An Odyssey in the Second Year of the Plague – Vaccination

Greece, August 2020 Photo©Nigel Summerley

My 2020 odyssey had to contend with more than a few hurdles, probably the greatest being the obtaining of certificates to prove that I didn't have coronavirus. That kept me in the Greek port of Patras for four days before sailing to Italy (see this blog: An Odyssey in the Year of the Plague – 9: 1-7 September 2020 and An Odyssey in the Year of the Plague – 10: 8-14 September 2020) and in the Italian port of Bari before sailing to Greece for one of the most stressful 24 hours that I can recall (see this blog: An Odyssey in the Year of the Plague – 12: 22-28 September 2020).

Now this plague year of 2021 sees the possibility of having to obtain vaccination certificates before being allowed to travel in Europe. The prime minister of Greece (fearful of another huge hit to his country's economy) has asked the European Commission to consider such a move and hopes to raise the issue at an EU summit on January 21.

Right now, pending quite a few (for me) unanswered questions on the much-vaunted vaccines, those hard-won certificates of negative coronavirus test results still look more appealing.

An Odyssey in the Year of the Plague – 13: 29 September - 4 October 2020

 

The boat for Ithaca arrives in Patras                                          Photo©Nigel Summerley

SEPTEMBER 29 - DAY 36

The overnight Bari-Patras boat was slightly busier than the Patras-Brindisi one – but not much. This time I saw the brief stopover in Igoumenitsa – I must have slept through it on the way out. On this journey I slept episodically.

Greece – even out of the window of a ferry – feels more like home somehow than Italy does. My thoughts turned to Mr and Mrs Kapos and the fact that I still had a bottle of Italian wine in my case. I hadn't found Gino... but it might be nice to give the wine to them...

Eventually we docked. There were just three pedestrians, including me. We had to show our QR codes – which had arrived overnight by email – but no one bothered to scan them. A security guy just looked at them and said OK. So, no really stringent checks. I walked out – so happy to see Patras, when a couple of weeks or so before, I had seldom been so pleased to leave a place.

The sun was hot and bright – such a contrast to the rainstorms of Italy – and I walked straight to the flat of Andreas Kapos and his wife and surprised them with tales of the odyssey around Italy – and a bottle of Italian wine. Inevitably, Andreas wanted me to come in and eat. Or stay in their son's flat again ("It's empty!") for the night. Or leave my case there. I explained that I had to keep going, as I was bound for Ithaca. So Andreas offered to give me a lift to the port – he overflows with the desire to be generous. His wife produced pains au chocolat and biscuits. I explained that I couldn't take any more biscuits after Italy. But I did accept the pains au chocolat. 

"Have them for the journey," said Andreas. "And if you need anything, any time, phone us or come here." His wife just smiled and smiled.

They really are such a lovely couple. I regretted that it had initially taken me a while to realise how so genuinely kind they were. I loved them and I will miss them.

I walked down to the port and got my tickets for Ithaca.

It all seems so unreal now. I spent so much time dreading that I would never make it this far that it seems somehow as if I haven't really made it – sometimes I still think that Mr Nasty the border cop did stop me at Brindisi and that my time in Italy didn't really happen. But no... I am here in Patras, I am on the brink of tomorrow and of taking the boat to Ithaca – and of the end of things as far as this odyssey is concerned.

30 SEPTEMBER - DAY 37

I slept not too badly but was up at 5am as usual. I faffed about, sorted out my stuff and then went out to try to find a healthy breakfast – which proved impossible. Pastry and cakes everywhere, and every sandwich includes meat. It's like being in Italy! I sat in the sun at Georgios Square and had green tea and nice fresh tiropita – cheese pie is always a good fallback in Greece.

I got some cash from a machine to see me through the remaining days of the trip, checked out of the hotel early and walked down to the port. There was plenty of time before the ferry went, so I walked out of town to the east and sat by the sea, watching children playing, old men walking or sitting, and couples flirting.

There was still more time to kill when I got back to the port. The salad at the restaurant next to where the boat was due in looked good, so I ordered one and took a seat from where I could look out over the sea.

Then I had a sudden panic. I hadn't double-checked what time it was. Greece was still an hour ahead of Italy, wasn't it? If it wasn't, was I actually missing the boat? Had I missed the boat? Was I in the right place? It was all quite stupid anxiety. But in the end I had to check with a passerby who had a watch – and yes, I had the time right. Maybe my panic was just a manifestation of how long I had spent agonising over planning the odyssey... and then having to deal with the day-to-day concentration needed to carry it out.

But now I could see the bright yellow Levante ferry coming into view. This was the connection that I had spent literally hours on – I had been told there wasn't one; that it was only possible by boat and bus; that there were no timetables; etc... But in fact, this ferry seems to run daily whatever. So, I had my temperature checked one more time, and off we went to Ithaca.

I love travelling on Greek ferries – but for one thing, the now ever-present blaring of large TV screens. Perhaps they are a sort of today's equivalent of the Sirens, since they make you want to stop up your ears and shut off the unending cacophony of soaps, quizzes and gameshows.

I went to the front of the boat and watched out for the first sign of Ithaca. I imagined that no one else onboard could be looking forward to being there more than I was... but then I realised that it was something that mattered to all of us in different ways, otherwise we wouldn't be on this boat.

And then, there it was... a distant dark outline ahead... and we were gradually getting closer.

Approaching Ithaca                                                                     Photo©Nigel Summerley

Ithaca at last                                                                                Photo©Nigel Summerley

For the third time on this trip, I promised myself I'd take a taxi when I landed – and for the third time, when we arrived, there were no taxis. So I set off walking up the long steep hills to get to the main town of Vathi.

I hadn't gone too far before a well-to-do English woman in a 4x4 stopped and very politely – and kindly – offered me a lift. She was going to Stavros, in the north of the island, but she could drop me at the turn-off for Vathi and save me quite a bit of walking.

For some reason, I said no thanks. And as she sped on her way and I trundled on, I began to regret my decision. Not only could I have got a lift, but I could have probably got lots of useful information from her about Stavros and the nearby archaeological site of Odysseus's Palace. Why did I turn her down?

It wasn't long before I found out why... Five minutes later, another woman – Greek, leopard-print coat, blonde, full make-up – stopped and offered me a lift, motioning for me to put my suitcase in the back of her small car. She's going to Vathi. So I do as she says and get in. She reminds me that I need to put on a mask because we are close together in the car. I do that too.

She drives fast and seems to prefer the centre of the road rather than the right or the left. I unfold my map and do my best to follow where we are going. I ask her to stop near where I think my apartment might be – near Deksia Bay, the very spot where Odysseus is said to have come ashore when he finally made it back to Ithaca.

I tumble out of the car, parked near the beach, and thank her profusely. As an afterthought, I ask her: "What is your name? What do they call you?"

She says: "My name is Pinelopi."

"Pinelopi?"

"Yes."

"Penelope!" I almost shout.

"Yes," she smiles and drives off towards the town.

What a moment! Her name was Penelope – the name of the woman who waited 20 years on Ithaca for her husband, Odysseus, to come home from the war. What an amazing moment!

Still finding what had happened difficult to believe – and of course thinking that this was all predestined, since why else would I have turned down the English woman in the 4x4? – I walked to the edge of Vathi, doing my best to locate my apartment from the map provided. And it turns out to be another difficult one...

I've been told someone would meet me there at 7pm. It's getting close to that, so I'm just about to phone the number I have when I get a call from a Greek (who seems to have difficulty stopping talking) asking me if I'm there and telling me where it is. I explain to him where I am and what I can see. He doesn't listen. I end the call and try following his instructions – which lead me to a series of private houses but no apartments. The Greek and I end up speaking on the phone three or four times. 

"Look for two roofs!" he keeps saying.

"I can see about 20 roofs!" I tell him.

Finally I find it – right next to where I tried to tell him I was on our first conversation. It not only isn't where the map indicated – it also has a different name outside.

"I have to pay you," I remind him.

"You will have to come into our office in town to pay – later or tomorrow."

There are in fact 12 apartments here plus a private swimming pool. They are all empty, so I have the place and the pool to myself.

It is now not long after 7pm and I get another phone call – from what sounds like the same Greek again, but in fact turns out to be his partner. He asks if I'm there because he is coming to meet me, as promised, at 7pm. Utter confusion! When I realise that I am speaking to a different person, I explain what has happened – ie, the left hand doesn't appear to know what the right hand is doing.

Despite this chaotic arrival, the apartment is perfect. As the evening gets dark, I walk down to the pool, strip off my clothes and swim in the cooling water...

I had forgotten at this point that 28 nights ago when I was staying on the island of Syros, I had been unable to sleep and ended up walking around the flat rooftop outside my apartment by the light of the full moon. I had realised then that in 28 days' time – if I was lucky – I would be in Ithaca and see the moon full again...

Now, as I swam in the dark and turned back after the first length of the pool, I saw the full moon literally rising above the hills across the bay... Amid everything that had been happening, I had completely forgotten that I had kind of made a date to see it again... So it was a really magical and emotional moment... Like my encounter with Penelope, it was one more thing confirming that I had made it... It couldn't get any better than this, could it?

Full moon over Ithaca                                                                 Photo©Nigel Summerley

I got dry and dressed and walked into town. Vathi harbour seemed to be full of yachting types and this was the first time that I had seen and heard the English speaking English since the odyssey had begun. It seemed bizarre.

I saw a woman working in a travel office and called in. The place wasn't open – she was just using her husband's office to get some work done. Her name was Anastasia and she spoke perfect American English. I asked her about buses to Stavros and she told me that there were no buses going that way at the moment due to the cyclone damage to the road that had taken place the previous week. It seemed difficult to believe but it was true. What had come to be known as a "Medicane" – a Mediterranean hurricane – had hit the area and the resulting mini-tsunami had gouged out great chunks of the highway.

Cyclone-damaged road         Photos©Nigel Summerley

Taxis, said Anastasia, could still get through, however, and she said the best time to get one from here would be first thing in the morning.

I asked her if there was any possibility that the Odysseus's Palace archaeological site might be closed.

"It's always open," she said. "There is nothing really to close."

1 OCTOBER - DAY 38

Dawn over Ithaca                                                                         Photo©Nigel Summerley

A big day. I was up early as usual, walked down into Vathi and got a taxi with Spiros Grivas to take me up to Stavros. As Spiros speeded around the bends and along the road north it seemed a long way – it was 10 miles, after all, and I had already decided that I was going to walk back. On the way, we sneaked past the road damage that Anastasia had warned me about and which had reduced it to an unstable-looking single lane.

Stavros proved to be a lovely large Greek village, unspoilt and somehow much more real than Vathi. The place was alive and kids were going to school. An old man shopping in the grocery store lets me go first because I'm just getting a bottle of water. Only Greek is spoken here.

So, I walk up beyond the village, following my map and then signs to the site previously known as "Homer's School" but now more commonly referred to as Odysseus's Palace.

Road to the Palace of Odysseus Photo©Nigel Summerley

The clear-up volunteers        Photo©Nigel Summerley

And now – as I arrive – the unthinkable happens. I see a group of workmen in hi-vis jackets and a sign on the gate to the site saying: "No Entry." This can't be happening, can it?

I stand by the sign in disbelief and watch the workmen having some sort of get-together in the middle of the site and the ruins. If they weren't here, I would do what I did at Cicero's Mausoleum in Formia and just climb over.

A tall man in hi-vis and helmet turns and notices me at the gate and comes over.

"Is the site closed?" I ask him.

He speaks excellent English.

"Yes," he says.

"I can't believe it. Why is it closed?"

"These are volunteers and we are tidying up the site before more work can be done here. Do you have a special interest in the site?"

Do I have a special interest?

"Yes, I do," I tell him. "I've travelled 4,000 miles following in the wake of Odysseus to get here and I'll be writing an account of my journey for a magazine in the UK."

"Hold on," he says. "I will have a word and come back to you."

He goes and speaks to the others for a while and then returns.

"You can come in," he says. "But you have to be careful as you walk around the site."

I assure him that I'll be careful and thank him profusely. He is Andronikos Sakkatos, he is from Ithaca, and he is an archaeologist but he normally works as a tourist guide in Athens. Because there is no work due to the plague and the lack of tourists, and because volunteers were needed to help clear up the site prior to more investigations being carried out, he has come to lend a hand. It turns out that he is also a huge fan of Odysseus and the Odyssey. I ask him if I could talk to him after I've had a look round and he says he is happy to do so.

So I am finally here, in the palace of Odysseus, the place where the odyssey ends. I had expected to shed a tear, but somehow I don't feel like that at all. I think the encounter with Penelope the previous day was probably the point at which I came closest to breaking up with emotion. Instead, it is just wonderful to be here and I feel grateful to the gods, the  fates, the winds... or whatever has brought me to this place, this dream destination. Of course, it is just stones and scant remains of ancient structures, but there is certainly a magic here and the feeling that this is a place where remarkable things must have happened. I had expected to have the place to myself for solitary reflection but, like so many things, it hasn't worked out as anticipated. I'm sharing the place with eight or nine workmen busy clearing the debris of fallen branches etc.

And did those feet...?                                                                         Photo©Nigel Summerley

Journey's end                                                                              Photo©Nigel Summerley

Andronikos tells me that this is the first day of a ten-day clear-up operation. And he says, "If you want to find Odysseus, this is the place. This is a place of memory. You get a feeling here that you will get nowhere else in the world. From up here, you control the island, you control the sea, and you are at the centre of Greece. You control everything...

"Whether or not there was a real person called Odysseus, there were people like that here. And later Odysseus became the local hero, his face appeared on coins, people made offerings to him before embarking on a journey."

I tell him that when my odyssey article appears I will send him a copy, but it may be a while.

"Then there will be a day," he says, "when I read about this and I will smile and be very happy."

I wish him well and say that I hope his work in Athens returns.

"Life will not end in 2020," he says, beaming.

Clearing debris  Photo©Nigel Summerley

Andronikos was just one more person whose kindness and decency helped this journey happen. I felt fortunate and privileged to have arrived at odyssey's end on this beautiful sun-filled day and to have been given a personal insight into the Odysseus story by a man who lived and breathed it.

And now comes the long walk back to Vathi...

Ithaca is such a beautiful island. For once, I have to strongly disagree with Frewin Poffley, the Greek island hopping guru who has been one of my most reliable travel guides for many years. He couldn't figure out why Odysseus wanted to come back here. To me, it's obvious... in the hills, the ubiquitous greenery, the mountains, the views across to Kefalonia, the sea, and, above all, the peace...

One driver stops and offers me a lift but I thank him and say no. This is all too enjoyable a walk to spoil it by getting into a car. At the halfway point, I stop for a break and a snack by the roadside – and then press on. By the end of the ten miles, my dodgy foot is hurting quite a bit. But what a day!

After a swim back at the apartment, I walked gingerly into town and ate at the Kokhilo restaurant – which Anastasia assured me was the best in Vathi. And it certainly was pretty good.

A family party of 14 arrived and noisily occupied a large table near me. I have seldom heard such a fuss made over the ordering of a meal – all in relentless English. Like the English yachties, they made no attempt to speak one iota of Greek. I was amazed by the patience of the waiter at Kokhilo – and by the people of Vathi in general.

I finished my meal and smoked my second cigar of the trip – to celebrate having completed the mission. As I was leaving, one of the men in the family party was complaining loudly to the waiter that his fava beans had not been cooked properly and were, in fact, according to him, burnt. He seemed a bit of an arsehole but, then, I had to remind myself that I have also been known to complain in restaurants. I slipped away, while the waiter apologised at length...

I was tempted to go for another drink but instead went home and watched The Kominsky Method on Netflix. I heard noise outside, which turned out to be two young women arriving to take up residence in the apartment next door. I no longer had the place to myself...

2 OCTOBER - DAY 39

In the morning I chatted with one of the women who had moved in next door. They'd flown from the UK to Kefalonia on a crowded plane – something they didn't expect or like. They had then come too Ithaca and next they would go to Lefkada and then to another island. It was good to hear that island hopping – of which I've done my share – was continuing.

With the aid of my large-scale map of Ithaca – which my friends Gary and Carmen had pointed out looked almost as big as the island itself – I found the start of the path to the Cave of the Nymphs (said to be the place where Odysseus had stashed the valuables given him by the Phaeacians who helped him return to Ithaca). After the previous day's 10-mile hike, this started out as a gentler expedition, but still an often steep climb up into the hills above Vathi and Deksia Bay.

The approach to the cave and the cave itself were both reminiscent of my visit to the Sybil's Cave at Lake Avernus. There was that same feeling of an ancient path trod by myriad feet, with a slightly spooky and mysterious destination. Like the Sybil's Cave, this one too was barred and locked and there was no way to sneak inside for a better look.

I took a circuitous route via footpaths to take me to Vathi. These paths were not well used – and one seemed to have disappeared altogether – and then there was what looked like the aftermath of the previous week's cyclone. In half a dozen places the path was blocked by fallen trees, most of which could be climbed over or circumnavigated. But the last one dictated either a complete U-turn or a tricky climb through hillside undergrowth. I wasn't for turning... There were nasty thorned branches that latched themselves into my bare legs and arms –  a kind of natural barbed wire. Breaking the branches – the only way to get the thorns out – was a process that at times embedded some of the thorns even deeper.. This went on for some time, as the area that I had to skirt around was a large one. By the time I got back down to the path, my legs were scratched to bits and there was blood on my clothes. It could have been worse – but not much.

The path finally dropped me down into the main square at Vathi. I cleaned up my legs and some of the blood from my shorts, but the damage still looked a mess. I sat at a café and had some tea plus yoghurt with honey, listening to a quartet of old English yacht people discussing sailing routes around Kefalonia. It all sounded rather boring, the way they talked about it, but I guess that I envied them that freedom to take off in a boat and go wherever.

There is very much now a feeling that things are coming to an end. I stopped for a while by the heroic statue of Odysseus by the waterside and then said my goodbyes.

Ithaca's statue of Odysseus                      Photo©Nigel Summerley

A swim at Deksia Bay... where Odysseus
came ashore Photo©Nigel Summerley

The man who started all this... Bust of Homer on Ithaca Photo©Nigel Summerley

3 OCTOBER - DAY 40

Another big day, in theory. Today I am 70 years old. But it's just another day on the road... I feel melancholy at having to leave Ithaca. But I have to go...

I was up early so that I could walk across the island back to the port at Piso Aetos. Five different cars stopped to offer me a lift on the way. It was so kind of all of them, but I said no – I had planned it so that I would get there in time for the boat; there was no point in getting there early; and I was also kind of dragging out my time spent enjoying the island.

However, I was slightly freaked out by the last woman to offer me a lift, when she said that if I didn't take up her offer I would miss the boat. By this point I could see the port and a boat coming in.

"Don't worry. I'll make it," I told her. And then I began to wonder if she might have been right – and started walking a little more quickly.

It turned out that the boat we'd seen coming in wasn't mine. I double-checked this at the port office. Before too long the yellow Levante ferry comes into view... and it's here... and I'm leaving...

A few hours later, we arrived in Patras – which I continue to love seeing – and I walked along by the sea to the bus station. A bus was due to leave for Athens soon, so I get my ticket and get onboard.

The long uneventful bus journey returned me, bit by bit, to the urban sprawl and an ugliness that the sunshine does nothing to hide. And then I was getting off the bus in the bus station that I had been so glad to leave behind four weeks beforehand.

I did my best to follow another one of my hand-drawn maps to get me from here to the nearest Metro station, but, as the man from Sibari railway station might have said, it is a foolish man who believes the map rather than the streets... Anyway, despite the map and despite the streets, my sense of direction got me to the Metro... and then I really was suddenly back in a sort of civilisation. I got out at Syntagma and went straight to the address for my hotel...

When I got there, the building was closed, locked, not accessible. Was this the gods having a last laugh? The hotel couldn't have closed down since I booked it, could it? I rang the number I had for the hotel. Someone answered immediately.

"I'm outside but can't get in. You seem to be closed."

"Where are you?" the woman asked.

"At 26 – the address I was given for the hotel."

"It's now 28," she said. "The entrance is next door. Come in."

So I did. And for the last night of the odyssey, it was a fittingly great place. I wasn't interested in going out into Athens. I spent a quiet evening in my room, went to bed early and gave thanks for having made it.

4 OCTOBER - DAY 41

Breakfast. The bus from Syntagma to the airport. The plane to Heathrow. The tube into London. Like Odysseus, I had returned home...

An Odyssey in the Year of the Plague – 12: 22-28 September 2020

 

Monte Circeo from Terracina beach                                          Photos©Nigel Summerley

SEPTEMBER 22 - DAY 29

I was losing things... and not finding things. Maybe four weeks on the road was taking a toll on my brain... In the morning I went to Green to see if I could get my sweater. The place was closed. I tried again later – still closed. I phoned the number on the card they'd given me. The manager explained they were closed today but open tomorrow: "Come at 11am tomorrow."

I had also figured out that I had lost my swimming goggles. The last time that I had had them was on the big rocks by the port. So I took a walk down there and looked through the cracks between the rocks – but there was no sign.

Instead of trying (and failing) to retrieve things that were lost, I decided to give me and my brain a break and I went and sought out the Terracina beach proper. Much of the perfect sand was covered by private enterprise, sun loungers, bars and beach umbrellas – all pretty much empty. Once I got beyond that, there was pure unadulterated sand, sea and sun. I took a couple of hours off.

In town, I bought presents for my friend and her son in Latina – and I bought a bottle of wine to give to Gino if I saw him again at the café near the bus stops.

SEPTEMBER 23 - DAY 30

I said a fond farewell to Luigi at the Hegelberger, after telling him how brilliant he was at running the place, and went to Green as arranged at 11am to get my sweater. There was no one there. Then a cleaner turned up, who knew nothing about it. Then another man turned up and said that he knew nothing and he didn't work here. Then he proceeded to go behind the bar and do what looked like some form of work. This wasn't the first time on the Italian stretch of the odyssey where people who obviously did "work here" said when asked something they didn't want to be bothered with: "I don't work here."

I phoned the manager and reminded him of our conversation.

"Oh we've checked," he said. "You didn't leave your sweater here."

"I definitely did," I said and described it again.

"We've looked. It's not there."

As far as I could tell, the manager had not been there either yesterday or today; and the two people who were here had no interest in being of help. I had a quick look for myself behind the bar and through to the backroom, but I couldn't see any sign of the sweater.

The weather had turned cold and wet, so the loss of the sweater was a pain. But it dawned on me that I had wasted enough time on this and gave up. At least I had had the best test so far of conducting prolonged and difficult (if fruitless) conversations in Italian.

I went down to the café by the buses in the hope of seeing Gino to give him the wine as a thank you, but there was no sign of him.

Amazingly, I didn't have to wait long for the bus to Monte San Biaggio, where that carpark I had seen baking in the heat was now wet and bleak. I walked over to the railway station to find that the ticket office was closed and that the ticket machines weren't working. Things weren't going so well today...

Waiting on the platform for the train to Latina, I got talking to an Australian woman heading back home to Rome. I asked her if you could buy tickets on the train. You could, she said, but they are more expensive. Even if you explained that the ticket machines weren't working? Yes.

In the end the train came and we talked most of the way to Latina about the intricacies of attempting to travel in Italy. In a way I was reassured to find that my experience with no-show trains and unpredictable buses was not unusual, particularly in the south of the country. No one checked whether we had tickets or not.

My hotel – the rather grand-sounding but not quite so grand-looking Excelsior – was straight across from the railway station at Latina Scalo. Because of the prevailing uncertainties over covid rules, quarantines and isolations, my friend Z and I had agreed it was impossible for me to stay with her as previously planned. Her son was about to go back to school, and if any of us had suddenly been found to have the virus, we would all have been in a difficult situation.

The Excelsior was expecting me... but what I wasn't expecting was to have a bathroom with a bath! I hadn't seen a bath for over a month. And this wasn't just a bath. It was a whirlpool bath, complete with a complex system of nozzles and controls. Having once had an unfortunate experience with a whirlpool bath in a penthouse suite at the Mandarin Hotel in Hong Kong (at that time reckoned to be one of the world's top hotels – and I suppose since I was collected from the airport in a Rolls-Royce, it probably was), I decided I would give the whirlpool bit a miss. But a bath! That was going to be wonderful!

Z came and met me in the afternoon and we walked to her place. We talked a lot and drank quite a lot of wine, and I smoked one of the cigars that I'd been promising myself since I bought them in the crazy shop in Andros. We also ate lots of pasta. 

After weeks of remembering streets and paths, I'd quite forgotten to take note of how we had got to the apartment. So when I left Z's late that evening, I pretty much got lost straight away. After a few false starts, I finally figured out the route out of the estate where Z lives and made it back to the Excelsior. The hotel gates were locked but, after a certain amount of buzzing, the night porter let me in.

It was the latest night I had had so far. I went to bed at midnight and actually slept through until 7am.

SEPTEMBER 24 - DAY 31

After breakfast... they do breakfast at the Excelsior, as well as baths... I walked over to see Z. She was understandably anxious because it was her son's first day back at school; but all had gone well, so far...

I still have to sort out a covid test before I can go back to Greece and things are not looking hopeful. Latina hospital seems to be the place to get one but, as I'd been told in Terracina, you have to be in a car.

I'm also thinking about trying to double-back to Sperlonga to see the museum there with its Odyssean sculptures. There's a picture of Sperlonga on my bedroom wall at the Excelsior – and that seems to be telling me that I should go there.

Z was busy tonight, so I went to a local restaurant and sat outdoors, even though it's now getting a little chilly. My Italian must definitely have improved, as I was able to go and complain (gently) about the length of time it was taking for my pizza to arrive. When it did arrive, it was great...

25 SEPTEMBER - DAY 32

I woke up too early yet again. After breakfast and catching up with emails, I went over to the station and got the train to Formia. The helpful man at the ticket office recommended an all-day train and bus pass for €8. So soon I was back in Formia – and back waiting at a bus stop, this time down at the port. There was the usual 30 to 40 minutes wait plus more bus stop sex from a couple slightly older than the one at San Felice – although that didn't stop them from kissing and grinding against each other, which all seemed a bit unnecessary at 11am. The start of rain dampened their spirits and they – and I – went and sheltered until the bus arrived.

By the time we got to Sperlonga the rain really had set in. This time my home-drawn map proved accurate and took me to the edge of this little town. But the rain was so heavy that I had to go from the shelter of one tree to another when it slackened off a bit.

Then I came to a fork in the path and a sign saying Senterio di Ulysse. Rather pathetically, I didn't know what senterio meant so I texted Z. Path, of course. This was the official Odyssean Path... and it was to lead me, in the rain which was now only drizzle, all the way out of town, between the main highway and the sea, to the Archaeological Museum and the ruins of the villa of the Roman emperor Tiberius.

Children's Odyssey drawings posted on the
Senterio di Ulysse     Photo©Nigel Summerley

These proved to be "must visits" of the Odyssean Coast – not just for the epic statuary recovered and reconstructed here, but also for the remains of the imperial villa by the sea – an utterly impressive setting with the waves rolling right up to the palatial building.

Ruins of Tiberius's villa at Sperlonga                                        Photo©Nigel Summerley

Sperlonga from Tiberius's villa                                                  Photo©Nigel Summerley

And there is the gigantic grotto where Tiberius – another fan of the Odyssey – staged his collection of Odyssean tableaux, including the blinding of Polyphemus, Odysseus cradling the body of Achilles, and Scylla attacking Odysseus's ship. Reconstructions of some of these, from the remains found 60 years ago during roadworks, fill the museum.

Tiberius's grotto and (below) how it used to look                     Photo©Nigel Summerley

View from Tiberius's grotto                                                         Photo©Nigel Summerley

It was difficult to drag myself away from the museum, the ruined villa and its vast grotto, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be straightforward getting back to Latina. And it wasn't...

The blinding of Polyphemus                                                       Photo©Nigel Summerley

The face of Odysseus 
Photo©Nigel Summerley

Back in the centre of Sperlonga, I checked the bus timetable and there was due to be a bus to Formia fairly soon. But as the philosophical station worker at Sibari had pointed out, it is a foolish man who believes the timetable. Three huge private coaches came and went, taking with them a horde of ageing Italian tourists, none of whom had gone to the museum and the villa, but all of whom seemed to have had a good time looking round the shops and cafés and eating ice cream.

I waited one hour and 45 minutes for the bus to Formia – which as far as I know, never did show up. But then a local bus – which the driver (a friendly and communicative one) confirmed was going to Fondi - turned up and I reckoned it was my only hope of getting away. I knew there was a station at Fondi – and from there I should be able to get back to Latina Scalo without too much trouble.

Literally at the very moment we got off the bus at Fondi, the rain came down with such force that we were all drenched to the skin by the time we had run to the shelter of the railway station. Like everyone else, I was cold, wet and bedraggled – but it was great to have got here. The next train to Latina was due in 20 minutes but was being flagged up as 15 minutes late. Only 35 minutes to wait! After nearly two hours waiting for a bus at Sperlonga, this seemed excellent news!

Still soaking wet, I got back to the Excelsior and had the hot bath that I had been promising myself.

In the evening Z took me to a veggie restaurant in Latina Scalo. Great food, great company... and it had been a great day.

26 SEPTEMBER - DAY 33

I slept in late – until 730am! After breakfast I decided to take a bus into Latina, the town, as opposed to Latina Scalo, the suburb. It wasn't that far. How difficult could it be? There were three buses at the stop by the station. Their drivers were doing very little, apart from explaining that they weren't going anywhere – and pointing you in the direction of another bus and another driver. At last, one indicated that he would be going to Latina in 10 minutes. Then, just before departure, he had a phone call from a friend and had to take that. He walked off up the road for a bit, then came back, then started the bus, then walked off again and continued his phone conversation. Finally, he finished the call and we got going through Scalo and then down the long, completely straight road south to Latina – straight, that is, apart from the bus having to navigate the slalom created by countless potholes. The fact that such a major road is in such a poor state of repair – actually, no repair – is shocking.

Latina, with its ordered layout and fascist architecture, was almost deserted and thus kind of spooky – apart from the area around the hospital. I came thinking that I might somehow blag my way in for a covid test but my hopes pretty much evaporated when I got there. There was a covid test queue of at least 70 cars, going right round the block and out of sight.

Cars queue on every side for covid tests
at Latina's hospital  Photo©Nigel Summerley

I headed instead for the Cathedral of San Marco. There was only one other person – praying – inside this (like Latina) spacious, modern and rather soulless place.

I took a bus back to Scalo and went for a cup of tea and sandwiches at a café feeling sort of hungover and tired. After a nap at the Excelsior, I went over to Z's. She had printed out stuff that I had emailed to her and which I needed for the rest of the odyssey. Then she drove us into Latina.

The streets were now much busier – with just about everyone wearing masks. The number of young people about increased as the evening went on.

Z wanted to spend some time supporting a friend's anti-racism meeting. While she did that, I went and had one more large chocolate ice cream, and then went and bought a sweater to replace the one left behind in Terracina – because it was starting to get really cold.

I met Z and her friend E after their meeting. They wanted coffee – and I wanted tea, which seriously restricted the choice of café. But E was particularly forbearing and led us to a place that actually had a choice of teas, as well as coffee. After that, Z and I went to a great veggie restaurant called Gorillas; and after that, she drove me back to the Excelsior. A hugless, kissless goodbye seemed sad... but it had been a lovely episode of the odyssey. I shall miss talking with her. And she has been a good influence in many ways...

27 SEPTEMBER - DAY 34

I was up at 5am and out of the hotel by 6am to get the train to Rome. We arrived at Roma Termini just after 7am, giving me an hour to wait for the train to Bari. The train left and arrived pretty much on time. There were fantastic sights of mountains and valleys – and clouds in the valleys with the mountains way above them. Then finally the sea again and the east coast of Italy.

Bari stretched for miles but was mainly closed. I knew it was Sunday but I had forgotten just how closed that made everything here. Foolishly, I didn't look for a café for breakfast at Bari Centrale station; instead I ploughed into town and found nothing.

I carried on to the north-west part of the city where tonight's stopover was and stumbled on an anonymous-looking grocery store selling, today anyway, basically crisps and biscuits. I bought some of these, plus a bag of croissants – which turned out to be only biscuits that looked like croissants. Bizarre!

I sat on a bench by the sea and ate what was essentially rubbish – but it was much better than nothing. Just along from me were a couple of expensive-looking restaurants packed with expensive-looking people in their Sunday best. On balance, I preferred being where I was...

After I'd eaten, I walked past the restaurants and found a fairly scrappy bit of beach and sat in the sun there for an hour before going to find the Casa del Sol, which proved to be another one of those places that was hard to find and nobody seemed to have heard of. I had a street name – Via Assab – but nobody I asked knew of its existence. Losing patience, I went into a small backstreet restaurant and asked the owner; they didn't know where it was, but one of the diners jumped up – Gino-style – and insisted that he would find it.

"I'll take you there," he said, leading me out to his car and saying that he didn't know it but he would find it.

We got it in and he used his phone for directions and for calling someone and also drove at the same time. I fumbled for the seatbelt but it was fixed behind me so I didn't bother.

And suddenly we were there. Casa del Sol was in a little unmarked side street just opposite the minimalist grocery store that I'd been to earlier. I thanked my saviour profusely. He shrugged it off and returned to his meal at the restaurant.

Soon a young woman arrived and let me in. All seemed ok. What about the wifi? I always asked this because it was usually so crucial to planning. After much faffing about, she found the code. But she didn't know which router it was. Or where it was in the apartment. She said she would arrange for her father to come over.

The father turned up... and another ladder incident ensued. He went up a large stepladder found the router – which was not plugged in – on top of an extremely tall bookcase. He got the router going but the password still didn't work. He said he would get his daughter to come back.

This was fast developing into a nomination for the odyssey's best Fawlty Towers tribute performance award.

After he'd gone, I heard his phone ringing, went up the stepladder and found that he had left it on top of the bookcase. Presumably, it was his daughter calling, but I couldn't figure out how to answer it.

Eventually both of them turned up again and between the three of us we got the internet connection working. They left – probably as fed up as I was.

The apartment seemed OK – but actually it wasn't. After a great chat with Gary and Carmen in Spain, I went to bed fairly early but woke at 345am. And I couldn't get back to sleep because of the constant noises being made by the large fridge/freezer that was in the kitchen (which adjoined the bedroom and which had no separating door).

Driven slightly mad by the whole thing, I went out into the hallway and found that there was a power point there. So I went and manhandled the fridge/freezer (which was more or less empty) out through the bedroom and into the hallway. Then I found that the plug on the damn thing didn't fit the power point. So then I manhandled it back to the kitchen. I couldn't take any more of this, so I left the thing unplugged. I didn't really care by this point whether it defrosted all over the floor. After a while I managed to get back to sleep, even though the bloody thing still made noises even when it was unplugged. This was definitely the worst night of the odyssey – no question.

28 SEPTEMBER - DAY 35

I woke to find the bloody wifi not working, so I spent a lot of time getting together on the laptop and on paper everything that I needed to get through the day, including addresses and a map showing six or seven medical centres in Bari (which fortunately I'd already located online when the wifi was working). The main thing I had to do today was get a covid test. And the first thing I had to do was get my ticket for the boat to Patras. I gladly left the Casa del Sol behind and began the long walk from here east along the seafront. 

Perhaps not a total surprise, the port office in town where I had been told I could pick up my ticket was not where I could pick up my ticket. 

"You need to go right into the port," said the woman.

I went right into the port... in pouring rain... a walk almost as long as the one I had already done. Like Patras and Brindisi, Bari's port is designed not for pedestrians, not even really for motorists, but for container lorries. The distances, spaces and security are all designed without people in mind. I finally found the right office, secured my ticket and assured them that I would be having a covid test before boarding – although at this point I had no idea whether that would be possible.

On the way back out of the port I saw a tourist information office and thought it would be useful to pick up a map of Bari, rather than just rely on the one that I had cobbled together on a bit of paper. Again not totally surprisingly, the man in charge of the tourist office was just locking it up.

"Are you closing?"

"Yes," he said, putting his arm round his girlfriend who was waiting to get on his motorbike with him.

It was clear that, between unlocking the office for a minute so that I could get some information and getting on his bike with his girlfriend, he was more inclined to the latter. I swore as they rode off and continued walking in the rain.

I had tea and biscuits (nothing else available) at a café in town and watched the rain ease off. Then I began the quest for a test.

At the first medical centre, there were about three queues and not much clarity. Some people had numbers and were being called. I asked the man next to me how he got his number. It turned out he was a Belgian musician – Victor – who spoke perfect English. He was trying to travel on the same boat as me to Patras, but they had refused to sell him a ticket before he had a covid test – because Belgium is on their danger list. He showed me where the numbered ticket machine was, just inside the door, but when I tried to take a number, I was shouted at by the receptionist on the door and several old ladies who looked as if they could turn ugly.

Victor asked the receptionist if they were actually doing covid tests. We had both assumed from the queues that they were. Perhaps not surprisingly, the answer was: no, they weren't. We were both told to go away.

I took Victor to the next place on my list/map, just round the corner. I tried some of the doctors' doors – all locked – while he phoned a friend at his hostel for help. He said he was going to return to the hostel where someone might know something. We promised to let each other know if we found anywhere that would do a test.

The third medical centre – in a grim backstreet – didn't looking promising. And it wasn't.

The fourth one didn't do testing but a really nice receptionist directed me to a fifth one that was "just round the corner". I went a long way "round the corner" and asked a lot of people if they knew the street the receptionist had told me – but no one knew it. By now, the rain had been replaced by full-on sunshine, which would have been great if I hadn't been fully clothed and pulling a suitcase behind me.

In the end I went back to the fourth medical centre and told the nice receptionist – as politely as I could – that it was impossible to find the place she had told me about. Could she please draw a map? Again, everything was having to be done in Italian and I confess that by this point I was getting stressed out and exhausted. She drew me a map and told me: "It's only ten minutes' walk."

It was at least 20 minutes walk – but I found the place and rang the bell. A woman came to the locked gate.

"Do you do covid tests?"

"Yes." 

Bloody hell!

"But do you have a certificate?" she asked.

"No. What certificate?"

"From your doctor."

"I don't have doctor," I said and did my best to explain my situation and how I had tried and failed to get a test in Terracina and Latina and most of Bari.

"Wait a minute," she said and disappeared back inside. I realised that she was sympathetic and was trying to help – which made quite a difference at this stage.

After five minutes she reappeared: "No. There is no way that we can do it without a certificate. You should go to the hospital."

Memories of the 70-plus cars queueing at Latina hospital came back to me. I thanked her and told her that I was going to give up.

I slogged back the way I had come – I had now been walking, with my luggage, for about four hours.

I saw Caffe Odissea across the road. It seemed meant to be, so I called in, thinking that it might have tea and something nice to eat and even wifi. It had tea. Would I like some disgusting-looking, sugar-laden cakes with it? No!

I was feeling very sorry for myself. I drank my tea and looked at my crumpled list/map. There was one more medical centre that I had failed to find on the way to the fourth one, and it looked as if it really should be quite close to the Caffe Odissea. I resolved to be positive and go and find it...

And I did. A woman came to the door.

"Do you do covid tests?"

"Yes - the serological blood test."

"That would do."

"But we're closed," she said.

My heart sank.

Then she said: "If you come back in an hour, we can do it."

"Do I need a certificate?"

"No."

"How much?"

"€25."

"I'll be back here in an hour," I said.

It was 3pm. If I could get the test done at 4pm, I had time to get back to the port for 530pm when boarding started. Maybe the tea and a rethink at the Caffe Odissea had helped after all.

I found a supermarket nearby and bought grapes, a peach and nuts (anything but the biscuits and pastries of which I had had a surfeit in Italy). I sat on the edge of some grass and had a picnic. The biscuits that I did have left in my bag I gave to the pigeons. Then the pigeons suddenly blasted past me – and I saw that a black cat had been stalking them as they feasted. He had pounced but missed. The pigeons returned, despite the cat still lurking, and they all went through the same drama again...

With all this excitement, the hour passed quickly. I went back to the clinic, where the door stood open. Inside, I met the doctor – who was matter-of-fact and welcoming – and the woman I had already spoken to, who was her receptionist. The fact that they had black-and-white stills from the Italian movie equivalent of Carry On, Doctor on the wall seemed reassuring.

"When will I get the results?" I asked the doctor.

"Presto! It's an instant test."

This all seemed too good to be true – but for once, it was true. I watched as she pricked my finger and inserted a drop of my blood into the instant covid test. I watched as the fluid moved along a little channel. There was a letter C at the end of this channel which I took to signify covid. And the fluid was getting closer to that.

"Is this good or bad?" I asked her.

"Good at the moment," she said. 'But we have to wait another three minutes."

It felt like a long three minutes.

"It's negative," said the doctor.

I wanted to hug her and dance in the street with her. But that was probably not a good idea on all sorts of levels.

The paperwork took a while, but by 430pm I left the clinic with a piece of paper certifying that I did not have the virus.

I had already texted Victor about this place and the previous place, and had had no reply from him. But as I was walking back from the city centre towards the port, he phoned. He had also texted me – about the fact that it was possible to get a test at the hospital – but neither of us had received the other's texts. Anyway he had got his test done and it sounded as if he should get his results the next day; and then, hopefully, be able to buy a ticket to Patras. We wished each other well with our health and with our music.

I walked to the port in increasingly heavy rain – but now didn't care about that. Successfully getting the test done had made any other problem seem extremely minor.

At the port, the rain was about as heavy as rain can get. I sheltered, shivering, for some time in the hope that it would slacken off; and when it did, only slightly, I made a run for the boat.

I was soaked. But I handed in my form confirming I was covid-free and I was on my back to Greece... and Ithaca...