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 – 11: 15-21 September 2020

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Photo©Nigel Summerley

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.

Photo©Nigel Summerley

Photo©Nigel Summerley

Photo©Nigel Summerley

Photo©Nigel Summerley

Photo©Nigel Summerley

Photo©Nigel Summerley

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. 

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.

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...

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...

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...