaves (which could well have just fallen from above) balancing on top.
The next three courses didn’t get much better. This is where our values go their separate ways; Em is in her element, in awe of what’s being dished up all too seriously by haughty waiters. While I find the cuttlefish merely palatable, Em describes it as a “taste explosion in my mouth.” We retire to Follonico, Em buzzing, me starving.
Places
Attraction Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore
Stay 25Hours
Day 9
Montepulciano and Follonico
“Yeah, it’s just like the Isle of Wight.”
She did it again. The last time I got this reaction was on a trip to the Brecon Beacons, not long after we started dating, totally unimpressed by the rolling Welsh valleys. And she’s at it again. “Yeah, it’s nice here but it’s just like the Downs on the island.”
“Em, the Isle of Wight is beautiful. No doubt about it. But it ain’t Tuscany. Next you’ll be telling me that Florence reminds you of East Cowes!”
We were driving to have early evening dinner in Montepulciano, a 15 minute drive from our lodgings. The Tuscan vista is incredible (even better than Brading Down), and we’re lucky enough to snag the best seat in the house at Cafe Poliziano, an establishment aching for Gordon Ramsey to get his sweary hands on. Em’s chicken looks like it’s been dead a good few weeks, the carcass lying in the sun, eaten by ants and foxes and hyenas.
Today has been much needed, the cool salt water pool relieving our hot bodies. Em tucks into her book, her attraction levels soaring higher than the mercury.
In the pool, we chew the cud with Zac and John, a newly engaged couple from Sydney, spending 7 weeks on the road almost mirroring our trip. The boys are Married at First Sight Australia fans too.
Fabio and Sue serve up a salad lunch in their farmhouse garden. Stanley Tucci is right, the Italians know how to do simple food so well.
The rest of the day is spent snoozing, reading, smarting under sun, and. smuggling bottles of booze to the pool to get squiffy. I might regret mixing grape and grain tomorrow as we set off on our longest drive yet.
Places
Attraction Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore
Stay 25Hours
Day 10
Amalfi
We’re up and on the road even before breakfast. We say goodbye to the farmhouse wife (Fabio is out of town to see Depeche Mode in Rome) and she wishes us a safe journey. It’s five hours to Amalfi.
After a Focaccia-shaped pit stop at Autogrill (no pizza to be had), we head to the weird and wonderful Sacro Bosco (Sacred Wood). Straight out of the pages of a Little Legs book, this park was created in the 16th century. It claims to be the world’s first ever theme park, stuffed with a menagerie of haunting, horrid sculptures. It’s oddly satisfying being surrounded by local Italians enjoying the park with their families.
The journey south, past Tivoli, encircling Rome and on to Naples, is a breeze. Drivers are generally, refreshingly, quick and smart.
As we pass under thousands of Napoli flags and murals in every village leading to the Amalfi (33 years of pain, ended. I know that feeling), the toughest section of road is ahead. I tell a sweaty-palmed Em to read her book rather than critique my driving. She obliges. The twists and turns take us over the mountain to the cliff edges of Amalfi.
Amalfi. It is stunning. I don’t know it yet; I’m too focused on dodging Vespas, staying clear of oncoming coaches, to enjoy the scenery. And then, we arrive.
Hotel Miramalfi, like everything here, is hanging from the rocks, dangling to the sea. It’s like something from a film. It is simply stunning here. Mind blowing stunning. As I swim on my back in sea, my mind wanders. I want everyone I know to come here and experience this. On the terrace supping cocktails, Em’s been thinking the same thing.
As the sun disappears over the cliff, we contemplate dinner. In the shuttle bus service put on by the hotel, we meet a couple of newly weds from Boston. Together we try to think if there’s somewhere equivalent to this place, in terms of beauty and awe, in the US. We fail.
Evening drinks in the hotel bar turns into an expat chat show, Em excitedly sharing wedding tales and photos with Ellie and Joe from Cardiff. They married last week too. A lovely Buckinghamshire couple called Amanda and Julian are 21 years in, and preparing for life without their grown-up kids, now at uni. We’re all very different and yet share in acknowledging we’re all very lucky to be here on this incredible stretch of coastline.
Places
Attraction Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore
Stay 25Hours
Day 11
Amalfi and Positano
The strike by Italian airport crew has caught us out. Arranging an alternative route to Sicily tomorrow has disrupted an otherwise incredibly lazy day. But, we’re sorted. Rather than fly from Naples to Palermo (as I write it I’m hearing “Pa-lerrrr-mo” in the style of The White Lotus’ Tom Hollander) we will put our little Audi through its paces once more, stretching our miles down to the toenail of the boot, on to a ferry at Villa San Giovanni (where Em will no doubt tell me it’s just like the Isle of Wight) and across the northern coastline of Sicily for our final resting place.
Our hotel has been the star of our Amalfi experience. It’s just glorious, full of eager to please staff, and awesome touches that make you feel really special. I attempt to jump into Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle; its otherworldliness can’t compete with my surroundings, and I’m constantly distracted by the glistening, inky blue sea, waving for us to join it from our sun beds balancing on the edge of our cliff-side terrace.
We tear ourselves away in time to catch the 6pm ferry from Amalfi to Positano. It’s time to see what all the fuss is about in probably the most talked about travel destination on the planet.
As the boat pulls into the bay outside the town, we’re held up in traffic to get dockside. The vessel throws us around for 20 minutes. Em’s bilious disposition might have clouded her judgement, but she’s not that impressed with the place.
We settle in for a cocktail beachside. Unlike anywhere else we’ve been these last ten days, we are transported to Greece, the beach bar vibes taking over proceedings. But as the sun sets and we venture up pretty hillside streets dotted with gelatarias and preppy clothing stores, past swanky sea view ristorantes with queuing punters dressed like their off to the races, Positano’s attraction reveals itself.
As luck would have it our new friends from Bucks spent the evening at a highly recommended eatery in the upper hills overlooking the town. Noting the pricey cab fares and early finish at the ferry port, we agreed to share the cost to get home tonight. In the car, we squiffily exchange numbers and agree on many things; that it was really lovely to have met being one of them. If we were getting married next week, Em would definitely have invited them to the wedding.
Places
Attraction Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore
Stay 25Hours
Day 12
Villa San Giovanni and Taormina
As soon as this honeymoon road trip was given the green light, my romantic vision was to travel the entire length of this gorgeous country, from top to toe, circling the heel if time allowed. Not wanting to spend too many hours on the road, plans were truncated. However, our cancelled flight out of Naples meant I got my wish. After a sweaty breakfast on our balcony (it was 32 degrees by 8am, the sun unrelenting) we began the five hour drive south. The first hour was spent navigating the treacherous 16 mile cliff side approach to Salerno. The rest is easy going.
While Em finishes her book, I enjoy watching the changing dramatic scenery through the windscreen. The homes are more sparse down here, the landscape more rugged, hardy, the people more Italian, less Northern European.
In Villa San Giovanni it looks like the local authority is on strike. The boarded up hotels, crumbling apartments and endless weeds springing from pavements point to a different Italy. An Italy we haven’t really seen until now. We’re lucky to catch an earlier ferry than booked, and in less than 20 minutes, we’re on Sicilian soil.
From the scruffy port town of Messina we head south. We’re still in Italy, but it’s different here. In Taormina, we find yet another glorious set of streets, buildings, piazzas and ice cream shops. After being shoo-ed away from the San Domenico Palace Hotel (we only managed to put our heads in the foyer of The White Lotus hotel), we get a prime spot in the ristorante overlooking the Duomo. A wedding is about to start and Em does not want to miss the bride’s arrival. She arrives, looking hot, in both senses of the word, to cheers from the assembled tourists milling around the square.
On the deserted road stretching from Catania to Palermo the cars are slow and the A road is poorly maintained. The long drive has taken its toll. Em nods off.
After 11 days on the road - fully immersed in this gorgeous nation, embraced by its rules, culture, beauty, and blown away by all that we’ve experienced, excited by the people we’ve met - I feel somehow dejected on arriving at our hotel. It’s probably a similar feeling to the one Clark W. Griswold had when he pulled up outside Walley World to find it is closed for cleaning. It’s not that our all inclusive hotel isn’t lovely; far from it. It’s just that now, we could be anywhere in the world, instead of somewhere. But I’m shattered. We both are (even though Em is probably getting, on average, 3 hours more sleep than me per day, what with her power naps). And we are ready to be mainly horizontal for the next three days before heading home.
Places
Attraction Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore
Stay 25Hours
Day 13 + 14
Sicily
Our time here has blurred into a lengthy mass of good food, sunbeds, pool dips and day-long drinking and reading. Here, on the very frontline of the climate crisis, my pasty skin is holding up well considering. It’s been a consistent 34 degrees since we arrived.
Not moving took some time to get used to, and now our trip is almost over. Tomorrow we jet back to reality. But the reality being what it is, I’m really happy to get home to the kids, our new lodgers (let’s hope Sue was joking about changing the locks) and to start the rest of my life with this gorgeous beast of a new wife of mine.
To those of you that have been reading me, channelling my inner Theroux, these past two weeks, thank you.
And to all of you that celebrated our wedding with us, and gave such generous contributions to our honeymoon pot, we cannot thank you enough. It helped us create such a magical adventure that will forever be remembered, spoken of, pulled from the memory bank at every opportunity. You have all been very kind.
Over and out.
Places
Attraction Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore
Stay 25Hours