Day one of a seven day trip to Southern Italy, taking in history, volcanoes, beautiful coastlines, boat trips, food, wine and petrified dead bodies.
Over the next week we will be visiting Pompeii, Naples, Capri, and the Amalfi Coast. We will be based in Sorrento and will be going wine tasting, pizza eating and cheese making.
A dream holiday. What could possibly go wrong?
“A boy went to visit Napoli, because he loved the scenery – the native dancers and the charming songs. But wait a minute, something’s wrong” : Dean Martin, Mambo Italiano.
Alas, as with the boy in Dean Martin’s song, things did go wrong. Before we even left Wales.
It’s not a football trip, but we were travelling with football friends and it was booked through Wonky Sheep, the Wales Away official travel company. We had been encouraged to go by long time travelling companion, Posh Dainton. We booked the trip way back last autumn. After that Posh’s health deteriorated to the point where there was a serious doubt as to whether she would be fit enough to go. But she really wanted something to look forward to, so didn’t entertain cancelling. Then, on 3rd January, she went on to a much bigger trip than Italy, she went to the great gig in the sky.
Our trip to this Mediterranean paradise would become a bittersweet symphony.
Then two weeks before we were due to set off I was struck down with a case of Bell’s Palsy. It’s not a major problem, the doctors are happy for me to travel, it just means I’m only going to see Italy through one eye. The last time I had it the whole one side of my face dropped and I had to drink through a straw and dribbled even more gravy down my shirt than usual. Nothing that dramatic this time, although it is taking longer to heal than last time. I only mention this, because I might be setting up an ‘interesting’ sketch about interaction with facial recognition machines at passport control, and possibly bumping into things on my left hand side.
But Posh wasn’t going to let cancer stop her holiday plans. So she would have been ashamed of me if I let a wonky eye stop me.
In Napoli where love is king, when boy meets girl, here’s what they say,
When the moon hits your eye, Like a big pizza pie, that’s Bell’s Palsy
When the world seems to shine, like you’ve had too much wine, that’s Bell’s Palsy.
Bells Palsy will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling and you’ll sing, “where’s the fucking steroids?”
Dean Martin, ‘That’s Amore’.
This entire adventure is going to be living out a plan dreamt up by Posh. She’s never going to be far from our minds. We are taking a little photo frame of her so she will be with us in spirit. She wouldn’t want us to be melancholy, so we shall eat, drink and be merry because, as far as we are concerned, ‘mai hi dal yma’ (she’s still here).
Italy is a complex place. Pizza, pasta, risotto, ice-cream, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati, Lambretta, Fiat, Gucci, Armani, Italian House music, expresso coffee, The Pope, the Mafia … are just some of the many examples of Italian culture shaping the world. It was the birthplace of fascism – and anti-fascism. It was home to many early anarchist thinkers. Never ones to miss out on an opportunity to combine food and politics, a biscuit was named after revolutionary hero Giuseppe Garibaldi* (* Ok, so the Garibaldi biscuit is actually a British invention, but if you are looking for sources to quote for your history dissertation, this may not be the blog for you.) Rome, Florence, that place with flooded roads, the lakes and the replica of Caerphilly Castle’s leaning tower. From tip to toe, there’s a cultural experience awaiting.
Their football team has had its moments over the years. Although all grudging admiration for their mastery of the beautiful game went out the window in Milan one Saturday night in September 2003 when thousands of ultras dropped missiles and pissed on Wales fans from the tier above in the San Siro.
The Italian capital city, Rome, was once the heart of an empire that, at its height, spanned three continents surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, stretching from Britainia in the northwest to Egypt in the southeast. It encompassed modern-day Western Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East. They were Billy Big Bollocks for over 1,500 years till the barbarians had enough. The barbarians eventually said ‘they’re getting on my nerves now, hold my pint’. They then chucked the Romans out and the empire collapsed in the 5th Century AD. I think it was a Tuesday. About tea time. Just after Pointless.
After the fall of the Roman Empire, or shall we say, ‘regime change’ (are you paying attention Trumpy Boy?) there was lots of chaos, with religious fundamentalists (of the catholic variety) going toe to toe with various mobs to gain power. This went on for yonks. Austria, Spain and Napoleon all had a go at trying to be top dog. It wasn’t until as recently as 1861 the rival city states united the peninsula and created the nation known today as Italy. In no small part down to our old friend the Garibaldi Biscuit dude.
Then, just as they thought it was OK to start putting ‘Kingdom Of Italy’ on official headed notepaper, and indeed starting to get in into the whole colonising thing themselves, World War I rocked up, shortly followed by the rise of Mussolini’s Fascist Party and his buttying up to Adolf in the second big war.
In short, never a dull day in Italy. And I haven’t even started on volcanoes and cholera. Don’t worry, plenty of time for that in the coming days.
So anyway… With one eye closed and pumped on steroids, looking like Popeye, I had to leave Megan sort the driving to Heathrow malarkey. Given that our last trip there involved a pile up on the old M4 and us missing our flight, we were determined to leave early o’clock.
The journey was remarkably easy. Traffic was light and we made good time. In fact the only eventful thing that happened on the journey was us deciding to book a cheeky bargain trip to Berlin that crossed our radar. (Sorry kids! We did warn you that we’re not leaving any money for you…)
Before we know it, we are united with this week’s travelling companions, Andrew and Tracey, in ‘Spoons. There was a time we would have sat discussing how many pints we could squeeze in before we fly and plotting nightclubs to visit tonight. Today we discuss bladder control for the flight, nursing homes and ISAs. We place a photo of Posh on the table and she tells us to stop being boring.
The departure lounge is a lot quieter than I’ve seen it for a while and it’s an almost pleasant wait for our flight – the only downside is the scandalous beer prices.
Once on the plane I settle down with Simon Armitage and some Hob Nobs. All to the soundtrack of an Italian Play list i have downloaded, featuring Upupyamamama, Bud Spencer Blues Explosion, Kalascimica, Fab Samperi, DJ Farrapo, Daniel Gaudi and Il Pan Del Diavolo (thanks for the tip off Alistair). I have been struggling to get hold of CD/Vinyl copies by these bands in the UK, so will be keeping an eye out for record shops while I’m ‘In country’, as we used to say back in The ‘Nam’. Also on the play list is Lorenzo Miniero, a Sorrento based musician that seems to be making the most interesting music in Sorrento I have found so far (progressive/ psychedelic rock). I have messaged him to ask if he fancies a pint, but not heard back yet.
In preparation for the new EU electronic passport control I do exercises with my wonky eyelid that leave me looking like Marty Feldman. Much to my surprise (and relief) the computer says yes. I’m into Italy.
Once through security, baggage reclaim and all that jazz, we have a slightly stressful half an hour trying to find our tour guide. We eventually find him holding up a sign the size of a playing card, obscured by the coffee in his hand. And his cigarette. And a bottle of wine and a pizza. OK, I’m exaggerating, but he really didn’t make himself obvious.
But no matter, we found him and were soon climbing on board a rickety old bus with a teenage driver with a death wish and a permanent look of ‘I’m actually going to reverse up there, deal with it’ on her face.
There are fourteen of us on the trip from all over the country. We don’t really get to know anyone tonight, we drive along the picturesque Amalfi Coast, although it’s dark so we don’t really get to appreciate it in its full glory.
We arrive at the hotel. The entrance is on a busy road. Our driver decides to stop in the middle of the road and actually reverse up the drive. The other drivers on the road seem to be outraged by this behaviour and continue to drive behind our reversing bus, taking their lives, and ours, in their hands.
Dinner is about to come to an end when we arrive so we are ushered past the check-in desk into the restaurant where we are forced to eat risotto and drink wine. I say restaurant, but it’s not the sort of place you would take someone for a romantic first date. Well, not if you were hoping for a second one. It’s clean and functional. It has a wiff of Saga Holidays about it. Like God’s waiting room.
When we check-in I foolishly turn down the offer of assistance carrying bags, not realising that our room is three miles away from reception and involves a number of flights of stairs. Just past the sign that says, ‘beware of the tiger’. The room is basic, but pleasant enough. It’s certainly clean. Sterile even. I can tell by the smell of bleach and / or chlorine that came to greet us at the top of the stairs about three corridors away.
Tracey and Andrew stick with tradition and head back to God’s waiting room for more booze. We had forgotten to lay a trail of breadcrumbs along the route, so are not sure if we can find our way back, so opt for slumber, with a view to being as fresh as daisies in the morning.
