2 May 2006, Napoli
This is my birthday bulletin.
The only thing I really wanted for my birthday was two days of peace, two days alone with Gigi and two days exploring.
Prep Work
After much discussion and investigating a possible long weekend visit to Copenhagen we eventually decided to visit Paestum. However, with Monday 1st May being the Labour Day public holiday we were inevitably going to deal with long weekend travellers, traffic and crowds. The other problem was that Gi’s sister needed a ride home from work midnight on Saturday night. With this in mind we offered to play taxi and borrow the car for the Sunday and Monday. As usual Gi confirmed this arrangement with his mother early in the week, emphasizing that we could make other transport arrangements if it wasn’t convenient to borrow her car. (The reality is that ordinarily they spend most of the weekend in bed, and at home; maybe venturing out to the shopping centre, to walk the dog or buy cigarettes.)
Friday evening Rosa asked us what we were planning to do for the weekend having, assumedly, forgotten that it was my birthday and that we were going away for two days. Gi explained our plans again, only to be told that she needed the car on Sunday. Of course it was too late to hire a car at a reasonable rate, and catching the train would severely limit our mobility. Gi made all the right noises like ‘well, it’s your car so if you need it we’ll change our plans’, with me sitting there screaming on the inside, fully aware that the car would only be used for 1-2 hours over the two days. The thing I’ve learnt about being here though is that if you sit still and quiet for long enough, eventually whatever it is that you want will be made available. Making a fuss, only stirs up the dust and god knows what else, making a bigger mess, ending in what they call a ‘discussion’ (albeit heated) and what I call an ‘argument’.
So, Saturday night we played taxi, collecting Irene from the pizza joint where she works as a cashier. I was already tired, and concerned that we were going to end up waiting around at the piazza (note piazza, not pizza) waiting for her to finish hanging out with friends. Thankfully by 1am we were home, with ‘Tanti Auguri’ (the Italian equivalent of ‘Happy Birthday”) ringing in my ears.
Great Escape
Early Sunday morning and my mobile phone squealed for attention with birthday wishes from my family in Brisbane. The highlight of these phone calls is speaking to my nieces who are at that tender age where they are keen to talk on the phone but don’t understand that you can’t hear their nods or facial expressions in response to questions like “Are you at nana’s place today?” “Are you being a good girl?” Their mother, my sister, quickly follows on the phone to reassure me that we were engaged in a conversation, I just couldn’t see it.
Gi and I rose early and left the house dark and slumbering, stealing out to make our way south of Naples, circling round the south side of the Vesuvio on the A3 freeway. Bypassing Salerno, the autostrada curves over the top of the coastal city marking the end of the Amalfi Coast. Continuing on the A3 with three lanes of traffic travelling in each direction, Gi frequently changes lanes to overtake oldies dawdling at 40k/hr and moves aside for BMWs and Audis racing along at 200 k/hr. At Battipaglia we leave the freeway and drive through some pretty uninspiring sprawl, which you just know is hiding some lovely countryside. The road is lined with signs for ‘Mozzarella di Bufala’ and Gigi gets increasingly excited, remembering that this area is famous for its quality mozzarella. We stop to buy supplies for lunch and follow the yellow signs to Paestum.
Temple Party
A Unesco World Heritage Site, Paestum was “founded in the 6th century BC by Greek settlers and fell under Roman Control in 273 BC, becoming an important trading port” (Lonely Planet). However, it’s the three Greek temples standing majestically in fields of wildflowers that are one of southern Italy’s most famous images. Entering the site the first, and smallest, temple is the 6th century BC Temple of Ceres. It’s captivating, sitting adjacent to the ruins of the housing area and main business street. We explored ruins of the amphitheatre, forum, the senate and pre military training centre and swimming pool. Standing in the Roman Amphitheatre I could imagine the life that once filled the arena, the roar of the entertained crowd, sporting events, the market bizarre and community activities.
Gigi is particularly useful when visiting historical sites, pointing out details of floor tiling, varying wall constructions (some Greek, other styles Roman) and the entryway to a house or shop (now just a pile of rocks for those of us without imagination), highlighting sculptural details that are still visible some 2600 years later. He rattles on with information about the people, the times, the sequence of events, until you cry out for him to stop, the various dates, and names like Neptune, Hera, Athena, Apollo, Zeus and Poseidonia swimming around in your head.
The most impressive, and best-preserved, monuments on site are the two temples standing at the far end. The Temple of Neptune, about 450 BC, is the largest, most intact and undoubtedly the most beautiful. Beside it stands the Basilica, Temple of Hera, built about 550 BC, Paestum’s oldest surviving monument and truly majestic with remains of a sacrificial altar at one end. The whole site is ringed by a striking 4.7 km of walls. These temples emanate a pride, an atmosphere of humanity and history that you have to experience to understand.
A mandatory visit to the museum across from the temples was rather uninspiring. It’s a surprisingly unappealing, modern, square building nestled in amongst the haughty tourist cafes and tacky souvenir shops. The museum houses an array of objects that have been removed from the site in order to preserve them: internal frescos, vases, figurines, marble sculptures. Our complaining stomachs quickly sent us back to the car to collect our picnic supplies, passing the members of a Harley Davidson club occupying most of a café’s outside tables. Their leather-clad limbs sprawled out, bandanas providing a splash of colour; their faces open with laughter and relaxation.
Having parked in the village away from the main road we set up lunch on a large square rock, a block from someone’s house before Christ was born. The ruins are spread across the whole community, in backyards, alongside the road, holding up shopfront signs. My birthday lunch is a delight. Fresh bread, balls of mozzarella cheese plump, rich and white, milk oozing at the slightest touch, accompanied by grilled eggplant marinated in balsamic vinegar, olive oil, chilli, garlic and parsley. We eat, leaning over the edge of the picnic block with the juices dripping and a sense of tranquillity and satisfaction.
Hotel Calypso
Our next priority was to find somewhere to spend the night. Driving away from the temple ruins we followed some Agritourism signs (farmstay) entering one such property to see the local train disappearing directly behind the house, the small car park overflowing with vehicles, and the outdoor area full of kids with pastel sweaters slung around shoulders, the air full of their annoying, spoilt shrieks. Turning the car around before I could say ‘romantic birthday weekend’ Gi headed in the opposite direction. We soon stumbled across a charming hotel on the seaside and booked in for the night. The lobby was full of antique furniture, every wall adorned with a painting. The original floor tiles, locally manufactured and glorious with warm yellows, mint greens and cobalt blue led us to our double room. No one can explain it to me but a double room in Italy often means two single beds pushed together. It didn’t stop us from collapsing though, the drive, sight seeing and lunch pushing us into the snooze zone.
Springtime means that the days are getting increasingly longer, so rousing ourselves at 5pm we still had several hours of daylight to enjoy. Roberto, the proprietor, spent some time going through a local tourist booklet pointing out other places of interest. We learn that his father has operated the hotel for 40 years, with Roberto taking over about eight years ago. He takes obvious pride in the environmentally friendly facilities, and impressive restaurant menu that caters to vegetarians. A woman from Eastern Europe (maybe Poland or Romania) cleans the restaurant floors, and as we head down to the beach for a stroll at Roberto’s suggestion she clambers up onto the windowsill to clean the windows. I watch her teetering on tiptoe in an effort to reach the top of the window, wondering what sort of life she’s left behind to come and clean in Southern Italy.
The beach was empty except for a group of students building a sand castle, turrets, towers, and moat - the works. It’s difficult to imagine how different it must look in August when the whole coast is crammed with Italians escaping the heat and their normal lives for summer holidays. Roberto admits that he prefers the quieter times of the year, when he can spend time with guests, enjoy the beach. Upon learning that I’m writing he reveals that his wife writes poetry. And as we walk along the beach, dodging the waves chasing our ankles and frayed blue jeans, we hear the tale of his heartbreak. A tale of a girlfriend who after twelve years of engagement presented him with an account of every wrong he’d committed over that time and advised she was leaving. He described it achingly, and somehow fondly, recalling feeling tranquil, listening to her complaints, all of them valid and just, failing to retaliate with a list of his own. Mixing Italian and English to say that some of the strongest memories in life are from times when you are sad and down. “Even the blues are beautiful”. It’s true.
Between the hotel and the beach is the garden, a lovely patch of green for restaurant diners. Strolling back towards the hotel, Roberto steers us through a patch of neglected garden, underneath some trees heavy with perfumed white flowers, to show us his carrot patch. These are special carrots, from seeds entrusted to him by a man who belonged to the international ‘Seed Savers Association’. Finicky to grow, we watch as he weeds, talking to his carrots, freeing them from suffocation. It’s both puzzling and endearing to have a patch of carrots in the middle of a wilderness of weeds, but somehow very Italian.
The hotel appeared deserted except for a slightly bored girl at reception, and the thick waisted cleaning lady. However a number of vehicles parked outside indicated that we were not the only guests. I wondered why it was that we hadn’t seen, or heard, anyone else though. This country is not known for its quiet, unassuming, subdued people. Perhaps their afternoon slumber had extended into the early evening.
Sunset saunter
Our sensitive host had suggested that the nearby seaside town of Agropoli was best explored in the afternoon. The road swings past untidy beachside sprawl, and an assortment of accommodation often only used for two months of the year; tired holiday villages, camping grounds locked up and desolate. Entering the esplanade it was apparent that Agropoli itself was nonetheless a popular long weekend destination outside of summer. Following the crawling traffic, and avoiding what appeared to be every pram in the region, we arrived at the port and parked after convincing a young woman that her little matchbox of a car didn’t need two parking spaces. Thankfully a male friend was supportive, encouraging her to reposition, aware that her driving skills were incredibly ordinary. After three attempts, and much huffing and puffing, she emerged, impeccable in white, obviously the sort of woman who could handle a mascara wand better than a steering wheel.
We walked out along a concrete quay that protected the small harbour and a colourful collection of craft: cruisers, yachts, fishing boats, dinghies and police speedboats. Behind us ‘perched on a high promontory overlooking the sea’ (Lonely Planet) was the medieval historical centre. On the other side the road wound up around the hillside, past a decaying villa. At one point I watched three white campervans chug up the hill, only to disappear over the horizon.
The next thirty minutes were serene and magical as we sat watching the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea, turning occasionally to watch the charming township of Agropoli come alive with lights. A young man sat nearby reading a book by the twilight, but with the fading light eventually even he left, stuffing his book into his back pocket. Another man arrived and set up his fishing gear on the rocky alcove below, perched under a rather unattractive sculpture of Madonna and Child said to offer protection to all those who for whatever reason fare the sea.
The disc of the sun slowly slipped down through the clouds, hovering at the edge of the horizon, resulting in all those glorious colours that you never want to wear as a bridesmaid: apricots, musky pink, golden yellow, lilac, lemon. Behind us Agropoli stood proudly beneath a mass of clouds tinged with pink and grey offset against an enduring blue sky. Sunsets are subtle, an everyday occurrence. But somehow watching a sunset slows down time, lets you listen to each breath, creates an atmosphere of serenity, as Mother Nature’s painting spills out across the sky.
Cake & presents?
As twilight fell, we drove back up to the base of the historical centre, parked and climbed the stairway to the medieval core of the town. With countless hidden pockets, a crumbling castle, potted geraniums it was a lovely place. We located a pizzeria recommended by the Lonely Planet called Pizzeria U’Sghiz (don’t ask me how to pronounce it) where the pizzas are made on wholemeal flour. As a pizza purist Gigi was sceptical but we ordered some pizza to takeaway and a bottle of homegrown Peroni beer and sat out on the viewing platform with the port way below us. I wasn’t expecting a big fancy dinner, presents or a cake, luckily because none of them materialised. However it was a lovely romantic evening and a birthday that I’ll remember for a long time.
Spring searching
Having enjoyed the pleasures of an ‘almost’ double bed in our private room overlooking the hotel garden we checked out the following morning and went in search of another of Roberto’s recommendation. Using three maps, none of which were sufficiently or accurately detailed, we first drove in the completely wrong direction south along the SS18. As we drove up a mountain, our error became more apparent so turning around we followed our noses to find the Capodifiume Sanctuary. The area is the site of some ancient springs, where the bubbling water just appears from nowhere coming up out of the earth. Unfortunately, they’ve built a park, swings, and picnic area beside it, which was now full of families playing soccer and scattering their rubbish in defiance of the signs that strictly forbid both activities. Luckily, it started to sprinkle so as we explored the springs and the ruins of another temple submerged in the water, a plethora of umbrellas, plastic bags and jackets were used to shelter under by the picnicking groups. The sprinkle became rain and the young trees were obviously not going to provide sufficient cover. We watched as everyone proceeded to pack up, throw children into cars and abandon their public holiday plans although it was quite obvious that it was just a spring shower and would pass quickly, which it did.
Heading towards home we drove some lovely Campania countryside, hillside olive groves and patches of vineyards catching my eye. Lemon trees, bowing under the weight of their fruit, splashes of red and pink potted geraniums, and the yellow flowers of wild friarielli adding colour. Terracotta rooved farmhouses were scattered across the landscape like toys on a carpet of green left by a child who had moved onto a new game. The rain had settled the dust and the fresh smell of the earth wafted through the air.
Taking a different route home we followed the Litoranea, the minor road that hugs the coast to Salerno. I have to say that it’s not a particularly inspiring coastline, but I can see that in the heat of summer with the colour and activity of tourist crowds it’s a more interesting place. Once again Gi stopped for mozzarella supplies, this time pulling into a produce consortium for local freehold suppliers of buffalo milk.
Slightly further down the road we parked beside a major intersection to buy fresh bread. I watched in amazement as two throbbing Harley Davidson bikes stopped in the middle of the intersection, effectively blocking a semi trailer waiting for the lights to change. With enough space between them the whole contingent of Harleys drove between them, keeping the group together. The two bikies were now blocking not only the semi trailer but also a growing line of cars. Quickly becoming impatient some of the drivers behind began practicing their beeping skills, with one of the bikies, helmet on, bandana wrapped around the lower part of his face, giving a cursory wave to the truck driver as though to imply that surely he understood the need for them to hold up the traffic. I watched as about sixty bikes cruised by, leather tassels flying; low slung, the epiphany of cool and in stark contrast to the nerdy weekend crowd out for a picnic.
We cruised home in the early afternoon, keen to avoid the traffic that would build up as everyone headed home from their long weekend activities. My wish for a two days of exploring, alone with Gigi had become a lovely reality. In fact it goes down as a birthday to remember. The two days of peace was also a reality…until we got home only to have discussions of dinner, and other issues of resentment, result in one hell of a family mess, reminding me that a permanent escape from living with the in laws would be the best birthday present I could receive.
This is my birthday bulletin.
The only thing I really wanted for my birthday was two days of peace, two days alone with Gigi and two days exploring.
Prep Work
After much discussion and investigating a possible long weekend visit to Copenhagen we eventually decided to visit Paestum. However, with Monday 1st May being the Labour Day public holiday we were inevitably going to deal with long weekend travellers, traffic and crowds. The other problem was that Gi’s sister needed a ride home from work midnight on Saturday night. With this in mind we offered to play taxi and borrow the car for the Sunday and Monday. As usual Gi confirmed this arrangement with his mother early in the week, emphasizing that we could make other transport arrangements if it wasn’t convenient to borrow her car. (The reality is that ordinarily they spend most of the weekend in bed, and at home; maybe venturing out to the shopping centre, to walk the dog or buy cigarettes.)
Friday evening Rosa asked us what we were planning to do for the weekend having, assumedly, forgotten that it was my birthday and that we were going away for two days. Gi explained our plans again, only to be told that she needed the car on Sunday. Of course it was too late to hire a car at a reasonable rate, and catching the train would severely limit our mobility. Gi made all the right noises like ‘well, it’s your car so if you need it we’ll change our plans’, with me sitting there screaming on the inside, fully aware that the car would only be used for 1-2 hours over the two days. The thing I’ve learnt about being here though is that if you sit still and quiet for long enough, eventually whatever it is that you want will be made available. Making a fuss, only stirs up the dust and god knows what else, making a bigger mess, ending in what they call a ‘discussion’ (albeit heated) and what I call an ‘argument’.
So, Saturday night we played taxi, collecting Irene from the pizza joint where she works as a cashier. I was already tired, and concerned that we were going to end up waiting around at the piazza (note piazza, not pizza) waiting for her to finish hanging out with friends. Thankfully by 1am we were home, with ‘Tanti Auguri’ (the Italian equivalent of ‘Happy Birthday”) ringing in my ears.
Great Escape
Early Sunday morning and my mobile phone squealed for attention with birthday wishes from my family in Brisbane. The highlight of these phone calls is speaking to my nieces who are at that tender age where they are keen to talk on the phone but don’t understand that you can’t hear their nods or facial expressions in response to questions like “Are you at nana’s place today?” “Are you being a good girl?” Their mother, my sister, quickly follows on the phone to reassure me that we were engaged in a conversation, I just couldn’t see it.
Gi and I rose early and left the house dark and slumbering, stealing out to make our way south of Naples, circling round the south side of the Vesuvio on the A3 freeway. Bypassing Salerno, the autostrada curves over the top of the coastal city marking the end of the Amalfi Coast. Continuing on the A3 with three lanes of traffic travelling in each direction, Gi frequently changes lanes to overtake oldies dawdling at 40k/hr and moves aside for BMWs and Audis racing along at 200 k/hr. At Battipaglia we leave the freeway and drive through some pretty uninspiring sprawl, which you just know is hiding some lovely countryside. The road is lined with signs for ‘Mozzarella di Bufala’ and Gigi gets increasingly excited, remembering that this area is famous for its quality mozzarella. We stop to buy supplies for lunch and follow the yellow signs to Paestum.
Temple Party
A Unesco World Heritage Site, Paestum was “founded in the 6th century BC by Greek settlers and fell under Roman Control in 273 BC, becoming an important trading port” (Lonely Planet). However, it’s the three Greek temples standing majestically in fields of wildflowers that are one of southern Italy’s most famous images. Entering the site the first, and smallest, temple is the 6th century BC Temple of Ceres. It’s captivating, sitting adjacent to the ruins of the housing area and main business street. We explored ruins of the amphitheatre, forum, the senate and pre military training centre and swimming pool. Standing in the Roman Amphitheatre I could imagine the life that once filled the arena, the roar of the entertained crowd, sporting events, the market bizarre and community activities.
Gigi is particularly useful when visiting historical sites, pointing out details of floor tiling, varying wall constructions (some Greek, other styles Roman) and the entryway to a house or shop (now just a pile of rocks for those of us without imagination), highlighting sculptural details that are still visible some 2600 years later. He rattles on with information about the people, the times, the sequence of events, until you cry out for him to stop, the various dates, and names like Neptune, Hera, Athena, Apollo, Zeus and Poseidonia swimming around in your head.
The most impressive, and best-preserved, monuments on site are the two temples standing at the far end. The Temple of Neptune, about 450 BC, is the largest, most intact and undoubtedly the most beautiful. Beside it stands the Basilica, Temple of Hera, built about 550 BC, Paestum’s oldest surviving monument and truly majestic with remains of a sacrificial altar at one end. The whole site is ringed by a striking 4.7 km of walls. These temples emanate a pride, an atmosphere of humanity and history that you have to experience to understand.
A mandatory visit to the museum across from the temples was rather uninspiring. It’s a surprisingly unappealing, modern, square building nestled in amongst the haughty tourist cafes and tacky souvenir shops. The museum houses an array of objects that have been removed from the site in order to preserve them: internal frescos, vases, figurines, marble sculptures. Our complaining stomachs quickly sent us back to the car to collect our picnic supplies, passing the members of a Harley Davidson club occupying most of a café’s outside tables. Their leather-clad limbs sprawled out, bandanas providing a splash of colour; their faces open with laughter and relaxation.
Having parked in the village away from the main road we set up lunch on a large square rock, a block from someone’s house before Christ was born. The ruins are spread across the whole community, in backyards, alongside the road, holding up shopfront signs. My birthday lunch is a delight. Fresh bread, balls of mozzarella cheese plump, rich and white, milk oozing at the slightest touch, accompanied by grilled eggplant marinated in balsamic vinegar, olive oil, chilli, garlic and parsley. We eat, leaning over the edge of the picnic block with the juices dripping and a sense of tranquillity and satisfaction.
Hotel Calypso
Our next priority was to find somewhere to spend the night. Driving away from the temple ruins we followed some Agritourism signs (farmstay) entering one such property to see the local train disappearing directly behind the house, the small car park overflowing with vehicles, and the outdoor area full of kids with pastel sweaters slung around shoulders, the air full of their annoying, spoilt shrieks. Turning the car around before I could say ‘romantic birthday weekend’ Gi headed in the opposite direction. We soon stumbled across a charming hotel on the seaside and booked in for the night. The lobby was full of antique furniture, every wall adorned with a painting. The original floor tiles, locally manufactured and glorious with warm yellows, mint greens and cobalt blue led us to our double room. No one can explain it to me but a double room in Italy often means two single beds pushed together. It didn’t stop us from collapsing though, the drive, sight seeing and lunch pushing us into the snooze zone.
Springtime means that the days are getting increasingly longer, so rousing ourselves at 5pm we still had several hours of daylight to enjoy. Roberto, the proprietor, spent some time going through a local tourist booklet pointing out other places of interest. We learn that his father has operated the hotel for 40 years, with Roberto taking over about eight years ago. He takes obvious pride in the environmentally friendly facilities, and impressive restaurant menu that caters to vegetarians. A woman from Eastern Europe (maybe Poland or Romania) cleans the restaurant floors, and as we head down to the beach for a stroll at Roberto’s suggestion she clambers up onto the windowsill to clean the windows. I watch her teetering on tiptoe in an effort to reach the top of the window, wondering what sort of life she’s left behind to come and clean in Southern Italy.
The beach was empty except for a group of students building a sand castle, turrets, towers, and moat - the works. It’s difficult to imagine how different it must look in August when the whole coast is crammed with Italians escaping the heat and their normal lives for summer holidays. Roberto admits that he prefers the quieter times of the year, when he can spend time with guests, enjoy the beach. Upon learning that I’m writing he reveals that his wife writes poetry. And as we walk along the beach, dodging the waves chasing our ankles and frayed blue jeans, we hear the tale of his heartbreak. A tale of a girlfriend who after twelve years of engagement presented him with an account of every wrong he’d committed over that time and advised she was leaving. He described it achingly, and somehow fondly, recalling feeling tranquil, listening to her complaints, all of them valid and just, failing to retaliate with a list of his own. Mixing Italian and English to say that some of the strongest memories in life are from times when you are sad and down. “Even the blues are beautiful”. It’s true.
Between the hotel and the beach is the garden, a lovely patch of green for restaurant diners. Strolling back towards the hotel, Roberto steers us through a patch of neglected garden, underneath some trees heavy with perfumed white flowers, to show us his carrot patch. These are special carrots, from seeds entrusted to him by a man who belonged to the international ‘Seed Savers Association’. Finicky to grow, we watch as he weeds, talking to his carrots, freeing them from suffocation. It’s both puzzling and endearing to have a patch of carrots in the middle of a wilderness of weeds, but somehow very Italian.
The hotel appeared deserted except for a slightly bored girl at reception, and the thick waisted cleaning lady. However a number of vehicles parked outside indicated that we were not the only guests. I wondered why it was that we hadn’t seen, or heard, anyone else though. This country is not known for its quiet, unassuming, subdued people. Perhaps their afternoon slumber had extended into the early evening.
Sunset saunter
Our sensitive host had suggested that the nearby seaside town of Agropoli was best explored in the afternoon. The road swings past untidy beachside sprawl, and an assortment of accommodation often only used for two months of the year; tired holiday villages, camping grounds locked up and desolate. Entering the esplanade it was apparent that Agropoli itself was nonetheless a popular long weekend destination outside of summer. Following the crawling traffic, and avoiding what appeared to be every pram in the region, we arrived at the port and parked after convincing a young woman that her little matchbox of a car didn’t need two parking spaces. Thankfully a male friend was supportive, encouraging her to reposition, aware that her driving skills were incredibly ordinary. After three attempts, and much huffing and puffing, she emerged, impeccable in white, obviously the sort of woman who could handle a mascara wand better than a steering wheel.
We walked out along a concrete quay that protected the small harbour and a colourful collection of craft: cruisers, yachts, fishing boats, dinghies and police speedboats. Behind us ‘perched on a high promontory overlooking the sea’ (Lonely Planet) was the medieval historical centre. On the other side the road wound up around the hillside, past a decaying villa. At one point I watched three white campervans chug up the hill, only to disappear over the horizon.
The next thirty minutes were serene and magical as we sat watching the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea, turning occasionally to watch the charming township of Agropoli come alive with lights. A young man sat nearby reading a book by the twilight, but with the fading light eventually even he left, stuffing his book into his back pocket. Another man arrived and set up his fishing gear on the rocky alcove below, perched under a rather unattractive sculpture of Madonna and Child said to offer protection to all those who for whatever reason fare the sea.
The disc of the sun slowly slipped down through the clouds, hovering at the edge of the horizon, resulting in all those glorious colours that you never want to wear as a bridesmaid: apricots, musky pink, golden yellow, lilac, lemon. Behind us Agropoli stood proudly beneath a mass of clouds tinged with pink and grey offset against an enduring blue sky. Sunsets are subtle, an everyday occurrence. But somehow watching a sunset slows down time, lets you listen to each breath, creates an atmosphere of serenity, as Mother Nature’s painting spills out across the sky.
Cake & presents?
As twilight fell, we drove back up to the base of the historical centre, parked and climbed the stairway to the medieval core of the town. With countless hidden pockets, a crumbling castle, potted geraniums it was a lovely place. We located a pizzeria recommended by the Lonely Planet called Pizzeria U’Sghiz (don’t ask me how to pronounce it) where the pizzas are made on wholemeal flour. As a pizza purist Gigi was sceptical but we ordered some pizza to takeaway and a bottle of homegrown Peroni beer and sat out on the viewing platform with the port way below us. I wasn’t expecting a big fancy dinner, presents or a cake, luckily because none of them materialised. However it was a lovely romantic evening and a birthday that I’ll remember for a long time.
Spring searching
Having enjoyed the pleasures of an ‘almost’ double bed in our private room overlooking the hotel garden we checked out the following morning and went in search of another of Roberto’s recommendation. Using three maps, none of which were sufficiently or accurately detailed, we first drove in the completely wrong direction south along the SS18. As we drove up a mountain, our error became more apparent so turning around we followed our noses to find the Capodifiume Sanctuary. The area is the site of some ancient springs, where the bubbling water just appears from nowhere coming up out of the earth. Unfortunately, they’ve built a park, swings, and picnic area beside it, which was now full of families playing soccer and scattering their rubbish in defiance of the signs that strictly forbid both activities. Luckily, it started to sprinkle so as we explored the springs and the ruins of another temple submerged in the water, a plethora of umbrellas, plastic bags and jackets were used to shelter under by the picnicking groups. The sprinkle became rain and the young trees were obviously not going to provide sufficient cover. We watched as everyone proceeded to pack up, throw children into cars and abandon their public holiday plans although it was quite obvious that it was just a spring shower and would pass quickly, which it did.
Heading towards home we drove some lovely Campania countryside, hillside olive groves and patches of vineyards catching my eye. Lemon trees, bowing under the weight of their fruit, splashes of red and pink potted geraniums, and the yellow flowers of wild friarielli adding colour. Terracotta rooved farmhouses were scattered across the landscape like toys on a carpet of green left by a child who had moved onto a new game. The rain had settled the dust and the fresh smell of the earth wafted through the air.
Taking a different route home we followed the Litoranea, the minor road that hugs the coast to Salerno. I have to say that it’s not a particularly inspiring coastline, but I can see that in the heat of summer with the colour and activity of tourist crowds it’s a more interesting place. Once again Gi stopped for mozzarella supplies, this time pulling into a produce consortium for local freehold suppliers of buffalo milk.
Slightly further down the road we parked beside a major intersection to buy fresh bread. I watched in amazement as two throbbing Harley Davidson bikes stopped in the middle of the intersection, effectively blocking a semi trailer waiting for the lights to change. With enough space between them the whole contingent of Harleys drove between them, keeping the group together. The two bikies were now blocking not only the semi trailer but also a growing line of cars. Quickly becoming impatient some of the drivers behind began practicing their beeping skills, with one of the bikies, helmet on, bandana wrapped around the lower part of his face, giving a cursory wave to the truck driver as though to imply that surely he understood the need for them to hold up the traffic. I watched as about sixty bikes cruised by, leather tassels flying; low slung, the epiphany of cool and in stark contrast to the nerdy weekend crowd out for a picnic.
We cruised home in the early afternoon, keen to avoid the traffic that would build up as everyone headed home from their long weekend activities. My wish for a two days of exploring, alone with Gigi had become a lovely reality. In fact it goes down as a birthday to remember. The two days of peace was also a reality…until we got home only to have discussions of dinner, and other issues of resentment, result in one hell of a family mess, reminding me that a permanent escape from living with the in laws would be the best birthday present I could receive.
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