Travel Biography - Week 29.

As I write, it's New Year's Eve, and the start of 2023 is just a few hours away. After a year of seeing three different Prime Ministers sitting in Parlament, one after the other, the Russians starting a war in Ukraine, the cost of living rising, the threat of higher taxation, and still waiting for any tangible Brexit benefits, I say - there, by the grace of God, go I.

Penniless in Florence.

And I could have said exactly that to myself back in 1981, just over 41 years ago, as I made my way to Fort Belvedere on a Sunday morning in August of that year. Who would anyone have known that I was a victim of a professional thief who slyly lifted my Traveller's Chequebook out of my trouser pocket whilst standing in a crowded train on a branch line from Pisa Central to Florence Santa Maria terminus? With a small amount of cash, just enough to buy a sandwich, borrowed from the hotelier whose pensione I was staying whilst in Florence, I crossed the River Arno on the Ponte Vecchio, the only known road bridge lined with shops on both sides, and made my way to the summit of a hill from where I enjoyed a magnificent view of the city, with the Duomo dominating the skyline. Whilst I was there, I felt somewhat sad. I was meant to meet a friend I made on Friday after arriving at the station. Instead, I had to go to the police station. I imagined him standing here, waiting and waiting before concluding that I stood him up.

The Ponte Vecchio, Florence.

The next day was a Monday morning. Whilst the other guests were checking out, with the all-important police document, I made my way to the bank I was told by them to visit. I was rather surprised how the counter staff prepared a fresh book of cheques without a single question asked and without a fuss - as if they were expecting me. I felt jubilant as I walked out after cashing the first cheque. By then, I was ready to settle up with the hotelier, check out, and move on.

I had a map of Italy on me which I had recently bought. By checking the northwestern coastline, I noticed a parasol symbol with the name Viareggio. That means a holiday resort in a parallel setting as Loano. This time, I decided to take the bus to Viareggio rather than risk standing on a crowded train.

Upon arrival, I took a liking to the resort straight away. In one of the blocks making up the symmetrical grid layout lining the beach, I came across what looked to be a suitable hotel. Not a pension this time, but a family-owned hotel proper, where I was assigned a room of my own. The weather was good, the sunshine giving the English expression Sunny Italy, hence, enhancing the beauty of the resort. I then wished that I had arrived earlier in the holiday. 

The beach was a long, sandy strip which ended at the harbour molo on the southern end. The grid layout was backed by the Apennine, the range of mountains running much of the whole length of Italy. These mountains also provided the background for both Florence and Pisa alike.

While I was swimming in the Mediterranean, I had to keep an eye out for the occasional jellyfish whose territory I had invaded. This particular species seemed to be solitary, hence still making the sea reasonably safe for bathing. However, I was taken aback by the size of its bell, probably up to 10 inches, 25 cm across. By respecting their territory, I stayed out of harm's way.

Discovering the Cinque Terre.

It was one of these days at the beach when I found myself talking to an elderly gentleman, definitely a local. He asked me if I ever visited the Cinque Terre (Five Lands) which is a train ride further up the coastline. When I made known to him that I wasn't familiar with the location, he explained the dramatic coast, backed by mountains and accessible by a local train stopping at Monterosso al Mare Station. By boarding the mainline train to La Spezia and alighting there, a local train would drop me off at Monterosso al Mare, from where I would be able to see two of the five small villages with their harbours dotted along the rocky coastline.

Excited by this, in the morning of the next day, I boarded the fast train to the next stop, La Spezia, a busy port north of Viareggio. At the station cafe, I sat over a coffee whilst waiting for the local service to convey me to my destination.

Monterosso station is on the mainline from Turin to Rome, with Genoa, Rapallo, Pisa, La Spezia, Viareggio, Livorno, and Civitavecchia being the principal stations called by all express trains during that time before any modern high-speed lines were laid. In turn, mainline trains fly through Monterosso whilst racing either south to La Spezia or north to Pisa.

Viareggio.

After arriving at Monterosso, I alighted to check out the town. I was struck by its originality. That is, away from the tourist spots and, in the early 1980s, still free from any tourist tat. This was real Italy! A remnant of the country before tourism was ever heard about. The town looked rather grubby, but its population seemed to be happy with that, as convenience looked to be more practical to daily living rather than aesthetics. However, according to Google images, the arrival of tourism during the nineties gave some motive to spruce up the town.

No wonder the gentleman in Viareggio recommended a visit. Cinque Terre had its own beauty in its dramatic scenery. Yet, I was surprised that this part of Italy hadn't (so far) made it into the tourist brochures. And I was glad about that too. This was the real, original Italy, and I would have preferred it to remain that way. 

Monterosso al Mare.

Throughout the day, I walked along the coast and picked up a coastal trail heading southeast. As I left Monterosso, I climbed up to a certain height as the trail gave a splendid view of the sea with the rugged coastline on one side and the mountains on the other. As I walked along the trail, eventually the village of  Vernazza came into view. To reach the settlement, I would need to descend. The trail made its way to the coastal village with its quaint harbour and buildings huddling tightly together, glinting in the afternoon sunshine, after more than 4 km of scenic walking.

As I was unacquainted with the area, the thought of hiking all the way to La Spezia from Monterosso had never crossed my mind. (For the record, according to Google Maps, the coastal path would have been 29.7 km or 18.3 miles long, and it would have taken me over seven hours to complete the hike. In 1981, such a hike would have been plausible for a 28-year-old.) Instead, after spending some time at Vernazza, I hiked back to Monterossa in readiness to board a local train to La Spezia (where the service terminated) and change for the mainline train back to Viareggio. Hence, the round trip from Monterossa to Vernazza and back totalled 8 km or 5 miles - a doddle when compared to the Grand Canyon hike in 1978. Yet, Italy has its own dramatic beauty.

On to Milan.

Of the 1981 trip to Italy, for me, Viareggio with the nearby Cinque Terre were the highlights, although I enjoyed the sights of both Pisa and Florence. However, there was a close friend from what was then Bracknell Baptist Church, living in Milan due to a work contract. His name was Derek. And arrangements had already been made to spend a few days with him before boarding a train for London from Milan. Hence, the return ticket to the UK was valid from Milan rather than from Turin.

There was a direct train from Viareggio to Milan Central terminus via Genoa, and having phoned Derek when I was expected to arrive in Milan, he was already there and waiting for me as the train pulled in. It must have been a Sunday when I arrived in Milan, for after arriving, he took me on the Metro to his home. After settling in, we made our way to a small, independent church meeting held, I believe, in the cellar of a secular building. This was quite something in an Italian city where catholicism held all the cards. It had given me an impression of an underground, persecuted church. Indeed, the group was a charismatic, Gospel-based meeting very similar to Bracknell or Ascot Baptist churches, where worship and the order of service were free from any liturgical channel. 

After the service was over, a group of us climbed into our cars (in my case, Derek's) and came across a pizzeria restaurant where we all sat around a large table and ordered our meals. The group was apparently all singles, a common phenomenon after the evening service when unmarried adults either go out on a social or meet in a private home, often at the pastor's house or that of one of the elders.

That was the only time I ever visited that particular fellowship. I had never been since. Whether it folded up due to its participants returning to their home countries, or whether Derek simply didn't go anymore, I will never know. All I recall was that three or four days after arrival, I was put on a train bound for Lille, then onward to the cross Channel ferry.

And then the Police called...

Although I put my all into the 1981 trip to Italy, compared to America, especially in 1978, the whole trip to Northern Italy was spoiled by falling victim to a professional thief. And the idea that this was a sophisticated gang out to rob unsuspecting tourists was endorsed a few weeks later when two police constables knocked on my apartment door. After confirming my identity and verifying to them my recent trip to Italy, they then asked me if I knew, or heard of a particular Italian accountant. I confessed that I had never heard of the fellow. Then they showed me a signature in my name and asked whether this was my particular signature.

I looked at it and kept on looking as I studied it. Indeed, it could be from my own hand. Unsure, I took a piece of paper and a pen, and signed it. When held side by side, the other version of my signature did not properly match, despite using my initial.

This is my signature. I said, showing them my natural but distorted version and holding the two together. No, the one you have is too neat, too tidy. As the two constables rose to leave, they reassured me that I was a victim of theft and apologised for the trouble. After they left, I suddenly realised that they were ready to accept my innocence if proven. However, the purpose of the call was to watch my reaction when shown the fake signature. Had I suddenly said, No, that's not mine! - their suspicions that I was involved in some fraud might have been aroused, pending further investigation. Instead, my readiness to admit that the fake could have been mine until put to the test proved my innocence.

Another issue that spoiled my 1981 trip was the photography, basically a repeat of the 1978 Grand Canyon hike. But this time, whilst I was hiking the Cinque Terre, a speck of dirt lodged between the delicate mechanism of the shutter, causing a part of several pictures to fog. The camera I had was a far better one than the Instamatic 110, but the shutter was vulnerable to any foreign body that might get lodged between the blades. Like at the Canyon, these too were slides rather than photo prints (hence, all the pics shown here are stock photos.) However, this failure hadn't aroused my desire to return to that particular location - unlike the Grand Canyon.

Approaching Vernazza on the hiking trail.

Back home, I returned to my self-employment and normal day-to-day. One lesson learned whilst running my own business is not to be a "travel snob" - insisting that only long-haul is what I should go for. Instead, I'm learning to be thankful for any form of travel, whether it's long-haul or just around the corner. Returning to Italy after going far enough to see the Pacific Ocean may seem like a setback. But that's far from the case. If anything, Europe is richer in history than America and has just as much natural beauty.

Therefore, with the budget I have, I was grateful for another trip to Italy, this time, done differently. And my dream was beginning to be realised when I met Derek by chance one lunchtime right here in Bracknell, as he was on leave for a couple of weeks.

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I wish all my readers a happy and prosperous New Year.

Next Week: The Start of the 1982 backpacking trip to Southern Italy - the best of the 80s.