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 – 10: 8-14 September 2020

 

From here to Italy? The port of Patras    Photo©Nigel Summerley

8 SEPTEMBER - DAY 15

The UK government continues its bizarre approach to the pandemic... by now declaring that people returning from Tinos (!) will have to go into quarantine for 14 days. Why Tinos? Like Lesbos, Serifos, Mykonos, Crete, Santorini and Zakynthos it appears to have had a rise in cases. Crete? Doesn't someone in authority know how big and diverse Crete is? There's a hell of a lot of difference between the hellhole of Malia and the quiet of Kissamos. But maybe if you all end up back on the same plane? I don't know any more – and I suspect that they don't either.

This morning I'm going to give some blood to find out if I've got antibodies to the coronavirus, ie whether I've had the damn thing or not. Although no test seems to be conclusive about anything...

I looked for a guidebook to Patras yesterday... there doesn't seem to be one. This is not so much an indication of a gap in the market as a fairly certain sign that there is not enough here to warrant one.

Today I plan to look at the Castle and its park and maybe seek out what there is of the Old Town and Old Port. I was last here in 1985 and remember a rather nice, old-fashioned, romantic seafront... but that may all be nothing but imagination...

It turned out that it was... or at least it's all disappeared. Even the Old Port looks new-ish. Oh, and the Castle is closed on Tuesdays... so that's something to do tomorrow.

I had the antibody test with Dr Dmitropoulou... one of the most helpful people I've met on this odyssey... and she asked more about what I was doing and writing about. I explained. "Ah," she said. "You should go to Odysseus Zoo Land." Sorry? "It's an Odyssey theme park for children on Kefalonia." 

She's right... and it looks brilliant... with lots of animals that have little connection to the Odyssey, but also lots of tableaux recreating its most famous scenes. Although these don't include the sex with Calypso and Circe... or the punishment hanging of the maids by Odysseus and Telemachus.

I didn't have a Plan B for what happens if the Covid test proves positive. Now it could be to spend 14 days in quarantine on Kefalonia – with a visit to Odysseus Zoo Land at the end of it.

Much as I'd like to go to the Odyssey theme park, I'm hoping very much that I get to Italy.

9 SEPTEMBER - DAY 16

The UK government is bumbling around yet again and is now going to start limiting gatherings of people to six... gatherings of 20 or 30 or more unmasked and unsocially distanced young people have been going on all through the past few months and are still going on... in Spain or Italy, these people would probably have been locked up or at least fined... the British really do do stupidity better than anyone else (apart from the Americans, of course)... And they are pontificating about the risks of people coming back from Greece!!

Today I may get the Covid result... and I may get to Patras Castle.

Late last night the father of the owner of this apartment came knocking on the door offering me souvlaki and chips. I tried to explain that I was a vegetarian. It was a concept that he could not grasp – even when his wife explained it to him. "But I eat everything!" he said, pointing to his huge belly. "You are a very difficult man!" I agreed that I was. But I gave him and his wife two pots of a local dessert (which he had given me one of on the night of my arrival as a welcome present) – I can't figure out what's in it, apart from a lot of cinnamon but it's really yummy. The wife insisted on giving me two plates of vegetables – aubergines (which I had for breakfast this morning) and courgettes (which I couldn't face for breakfast but will have later). They are two really nice people and they have made up for the cavalier inefficiency of their son, from whom I've heard nothing more since I berated him for not answering my phone calls and texts when I got here... and not even telling me which apartment I was looking for.

I have heard nothing about the Covid results. I emailed Dr Dmitropoulou twice this afternoon but had no response, only noticing later that her clinic's website says opening hours are 730am to 2pm. In the midst of becoming slightly anxious about where all this was heading, I got a text from Caronte & Tourist telling me that my overnight ferry from Messina to Salerno has just been cancelled "due to technical reasons". A freephone number is available for more info – if you are in Italy – and I am in Greece. I emailed the company and the agency I booked through to see what the options are – not surprisingly, no reply yet on that.

I'm now looking at not so much Plan B, as Plans C and D. If the Covid test result is positive, then I think that's the end of the odyssey. I might be able to quarantine on Kefalonia for 14 days, spend a week on Ithaca and then go home – but that won't be with any feeling of having achieved what I set out to do. If I can get to Brindisi and down to Villa San Giovanni (and Scylla and Charybdis), then I have a chance to re-make things by heading for Lucrino (and the gateway to the Underworld) via Naples (itself a gateway to another underworld, as I understand it). Everything hinges on what happens after 730am tomorrow. I can't say I have enjoyed very much of the past four days. But then, I had 10 wonderful days on Andros, Tinos and Syros, so the unloveliness of Athens and Patras has to be borne. That's what the odyssey is about, I guess.

10 SEPTEMBER - DAY 17

Finally, at 8am today, I got the results – negative for Covid-19 and negative for antibodies. I should be able to continue my journey. Although storms seem to be brewing in Italy...

My friend Z and I exchanged a lot of emails overnight... the gist of which is that it is unlikely to be sensible for me or her and her son for me to stay there – if I get there. She writes: "The best laid plans of mice and men gan' astray...

"Really looking forward to reading what you write.  And really admire your gift of not giving up.

"In the meantime... as I hope/tried to make clear, the situation in Latina is that there's a near 100% probability of you having to self-isolate for anything between a few hours, a few days, or a couple of weeks. Which would mean my son and I having to do it too.  Not to mention not being able to see all the wonderful (Odyssean) things to see here. Or quarantine for all three for weeks or months. All crazy, but all too real when it hits.

"I really don't know what to think of all this. But I suppose I have to say that you staying with us just can't be done this time round. Unless... unless an unlikely deus ex macchina springs forth and turns things around (unlikely because they're saying the contagion will only get worse now).

"So keep me posted (in any case, because I want to know!) and if things change for the better, and they can fit into your wanderings (I mean that as a wonderful thing to do), then yes, I'd love to see you on the Ulysses coast!"

I've asked Dr Dimitropoulou for three printed copies of my test results: one for Greece, one for Italy and one for me – plus a note to explain why they had to be done early to ensure getting the results today. I'm going to pick them up from her in a short while.

She didn't see my email – but she did the three copies – and the letter. I was most fortunate to have found her – and all thanks to my Greek friend and guitarist Anthony. I owe him a drink or two.

I bought some nougat as a farewell gift for Ioannis's parents... and his mum made sure I had two pieces of cake before I left. They were amazing people – and probably the best thing that Patras had to offer.

I enjoyed walking around the Castle ruins yesterday but those six-foot-plus walls and that formidable structure seemed to be a manifestation of fear and violence... while Ioannis's parents seemed to be all about caring and loving. I shall be sorry not to see them again, but glad that I met them.

Now I've checked in at the port terminal and been warned to have my paperwork ready for the Italian police on board the ship. All slightly offputting but hopefully they will accept Dr Dimitropoulou's letter if there is any query over the date of my Covid test. "If they want to be really difficult, they could say that you should have gone to another laboratory," she said. "Adding as an afterthought: "Maybe we should have just changed the date." I was tempted to say yes, let's do that, but think she was joking. She also said that I could tell them the test was done on Monday evening so that's 72 hours before the boat leaves.

From now on, the odyssey through Italy, if it continues, is going to be accompanied by a reasonable amount of stress – maybe more than a reasonable amount. I'm telling myself not to lose my temper with any jobsworths who stand in the way of things... the best way through this is going to be staying calm. Not one of my strongest suits...

It's happened again! The angry bus driver thing... After getting through airport-style security, we (three passengers and I) had to get on a bus to take us to the boat. The driver stopped by the Florencia – the boat I was due to take to Brindisi – and shouted something incomprehensible several times. Then he put his foot on the accelerator and took us half a mile away to a completely different boat – which it seemed that everyone but me wanted. "Er, I want the Florencia," I told him. "I already said Florencia," he snarled ill-temperedly. "I didn't understand what you were saying." That didn't go down well either. He then did a large high-speed circuit of the port, cursing to himself, and eventually deposited me back at the Florencia. After my ticket and temperature were checked, I hauled my stuff up a vast gangway and eventually came to a door that said Reception. Inside that there was no one for some time until I did indeed come to a reception desk which appeared to be manned by the Italian police (but I'm not sure). Anyway they wanted the form declaring that I'd had a coronavirus test etc. But they didn't ask to see proof that I'd had it. Almost disappointing, since I'd been practising some Italian to have a good-natured argument with them if they cut up rough about the 72 hours. They photocopied the form and sent me up one floor to a saloon full of aircraft-type seats – all completely empty. I chose one well out of the way, next to a "no one sits here" seat, and settled in. 

About 20 minutes later a British couple arrived who seemed almost as confused as I was. We figured out the at the boat wasn't that busy and that almost everybody using this route has a car – and probably books into a cabin for the night. Did they have a Covid test? No? Don't they need one for Italy? No, they're passing through. In fact, they've been going backward and forward between Italy and Greece for the past month and haven't been asked to show any proof of a test. They didn't have to show anything to get into Greece because they came in from the UK. So they didn't think we'd be interrogated by the police when we got to Brindisi? "No, we'll probably just be whisked off. No one seems too bothered."

Have I just spent four days in Patras for nothing? Well, not exactly. I met the wonderful Dr Dimtropoulou and Ioannis's lovely parents – so all was not wasted. Plus, I know I haven't got the virus – and haven't had it in the past four or five months, according to Dr D.

Now it's a question of lying back and thinking of Italy... My god, it looks like we might make it!

11 SEPTEMBER - DAY 18

I spoke too soon. The ghost ship arrived early and its few passengers, all in cars apart from me and a French backpacker and two cyclists, disembarked. And walked in among the container lorries, whom this journey had really been for.

I had a sense of things not going to go well when I went past a beckoning friendly policemen who then got shouted at by his colleague for letting me walk down the road instead of directing me through the building. (I told myself yet again: stay calm: do not behave like yourself!) It's one of the few times I've felt sorry for a policeman – and he couldn't have sent me through to the building because the path had been cordoned off. He apologised to me and to his Mr Nasty colleague.

Then when I got inside I found the French backpacker being interrogated. They wanted her passport and they wanted her hotel address, as far as I could see. But before long they let her go. And I got a combination of Mr Nasty, Mr Nice, Mr Silly and a couple of other cops presumably auditioning to be stand-ins for these roles.

Had I filled in the required form. Yes, I had given it to the officials on the boat. No, it's another form. No, I haven't seen that one. I'll fill it in. I was told to go and sit down and fill it in - my passport had been taken.

The form was in terrible English and none of the choices given for purpose of visit fitted what I was doing. I ticked "situation of need".

I returned the form to Mr Nasty. 

"Are you here on holiday?" 

"Partly. I am half on holiday and half writing." I didn't really want to say that I was working and had not ticked that option on the form (probably because I'd once had a bad experience in the US after I told Homeland Security I was going to be doing some writing while visiting Arizona and they put me on the next plane home).

"Non e possibile!" he kept saying. "You cannot come here on holiday. Not here."

Meanwhile, a trainee Mr Silly was asking me where Villa San Giovanni was (I had given this as my address, as it was due to be my next one). 

"Er, it's in southern Italy."

"The one in Calabria?" 

"Yes."

I was ordered into a backroom with Mr Nice and Mr Nasty. Mr Nice seemed to be trying to find a way to let me through... and Mr Nasty was obviously keen to stop me or at least give me a very hard time. I stayed calm – unbelievably – and let them get on with it.

Eventually I decided to use my Odyssean letter – the one  from Harry Mount that I had forged. Could it be my get-out-of-jail card? I didn't have anything else. 

"I'm a journalist," I confessed to Mr Nice. "Please read this letter. I am here partly to work and partly to travel."

   

No one understood English (and mine was getting almost as hesitant as my Italian) but fortunately my forgery was in Italian, Greek and English and looked official. I learned quite quickly that the Italian police – apart from having a tendency towards being bastards – like things on bits of paper, particularly if they can photocopy them.

Mr Nice showed Mr Nasty the Harry Mount letter – "Look, he's a journalist." Strangely this seemed to carry some weight, even with Mr Nasty. 

"But he ticked the wrong box on his form – he should have ticked the one for working." 

"Well, he can cross that box out and tick the other one," said Mr Nice. 

"No, he can't," said Mr Nasty. "He will have to do the whole form again." 

I still stayed calm and reasonable and told them I was happy to do that. I did it, but at quite a lick, just in case they changed their minds again.

"Write also that you work for The Oldie," said Mr Nice. 

I signed it and they seemed satisfied. They copied the Harry Mount letter for their files. 

"And when you get to Villa San Giovanni," said Mr Nasty, "you must contact a doctor and arrange a test." 

Now came my piece de resistance... the form from Dr D declaring me negative slipped effortlessly from my file into my hand and I offered it to Mr Nasty. 

"I have just been tested," I said. "Negativo! You can have this if you want." 

"No," he said, "we will photocopy it." And he did it and that went in my file too.

"Now you must stand there," he said pointing to the middle of the floor of the backroom's anteroom. I did as I was told until Mr Nice told me that I could return to standing in the outer office. I must have been there for a good 10 minutes – probably the most patient I have ever been in my life. I could still have been there but for Mr Nice appearing and starting to bang on the window of his office to attract the attention of Mr Silly, who still had my passport. "Give it to him! He can go!"

And Mr Silly then came and very politely came and gave me my passport, and I rushed very calmly for the exit.

I'd promised myself that I'd get a taxi. There were no taxis. Only road signs directing you to the town centre – which I knew to be taking you on a ring-road-kind-of-route. I'd got a map that showed a way on foot that was quicker, and I figured that would be sensible to follow, particularly in sweltering heat with two bags and a suitcase. The only hitch was that this pedestrian route went via another port area and I was called over by a port policeman hiding inside a large sentry box. 

"Where are you going?" 

I explained that I was walking to the railway station. 

"You have to go back the way you came and take a right." 

"But that's a much longer way." 

"Yes," he smiled. 

"I'll miss my train."

He smiled again. I had obviously helped to make his day. I headed back up the hill, cursing extremely profanely.

Eventually I managed to cut off the main road and got into town and a street name that I recognised. I made it to the station – where a customer services woman was really pleasant and helpful in confirming which platform I needed. So not all officials here are bastards.

In fact, on the second of the day's four trains, the ticket inspector, seeing me writing with my laptop on my lap, helpfully pointed out that I could move to one of the not-to-be-used-because-of-social-distancing seats and pull down the table – which was actually a sensible size, flat and perfect as a mobile desk. When he returned later, I thought he wanted my ticket, but he just smiled to see me at work. Another goal for the not-bastards.

Just before I'd got off the first train to Taranto I'd noticed a missed call from an Italian number I didn't recognise. Maybe the police had seen through the Harry Mount letter, or the "approved work" box that I'd ticked, or the fact that the coronavirus test date was outside the 72 hours... Shit, they were on my trail. I decided that I did not want to be tracked and traced at this stage of the game and resolved not to answer any Italian calls... 

While waiting for the second train (to Sibari) I called Caronte & Tourist to find out what they were going to do about the cancelled Messina-Salerno trip... What about a refund? 

"Wouldn't you like to go on another date?" 

"No! I just want my money back." 

"That may not be possible."

Aware that the alleged freephone call was probably costing me a fortune, I said I would email again. 

"We did call you to see if you wanted to rearrange," said Allesta, the customer services woman. Ah... so it wasn't the police. They are not after me after all.

Oh, hang on... I just noticed that we have been stationary for 15 minutes. Why aren't we going anywhere? I look down the gangway of the train to see the back of a formidable policewoman complete with enormous nightstick and reasonable-size gun. She and her colleague are talking to passengers one by one. Shit! 

She turned and looked at me suspiciously. 

"Documents," she said. 

"Like train ticket?"

 "No." 

"Like passport?"

 "Yes." She read my passport in more detail than I think it contains and then passed it to her colleague so that he could record its details on some small device. She then politely returned my passport and thanked me. Phew! If this carries on, I really am going to get paranoid – possibly even nostalgic about Patras.

No police at Sibari... in fact, no staff of any kind to explain why there is no 15.42 train to Castiglione Cosentino. It's on my timetable, it's on my ticket... but nothing. I walk around the station being accosted twice by a man who tells me it's quicker to take his car to Castiglione Cosentino... I tell him I'll sort it out for myself – and later regret turning him down. I don't sort it out because there is no one to sort it out with. When I go back to look for the amateur taxi driver, he has disappeared, not surprisingly. 

A man who looks vaguely like a railway official emerges from the Trenitalia carpark. He smiles as I ask him about the train shown on my ticket. 

"You are a foolish man," he says. "You believe the ticket rather than the trains." 

I'm beginning to see what he means. A student with excellent English waiting hopefully for a train going the other way agrees that Italian trains are "unpredictable". I eventually speak to the driver of the 15.42 which has actually been in the station ever since that time but has changed into the 16.43.

Eventually we are allowed to board it – then just before it leaves, everyone in the front carriage is asked to move to the middle carriage. The guard looks as fed up with having to do this, as I am to have to hear it; I fail to fully understand it but comply with it anyway as he seems like a non-bastard.

So, the arrival in Villa San Giovanni... hopefully the low point of the odyssey... not as bad as the encounter with the border police at Brindisi but in its own way fairly awful. 

I finally got on the fourth train of the day at the what-I-was-beginning-to-think-was-mythical Castiglio Cosentino, foolishly thinking that at least now I was going to make it to Villa San Giovanni by some time not long after 8pm (after being on trains or waiting for trains since 11am). But no. If it is foolish to trust the ticket rather than the train, it remains foolish to trust the train, it seems. 

After spending quite a bit of time texting back and forth with Gary re the likelihood of our online Friday night meet-up, and with La Villetta, my apartment at VSG, it dawned on me that the train had not moved for rather a long time. Then came the announcement of a "technical problem with the onboard system" and the fact that we would not be able to continue until it was fixed. My "stay calm" approach was starting to not do so well. We did finally move and got into VSG 23 minutes late. I know it was 23 minutes because Trenitalia seem to be very hot on telling you the latest delay times and how late you are arriving.

I was so tired that I had already decided I would get a taxi at the station – but of course there was no taxi. I had only a rudimentary map of the town but had memorised the way to La Villetta. However, I couldn't find the street in the dark. I saw two policemen chatting by a lamppost and, discarding my paranoia about the police, asked them the way. They disagreed between themselves on where the street was... one said second on the left, the other third on the left... The one I took to be the senior of the two said third left, so I went for that. It turned out to be second left. 

But then I couldn't find number 47 and I had walked the whole length of the road. A hapless elderly man appeared and I pounced on him. Where was 47? Did he know La Villetta? Wait a minute, yes, he thought he did, but he had to make a couple of phone calls. This took some time and I was beginning to think that he didn't really know any more than I did. This turned out to be the case... 

"This is the place," he said, pointing to 69. 

"No, that's 69 – I want 47."

Now a young dog-walking man appeared and got involved. "I overheard what you were saying," he said. "You should know that the numbers have changed and that he's right – this is the place you want." 

"But it's another B&B and it's number 69." 

"I think the name may have changed," said the dog-walker. 

"The owner is coming," said the elderly man. "I've phoned him." 

"But... but... "

"No, no, you will see..." 

We certainly did. A large man with a large cigar in his mouth drove up and took some time to pull himself out of his car. He looked at my booking form for La Villetta and said: "No, this isn't it." This didn't come as a huge surprise. 

The elderly man seemed crestfallen and I felt awful. 

"Do you know where La Villetta is?" I asked the man with the cigar. 

"Yes, it's back down there."

 And he was right. The street numbers went up one side and then kind of meandered about a bit and went back down the other. And La Villetta WAS number 47. 

The owner came out immediately and I apologised profusely. "The train," I said. Hearing those two words, he seemed to need not other explanation. He said no problem and showed me to my perfect little garden apartment. I really had thought I was never going to make this one. But I did, thanks really to that elderly man – whom I had thanked profusely.

With the wifi working, I was determined to keep the online date with Gary and Carmen. But first I needed a beer and some food. I went down to the local pizza takeaway place... but the owner – quite rightly – wouldn't let me in because I had forgotten my mask. 

"Would this do?" I asked somewhat pathetically, taking out a tissue from my backpocket. 

"No," he said bluntly. Again he was right. I went back to the apartment, got my mask and went back to the shop. They did the most amazing cheese and tomato calzones, and cold beer. 

As I walked back, I saw that a rat had been freshly squashed by a car on the road outside La Villetta – he'd had a much worse day than I had. But seriously, it put things into perspective a bit...

I went back to the apartment with my beer and calzones and chatted with Gary and Carmen until midnight.

12 SEPTEMBER – DAY 19

My mum, who died in 2019, would have been 95 today. She was a great walker and traveller and meeter of new people, and I know she would have greatly approved of my odyssey. Sadly, she ended her days immobile, an absolute hell for someone who always had to be busily on the move. That's partly why I'm doing this while I still can.

CNN reports today: "For all too brief a time, the Italian summer offered a glimmer of hope. After emerging from what was in early 2020, one of the world's harshest coronavirus lockdowns, Italy managed to dust itself down in time to welcome visitors.

"But as the sun begins to cool, so do hopes of a full recovery for Italy's decimated 2020 tourism season. Winter is coming, and with it what is expected to be a full-blown economic catastrophe."

It says: "Adding to the problems is a rise in Covid-19 cases blamed on the movement of young Italians, both over the borders into countries like Croatia, Greece and Malta and to summer nightlife hotspots at home. Daily increases are lower than France and Spain, but Italians are nervous about the approaching winter.

"Fears of a second wave appear to have dashed earlier projections of a September and October tourism revival, with Italians and overseas visitors cancelling plans and sitting tight."

After a bad night, a memorable day. First, I had to book a ticket for the train to Naples next day (a Plan B after Caronte & Tourist cancelled my overnight sailing to Salerno) and then a place to stay in Naples for the night – near Napoli Centrale. With that organised, I headed to try to find and then catch the ferry over to Messina. My luck had definitely changed, I found the port and the ticket office, despite some tricky streets, bought a ticket and the 10am ferry was about to leave. At last I was in real Odyssey territory – the place of Scylla and Charybdis, the Strait of Messina. The crossing takes about 20 minutes and costs €5 return – which is pretty good value for money. 

The Strait of Messina is very much alive with fish – not just the likes of tuna and swordfish but also stranger creatures thrown up from deeper and darker waters. We could certainly see creatures in the distance leaping and dancing on the surface of the sea. What they were I was unable to figure out, but they certainly added to the magical, mythical feel of this legendary stretch of water.

The Vietato Fumare signs on the ferry are so big that I daftly thought for a moment that that was the name of the boat – the Italians, mostly in cars, continue to smoke as they drive, as they get out of their cars, as they go up on the viewing deck. Those not busy smoking do wear masks. It's a great little journey. Feels like you really know where you are – in that narrow but not-so-narrow stretch of water that separates the toe of Italy from Sicily.

My plan on landing was to go to a waterfront café for breakfast. There were no waterfront cafés. The Messina seaside does not go in for a lot of commercialism. Finally, I did find a place over the road from the beach. I asked for a tea and everyone in the place looked at me suspiciously. 

"Tea?" said the man behind the counter. 

"Yes." 

"Tea? Like classic tea?" He showed me a teabag. 

"Yes. And I wanted two croissants." 

"These are filled with chocolate." 

"Really? I definitely want those." 

I took my tea and croissants to a table outside. Put on my dark glasses and did my best impression of Inspector Montalbano as I gave all my concentration to biting into the croissants, which oozed chocolate, while trying not to make a mess – almost managed it. There were lots of other Montalbano-like treats in glass cases – cakes and sugary things that looked like they could kill. I stuck at the choco-croissants. Italians must be dismayed if they come to London and buy a chocolate pastry.

Messina beach                                                                              Photo©Nigel Summerley

Then I hit the beach – at a spot that appeared to be a regular meeting place for the elderly –always a sign that the swimming will be good and safe. After the previous awful day, this was a real treat.

After a swim I headed back to catch the next ferry to the mainland – and within half an hour I was back in VSG.

I went to check out the times of trains to Scilla for later – but found that one that should have just gone was actually late (no great surprise) so I had time to catch it. But not quite as much time as I imagined. 

I reckoned without a problem at the ticket office. First there was a queue, but not for too long. Then I asked for a return to Scilla... and the young woman at the ticket office told me the price... but said I wouldn't be able to pay straight away because there was a problem with the payment system. Could I wait for a few minutes? You couldn't make this up: the train is late, so there's a chance I can catch it, but the ticket office can't sell me a ticket until the time when the train is likely to be leaving... (You can of course buy tickets on the train but I had been warned that they would be much more expensive.) I decided to once more exhibit uncustomary patience. I waited. The technical problem was somehow resolved. I got my ticket. I ran. I caught the train.

The Fates, though, had the last laugh here... Because as the train pulled into Scilla, all hell broke loose in the skies above. There was roaring thunder, dramatic lightning and heavy rain bouncing off the roofs and roads and turning the streets into streams. If this carried on, there was no way sensibly that I could do what I had come here to do: to climb the rock of Scylla. Like everyone else I sheltered (and shivered) as best I could, as refugees from the beach scurried up to the station with jackets or umbrellas over their heads. 

The storm hits Scilla                                                                     Photo©Nigel Summerley

After a long time, the rain eased and the thunder died away, so I walked along the bedraggled seafront with its cafés, bars and ice cream parlours – reminding me strangely of Weston-super-Mare on a wet weekend.

The rock – and the castle on top of it – were clear to see, at the end of the beach. But the way up there wasn't at all clear. I followed my nose, and the road, and a few bedraggled Italian tourists, and wound my way up through the narrow and charming old streets. The slopes were mainly gentle and before long I was nearing the entrance to the castle.

Scylla's Rock                                                                                 Photo©Nigel Summerley

From the top, you were supposed to be able to see the Aeolian Islands – a key part of the Odyssey – where Odysseus was given a bag of winds by King Aeolus to enable him to travel unbothered by them, only for his curious men to open the bag and let loose havoc.

With this stormy sky, I couldn't see the islands but I certainly felt the winds. I had now made it to the setting for Charybdis and Scylla... and I would soon be on my way up the Odyssean Coast.

The rain held off and I returned to VSG to finish the day with more calzones and cold beer.

13 SEPTEMBER - DAY 20

The Villa San Giovanni rat had all but disappeared. Two nights ago he had been running around when he got hit by a car. The next night he was half-eaten. And by today he had been squashed to almost nothing and the flies were gathering on what was left of him. And in that time I had gone from more or less screaming in the dark streets of VSG out of frustration to actually knowing my around the place and really quite liking it. But now it was time to get the train to Naples. The good news was that the station was already announcing that the train would be ten minutes lates – so much better than an announcement of cancellation.

It was only actually a couple of minutes late setting off and got into Naples early. The only problem on the journey was a stupid young woman who didn't wear a mask and spent most of the time talking loudly on the phone... it seemed that we were supposed to stick to our numbered seats, but when she started coughing I moved to the other end of the carriage. Why are some people so self-centred?

The place I'm staying in is – like the last place – empty apart from me. I have a really nice apartment, a kitchen with free tea and biscuits and a huge roof terrace. I popped out to get some food from a corner shop and popped back in again quickly... everything about Naples seems to say: be careful. There was no way I was going out for any length of time. It just didn't feel that safe, at least not this area around the Napoli Centrale station.

The Traveller Tree above my bed in Naples and (below)
my addition to the graffiti Photos©Nigel Summerley

It was so hot that some people seemed to spend the whole night on their balconies. A man I'd seen up late watching a gigantic TV on his balcony was still there when I woke early in the pre-dawn morning and went out onto my terrace.

The news from the UK is that it's admitted it's sending covid test samples to Italy and Germany because it can't cope on its own. And the latest from Italy is that teachers, particularly older ones, of which there are many, are really worried about the schools going back this week.

14 SEPTEMBER - DAY 21

So I slept badly yet again... I think I may have had one good night's sleep on this trip so far. And that was despite the fact that apartment was near-perfect. Somehow I passed the time from 5.30am to 10am when I did my online Alexander Technique session for the first time in a couple of weeks. That was a treat. Then I finished packing and walked the mile or two to Montesanto station.

It was like a carnival of utter madness. People, noise, colour, chaos, narrow cobbled streets... I was glad I walked and saw all this... although wheeling the wheelie case for a mile or two on cobbles was wearing – on me and on the wheels, no doubt.

I found Montesanto easily, bought a ticket and, as usual in Italy now, I just got swept along with a load of people who looked as if they were heading for the next train to Torregáveta – Lucrino is a couple of stops from that end of the line. Gates opened, we all rushed through and piled on... and then nothing, apart from a lot of creaking noises and what seemed like abortive attempts to get started. Finally it moved. A bit like London's Docklands Light Railway but creakier.

The train pulled into Lucrino pretty much on the beach and next door to the Sibilla Residence Hotel – which looked as if it had been closed for years. I sat and had tea in a café opposite until 2pm check-in time. It turned out that the hotel which looked decidedly down at heel – and possibly defunct –was actually still open. The ageing owner looked at me suspiciously but let me in, and gradually he and his wife seemed to warm to me – and I to them. The Sibilla is another Fawlty Towers tribute act but with real comedy and real charm, so I can't complain.

Here I have to mention what I think may be a world record – for a wifi password. This is the wifi password at the Sibilla: 81446274378461260670. Not an easy one to remember.

I was staying at the Sibilla because it is just up the road from Lake Avernus, the spectacular volcanic crater lake which the ancients claimed to be the site of the entrance to the Underworld, as used by Odysseus when he went to seek the advice of the dead prophet Tyresias.

The caldera is huge, with high rock walls surrounding the great 200ft-deep circular lake which can take an hour to walk around. 

A lakeside cave here was supposed to lead to the land of the dead. 

Having settled in at the Sibilla, I took the long straight road from there to the lake, an easy walk despite the hot afternoon sun. The lake was stunning – and overpoweringly peaceful. There is only one known cave here now, known as the Sybil's Cave, so I headed for that.

Everywhere around the lakeside path were swarms of red damselflies, beautiful but slightly devilish-looking; I think I was guilty of fancying that they might be the spirits of the dead. 

Photo©Nigel Summerley

The narrow path to the Sybil's Cave which led off away from the lake felt truly old and the product of countless footsteps. The devilish damselflies were here too, and so were flies and lizards. I reached the entrance to the cave to find it barred and cobwebbed. I poked my camera through the bars to take pictures of the interior, now forbidden to visitors. The cave is truly spooky, and an atmosphere of decay seems to seep from it.

Entrance to the Underworld                    Photo©Nigel Summerley

Odysseus wasn't expecting to see his mother when he visited the Underworld – because he didn't know she was dead. I knew that my mother had died in 2019, but I was surprised to find myself saying hello to her as I sat on a bench by the lakeside. I think I felt her presence because we had often sat together on her bench, outside the front of her flat, towards the end of her life, when she was immobile and this was the nearest she could get to going out and meeting people. I don't believe in an afterlife but, as I sat on the bench, I sensed her beside me, sharing the amazing view. My mother, Jean, had been a great traveller and I felt she was there, approving of my odyssey and somehow letting me know that things were going to be OK. It was then that I remembered about Odysseus meeting his dead mother here... and learning from her that she had died broken-hearted at the failure of her son to return home to Ithaca.

Photo©Nigel Summerley

I walked happily back to the Sibilla then went to the beach next door – billed rather grandly as the Lido di Napoli – and swam and enjoyed the evening sunshine.