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 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.