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8 -   Domenica

A beautiful morning this morning (typical!), so a slow start and a few last-minute photographs of the hotel before settling the bill with the patrono (ouch!) and climbing into “Jiulietta” (yes, there has been a subtle name-change over the week as I got to know and respect her better).  With a deep breath and some regret I headed off towards Naples.

The trip over the mountains was fabulous in the sun, and I pulled over several times to photograph Vesuvius (with a visible peak) and the Bay of Naples resplendent in the sunshine.  Traffic was busy for a Sunday, especially around the cemeteries, where there were some quite considerable traffic jams.  Presumably it was the people who were unable to visit yesterday because they were at work, or perhaps it was a housekeeping thing, to clear away the candles and tidy up.  It was probably both.

The Naples motorway was also busy for a Sunday and the drive to the airport was as usual fraught, (scouring the roadside for signs, always afraid of getting lost and being swept away in the wrong direction in the middle of a bustling metropolis).  I do remember however thinking that it was much better than the nightmare drive through Lyon last August. The airport was relatively well signposted and on the bright side, the weather was fabulous and so were the views of Vesuvius to my right and Capri on my left.  I drove along with my window down merrily (and tunelessly) singing Neopolitan favourites to myself.  I had purposely left myself loads of spare time for this drive to avoid worry and it was just as well, because I left the motorway near the airport and drove straight into a solid traffic jam.  I spent a happy hour crawling along in a bumper to bumper queue, desperately trying to work out which lanes I needed to be in to get where I needed to be, and deafened by the continual clamour of Fiat hooters.

I got there relatively relaxed and with time to spare however and found the car hire compound first time. I checked the car in with Avis (25 € administrative charge to deal with the scratch) and caught the bus to the Terminal, where I arrived just before 12.00 for a 15.05 flight.  It wasn’t even on the board, let alone checking in, so I settled down with my book for a long wait.

In fact, time passed quickly.  I read for a bit, checked in my luggage, had a last cappuccino and sweet brioche and before I knew it, the flight was called and we were boarding.

I had a window seat and was treated to a grandstand view of the Italian West coast all the way up to Genoa.  Inevitably, after previous experiences at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I was getting a bit anxious about the fact that I only had an hour to transfer planes and it looked like we were going to land about 10 minutes late.  What was worse, Air France wouldn’t let Alitalia hand out boarding passes for their flights, so I had to check in again in Paris before going through security and getting to the departure gate.  I imagined at least two 45 minute queues there and it wasn’t helping me to digest my prosciutto lunch at all! My only hope really seemed to be if the Manchester flight was delayed.  

In the event, the transfer was very smooth.  I left the plane looking like I was in a long-distance walking race and was the first through passport control.  (Of course, the flic behind the glass made me wait at least 3 minutes behind the yellow line while he chatted to his colleague before he deigned to call me forward to glance at my photo – le salaud!).  Miraculously, the  French had organised the transfer properly.  A special booking-in counter had been set up for the transfer, and a special security cordon.  I was the first one through those too, and ended up at the departure gate breathless but half-an hour early.  I shot off and bought a diet coke and sat down to gather my wits (and my breath).

It was all downhill and easy from there.  The flight was on time, my suitcase was the first off the belt and when I left the terminal in Manchester there was an APH minibus for the car park standing in front of the building and just about to pull off.   Before I knew it, I was driving down the M56, trying to cope with a gear lever and a rear-view mirror that had switched to the wrong side of the car.  I arrived home just after 9.00pm (which was at least an hour before I expected) and started the process of trying to come down from the holiday and recover from the twelve hour journey, while at the same time gearing myself up for work at 8.00am the next morning.  It was going to be a long night!

Within days of course, it was as though I had never left England, as the grind took over and I picked up all the work-related baggage, but I had my photographs and a CD of Neopolitan favourites and I was able to escape every now and then from my bustling classroom in the North of England to re-visit a week of pizza, Chianti, Italian conversation (and driving!), brief but glorious October sunshine, relaxation, and views to take your breath away.  This was my first visit to the Costa Amalfitana.  I know it won’t be my last.

Keith Clarke

November 2003

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