Travel Biography - Week 37.

Please note, the photos I took of the features in this blog aren't available at the moment. Therefore, stock photos are used.

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During the first half of the eighties, despite living on a tighter budget than in the seventies, I still managed to cross the English Channel, or Le Manche, if you speak French, for three consecutive years - 1983, 1984, and once more in 1985. Despite being "just around the corner" compared to Israel, America, and even Sicily, France has its own offers that rouse my interest and delight my eyes.

A Prisoner on the Mount.

One of the delights was Mont Saint Michel, just off the northern coast of Normandy and back then, joined to the mainland by a raised causeway carrying a road and car park, and accessible around the clock, as the causeway wasn't submerged by high tides. That was in 1983. At present, the causeway I became familiar with was demolished at the start of the Millennium and replaced by a bridge. This allowed the tidal flows to pass under the bridge and thus prevent the build-up of silt, deposited by the blockage of the flow by the original causeway.

Mont Saint Michel

The nearest railway station for the mount was Pontorson, about an hour by train from Rennes. Then, I took a bus to the start of the causeway, and walked its length, about a kilometre, to the mount itself. The single road served a shopping precinct as it winded its way up to the summit, over 90 metres high, to where the church stood.

Indeed, I could ask: What was the motive for visiting an attraction such as this? Such motives arose from my interest in volcanology that began after the 1982 hike to the active crater of Mt Etna. An experience of that kind has resulted in a sense of bewilderment and awesome wonder. This was a time when I had in my sleep, dreams of the crater emitting thundering noises filling my head, and even of my companion, Miguel, smiling and giving me assurance. One of those dreams I still remember to this day.

Therefore, I was more interested in the geological history of the granite plug than the history of the abbey that sat on top of it. However, I entered the church which had several people sauntering around. Then, on the other side of the church, a wide-open double door led to some steps to some chambers beneath, one of them, perhaps the crypt, was large and also illuminated by electric lamps, and its ceiling was supported by neat rows of granite columns.

Eventually, after checking out the whole system of corridors and chambers, I made my way up the stairs, only to find that the exit doors were closed and locked. I was literally trapped inside the complex. Thinking that these weren't the exit doors, I carried on wandering through the corridors, even passing through a courtyard that looked out to the street through secure fencing, only to end up back at the crypt. There was no staff member to explain the situation or show me the way out. And so, I sauntered around in circles, ending up where I started. I felt as though I was imprisoned. I was beginning to feel uneasy about this place.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the doors were once again opened and I made my exit with a sense of relief, back into the church itself. At the doors, a warden, upon enquiring, explained that there was a Mass, that is, a Catholic Eucharist service taking place in the church, and the doors had to be locked to avoid disturbance from visitors passing through. Now that the service is over, I can leave the complex. Indeed, from a tourist point of view, I was rather annoyed that no pre-visit information was given, warning me that the exit will be closed between various set times.

Even from ninety metres high, the view of the surrounding sand flats exposed by the low tide wasn't that inspiring. For some visitors, Mont Saint Michel might be the fulfilment of dreams, a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage dedicated by the most devoted Catholics. But for me, Mont St Michel, in comparison with Mt Etna or even Mt Vesuvius in its dormant state, was something of an anticlimax. Or maybe that was how I felt after being unexpectedly locked in for an hour without any forewarning.

Saint-Malo and Rennes City.

Other places visited included a day spent at the port of St Malo, also accessible by train from Rennes. From there, I watched a ferry depart for either Plymouth, Portsmouth or the Channel Islands. Next to the ferry terminal is the walled Old City with its own beach, the west-facing Plage de Bon-Secours, a sandy strip over 400 metres in length. Heading northward along the beach, I came to a rocky outcrop on which a fort to guard the harbour was built, Fort Nationale.

St Malo. The Old City wall and Plage de Bon-Secours.

The rocky outcrop was also the beginning of the main, north-facing beach of St Malo, Grande Plage du Sillon, up to five kilometres in length. Admittedly, I hardly saw any length of this main beach, as I was spending my time concentrating on the Old City, and even walking along the city wall facing the west beach. However, the beach was virtually deserted, as the nip of the Autumn air deterred any bathing.

And that was the common factor behind these trips to France. I chose Autumn to go, for the two simple reasons of being less expensive and less crowded.

Rennes, in East Brittany, was where I had a room at a hotel from where I visited both Mont Saint Michel and Saint-Malo. The city itself boasted the Cathedral San Pierre, and this was one place I visited a couple of times. I always loved the silence associated with a cathedral, where I was able to meditate and reflect on spiritual matters. Otherwise, I felt that the city of Rennes didn't possess the same historical and touristy atmosphere in the same way as Rouen. However, I recall one occasion when I spotted an indoor public swimming pool and spent an hour lane swimming, thus saving the whole trip from becoming a "dry holiday" - as I like to refer to a break away from home without any opportunities to get wet. As if perfectly planned, across the road and bang opposite the entrance to the baths was a coffee bar - ideal for an after-swim refreshment. 

Continuing on pool swims, the only other French city where I enjoyed a good swim was Rouen. After walking downhill along Rue Jeanne d'Arc, I arrived at the River Seine and crossed the river to arrive at a leisure centre which featured an ice rink and a large indoor swimming pool, back then a square 25 metres on each side before it was eventually demolished and rebuilt. Both in 1984 and 1985, I spent some time swimming there.

1984. To Clermont Ferrand and the Puy de Dome.

1984 was the year I travelled the furthest in France. Arriving at Dieppe Harbour Station from the ferry out of Newhaven, the short ride on the harbour extension brought me to the main terminus, where I alighted to find a hotel to spend just one night before continuing with the journey to Clermont Ferrand via Paris.

The next morning, the train pulled out of Dieppe terminus and having stopped at Rouen, I remained on board the train until it arrived at Paris Saint Lazare Terminus. I then made my way on the Met (Paris Underground) to Gare de Lyon, where I boarded the train to Clermont Ferrand, a through station on the Paris-South Coast and Alpine lines. Interestingly enough, with a distance of around 215 miles or 348 km, the city of Clermont Ferrand is almost on the same latitude as Milan, which means that there are areas of Italy lying north of this city in the Central Massif geological area of France.

The journey was a long one, taking six hours to complete. Since it was early evening when I arrived, I made no hesitation to find a hotel, where I was to spend the next few days. A small, family-run hotel suited me fine and finding a room was no trouble at all.

I liked the city, especially the central square which was a short walk from the hotel. But, what was I doing here?

Again, as with the previous years, it was to do with volcanoes. Since Etna in 1982, for a while, I became "volcano mad!" Just to the west of the city, there is a chain of extinct volcanoes. These included the Puy de Dome and its neighbour, the Puy de Come (pronounced "comb"). It was the second cone which inspired me the most. It had all the resemblance of a crater, filled almost to the brim with the partially eroded lava plug, now a circular, grass-covered field. My awareness of this came after buying a book on volcanoes from Foyles in London. In the book, there was a beautiful photo of the French Massif Central and the Puy de Come in the foreground, covered in green and bathing in the summer sunshine.

Puy de Come with Puy de Dome in the background.

After settling in and spending the first day exploring the town, on the morning of the second day, I started the long hike to the Puy de Dome, the nearest extinct volcano to the city. It took me about three hours to complete the 6-mile or 10.3 km walk to the summit. However, the weather wasn't exactly favourable. True, it wasn't raining, but whilst on flat ground, both in and out of the city, there was little wind, hence looking to be an ideal day for hiking. But when I reached the summit, the galeforce wind almost blew me off my feet. Yet, from where I was standing, the other volcano stands majestically further away, telling the history of its violent past.

But the wind deterred me from going any further. Especially if I have to hike all the way back to the hotel. Eventually, after some time spent resisting the galeforce wind, I started to make my way back to the city. Yet, was I disappointed? No, not really, as I wasn't expecting to see any lava or hear the hollow rumble of steam escaping from the vent. But at least there was no church built on the summit and imprisoning any visitor unfortunate enough to arrive at the wrong time!

The path I was on passed by some country houses as I made my way back to the city. My thoughts were far away, left behind in the wind-blown summit of the Puy de Dome, when all of a sudden and so unexpectedly, an Alsation dog barked just inches from me and behind a closed garden gate. I jumped out of my pants! Yet, despite the sudden fright and the anger at the owners that followed, there was nothing amiss. And that was fortunate. It takes an incident like this to give me severe lower back pain, sharp enough to temporally immobilise me. In the middle of nowhere and far from home, this was something I just didn't need. 

Boy! Was I glad to unlock the door of the hotel room and slump onto the bed after hiking twelve miles in a day!

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Next Week: I find myself alone walking through a one-kilometre-long corridor dug deep underground.

Travel Biography - Week 36.

1982, Summary and Conclusion.

Looking back, 1982 had the best Italian holiday in my life. It not only surpassed the 1981 trip but also the 1975 and the 1973 Italian holidays as well. This was due to holding a national train pass. Like the Greyhound Ameripass of the late seventies, the travel pass I had validated all train journeys in Italy for a set time, in my case, three weeks. This enabled me to travel the entire length of the peninsula, including the island of Sicily.

Back in 1981, at Cinque Terre, Italy.

As such, when 1982 gave way to 1983, the sense of the post-holiday blues still didn't fade. Not only was that particular trip the star of the whole decade, but no other European holiday had ever quite matched it since. Furthermore, the year 1982 was the last time I had ever set foot on this lovely European peninsula. Therefore, as I was reviewing the latest data for the composition of this Biography, I was rather surprised by the changes brought on by the rise of tourism throughout the last forty years, as I had already discussed last week.

Not that tourism is a bad thing. Far from it. Many a country's economy thrives on tourism, and Italy, with its natural beauty, balmy climate, and with a history spanning millennia, is no exception. This was a timeframe of my life when I had little interest in spending two weeks lying on a beach and risking sunburn. As a singleton, I was looking for adventure, a location of dramatic beauty, or one with a deep historical significance. I believe Italy has many of these, whether Lake Como, surrounded by high foothills of the Alpine mountain range, the excavated ruins of Pompeii, the Roman Colosseum, the dramatic coastline of Cinque Terre, the gentle beach of Viareggio, or the artistic beauty of Florence. And in my hands the most important instrument man has ever invented - the camera, the means to forever preserve memories of such wonderful experiences.

A Treatment for Travel Snobbery.

Having visited Israel in 1976, then having crossed the Atlantic Ocean in 1977 and again in 1978, there was that danger of developing a feeling of travel snobbery, as I define it. That is the emphasis on distance from home and setting records on both global longitude and latitude figures rather than making a commitment to visit and admire a particular location. Alongside this obsession with distance records and how far I can travel from home, there was the shunning of more local places, a turning up of my nose at the thought of visiting Paris, for example. And I admit that such feelings, wrong as they were, took hold of me by the turn of the eighties. Hence, from 1979 onward, I had to learn a lesson, and this began with the loss of full-time employment bringing a sudden drop in my income, and it wasn't long before any thoughts of returning to Israel or America were beyond my affordability.

As I set up my own business as a handyman and domestic window cleaner, I began to feel fortunate that Europe was still within my budget, hence the two trips to Italy. In one sense, these were humbling experiences compared to long-haul, but once committed to them, the sheer joy found in a more "around the corner" holiday can even surpass a more faraway destination. For example, walking inside an underground catacomb of St John and then visiting the ancient Greek Neapolis, both in the Sicilian town of Siracusa, would be for me, more exhilarating than, say, walking through the streets of Philadelphia in Pennsylvania. 

Please, don't misunderstand me here. It's not that the largest city in the US State would lack anything of interest. Surely, like all other modern cities, there must be many attractions worth visiting, including museums of local history, Gothic-style churches, or areas of well-tended parks and gardens which are so pleasing to the eye and to the camera. But for someone like me who has an interest in ancient history spanning long periods, unlike that of the Sicilian Neapolis, the American city doesn't go two and a half millennia back in time!

France - 1983, 1984, 1985, and a Fright on the Train.

Over time, my budget tightened further as income came in as an ebb and flow pattern. Thus, it became obvious that three weeks spent in Italy was also drifting out of affordability. The next three years centred on France, our nearest neighbour. Indeed, not only the French port of Calais is much closer to home than Edinburgh or even Manchester, but Paris itself is about the same distance from home as the English resort of Blackpool.

In all the three years between 1983 and 1985, each of the three holidays was no longer than a week. But each was quite different from the others. Rather than using the Dover/Calais or the Folkstone/Bolougne crossing, instead, in 1983, I took the overnight Southampton-Le Havre ferry. In 1984 and 1985, it was the Newhaven to Dieppe, a four-hour daytime crossing.  

And here too, there were changes in the French railway layout between the mid-eighties and the present day. During the eighties, Gare de Dieppe was the terminus of the Paris-Rouen and the Paris-Serqueux lines. But the line from Rouen also continued on to Dieppe Harbour, up to a mile further, to connect with the ferry to the UK. The route was served by an island platform at Gare de Dieppe running parallel to the bay platforms within the terminus. Now, this harbour extension line has vanished, having closed in 1994, its station demolished a year later in 1995, and virtually no trace of this line, although lengths of the original track can still be seen here and there, where it's not fully concreted over.

Gare de Dieppe now serves only Rouen and Paris.

The Dieppe-Serqueux line also vanished at about the same time as the harbour extension. Fully concreted over, it's now a cycleway, according to Google Maps. Therefore, at present, the Dieppe terminus serves only the Rouen-Paris line. And that's a pity, for there's a story connected to the old Dieppe-Serqueux route.

It happened in 1985. I was staying at a hotel in Rouen. Trains from the city station either ended at Le Havre or Dieppe. One day, I decided to spend a day in Dieppe to check out the town proper and enjoy the vistas from the nearby clifftop walks. When evening drew near, I hastily jumped on the first train out from Dieppe terminus, destined for Paris St Lazare. The train began to accelerate, flying through one station after another. Then I realised something. The train from Rouen passed through a long tunnel before emerging to pull into the terminus. But this train I was on, I couldn't remember any tunnel. Soon, panic began to set in. Was I heading to Paris with no money and my bank cards safely inside the drawer in my hotel room?

If I end up in Paris, I would be literally marooned. With hardly any cash on me and with no access to my debit and credit cards, there was no way I could board a train to Rouen without a ticket. Furthermore, there was nowhere for me to spend the night. I would be in a hopeless situation.

The conductor walked by along the central aisle. I stopped to show him my return ticket to Rouen. He looked at it with puzzlement and walked away without saying anything. Neither did he return to offer advice. Maybe this young man was a fresher who has yet to get acquainted with this branch of the SNCF. However, I had already noticed that the seating compartment next to mine was occupied by four teenagers, each chatting joyfully with the other as if they had a good day out together.

I approached them with a degree of timidity and asked in broken French whether this train was bound for Rouen. Realising my non-French origin, they looked up and gesticulated, trying hard to make themselves understood.

"Changement chez Gare Serqueux" was the reply.

"Gare Serqueux." another responded as he gesticulated with his hands at two trains passing each other. I understood.

Seeing my distress, one of them offered me a mint. I felt calmed by both their reassurance and the taste.

"Merci!" I exclaimed, smiling, and soon, the train began to slow as it crosses the boundary from the countryside to a town. The sense of relief I felt as the train finally halted at Serqueux Station couldn't be exaggerated.

At Serqueux, I had to wait a couple of hours before the connecting train from Amiens to Rouen arrived. But I didn't mind. However, I was hoping that the conductor won't oblige me to pay for the extra miles covered. Instead, there was no ticket inspection on the Serqueux-Rouen leg of the journey. Later that evening, after dark, the sight of the beautiful roof interior of Rouen Station looked as if I had just entered Heaven. What a relief!

This rather dramatic boarding of the wrong train at Dieppe taught me a useful lesson and one that would alter my travelling habits. Up to then, it was normal for me to leave my traveller's cheques, bank cards and passport in the hotel room whilst going out for the day without vacating, thus eliminating the risk of loss or falling victim to a pickpocket - as happened in Italy, 1981. But this lesson was a shocking one. Had it not been for the advice given by the teenagers, I could have been left marooned in Paris without any money, bank cards, or traveller's cheques to pay the train fare to Rouen, or for the worst, a night in a Paris hotel. But assuming that I was the sole occupant of the whole carriage, my instincts would have driven me to alight at Serqueux, at least to return to Dieppe and start the journey all over again.

Therefore, ever since that fateful evening, I always carry my funds where ever I go, whether it's the old traveller's cheque system or more recently, a set of direct debit cards. I now find it to be a wise idea to carry my passport around as well.

Locations Visited in France.

During the 1980s, I enjoyed three different holidays in France. In 1983, I centred my stay at a hotel in Rennes, Western France. A train connected Rouen to Renne, and after arriving in Rouen from Le Havre, I had a couple of hours before my connecting train arrived.

This was my first visit to Rouen in my life and I loved it. The main street was Rue Jeanne d'Arc which led into town direct from the imposing station, down a gradient to the north bank of the River Seine. I quickly found out why this street bears such a name. Rouen was the site of the execution of Joan of Arc on May 30, 1431, at the tender age of just 19 years old. She was burned alive at the stake, and now, a modern-looking, oddly-shaped church building occupies the execution site. She was brought to our attention by a hit song, Maid of Orleans by the pop band OMD who released it in January 1982 -  just in time to get to know about her before my first visit to Rouen.

Church of the Execution, Rouen.

I eventually boarded the train for the long journey to Rennes. The reason why I chose this city was my desire to visit Mont St Michel, a Roman Catholic monastery and church on the summit of a solitary granite rock mountain just off the north coast and connected to it by a causeway carrying a road. Contrary to popular belief, the causeway is not submerged during high tide, hence the approach road is accessible at all times. The monastery is surrounded by a bustling precinct lining the single street as it winds up the hill to end at the church.

After arriving there, by mid-morning of the next day after arriving in Rennes, I made my way to the summit church, from where I enjoyed a wonderful view of the coastline.

However, something unexpected occurred that sent shocks down my spine...

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Next Week: Ancient volcanoes, medieval French history.

Travel Biography - Week 35.

The Catacombs of Capuchin, my Final Thoughts.

So far, I'm thoroughly enjoying writing this biography. This diary came about after several readers either asked me to write about my travel history or suggested doing so. Other suggestions were joining a Writer's Circle or making an effort to write a book. However, thanks to the Internet, I'm now able to write for the immediate publishing of the diary in blog form, thus avoiding the risk of the publisher's rejection of the manuscript or the need for an agency that would have involved a lot of box-ticking and bureaucracy.

However, when travel writing, what I am doing is relating the history of my travel experience, and this involves visiting places some may find unsettling or telling of my failures and any difficulties I've been through, as well as the more attractive venues, successful adventures, and times of leisurely bliss.

Successful Adventure: At Grand Canyon, 1978.

And so, I concluded last week's episode with a visit to the Catacombs of Capuchin in Palermo, Sicily's capital. I also posted several photos of the preserved corpses to show the reader exactly what I was writing about. However, I was unaware that such photos proved controversial.

After the publication of the blog, for curiosity, I logged into the website Tripadvisor to see what other people were saying about the venue in their reviews. One reviewer's wit I had to admire. In it, he put words into the mouth of one of the corpses when he wrote, 

There was a time when I was just like you as you are now. The time will come when you will look just like me as I am now.

I was impressed with his comment, as it reflected my thoughts exactly. The very same thoughts I had when I stood inside one of the corridors of the underground vault back in 1982. The only difference was that in 1982 there was nowhere to express them.

And so, on the same evening, I posted on Facebook another photo I took of the bodies over 40 years earlier. Within minutes, the website administration blocked the photo with an explanation that it was too unsettling for some and asked me to agree to their policy. I agreed merely to keep the peace.

I have to admit, I was taken aback by the censorship imposed by the social site. They were merely photos on a screen. It was I who actually stood in front of them, alone, feeling no fear or any apprehension as the faces stared back down at me. After all, what possible harm could any of them do? Rather, the whole catacomb was a university of life, death, and eternity, each unavoidable and without regard for wealth, education or social status. Indeed, even I found the revelation shocking when confronted with such a hard reality. Yet those who paid to have their bodies preserved to rest in these vaults were the rich and the privileged, as well as the Capuchin monks themselves. Oh, the irony!

From Palermo to Rome.

As my time in Sicily drew to a close, it was time to make my way homeward. And that's the advantage of slow surface travel as opposed to air travel. My holiday didn't end quickly.

After vacating my hotel room, I boarded the train at Palermo Terminus for an overnighter to Rome Terminus. This will be the first time I had experienced the embarkation of the train itself onto the Messina Strait ferry. If I remember rightly, I must have boarded the train quite late in the evening, as it was long dark before the train pulled out. It travelled on the line bordering the north coast of the island, hence avoiding Caltanissetta altogether. At Messina, the wait was rather long. That is, until the train shunted forwards, then reversed back out, then pulled forward again. This time, the carriage I was in remained stationary whilst the carriages behind ours pulled out, then moved forwards until all three sections of the train were fully shunted onto the ferry, all three resting side by side as the boat set sail for Reggio Calabria, on the mainland.

Below is a photo I took of the same ferry on my way to Sicily from Italy two weeks earlier. Then, the train I was in from Taranto remained in Reggio Calabria, leaving the portable railway lines unoccupied. This view is looking towards the stern, where the buffers were. It shows that the three lines run the full length of the ship, thus allowing a mainline train from Turin, Rome, and Naples to board for access on the two Sicilian lines.

The stern of the Messina Ferry, 1982.

At the "toe" of mainland Italy, the whole process was reversed. A first-in-last-out procedure, with my section of the train in the middle. Eventually, the whole train was coupled together, ready to depart northwards.

I noted that during the sailing, nobody alighted from the train. Neither was anything to be seen out of the wide windows as it was the middle of the night. Apparently, alighting whilst on the ferry was not allowed. So I remained in the train, lying down across the whole seat, as I had the compartment to myself whilst the coach-length corridor ran at one side of each carriage.

By early daybreak, I was able to look out at Mt Vesuvius as it sat majestically over the Bay of Naples. The train was actually using the Circumvesuviana Line to avoid docking into either Naples Central or Naples Porto Nolano, but to connect with the main line to Rome from Naples Terminus. By breakfast time, the train from Palermo to Rome ended its journey at the capital's terminus, allowing me a full day in Rome before boarding another overnight train to Milan, where my friend Derek would be waiting.

There were two attractions I was to spend my time at, the Colosseum and the Basilica St Peter's. Not that I was unfamiliar with them, for I had already visited both during my last visit to Rome in 1975. I went to visit the Colosseum first. Rome boasted an underground line that linked the Terminus to Colosseum Station, hence the journey to it was quick and easy.

Again, like the Catacombs of St John in Siracusa, and also with the Eifel Tower in Paris, in 1982, there were no security barriers at these sites as they are at present. Also, 1982 was the last time I had ever set foot in Rome, and to this day I had never returned. Indeed, I took my beloved to Sicily in the year 2006 to celebrate our 7th anniversary, but in that year we flew directly to Palermo from London Gatwick Airport, then took a bus from Palermo to Siracusa. Therefore, after not setting foot in Rome for the last 40 years, again I turned to the website Tripadvisor to catch up on the data. I thought, wow!

Reviewers talk about long queues outside both the Colosseum and St Peter's. With the former, each individual has to buy an entry ticket for admission to the ancient monument. These are bought more in advance rather than at the door, and the presence of security barriers is the main reason for the long queues. Also, booking timeslots now exist, whether mandatory or for the customer's convenience, at this point I can't be sure. But all this is a far cry from my day when anyone was able to walk straight into the Colosseum for free and without any security gates and long queues, although access inside the Colosseum back then was more restricted. Also in 1982, no ticket touts were crowding the underground station, attempting to sell overpriced entry tickets that may be invalid for entry.

The Basilica San Pietro is also suffering long queues due to the presence of airport-style security barriers. According to the reviewers' testimonies, there seems to be some inconsistency among them on whether one has to buy a ticket to enter, as in the case of St Paul's in London, or whether entry into the main cathedral is free. By reading a large number of reviews, I have concluded that the basilica is free to enter, but tickets would be needed for the cupola, and also for the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel. Queue-skipping tickets for fast-track entry into the Basilica also look to be available at a price.

Travel and Mass-Tourism.

In 1982, walking alone into the Catacombs of St John in Sicily, the Colosseum in Rome and St Peter's at the Vatican was easy and straightforward. Just like walking through the doors of a Costa Coffee. So was entering the Roman Forum and the Circus Maximus, both also in Rome. No security barriers, no queues and no entry fees. Likewise, there were no queues for the airport-style security barriers at the Eifel Tower in Paris, and in London, St Paul's and Westminster Abbey were free to enter, especially during the late 60s of college years.

Hence, Travel was an adventure in itself, to visit places and experience culture not easily accessible to the masses. I believed that the exorbitant price confined foreign travel to the rich or for military purposes. There was a time when the average Briton headed to seaside resorts such as Morecambe, Blackpool, Bognor Regis, Brighton, and other coastal hotspots for their annual break. However, those who did manage to travel abroad might have brought back other-worldly tales of experiences away from their home country that fascinated their listeners.

Roman Colosseum 1982. Free entrance on the left.

In 1976, my plan to visit Israel alone as an independent caused quite a stir in the workplace, both on the shopfloor (where I was working) and around the adjoining offices. Before taking off and after my return, I was the talk of the town. Funnily enough, neither my trip to Italy in 1975 nor to America in 1977 had any real effect. Could it be that the Middle East during the mid-seventies was still recovering from a history of conflicts and therefore untainted by tourism?

Going by the reviews I read on Tripadvisor, mass tourism looks to me like it had destroyed the real spirit of travel. With plenty of time and money alike, it looks to me that mass tourism had forever tainted the magic and spirit of adventure gotten by lone exploration of virtually unknown locations. Furthermore, there was an accumulation of dirt, as described below. 

Brian Moynahan's book, Fool's Paradise, writes about the Spanish beach "suntan factory" and the great tourist ripoff, the abundance of cheap trinkets and souvenirs, aggressive beggars approaching the tourist, ticket touting, the street newspaper ploy - where a beggar pleads with a passing tourist for some money to buy a newspaper. Sometimes the tourist buys the paper for him, which he then returns to the shop for a refund, and so it goes on - every means to part the tourist of his money and for the beggar to make a handsome profit by the end of the day. Moynahan also discusses how the tourist will fight for a raised alcove in a restaurant or to sit at the captain's table on a cruise liner - on both occasions not for the conversation, but merely to be seen by others. And not to leave out the annoying fact that many restaurants deliberately raise their prices during the busy tourist season at popular venues.

Basilica St Peter 1982. View from the Cupola.

And I too am not entirely guiltless. In Week 3 of this biography, I wrote how in 1972 I became drunk whilst on a Spanish package holiday and I slept in the bathtub soaked in my own vomit. That is not travel. Instead, it was a gross abuse of such a noble endeavour. Rather, travel began in 1973, a year later when I stood on the rim of Vesuvius' crater and walked the streets of Pompeii.

That evening, after a full day spent in Rome, I arrived in Milan on the next day in preparation for the final leg of the journey home.

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Next Week: During the 1980s interlude, I was shown a new way of travelling.

Travel Biography - Week 34.

Ortigia island, Siracusa.

Although I have tended to visualise Siracusa as the New Town on the mainland, and the island of Ortigia as the Old Town, the Neapolis Archeological Park, dating back to the ancient Greek culture around 2,500 years ago, is located on the mainland. For example, the modern apartment blocks lining Corso Gelani are just across the road from the Neapolis with its 2,500-year-old Greek theatre, and nearby, there is a modern hospital, along with civic administrative buildings.

By contrast, Ortigia is an island off the mainland, separated by a very narrow strait. From the air, the waterway looks so much like a wide canal, one would be convinced that mainland Siracusa and the island of Ortigia were once a continuous peninsula before it was cut straight across. Two road bridges link the island to the mainland. Arriving in Ortigia from Siracusa, especially on the Corso Umberto, one is faced by a large archaeological site, the remains of the Temple of Apollo. Small excavated areas are also found in the middle of the street, yet they don't hinder the flow of traffic.

Ortigia is separated from the mainland by a strait.

Although the entire island is surrounded by water, there were no beaches. Instead, a wall enclosed the island entirely, with the Mediterranean lapping gently at the base of the wall. Since the Med doesn't have tides, the water level remained constant throughout. In 1982, from Port Victoria Emanuelle on the west side of Ortigia, a small ferry carried foot passengers to the port city of Valencia in Malta (with the car ferry setting sail from Catania.) Unfortunately, I never took the opportunity to board the ship due to the tightness of funding, lack of time, or both. Besides, I was happy just to be in Sicily itself. 

The streets of Ortigia, unlike in mainland Siracusa, were laid during Medieval times and therefore tend to be narrow. However, there was a widening of one street, Via Saverio Landolina, into the Piazza Duomo. This was fronted by the Duomo di Siracusa, that is, the Church of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, and the seat of the city Archdiocese. I remembered sitting inside the duomo. Although built in the 7th Century AD, it's actually founded on an ancient Greek Temple of Athena, itself built in the 5th Century BC. Surrounding me were the original columns of the Temple, left there when the church was built some 1,200 years later.

I sat inside for a while until an escorted tourist group entered, and the ranger disturbed the silence as he began to narrate to his group. Although I could see that I was in his way since I was already seated at that spot, he had no power even to ask me to move, and so, he continued his discourse in the central aisle and in my presence.

Many residents of Ortigia sat outside their front doors and neighbours chatted with each other, with groups lining the street as they sat outside their homes. All that has made me feel that I'm indeed in a foreign country, with a culture so different to ours in Britain. Here in Sicily, the Mediterranean climate brought these residents outside to chat casually, whilst our British cool temperate climate keeps the Englishman confined within his home he calls his castle.

One warm evening, as I was strolling through Ortigia, I arrived at the Piazza Duomo, to see a live band playing directly opposite the cathedral, and apparently a public street party. The event was orderly, the people were enjoying themselves and, as I could see, there was no alcoholic abuse, no sign of any drunkenness, no bare torsos, and no vomit on clothing or the ground. Instead, a large group of mostly young men were dancing the Conga to the music from the band.

As I approached the rotating circle of young men, each with both his hands resting on the shoulders of the one in front, one of them who was nearest to me beckoned me over to join the dance. I was happy to and joined the rotating human circle that spanned the width of the square under the beat of the music.

However, I was struck by the absence of women. Yet, all the young men looked happy, contented, and fully committed to the dance. But, at least in 1982, this was the culture of the region. And that was when I was glad to be single and not have a girlfriend. This was a culture where many, if not all, dating couples were accompanied by a chaperone, sometimes the girl's brother or sister, or even the girl's uncle, aunt, or father himself.

A Visit to Taormina

I believe that one of the most spectacular resorts in the whole of Europe is Taormina, north of Mt Etna. The town is built on a mountainside, starting with the Spiaggia di Isola Bella, or Beautiful Island Beach, and with a cable car up the mountainside to the town centre. Even from the town, the commune of Castelmola reaches 529 metres towards the sky about a mile inland from the town, and I managed to hike uphill to this village. Resembling a molar tooth when seen from both the beach and the town centre, the streets were so narrow that all motorised traffic was banned. And so, I spent a whole day at Taormina after boarding a train at Siracusa Station early in the morning. The day included a swim in the sea before exploring the town centre and then Castelmola. The day also took in a visit to the Greek Theatre, although most of the ancient masonry making up the theatre was Roman.

The Greek Theatre, Taormina, 1982.

My surname is very common in Italy. Taormina, 1982.

Castelmola offered fantastic views of Taormina and the Sicilian coastline, especially of the tiny isle which gave the beach its name. The privately owned islet was connected to the beach by a sandy causeway which was barely above the water level. Just above the level of the beach but below the height of the town, the Messina-Siracusa railway line passes through one tunnel after another as it heads south, passing along Naxos Beach, skirts the base of Mt Etna before passing through Catania Station on its way to Siracusa.

Palermo and the Catacombe dei Cappuccini.

I spent at least a week in Siracusa before vacating my hotel room to board a train to Palermo, the capital city of Sicily. In 1982, there were two ways to travel to Palermo from Syracuse. The "proper" way was to take an express train and change trains at Messina for the Palermo branch which runs along the northern coast of the island. Alternatively, there was a slower, more scenic route cutting through the middle of Sicily, stopping at the inland town of Caltanissetta before proceeding to Palermo. I chose the latter route, changing trains at Catania.

The train eventually pulled into Palermo Terminus by early evening, and I found a suitable hotel to stay in for the next three days.

I wasn't so impressed with Palermo as I was with Siracusa and the east coast of Sicily. As I saw it, the capital was like most others, a sprawling city with a large international port with ships sailing to Tunisia as well as other ports such as Naples, Cagliari, and Civitavecchia. However, there was one place of interest which stood out, the Catacombe dei Cappuccini, over a mile west of Central Station. 

I have already visited the Catacombs of St John in Siracusa, and now I'm about to visit the underground crypt of a church that was used as a resting place for the faithfully rich, all placed there by the Capuchin monks approx between the years 1600 and 1920 AD. Within a couple of years later, I visited the equally macabre Paris Catacombs. All three were underground. Furthermore, I was alone in all three burial sites.

But it was the Catacombe dei Cappuccini that not only impressed me but shocked me into the reality of life and death. Believe me, it's not the place for the squeamish, the fearful or with a nervous disposition.

I arrived at the church (having already known about the catacomb long before 1982) and I paid the entry fee. I then went downstairs into the church crypt. There were a few people in there to start with, but they soon left altogether, and I found myself alone in this subterranean vault.

The walls all around were lined with well-preserved corpses, many standing upright, others lying horizontally. There were several corridors, all lined with these dead bodies, many of them staring straight at me as I walked past and looked up at them. There was only one public notice, and each was fastened in each corridor, VIETATO FUMARE, the signs shouted. Okay, I fully understand why smoking was prohibited, such pollution gotten from tobacco would have been detrimental to the corpses. But there were no signs forbidding photography, as there are at present. Therefore, I felt free to take pictures, like I did at the Catacombs of St John, without any awareness of breaching the rules.

Although I wasn't aware at the time, I later learned that there was a reputation that these corridors were haunted by the discarnate souls whose bodies were on display they once inhabited. However, there was no supernatural incident whilst I was down there, yet the vaults weren't entirely silent. Rather, a fan was blowing through an air vent, and one of the hinged covers had worn loose. As the air current was circulating, there was this constant clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk - a continuing rattling of metal against masonry, powered by the air current. But to me, in this morbid environment, the sound of a fully functional air fan also reminded me that the world of living is just above the ceiling.

However, there is a legend many visitors may not be fully aware of. It concerns one of the bodies standing upright in one of the corridors. On one occasion, this deceased individual fell from his place in the corridor to land directly on a passing visitor, almost as if the dead actually leapt on the living. The figure was put back in its place and chained in for greater stability.

The individual in the centre fell on a passing visitor.

They grinned as they stared down at me...

This guy, I felt a special affection for.

General view of one of the corridors. 1982.

So you can ask, or even I should ask myself: What is this obsession with the morbid, the macabre, the mortal? and that's not confined to the catacombs I had visited on the Continent, but the most interesting gallery in the British Museum in London is the Egyptian mummy gallery. In the last blog, just before I started this Travel Biography series, I wrote about how I spoke softly to one of the Egyptian mummies on display at the museum. I think such an obsession - if that's what it is - is borne from my upbringing. By not doing well at school to my parent's satisfaction, pride and joy, I held low self-esteem.

Church life, rather than allowing me to grow my faith in Christ, instead, turned out more of an emotional hindrance by mixing with graduates who shared my age. Deep in my mind, and with little verbal expression, I have wondered just how proud the parents of these graduates must be, the joy felt over the upbringing of their offspring, to see them off to University, and then to see them land useful careers with a respectable income. And then watching them find girlfriends, marry, and have children while I remain sitting alone on a shelf with my legs swinging alternatives back and forth like a child.

Looking up at those corpses as they gaze back down at me has shocked me into the reality of eternity. There is something terribly wrong with God's plan of Creation! Mankind was never created to end up in such a sorry state. Yet there they are, on display for us to look at, think, meditate, and find a rationable reason, which is the entry of sin into the world, and through sin, death. And to kill off any argument that a person is evaluated by his level of social status, his education, his wealth, his family background or his occupation. Indeed, the emperor and the humble worm both share the same fate.

I make my way back to the hotel with my mind spinning. Ah, that is what travel is all about.

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Next week: The start of the journey home.