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| Lake Avernus Photo©Nigel Summerley |
SEPTEMBER 15 - DAY 22
Another bad night's sleep. There seemed to be animated but good-natured conversation until around 2.30am in the street beneath my room. So, up early. Caught up with laundry. Then went for another walk around Lake Avernus. A second look showed the water to be deep and dark and filled with fish, some really tiny... I don't know for sure, but I suspect there must be big ones out there. It's around 200ft deep. It takes an hour to walk around, but that's the path around the lake... the rim of the caldera is set back from that and is, I reckon, about 100 metres higher up.
Back at the Sibilla, I found myself warming even more to the ageing couple who run it – and who reminded me of another lovely couple that I know.
And this feeling continued – despite an incident with my toilet, which was in many ways reminiscent of the Albion Hotel debacle.
On my return from the lake, the owner told me there was a problem with the cistern and that he might have to move me to another room. Between his almost non-existent English and my rudimentary Italian, we had some difficulty making things clear. But apparently the cistern had stopped flushing and would have to be fixed. I said OK... I was happy to move. But then he insisted on showing me the workings – or non-workings – of the cistern in some detail. Again, I said OK.
Nothing happened for a while. And then suddenly he reappeared with two workmen and a ladder and they all made their way into the bathroom to begin doing whatever they were going to do to the cistern.
It seems to have become a recurring theme of the odyssey... I have two workmen in my bathroom... plus the owner of the hotel... doing their best to fix a cistern which is not flushing.
The owner said that if I didn't mind them fixing it, then I might be able to stay in this room. Again I said OK.
The reason I didn't mind was that this was so different from the Albion Hotel. Mainly because the owner kept apologising and seemed genuinely embarrassed. There was none of the "These things happen" dismissiveness of the Albion Hotel.
Anyway, they fixed the cistern quite quickly and all ended happily. I had successfully visited the Underworld and I had a flushable toilet...
I went for a last swim at the Lido di Napoli, aka Lucrino beach. The Italians just love the beach. They love parading in their minute swimming costumes and bikinis and Speedos. The sun wasn't so hot today, but it's still such a treat to be able to be here.
Back at the hotel there was another confusing but amiable conversation with the owner about whether I should move rooms or not. We agreed there didn't seem much point...
But now the rooms have to be cleaned, it seems. Just as I get back to my room, the very nice and smily cleaning woman asks if she can do her work. It seems a bit pointless as I'm leaving tomorrow, but she has to do it, so I stand on the roof terrace – well, flat roof – and wait. This place could be done up and look amazing – if it were touched up and painted and had lots of flowers. But I guess they haven't got the money – and maybe they are losing the will to keep going. Someone will buy the Sibilla... perhaps...
I'm speaking to a good friend from Sunday Times days, J, this evening to catch up on what's happening...
SEPTEMBER 16 - DAY 23
It turned out that J was working a later shift (from home) than she expected, so now we'll be talking tomorrow.
I got very excited last night because RAI had been heavily plugging the fact that Inspector Montalbano was going to be on at 9.25pm. Such was the level of excitement being generated that I assumed this must be a new episode not yet shown in the UK or released on DVD. In fact, it turned out to be an episode that I'd already seen at least three times – and despite the complexities of the plot, knew whodunnit and why they dunnit pretty much from the opening. Such a shame.
Or maybe not... instead of watching Montalbano, I went to bed, having locked the resident mosquito in the bathroom. That must be the trick, because I had the best night's sleep so far... still waking at 6am... but at least I got eight hours' sleep.
Then it was a fond farewell to Lucrino and the Sibilla Hotel... the owner's wife and I wished each other well and that was it.
The squeaking, wheezing, often horrendously noisy train made its way to Montesanto, and I made my way through the narrow streets again, not so crowded this time, back to Napoli Centrale.
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| Pharmacy window, Naples Photo©Nigel Summerley |
After getting the right ticket office, at the second attempt, I got a ticket to Formia-Gaeta, home of the Laestrygonians, man-eating brutes.
Their descendants may be running the bureau de change at Napoli Centrale... I politely asked the woman behind the counter how much it would cost me if I got €250 on my credit card... She consulted her files (at length – few things are done quickly in Italy)) and then tapped in various calculations on her keyboard (at even greater length). The total cost would be €311.50 she said.
"That can't be right, can it?"
"It's commission," she said.
"That's €61.50 commission... That's 25 per cent."
"That's right."
"It can't be right."
"It is."
This seemed to be an offer I could refuse. I went to the Tourist Information desk – which actually seemed to be dealing with a few tourists. The woman there said don't use the bureau de change, use the ATM. I used the ATM, which only scalped €3.95 – a lot but it didn't seem it after the calculations of the bureau de change woman.
The train whizzed me up to Formia. The heat was intense and almost no one moved in the sun-filled streets – except to find shade. I had time to kill before check-in at my apartment and headed down towards the sea. There seemed to be few, if any, visitors, but a lot of locals hanging out on park benches or at a small café with tables in the shade. The café's chocolate-oozing croissants tempted me in, and I sat for a while having them and a pot of tea for my breakfast.
Then I headed off to find the apartment, marvelling at how cheap that breakfast was, but then realising that the owner had charged me for only one croissant, not two. I went back and pointed out that I had been undercharged (something of a first in my history of complaining) and gave him more money – for which he seemed genuinely grateful...
The apartment was in a big block with a shaded inner courtyard, from where I rang to say I had arrived. A young woman with child in tow came and showed me in. The apartment – fittingly called Omero (Homer) – is really beautiful. How is it that I seem to stay one night in the best places and several nights in the OK places?
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
I walked out of town to the west to the Mausoleum of Cicero. Or what remains of it. It seems a a rather morbid remembrance of this remarkable man – a show-off and a smartarse, yes, but still a great and fairly principled man, who was cut down by Mark Athony's thugs in a way that no one should have to die. According to the story, when he was caught by the assassins, he offered them his throat and told them to get on with it. His head and hands were cut off and sent back to Rome, so what if anything of him was buried here in Formia where he had a villa remains to be seen.
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| Cicero's Mausoleum Photo©Nigel Summerley |
The Mausoleum was officially closed – but I hadn't come all this way not to get in and have a look. I waited until there was not traffic on the road either way and then climbed quickly over the locked gate. It may not now look a very pretty monument but it's still pretty, well, monumental. There are Cyclopean stone walls at the base of the tower, which thrusts up impressively into the sky. But it is the surrounding grounds, with their olives, palms and pines, that are perhaps more conducive to meditation on the life of a remarkable man.
After a long, hot walk, it felt like time for a proper chocolate ice cream – from a place just opposite the apartment.
I failed to find Cicero's villa but then no one really knows for sure where it is. When I went to the beach later for a swim I did pass Villa Rubino which is, I think, one of the possible locations, but it's now in private and possibly uncaring hands. I'll check at the Archaeological Museum which is open tomorrow. It was closed today.
A supper of grapes and goat's cheese and sun-dried tomatoes – and a welcome large Peroni beer...
Cicero was one of the writers who located the Laestrygonians – the man-eating giants who gave Odysseus's crew a hard time – at Formia. In fact, those who sailed with Odysseus generally seem to have had a tough time. While their leader always seemed to escape or trick his way out of trouble, they mostly got killed – and mostly in unpleasant ways.
SEPTEMBER 17 - DAY 24
There is a small tourist information centre near the Archaeological Museum. I called in to ask about Cicero's villa but neither of the tourist information men spoke English and my Italian – although improving – isn't brilliant. The upshot was, as I suspected, that no one really knows, and although Villa Rubino could be the place, the private owners won't let anyone near the place to have a look.
More satisfactory was another breakfast of chocolate croissants and tea at the same café as yesterday, then a quick visit to the Archaeological Museum, which is a bit more exciting than the one on Andros – although that isn't saying a lot. There are some striking Roman male nude sculptures, busts of the emperor Augustus and his wife Livia, both of whom became gods, and a two-faced bust of Apollo. As I was now used to, I was the only visitor in the place.
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| Formia museum piece Photo©Nigel Summerley |
After the museum I headed straight up the steep hill to the station and almost immediately got onto a train to Monte San Biaggio, from where I would have to get a bus to Terracina.
My first encounter with Italian buses was not a particularly happy or straightforward one. The station at Monte San Biaggio is called, somewhat misleadingly, Monte San Biaggio-Terracina. It is not actually that close to Terracina, although it is the main station that serves the town. And the main feature of MSB that I was to become well acquainted with was its carpark, most of which was empty.
Near the entrance to the carpark was an "information point" – manned by a man who looked like he was having to kill an awful lot of time. I asked him where the buses for Terracina went from. He pointed to the centre of the hot, shadeless carpark, where there was a small shelter. I walked over to the shelter and also began to kill time. MSB seemed like a place where a few people leave their cars and then head for somewhere else by train as quickly as they can. No one else was waiting, apart from a woman on the other side of the carpark who had found some shade under a tree. After about 45 minutes the bus arrived.
"Don't board yet," said the driver. So I continued to wait.
Eventually, after a queue had formed – of people who had sprung from somewhere I couldn't fathom – he said we could start getting on the bus. He seemed very strict about how things had to be done; he even reprimanded someone for trying to jump the queue and get ahead of me.
But then, when I got on, and asked how much it was, he said: "Don't you have a ticket?"
"No. Can't I pay on the bus?"
"If you pay on the bus, it's much more expensive than if you buy a ticket at the bar."
"The bar?"
"Over there," he gestured back towards the station.
"How much more?"
"About seven times more expensive."
"I'll go to the bar. But do I have time?"
"I'll wait for you."
He offered to let me leave my suitcase on the bus while I went to buy a ticket, but I didn't feel that trusting. I had a vision of my suitcase heading off to Terracina while I was stuck in some bar near the railway station trying to explain that I need a bus ticket.
I walked quickly back towards the "information point" whose occupant had been required to do nothing since I'd last spoken to him.
"Where do I buy a ticket for the bus?"
"At the bar."
"Where's the bar?"
"Just round the corner."
It's a pity you didn't tell me that before, you fucker, I thought, but my Italian wasn't yet good enough to express that sentiment.
The bar, remarkably, was just round the corner. And the man serving in there almost gave me the ticket before I had asked for it. It was €1.30 – instead of €7 on the bus.
As I rounded the corner, coming back from the bar, the bus pulled up and I got on board. It didn't feel as if it had even stopped.
I failed to validate my ticket properly in the machine onboard, so a helpful local offered to do it for me. Then he couldn't do it either – which was kind of reassuring. Then eventually he figured it out.
The bus driver didn't hang about. Less than 15 minutes later I was being deposited in the centre of Terracina. After a lot of fiddling with map and compass (the older person's satnav) I figured out where I was – and it wasn't good. I had quite a long, steep climb to get up to the "historic centre" (ie the bit laced with Roman ruins) where my B&B, the Hegelberger, was situated. It was such a slog that I stopped halfway, in the piazza by the stunning Duomo, for an ice cream and a bottle of water – and to watch a couple who'd just got married in this lovely old church having their pictures taken... and taken and taken... They were still having pictures taken when I left to track down the Hegelberger.
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| Wedding at Terracina Photos©Nigel Summerley |
Luigi, the son of the Hegelberger household, and who reminded me of my own son, Rory, was extremely welcoming and helpful and explained everything in very good English. His mother is German and there is a kind of sparse, almost threadbare, feel about the place. I liked it. Luigi even offered to organise an early breakfast and transport to the port in the morning, but I said I'd just get up early and walk.
I went to a local pharmacy and asked where I might be able to get a covid test. The very helpful pharmacist gave me the address of a medical centre nearby. I went there, got my ticket and waited in the queue. I didn't have to wait too long. But the receptionist explained that they couldn't do a test here and that I would have to go the hospital in Latina – and I would have to have a car because they would only do drive-in tests. I explained that I didn't have a car. She looked at me with some surprise and said that then I would not be able to get a test. This didn't bode well. The only upside of all this was that I had managed to have a conversation with a doctor's receptionist – all in Italian. My language was definitely improving, probably thanks to the growing number of such encounters with local people – and watching a lot of Italian television in the evenings.
It took a while to find out where the actual port for ferry departures was on Terracina's extensive and winding seafront – but finally I did. I collected my return ticket to Ponza from the office, then I lay in the sun on the nearby "beach" – which was really an expanse of gigantic flat rocks.
After supper in my room back at the Hegelberger, I went to bed early, setting my alarm just in case this was the one night that I slept really well. It wasn't.
At about 1230am what sounded like a fire alarm went off. I heard noise outside in the corridor. Was this a fire? Was this one more Fawlty Towers tribute act? I went out into the corridor where another guest, a German woman in her dressing gown, kept saying "Fire" and pointing at my room. The noise of the alarm was so loud that it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. But she could be right. Maybe it was the alarm on the ceiling above my bed. The ceilings were all very high and I couldn't reach the alarm in my room. I grabbed a drumstick from my case, leapt on the bed and poked the button on the alarm, hoping to reset it. Instead the alarm fell off the ceiling. I took out its battery – and the noise continued. This definitely wasn't where the noise was coming from. It seemed to be coming from an alarm even higher up on the ceiling in the corridor. The German woman had by now phoned Frau Hegelberger, who soon appeared looking extremely glamorous in a crimson nightie, produced a ladder from a cupboard [the third odyssey incident so far involving a ladder], shimmied up it, and disabled the offending alarm.
"Right!" she said, matter-of-factly. "Sorry about that. See you tomorrow."
And slightly stunned, we all went back to bed...
SEPTEMBER 18 - DAY 25
Despite the fire alarm incident, I still woke early and set off down the hills to the port. There were a lot of people – more than I had expected – and the boat, when it arrived, was fairly small. Temperatures were checked and then we boarded. I grabbed a seat on the top deck, hoping to stay socially distanced, but that was not going to happen. The boat filled up completely and, although most people were obeying the rules and wearing a mask throughout the journey to Ponza, quite a few weren't. But the main thing was that I was heading for the island of Circe... there had been many times when I really hadn't thought that I would get this far. The crossing took just under an hour and then we were suddenly in the thick of things. I'd imagined Ponza would be calm and quiet, but it was just the opposite – more busy and more buzzy than anywhere I had been so far (with the exception of Naples).
Buying a bus ticket and finding the right bus proved easy and soon I was heading away from Ponza town, which was packed with Italian holidaymakers, and north to La Piana and my apartment at Casa Mary. The only problem when I got off the bus was that there was no sign of Casa Mary. I walked all around the village and couldn't find it. I phoned the number for it and got no reply. I asked at the pizzeria. No one had heard of it. I walked down a lane where someone thought it might be, got barked at by a lot of dogs, and got told by a local that they had never heard of Casa Mary. In the end I asked five or six people – but still no luck.
Then I saw the post office. Surely they would know... The woman there was really helpful but, no, she had never heard of Casa Mary either. A man emerged from the back of the post office with a smartphone in his hand and declared that he would find it. And finally he did. Thank god, or I could have still been wandering the streets of La Piana. I followed his instructions and came to an unmarked flight of steps off the main road. I asked at the first villa whether this was indeed Casa Mary. No, it wasn't. But the woman there pointed me up more steps. "It's there," she said. And it was.
The owner of Casa Mary – possibly Mary... I never did find out – was sitting on the sun terrace. I explained how difficult it had been to find – particularly as the map I had been sent located it nowhere near here. She seemed unconcerned.
"And I did phone," I said.
"Which number?"
"This one, the one I was sent."
"That's the wrong number," she said, again not particularly concerned. "And there are two of you, yes?"
"No, just one."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." I was getting close to becoming exasperated but decided there was no point.
"Oh well," she said, as if she didn't quite believe that I was travelling alone, and proceeded to show me around. The apartment was really, really lovely, and all the difficulties of finding it melted away.
But then I asked about the internet.
"The wifi is here," she said. "But it is not functioning. Goodbye."
It reminded me of Ann Robinson dismissing a contestant on The Weakest Link.
So I was in this amazing place, with the most beautiful view across the bay to the island of Palmarola. Perhaps it was just too much to expect also to have wifi that worked.
I had a siesta and then started thinking that there had to be a beach nearby. I walked down the road and followed a promising sign... to Achille and Lucia's Boat Hire... At the bottom of the steep and winding path there was no beach, but there was a rocky seafront and a tall, good-looking man, whom I took to be Achille. I asked if it would be possible to take a boat trip around Ponza.
"Not tomorrow," he said. "Tomorrow we'll be taking a boat to Palmarola for the day."
It had to be done. This was probably the nearest I was going to get to sailing like Odysseus. And with a man called Achilles...
I told him I'd be back in the morning. Distant, jagged, rugged Palmarola looks like it should be in a Ray Harryhausen-type sword-and-sandals epic: unreal but it's real!
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| Sunset over Palmarola Photo©Nigel Summerley |
I watched the TV news... showing pictures of central London and Paris and reporting on the possibility of another major lockdown. Hardly anyone in the pictures is wearing a mask. Are Parisians and Londoners still not taking this seriously? The Italians look on in disbelief...
In the evening I went to the village pizzeria where the ladies had been so kind earlier in the day trying to help me figure out where Casa Mary was. I have a feeling that Mary – or whoever she is – doesn't mix with the locals. The pizza and the local wine were perfect. All seems well...
SEPTEMBER 19 - DAY 26
No sign of the tall, good-looking man I thought was Achille... In fact, Achille turns out to be a nondescript bloke smoking a roll-up and the organiser of getting us into tiny boats to ferry us to the small boat, the Pegasus, which will take us to Palmarola. And the skipper of the Pegasus is the extremely capable and heroic-looking young Giacomo, who definitely could play the part of Achilles. He took the Pegasus flying across the waves with six of us aboard: me, an Italian/Swedish couple, and an Italian man with his girlfriend and her cousin.
The Italian/Swedish couple had met when he was working in London. He'd lived in Hatton Cross, Dulwich and the Holloway Road. Sweden seemed to have done not too bad so far with the virus, despite no lockdown and no rules. The Swedish government doesn't tell people what to do, he explained, it favours personal choice and freedom.
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| Bound for Palmarola Photo©Nigel Summerley |
The two young women in the Italian trio wore matching bikinis – the leopard-print bottoms of which were close to non-existent. I wondered if they had dared each other to wear them. I didn't ask. But they certainly had the bottoms to carry off those bottoms...
Halfway round Palmarola they and I all simultaneously spotted another woman on another boat wearing exactly the same bikini. "Another one!" I shouted involuntarily and then noticed a look of slight indignation on the face of one of the cousins. "But she doesn't look as good as you two," I nearly said, but then thought it best to keep quiet before I put my foot further into my mouth.
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
Palmarola was the real stunning beauty of this trip, so much so that it is beyond proper description. Circling its many bays, grottoes, caves, inlets and islets, either low on the water in the Pegasus or swimming in the clear blue whenever we stopped, we were all in awe of its monumental cliffs and peaks thrusting up out of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Apparently, Jacques Cousteau called it the Mediterranean's most beautiful island – and up close to it, it's easy to see why. Not that I'm trying to outdo old Jacques but, as natural wonders go, I would put its atmosphere up there with that of the Grand Canyon.
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
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| Photo©Nigel Summerley |
We saw so many amazing sights around the island but one that particularly sticks in the memory was seeing a pair of male wild goats (presumably attempting to settle a territorial dispute) headbutting each other ferociously as they stood way up above a sheer drop to the sea. Perhaps they had once been men but had been transformed by Circe...
Giacomo told us how pirates had been in the habit of using Palmarola's natural hiding places to conceal their ships and lay in wait for passing victims. We sailed around the island all day before he finally turned the Pegasus back towards Ponza.
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| Heading back to Ponza Photo©Nigel Summerley |
It had to be another night in the pizzeria with calzone and red wine. Lots of young boys were charging up and down the street on their scooters (not completely dissimilar to the goats of Palmarola) to impress young girls. Most of them ended up with girls on the backs of their scooters. The only girl who was riding her own scooter didn't have a boy on the back...
SEPTEMBER 20 - DAY 27
Woke early and left early, since checkout was a not particularly hospitable 9am. In fact, I left at 730am before the sun got too high. It was a 90-minute walk into Ponza town – a lot of it uphill. Across the water I could see the hazy outline of Palmarola.
Ponza is such a green and beautiful island, with palms, eucalyptus, cacti and vines, and gardens growing aubergines and tomatoes. And the village houses are cubes of many colours.
Now there was just a matter of seven hours to wait for the boat back to Terracina. It helped to remember that I was bloody lucky to be here...
I spent some time on the beach – until it got too busy and too loud. The Italians seem to carry on conversations even when they are swimming and the person they are talking too is on the sand.
In a weird way Ponza town reminds me of Tenby in Pembrokeshire – with its multi-coloured houses, little port full of boats... and lots of seagulls.
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| The port at Ponza Photo©Nigel Summerley |
There was an unexpected bonus. Waiting for the ferry back to the mainland, I heard what I thought was people calling my name. It couldn't be, could it? I saw two women calling out from a nearby café but didn't recognise them – basically, I didn't recognise them with their clothes on. It was the bikini cousins from the Pegasus and the boyfriend. They seemed genuinely pleased to see me again – and I them. We talked a lot – especially on the hour's journey back on a perfect evening. They said a lot of people were now leaving Ponza because the weather was going to change.
As we approached the mainland, the headland of Monte Circeo looked huge in the evening sunlight. This is the other candidate for being Circe's island. For although it is now joined to the land, it was long ago an island – and still looks like one.
I have to climb it of course. It will just be a question of getting a bus over to San Felice Circeo and then walking for, they reckon, four to six hours.
It was strange but good to be back in Terracina, where I was welcomed at the Hegelberger as if I were an old friend...
SEPTEMBER 21 - DAY 28
They said the weather was going to change... and it certainly has. A thunderstorm as loud and as shattering as any that I've ever heard hit Terracina this morning, as I was finalising my plans to go to climb Monte Circeo. It's not looking good. And the storm seems to have knocked out the internet.
I'll have one more try to get a private covid test done in Terracina. I also wanted to go to the museum at Sperlonga but - I should have realised - like the Archaeological Museum in Formia, it's only open Thursday to Sunday. So I'll have to try doing it from Latina.
Trying to be positive, I did some washing, hung it out to dry in the sheltered area outside my apartment... with the rain pouring down.
The thunderstorm moved on, the downpour eased and there were patches of blue sky over Circeo, which up to now had been invisible in the rain. The day started to warm up...
Staying positive, I went into town and checked at the pharmacy again. Was there no private health centre in Terracina that would do a covid test? The answer was an unequivocal no. Latina hospital was mentioned yet again.
I headed to the bus stops in the centre and bought a ticket for San Felice Circeo at the café in the filling station opposite. I asked the woman behind the counter where the bus went from and she pointed me to the bus stop just outside. There were buses going in both directions and I was having trouble marrying up the buses and their numbers and destinations with the timetable. I asked a man waiting at the same stop if this was the one for buses to San Felice and he confirmed it was.
Then after some time, a short and animated elderly man (who reminded me not a little of Danny De Vito) appeared at my side and asked if it was right that I was going to San Felice. I told him it was. I assumed someone in the café had told him this.
"You'll never get there from here," he said.
"But I've been told this is the right stop."
"You'll never get there from here," he repeated.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. You need to walk from here for about two blocks. And then you see a dual carriageway. And then you take a right. And then you look out for the bus station."
"I thought this was the bus station."
All this was in Italian. And some of it I couldn't grasp.
Then he shouted loudly to everyone in the vicinity: "He doesn't understand me! He doesn't understand me!"
I apologised and try to continue the conversation, now feeling that my chances of getting anywhere near Monte Circeo were slipping away.
"It's no good! No good! Come with me!" he shouted, walking across to the filling station. I followed him.
"Get in!" he said, pointing at a dirty old car.
"Really?"
"Get in!"
I got in. I used to have a relationship with a woman who was lovely but who had the untidiest, grubbiest car I had ever seen. This car was at least five times worse. The passenger seat was covered in tools and bits of things that I could not identify, plus a lot of dust.
"This car is used for work," he explained.
I searched in vain for a seatbelt. I wondered about the coronavirus risk of being jammed inside this mobile hellhole... And then I thought, "Don't think about it."
We were already out on the main road and heading north at speed.
"I'm taking you. You'll see."
And he did take me – right the way to the right bus stop, which as he had said was at another "bus station", ie road with a few bus stops. Not only that, he cornered a bus driver sitting in his bus and demanded to know if and when he was going to San Felice. Like me, the bus driver did as he was told. He confirmed that he would be going there – and soon.
"Right. This is your bus," said my saviour. "On you get."
"What's your name?"
"Gino."
"Grazie, Gino," I said, without any hesitation shaking his hand. I had to. He had been so good to me. And then I noticed that the hand I had just clasped had no fingers on it... No time to say anything more... I was on the bus and the bus was leaving.
I will always be indebted to the amazing Gino for his uncalled for kindness and generosity. If it weren't for him, the rest of this day might not have happened.
As was often the case on this odyssey, I had drawn a map of the area I was heading for; and as was also often the case, it didn't quite tie in with what I found. The bus dropped me near the centre of modern San Felice and I made my way in the general direction I figured that I needed to go – obviously towards the mountain, but it wasn't as straightforward as that. Roads tended not to go in straight lines here.
On a couple of occasions I thought I must be lost and came close to turning back and starting again. But I pressed on when I saw signs to the old town, Centro Storico, which seems to be Italian for twee restaurants and boutiques selling hardly anything that anybody needs... From here I was able to identify street names and confirm that I was on course for the start of the path leading up Monte Circeo.
The walk was up and up and up, steep but not too tough most of the time. And it was through myriad beautiful trees. From a distance Circeo can look severe and barren, but up close it is covered in this truly enchanting forest, filled with stillness and magic. One could see how an Odysseus might not want to leave...
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| Circe's forest Photo©Nigel Summerley |
Finally, I emerged from the shaded forest and climbed to the sunny summit crowned by the little ruin known as Fortino di Creta Rosa. I'm not usually one for resting on walks but I stayed here for 90 minutes, just lying in the sun and marvelling at how the day had changed from thunderstorms to clear blue skies. The view from up here was stunning and the only sounds were of the hills seeming to talk back and forth to each other by means of the wind. There were plenty of flies and grey grasshoppers but no other life was visible – apart from great birds of prey wheeling overhead.
I had thought that I had reached the summit but as I left the Fortino I realised that the path went on farther and that beyond the trees to my left there looked like higher ground. I reckoned I was only going to be here the once, so I followed the path onward. The going got tougher and I stumbled a few times – fortunately towards the mountain rather towards the uncomfortable-looking drop on the other side. I finally got as far as I thought it sensible to go – although there was still one green-clad tower of rock ahead that looked just that bit higher than where I was standing. To get to that, it looked as if I would have to down before going up. If I hadn't still had to get back down to St Felice and back to Terracina, I would have pushed on. But time was now a factor, and I turned back feeling there was no disgrace in it...
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| The view from Monte Circeo Photo©Nigel Summerley |
Down and down was definitely quicker than the ascent – but still hard and hot work. All this time on the mountain I had not seen a single soul – I had had Monte Circeo to myself. Towards the bottom I encountered two Italian men setting off upward – maybe starting the climb at 5pm made more sense.
I retraced my steps through San Felice back to where the bus had dropped me. The wait for a bus turned out to be a long one. I asked one bus driver – parked and doing nothing – where I could get the bus to Terracina. He said nothing and pointed to the other side of the road.
"Quando?"
He shrugged.
There was another bus driver parked up nearby, also doing very little. He was friendlier and more communicative and told me that I would definitely get a Terracina bus if I stood at the stop that he directed me to. I waited there. For an hour. And then there was a hopeful sign. A young couple on a scooter turned up – and he was obviously dropping her off to get her bus. After prolonged and intensive kissing, they said goodbye to each other and then the bus turned up. The boy's timing had been impeccable...
In the evening, back at Terracina, I treated myself to an expensive but excellent meal at Green, a trendy eaterie – in the Centro Storico of course. The only downside was that I arrived at the outdoor restaurant in daylight and left in darkness, clutching the remains of a bottle of red wine – but leaving my only sweater behind on a chair and not realising what I had done until the next day...