Our train ride through Tuscany takes us through idyllic landscapes of green vineyards and olive groves. Apart from the Americans next to us who jap non-stop (sorry my American friends, but I cannot get over how much and how loud some American tourists are, and how they have the need to talk non stop. It is like a running commentary on every passing moment.) Have earphones, will block out talking and listen to Maria Stuarda. Next to us are two Italian Elders. The husband hangs on to their train tickets for the entire trip, looking at them every few minutes. They have a silent knowing between them – no need to talk or ask to take out the cooler bag with padkos. A baguette stuffed with meat, followed by young, juicy apricots that drip with goodness and smell delicious. A loving smile passes from the one to the other, as if to say “our tree did us proud again my love…”

The arrival in Naples is everything one would expect, and more. Crazy hoardes of manic travellers pushing and shoving their way on and off the trains. Elegantly overdressed Italians waiting on friends, families and colleagues. (Only Italians can wear linen with such style – soft pastels with dark linen jackets, no socks). A few of the women look as if they have just stepped out of an Elle photoshoot. I literally reel around to stare at the elegance and sophistication. 

Our private transfer man is waiting for us. He jets out of the station to the car park with one of our suitcases, remarkably fast considering that he is only two bricks high. His black Mercedes is impeccably clean and shiny. By the way he pulls out of the car park, I immediately know that we are in for a fast transfer. This man would make a Cape Town minibus taxi blush – zipping in and out of difficult traffic situations, passing against the line, taking chances and sqeezing in where I think we will get squashed. (The last time I was here we were told that as long as you can pass a credit card between you and the oncoming bus, you are fine!). Judging by the number of missing side view mirrors and scratched and dented cars, not many people know just how thin a credit card is….

The coastal scenery makes up for the madness of the driver – I am in any case so dog tired that I could not be bothered with stressing about his driving. In Positano we pick up the lady who shows us to our apartment. We did see in the Air b&b advertisement that there are quite a few stairs to the apartment. They did not lie. Schlepping our suitcases up about 300 stairs in the blazing heat of the Med afternoon I secretly smile at the thought that I will be able to eat as much as I can, as I will walk it off coming up these stairs a few times a day! The apartment is spotlessly new, and in spite of the fact that the “sea view” is a bit of a fib, it is set in a beautiful garden, far enough from the crazy crowds. I immediately make for the deck chairs under the veranda, where again I am astounded by the number of birds that are out cavorting outside. (I was very aware of this in our apartment in Rome as well – in fact I was woken up in the morning by the birds singing with such passion! Only Italian birds…)

Positano is everything you see on cheesy postcards and more. Thousands of tourists. Streets lined with everything from kitch trinkets to beautiful clothes, gushing red geraniums, old leathery skinned men sitting at side walk cafes, high heeled ladies navigating cobble stones and lazy cats sunning themselves in the late afternoon sun. We were warned about a festival for the local saint and that it would be very busy. Well, this particular saint must be very popular, because the place is packed. A little stroll calls for our new addiction – Aperol Spritz. This cool, refreshing drink made from Aperol (almost like Campari),, mixed with Prosecco and sparkling water, adding a slice of orange, is a life saver. (I wonder if it would taste this good at home? One so often enjoys something in a foreign country, buys it and then it stands in the cupboard for years untouched. The last time it was Limoncello… It would seem that some things need the original context. Like that silly hat one buys at the music or art festival – it really just looks stupid on a Saturday morning in Sea Point.)

After eating pasta and bread non-stop since we arrived, I really need to get something non-carb and fresh into my body. (Now for those of you who know me well, you would know how strange this is. I never crave anything fresh….). A beautiful salad (yes it had bacon and chicken added) in the most amazing setting a few steps from the beach settles my craving. The vino rosso della casa is slightly horrific, but hey, we finished the bottle. As entertainment, the local marching band, followed by the Madonna on a guilded pedestal, followed by the priest and the mayor and all the choir boys, followed by the local community, parades past us on the promenade. 

Earlier in the evening we followed the band to the town square where the festivities will take place tonight. The square is filled with locals chatting away, droves of beautifully dressed children playing and surprised tourists passing through, dripping with sweat. There is a service in the church which opens onto the square – a full holy communion being served whilst everyone pops in and out. (I say to Victor I wish our church was like this when we were kids – that you could pop in and out as you wish, avoiding the boring bits and just staying for the good parts. Victor is so hungry at this point that I recommend he goes in for some communion bread…)

Our trek up the hill and the many stairs brings us to our quiet little haven. I had just fallen into a deep sleep when the promised fireworks started – had we not been warned I would have thought that the Russians had invaded with heavy artillary! The earth literally shaking with the sounds of the fire works exploding, lighting up the skies in bursts of colour. It was a good first day in heaven…

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