Maiori

We’re now on the Amalfi coast south of Naples. Over the past year we’ve become connoisseurs of the Italian coastline and this is another fine stretch to add to our collection. The coast rises sheer out of the Gulf of Salerno up to, I guess, a couple of thousand feet and is dotted with castles, craggy inlets, seaside towns and hill villages. Everywhere the land is green and terraced with lemon groves and vineyards and right now it is suffused with a golden autumnal light. Maiori is a small, unpretentious seaside town about two miles east of Amalfi itself, with a tiny harbour at one end, tucked underneath a cliff which rises about two hundred feet and on which stands a neo gothic castle. The road to Amalfi climbs above us and loops round the cliff in a sharp hairpin bend, so we have a great view of the regular confrontations between buses, lorries and coaches as they negotiate the turn. It’s like watching a mating ritual between large and cumbersome beasts as they approach one another cautiously with a snort of air brakes and a blast or two on their hooters, then edge slowly past one another in jerky forward and reverse manoeuvres.

This is the most heavily touristed area we have travelled in our cruising this year, with many British, German and American holidaymakers as well as Italians. Because it’s late in the season the sunloungers, beach huts and cafes are slowly being dismantled and the youngsters and families have gone, to be replaced by elderly and middle-aged visitors. They crawl round the place in pairs like curious tortoises, their wrinkly necks protruding from Marks and Spencers autumn sale beach shirts and summer dresses. We were having lunch in a small restaurant a couple of days ago when a group of elderly Irish tourists descended, many wearing little badges to indicate they were on some kind of package pilgrimage. Even before they sat down they were haranguing the patient young waiter:

“I want fried fish, have you fried fish? ... and chips, I want chips.”
“I want pasta but I don’t want cheese in it ... you won’t put cheese in it will you now?”

Eventually the orders were taken and a tray of beers and wine emerged. One old girl picked up a litre carafe and raised it to her lips with a cry of “cheers”, then two of the more sophisticated in the party explained what the wine glasses were for. Plates of mixed fried fish were brought out and the old boys poked suspiciously with their forks at the squid tentacles nestled in among the fish. The waiter was recruited to take photos of the party, carefully lining up his shots and telling everyone to say “cheese” while simultaneously being badgered by the Irish on the next table “excuse me, excuse me, we want more chips”. They paid with a flurry of questions and euro notes before disappearing towards the seafront leaving not a morsel of food or drink on the deserted tables, like the aftermath of a plague of locusts.

The “marina” itself has only been open since August and has been little publicised – we heard about it from another cruising boat. The first yacht to visit in August was apparently greeted by the mayor, photographed for the local paper and given free moorings whenever they return. It’s an old fishing harbour with space for no more than fifty boats, which has been given the full marina treatment – new pontoons, power and water, loos, showers, a marina office and many little shop units all smelling of fresh plaster and newly grouted tiles. There’s even a little amphitheatre and a pond with lights and fountains, all totally uneconomic and I suspect part paid for by the EC and the local Council. When we arrived the place was empty but for a few small day boats and a coastguard cutter, the crew lounging around in their immaculate white uniforms, smoking and chatting with the marina staff. We agreed a price of €20 per night, which is maybe half or a third what one would pay elsewhere on this coast for similar facilities.

Word soon gets round in the cruising world and since we got here three days ago two more yachts have arrived, with I suspect a few more on the way. Sue’s Mum and Dad are arriving today for a week and we’ve managed to find them a hotel with a view of the harbour about five hundred metres away. It’s a tough old life being on the marina staff here. There must be about five Ormeggiatori (yacht helpers) all with new yellow “Porto di Maiori” T shirts, plus a woman who works mornings in the office. They can’t do enough for us and the other two yachts here, helping us on and off the boats with shopping, finding gas, and opening up the toilets and showers on demand, all of which must account for about five percent of their working day. The remainder comprises pottering around in the marina’s new inflatable dinghy doing a bit of fishing and swimming and sunbathing. When that all gets a bit too much they settle back in their deckchairs and ogle the women on the nearby beach with high-powered binoculars. Given the average age of the holidaymakers at this time of year I think at least one of the guys must be a varicose vein fetishist.

Maratea

After our stay in Vibo Valentia we headed north towards the Amalfi coast, stopping at a succession of sleepy little ports. It’s was a sociable time, travelling in concert with two other British yachts, “Gwen L” and “Chin Chin”. The high spot for me was Maratea, a collection of small hamlets strung out on the coast and hills of Basilicata. There is a tiny port with a handful of bars and restaurants and the main village up in the hills, all dominated by an enormous statue of Christ, arms outstretched, on the summit of a 2,000 foot high peak and visible for ten or more miles offshore. At night the statue is floodlit and seems to levitate above the little port. We spent a day trekking to the summit, stopping for a drink in the village, which is a laid back “away from it all” resort for the European and American middle classes.

 On our way back down from the statue we came across a cycle race in the village. Several hundred lycra clad cyclists shot through the place in a blur, cheered on by the locals. They were followed by several support vans covered in logos and then by some stragglers, also cheered on by the crowd. Finally an old local puttered up the street on a battered Vespa to be greeted by more cheers, before stopping at bar and modestly waving acknowledgements to his mock supporters.

A Storm off Tropea

Sailing up the Calabrian coast we were hit by our first really bad squall off the fashionable resort of Tropea.  One minute we were motor sailing in a moderate breeze and the next the wind was literally screaming through the rigging with rain stinging our faces.  Instinctively we got the sails down fast and started to motor further offshore.  It lasted about two hours during which we bucked up and down in a very short and uncomfortable sea, continually drenched with cold rainwater and occasionally lashed by warm seawater as the fifty-knot winds whipped the top off a wave and smacked it in our faces.  During the squall and its aftermath we were actually approached by two Italian Coastguard Search and Rescue boats to check that we were OK.

That day we stopped at Vibo Valentia where we chilled out for a few days and hired a car to explore the Calabrian hinterland.

Tooled up in Reggio

Having last been on the Italian mainland in Livorno in May we returned to it at Reggio di Calabria, just south of the Straits of Messina as we began our journey north to Rome. I was expecting to see a dirt poor dump full of tower blocks and rusting cars. In fact the city centre is bustling and sophisticated, with smart seafront cafes overlooking Sicily and the Straits and the continual stream of ferries and container ships plying to and from the Ionian and Tyrrhenian seas. However, in a back street cafe we did get a glimpse of a different Calabria. The place was full of young men with tattoos and at one table three were dressed in black with gold jewellery and shades. They had the uneasy and twitchy demeanour of serious drug users. At another table a smart casually dressed guy sat talking on his mobile phone, but appeared to be getting an unusual amount of “respect” from the waitress and the men in black. As we left the cafe Sue explained to me that the “respect” might have been something to do with the automatic pistol stuck in the back of his trousers which she had noticed as he reached into his car to grab something.

Hell on Earth

Catania, our furthest point south by boat this season, was weird. It’s the largest conurbation in Sicily and having parked La Fulica in the commercial harbour we took a walk through the dockyard to the centre of town. Maybe I’d had too much sun or alcohol or both, but this fantasy began to grow in my mind that Catania was like the Devil’s attempt to create a “normal” city in hell to make new arrivals feel more at home. At one level it feels like a normal town, but to me it had an uneasy dystopic edge. For one thing the town is predominantly black, built from lava and the streets are covered in what looks like coal dust. For another, there is a subtle but pervasive smell of sulphur emanating from Mount Etna on the northwestern edge of town. It was also hot, aggressive and noisy and on our way back to the boat I was intimidated by large dogs which roamed the dockyards. That night I slept in the cockpit to give Sue and Rosemary some respite from my snoring and was kept awake by fireworks going off into the small hours from several of the city suburbs and a thunder storm rolling over Etna. At one point I awoke to loud booms and a particularly strong smell of sulphur and began to think, “my God, maybe Etna’s blowing”. As well as strong images Catania left us with another little legacy, serious stomach upsets, from which Sue has only just recovered, courtesy of a cheap and cheerful little restaurant next to the fish market.

Having seen Rosemary onto the bus to Palermo at five o’clock in the morning we were met by Bernie and Anne in the afternoon and whisked in their air-conditioned hire car to their air-conditioned hotel. I hesitate to say this, but cruising can be emotionally and physically tiring (loud cries of “try working for a living you smug bastard”) and by the time we got to Catania we were, for a while at least, pretty well cruised out. As a result, four days of ensuite bathrooms, satellite TV and poolside cocktails was heaven. After a taxing day by the pool we would drive into the centre of Siracusa and wander around the Old Town before having a leisurely supper in the piazza under the town cathedral. All good things must come to an end and with Bernie and Anne’s departure back to the UK autumn set in - on 3rd September at 9.00am to be precise. We were in Riposto at the time, a fishing harbour at the very foot of Etna which now has a very smart new marina. Having gone to bed on a balmy and starlit summer evening we awoke to grey cloud and pissing rain and the weather has been stormy and changeable ever since.