A Weekend Away

The life raft service man e-mailed John to say that he will be able to bring the life raft back early next week. We had hoped it would be back this week, but it was good that he let us know. The weather is due to turn warm again for the weekend, but we cannot sail without a life raft. John did some research and reckoned that at this time of year we go to Capri for the weekend and stay in a hotel for not much more than it normally costs us to rock and roll in the marina there. I did not need much persuading. We packed our small backpacks and set out walking into town, caught an early train to Sorrento, where we paused for coffee, crossed on the ferry and had lunch at around two in Lo Zodiaco on Capri watching the turmoil in the harbour and keeping out of the crush ashore. It is one of the restaurants near the marina and we have enjoyed eating there before of an evening. We shared stuffed courgette flowers and I had fish cooked in ‘crazy water’. I asked the waiter what the crazy water was, but he misunderstood me and just said ‘sea bass’ and was obviously very busy, so I still don’t know. John had a fabulous mixed seafood linguini. Fortified by all this we set off shrugging our way through the milling crowds; up the funicular, through the square, along the avenue of posh shops and down a side street to our hotel, immaculate in its blue and white tiles. Our room overlooks the pool and one of the Faraglioni Rocks and had a bath. I had a long soak before going down to have G&T’s on the terrace prior to heading out to a restaurant, which on booking had offered views of the sun going down on the famous rocks. Sadly from my seat a man in a red sweater obscured them, but we were soon plunged into an inky blue night and I did enjoy the combination of mussels, saffron and linguini. Half a day and two meals in to our stay in Capri wandered back along the narrow streets.

Day 2: John heroically offered go up the chairlift with me to the top of Mount Solaro. I love the chair lift, sitting with my feet dangling in space being drawn slowly up and up above the wildflowers and gardens with just the quiet hum of the machinery and all the busy bother of humanity melting away below. John is not at all keen on it. To get to the chairlift we took a taxi to Anacapri, a thrill ride in itself not even Top Gear have tackled. When we arrived the mountain was swathed in cloud so we went for a coffee at one of the cafes by the steps. The owner quietly suggested we change table, as a tour guide was due to address her party from a table just behind – in Danish. We moved and sat in the sun drinking coffee for a while. Then we explored the shops. Finally John decided to bite the bullet and I had a lovely ride up in front of him and he enjoyed arriving at the top. The cloud mostly still obscured the Faraglioni Rocks, though we were afforded glimpses as vapour streamed up from the cliff edge of the whole toe of the island with boats speeding towards it from all directions. I bought John a well earned Peroni and we had a wander round the stony garden at the top before queuing to catch a chair back down, which is even more exhilarating as the chairs fly over the edge into space. An added bonus of taking the trip at this time was the many sparrows nesting in the hollow horizontal sections of the pylons. Each approaching support was heralded by a cacophony of cheeping, with adults darting in and out and at one point two youngsters poked their heads out of an end to have a look at me. Once back at Base Camp 1 we headed off to the Villa San Michele, to wander in the lovely gardens and have bruschetta on the rooftop terrace, where a wedding party was in full sway.

The Villa is so peaceful, even with a wedding on, that it was a shock to come back into the throngs milling about the steps at the foot of the chairlift. There was a relatively short queue for the bus, but as each tiny bus arrived already packed to the gunnels and either only took on a couple of people of drove straight past without stopping, this line steadily increased. After another tour of the nearby shops we joined the unruly scrum waiting for a taxis, which came in feasts and famines. A shiny blue bridal car arrived for the happy couple from Villa San Michele, its’ driver cheerfully repelling would be boarders. A collective murmur of appreciation broke out as the bride in her stunning frock cut a glamorous passage to her carriage. Then the wedding photographer set about stage management of the scene, pushing back the crowds and dictating terms of departure to the bride and groom, but his reign was cut short by the arrival of four large open top taxis. A large bearded man, responsible for allocating taxis to the waiting throng set matters straight as to who was actually in charge, the muddled crowd milled forward under his direction and John and I were allocated a taxi right on the edge that managed to whisk round and set off down to Capri at speed leading the charge. The centre of Capri town was heaving with people, so we headed back to our hotel and a very relaxing afternoon by the pool, sunbathing as the olive trees dropped tiny flowers onto us and swimming in the bracing waters looking across the infinity drop to the Faraglionis.

That evening we made our way back into town, in the peace that follows the departure of the main ferry services. We had a table booked at Da Giorgio a ristorante with a wood fired pizza oven and a stunning location overlooking the harbour. This time our table was right on the edge of the fabulous view. We shared a saffron risotto and baked fish and it was all so good we reserved the same table for tomorrow night.

Day 3: After breakfast we set out into the early morning peace, mindful to move aside for the silent but numerous electric vehicles weaving around making deliveries up and down the steep street. Most places were still closed, so we paused for a coffee in the square, being careful to pick the café where all the old locals were sitting over their morning espressos. I’m sure we paid triple the amount they all did. As we sat the first tour parties began assembling at the head of the funicular, so we set out to have a look at the garden before it became overrun. The doorways of the designer shops were still furnished with bin liners and the bougainvillea draped passage to the garden the province of dog walkers. We paid our 2 Euros strolled around until the place became besieged by a large group with a strident guide. Following the garden we had planned to walk down the snaking Krupps road to Marina Picola, the other smaller harbour on the island, but the way was barred to us. A notice sited the danger of falling rocks. Undeterred we decided to find the alternative path from the square, but before that headed off to look round the monastery, which we can see from our hotel room.

Entry to the monastery was free on account of the building work going on. A large bank of seating was being erected on in the cloister over the meadow. We will have to look and see what event is in the offing. The sound of power tools and hammering rather shattered the usual peace of the buildings, but the half abandoned gardens were still an oasis of calm. We celebrated with a selfie in front of the Faraglionis, not easy given how far below us they were. We went to have a look in the exhibition rooms, but they were between shows, though the passage through the empty spaces was pleasant. The overgrown courtyard garden could have been a show garden at Chelsea; full blown roses, citrus trees, swathes of sage and rosemary set in a matrix of feather headed grasses and tiny wildflowers set inside mellow walls. Clusters of green embryo grapes were beginning to hand from the pergola, perhaps when we come again there will be fruits.

Onwards to Marina Piccola, retracing our steps back to the square, out along the road to Anacapri and down onto the footpath leading steeply down to the far shore, just us and a few locals heading home with their bags of groceries. Eventually the steep path gave way to sets of steps and we met the end of the road, cobbled area where the buses and taxis could turn round. It was hard to see the shore below for the terraces of swimming platforms and restaurants, but we found a way down to the tiny harbour and a pebble beach reminiscent of Cornwall. We sat on the edge of the path in the sun calmed by the rhythm of the sea. Next to us sat a chap swigging a bottle of cold beer, so after a while we went in search of our own. The nearby beach-bar was clatteringly busy and we were avoiding the young man at the harbour trying to inveigle us onto one of his deckchairs as we passed on principle, so we went back up the cobbled square. The bar there looked more interested in avoiding custom, the waiter topping up a wine glass at one empty table and a woman talking incessantly on her phone holding the back of a chair at the other one. To our right a hot looking man in a starchy white uniform stood holding a menu at the entrance to a beach resort. We looked over the edge to the lido below and a stout individual in shorts waved for us to come down. This went slightly against our principles of ignoring those who tout, but the restaurant and looked busy and a man was chiselling away at an interesting mound of salt crust, so we went half way. “We just want beer”, I said, very firmly, “No Problem”. We were waved through and passed baton-like through a series of smiling young men as we wound our way down the steps and onto a wooden platform to a table in front of the full glory of the Faraglioni Rocks. It made for the ultimate beer photograph. After a respectful interval our young man sidled a snacks menu onto the table, “In case you want “. There were variations on sandwiches, wraps and toasties. We opted for Crostoni, which he explained as being big versions of Crostini. It was a round of toast on which had been piled a chef’s salad of rocket, tomatoes, mozzarella, tuna and olives. After coffee he offered to take our photograph in front of the rocks and I swapped my seat accordingly. It is definitely somewhere to go back to for a full meal in the shaded restaurant, but we had a date with Giorgios for the evening. We climbed up to the cobbles square and stumbled into a taxi, which spirited us up to the top. Mindful of the forecast of rain to come we bought umbrellas, which proved very necessary. Our early evening drinks stop was called short as the rain began and we arrived at Da Giorgios half an our early, but they had our table ready and nodded sympathetically about the poor weather.

Day 4: Raining steadily. We set off straight back after breakfast, passing sodden tour groups making the best of it. The connections came thick and fast and we were soon speeding across a slightly bumpy sea to a dripping Sorrento. We had just missed a train, so waited about an hour, but at least were able to secure dry seats. Back on board it was as if we had never been away.

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Monsoon Weather

A storm of heroic proportion rolled in around lunchtime. Rain teemed down and the wind lashed the palm trees like a scene from Key Largo. Fortunately we were inside the Marina bar at the time, midway through our pasta of the day watching it all through the glass walls. The waiter rushed to fasten the doors and we hunkered down as tables and chairs skedaddle along the terrace outside. A couple of the marineras had been having lunch too and reluctantly set out in the lull as the eye of the storm passed over, the waiter holding onto the door as they passed through. Coffee seemed the better part of valour and sure enough the second round had started thrashing the vicinity before our espressos arrived. We waited till the worst of the fury had dissipated before making our way back, hoods up. Once onboard John put the heating system on for the first time since leaving Lymington. Once the dust had burned off it was very cosy.

 

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A Day Trip to Sorrento

The weather was due to take a turn for the worse, blustery with occasional showers, but it dawned fine, so we decided to chance it and go to Sorrento on the train. By walking briskly and an element of good fortune we caught a train before ten and so found seats, but we arrived gasping for coffee. Mindful of the grim stuff on offer at some of the pavement cafes we opted for one in the old town and kept it black. Fortified we wandered down to the front, to look over the edge to the lido and harbour. It was blowing strongly in from the sea, piling clouds up ominously ashore. We had a look in the cloister garden, where a display of marquetry landscapes had been set on easels along one wall and admired white roses in the square outside, before heading back to the warren of narrow streets for shelter. After a bit of window shopping we checked out the art gallery, but were not enticed by the comic art work currently on show, so made our way back into the labyrinth and looked round the art shop, Terrerosse, instead. John bought himself a new mug for the boat and we admired a rather splendid wall clock. Carrying on into the street of the wild rabbits we managed to find yet another route round to the tiny harbour of Marina Grande. The wind was still bowling in from the sea, but we were pleased to see the Taverna Azzurra da Gennaro was open and had all the polythene walls down. We threaded our way along to it, past the movie posters of a young Sophia Loren. A large one opposite the restaurant is actually a blind hiding a door through which they take deliveries. Nothing much was happening today. A group of waiters and men from the boat hire businesses stood around smoking and laughing, clearly not expecting trade to pick up any time soon. After a stroll along the front we turned and headed back into the shelter of the plastic wrapped tables, the waiters sprang to life and brought us crab ravioli in a glorious bisque with a bottle of chilled local white. The afternoon became suffused with a warm glow as we headed back into town and completed our shopping. We bought biscuits and chocolates from the irresistible Nino’s, John replaced his sagging wallet and I bought two handbags from the big leather shop, quite a spree for us. We headed back with all our parcels and an evening in front of the wireless.

 

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Up,Up and Away!

We had another early start and a long stroll into town in the sunshine to the station. This time we bought tickets to the cable car and turned to the right along platform one. We walked parallel to the tracks, scrub on either side and came to a deserted building, with cables running to the pylons striding up the mountain. Inside it was not clear where to go to access the car, but there were posters giving the history of the cable car, so we were in the right place. A sprightly gentleman with a beard appeared and we looked at him expectantly, but he and his wife were fellow travellers, just arrived on the train from Sorrento. We all sat in plastic chairs and waited. The timetable had us down to leave in two minutes. This did not look likely to happen, until a cab came hurtling down the cable and stopped somewhere above us. People then arrived, people coming out of the car and people coming into the building from the station. An automatic metal gate slid open and we climbed the stairs to the operating floor, showed our tickets to a man in uniform and boarded our cab. He followed us in, locked the doors and we began our accent. I had headed to the back of the car so as to see the Bay laid out below as we rose, up above the tall buildings of Castellemarre, up above the trees. Magnificent.

 

 

 

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Pompeii

The weather for the next couple of days is forecast to be good, there is still the washing to do, but we are not yet in extremis, so set out for Pompeii. We visited two years ago on with Lara and Katie on Lara’s birthday in September and were amazed by the scale of it. That and the heat proved very difficult for John because of the pain from his knee. Heroically he managed to cover much of the site, but was not fully able to enjoy the experience, so we have been meaning to go back and the cooler spring weather was an opportunity to do so. We walked into town and at the station discovered that the cable car was operating again. The washing may have to wait another day too!

The train journey to Pompeii is relatively short, some of it backtracking the distance we walked from the Marina to Castellemarra. The train station at Pompeii is just across the road from the entrance, where the queue for tickets was already on its’ third loop. We threaded our way round, bought our tickets and then headed into a nearby room to collect our free map and guide. Armed with these we joined the throng going through the turnstiles and clambering up the boulders-like cobbles threading up through the ancient town walls. The site was much less dusty in spring, the grass lush and littered with yellow wildflowers and washes of poppies.

It was easy to picture the piazza of the forum in its heyday, the public buildings giving way to a gallery of small shops, the people milling about as tourists do now and one side dominated by the towering presence of the volcano. It is less easy to imagine the houses in the streets moving away from the forum. The guidebook speaks of some houses occupying a whole block, but which spaces were interiors and which courtyards and how to distinguish the many rooms of these vast houses from those of smaller dwellings side by side along the street? The guide book is organised into districts and the houses very comprehensively labelled, which is just as well as we often thought we were in one district only to find we were either in a completely different area or on the cusp between two. We ran into difficulties when the number and title of a house in the book was not to be found at all and were lucky to identify some places from photographs. The courtyard of the House of the Faun, named for a statue found inside turned out to be the house of a small boy wrestling a very large fish, prototype for many a fountain. The Faun turned up later when we were not expecting him and there were figures of a world war two soldier and a Pokemon we had not anticipated at all. Perhaps they move around of an evening. The guidebook gave no indication why the owner of the House of the Tragic Poet was any more tragic than his neighbours, the butcher, baker or publican. Certainly his Beware of the Dog mosaic doormat suggested an individual with a reasonable sense of humour. Before heading further into the site we stopped for a toasted wrap sitting on the steps of the café.

After lunch we set out along one of the long streets bridged by stepping-stones, set high so that Roman pedestrians could cross the road above the filth running along the streets. On the main thoroughfares mesh infills fitted between the stones allowed for wheelchair access, an innovation since our previous visit. There were other changes marking progress. Some of the villas we had been able to go into last time were closed by locked metal gates, but other areas that had been barricaded by rusting metal girders had been made safe and opened up. The afternoon was hot, the dodging the crowds by climbing up and down the high pavement edges beginning to take their toll. The road we were following was blocked by metal fence panels, so we backtracked and were caught by the allure of trees and a green space down a side street. A garden had been planted in one of the courtyards, a box parterre containing oleander trees and roses; probably not strictly Roman, but it gave a sense of a home. The green space was welcome after the parade of streets and walls. This was an area we had missed on our last visit. We continued down hill and turned into a small amphitheatre, where a choir of French schoolchildren were being coaxed into a performance of The Lion Sleeps Tonight by a rather glamorous music teacher. She stood at the front conducting and singing along in the manner of all music teachers, while her colleague filmed them on a mobile phone. The rest of the class sat on the terraces trying to look unconnected with it all. After a faltering start, held together by the determined voice of the teacher, they began to enjoy the acoustics and ended a strong second chorus with a deep thrum of Wimberways, before the teacher, bringing her forefingers and thumbs together, drew a line in the air that brought them to a resonant silence, to be broken by applause from the bystanders. After this welcome pause we carried on through the theatre complex to a cloistered area and then on to the large amphitheatre, where we had a seat in the stalls and consulted our book. According to our guide this was one of the first areas to be excavated. Amphitheatres are probably very satisfying structures to unearth, I can well remember the excitement of exposing the buried steps on Cleethorpe’s sea front as a child. It struck me that huge as the city of Pompeii seems, because it is the most complete Roman complex to which we now have access, it must have been a small town compared to some of the sites of really huge amphitheatres, such as the one we explored at Cartagena. We climbed up the steps and were rewarded by views across to the sea from the top, but there was no way out, so we retraced our steps down and headed for the exit.

We had not managed to find our way to the abandoned section with the exit we used last time, with the vast dogs, but I could not face the glass rooms in which where lay the cocoon-like plaster casts, capturing the last moments of poor souls entombed in the ash. Having reached saturation point we headed back to the main entrance, bypassing the museum and gift shop and headed for our train back. It was a long weary walk back from the station, but much less stressful than the dubious taxi journey of our previous visit.

 

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Progress

We woke early thanks to the alarm and were thankful for the blue skies and sunshine that greeted us. The fabric shop man arrived promptly at nine swaddled in his duvet jacket with a small bag of fabric samples and a measure. He regarded our Bimini, with horror. It looked decidedly shabby, not helped by our makeshift alterations. We assured him it was not his work and showed him why the fabric shape needed to be changed so we could sail with the Bimini up and still operate the manual winch. We smiled encouragingly. He took out his phone, which was equipped with a voice translator and we had a fun time to and fro with it, checking parameters. He sat on the edge of the stern, gesturing for John to join him. After counting the zips and making a couple of measurements he matched the fabric and calculated a price, which John agreed to. Looking rather solemn our man asked us to be there when he came to make a fitting a week before the job would be complete, on 8th June. We agreed and shook hands on it and paid a deposit in cash. He gave a firm nod, packed his bag and set off back along the pontoon with a firm step. One down, two to go! We sat out in the cockpit at the ready with our books.

Ten minutes or so later a man came up to us on the pontoon, and diffidently said hello. He was from the engine servicers. We stood and asked him to come on board. He shook his head, “I just wanted to let you know I am here. I must wait for the engineer” with that he smiled sadly and wandered back along the pontoon. We sat back down and waited on. At around ten the man returned with said engineer, who was rather more brisk. He shook hands and asked if we had run the engine. No. Five minutes would help warm everything up. John started up the engine. The engineer came onboard and went below. The first chap stayed on the pontoon and smiled apologetically. John then went below and gave his tour of the engine access points, but the engineer seemed more than cognisant about our set up. He spoke English fluently and asked very pertinent questions. John seized the opportunity to query him regarding our recurrent problems with the starter motor catching fire and he was completely unfazed and thought the problem to do with a relay switch, he would check after the engine service. Then the first man began to ferry equipment on board, which we passed in a chain down to the engineer, before the man himself finally came aboard and disappeared below. They removed the companionway stairs and lay paper on the floor prior to embarking on the most thorough engine service we have yet witnessed. It took some time. We read. During the time John received a phone call from the life raft people asking if there would be anyone on hand to help carry the life raft to the van. John said yes, went for a trolley, hoisted the raft onto it in readiness and pushed it onto the main thoroughfare out of our way. We read on, occasionally John was asked to start the engine again. Time passed slowly, with just the murmur of quiet voices from below.

A rather distinguished looking man came along the main pontoon, hands in the pockets of his casual jacket. He had a reticent air, but wandered onto our spur, giving Lyra the once over. After a whispered consultation John offered him our life raft to service. “No, no, I am just looking at the boats – this is a very nice boat.” “Thank you”. We sat back down. When the man for the life raft did arrive he was a very big lad in a grubby grey T-shirt, who looked more than capable of hefting the life raft onto one shoulder and carrying it away. He seemed grateful for the trolley and even more pleased when we told him he could leave it back at the entrance. We could not give him the existing certificate as it was down below behind two men and various bits of engine, but he just shrugged and set off pushing the trolley. I suggested we e-mail a photo of the certificate when we could access it.

Finally the stairs went back in and the non-engineer began carefully carrying tubs of used engine oil and pieces of equipment away. The engineer asked for the engine on again. “Can you hear it?” No, the engine sounded good to us. “It is saying ‘Thank you’, that is the sound of a happy engine!” We smiled and nodded. John asked him about the relay, but we had jumped the gun, the engineer had not finished yet, he needed to check the impeller; we could turn the engine off again. More time passed. Then he looked at the relay. He had John turn the ignition to the first position. He asked if we had a cable tie. Now had he asked for another impeller we could have offered him a choice of about a dozen, having a spare John had bought and inheriting a collection from Alan, but there was not a cable tie to be found on board. Undeterred the engineer said he would call back, when he next came on the pontoon, he showed John the casing of the relay in question. Around it had been wrapped a cable tie, which was loose. If he pressed on the casing so a better connection was made as evidenced by the engine fans coming on. He thought this dodgy connection was the source of our problems and his solution was simply to replace this loose cable tie with a tighter one. After that he shook hands with both of us and left, so his companion could do his bit, which was to take payment. They took cards on a mobile machine. And so by 1.30 we were done with visitors for the day and on the job list there was only the nav. lights to check, which John did later that night, pacing about on deck and calling them out as I switched them on and off from below.

 

 

 

 

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Making a Start

Remembering the cold miserable April weather of previous years, we delayed our departure for Italy till May, to be met by blue skies and sunshine, the roadside verges livid with fluttering poppies. Lyra was not coated in red dust either. We dumped our cases, donned our shorts and headed for the bar. A brace of special Peronis, two paper plates of today’s fresh pasta (tubes filled with aubergine and mozzarella in rich tomato sauce “bakked in the ofen”) followed by glossy espressos. “This is the life!” Then came a suitably lazy afternoon and beans on toast with Henderson’s relish for tea, courtesy of the Mustard Bus supplies from last year.

Day two, Friday, and “the party is over”. The weather started much colder and I started with a cold. My throat ached and I had no energy. John said he felt the same. We needed supplies, so opted for the short walk to the little shop with our trolley. The ladies there were welcoming as ever and we came back fully loaded. John seemed fully recovered and announced plans to give the decks a first going over after lunch. I felt drained. We lunched on bread, ham and tomatoes, followed by black coffee, and then I retired below for an Uncle David power nap. (Drink strong black coffee; set your alarm for half an hour and go to sleep before the caffeine kicks in. When the alarm sounds you wake raring to go). Needless to say I set no alarm, but when I woke I did feel much better and set about cleaning the inside, starting from the stern. The low temperatures made my task much easier, as being sealed in below decks as John sloshes water about can be oppressive in the heat. At the end of the day we both felt we had made good progress. Then John wrote his usual to do list of jobs. I could see jobs drifting away into the future like a Star Wars intro, and began to feel tired again.

Saturday and the rain began, heavy downpours interspersed by drizzle. I felt much better, but the long walk into town would have been asking for a soaking, so we nipped back to the local shop at the first weather window and now have enough to tide us over the weekend. Afterwards I again felt really drained and had a lie down, while John soldiered on with his list.

Sunday, declared a day of rest, with no chores. Not that I haven’t been doing plenty of resting anyway. The skies were less threatening, but it was cold and very windy. We wore raincoats on our walk to the bar and opted to sit inside on arrival. Everyone else was doing likewise. The Italian faces around us are beginning to look familiar, though we seldom see anyone from our pontoon in there. Two fresh pasta choices on a Sunday, John had courgette linguini and I had thicker scialatielli in an aubergine and tomato sauce, which John had to help me out with. We toddled back to Lyra full as ducks under towering black skies and sat below listening to the storm come in, roaring wind building a percussion of ropes on masts and groaning fenders to fever pitch. It went on all night. We slept badly and woke up feeling tired. I woke a fully-grown snot monster, constantly sneezing and blowing my nose, in no fit state to show myself in public, let alone walk into town to the supermarket. John sent off e-mails chasing the life raft service company and requesting an engine service and then heroically set about changing the toilet pump. He is becoming a bit morose about the lack of progress and the miserable weather. I don’t expect the sight of me is helping.

Tuesday, and I am much more presentable and feel relatively lively. We went up to the bar for croissants and coffee and bought washing tokens from the office. After picking up the red trolley we took the long walk into town and called at the upholstery shop, Tappezzeria d’Arte, en route to the supermarket. They are the people who made us the new cockpit cover two years ago and we are hoping they will be able to sort out our sorry Bimini at along last. The owner and his wife were stood together as we entered. After a halting start they remembered us and their smiles broke out. Another woman arrived behind us and was treated to a torrent of Italian, about us having a ”barque”, that we had placed an order “doue Anno” ago and here we were happily back, or so we surmised from the gestures. Our proficiency in Italian has not improved at all in the interim, but we had prepped a photograph of the Bimini on John’s phone to show them. With a bit of pointing at the calendar the owner arranged to come over to measure at nine tomorrow morning, so we left the shop much encouraged with all three staff wishing us good day. The supermarket was quite peaceful and we were soon plodding back with a full load, which we plundered for lunch. During the afternoon we washed the cockpit cover and put up the Bimini ready for morning. First John had a phone call from the engine people, who are also going to come at nine tomorrow and then came a call from the life raft servicers, who will send someone to collect tomorrow, which promises to be a rather busy day.

Early this evening there were fireworks in spite of the rain and a glorious rainbow over the derelict steelworks coming to earth in Castellemare.

 

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