At bedtime I was sitting on my hotel bed nearer to holiday misery than I have ever been. It had begun so well. I found a cutprice deal in October with Consort Travel of Scotland, (www.consort.uk.com) under £300 for nine days, five of them half board in Liguria, a part of Italy I didn’t know. True, it was by coach, and I don’t like coach travel, as it seems such a waste of holiday time. But the journey had been fine, with a sleepover at a very good hotel in Dijon. The Italian hotel, near Diano Marina, was modern, friendly, clean. Our evening meal was simple, but very Italian and well cooked.
Things went wrong when I went out to explore. I found a supermarket, great for picnic lunch buys. Oh. Closed for the season. A bookshop. A little café. Closed for the season. I walked to the beach, a vast expanse as far as the eye could see. At least I could take some boat trips. No, an old man told me. No boats until the spring. I found a bus stop near the hotel. You’ve guessed. Bus service suspended until the season began again. The town of Diano Marina itself was a good walk away, and the old man added that most of it shut down for the winter. I was tired and fed up, which I why I missed something obvious but, as is often the way, when I woke in the morning I realised what I’d seen : a railway running along the seafront, and a train. My spirits rose.
The station was quite a trot, but I didn’t mind, especially as on the way I found a vast hypermarket and stocked up on food. The Italian rail ticket system is complex, and what you pay depends on the type of train and the class. As a rough guide I’d say travel costs a third less than it does here. I’ll write the rest of this review in diary form.
MONDAY. I was off to Genoa, not for any particular reason, just because it’s the largest city in Liguria, and a famous seaport. As the train, a ‘locale’, the cheapest sort, trundled along the coast, I could see that the name ‘Riviera dei Fiori’ was apt. There were greenhouses and nurseries everywhere. The contrast between this coast and the French Riviera to the west was marked. The Côte d’Azur has gone a bit downmarket
in recent years, but you still see the big cars, designer clothes and all the trappings of wealth. This Italian Riviera is the summer playground of the Italian worker, cheap and cheerful, totally unsophisticated. No-one rich comes to winter here. The coastal area was very flat, though I could see high ground in the hinterland. There were hotels strung out all along the way, but they were mostly in fairly good taste.
Beaches were deserted, sometimes with piles of loungers and parasols stacked waiting to be put away. Over the sea hung a thick mist, and it did not clear in the area where I was staying all the time I was there.
In Genoa the first thing that struck me was the crazy parking. Vehicles were treble parked at strange angles, stuck on the central divides in the flowerbeds, on the pavements, even in shop doorways. I’ve never seen anything like it. I stopped for coffee, and was told that the parking situation was so dire that the city plans a huge floating car park out in the bay. I think the man was serious.
I wandered round a couple of unremarkable art galleries, sat near the sea front and had my picnic lunch, then set off to explore the old town, a maze of tiny streets near the port. This was a mistake. It was quite picturesque, but I was accosted at every turn. I saw people actually shooting up, and pushers tried to sell me drugs, so I soon got out. I found a park and sat in the shade reading until it was time to go back to the hotel.
I don’t recommend Genoa.
TUESDAY. In the hotel lobby a group of French people waited for a coach to take them on a day trip to Portofino. I saw the coach arrive, and noticed free seats, so I asked if I could join them. Yes. Off we went. As we drove past Genoa the scenery improved dramatically, and when we stopped in pretty Santa Margherita, not far from Portofino, I was delighted. We had two free hours there, then we were to meet at the harbour and make the rest of the trip by sea.
Santa M was still lively, a rather exotic place full of palm trees and other tropical plants. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I enjoyed roaming about looking at the shops and visiting a big street market. In the season, I imagine the place is hellish, but it was mostly locals about now. I found a little snack bar up a side street (never eat or drink in seafront places in southern Europe unless you have money to burn), and I tried the BaskinScam. You say, "I only have €8," (or whatever you feel you want to pay). "Can you give me something to eat?"
Note ; this will not work if there are two or more of you, if you have transport or are trailing kids. It will not work if you are in designer gear, or if you are very scruffy. For just over three pounds I had a huge baguette filled with ham and tomatoes, a three flavours ice-cream and a very good coffee. I walked off towards the harbour.
Sometimes, little wondrous things happen to us out of the blue. Not often. But you know you will never forget them. One came to me now. I had stopped by a large, fragrant, flowering shrub, wondering what it was. Suddenly something was near my face. A tiny jewel, half the size of my little finger, hung quivering and shimmering in the air. As I stared at it the mad thought came into my head that it was a fairy, but then it vanished into one of the flowers. I had seen my first and last humming bird. They are extraordinary creatures, breathtakingly beautiful.
The boat trip to Portofino was very enjoyable, and I gathered that there’s a ferry service most of the year. As for Portofino itself, I’d seen it in travel programs and a couple of films, but the reality is much better. It’s a tiny, horseshoe-shaped bay, with one main street leading steeply upwards to the rest of the town, built on a hill. It has the reputation of being very expensive, and a bit naff because of all the celebrities who go there. I found it nothing of the sort. It’s just unbelievably picturesque and beautiful. Go if you get a chance.
There seemed to be lots of little shops selling lace, which doesn’t interest me, and I walked off first along the right leg of the horseshoe, where I saw a designer dress shop oddly situated next to a very humble house with two old boys mending fishingnets in the doorway, then took the left leg. There were no shops here, and I was looking out to sea and down the coast when I noticed a plaque on a wall. ‘The English poet John Keats stayed here.’ Stayed for a holiday ? Stayed to live for a while? I asked, but no-one knew.
It was coffee time again. I found a place away from the harbour and had just sat down when I saw the ice-cream menu. I couldn’t resist it, and had a ‘citrus fantasy’, orange and lemon ice-cream with liberal lashings of some spicy liqueur unknown to me, and a pile of little langue de chat biscuits. The bill for this was just under £3, and you’d pay twice that at a similar place in the south of France. I lounged around and people-watched, and had a great day.
WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY. What an adventure. An old man who delivered this and that to the hotel told me he ran deliveries to places up in the hills, and asked me if I’d like to go with him. We set off in his rather malodorous ancient van. I can’t remember all the villages we went to. Some were right out of the Middle Ages if you ignored the satellite dishes, and some clung to the hillside in a way that made it obvious that they were there to defend themselves against marauders centuries ago. There were just a few expensive properties, no doubt owned by rich people in Genoa and Milan, but most were simple farmsteads. Life did seem basic there, but there were no signs of real poverty. I was fascinated to see oxen pulling a plough.
Gianfranco, the old man, was running a business I didn’t ever really understand. He would pick up a load of hams at one farm, leave them at the next for tubs of olives, trade those in for cheeses, and so on. What was obvious was that EC rules on home produce were being totally ignored, and that cheered me. People plied us with bread, cheese and olives all day long.
On the Thursday we came across a village wedding. It was extraordinary. Everyone was dressed in 1940’s style. The plump bride’s hair was built into a great pompadour at the front, with ringlets round her neck. Her dress was a hideous white satin crinoline, and she had elbow length white net gloves, with a bouquet of artificial roses. Her groom, about half her size, wore a tight black suit with that greenish tinge that black clothes take on in old age, and his bony ankles and wrists could be seen poking out. Some of the women wore mangy furs, and a few men had bowler hats. But everyone looked very happy. I liked the people I met in the villages, and didn’t mind a bit answering all the questions they asked about me.
FRIDAY. Off on the train towards France this time, and San Remo. This was once a very classy place patronised by the rich, but apart from a few very pleasant parks it’s gone downhill, and really isn’t worth a trip. There’s a seediness about it, and the beach was filthy. Don’t bother with it. I stopped for coffee, and two very old English people came to sit at the next table. They were upset about something, and I asked if I could help.
They had been coming out of a tourist shop in broad daylight when four teenage girls mugged them. I asked if they’d lost their passports or money. "No!" said the old man, indignantly. "We beat them off with our sticks and they ran away." They were adamant they didn’t want the police involved, and from what I’ve heard about reporting such incidents in Italy I sympathised. I admired their spirit, but it decided me to move on, and I took the train down to the French frontier. Here I found a marvellous place, the Hanbury Gardens, created by the Victorian Sir Thomas Hanbury. It covers 45 acres, and is set on a hillside and runs down to the sea. There is an amazing variety of plants, and in the middle a strange mosque-like building where Hanbury is buried. I was told that this garden, too, has lost its former glory, but I still enjoyed it very much indeed.
I took a little local bus into Ventimiglia, and discovered that Friday is the day to go, as they have one of the biggest food, clothes and goods street markets in Europe. It was colourful, noisy and seemed honest in its pricing. There were some real bargains, and I picked up some cheap and unusual necklaces and earrings. If you are in the south of France it would be worth popping into Ventimiglia on a Friday.
SATURDAY. Time for the two day journey home. That’s the problem with coach travel. The trek back can be miserable. It wasn’t too bad, and we had another pleasant stopover in Dijon. I have no desire to go back to Liguria, but I do recommend Consort Travel for coach holidays. I did not regret going on the holiday, as after the initial shock I found plenty to do. I’m convinced that holidays are mostly what you make them, and if you end up in a dump you can usually get out of it on day trips. Liguria in season is by all accounts crowded and downmarket, though not yet the stamping ground of the lager louts, and I didn’t see any ‘English menus’ anywhere. The native Italians struck me as being very friendly.
To be honest, I must admit that many places in Italy are much more worthy of your attention and your money. But few are as cheap. Supermarket food is about the same as here. Buses, very cheap indeed. Hotels, full price range, but the cheapest will be considerably cheaper than here. Meals, cheaper than here. If you get off the tourist beat you can eat very well for £6. Ice-cream. Beware. Italian ices used to be the best in the world. Many mass produced ones are now on sale, and are not much better than ours. Look for a gelateria with the sign ‘Produzione Propria’, which will be offering home-made and invariably delicious ice creams.
The climate is excellent, rarely too hot, and mild in winter. As with most places in southern Europe, spring and autumn are the best times to go. Small children would enjoy the safe beaches, but teenagers and singles could be at a bit of a loss. Old people should find it restful. Everyone should keep away from Genoa and San Remo, but get into the hills if you can..
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Thoroughly enjoyable travel log. I know just how you feel about that humming bird. I have once (and only once) seen a kingfisher and it was such a shock as I was driving on the M25 at the time on a part which is built up quite high above a river valley. It was very early in the morning and for once there wasn't much traffic, but the sight was unmistakable kingfisher blue and orange - it swooped down in front of me down into the valley and was gone.
rosillew 17.12.2003 00:06
That was fantastic, i'm glad what looked like being a miserable boring Holiday, turned out to be a briliant one, it surely deserves an E rate, Heatherx
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Dec 9th, 2003
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