Welcome to Italy

Now that we are well and truly travelling “in” our chosen cruising ground there is a constant tension between travelling to the next place and enjoying the place you are in.  Also, although we have set aside months or even years to travel in this way, one cannot go everywhere.  After five days in Juan les Pins we therefore decided to move on and although Nice, Menton and Monaco were all just up the coast, we felt that Italy was now called for.  So on Monday 7^th October we set off for San Remo, with the weather still holding good.  Again letting the autohelm do most of the work we watched the last of the French Riviera and Monaco slip by in warm sunshine, arriving in San Remo in mid-afternoon in the wake of a big British super yacht.  Just to be on the safe side Sue had telephoned the marina in advance, having prepared the appropriate Italian phrases, this wasn’t necessary and she was advised in impeccable English that “yes, we do have a berth and we would be pleased to see you”.

We had to wait for half an hour or so on the holding quay, while virtually the whole staff of the marina helped park the super yacht.  We were then guided to a berth on one of the big yacht pontoons, between a thirty plus metre ketch and a thirty-metre motorboat.  It felt a bit like being in the Grand Canyon.  High above us, the English and Antipodean crew of the ketch were busy polishing the already gleaming brass and chrome and bleaching the almost cream coloured teak.  As well as feeling a little intimidated I found the pontoon pretty soulless – the trouble with these big yachts is that everyone is hung up on status and is embarrassed to say “hello” and hardly anyone actually loves the boat they own or work on.  Give me a scruffy little marina where people come down to potter and socialise any day of the week.

Although tired and after six or more weeks in France a bit culture-shocked we couldn’t resist a stroll around San Remo.  After the laid back atmosphere of Antibes it was brash, busy, smog filled and remarkably unpretentious.  From the main square we climbed out of the centre up through a jumble of medieval alleys and tenement buildings until we had a view of the sea and the large yacht harbour where La Fulica was hob-knobbing with the super yachts.  Next day, we pressed on to Finale Ligure, about thirty miles east of Genova, where the weather closed in on us for a few days.  The marina staff were really nice there, but as we were visitors they wouldn’t give us a security pass to the toilets, so every time we wanted to use the loo or the showers we had to go to the marina workshop and like embarrassed schoolchildren ask to be let in.  Finale Liguria is a pleasant seaside town surrounded by mountains which are apparently a Mecca for free climbers (nutters who do it without ropes).  However, it is not at its best in continuous torrential rain preceded by a mile walk from the marina through two busy road tunnels neither of which has a footpath.  Neither is its atmosphere improved by hordes of wet and bored German free climbers trudging through the town and slumped in disconsolate groups in the cafes.