Travel Biography - Week 33.

Concluding the Etna Ascent.

It was deserted at Spiaggia di Fontane Bianche, or White Fountain Beach, despite its turquoise sea lapping gently on the sun-drenched sandy shoreline. Whilst staying at Hotel Aretha in Siracusa, I decided to spend a day at this beach, which was a 30-minute, 22 km, or approx 14-mile bus ride south of the city bus terminal. 

Spiaggia di Fontane Bianca may be classified as a holiday resort, but very quiet and sedate compared to, say, Tossa De Mar on the Spanish Costa Brava, (visited in 1972) or the lively Lido di Jesolo near Venice, or the loud, boozy nightlife of Ibiza. Rather, White Fountain Beach is more of a local community, and in 1982, what I saw of it, apparently devoid of tourism. Yet, it was one of the best beaches on offer, a sandy strip curved to form a wide bay, and sloping gently into the clear water of the Mediterranean. It was served both by buses (which I took) and also has a railway station on the south branch line to Siracusa (which, at the time, I wasn't aware of.)

After a relaxing swim, I sauntered past a beach cafe and made my way to a footpath along a cliff south of the beach, from where I had views of some limestone stacks further out to sea. I then finished the day at the beach cafe for refreshments before boarding the bus back to Siracusa.

White Fountain Beach, taken 1982.

While I was in the cafe, I encountered a bit of unexpected drama. At the counter, I became acquainted with a couple who were seated next to me and also enjoying a coffee. He told me that he was a geologist, a subject which spurred my interest. His partner then left her seat to visit the latrine while I remain talking to him.

I told him of my visit to the Central Crater on the summit of Mt Etna a day or two previously. He then began to rebuke me, even raising his voice slightly, saying how stupid and thoughtless I was to undertake such an endeavour. I knew that he was right, although I felt no regret. On the contrary, to stand on the lip of such an active crater, with the ground I was standing on literally shaking like an endless earthquake, the explosions within, as the giant plume of steam rose, accompanied by a strong whiff of sulphur. All that gave me and one other person an unforgettable experience.

By checking the photos in a guidebook I bought at Refuge Sapienza, and more recently, the reviews and photos written, taken and posted on the website Tripadvisor, there seems to be evidence that, since the major 1971 eruption that destroyed the old cable car and the observatory, we were two of the very few who managed to venture to the main summit vent. All the other tourists, whether individually or in a group, were kept well away from the summit craters. A couple of reviewers, both independently, wrote that all guided ascents end about a mile from the summit, hence proving the geologist's point.

I didn't answer back or tried to justify myself. Instead, I acknowledged my stupidity to keep the peace. However, I always believed that a bit of risk-taking does lead to a sense of achievement, along with a sense of excitement and purpose. For example, in 1995, just before my life's second hike into the Grand Canyon, a church friend of a singles group I was in warned me of dangerous wildlife I was likely to encounter during the remote desert hike. And he tried to discourage me. My answer to him was if that was the case, I might have well stayed at home! Dear me! Little wonder that some of these churchgoing graduates look as if their dull, sedentary lives were devoid of any form of excitement and lacking a sense of adventure. Did the geologist's rebuke at Spiaggia di Fontane Bianca arise from an unexciting yet envious heart? Just a thought.

Blown away on the way down.

And so, after such a scary experience on the edge of Central Crater, my new friend Miguel insisted that it was time to return to the group, after an extra loud explosion within the crater. Fearing an imminent eruption, we found the start of the trail that would take us to the right place without getting lost. A strong wind was blowing, and as I was packing away my camera, the wind caught the inside of the leather lens cover, and like a parachute, the wind snatched it out of my hand and was driven along the upper cone of the mountain, and I left the trail to chase it.

The strong wind proved an advantage to us, as we stood at the crater's edge, since the wind was behind us, it also drove the steam plume away from where we were standing, thus avoiding engulfment into the cloud. Now, it was a race with the same air current to retrieve my camera lens cover. Treading on virgin basalt sand, I managed to retrieve the item after it landed to rest about a hundred metres from where Miguel was still standing, looking rather shocked as he waited for my return.

Near the basaltic wall, just before the hike.

A group of tourists was about to leave the basalt rock wall to board the jeeps to take them back to the refuge. As they were boarding, we joined them, and no one was aware of us or where we came from. The jeep took us safely back to the base where we handed our weather jackets before having refreshments in the refuge cafe.

A lesson from the Catacombs of St John.

I'm one of the fortunate to be born almost exactly in the middle of the twentieth Century. That explorative travel was idealistic during my twenties and thirties was proven during a visit to the remains of the Church of St John with its neighbouring Catacombs. 1982 saw my thirtieth birthday, and as one who was still unmarried, an ideal age for travel and exploration. This particular attraction in the heart of Siracusa was, in 1982, a template of how travel should be, and I have a degree of pity for anyone in his prime of life who had in mind to visit the same site during the present-day.

However, that's according to personal opinion. Some tourists feel more comfortable following an escort in a tour group. However, in researching Tripadvisor in preparation to write this blog, many reviewers who visited the catacombs within the last year or so were impressed with the history of the caves, but many also expressed dissatisfaction with the tour itself. Examples of this include the forbiddance of all photography, an apathetic escort who only wanted to rush through the tour as quick as possible or who was overcome by repetitive boredom, poor communication skills, especially with a foreign language, the tour being too short for the expense, shortcuts, or the sense in being treated like children. Not to mention the waiting room, non-existent during the eighties, where every visitor must now wait there before the escort decides when to lead the group through.

How different this was in 1982 when I came across the church and catacombs by chance whilst walking through the streets of Siracusa! Back then, a toll booth gave me full access to the site. Both in the ruined church and the catacombs I was free to wander around at my own pace, alone, and taking as long as I like. And that was what I did back then, wandering through the catacombs with the camera in hand complete with a flashgun, as this was a necessity in the gloomy dark catacombs.

The catacombs consisted of a main corridor with passages branching off it, a dendritic layout, hence, not that easy to get lost, as one might think. Once an ancient Greek aqueduct, all the walls and even the floor had nitches cut out of the rock. In these, the bodies of dead Christians were laid to rest between the fourth and the sixth centuries AD. However, when I arrived in 1982, all the human remains had gone. They were removed and reburied elsewhere, as the catacombs served as a bomb shelter during the Second World War.

In 2006, my wife Alex and I returned to Siracusa to celebrate our 7th wedding anniversary, and we visited the Catacombs of St John. It was then that we had no other choice but to go on one of these ranger-led tours. To be honest, although my spouse enjoyed it, I hated it! Especially when we had to sit in the waiting room for around twenty minutes until our escort was ready to lead a group of up to twenty people. As I cast my mind back over 24 years, the whole site had lost that explorative spirit. It wasn't the same any more and it will never be the same again.

Below, I post a few photos I had taken both of the church and within the catacombs in 1982. Having just bought a slide viewer, it was possible to "take a picture of a picture" and reproduce it here. They show the nitches cut in the limestone tunnel walls which served as resting places for the departed.

The Church of St John, 1982.

Main Corridor, Catacomb of St John. 1982.

Catacomb of St John, 1982. A detail.

Catacomb of St John, 1982. A closer detail.

The Tears of Our Lady, 1982 and now.

Another phenomenon that marks a big difference between 1982 and the present is the Madonna delle Lacrima church which is also in the centre of Siracusa. Literally built around a small, privately-owned ceramic statuette of the Virgin Mary, who on August 29, 1953, began to shed tears, and kept on shedding tears for three days afterwards. This was declared a miracle by the Bishop of Siracusa, and endorsed by the Vatican.

When I arrived at the church for the first time in 1982, only the crypt was built with a wide, circular platform just above ground level serving as the roof. Its construction began in 1966, and by 1982, the edifice remained unfinished, as there was some disagreement on the height and shape of the intended shrine, hence, it wasn't completed until 1994. Thus, the a big difference between 1982 and 2006. The finished structure, seen from the air, looks very much like a serrated ice cream cone that was accidentally dropped, with the cream scattered around the upturned cone. Actually, the structure is meant to represent a teardrop hitting the ground.

The Madonna delle Lacrima, unfinished, 1982.

Inside the crypt, then used for services, 1982.

The finished Madonna delle Lacrima, stock photo.

In 1982, what was meant to be the crypt served as the main church. Above the altar, the small figurine was placed, having been donated to the Church by its original owners soon after the miracle and its ecclesial verification. In 2006, both Alex and I visited the main structure with images of the Madonna displayed around the sanctuary. we then went downstairs. Indeed, this part was the crypt, as originally intended, but this time it looked tired, lacking the freshness so characteristic of 1982.

By describing the Neapolis Archaeological Park, the Catacombs of St John, and the Madonna delle Lacrima, I have covered much of the mainland city of Siracusa. To me, it was an ideal place to stay, especially with easy access to the station.

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Next Week: the Island of Ortigia, then onward to Palermo.

Travel Biography - Week 32.

Arrival in Sicily.

The train I was in took the rest of the night hugging the coast as it moved along the "arch" of the "foot" of Italy before passing under its "toe" to arrive at Reggio Calabria, on the most southernly point of mainland Italy, and the port for the ferry to Messina, on the northeast corner of Sicily.

The journey from Brindisi could have been more uneventful. Earlier, I had to change trains at Taranto on the "heel" of the mainland "foot". While waiting for the train to arrive, I decided on a quick tour of the harbour town, only to see a large Rotweiller dog blocking the narrow street. I quickly made my way back to the platform with no further ado.

The Messina Strait seen from Calabria.

It was daylight when the train terminated at Reggio Calabria. But the station was not a terminus but a through-station. The line continued onto the ferry itself, a very unique arrangement, the only one of the kind in Europe, if not the world. Express trains from Turin, Rome and Naples were shunted onto the ferry to continue its journey through Messina, with one branch heading west to Palermo Termini. The line I used headed south to call at Catania Central Station, Sicily's second largest city after Palermo, for the line to end at Syracuse or Siracusa in Italian. In 1982, Siracusa had a through station, but all mainline trains terminated there. By the time I revisited this historic city in 2007, the station was converted into a terminus, with the approach route diverted, tunnelling under the city. 

However, the train I was on that morning ended its journey on the mainland, and I boarded the ferry on foot and found myself looking down at the deck below, with the feeder track dividing into three sidings parallel to each other. The ferry then sailed across the Messina Strait, a neck of the Mediterranean Sea about ten miles, or over 16 km wide along the ferry route. Around an hour later, I, along with a few other people disembarked to board a connecting train waiting for us.

The beach along the east coast of the largest island in the Mediterranean looked unattractive and less inviting than other beaches I have seen elsewhere. The pebbly shoreline was regularly interrupted by groynes, one barrier after another unceasingly as I travelled south. As the train journeyed on, I watched as the distant mainland peninsula of Calabria faded further away in the distance as the strait widen to open out, very much the same way as a river estuary empties into the sea.

Eventually, the train pulled into Catania Central Station, and I alighted there to look for a suitable hotel. To the north, the summit of Mt Etna loomed in the distance, a plume of steam rising from its summit. I made it my ambition to ascend this live volcano, just as I did on Mt Vesuvio in 1973.  In the meantime, I did come upon a hotel and I asked about its price, and it sounded expensive. I chose to move on. But that was not entirely due to the hotel tariff. It was the city itself. Many structures were of black basalt rock from near the volcano. This gave me the impression of gloominess, and so, I headed back to the station. Siracusa looked to be more promising.

Onward to Siracusa.

I didn't have to wait long before another train pulled into the station, and I boarded. With no ticket barriers, it was easy to board a train straight from the street, as was the case of most Italian stations. Even with the city termini, in the seventies, one was able to board a train without the need to pass through a barrier. However, by 1982, both Rome and Naples's main termini had barriers installed for the first time ever. I was massively disappointed! The presence of the barriers tells of the declining morality and the lessening of the sense of honesty in society. However, even in the shortest local journey, the conductor was always thorough with onboard ticket inspection. Hence, both my three-week pass ticket and passport were essential for all travel.

I arrive at Siracuse Station, a handsome edifice as if built of consolidated sun's rays. From it, a quiet street, Via Francesco Crispi, took me to a family-run hotel almost directly opposite the station, Hotel Aretha. It was perfect for me. I was offered a room, and this became my living quarters for a week. Across the road and at the station itself, I had breakfast and snacked for the rest of the day rather than having large meals. 

Siracusa was a better town to live in than Catania, although while I was staying at the hotel, I boarded a train to Catania several times. However, Siracusa had echoes of ancestry, with the Neapolis Archeological Park with its 2,500-year-old Greek Theatre, still in use today, the Roman amphitheatre, an ancient Greek water chute, still functioning at present, and the Ear of Dionysius, an artificial cave dug as a quarry, but which a legend says that it was used as a prison under Dionysius 1 of Siracuse, around 350 BC due to its acoustic qualities which amplify sound, thus enabling him to eavesdrop on the prisoners' conversation.

First Trip up Mt Etna.

Although I have a lot more to say about the city of Siracusa, the major highlight of this trip was ascending Mt Etna. In 1982, the height of the mountain was around 3,350 metres high (now 3,332 metres, due to the collapse of the Northeastern Crater during an eruption.) With the base circumference of the mountain being around 93 miles, 150 km, Mt Etna is basically a shield volcano, that is, a wide, gently sloping cone in contrast to Mt Vesuvius having steeper sides. With the lava having a lower mix of silicone, it tends to be less viscous, more incandescent, and runnier, hence the creation of a shield-like cone of black basalt, in contrast with the explosive viscousness of silicone-rich lava characteristic of the steep-sided Andesite volcano.

Distant view of Mt Etna.

By making enquiries, I was able to find the official way to get up the mountain. Being a much larger natural phenomenon than Mt Vesuvius, where in 1973, I hiked from sea level to the crater and back in a day, with Mt Etna, a bus journey was made between Catania city central (after boarding a train from Siracusa) to a mountainside village of Nicoloso, then onward to Rifugio Giovanni Sapienza, way up on the mountainside, where the bus journey ends. There were only two bus journeys each day in 1982, therefore it was a must to catch the evening bus bound for Catania.

At the Refuge, we as separate individuals began to assemble into several groups ready to board the three or four jeeps to (what I thought) was the summit. But before the ride up, we hired thick weather jackets to cope with the cold wind blowing across the peak.

We, as a group, rode up in several jeeps, not to the summit itself but to a wall of hard basaltic rock, about a mile or so down from the summit, which serves as the lookout. It was a complete waste of both time and money. By the time we got up there, the mountain became shrouded in fog, and we couldn't see anything. I returned to the hotel in Siracusa feeling bitterly disappointed and frustrated!

The Second Trip - With an unexpected Meeting.

It can be amazing how personal history repeats itself, especially when it comes to outdoor activity. For example, in 1973, my first attempt to hike to the crater of Mt Vesuvius ended in failure, as I was caught in a rainstorm whilst on my way up. Therefore, a day or two days later, I tried again and yes, success on the second attempt. The same with Mt Etna. The first attempt was a washout, leaving me with a thinner wallet. Now, on the next day, I'm going to try again, a make-or-break attempt to take some stunning photos.

Our group gathered at the basaltic rock wall.

And so, after a train ride to Catania from Siracuse, the bus bound for Mt Etna pulled out of the city centre. The weather looked good, giving me some hope that this attempt will be a success.

As the bus pulled into Nicoloso, a young man, tall, slim, and good-looking, boarded the bus, paid his fee, and settled in a seat behind me but on the other side of the bus. I quickly forgot about him as we made our way up the mountainside until the bus came to a halt at Rifugio Sapienza. Then, as previously, we all hired the same jackets before boarding the jeeps. Again, near the summit but still, considerably below it, we all alighted from our jeeps to assemble at the wall of basalt rock which acts as a natural lookout.

This time, the sky remained clear and we were able to view the outline of Sicily far below. I admit it was an impressive view. We all milled around the lookout, some of the people taking short circuitry to walk around the site, with everyone apparently happy. Above us, the summit loomed, the huge white plume of steam emitting skywards from the central crater, a feature I wasn't able to see through the thick fog on the first visit. This time, the surrounding blue sky enhanced both the whiteness of the steam and the blackness of the basalt mountain peak.

We were above cloud level as Miguel followed me up.

The handsome young man from the bus approached me. He looked frustrated. He then asked me to accompany him to the summit crater. As he spoke, he drew his face close to mine. Despite his good looks, his tall height and his slim physique, his breath was foul. Eventually, he pointed to a trail that led towards the summit from the basalt lookout. Again, he pleaded with me to accompany him. It was then that I realised that I too was curious about the summit, and I agreed to go with him.

We left the lookout and started our hike upwards, expecting a call from one of the staff members on the lookout. But no call came. Instead, all was silent as we trod on the black sand, the steam plume gradually getting closer. I was leading the way, and despite his insistence on ascending this mountain, he felt safer following me. We didn't even walk side by side.

However, I did find out that his name was Miguel, but knew little of his background, as my mind was set on the task ahead. We passed a large sign with the emboldened words, Molto Pericolo. We both knew what those words meant. We were on a very dangerous mission. Then again, isn't a bit of risk-taking adding a sparkle to life that can be quite rewarding?

We kept on hiking up. From time to time, I looked back to see whether Miguel was following. Also to ensure there was no one from the authorities attempting to turn us back, even to prosecute. Nope. Just the two of us.

Eventually, we arrived at a side crater. From it, plumes of steam were rising from various nooks and crannies in the crater. There was also a layer of yellow sulphur lining its inner walls, indicating that this crater was alive, although silent.

We walked further. As the ground levelled off, its texture changed from dry basalt sand to that of a wet beach texture. In front of us was a cliff drop, the ground was literally shaking and as the steam rose right in front of us, a continuous hollow thunder rumbled from within, with an occasional noise of an explosion coming from deep within as the steep inner walls amplified the noise. We had arrived at the Central Crater, the main vent at the summit of Mt Etna. As we approached the edge, the smell of sulphur was overpowering. As we retreated, Miguel took out two woollen scarves. He wrapped his face with one of them. He then stood behind me and gently covered my nose and mouth with his spare scarf. Perhaps, I was happy to be babied at that moment. We stood at the edge of the live crater.

On the edge of Central Crater, Mt Etna.

On our right was a rise, a small hillock, and Miguel felt curious about climbing that for more views. But just as I said it may not be a wise move, there was a loud explosion inside the main crater. This boom, louder than the others, spooked my friend, and it was he who insisted on making our way back to the lookout for the jeep ride down to the refuge. We then left the crater behind as we started our hike back down.

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Next week: A dangerous incident on the descent. The Catacombs, White Beach resort.

Travel Biography - Week 30.

The 1980s Interlude in Longhaul Travel.

There seemed to have been at least one major difference between working for a company that was guaranteeing financial security, and being self-employed, especially in a trade or calling where there was no guarantee of income security, but instead, a reliance on when the next source of income will come from. And that difference was paramount between working as a machinist at British Aircraft Corporation and working for myself as a painter/decorator, and later as a domestic window cleaner.

And this was reflected in how far I travelled from home, and for how long. Throughout the 1980s, there were no long-haul backpacking trips to Israel or across the Atlantic that enhanced the quality of life in the 70s. Instead, throughout the eighties, I was invited to be one of a team of hospital radio presenters, thanks to Tim Kingcott, a long-standing friend, the manager of a local football team, an accountant who managed my annual tax returns, and at the time, the leader of the Friday crew of a very British institution - Hospital Radio - a therapeutic broadcasting service aimed at in-patients after their visitors returned home.

Hospital Radio Presenter, 1985.

Radio Heatherwood (after the name of the hospital in Ascot, Berkshire) was not a true radio in a sense of emitting analytic radio waves, as with the case of national and local radio stations alike, but a cable connection from the studio to a small, brick-like unit featuring a tuning dial located next to the bed of each patient. The patient listened through earplugs that were connected to a nearby wall socket.

Each presenter first went out to the wards to chat with the patients and ask whether they would like a particular request played. The elderly in geriatric wards tended to gravitate towards classical music, easy listening, and often, popular hymns. The younger patients, especially in the orthopaedic wards, tended to choose pop music, along with rock and roll.

Then each one of us was assigned a time slot as a presenter, or jock, as we referred ourselves. However, one major downside was that sitting in the presenter's chair with the microphone in front of your face and two turntables right next to you, tend to inflate egos, resulting in unhealthy competition, leading to strife between team members. After a couple of over-inflated egos stormed out of the team (as we were all volunteers) the rest of us settled in our agreed slots, and the Friday Crew became one of the most popular teams, as our aim was to put the patients first, before our own egos.

I served at Radio Heatherwood for five years between 1981 and 1986. During that time, I witnessed the charity's finances taking a downturn, so I ran the Bracknell Half Marathon purposely to raise funds for them. With success. With help from my input, the station survived. In fact, it was three times I raised funds for the charity, the first being a sponsored swim at the outdoor nurses' pool during a League of Friends hospital fete, and two half marathons, each a year apart.

Italy 1982.

It was during those early days as a voluntary hospital radio presenter, along with my self-employment, when on one particular day, I met Derek by chance in the High Street. We talked about my 1981 trip to Italy where I spent the last couple of days in his Milan apartment whilst out on a work contract. He was keen to accommodate me a year later if I was to book another Italian holiday for 1982.

I did not hesitate. That day, in his presence, I booked a three-week return trip to Milan on the boat train from London Victoria, passing through Folkstone, a cross-Channel ferry crossing to Boulogne-sur-Mer, Lille, Metz, Mulhouse, Basel, Luzern, and Milan. However, in addition, I was able to buy a go-as-you-please pass ticket for any train in Italy, valid for three weeks. However, I first had to validate the ticket at any entry station. In this case, it was at Milan Central Terminus. However, this time I avoided Turin, much to Mum's annoyance after returning home!

Throughout the 1980s, I had a strong compulsion to fly yet again across the Atlantic Ocean to re-visit the Grand Canyon. This was after discovering that my pics didn't come out well whilst I was by the Colorado River in 1978. My fascination with the Canyon became almost an obsession. But I knew then, whilst building up my handyman business, there was no way I could afford the trip. Although I was determined that one day I shall return to Arizona, however, I was curious about visiting Italy south of Naples. So far, Neapolitan Bay with Pompeii and Mt Vesuvio was the furthest south I ever reached on this peninsula. The island of Sicily looked to be promising, and I had set my sights to set foot there.

The day of departure arrived. The Milan train out of London Victoria pulled out in the afternoon, unlike the morning departure of the Paris-bound train. Therefore, after arriving in London, I made my way to Pimlico, the site of my childhood home, and walked to Churchill Gardens, where I sat on the swing in the adventure playground I visited so often when I was a boy. The castle was still there, along with all the original apparatus, and across the River Thames, the four smokestacks of Battersea Power Station loomed majestically.

Childhood memories. Home. That is, what I call my original home, and not so much Bracknell, where I lived since 1963.

The train pulled out of Victoria Station on time. Another adventure was about to begin.

The boat train was an overnighter, and it was already dark by the time I arrived at Lille. This was before Eurostar Gare de Europe was built. Therefore, I was surprised when the train pulled out in the reverse direction from when it pulled in. Lille had an original terminus station, Lille-Flandres.

Lake Como. Stock photo.

I was surprised by how daylight it already was by the time the train pulled into Basel, just within the Swiss border from France. The route towards Luzerne, then onward towards Como and Milan, was one of the most spectacular train rides I had ever experienced! Maybe that was because, by the time I reached Basel, it was already daylight. I recall how dark it was when the Paris-Turin train stopped at Modane, on the French border from Italy. Therefore, on that route, I missed out on the majestic splendour of the surrounding mountains. But on this route, the mountains and lakes were all in full view.

Trying to take pictures of the dramatic scenery was difficult. This was due to the many tunnels our line passed through. There were times when only a few seconds of the journey were exposed to the scenery before suddenly entering one tunnel after another. Just as well I wasn't a professional photographer for a travel journal or a newspaper. In this environment, I would have felt very frustrated!

However, having said that, I did manage to take a couple of pics of the scenery before the train entered another tunnel. Unfortunately, again I used a slide film for this holiday too, and therefore, at this moment, unable to publish them here. However, while I'm writing this, I'm considering buying a slide viewer. That means I'm hoping to take digital copies of these slide images and copy them here. Therefore, I encourage you all to keep reading these blogs, for in due course, I hope to publish the best of my slides covering the 1978 trip to the States, the 1981 trip to Italy, and the photos of these 1982 holiday scenes. Indeed, I can only keep my fingers crossed at the moment.

Arriving in Milan.

After such a spectacular ride across Switzerland, the train pulled into Milan Central, its journey, having begun at Boulogne-sur-Mer, now ends at the buffers in Milan. Having booked the journey together back in Bracknell, Derek knew when the train I was on was due, and there he was, waiting for me. He then drove me back to his apartment, the same address I was at the previous year.

At his apartment, Derek served me some lunch, but I couldn't talk much, as I felt my eyes swimming to and fro as I tried to concentrate. My friend seemed to have understood the state I was in, and encouraged me to rest on his bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep for two to three hours.

During the evening, the two of us made our way in his car to a pizzeria. The streets of Milan seem to be full of such restaurants, and there was one never far away. It was whilst we were eating that I opened up to him, discussing the train journey I had earlier experienced, and particularly about the dramatic Swiss mountainous scenery. I also told him of my plans in the days to come, including taking a train from Milan to Naples, then crossing the peninsula to spend some time in Brindisi, on the Adriatic coast, before travelling along the coastal "foot" of Italy to cross the Messina Strait from Reggio Calabria to the Sicilian port of Messina.

The next day was a Sunday (having boarded the train at London Victoria on a Friday afternoon) and Derek and I agreed to a drive to one of the lakes, Punta Spartivento, a viewing point on Lake Como where Lake Lecco joins Lake Como, giving an inverted Y shape. However, on our way back, I was wondering whether Derek will drive me to the same church where I was taken the previous year, the charismatic, Gospel-preaching fellowship which met in the basement of a secular building. When I mentioned this to him, there was no response.

Therefore, I never got to know whether the fellowship no longer exists, whether my host had a dispute with them since the summer of 1981, or simply decided not to go that week. Instead, we spent that evening at his apartment, as he was due to return to work that Monday morning.

A Day in Como.

After arriving in Milan, I spent three nights at his place. Hence, that Monday morning, Derek felt that it would have been unkind had he left me at his apartment after he had gone to work. So he gave me a lift into town and dropped me off near the Central Station. From there, I boarded a train to Como.

I checked out the town before starting to ascend one of the mountains. However, whilst I was still in the town, there was a boat hire platform, and I hired a rowing boat for an hour on Lake Como. The sky was cloudless, and the scene was fantastic, and this was a perfect opportunity to indulge in one of my favourite exercises, rowing. But this was much more dramatic than the Serpentine in London's Hyde Park, or on the River Thames at Windsor or Henley. This was lake Como, hemmed in by mountains, and therefore known for its striking beauty.

Being an experienced rower - a trait inherited from Dad by the way - I manoeuvred quite a distance north along the lake, taking care to keep track of the time and not to go too far out. It was amazing how far thirty minutes of rowing can take me, even rounding a bend of the lake around the Fontane di Villa Geno, a stub of a peninsula jutting out from the east coast. However, I made sure that I returned the boat to its owners in time, or else I might end up paying for the extra time.

I ran to raise funds, in 1985.

After the rowing boat hire, I began to make my way up a mountain overlooking Como. When I reached the summit, there was a small village of Brunate, with the viewing point looking directly over Como town and the Italian Alps all around me, but especially towards the north, where the peaks were higher. Oh, how much I enjoy such dramatic beauty, where human endeavour in building a settlement blends well with the wilderness of nature.

Later, I boarded a train at Como that left Munich in Germany some time ago to arrive safely in Milan. Then I phoned Derek to collect me.