Martina Franca

Our final stop before Taranto was meant to be Sibari, a six hundred berth Marina and apartment complex where we had more Calabrian adventures. We found the entry channel using our GPS and then slowly motored towards the entrance as depths were reported to be shallow. At the mouth of a canal which leads into the marina we were practically aground, so I called the marina on the VHF, to which there was no response. I then called them on the mobile ‘phone and got a reply. “Where are you?”, a charming woman asked in excellent English. “Outside the marina,” I replied. “Ah, you can’t enter I’m afraid, maybe next week”. It turned out that the port authorities had closed the marina, one of the largest in Southern Italy, because the entrance had not been dredged. This was even more baffling because a number of foreign boats had over-wintered here last year and we had already met one boat on our travels planning to stay this coming winter. “Yup, nothing really does work in Calabria”, I thought to myself. That night we anchored off a beach and at five the next morning set off for Taranto. In the afternoon the wind picked up and we had a really good sail right into Taranto harbour and up to the marina where our friend Claude was waiting to meet us. While under sail Sue hooked a fifteen pound Dolphin Fish (Claud says it was more like 20 pounds -Sue), which I struggled to haul in and some of which we ate with Claude that evening, along with a string of mussels given to him by one of the marina hands at Taranto.

 For the last few days we have been staying with Jane and Claude and waiting on the house. All the paperwork is ready now, so we are told, and we are just waiting for a date for our final meeting with the Public Notary. In the meantime we have been helping Claude with decorating, eating and taking siestas. Two nights ago Claude’s builder, Donato and his wife Maria called in for a barbecue. We cooked the rest of the Dolphin Fish and Donato and Maria brought fresh peaches and five litres of the strong local red wine. Donato is about sixty and worked in Belgium for twenty years and prefers to speak French with Claude and Jane. Maria is a wonderful woman of about forty five, big and full of energy, who mainly speaks Martinesh, the local dialect of the nearby town of Martina Franca. She works as a farm labourer getting up at three in the morning and working for maybe four or five euros an hour. Donato is also quite deaf, so communication was a bit difficult on the whole, although their generosity and good humour was easy to understand.

 Last night Donato and Maria took us all to see the big procession in Martina Franca for Saint Carmello, whom one of Martina’s churches is dedicated to. The towns around here are all have elegant medieval centres, with stone flagged streets and alleys and whitewashed walls under the azure sky. There was a long procession with bands, the local mayor, an image of the Madonna and lots of old men in flowing white, almost Arabic costumes and women with lace headdresses. At intervals there were loudspeakers broadcasting the priest’s sermon from the church. There were also fireworks and decorations and stalls, mainly run by Moroccans. Afterwards, we went to a country restaurant where we ate a table full of antipasti, stuffed mussels and pizza. Despite Claude and Jane’s protests Maria insisted on paying the fifty euro bill (about £7 per head). Donato also says he knows where we can buy a cheap Rotavator.

Le Castella

We spent three days in Rocella, then headed for our next port of call, Le Castella. There are only a few places to get diesel on the Ionian coast of Calabria and as we were running low I dipped the tank every hour. Unfortunately, my dipstick didn’t take account of the fact that the tank is an odd shape and with ten miles to go to our destination I found we had no more than a few minutes of fuel left. I switched the engine off immediately to give us a small reserve and we got the sails up. It was a hot, hot nearly windless afternoon and it took us three hours to cover four miles. With the sun beginning to set the wind picked up and we started coasting along at four knots. At about the same time Sue noticed some splashing in the water around us and then spotted four Riso’s Dolphins swimming under our bow. These are some of the biggest dolphins in the Med, with big snub noses and white scar-like markings. They were joined by a large pod of smaller dolphins which they chased away while playing under our bow for about half an hour. The water in the Ionian is very clear and we could see them diving down to ten metres and more. Sue got a soaking from the water out of their blow holes and every now and then one would pass so close that they bumped their top fin on the bobstay, the chain that holds our bowsprit down. Occasionally one of them would give La Fulica’s hull a playful bump with its tailfin before swimming off.

As darkness fell the dolphins disappeared and we sailed slowly and cautiously up to Le Castella’s rock-strewn harbour mouth. I started the engine in the harbour entrance and made a dash for safety, just making it into a small yacht basin when simultaneously we ran aground and the engine stopped. Helping hands soon appeared and a small fishing boat towed us to a mooring, the guys smelling of aftershave have just got ready for a night out. As soon as we were safe they jumped into a car and disappeared into town. Next morning it turned out that one of our helpers was Mario Gentile, the marina hand, who drove me three miles to pick up diesel, without charge. We stayed for a couple of days in this laid back little seaside town complete with Aragonese Castle, dining at a restaurant recommended by the Marina’s secretary, appropriately enough called Marina. She insisted on giving us her ‘phone number so we could call and say hello when we were settled in Puglia.

Bandit Country

One we passed through the Straits of Messina we were in new territory in the far south of Calabria.  There is a saying in Italy that “nothing works in Calabria” and we found plenty of evidence to support this claim.  About twenty miles South of the Straits, at the end of Italy’s big toe is the port of Saline Joniche.  It’s a small industrial port with a railway station, built a couple of decades ago for no obvious purpose other than to provide kickbacks to corrupt politicians and Mafia bosses.  We arrived there on a blisteringly hot afternoon and motored cautiously up to the harbour.  None of the industry is working and the harbour mouth is now completely blocked by a sandbank.  Rather than dredge the entrance some enterprising soul has blasted a hole through the harbour wall to allow passage to the few small local fishing boats and cruisers that use it.  Inside, through the rubble of the improvised entrance it looked hot and dead, so we decided to move on.  The hills around this area have a reputation as bandit country where kidnappers hide their hostages and the Carabinieri only patrol with armoured cars and helicopters.

The next day we sailed to Rocella Ionica, a marina completed a couple of years ago.  It’s one of the best equipped in Italy, with space for five or six hundred yachts on smart finger pontoons with lots of power and water outlets, a restaurant and new marina offices.  However, since it was completed no one has been appointed to run it and the power isn’t connected.  As a result visiting yachts can just come and stay and fill up with water for no charge.  Inside we found a fleet of foreign yachts on passage to and from Greece and Turkey, making use of the free facilities which most of them would have been happy to pay for.

Scilla

After the Aolies we anchored at the mouth of the Straits of Messina at a fishing village called Scilla, named after the legendary monster with many arms which the Greeks said lived in the Straits and dragged ships to their doom.  It is a heart-achingly beautiful spot.  The water in the little harbour is crystal clear and the old stone houses are set on a steep slope down to the waters edge.  Outside every little terrace of houses there is a slipway with small fishing boats pulled up literally at each front door, with weather beaten old men mending their nets.  Going ashore we walked the networks of tiny alleys, which every now and then gave a view down steep stone steps to the clear water of the harbour.  Like much of Calabria the place has a Victorian juxtaposition between wealth and poverty, with expensive harbour side restaurants cheek by jowl with decaying cottages ripe with the smell of damp and mould.  In the harbour we were able to take a closer look at the sword fishing boats, with their tall pylon-like masts and improbably long gantry-like bowsprits, which are actually longer than the hulls.  The blokes who fish from these things are built like rugby forwards and I suspect may be the elite of the fishing industry.  Atop the masts there is a platform on which four of these hairy-arsed gorillas sit on plastic chairs lashed to the guard rail.  Next morning we saw one of the boats catch a swordfish.  The gantry was manoeuvred over what I presume was the sleeping fish, which one of the gorillas speared manually with a harpoon, before bounding down the gantry like an olympic runner and helping the rest of the crew haul in their catch.

Under the Volcano

South of the bay of Naples we visited the Aolie Islands, which are a fashionable watering place for rich Italians.  Because the seas were smooth and the weather settled we anchored one night off Stromboli, the most easterly of the Aolies and an active volcano.  Going ashore we were a little disconcerted to find signs everywhere saying “if you hear the warning siren leave the coast immediately and go to the assembly areas.”  Apparently there is a risk of an underwater volcanic eruption which could generate a massive tidal wave or Tsunami.

Next morning we motored slowly around the coast of Stromboli watching the lava flows, before going on to Vulcano, another of the Aolies.  If you ever get the chance to visit this island, don’t bother unless you have a strong stomach.  All over the island are volcanically heated pools in which bloated middle aged Italians cover themselves in green and evil smelling mud.  The whole place stinks of rotten eggs and it’s hard to find a restaurant far enough away from the stench to be able to eat without gagging.