Porto d’Ischia

Posted on May 23, 2017 by cathyharnett

Across the road from the pontoon is a taxi rank. There are lots of taxis here and it is hard to move without one offering his services. The one in pole position when we set out this morning was a mini bus on the decrepit side of vintage with a wiry driver of equal seniority. Lara and I climbed onto the bench seat behind the driver, for which there was just one working seat belt. John sat in front of us in the passenger seat. After wrestling the sliding door shut on us our driver climbed in and set off at a good clip. He let down his window and the breeze to supplement the air conditioning provided by a large blue fan clipped above the center of the windscreen. A thin black cable, amply adorned with electrical tape connected this Cyclops to somewhere in the dash. The cable was kept out of the driver’s way by a piece of string tying it to the rear view mirror. It was not inconceivable that the whole bus was held together with similar bits of string and black tape. We rattled along the windy sea road and into the town. As he negotiated the bends with one hand, our driver pressed a map into John’s hands and tried to point to places on it with the other. John agreed wholeheartedly with whatever he being told and pocketed the map. When we hit the cobbled streets of town, the inside of the cab set up a syncopated percussion of protest. Thankfully we soon pulled up on a corner and our driver pointed out a street and said ‘shopping’. We smiled and nodded and climbed out quickly, so John could pay him. After we had watched him turn and head back we crossed the road and headed for a table outside the nearest café to gather our scrambled senses. John and I had delicious coffees and in Lara chose a cake, which turned out to have been drenched in alcohol. We all had a try.

Porta d’Ischia has more in the way of boutiques and tourist shops, but is still very pretty. The cobbled streets wind up and down around the sea front. Window box style planters sitting in scaffolding frames on wheels are deployed to shut off parts of the town to traffic, so it is pleasant to wander about looking in the shops. There is a beach area down some low cliffs and plenty of brave souls were out on the sands and paddling. The harbour is an old lake, which has been artificially channeled to the sea. Most of the craft sit around the edge, with a large expanse of calm water in the middle. The calm is bought at the price of the narrow entrance through which the huge ferries plough at speed. We walked along the harbour front and found a restaurant past all the fishing boats with a terrace looking out to sea and had a very pleasant lunch of pasta. Lara and I both had tagliolini with a lemon cream sauce, which was delicious and John had seafood linguini. This time we had both wine and coffee and the effects of the wine won out over the coffee, so feeling full and very sleepy we headed back to base for a nap. The taxi back was more swish, the driver rather younger and the journey much smoother, though it did cost five Euros more.

We were all still full that evening and set out to walk to the neighbouring resort of Lacco Ameno, hoping to see a festival of lights advertised for that evening. There was some doubt that we might have missed it the previous night. The festival was due to end with a firework display and Lara had witnessed a magnificent show when she had poked her head up through her hatch after being woken by a series of loud reverberating bangs, which had failed to rouse either John or myself. Lara had not expected the display to go on for long, so did not try to wake us and had witnessed it from the foredeck along with our German neighbours of knife wielding fame. A Google search afterwards had revealed plans for a parade of lighted floats on Friday evening, (tonight), followed by fireworks. The weather forecast for midnight on Friday was for thunderstorms and logic said the organizers had pragmatically brought the festival forward a night, but failed to change the website. Nonetheless we fancied the walk and the resort next door sounded nice, so we set off to see if anything was happenning.

It was a lovely walk round the coast, heading towards the reds of the setting sun. The little resort of Lacco Ameno spread out round the bay and reminded me of the times we walked round the headland from Roses and came across pretty little places. John noted the presence of a new marina, not in our pilot book. The village had a more seaside feel than Casamicciola, with more bars and restaurants overlooking the bay with its fantasy landmark of a mushroom shaped rock. On the way in we passed the light show all trussed up on its’ lorries, which was a shame. Nonetheless the place was still decked out for the festival with flower displays everywhere. The seafront had been closed to traffic by more of the wheeled planters and a series of stalls had been set along it selling crafts and jewelery. In the square a rock band was tuning up and, as we wandered back after walking the length of the front, broke into an old Police track. Tinkerbelle came strolling towards us waving to left and right. Still not hungry we sat in a jazz bar overlooking the beach and sipped wine and Martini. Then it was back along the sea front and supper onboard.

As it turned out the weather forecast was wrong and there was only a little light rain early on that night. Either that or this time we all slept through the noise of thunder.

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Night Vision

Posted on May 23, 2017 by cathyharnett

As the sun was setting gloriously behind the hills we set out into town. John had found a restaurant with good reviews online and it was just a case of us locating it on the sea front.

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I had a memory of seeing the sign, but could not remember where. We crossed the main road at the crossing, with motor bikes weaving behind us as we passed, then crossed the service road, easier as the traffic is one way and then turned left. We sauntered along the front looking left and right to no avail. We turned and walked back, past all the same young men sat outside a bar, still no sign, even with help from John’s phone. On our third pass we fount it. It had obviously been closed for some time. The town was dwindling to seaside cafes, so we turned back once again and headed into the square. The square is very pretty, all potted pelargonium and palms. At the top of it was a Restaurante/Pizzaria with impressive iron gates and mosaic paving. The inside was painted bright yellow, which was excellent, as all the night insects were attracted to the walls not us. There was a terracotta tiled floor and solid wooden tables at which a number of locals were quietly eating. An equally solid looking waiter showed us to one and we ordered antipasti and pizzas. It all came at once and we tucked in, hungry after all that promenading. John and Lara had classic Margarita pizzas, but I went for Carlotta, a blonde with onions and Gorgonzola. She was a revelation. After that we were too full for desert and too keen to sleep for coffee, so paid and left.

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I had been very good over dinner and had only drunk water, largely because the food had arrived too quickly for me to order a glass of wine. Now the three of us sat up on deck sipping white wine enjoying the lights and bustle of the town from across a chasm of the still water. Then we noticed the German man. He was wearing swimming shorts and his belly hung over them, red and glossy. He looked glassy eyed and drunk, pacing about the pontoon holding a large kitchen knife. Both man and knife seemed huge. He staggered our way and we all ducked back into the cave of the spray hood, pretending not to have noticed him and to be chatting.  He halted, said Ciao and stumbled back to his own boat, where he stood at the end of the gangplank waving the knife. We speculated quietly. Maybe he had heard us and thought we were intruders up to no good on the boat and had come out to investigate. Perhaps he was night fishing and had stripped off ready to fillet his catch. Or he could just be a drunken nut best avoided. When we saw him dressed and sober next day he looked much smaller, thinner and more ordinary, not in the least intimidating. He was not sporting a knife. We all said Good Morning like strangers and moved on.

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To Ischia

Posted on May 23, 2017 by cathyharnett

John has planned a tour of the Bay of Naples followed by a jaunt along the Amalfi coast, before everywhere becomes too hot, crowded and hideously expensive. Marinas on Capri are already pretty expensive, so we have opted to stay our first four nights at Marina Cassamicciola, on Ischia. This will take us from Thursday to Monday. Both John and myself have not so fond memories of how hectic Sundays on the water are in Italy, so he wanted to find somewhere we could stay put all weekend. The town here is very pretty, with pastel painted houses ranging up the steep hillsides that sweep down to the harbour, very green at present.

P1190211P1190210There are shops and restaurants just a stone’s throw away,  across the road that runs alongside the marina. The people here have been very friendly and welcoming. All in all we have landed on our feet and are feeling relaxed and happy. Very relaxed after a cold beer and a salad under the shade of the big umbrellas of the hotel Calise, which stands in a little cobbled precinct with a fountain.

We had not planned to set off particularly early, given the short distance we had to travel across the bay, but as it was the first sail of the season both John and I slept badly and woke early. John set the ropes to slip and I made tea. At about eight we could take the suspense no longer and woke Lara, who dragged herself up from the sleep of the righteous and did not look revived by her cup of black Earl Grey hot. She rallied though and helped us cast off. We left the pontoon at nine, cleared the harbour and hoisted the sails for the first time in ages. The main was a bit reluctant to reveal itself, but finally yielded to the combined efforts of John and Lara. Then we sailed on a long sigh of happiness, parallel to the coast, heading towards Naples. Unfortunately once the sigh was done we were travelling with the wind behind us, so could not feel a breath of air and it was very hot. John decided it was time to jibe and with three of us we executed the maneuver smoothly and headed off on an excellent line for Capri. Pity we were bound for Ischia really. On this tack there was a breath of wind from the port, but no shade. After twenty minutes of this we were feeling the heat again and decided to turn on the engine and make some progress, hauling in the jib, but just fixing the main so as to be ready to sail again if the wind came up. Motoring is less peaceful, but we were creating a nice breeze, the main cast a convenient shadow and it was good to be heading in the right direction. Lara sat happily on the foredeck reading.

There were fewer ferries about than when we last crossed the bay and the day was much clearer, with splendid views of Vesuvius disappearing to stern and the pretty painted houses climbing the slopes of the rocky islands ahead. It was all very uneventful, with just a fluorescent red lobsterpot, which turned out to be a floppy party balloon and a few bits of floating debris to avoid. We were inside the Ischia channel, admiring the Castello d’Ischia, rising from its’ steep rock, just keeping an eye on a distant ferry speeding along off the starboard bow when suddenly a giant ferry appeared out of Porto d’Ischia virtually alongside us to port. John pushed the throttle into warp drive and left it to turn away in our wake. Lara read steadily throughout.

After that bit of excitement we slowed down to put lines and fenders on outside Casamicciola. The wind of course had come up to force four just in time for our arrival in port. On hearing that this was often our experience Lara observed we might do better to have a lie in, set off later so as to sail in the wind and then come into port as it died down in the evening. This is sound thinking, but I am not sure I have the stamina for it. I am always glad to arrive early and then relax. John looked thoughtful about the sailing. He radioed in on Channel 8 as we entered the harbour. There was no response, but a chubby man reminiscent of Antonio Carluccio waved at us from the harbour entrance and began to climb down into his rib. John did not think this chap was part of the official process. He was somewhat hampered by his own lack of agility and the arrival into the harbour of a large ferry loaded with lorries. John headed in out of the path of the oncoming leviathan and I spotted a younger, thinner man walking along the pontoon. This one had a hand held radio and looked to be the marinera proper.

P1190214He stood next to a yacht of similar length to Lyra and gestured for us to come in alongside. John reversed towards him, but the wind caught us, so John went forward and set his line again. This time we came right up. It was Genaro, or certainly his Doppleganger. He called out Good Afternoon, took my line and passed me the lazy line, much to Lara’s relief. I walked forward and swapped places with John, trying to keep the slimy line from dripping onto the deck. Lara sorted out the other stern line and it all passed off very smoothly. So now we are here for the weekend and I am really looking forward to it.

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A Late Start

Posted on May 23, 2017 by cathyharnett

This is the latest start we have made to our annual burst of adventure, though last year we spent much of the time before now dodging rain and heavy seas. What is more I have bypassed all the start of season jobs. John and Lara came out a couple of weeks ago and accomplished marvels.

When they arrived Marina Stabia was very quiet. They called me from the bar, morose over their Peronis. The yard had done the polishing well and completed the engine service, but had forgotten to fasten the backstay. John was not looking forward to tackling it next day. Even worse, the posh restaurant was not open, the shuttle service into town was not running and the marina bar was not doing food. They had explored the boat stores and the prospects for the first nights meal were not great, even with their joint culinary inventiveness.

The next evening when I spoke to them they were jubilant. They had found a shop just a short walk away, not very promising on the outside, but glorious within, offering not only store cupboard fare but also very fresh vegetables and a vast selection of bread, cheeses and hams. The two ladies inside had fallen over themselves to be helpful and the Signorina had been in her element and had soon filled the shopping trolley. That night they had feasted on smoked buffalo mozzarella, sooty from the inside of someone’s chimney and delicious and pasta carbonara, made by Lara using the slivers of rich pancetta. News from the list of daunting tasks was also good. Lara had proved an engineering wizard when it came to attaching the back stay and had scrubbed the decks back to their tawny glory. I was glad she planned to come back out with us for our first voyage or John could feel very bereft.
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Now all three of us are here, the bar is doing sandwiches and salads, but the shuttle does not start till June. I have been introduced to the joys of the shop. At the time the older lady was very busy making sandwiches for a long queue of young men, many of whom had driven there specially. We wandered about picking things up, there are no baskets, but as soon as our hands were full, the younger woman came out with bags and took our packages to the till. She then served Lara fresh goods, alternating with the sandwich maker for time on the bacon slicer, large hams flying through the air and settling back on the pile. When we came to leave they both smiled broadly and called out goodbyes. Back on Lyra, there was more cleaning to be done as the rain had deposited a film of red Vesuvius dust on the decks. Encouraged by the news that a party of women on the boat next door had been visited by the electrician, we headed off up to the office and once more reported our broken service column. So far we have not been as lucky as our neighbours, maybe we should send Lara next. The only task left for me to do was the laundry, which is mainly a ferrying job. John has been busy with the chart plotter and we are booked in to Ischia tomorrow after a night in our lovely clean bedding.

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Castellammari

Posted on July 12, 2016 by yachtlyra

Following our afternoon by the pool we had a night on the town. The nearest local town is Castellammari, a seaside resort, which has a cable car running up to the cliff tops and buses to Pompeii. The Marina shuttle bus did arrive on the hour, eight o’clock in our case. We drove around the bay away from Naples through the remains of old heavy industry in otherwise derelict streets, then we joined the traffic queue into town. Nicolette the driver dropped us in the central square and offered us another of her cards. She told us to phone when we wanted to go back and she would pick us up from the same place about ten minutes later. The function of the cards became immediately obvious. She would always be at the marina on the hour and would ferry in whoever was there and pick up anyone waiting as she dropped off. If no one was waiting at the marina, she would only come into town when called. When called she operated a free taxi service. Off she drove and we stood to catch our bearings, bewildered by the level of activity.

It was Tuesday night and the place was humming. Cars and motorcycles streamed round the square where we stood, the pavements were teaming with people also on the move. There were no obvious places to settle. We followed the stream headed for the sea. People were promenading along some old tram tracks that ran just in from the sea front. From the relaxed attitudes of the strollers we assumed the trams no longer ran on them. Along the way were benches packed with older people talking. Stall holders were arranging trinkets and jewelry on tables set at intervals long the route, there were a few tables stacked with holdalls presumably full of similar wares just waiting in the open for the owner to arrive and set them out. After a while we turned and walked the other way and came to a splendid wrought iron bandstand, incredibly tall and ornate, in front of a line of grand old buildings. The platform inside was fenced off because the floor was broken, with skewed pieces of masonry set at angles. Presumably the domed roof was also unsafe. Young people sat on the steps leading up to the bandstand chatting. We turned towards the mountains and struck out to find the cable car, assuming the area around about might have bars and restaurants. We were reminded of Matlock Bath. We had a look in at a Japanese restaurant where mainly Italian staff lounged in a big empty place. As we passed the open kitchen door we glanced in to see lots of Japanese cooks with black and red bandanas tied round their heads working furiously amid clouds of steam.

Once more we turned back to the main square. Our mission on coming out had been to explore, find somewhere to eat and also to locate a supermarket. I spotted a woman of my age with an empty shopping trolley heading down a street we had not explored. I suggested to John that we should follow her. He was busy with his phone, but agreed and off we set. She was walking slowly, chatting away on her own phone. John was proving rather inept at tailing, having difficulties with the elementary principle of staying behind the subject. On occasion he looked likely to take out the subject completely, by walking through her, though I admit he did a good job of seeming intent on his phone. Then he disappeared down an alley to our left, just as our mark picked up speed and turned right. Frustrated I followed John, to discover he had actually been intent of his phone, trying to find a seafood restaurant with good reviews. The Blue Mari has tables spilling out onto the cobbles under green umbrellas. It is all very Lady and the Tramp, though we chose the seafood rather than the offerings from the land. The food was really good and the young staff very eager and pleasant. We plan to bring the girls when we come back in September. Although there was not much on the menu for vegetarians, we felt sure they would be keen to make something. Just across the street was a pizza bar, which also looked worth trying. There were only a couple of tables outside, but the pizzas looked great and a steady stream of takeaway customers testified they tasted pretty good too.

After our meal we headed back to the square, moving faster than the traffic. We overtook a man with two small children travelling on a moped; the smaller child in front and the older one hanging on round his back. Neither child was wearing a helmet. Back in the square we called Nicolette, who said she would be with us in ten minutes. We stood by a tree next to the pedestrian crossing where she had dropped us watching the river of traffic swirl past. Many of the motorcyclists weaving in and out the stuttering cars were bare headed. A group of youths pulled over next to us and sat chatting on their assembled bikes, blocking an entire lane of traffic, with the largest bike stuck out across part of the crossing and its owner stood back from it so the others could better appreciate its size and beauty. The cars just threaded their way past them, no looks, no horns. A middle-aged couple helping a disabled man passed us and guided him into a car parked up to the other side of the crossing. The woman climbed into the driver’s seat, the man went round the back, regarded the large bike, looked for a moment as though he was about to pick it up and move it, but then turned and stepped into the back seat. We watched as they reversed slowly out, coming perilously close to the motorcycle. The youth paused in his conversation to look steadily at the car, but made no attempt to shift the bike back. Then the car was away in the stream, which opened and closed seamlessly around it. This left an awkward space for Nicolette to pull into. She arrived shortly after and simply stopped on the crossing, blocking the road completely. We scrambled on board, with another girl, who appeared from nowhere. She and I wrestled with the sliding door and we were off into the flow and back to the marina.

 

 

 

 

 

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By the Pool

Posted on July 12, 2016 by yachtlyra

After much cleaning of boat and laundering of clothing we headed to the pool to cool off. Repetitive electric fiddle music blared out as we approached and John groaned at the possibility of a water aerobics class, but no a wedding reception was in progress on the restaurant terrace above. Down at pool level it was business as usual, Mums chatting, young girls sprawled in the sun, young men throwing one another into the pool and a rash of ankle biters being thrown around the shallow end by Dads and Grandads. It is a large enough pool to easily absorb all of this, so we had a lovely swim and sat out drying with our books. John noticed a large reel of extension cable standing a few yards from the pool, plugged into the mains. The good news was there was an electrician, the bad news was that he had been on the same health and safety course as the charmed ladder climbers. Again nothing came of the dual with death. A couple of childrens’ entertainers, a man and a woman dressed in matching jeans and braces made a good fist of keeping an assorted bunch of very dressed up kids away from both the pool and their parents. After a couple of hours the duo were looking a bit jaded and called in the storm troopers, who descended from on high dripping sequins and read the riot act. We were very decadent and had a chilled glass of wine, then carried on alternately lounging and swimming.

I have already described the stunning backdrop to the pool, which is immaculate and peopled with very fit looking individuals. We think a number of them are the crews from the Superyachts taking a break from all their polishing. I have not mentioned the parade of new swimming costumes. When it comes to poolside fashion bums are the new black. Swimsuit legs are on the rise, with modesty taking a sudden and sometimes startling plunge. The new cut ranges from a cheekily exposed extra slice of curve to a triangle barely covering the basics, but the trend is to high, wide and handsome. Even a one piece with a most unassuming front exposed a nearly bare behind. The young women look lovely, but this is high fashion and it is taking no prisoners. Granted the overweight are ignored on principle, but no quarter is given to the nobbles of cellulite or the elephantine wrinkles of oft tanned old age. There are sights not for the faint hearted, particularly when viewed from the water below. Young children with bottoms too tiny to support the cut are reduced to waddling along with ducktails of fabric sticking out behind them, cute but strange. So far the Skipper has seemed oblivious to it all, totally absorbed by my Joanna Harris book, ‘Peaches for Monsieur the Cure’. Perhaps it was a subliminally motivated choice of reading matter.

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Journeys End 2016

Posted on July 11, 2016 by yachtlyra

There is something about the last sail of the season that makes me jittery. We were both awake early and decided to set off. The ferries had already started, so John was able to track their course across the bay and he was reassured that our track lay outside the path of most. We left the marina at seven thirty, the sea was flat calm and a mist hung over the land. We could make out the dramatic shadow of Vesuvius ahead, with the industrial skyline of Naples on its’ left flank. To the right the headland wound fuzzily past Sorrento and the twin peaks of Capri were faint shadows to starboard. We are entering territory where every place name speaks of romance and song. More pragmatically I used the AIS screen to keep track of the ferries to Sorrento and Capri, which all passed well in front of us. Other than these, it was Monday morning and all quiet but for a few loitering fishing boats. It took us three hours to cross the bay under engine and by the time we arrived the volcano stood out properly with a shawl of white cloud slung across its’ shoulder.

A Superyacht was heading into Marina di Stabia at the same time, so John slowed to let this pass ahead of us. We could hear them calling the port on the radio and it took them a number of hails before they heard back. As we entered the marina and called up on our own behalf there was no answer, all hands were busy with the bigger boat. We had our berth number and John was all for just heading in there. Knowing this meant a big jump onto a low pontoon I felt less keen. The sight of us passing the pilot boat was enough to wake the radio operator enough to ask us to stand by. We stood by. It is an anxious thing floating about directionless, trying to avoid everything and being drawn closer to it all. Eventually two marineras in a rib came over with the ‘Follow us’ routine. John wanted to tell them we had a reserved berth. He called out the number H57. ‘H’ they shouted nodding and disappeared. From the numbers we realized they were on the wrong side of H. The rib came back out having dropped a man on the pontoon and waited for us. I cupped my hands round my mouth, ‘SCUSE!’. He pointed in, I shouted ‘NO!’, vigorous shake of the head. He motored over and John explained the situation. He drove off and pulled up on the harbour wall to talk on his radio. John began reversing down the correct side of pontoon H, with the other marinera walking along with us as we called out our berth number to him as he kept indicating other berths. John knew more or less where he was going from the plan they had sent when we signed up. H 57 was right on the inside of the pontoon. As we came near it was obvious another boat was moored in the spot. John was understandably cross about this, having taken the trouble to e-mail the marina a couple of days ago with the firm date of our arrival. An e-mail to which he had received a reply assuring him all was ready for us, ‘Avanti’.

Here we were with nowhere to go. John pulled forward and the marinera suggested a berth on the same side for which we set up and helped us come in. ‘Just for one night’. The electricity supply there was not working. Emboldened by his mate’s success the first chap came across in the rib and they had a talk and talked to the radio. ‘One night’ the second marinera asked. ‘Due anno’ John said. This caused surprise ‘One year?’ ‘Two’ John held two fingers up, politely. ‘You will have to go to this office’.

On our way to the office we had a look at the boat in ‘our’ spot. A French boat, it had dedicated lines fixed to the pontoon and a hosepipe joined to the water supply coiled as though it belonged. This was not just some overnighter put there on a misunderstanding. It is a long marina built in front of an old industrial site. We walked past the derelict works, which had the look of a rolling mill.

p1170654Eventually we came to the Superyacht basin, where half of Georgetown was tied up. John explained they were probably registered in tax havens, as the super rich struggle to afford tax. The reception at the base of the tower was unmanned, so we headed off up in the lift with an older gentleman who assured us he would not take long. The first floor was a corridor of doors, made to look like the inside of a ship. The chap from the lift disappeared into it like the White Rabbit. We approached a girl in a large glass office, who wanted to sell us tokens for the laundry. John explained our predicament and her English faltered. She took us along the corridor to the office of another young woman and John explained again. Throughout all of this no one asked us to sit down.

‘Would you like to stay there?’(H41), John was not sure; we mentioned the electricity and were told the electrician would come. There was no need to register our arrival. Here was a booklet, with a miniscule plan of the marina, and here a card with the phone number of the shuttle bus. In case it was late, but it should come on the hour every hour from ten till midnight. ‘And coming back?’ ‘The same. Thank you, bye bye.’ We went away to think. This was not an auspicious start. We stopped off at the marina pub and sat with cold beers watching a couple of men put up shade sails with scant understanding of health and safety. Clearly neither of them had been given ladder training and both were young and immortal. But nothing exciting happened, so we paid up and went back for another look at H41. It is a tight fit with our neighbour Pauline, but John judged that if this was a permanent neighbour that would be fine, as all the pontoons are on the narrow side. Number 41 is easier access than 57 and still well sheltered, so we decided to stay. We decided to tell them in the morning. John plugged our shore power into the box on the opposite side of the pontoon pending the electrician; it is still there.

It was not all doom and gloom. Aside from the derelict works, which are big enough and old enough to have atmosphere, the scenery is spectacular. At the other end of the marina is a yacht club with a terrace restaurant overlooking the whole panorama.

p1170652To one side stands Vesuvius, looking a bit like Ben Nevis from here, then comes the sweep of the bay with its’ islands, then more steep furrowed mountains on the right, flocked with greenery. A cable car runs to the top. At the side of the yacht club is a glorious swimming pool, set about with palm trees. The poolside loungers look across the masts to the mountains. Both of us felt much better after a swim. John booked us into the restaurant that evening. On the terrace we sat watching the sun go down over Ischia, turning the whole bay pink.

The food was good and our waiter charming. After dark there were fireworks at various places along the shore. Tomorrow is another day, and may even bring an electrician.

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Procida

Posted on July 7, 2016 by yachtlyra

The crossing to the small island of Procida, at the edge of the Bay of Naples is just a matter of about thirty miles, but with stronger winds forecast for the late afternoon we rose early and set off at seven, so as to arrive before lunch. It was not as still as mornings usually are, which made leaving our rather snug berth something to think carefully about. Fortunately we do have a bow thruster and John deployed it to good effect, though no doubt waking the neighbours. Although the wind had been strong enough to cause concern coming out of the harbour there was precious little to sail with, so we motored and listened to music. At around eleven we had our first sighting of Italian dolphins off the starboard bow. They were busy fishing, so we could just see their dark backs skimming the surface as they circled, with the seagulls gathering above. Ahead of us the steep sides of the headland and the islands of Procida and Ischia blocked the horizon.

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The better known Ischia is much larger and higher, but promised to be very busy in high season. We had decided to save it for later in the year and had managed to book into the marina on Procida. It was Sunday and as we approached the islands the weekend sailors were out in force. There were also lots of different ferries, all travelling at lightning speed and taking no prisoners. We held our breath watching tiny motor boats cut perilously in front of giant ferries. It was a nerve-wracking end to the morning and did not improve much as we entered the harbour. There were no passenger boats in the marina, but lots of other craft were milling around and a couple of other yachts were setting out. One of them had an azure Sunsail sail cover familiar from our chartering days. Now we were the people avoiding the charter boats, precious about our own yacht. The marina office picked up our call on the radio and said someone would come out to us. It seemed a long wait for them to do so. Behind us a man sat with his family in a grey rib was asking me where we were going in sign language and I had to just shake my head and shrug. Finally a marinera sped over in a tender and headed off with the usual ‘Follow me’. John tracked him across the small space and turned round to back into a berth at the end of a pontoon. We were nicely reversing in when a really beautiful little wooden boat came on our inside trying to cut the corner past us. John gave him no quarter and the interloper looked appalled and backed off to go round the front of us instead. The Sunday morning blood rush to hit the open seas was riding high and as we tied up more boats made there way out past us, all cutting the corner.

In our pilot book Rod had spoken fondly of Procida as not being tarted up for tourists like Ischia and Capri. Being tarted up is one thing, but it could have done with washing its’ face and hands. The harbour wall was lined with wheelie bins swamped by vast mounds of plastic bags full of rubbish. Litter blew in the streets, where grime abounded. On the upside the buildings were elegant in style, with faded and pleasingly shabby paintwork. The trees along the front were glorious, big oleanders smothered in blossoms in shades of pink. We picked a small café with tables in the shade of makeshift constructions. The Maitre D had something of Rowan Atkinson about him as he crept about, head slightly on one side. His food was very good indeed. John had linguini with seafood and I had gnocchi with cheese and tomato, which had great globs of half molten cheese and came with lashings of Parmesan. John had beer and I a small jug of slightly fizzy white wine. The place was deservedly busy with an interesting clientele, many of whom were on first name terms and came out from their tables to greet one another.

We waited until evening to explore further and then only wandered along the flat. We found a bar to sit outside of to watch the France v Iceland game and they brought us so many snacks to go with our beers we needed no tea. By the end of the first half France had settled the match, so we headed off back to Lyra. We have watched a lot of first halves in this tournament, partly as it starts so late here and we usually have an early start. As we walked back to Lyra we looked across at the glittering lights of the Bay of Naples, tomorrow we will be over there amongst them all.

 

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Not a Time to be German

Posted on July 7, 2016 by yachtlyra

Gaeta is strung out across the isthmus, much of the old town was bombed in the war, but relics of the mediaeval past remain. There are a couple of churches, fortress structures and lots of thick old wall to go at. We headed off along the front in the morning, before it became oppressively hot and stopped for a coffee at a stand with tables in the shade next to a small park.

A group of old men were sat round a nearby table playing chess and chatting. It was tempting to linger, but we made ourselves set out again, through the park. It was very simple garden with lawns slightly raised at the top of concrete pavers forming a basic parterre. The beds were edged in clipped box, but the grass itself was loosely cut and full of daisies and clover. In the beds stood various trees, an understory of gnarled olives, short with big girths and frothy tops beneath a canopy of pines and palms. There was a central memorial surrounded by wooden benches. In one corner the bright structures and spongy floor of a children’s play area struck a different note, but generally it was a very restful space. We wandered across the diagonal axis and then crossed the main roads and entered the back streets. There was a small square with a primitive stone lion dissolving in the center and a restaurant creeping up the cobbles. Then we came up against towering old walls merged with scrub. Houses were joined together by stone archways as in San Remo, but it all looked as though a minor earthquake could level it, though it obviously had survived the bombing only to be left derelict and deserted. We threaded our way back to where a road ran parallel to the harbour and followed this round till we came to another square shaded by two rows of trees. Outside terraces of nearby restaurants had taken advantage of the shaded space; the tables were set on decking on account of the slope. Although it was past midday all were deserted, in fact there were very few people about at all. John speculated that they were resting up ahead of the Italy Germany game this evening. We turned and headed back to the front, not sure what to do next.

Along the old quay stood a cluster of white pavilions, with potted olive trees on the corners of each tent. On hoardings around town we had seen advertisements for an olive oil festival and here it was. Not being opposed to the odd dip in the extra virgin, we headed over there. The tents were completely enclosed. Bright pots of plants glimpsed through the gaps hinted that all was primed and ready inside, but the only signs of life were from a line of children jumping into the sea off the harbour wall.

We went back to the park and had a nice quiet sit on a form; after all we are retired. It seemed a long way to walk back to look round the festival this evening. And there was the small matter of the football. Even though it was Saturday the whole town was deathly quiet. John thought we should head back to the sloping square and have lunch and then have a snack tonight and watch the game in a bar near the marina. When we arrived at the square there looked to be people milling around in the middle restaurant and by the time we realised they were all staff we were seated at a table for two in the shade. Our waiter asked if we spoke German and I said a little at which point he took me over to show me the blackboard, which was all in Italian. In English he said it was all fish, though some of it was obviously fish with pasta (my pasta vocabulary is improving). We both went back to the table to share my ignorance with John. The waiter then produced menus in Italian and English and we worked out some of what was on the blackboard and ordered pasta mains, linguini with fish for John and some big tubes with prawns for me, with Caprese salad to start. All told our chap had not spoken much German at all. John speculated that he had been checking whether or not we were supporters of tonight’s opposition, in which case Italian manhood would require them to all piss on the fish. As it was they became quite chatty about what we were doing in Italy and even brought out a Neapolitan to tell us how to pronounce the names of places we were heading for. By the time we left several other couples had been tempted into the restaurant by our presence, no one wants to sit in an empty place. The waiter shook both our hands appreciatively as we left. The olive oil tents were still in a closed scrum, so we went back to Lyra for a siesta ready for the big match.

There was a bit of drama when a boat flying a German ensign came in around three. The wind was blowing pretty strongly and the marineras were bringing him in to the berth on the inside of us, the boat with the Labradors having vacated early morning. A short man in swimming trunks was at the wheel with an equally small woman and an assortment of children ranged around him. He had a friend in yellow shorts ashore helping the marineras. I think this confused matters, because at first he reversed towards a different berth. There was a lot of shouting in Italian across the water and he pulled forward and tried to turn into the space next to us. Unfortunately this lost him momentum and the wind caught him and blew him sideways. He had no bow thruster and came to a halt across our bows with his keel trapped between the two lazy lines and his wife trying to hold them off by pushing on our anchor. By this time John was up there helping her and I followed him the boat hook and a fender. There was not room at the front for all of us, so I went back and lowered our passerelle, so the marinera could come on board to help. He tied a rope to the stranded boat’s stern, dropped the port hand lazy line and hauled the boat down our side. I stood ready with the fender in case the boats should touch and John hauled the lazy line back up once they were over it. They were soon tied up next door, the man was full of thanks and then we all went back about our business.

Once the heat had subsided towards evening we set out to explore the area immediately behind the marina, thinking there would be bars and cafes there. There were not. A narrow pedestrian street running parallel to the one along the quay was actually full of all manner of shops. On the corner a crush of people formed an abstract queue for take away pizza. As we passed the shop there was a smaller orderly line at a side door, presumably those picking up telephone orders. We entered the long run of the street and paraded with the throngs, window gazing. The buildings looked old and leaned towards one another, washing hung from balconies and at irregular intervals metal girders spanned the street to brace it. There were a couple of Catholic churches, doors open packed with supplicants. Every so often came glorious scents from bakeries and the place reverberated with conversation. Down side alleys we could see the sea front, but the alleys themselves were private flats and houses. Eventually we came out at the fish dock, not having found a bar. Heading back along the front there was a place where a few tables and some random plastic chairs faced a couple of screens, with local men chain smoking in anticipation, but we did not want to intrude there. Eventually we arrived back in the bar with the parasols where we had tried the local pie on our arrival. John had the draft beer and I had a bottle of Gran Reserva Peroni, which was rather nice.There were no screens, but just before nine they turned the music off and put the commentary on. Of course this was no good to us, so we headed back to Lyra to watch on our little telly. Unfortunately the only channels we could pick up were local ones, shopping, soap operas and the like. The Apennines had scuppered us. We sat on deck with a glass of wine and followed proceedings via the groans and roars. The German opening goal was an audible intake of communal breath then a deathly silence; the Italian equaliser spawned a rash of fireworks. The penalty shootout was hard to call, but at the end there was just a volley of bangers, somewhere nearby. Had Italy won I am sure the place would have erupted, as it was we had a quiet night’s sleep.

 

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Gaeta

Posted on July 5, 2016 by yachtlyra

Gaeta is a delightful place, built across an isthmus and ranging up the slopes of the headland and peninsula on either side. The scenery is mountainous with cliffs and huge caves; as had been the journey here, with the Apennine range dramatic along the shore.

p1170533 We arrived at around one thirty, having made an early start at six thirty. It was not at all clear where to go, there were strings of yellow buoys and huge concrete port hand markers, but none of it looked much like the plan on our screen. An unpleasant looking sloping wall of rock defined the shoreline; there were various sets of floating pontoons and a military area fenced off with big black plastic barrages, which are designed to trap oil. On shore there were various distinctive buildings, churches, an old fort on the headland and bell towers, but with no obvious center. We hung around by an empty looking pontoon, trying to keep clear of other boats and a derelict port hand marker, the rusting hulk of which loomed perilously astern, half submerged.

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Our radio call had been answered promptly enough, but then no one arrived to direct us. The marinera on the pontoon we could see was doing his best to ignore us. We watched him pulling up lazy a line and thought it must be for us, but he was resolutely avoiding eye contact. Naturally the wind was force three, having been light all day. John did a great job of just hanging there, Lyra looking huge in the confined space. Finally a second marinera in a rib swept onto the scene, but he was busy escorting a motor yacht to the fuel pontoon and waved at us to wait, which we were doing. Having sorted the motorboat out he came back and headed to the guy on the jetty. This we expected. Then the youth on the jetty hopped onto the rib and they both headed out to meet us, which we were not expecting. ‘Follow us’, the older one said and they promptly disappeared in a swirl of wake.

John set off after them, by the time we had reached the end of the line of boats to starboard there was no sign of the rib. We nudged round the line of tethered yachts and looked down the channel behind them. No rib. We carried on to the next pontoon of boats and there was the youth stood a little way in on the inside of the pontoon. There was not a lot of room between the pontoon and the sloping end wall of the marina. John turned Lyra round and we began our reverse park. At this point the rib usually hangs around waiting to nudge your bow if it looks as though it is going astray. Our rib was having to help a dinghy that was just setting off from further along the pontoon and having difficulties with its foresail. This left us coming in alongside a beautiful wooden topped boat with the narrowest of margins and a strong crosswind. I think John had looked too good holding our position in the harbour. The people of the other boat were out ready to fend us off. The man came ashore to move various ropes and lengths of hosepipe he had obviously strewn around to put anyone off coming alongside him. It meant that when I threw my line to the marinera he was not sure which ring to loop it through and just stood holding it, passing me the lazy line. I passed this on to John, who was not happy about leaving the cockpit before we had a line on. He stomped off down the deck with the lazy line. I threw the other stern line to our new neighbour, reasoning he had a right to help out, by which time the marinera had threaded the first line through a ring and passed it back to me to tie off. He took over from the neighbour, who bid me a cheerful ‘Buonjourno’, as did his wife, no doubt they were pleased we were now in without having clobbered their boat in the process. The marinera showed John the power supply and water and said the office was over the bridge, waving his hand vaguely at the shore.

Once we had stopped both of us were dripping with sweat and so took turns to shower before setting off with the boat papers. As we set out we noticed two other neighbours, a pair of gorgeous Labradors, one large, black and fluffy and the other huge and golden. They were lounging on the raised deck and made not a murmur as we passed by. The office was housed in a wooden shed by the marina exit and was not at all obvious. The man who went through the paperwork explained that there was a bigger office further in town, where they spoke English, but as he was so helpful and handed us brochures about Gaeta we never called in there. We headed across the road to a taverna amongst the pine trees and had cold beer and traditional pies, spinach and egg in our case.

Once more it felt much too hot to go exploring. We sat up on deck, now able to enjoy the breeze, watching the comings and goings of other boats. A brand new boat came in alongside us, sailed by a man and his taller son. The lad was obviously teasing his Dad about his lack of height as they stowed their sail away. A French boat came in immediately behind us, sailed by a couple, the man steering and a nervous looking woman prodding at the boat they were coming in alongside with a boathook. The man tossed one of his lines to the older marinera and spoke to him in Italian, at which point the marinera clambered on board and sorted out the lazy line for them. I was beginning to feel a bit smug at us having managed all by ourselves. Then a boat came in manned by a couple with a very attractive daughter in a yellow top and both marineras hurled themselves onboard, working furiously to tie them on. Oh the power of glamour and what it must be to wield it.

That evening we walked along the front to the far end where the fishing boats had set up stalls to sell their Friday night catch.

img_2822There were a couple of fish restaurants and we ate in the first one. They had a banked array of fish on ice, to one side of which a bowl of cockles kept squirting water disconcertingly far. Neither of us has any idea when it comes to choosing fish from such a display, but we settled on one the girl serving picked out and a couple of langoustines. Quite what they proposed to do with our selection was hard to call, but we ordered a salad to accompany them and they brought us a plate of anchovies along as a complimentary starter. While they were cooking the fish the screens flared into life and I moved round to sit next to John so we could watch the Wales match. The waitress asked if they were our team and we said ‘no, Inglaisie’, at which point they all shook their heads sympathetically. The fish turned out to have been grilled, it was very good and the langoustines exceptional. We span the meal out by having pannacotta, but had finished our coffees well before the second half, so came away with Wales losing by a goal. It was a nice surprise next morning to find they had won and are through to an historic semi final against Ronaldo.

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