The Setting
I’d been meaning to go to Cinque Terre (pronounced “chink-weh terreh” and Italian for “Five Tourist Traps”) since 1998. As with much else in my life, this was based on nothing other than pure hearsay: I had seen no pictures of the area and read no reviews; I had only a vague notion of where they were and an ever vaguer grasp of what they would be once I found them. But then, in Brussels and then in Geneva, at the approach of every long weekend all I could hear was, “we’re going to Cinque Terre.” What better recommendation for a place than over-hearing perfect strangers in diplomatic cocktail parties talking about going there?
While still in Brussels, I discovered that the villages to which the “Terre” referred were in the general direction of the Italian Riviera (that is, on the Mediterranean Sea – and luckily I knew at least where to find the Sea …), somewhere between Levanto and La Spezia. I also found out, over the years, that accommodation in the area consisted of two general choices: respectable hotels in the region itself that were fully booked six months in advanced and that required a child or two as security for payment, and various other “two star” pensiones recommended by a “friend of a friend” that were located on a hillside twenty miles distant from any civilized point and accessible only by donkeys.
And so it was that, year after year, at the approach of each long weekend, I would announce my intention to visit the Cinque Terre, only to have my plans – hopes, really – scuppered by my bank’s refusal to extend the line of credit necessary for the hotels or inability to reserve a donkey or a mule to access one of the more affordable pensiones. When, some time in early April, I yet again announced my intention to check out the Cinque, friends received it with the same roll of the eyes and knowing smile that I used to get in University every time I mentioned a date for the weekend. This time, however, things were going to be different, for I was armed with Karen Brown’s Charming Bed and Breakfasts in Italy. Within a week I was booked into one, and a week later we were off to the fabled Five Lands. (OK, I lied; Terre does not mean “tourist trap”, it means “Lands” or, I guess, “Villages”. “Tourist trap” translates into Italia in Italian.)
There
I have a policy – no doubt, you are shocked and surprised to hear this, that I have a policy on anything – I have a policy never to stay in any place that is described as “charming”, or to eat at a restaurant that has “romantic” or “Mama” in its name, or to read a book with the letter Z in the title. This last one is a total non sequitur, I know, but I put it there simply to note that I know very well that such policies are utterly irrational and easily broken. Still, the policy is there, and had it not been for the fact that I had waited nearly eight years to find the right hotel, pension, bed and breakfast, cottage, or mud hut to rent in Cinque Terre, I probably would have stuck to it. But desperate situations demand desperate measures, and so I decided to forego the policy. If it was the only way to get there, a “charming” bed and breakfast it was going to be. And so it was. And a good thing too.
Locanda Miranda is in a village called Tellaro, which is literally at the end of the local road. I mean it. The road from Sarzana to the sea winds its way through Lerici and another village before coming to an end in front of the village church. From there, you can only walk down to the sea, or up into the hills. Not just that, but the walk down to the sea goes through the village and in front of multicoloured buildings, and ends at a fortified medieval church built on a rock jutting into the “Gulf of Poets”. “Charming” does not even begin to describe the surroundings: this was charming with whipped cream, frosting sugar and a cherry on top. Filled with custard. On a bed of crumbled Oreo cookies. And that was only the village.
Then there was the pensione itself. By Italian standards, our room had palatial dimensions (that is, you could turn around with your luggage without knocking out a wall); we had two balconies, once of which overlooked the gulf (and the sunset); the bathroom was clean and – I trust you are sitting down for this shocker – big enough to accommodate a bidet …. (Question: What is the best quote incorporating the word ‘bidet’? Answer: Ava Gardner on her marriage to Frank Sinatra, ‘We were always great in bed. The trouble usually started on the way to the bidet.’ I digress.)
We would have been happy enough with the arrangements, but the service, and the food, made the experience one of the most memorable travelling experiences I have ever had. We had a five course seafood dinner, and different each night they were, to describe which would take up far too many words than your patience or my wordsmithing abilities would permit. Let me say this, though, about the genius of the chef: he made polenta that was not only edible, but downright enjoyable; I leave it to your imagination to figure out what he would have been able to do with red mullet, sea bass, sea bream, scampi, calamari, and lobsters …
The dead poets
From Tellaro, it’s a ten minutes drive to Lerici, where you can take a ferry across the Gulf of Poets to the Cinque Terre, passing La Spezia and stopping at Porto Venere.
I keep repeating the name of the city, La Spezia, in the hope that some of you will suddenly say, “Ah, La Spezia; of course”. Me, I never did, despite all the years I read about Cinque Terre, La Spezia and Levanto. The reason for my continued ignorance was, of course, that from a purely historical perspective, La Spezia offered nothing to make me remember it. It is not connected with any of the murderous families that have ruled Italy’s city-states; no Pope installed his illegitimate children as a bishop or a military governor; no painter of note purchased from La Spezia its condemned criminals to crucify them for greater verisimilitude in his paintings of the Passion; you cannot name a single Mafioso or blood-thirsty explorer who admits to having hailed from there; and there is no record of any Roman Emperors or generals who left their heads, or other body parts, in the Gulf of Poets, courtesy of the Praetorian Guards.
Perhaps they did not because at the time of the Romans, the Gulf was not known by its present name. Indeed, “the Gulf of Poets” is a fairly recent appellation, as far as Italy is concerned, going back to the middle of the nineteenth century. La Spezia, Gulf of Poets, XIXth Century … By now, most of you will be saying, “that La Spezia; of course.” Me, I still didn’t get it, until I read the brochure.
Shelley (Pyrce Bysshe, the poet) got himself drowned there and Byron (Lord George Gordon, another poet) went there from Geneva, where he was renting a Château, to console, or “console”, Shelley’s widow Mary (that would be Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein). La Spezia, you could say, was the seat of the original Dead Poet’s Society.
The Walk
And so across the Gulf we went, past La Spezia and around Porto Venere, to stop at the first of the five villages. As my ancient film camera had run out of batteries, I was hoping that Riomaggiore would be packed with tourists and, therefore, covered in tourist-related shops. I was not disappointed. Within a few steps into the old town, we found a Kodak shop (thank God for Globalisation) and I started clicking away. From the first village we walked along the coast to the second one, and from there we went, to no one’s surprise least of all ours, to the third. There we found refuge from the throngs of tourists (I no longer had any use for them or their shops) in a quaint little restaurant that served a wonderful seafood pasta, walked around a bit, and helped a couple of confused and lost German tourists (“The train station is down there, just follow the signs, with a picture of a train. … Well, that way goes up, as you see, and takes you to the top of the cliff ….”).
By this time, it was four p.m.; we had enough time to get down to the train station, buy a ticket, wait for the train (“The train will be ten minutes late”; the phrase is repeated often, in relation to every train, and only in Italian, so that you learn it by heart very quickly.), get to the fourth village, walk up to the tower, go to the Marina, have a gelato (there is always enough time for gelato) and catch the last boat to Lerici.
At least, what we thought was the last boat to Lerici. It was the last boat alright … but after 90 minutes of high waves, strong winds and an endless stream of announcements in Italian about getting on and getting off at this or that destination, we found ourselves not in Lerici, but in La Spezia (that city again). We paid homage to the dead poet, his wife and her lover, and took a bus through the industrial suburbs back to Lerici, the car and the comforts of Locanda Miranda.
The surrounding region
Having “done” the Cinque Terre – well, at least four of them; we figured the fifth would be more of the same and so decided to give it a pass – on Holy Sunday we asked the good owner of the Miranda to tell us about the local attractions. In mixed Italian and French she told us of La Serra, Mount Marcello, a precipice, Punto Curvo, going up and then down and through a medieval village called Ameglia, a geographical feature that goes by the name of “Bocca di Magra”, and of course the local big city … no, not La Spezia but Sarzana. Both at the time and now, having done the tour, these names and features make as much sense to me as they do to you. The only advantage I have over you is that, thanks to Italian signage, we managed to drive for an hour, hike for another hour and a half up a steep mountain path and walk down a windy road for still half an hour, without having seen any of the attractions mentioned by the good host. Well, I exaggerate: there was a lovely Easter festival at Sarzana, which boasts the odd feature of a house built on – yes, right on – one of the turrets of the still extant medieval walls.
We did manage to break out of the itinerary suggested by our host long enough to visit Pisa and Lucca. And the evening and the morning were the third day.
And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven – um, er, ah … Sorry, for a moment I got carried away with my Biblical allusions … references … plagiarisms …
We set out for the long trek back on the Monday. For lunch we stopped at Parma. (I don’t mean to be pretentious; it was on the way.) We also visited the Cathedral (known for its Renaissance frescoes of the life of Jesus) and the Octagonal Baptistery covered in pinkish marble.
I am not a big fan of Renaissance or even post/counter-Reformation church frescoes; but then, I almost converted to Protestantism when I set foot in the St. Ignatius Loyola – one of the two principal Jesuit churches in Rome. Almost, because of course I am not a Catholic, but too many paintings on the walls give me the creeps. Give me a Gothic church with stained-glass stories of the life of Jesus over frescoes any day. Well, except for the Sistine Chapel. I digress. Parma. Well, if you’re into Baptisteries, stick to the one in Florence.
The Return
From Parma, instead of taking the “direct” route through the Mont Blanc tunnel, we decided to go through one of the more spectacular mountain passes in Switzerland. The Simplon Pass connects the very beginning of the Rhone Valley in Switzerland to Italy, via Domodossola. You go through the mountains, rise to an altitude of 2005 meters, and then for 23 kilometers you descend, on a 9% gradient, to the bottom of the valley. From there, it’s another 200 kilometers (197, to be precise) to my place. And it is a stunningly beautiful drive: the road itself is fairly straight and uneventful, but the mountains on each side rise to immense heights. Going through the Simplon added two hours (if not more) to the trip, but it was well worth it.
Next week I am off to the UK, where I will be teaching at a castle belonging to Queen’s University. I am planning to visit Hastings – as in “The Battle of” – and possibly Oxford, time permitting. I’ll let you know if I come across anything interesting.