Sermoneta, Latina, Terracina, Gaeta and Naples (or not

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Breakfast at 9 was just about perfect – fresh squeezed orange juice, cappuccino, porridge, yogurt and more conversation. Post breakfast activity was a hike to the village square, a visit to the local church, a brief walk around town and then the decision to hike (for three of us anyway) to lunch. Our host, having suffered a little on the ski slopes the previous week, decided to meet us with the car, a gallant offering since it meant we could have a leisurely lunch and not worry about walking back in the dark. The uphill hike was most welcome (your trampess is quite clear that gyms are good but mountains are better and she has been missing climbing - Tarquinia and Cerveteri notwithstanding since the demands are short lived if steep). The 2 ½ hour climb was not as strenuous as Kanisfluh but it was invigorating and removed any latent guilt that might have arisen around the long and leisurely lunch that was to follow.

We were late arriving by northern standards, but perfectly on time by Italian (something after 2pm) and the proprietor greeted us warmly and asked what we wanted to eat. No menu you understand, just a general discussion of likes and dislikes, allergies and proclivities. With so many diverse diets to cope with the result was (well, this is Italy after all) inevitable: instead of a few dishes that everyone could eat, we had an endless array anyone of which would be acceptable to at least two of us. So, a sequence of dishes that would have fed the Roman army, mostly vegetarian (all manner of roasted vegetables, cheeses, olives, breads, and tidbits of a vaguely eastern nature – it turns out there is a Thai influence in the kitchen in the form of the proprietor’s wife)– except for a plate of marvellous prosciutto and salami. And that was just the starters – pasta followed along with some spit roasted lamb and pork for the carnivores. Normally, of course, pasta would have followed and then meat and fish but we were all showing some restraint (again by Italian standards, no one would have called us restrained by English standards)! Espresso as the digestivo (certainly pudding would have been beyond the pale!) and we were on our way home. Just in time for a glass of wine before dinner!

The next day after a brief struggle with the internet (Sermoneta is blessed with abundant wi-fi in the summer but not in winter), we hugged our hosts farewell and hiked back to the WLW ready to set off to Naples. Oh had it been that simple! The WLW’s dashboard gave the tramp one of those warnings that suggested he check all systems. The report back was not good: the clutch was not interested in going to Naples, or anywhere else for that matter. And if the clutch doesn’t want to go, neither does the tramp. The service book came out and a series of phone calls began. Quite how many it is hard to know. Suffice it to say that every Iveco garage between Rome and Sermoneta was involved. Finally, even Germany was brought into the discussion to spur on the service (and, if the truth be told, to verify the tramp’s bona fides as a responsible lorry driver and not some hot-rodding youth who would rip out a clutch just to show his machismo – even though this is Italy, land of the hot-rodders!).

In each conversation, the tramp explained where the WLW was, how long it was (8 1/2metres) and the fact that it was towing a Smart car (after all, while she could be driven independently, she could not tow her own trailer). Several hopeful garage rescue trucks showed up. The same number drove away – no way could they tow something as large as the WLW. One does not ask what in the description (8 ½ metres long; 7 ½ tonnes) they did not understand, they just hadn’t really understood. Two days later (the wheels of efficiency may have once been Roman, but have never been Italian), a vehicle that could tow the WLW arrived. The tramp and trampess followed in the Smart. The natives watched the procession in awe. The destination? A huge Iveco garage in Latina some 15km away. As usual, the garage was friendly and extremely professional. The tramp made friends with the personnel dealing with his beloved machine and we were given permission to live in it, sandwiched between other lorries waiting to be serviced (not quite the view from the Gritti terrace but then one could not imagine the local hostelries having beds big enough for the tramp! – one of the reasons for the WLW after all is to ensure a reliable, comfortable bed every night and at whatever time it is required – there are other ways to achieve this of course and a small book with the Relais & Chateaux is one – but they are not always nearby, can often be fully booked, and may expect a dress code which is slightly different from the usual hiking kit the tramps have become accustomed to) while a new clutch was ordered (yes, ordered. The good news was it came the next day and not weeks later). The tramps set off for the local supermercato and laid in supplies as if for a siege. After two days, the WLW was given a clean bill of health – following a test drive on the local roads (including a few steep uphill ones – just to make sure the new clutch would hold), and the tramps were even encouraged to visit Terracina (another ancient and mediaeval hill town) which they were assured would present no problem for the WLW – neither for her clutch nor for her girth. And so the tramps headed south once more.

With Terracina only another 15km from Latina, the tramps were not exactly making their way to Naples with great speed! But still, the purpose of wandering is not to be driven to get somewhere, but to take in everything, slowly, at a pace which allows thoughtful appreciation. The trip to Naples was becoming very thoughtful – not that the trampess minded – she just wished to make sure that her flight to London from Naples was not missed because Naples was still some days away by WLW! The road to Terracina was a continuation of the Appia Antica (the road we had been following from Rome) and therefore, like all Roman roads, straight and direct. We arrived at Terracina and only had to make one decision: would we really risk the road that led up to the Temple of Jove Anxur (for those of you who are struggling with the Anxur, it is the same old Jove, but as a youth). It seemed to your trampess a sensible risk (only 15km from the home of new clutches – why not find out here if the WLW really was unsuited for the Italian terrain rather than on some distant hill where help might be days away?); the tramp concurred and up we went. The entrance to the mediaeval town – half way up the hill - looked forbidding (an arch, narrow streets, sharp turns, in short a squeeze that might not work) so we carried on to the top of the hill where the ancient (1st century BC) temple sat.

Our reward was perfection: a wide road, a parking lot that had a space or two for buses and was virtually empty, so that the WLW could be turned and parked in the direction of the descent. Not, you understand, that we actually decided to descend! The afternoon was beautiful, the walk up through the Roman fortifications and barracks for the army interesting, and the arrival at the temple stunning – for the temple itself and for a tremendous view of the port below and the whole bay – not to mention a series of ancillary buildings on the terraces below – oh, and a scale model of the whole area as it would have looked in ancient times at the back of the conveniently located caffe, bookshop, restaurant and nightclub (with live music – what else would you expect – this is a temple to the youthful Jove!) – actually a tiny room but with a wonderful terrace which must, one assumes, accommodate all the described activities in the summer. We took coffee on the terrace and watched as the sun set over the bay between Terracina and Gaeta (famous for being the birthplace of the trampess’s stepfather; more famous perhaps for its prison and a large naval base). Naturally, the tramp decided it was dinnertime and the location of the WLW was perfect for spending the night (where would we find a quieter spot?). We could even have a morning visit to the temple after breakfast and then proceed to Naples.

And so we did, except that by the time we had read the book (on Jove Anxor) and really explored the temple and environs again, and enjoyed a local diversion, it was lunch time. And the night, surprisingly, was not quiet – in fact the tramp claims not to have slept much at all. He wondered whether the villa in front of which we were parked (and which we could see from the temple had rather splendid gardens and a swimming pool) was doing a roaring trade in drugs: apparently he was kept awake by the constant coming and going of cars and masculine voices (so not lovers’ lane as we might have thought had we been thinking when we decided to stay for the night). He revised his opinion when the owner took a photo of the WLW (everyone likes to be a pin-up) with his camera – just as the tramp was exiting the WLW. Being a friendly soul, the tramp asked if the photographer was the owner of the wonderful garden we had admired from above. Indeed he was and promptly invited us in for a tour of the garden and a drink. Since part of thoughtful wandering, is engaging with locals and especially in their habitat when possible, the response was immediate and positive. The garden was amazing and included a very special 800 year old tree; it was also remarkable for the fact that the local wild boars had entered in the night and turfed up most of the lawn(do wild boars have low masculine sounding grunts?) (Italian law forbids the erection of electric fences around private property to keep them out so this sort of event is endemic). After a few words of consolation to the gardener, we sat by the swimming pool and drank a bottle of water together while discussing Italian politics. Like all Italians, our host is riveted by politics but despairs of Italy ever becoming a well run state, the reasons for which conclusion are always the subject of interesting conversation. And so the hours went by. The tramp and the host exchanged email addresses and promised to stay in contact. Our host longs for a WLW but is not convinced his wife is as enthusiastic as he is (it is your trampess’s experience that not all her friends envy her gypsy life and many men are doomed to lust in vain after the WLW!). In any event, it turns out our host is a builder from Rome specialising in restoring old properties – the villa in Terracina was one he restored for his own family for weekends and holidays. We have promised to visit again when we return from our southern travels (always assuming we ever make it further south).

After lunch though, we really did head south toward Naples, stopping in Gaeta to buy the local produce (the vegetables, salads, olives, tomatoes, and fruit were, as to be expected, incredibly cheap and delicious – well I would say that given the family connection: the stepfather would no doubt add, “but that is not enough reason to live there!” – maybe not but it was worth the stop to stuff the larder!).

The delays, in Terracina and in Gaeta while worthwhile, did mean that the WLW’s arrival in Naples was after nightfall. Not good. Especially not good when the perfect campsite became majorly imperfect: the entry was through an arched gateway. You guess is right: the tramp’s skill at squeezing the WLW through a space only a few inches wider than the WLW is not to be denied, but even he cannot make her less tall than she is, and entering would have destroyed the sat-nav system perched on her roof (now you may recall that the trampess and the sat-nav do not always get along, but losing her completely would be a big mistake – if only for the ability to receive the news and watch the odd dvd). So the tramps spent the night parked on the street on the waterfront in the centre of town. Many might consider that standing on a street corner holding Rolex watches, gold chains and a fist full of euros would be less risky than parking the WLW and her trailing Smart in Naples on the waterfront. Suffice it to say the tramps have not yet seen Gomorrah. The trampess did not sleep well that night – not from fear – with the tramp by my side I am fearless, but dear reader, the noise from the traffic was unbearable! It never stopped. We might as well have been parked in Times Square. The tramp, of course, slept (earplugs - the trampess cannot abide them; must learn to adapt).

As we drove out of Naples (the tramp was quickly convinced that if we couldn’t stay in the perfect campsite – and it was apparently perfect: clean, stylish – I know, I know, but that is what he said, and well protected – we might as well head on), in first gear (the roads are bad and the WLW could not risk going faster than first gear would allow – not that we were going more slowly than the donkey carts on the road– I jest not), we did begin to wonder where we might end up. We tried Herculaneum (now Ercolano) but no campsite was listed in the guide book and the roads were unfriendly for long vehicles. At this point the trampess persuaded the tramp to hit the motorway to Pompeii (not very far away, but much faster when you can get out of first gear). While the sat-nav went into one of her hissy fits (probably because she knew she was the cause of missing out on a nice campsite), leading the WLW around in circles and then OUT of town, and the tramp’s patience was coming to an understandable end, it was decided to call the campsite (old fashioned but effective) and get directions (yes, some people still know how to give them). Sure enough it was only 100metres from the exit of the motorway (our sat-nav having told us to turn right instead of left), but mirabile dictu it was lovely: the WLW is now parked in an orange grove a short walk from the entrance to the excavations and from the train line that runs between Naples and Sorrento. Happily the trains don’t run late at night so the convenience is not mitigated by noise at bed time! Bliss at last - and with plenty of time to acclimate before the flight to London.

Anniversaries, Reunions, and New Encounters

It was the morning of their 36th anniversary, and the tramps awoke to another grey day – disappointing after going to bed under clear skies that had followed a lengthy downpour – after all the day they married had been bright, sunny and clear albeit with the usual two feet of snow on the ground one can expect in Cambridge (Massachusetts, that is). Rome was the same when they returned, but without the snow. One had hoped, therefore, that southern Italy would, 36 years later, understand the requirements of the day.

Not only did the weather not cooperate, neither did the WLW. The tramp had felt that the clutch was struggling on the climb to Sermoneta, and he later let on as how, if one of the cars we had encountered on the hairpin turn road on the way up (Sermoneta is one of those wonderful little hill towns which are delightful to visit in all respects – as long as one is driving a normal vehicle) had not instantly behaved the tramp’s signal to keep moving (he was graciously planning to stop and let us continue, not quite realising just how impossible that would be for us), the WLW might have had to roll backwards quite a long way before trying to climb again, and who knows whether it would have made it – or for that matter whether the tramp would have! And, of course, at a certain point, the tramp had refused to go any further, fearing (rightly as it transpired) that the narrowing road was leading us into a place that no WLWs should go.

The effort had been worth it (even taking into account the need to back the WLW down the road a few hundred metres – with a stone wall on one side and a cliff on the other plus the odd car wishing to pass - reverse it around a corner and re-park it in the sort of space the WLW could breathe in). This was not a forgone conclusion and everything could have gone horribly wrong. The trampess had never visited her old college friend before, and while lunches or dinners had always been jolly, to say that a few days together would be unmitigated bliss would have been a risky prediction. Nor had the tramp met her at all. Nor had either of them met the husband. So to begin with a dicey clutch, a less than perfect assent (I did not mention any of the various conversations that included the words “do you know where you are? Do you really know this is where we should be? Have you read the instructions?”), and a less than perfect abandonment of the WLW, your trampess rang the doorbell with some trepidation. All fear was instantly cast aside. Not tentatively, not gradually, but absolutely instantly. This was going to be a fun few days. The house is stone and built into the hillside. Every room has a splendid view over the Pontine plain. Every level has a terrace and each terrace has its own character (a pool, a garden, a lemon tree, a fireplace). Every room is beautiful: simple, rustic architecture with stone walls, arches and old stone lintels but filled with furniture and chandeliers from their last house (a chateau in France which they turned into one of the famed Relais et Chateaux members), a wonderfully successful lesson in counterpoint (we won’t even mention the counterpoint it made to the WLW – after all one does not want to hurt the WLW’s feelings). But a house does not make a visit (though clearly, it sets the scene – and the scene here was informal but elegant – perfect), and even the most beautiful houses can be inhabited by miseries. Not this one. Instant warmth and enthusiasm greeted us. All the tension of the climb up evaporated. Coffee, conversation, a brief mention of the tramp’s allergies (as the plan for dinner emerged) and off we were! The tramp’s allergies did add one more exciting dimension to meals: my friend is vegetarian (though she eats fish – not one of the regular menu items in a hill town!), her husband abhors vegetables, and the tramp can’t eat bread, cheese or wine. The points of intersection were very narrow but dinner was a huge success and lasted well beyond bed time, owing to fine wine, fine conversation, and a fire that was kept going despite the wet wood. The tramp eventually tumbled into a splendid four poster bed (as you would expect, a proper antique one, which of course meant it was just big enough for him if he slept diagonally, antique beds are lovely, antique people were small!) and your trampess curled herself happily into a bed in another room. Our only instructions were that it was unlikely that breakfast woul