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.