We’d learned our lines (from The Merry Wives of Windsor) and Falstaff had bought a very bushy beard from a joke shop. Just as two years ago we were performing an excerpt from Shakespeare in his own language amongst lots of Italian thespians, we were at it again.
The trouble was, it’s an open air theatre. Every evening we’ve been here has been balmy, bar one. What a pity – there were miniature lakes everywhere and no chance of laying cables across them. I’d been looking forward in my role as Mistress Quickly to hitting Falstaff with a carpet beater and hurling at him some of the best insults in the English language.
So we packed up our costumes and did what all Italians would do in similar circumstances: went to a trattoria and had a jug of prosecco and a very good meal.
I remembered this palindrome from my school days as we caught the ferry from Piombino to Portoferraio. It had been a long rail journey, not made any easier by the ticket inspector admonishing us for having a ticket for Piombino instead of Piombino Marittimo (which I didn’t know existed, and which was in any case the same price.)
Elba turned out to be a wonderful place for a holiday. It’s a small island, only 17miles long, and very mountainous. The roads have hundreds of hairpin bends around precipices and far too much traffic. We took local buses which are too long to take the corners. A toot at a blind bend was all that saved us from head on collisions, but we loved, in retrospect, the adventure.
Our hotel was perfect: family run, and with its own private beach, and garden. All the meals were cooked on the premises and eaten on the lovely terrace overlooking the sea.
The Napolean connection is everywhere, even though he was only on the island for 300 days. His two villas are worth a visit, especially the hunting lodge with its strange arrangement of the original quite modest house sitting on top of a grander classical base, a later addition.
The highest mountain has a cable car, the cabanovia, which is no more than a metal basket holding two people standing up. It leaves its terrified passengers suspended over rocks and forests, but they’re rewarded with views to Corsica in the distance, and the nearest town, Marciana, has the best restaurant on Elba to reward intrepid travellers.
I’ve just spent the week of half term with my lovely grand daughter Matilda (whom my Italian friends all called La Bella Ragazza.) It was a week of non stop activities, from running ahead of me in the maze so that it took me a further 20 minutes to reach the central mound, to climbing cobbled streets in intense heat, and having endless stamina for all that Venice has to offer, including the campanile of San Giorgio where we were deafened by the bells at 4 o’clock.
I keep a visitors’ book, and it was interesting to read the 3 pages she wrote, with her top five experiences. The best, apparently, was the visit to the deepest pool in the world at Montegrotto. The prospect of breathing underwater for an hour with heavy complicated equipment was more thatn she could bear, but she turned a disaster into a triumph and did free diving to an amazing depth of 12m, and I watched it all though a glass tube which runs through the middle of the pool. There was quite a crowd watching as she swam through the bubble rings created by her instructor Nico. Then of course she had to learn how to make bubble rings herself.
I somehow feel she’ll be back!
Coming from Hadrian’s Wall country, I’ve always appreciated the phenomenal engineering skills of the Romans, but after my recent week in the south of France, I am even more impressed. On our first day we went to a Roman settlement with ruins of villas, streets and shops. There was even a 2000 year old motorway service area equivalent on the main Roman road between Cadiz and Rome. The whole town, Oppidum, was surrounded by ramparts which must, centuries later, have influenced Vauban when he fortified many French towns.
Nearby is an extensive Roman quarry where the sheer scale of the operations is breathtaking. So much stone was removed that it created a microclimate, reaching the water table, and locals used the area to create irrigated allotments for kitchen gardens in use right up to the middle of the last century
The next day we went to the Pont du Gard. This carried the water along a carefully calculated gradient from Uzes to Nimes, and like the Forth Bridge, had a constant team of workers maintaining it, mainly descaling the lime deposits which threatened to clog the “canalisation” of the upper level. It’s possible to walk through this channel and see this at first hand. The bridge is superb, intact and impressive.
Of course Nimes has its own amphitheatre, and Roman remains are everywhere. Interestingly, the Route Courbet runs through this area of Roman remains which he painted, and many of his paintings are now in the Museum Fabre in Montpellier, including “Bonjour, Monsieur Courbet” where the artist is depicted meeting his patron.
The weather in Italy this month has been variable to say the least. We’ve had sunshine, warm enough to sit on a bench with a book, followed by torrential rain and even snow.
We had a guest for the weekend and enjoyed a great Saturday in Venice before the weather broke again. Of course we had no idea that the Beast from the East had a second coming in England. Our guest left for her plane at teatime, but found her flight was cancelled because there had been no flights out of Gatwick.
Easyjet made alternative arrangements for everyone: some had onward flights with connections, whilst most were given a hotel room and meal at a local pizzeria. The next day a bus took them to Milan for a flight back. In the end, I think she quite enjoyed the experience.
This is the second time I’ve been impressed by the way Easyjet looks after its passengers. Long may it continue!
Venice is at its best in winter, once the carnival is over, with mists and empty alleyways. The highlight of my recent few days there was an evening at the aptly named La Fenice (Phoenix) theatre, rebuilt after it burnt to the ground, and not for the first time. We arrived in all our finery to compete with all those fur coats and evening gowns, the sparkling chandeliers, mirrors and gold decorations. Tickets cost an arm and a leg, but for a once in a lifetime occasion it was fabulous.
We had a tiny box which seated four people, and we were on the front two chairs. The production was the Barber of Seville, a familiar opera, but our enjoyment greatly assisted by having subtitles in both Italian and English.
Proseccos in the interval gave the perfect opportunity for people watching, then back for the second half, where the conductor had an active comic role in discussing the music with the performers.
With a magical walk back through a subtly lit St Mark’s Square where the fabulous buildings seemed ghostly and unreal, we almost danced our way home on the Vaporetto.
How wonderful to travel to Paris courtesy of a bit of my recent writing, and even better to travel unexpectedly first class on Eurostar. We travelled in luxury, then onward in somewhat less comfort on the Metro. (Where these days Parisians seem so much more polite. I was offered a seat on almost every trip – or maybe it’s because I’m looking older.)
On the first evening we walked to a local bistrot, L’Alchimiste, which was busy, full of atmosphere and with very good food. To my astonishment I found myself explaining the meaning of alchemy to the young couple at the next table, as well as to our waitress. I suppose these days knowledge isn’t necessary when you can look anything up on your smart phone.
However, the meal was thoroughly pleasant, and I especially enjoyed a tuna steak in honey and fig sauce, and their tarte tatin. In fact, I am revising my recent low opinion of Paris. The inhabitants seemed nicer and the food better.
A couple of observations on the negative side: several small museums which looked promisingly quirky in the guide book have recently closed; and the visit to the Musee des Arts Decoratifs annoyingly charged full price (€11) when more than half of it was closed for renovation, including the parts we had really wanted to see. Only when we had paid did I see a small sign on the desk indicating this, and the assistants certainly didn’t inform us.
I need to write to the Museum Director!
I have always liked spa towns, not so much for the spa treatments, but because they invariably have fine architecture and lovely parks.
On this year’s drive back from Italy, we decided to take in the ultimate European spa town of Baden Baden, and stayed amidst the (slightly faded) grandeur of the Baderhof hotel which was where the Czar and Czarina used to stay.
It was trying to snow as we arrived, and getting dark, so not worth exploring the town until the next day. However, the thermal baths awaited! We donned the towelling dressing gowns provided and went to the indoor pools, one of which was the temperature of a hot bath. From this pool there was a small entrance to the outside, hung with plastic strips. Even though it was snowing, I swam through into the darkness. Presumably they had assumed nobody but a mad Englishwoman would want to swim outside in such awful weather, so they hadn’t turned the lights on.
In the steamy darkness I couldn’t really make out where the edge of the pool was, nor where it became shallower with steps. The result was that I grazed my knee and bumped an arm, but it was worth it. How magical it felt!
I’ve learnt a new Italian word :frantoio. It means not only the millstones used to crush the olives, but the place where they make olive oil.
In the picturesque village of Valnogaredo in the Euganean Hills there’s a 17th century villa, and in what was once the barchessa there is now a family owned olive oil mill, small, but producing oil of excellent quality. I arrived to talk to Paolo, the owner, and learned a great deal in one short hour.
I was surprised that both green and black olives are crushed together rather than separated. In fact, some varieties produce both colours on the same tree. The olives are gathered after a machine has gently shaken the tree so that they fall on a ground sheet, and are processed within 24 hours.
An oil which is designated as extra virgin has to meet specific criteria including acidity, flavours and oxygenation. I thought it had to do with a first or second pressing, but no.
This year’s harvest has been poor because of the spring weather, so the ancient granite millstones are not in use this time, and the oil is being extracted by centrifugal force. It emerges from the machines in a steady stream of golden green, and tastes fantastic when it is newly produced, as I’ve described in a longer piece I’ve written for Italy Magazine.
People never fail to amaze me. A couple of months ago I agreed to show some people I’d never met before around Venice, as it would be their first visit. They were very nice, pleasant company, and well educated, and yet….
I could hardly believe their complaint about getting a taxi from Marco Polo airport to their hotel the day before. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take them there.
“Can’t you take us to the hotel?” they asked.
He just pointed at the water in the canal, they said, and said he could go no further. They then spent the next two hours wandering around trying to find where they had booked.
You’d think everyone knows that Venice has no cars, and that if you’re planning a holiday you might check out where exactly the hotel is. You’d also think that people would realise that it would be pointless to get a taxi there, but either travel by boat to the nearest point, or by bus to the terminus, which is of course where the taxi dropped them off.
On a brighter note, we had a lovely day ‘doing’ the main sights of Venice and had a great lunch on the Zattere watching the boats go by.