About This Blog

This is a record of what we did and what I thought about it while I spent two weeks in the Sabine Mountains in Italy from August 5 to August 19th 2006.

The cast, all playing themselves, is as follows:

Nathan Chapman (that's me, obviously)
Zoe Chapman
Jacquie Penrose
David Penrose
Alice Corrigan
Liam Penny
Pete Woodward
Sally Hartley
Peter Corrigan
Ingrid Corrigan

Day 1 - Travelling

Our fourth wedding anniversary ended with a test of endurance. With a minibus arriving to collect the intrepid travelers at an ungodly 2.30 in the morning, Zoë and I decided it would be folly to try and get some perfunctory winks only to wake up groggy and bewildered and forget something crucial like passports. So we stayed up until the cab arrived bang on schedule, with only the company of a gargantuan spider to keep us on our toes.

In the dead of night the ten of us crawled into the minibus like a gang of incredibly polite robbers on a midnight heist, and only an hour or so later we were at Heathrow. Night driving is fantastic, the roads are quiet, the company is focused simply on staying awake and you are virtually guaranteed to arrive at your destination on time - I would recommend it to anyone.

This stress-free journey was welcome as we faced the bizarre choreography of countless cues to check in ourselves, our luggage, and our belief in the glory of being alive while waiting eventually to board our 6.40 Alitalia flight to Roma Fiumicino airport.

Now, I am a nervous flyer. Not in the hysterical sense that selfishly disturbs other nervous flyers, rather in the sense that my body and brain are engaged in a debate about whether being airborne in a piece of metal powered by a highly flammable liquid is wise or even possible. Thus I quietly (and very Britishly) quake and take deep breaths as we begin our assent.

This fear, like so many phobias, is completely irrational, yet at the same time follows its own skewed logic that seems personally reasonable to me. Two examples would be:

· The bigger the aircraft the safer I feel, which surely goes against my skepticism about the physics of air travel

· I feel tremendous excitement and even enjoyment at technically the most truly dangerous stages of flight: take-off and landing. The raw power of the thrusters is tangible, and almost makes me believe that this tin can actually has the muscle to achieve its miraculous aim.

That said, this flight was extremely smooth, and even enjoyable once brain and body had capitulated under the weight of evidence that we were airborne.

More fun and games were waiting for us at the car hire lot and on the car journey itself. Even before we had left the car park we were treated to our first glimpses of the Italian driving mentality, which is characterised by little patience and a great deal of "expressive" driving. Our cars themselves are very nice, modern and roomy, but we found that you need an engineering degree to:

· Rearrange the rear seats to accommodate luggage

· Find reverse gear

· Find the seatbelt for the central seat in the car.

Pete W was the first brave volunteer to drive our contingent from the airport to our villa. We had a map, we had fairly specific directions and we had five intelligent people to help us reach a destination a mere 25 km away.

That it took us about until 5pm (about 5 hours after leaving the airport) to arrive at the villa is down to a variety of factors. Pete was finding the car stubbornly unresponsive, while at the same time having to contend with the disorientation of driving on the wrong side of the road and the Italian drivers, whose view seems to be that the Highway Code is merely a set of helpful guidelines. We also found out that the directions were nowhere near as clear as we thought and we ended up going through the same toll booth several times, going off the map at one point and discovering the truth that all roads really do lead to Rome, which isn't helpful when looking for signposts to other places. We also received the alarming news from the other car that they had arrived at the villa to find no-one there to greet them. Liam and I were secretly harbouring the same concern - that we had come all the way out here and were about to be stitched up by an unscrupulous travel agent.

This delay motivated us to use the time productively. It was mid afternoon, few of us had slept, the drivers were knackered and no-one had eaten anything substantial for probably 10 waking hours. We drove uphill for 10 minutes into the nearby town of Palombara Sabina and found a simple eatery willing to serve 10 foreigners at no notice. We were treated to an equally simple but extremely edible two course meal with wine and water for less than €10 each, by which point Zoë was nearly comatose and Liam was also feeling none too clever, having been suffering from a cold with a temperature for the last few days.

With still some time to kill, we decided to shop for provisions, paid for out of the newly created kitty. Not far from the restaurant was a supermarket of sorts. This was perfectly able to sell us most of the necessities that we listed, which Jacquie, Ingrid, Sally and Liam searched for while David proceeded to fill a second trolley full of wine (and I write this without exaggerating. With the average bottle being around €3.50 (£2.30), this was not a huge expense and certainly a necessity. At the time of writing we have been at Le Gughe about 24 hours and have got through about half of the stock!).

Finally, with people's laps laden with boxes of groceries as our luggage was still in the cars, we found our way back to Le Gughe, relieved to be greeted and let in.

Our Quarters

It is pointless to try and avoid clichés when describing Le Gughe - the place is simply stunning. Words can't describe the place, and even the pictures on the agency website didn't do it the slightest justice.


A sleep-deprived writer was simply overwhelmed when taking the first few steps around the place. As the electronic gates opened to let the cars through, we found ourselves in an Italian paradise. Two separate villas decked out in typical Mediterranean terracotta cladding are set into extensive grounds which feature an impressively sized swimming pool, olive groves, citrus trees, and virtually 360° mountain views. I have never seen anywhere like it in my life, let alone had the good fortune to live there for a fortnight. I will stop trying to describe it in writing and hope that our photos and video can capture the essence of the place.

Even the facts that the grounds are patrolled by five sizeable but ultimately soppy dogs, the owners are discreetly on site and Alice was able to seriously sprain her ankle on a sprinkler cover (cunningly disguised as a sprinkler cover that is invisible to the naked eye), we know that we have struck gold (as well as garden irrigation implements) as we shrug our exhaustion aside and hit the pool.

Day 2

At night, the villa is silent, and there is no source of light outside, meaning that inside the villa with the lights off you literally can't see your hand in front of your face. Bizarrely I couldn’t find the light switch for the kitchen, so this light stayed on all night. This proved fortuitous, as while Zoë and myself enjoyed a much needed twelve hours kip, Alice and Liam were having a more torrid time. To add infection to injury, Alice developed a gum infection and woke in the middle of he night with a bloody pillow, and unable to walk, as it seems her stint in the pool had aggravated the ankle she twisted on arrival.

But Zoë and I eventually emerged at around half ten, and I immediately headed for my first shower in nearly a year (we only have a bath at home, dear reader - I’m not mingin’), followed by my first dip in a swimming pool in probably fifteen years. I am delighted to report that I didn't drown. Swimming, it seems, is like riding a bike, if a little more tiring.

The Perfect Storm

As we sat under the gazebo enjoying a lunch of bread, cold meats and cheese and making a significant dent in our alcohol cache, we observed storm clouds approaching. We are situated in a very mountainous region, quite high up ourselves, but on all sides are even higher mountains, and this fact coupled with the alcohol imbued us with enough bravura to remain where we were and see what the weather had to offer.

It was a strange and exhilarating sight, as the thunder began to roll and the clouds darkened further. It was very weird being able to see the streaks of grey beneath the clouds where rain was falling heavily on towns and farmland several miles away, while we remained out of harms way, treated to a brilliant firework display of fork lightning, which at times flashed purple. The oohs, aahs and drunken laughter were possible as the storm passed us by completely, leaving us warm and dry but still able to enjoy the power of nature.

I also managed to see a snake disappear swiftly into the undergrowth yards from our terrace, which added to the list of creatures, including plenty of lizards, that we simply don't see at home. All of these sights contribute to the otherness of our surroundings, yet still are not threatening.

After a siesta Jacquie rounded off our first full day in Italy with a fantastic meal of home-made meatballs with Vermicelli, before we retired to the lounge while the party dwindled to just Liam, Alice and myself watching Italian MTV before bed.

Day 3

The decision was made last night that a group of us would take Alice back into Palombara Sabina to see if she could receive some treatment for both her ankle and her gum (the last minute rush to get EHIC cards already proving to be a good move). So Ingrid drove Alice, Liam and myself along with Jacquie (for linguistic support and local know-how) to find the hospital. Alice's leg was x-rayed and she was prescribed some antibiotics for her mouth, reassuring us that it was simply a sprained ankle and an infection and nothing more serious. Not being a huge fan of hospitals, I read and dozed in the car for the hour or so it took for Alice to get treated. We drove further into the town to pick up the pills and Liam and I braved the local shops in search of bread. I know no Italian, having bought a little but very handy phrase book just a couple of days before, so was very pleased when I managed to buy bread without having to use English at all. I uttered a few nouns in Italian, did a bit of pointing and came away with the right provisions. There is a downside to speaking the language, however tentatively. It must have been clear that I was drowning rather than waving, yet the shopkeepers still insisted in talking to me in Italian. Having only prepared for asking for straightforward items, I was not ready to be asked what size or what type of bread.

But I survived, and our final task was to search out a restaurant for the evening, which we were only partially successful in achieving. On our return, I headed straight for the pool before another al fresco lunch and yet more wine. The afternoon will be spent lolling about before our evening meal. Tomorrow, it seems, we are planning for our first proper excursion. Where this will be is not yet clear, but it may be to identify the mountain the dominates the horizon to one side of the pool.

Tonight we ate at a fabulous restaurant in Palombara Sabina, named Il Vecchio Frack. Peter and Ingrid had gone into the town earlier in the day and the stories that came back were that the journey was somewhat fraught, as it was Peter's first experience of the car and the Italian traffic.

So the restaurant was sold to us without great flourish. However, we arrived at 8.30 and were seated in a small room idiosyncratically decorated with glass cases full of cuddly toys. As tables were rearranged to accommodate us (this was an eatery adjoining a bar), we were informed through Jacquie's translation that there were no menus, and so we had no idea what things cost and Jacquie was anticipating a difficult time translating the food options off pat. This was not helping to raise our low expectations.

But as the food made its lengthy procession, we realised we were in expert hands. The sheer gorgeousness of the pasta dishes (which were only the second course that followed extensive antipasti of equal quality) quickly served to erase our memories of the Corrigan’s understated sales pitch. We even stopped worrying about the bill. Only two of our party actually managed a main meat course, and only a few of us opted for dessert, as the pasta alone has filled us up. I opted for the "fancy" ice-cream which was revealed to be four different scoops of ice-cream or sorbet (including a sublime coconut scoop), on top of a rum-soaked waffle, all drizzled with raspberry coulis or something. To finish it was a challenge I met with aplomb, before asking for a grappa to round the evening off.

At this point I started to worry once more, as the waiter brought out a tray with ten hot shot glasses, a bottle of grappa, another bottle of what I think was eau de vie, and a numbered bottle of single malt scotch whisky (bottle 122 of 319!). I could see the bill reaching quadruple figures, and felt very guilty being the only one who ordered spirits. Fortunately Sally and Pete helped me out my sampling the whisky, which was apparently so good that they were compelled to compliment the waiter, whose response was to bring out another numbered bottle for them to sample.

This display, as well as the elaborate decanting of a bottle of red earlier in the evening led us to deduce that this man was clearly a drinks enthusiast, keen to share his finds with appreciative customers. We still wondered what this would eventually cost us.

Having had a fantastic evening, and it being nearly eleven at night, we asked for the bill with baited breath. Jacquie turned it over like a condemned woman being given the date of her execution, and seemed to disbelieve what she read. The whole evening had come to €271 (less than £20 a head); the spirits it seems being gratis. We immediately booked again for next week.

Day 4 - Torrita Tiberina, Calcata and Sant’Oreste

Our quest to find the mountain started with a stop in Torrita Tiberina, where we stayed briefly to have a coffee, get some medical supplies for the various ailments being experienced by some of our troupe, and to walk around the 12th century village. It was a nice if unremarkable location, distinguished primarily by the views and the fact that people are still living in a 12th century village. If this were England, I suspect that such a place would either have been torn down and modernised, or opened as a living museum. It is the residential areas that seem to mark Italy out as being foreign. Particularly in this mountainous region where villages are built on the tops and sides of hills, there really isn't a visual equivalent in England.

We did succeed in finding our mountain, which supported a town called Sant’Oreste. This was more expansive than the previous place, and no less quirky. It was a fairly lively, up and down place, and not overwhelmingly touristy, which is always a bonus. However, this also meant that we spent the best part of an hour trying, and failing, to find a restaurant. We opted instead for a quick slice of takeaway pizza and then a drink in one of the bars, which was very modern and pleasant. Under the shelter of the bar's awning, we were shielded from the gathering storm clouds, before departing once more, this time for Calcata.

En route, the storm broke (there has been an impressive thunderstorm every day so far, at about the same time in the afternoon). On arrival at Calcata, though, we were back in the blazing sun, ready to be stunned by our location.

Apparently Calcata was an abandoned town, until the artists rediscovered it, moved in, and turned it into a sort of Artists' Quarter similar vaguely to Paris's Mont Martre. It is now home to various creative types, and they couldn't have chosen a more inspiring location. The narrow streets wind up and down, taking you down steps into little cubby holes that end in someone's home, or taking you right up to the edge of the village, when you can look down into a sheer drop of several hundred feet, ending in a verdant valley with a stream running through it. Crazily, one inhabitant whose home is right over this valley has strung up a hammock at the precipice, lending a whole new danger to the idea of getting out of the wrong side of the bed.

Our final destination on this tour was to Lake Bracciano, a large body of water that apparently contributes to Rome's water supply. It is another lovely sight, but for the first time we found we had entered a tourist zone, which meant that although staff spoke good English, prices were inflated, and goods were more generic. Rather than the attractive LemonSoda soft drink, the equivalent here was Sprite.

As we sat and ate ice-cream while looking out across the lake, we saw the sky grey over and on the opposite bank of the lake the bizarre grey smudge of heavy rainfall somewhere else. The journey back to the villa took us through this very heavy storm, so we were treated to another impressive, if unnervingly close, display of fork lightning.

Back home and a delicious meal cooked by Pete and Sally was followed by a fab session of karaoke - songs from the musicals. Led unsurprisingly by Alice's fantastic voice, David, Ingrid, Jacquie and at points Zoë and Sally took us through the songs in Guys and Dolls, then we moved onto other musicals.

Perhaps it was the wine, or maybe the wonderful company which makes you feel totally at ease, but I felt a rising desire to sing myself. I then surprised myself further by doing just that, first of all on familiar ground with "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" which I somehow ended up singing solo on the verses. The biggest surprises of the night were the lack of derision which greeted my contribution, and the fact that I felt confident aiming for the high notes in Phantom of the Opera. I think I just about got there, I enjoyed myself and once again no one laughed. My old friend Insecurity soon returned, however, to whisper in my ear that actually people were being too polite to laugh and I had, in fact, made a complete tit of myself, which isn't difficult given the amount of talent I was up against. I seek reassurance drunkenly from Zoë, who obliges, before getting my head down in preparation for an arduous day of reading, snoozing and chilling by the pool.

Day 5

A day of blissful nothingness. A do-your-own-thing day which could be spent reading, snoozing, drinking or by the pool, and this is just what took place. The only slight cloud on the horizon was the fact that it was our turn to cook. I had volunteered Zoë and I for the barbecue, without actually indicating that it would be my first proper attempt at a barbecue. I am happy to report that everything went to plan, if the fire itself seems to die out rather quickly, meaning the sausages took a bit too long to cook. Fortunately, at the time of writing none of our party has died from food poisoning so I think it all went fine. Nice sausages too.

Day 6 - Tivoli

A very pleasant excursion to nearby Tivoli today. For some reason the name was familiar to me, but I couldn't identify why. I didn't really know what to expect from the place, but knew that we were going to see some quite famous gardens.

Zoë and Jacquie remained behind, so the 8 of us set out, with me ending up navigating for David. Luckily Tivoli was very close and the journey was swift and uneventful, affording us the opportunity to enjoy the fantastic sights of mountain roads dropping away and revealing a number of beautiful waterfalls. The town above them was our destination, which whet the appetite somewhat.

The place of interest was Villa d'Este, and its unassuming frontage concealed an extensive villa with fantastic Renaissance decor, each room themed with some biblical story or other. At points the floor was cut away to display the Roman mosaics, evidence of a Roman site here discovered during renovation work.

But it was the grounds that were the most remarkable. A beautiful ornamental garden that kept descending down the hill slopes away from the house. The outstanding features were the fountains (apparently there are one hundred of them but not all of them were working). Once again, the photos will give you a better picture than my words ever could.

Towards the end of the tour I found two small adjoining rooms that were dedicated to printing - it seemed from the exhibits (although none of the ones I found were translated into English) that Villa d'Este had once housed a printing press. This in itself was not totally engrossing, but I found myself poring over the other cases, which housed examples of writing through history, including hieroglyphs, Phoenician letters, Runic scripts and a variety of others I couldn't identify. The alphabet was laid out on something like a coloured swatch, showing how each letter had evolved through millennia. I found this utterly fascinating, more so than I expected. Even though I couldn't read the information accompanying these displays, looking down at these ancient curves and sweeps of ink, I felt captivated by the implications. Unidentifiable voices echoed up from the earliest of human experiences, as people tried to find a system of naming their world that could be understood by everyone else. The shapes of the letters seem in most cases arbitrary, and this in itself was fascinating - why does one specific combination of lines and curves mean one thing rather than any other. I was reminded once and for all how fragile human communication can be, despite its endurance through the ages. Meaning relies one hundred percent on consensus, on enough people agreeing that a single letter, or word, refers to one particular thing, regardless of its similarity to the object it signifies. Being presently in a country that speaks a language I have very little knowledge of, this train of thought seemed especially pertinent. Language has long held great interest for me, but now my desire for a greater understanding of its origins seems to have awakened. I hope this will be something I can pursue further when we get home, although it might simply be another thing I won't have time to do.

Staying with the subject of language a while longer, it fell to our contingent to try and book a table at a restaurant discovered yesterday for our Friday evening meal. Armed as always with my desperately useful phrasebook, I eagerly volunteered to attempt the transaction, with David as back-up. I have been keen to grasp any opportunity to try my hand at Italian, and this was a task I felt confident with. I had rehearsed the unfamiliar words and sounds as we approached the restaurant and on encountering a waitress, reeled off the question with all the words in the right order, if not perfectly pronounced, only to be net with the following response:

"Speak English?" asked the waitress.

"Si. Yes." (Natch! How could she tell?)

Another girl was summoned. She could speak fairly good English, and I think she instructed me to 'speak through her.' Not being an accomplished ventriloquist, I interpreted this as meaning speak to her. While I was somewhat relieved that the previous drawback to speaking the lingo wouldn't arise here, I was quite disappointed. I'd made the effort, I'd got the words right, the table was effectively ours, why was I being asked to speak English? They could at least have humoured me.

Terrorists!

Phone calls to the parents tonight. Mum greeted me with the worrying news that foiled terrorist attacks had once again put Britain and the US on highest security alert. A number of planes had been targeted, so flights were being grounded and extra security measures had been put in place at all airports, which essentially meant that travelers were no longer allowed to take hand luggage onto planes. This is obviously alarming, as it could have implications for us. Will we be able to get back home as planned? Will we (horror of horrors) have to stay in Italy longer? How are we going to deal with the luggage restrictions? If we get past all of these obstacles, will we make it back alive? A tad melodramatic I know, but that's me. In truth, we have a fair while before we are due to return, and a lot can happen in 8 days. Plus we are having such a wonderful time that we agree we shouldn't worry about it. It is useful to be forewarned of potential problems, but we will not let it spoil our holiday. We are due to go to Rome tomorrow, where we will be able to buy an English paper and get ourselves more information.

Ultimately, though, it is the prospect of traveling to one of the most famous and historic capital cities in the world which occupies my thoughts as I boast of the excursion to my Dad (who doesn't seem quite as pre-occupied by the terror news, thankfully), and enjoy yet another fabulous meal.

Day 7 - Roma

My half-success with the lingo at La Muracccia restaurant yesterday did not prevent me anticipating our trip to the capital with some trepidation. Most capitals should not be driven in, and as Rome was only 25 km away and there was a train station very close to us, the ten of us were going to embark on our adventure using public transport, with only one of our group confident with the language. There were also the many stories of pickpocketing that friends and relatives had told us with, at times, it seemed glee, relating their own tales as though they were anecdotes from the Second World War.

With this in mind, I started the trip armed simply with cash (if I was 'done' at least they wouldn't take my credit cards, and cash in a pocket is less noticeable than a bulky wallet), my mobile phone (I didn't want to get cut off from others in a big city if we went our separate ways) and my trusty phrase book, from which I had already rehearsed how to ask for ten return train tickets to Rome, even though it transpired that I wouldn't need to use the immortal phrase.

To the British traveler’s eternal surprise, the 0733 train arrived bang on time, and there was a further treat in store when we realised that Italian trains have an upper deck, which we duly ascended to like children on double decker buses. I indulged my habit of memorising the names of the stations we were traveling to and from, my experience with Emma in Paris still clear in my mind, and off we went.

The bus journey that awaited us on arrival at Roma Tiburtina was another way to get a taste of how normal Romans experience their city. It was a fairly lengthy journey that allowed us to see a great deal of the city without really grasping what we were seeing, and to be honest I was more engaged by two very different sights: the electronic display that flashed news and sport headlines, horoscopes, adverts, warnings to travelers about pickpockets (even the Italians were at it now) and the sequence of stops the bus was visiting was as much of a distraction as a television is in a pub, and secondly the bonkers Italian woman who sat in front of me, periodically turning on a transistor radio (I'm not being old-fashioned - it actually said "Transistor" on the casing) at a loud volume. This behaviour in itself is perhaps not grounds for her certification as insane, but she carried the aura about her that she was at least eccentric and something of a social pariah. It was quite strange that it was so easy to pick up on this (she didn't even smell or anything, which is usually a dead give-away), but the way she was regarded by her fellow travelers and the ticket inspectors was enough to provide an insight into this woman that had many parallel examples back home.

Eventually we arrived outside the walls of the Vatican, and our dismay was already welling up. Our plans to get into the city as early as possible so as to avoid the inevitable queues to see such sights as the Sistine ceiling had not had the desired outcome - it was only a few minutes past 9 in the morning and already the queue was, as the Americans might say, several blocks long. This is no exaggeration - it was a line of Olympic proportions, possibly a quarter of a mile in length. As one we bucked the cultural stereotype of the Brits being avid queuers (is that a word?) and decided that Michelangelo's altitudinous graffiti would have to wait, because we weren't going to.

Instead we walked a few hundred yards into St Peter's square. Now this was more like it. Here I was, standing in the place where countless millions of people had gathered to hear the words of the Pope, their chosen representative of God on Earth, one of the most powerful and controversial people on the planet. The venue provided for such an eminent individual was nothing short of spectacular. The dramatic, powerful, almost tyrannical architecture on such a massive scale breathed reality and immediacy into images I had only seen on TV or read about fairly recently in Dan Brown's Angels & Demons (a superior novel to The Da Vinci Code, available from all good booksellers). Most impressive of all was the illusionist layout of the square, detectable from the two points close to the centre which, when stood upon, made the rows of pillars fall completely behind each other, turning a complex site of intricate perspective and beauty into a bizarre and disorientating two-dimensional composition.

St Peter's is obviously a major draw not just for tourists but of course for Catholics across the world, and I wondered if the fairly recent death of Pope John Paul II had temporarily increased the place's attraction still further. It wasn't long before this was confirmed as we passed the checks on security and appropriate attire to enter the tombs of the Popes. We passed through passages lined with tombs and effigies of papas past, with cameras clicking and flashing, and visitors chatting, explaining and exclaiming. Until the flow of traffic slowed and we became aware of a hush up ahead broken only, and ironically, by a looped multilingual message: "This is a sacred place, please respect it with silence and refrain from flash photography" or words to that effect was the plea, and we found ourselves standing in front of the newest tomb, that of the Polish Pope himself. In fact, we were standing quite obtrusively before it, as the stream of sightseers filed directly between the tomb and a modest vigil at which people were kneeling and silently praying. I briefly wondered whether the priests still held a continuous vigil at this point, or whether it was simply to serve the Catholic pilgrims during business hours.

Nonetheless, a strange feeling came over me. Being a devout atheist, I was still impressed and somehow reassured by this devotion of the faithful, the muted pomp and circumstance. More than this, I too experienced an unfamiliar sense of awe at being in this spot. Here lay the apparently holy remains of a man considered by millions to be truly great. Perhaps the fact that John Paul became this powerful religious leader in the year I was born, lived and acted during the years of my life, and had died so recently was able to transcend the spiritual disagreements that we held. For better of worse, in some way, he was my Pope.

More examples of how symbols, signs, architecture and art can be used to both elevate and humble the human spirit were to be found as we entered the “business end” of St Peter's, the place of worship itself. Besides the scale and beauty of the building, us interlopers were watched from on high by dynamic, dramatic sculptures of previous Popes, saints, angels and martyrs, each Pope in particular rendered in an uncompromising pose of religious verve, as immovable in their devotion as the stone used to depict them. There was something heroic in these representations, as though they were real life superheroes,and none more so than the statue of Pious XII, whose flowing robes and outstretched hand, almost animated in its sword-like motion above us, led me to dub him, perhaps with less respect than he commanded when alive, "Action Pope." Even the little round spectacles that he wore, sculpted as carefully as his anatomical features, were not able to diminish his obvious stature, if you'll excuse the unintentional pun.

Surrounded on all sides, above and below, with ornamentation, embellishments, functioning artefacts of worship of such impressive, even aggressive beauty and grandeur, it was easy to understand how so many people can be awe-struck, inspired, humbled and even manipulated into a devotion that can reach fanatical levels, such was the assault on the senses and the careful, calculated way all of these sights carried the same message, at times overt, on other levels subliminal: "You are nothing. You are tiny, insignificant and powerless. Yet you are loved. Kneel before your God and his representatives on Earth, and do His (and their) bidding." Even if this bidding can sometimes appear distinctly unholy and anathema to the message of love peddled by the Christian faith.

The rest of the city was slightly disappointing in comparison. Clearly the Imperials Romans, as organised and innovative as they were, had not counted on two millennia of seemingly haphazard civic expansion. Unlike London, Paris and to a certain extent Dublin, walking through the streets of Rome doesn't provide the expansive vistas of its counterparts. You see Rome in small chunks, winding through side streets and come out into various piazzas one trek at a time. Other stops on our tour took in the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain and various squares, before finding a restaurant tucked away in one of the ubiquitous alleyways. These were impressive sights in themselves, but I am coming to the conclusion that this sightseeing business is actually quite tricky. Particularly when you don't have a guide to hand to explain what you are seeing, it is difficult to know exactly how to see it. I mean, do you just look at it? How do you look at it? Do you take a brief glimpse and then move on, or linger for as long as you can. To be honest, I tried many of these approaches in turn, and on lingering I tried very hard to take in as much as I possibly could, but without a context, I had trouble identifying what it was I was supposed to see. Fortunately, the beauty of many scenes was quite obvious, for others it was marveling at a feast of engineering, and actually being there is always preferable to simply seeing something in a picture. I guess at times I was expecting to actually feel something, and this was achieved in no small measure at St. Peter's, whereas at other times it was more a case of "Yep, it's amazing. Where can I get a coffee?" because I just felt as though there was nothing else I could take in and benefit from beyond the initial sight itself.

Don’t get me wrong, Rome was a fabulous spectacle that enriched my life by providing me with new experiences, and it did move me. It also allowed me to tick off another item on my Places to See Before I Die list. I am truly glad I went. It's just the ritual of sightseeing itself that I don't seem to be particularly good at. It clearly mobilises millions of people each year, and they seem quite satisfied with what they are doing and how they are doing it (perhaps there is a special secret manual they have all read). I am also worried about whether I am doing it properly.

We all returned safely and there is some talk of returning to resurrect the aborted Sistine Chapel visit. I am tempted, but I am in two minds. It does seem a cardinal sin not to see it when you have the opportunity, but surely life and this holiday are too short to go to the same place twice? There are other places to go, things to see...

Days 8, 9 & 10

...so I spend the next three days blissfully doing nothing at all! After a successful meal at La Muraccia on Friday night (my table booking antics had been competent enough to cause no problems), we went home and carried on drinking for another couple of hours.

The ten of us are making a concerted and quite effective effort to reduce the European wine lake, and this has led to a deepening of the conversations in the evenings over the weekend. This is inevitable, a large group of people all with vastly differing experiences, associations and opinions, their brains and tongues lubricated by copious amounts of wine, will of course spend some time talking about a wide range of subjects. For the quartet of younger holiday-makers, this is a particularly interesting opportunity to establish ourselves in the group as, if not peers, then certainly people with active minds, valid opinions and something worthwhile to contribute. When things go wrong, these discussions can deteriorate into real arguments, opening up chasms of ideological differences that can wreck a holiday and possibly friendships.

Fortunately, the individuals on this trip are all strong enough, sensible enough and mature enough to know that in the morning we can all be friends again. No-one has judged anyone else, we can all blame the alcohol and if things get too hairy, we can always fall asleep.

Our "putting the world to rights" debates have covered a variety of topics, but often come back to the old chestnut of theatre, which is after all the things that unites us, and binds us together, like the Jedi force. It's been really nice for me to see people like David and Jacquie, Pete and Sally outside of the usual context and, I sincerely hope, end up closer to them. If nothing else, I would be very glad if this holiday has the sole result that these four warm, intelligent and talented people are people I can regard as true friends, and that they regard me in the same light, rather than just as people who belong to the same theatre company and get along quite well. I think it takes an experience like two weeks together in a foreign country to confirm such an outcome.

For my own part, I worry that I have been coming across as self-absorbed. The bizarre personality traits that I have developed lead to a real tension between arrogance and insecurity, and I have found myself, when making my own contributions to these chats, constantly seeking affirmation. I am aware that this could quickly become tiresome, and have resolved to keep it in check from now on. I just genuinely need, in my skewed version of egotism, to be reassured that what I am doing, or thinking, is all right, and certainly to receive this assurance from people whose views I respect and opinions I trust.

I think one real positive is that Sally and I have had an opportunity to, I hope unequivocally, clear up the fug of tension and confusion that drifted about during Golden Pathway Annual.

As late nights and alcohol consumption bordering on the obscene take their toll in the mornings, I have been very glad of taking a few days out. It has been lovely just dipping into the pool, or reading in the rocking chair that I have adopted, getting the trust and affection of the dogs that occupy the grounds, and updating this journal. A change may be as good as a rest, but a rest is pretty damn fine as well.

That said, after three days of laziness, I am eager now to get out and about again, and what better way to shake off the cobwebs of lethargy than to take a trip to the top of a mountain?

Day 11 - Gran Sasso

Jacquie’s suggestion that we take a trip to the mountains met with mixed responses as there was a number in our party for whom heights are something that happen to other people. As I am always keen to have as many experiences as possible, I embraced the opportunity, and so Jacquie, David, Zoë, Alice, Ingrid and myself set off to see Italy from another perspective. As we loaded up the car, David asked “What are your thoughts on cable cars?”

This was unexpected, as I was a little unclear as to what this excursion would involve. There was a largish mountain visible from our villa, and Jacquie had said that we were going to the mountains behind this. I got the impression it was going to be a nice drive with pretty views, a spot of lunch and then back. The prospect of a cable car ride gave the trip a different texture, and while I was quite keen on the idea, I knew that Zoë would be less inclined. But Jacquie had mentioned that, as she herself was a bit apprehensive about cable cars, we had the option of dividing the group up so that those who wanted to try the cable car could do so while Jacquie drove up with anyone else who didn’t fancy it.

The journey was longer than I expected, taking around two hours, but it was a fabulous trek. The motorway route took us further into the mountains (which I later learnt were named the Apennines), and the sights were spectacular. The journey began to take on something of a pattern: a bit of road, a bridge, a bit of road, a tunnel, a bit of road, a bridge and so on, leaving me marveling at the feat of human engineering which had made this route possible. Each tunnel we passed through (the longest of which was over 4km) rewarded us with a dramatic view as we left it, and it became clear that these were serious mountains. Ingrid was particularly excited, as Peter really doesn’t enjoy high altitudes and so she rarely has the opportunity to experience this treat.

As we arrived, I noticed that I had failed to take into account that the higher up we went, the colder it would be, and hoped that my long-sleeved t-shirt would provide enough protection from the elements. This was compounded as we saw people leaving the cable car dressed in serious gear: thick jackets; layers; walking boots. I looked around at those of us dressed in shorts and t-shirts and began to think that our stay at the top of Gran Sasso may be brief.

When Jacquie and David bought their cable car tickets, it seemed that the driving option was suddenly no longer available, and Zoë would have to brave a 1km ascent in a box held up by a bit of rope. I thought I was going to have to adopt the brave macho role, but in truth I was beginning to get nervous myself. Cable cars, like planes, don’t look particularly inviting when you see how far up you are going.

It was a great experience! The sense of danger makes the nerves tingle, and as you are looking down and seeing nothing but a drop, you get a bit of a rush. It gets even more exciting as the cable car passes across the pylons that support the journey. Each time it does this, I got a bizarre sensation that the car was no longer making contact with anything, giving a brief sense of flight, before it drops again as the weight of the car pulls down on the new stretch of cable. I spent the 10 minute journey grinning inanely, and laughing perhaps a little too hysterically as we passed through each pylon. Zoë was considerably quieter, but I think she surprised herself as well as me by how calm she had been.

And the view at the top? WOW! We were actually on top of a mountain. Like, a proper one, man! The vistas were incredible: beautiful, unwelcoming, dramatic. At just over 2km up (okay, so it’s not a very big mountain, but it did the job for me), the air was chilly, but not unbearably so, and we were able to enjoy a picnic in a fairly quiet spot while looking out over valleys below us, and footpaths above us that would lead to higher plains. The location was pretty well developed, with a hotel and a couple of bars, food stalls and an observatory. The hotel itself has a dark claim to fame, being where Mussolini was imprisoned and rescued during the Second World War. The management seemed to take a deal of perverse pride in this fact, with the walls carrying a number of photographs of Italian fascists dining in the very restaurant in which tourists were now happily eating their lunch. You could also pay to visit the “Mussolini Room”, which was presumably where he slept during his incarceration. Rather than give credence to this unsavoury event in history, we drank hot chocolate in the bar, before a few final photo opportunities and a return to the cable car.

The descent was even more exhilarating – the car was carrying about 60 people, including one young woman who was almost hysterical with fear. Her state of mind wasn’t calmed by the fact that after each pylon the car would swing quite violently, and her whimpers would be joined by those of others, as well as my deranged cackling. Loved it!

We took a different route back home, driving on the mountain roads which presented us with a stream of unreasonably tight hairpin bends. These were handled with great skill by Jacquie, who had further challenges as we drove through a small town that clearly wasn’t invented with cars in mind, certainly not a 7-seater Fiat Ullyses. There were some hairy moments as the streets got narrower, and at one point we were faced with a sharp turn made more difficult by the fact that the car was inches away from a set of steps down. Jacquie managed to clear this danger with about an inch to spare, as we all finally exhaled and continued on our way home. Tonight we return to Il Vecchio Frack, for what we hope will be another tremendous meal.

Day 12 - Orvieto

Earlier in the holiday some people had gone to Orvieto, a town about 90 minutes away, and came back with very attractive reports, so much so that some wanted to return and those of us who didn’t go wanted to see it for ourselves.

Apart from being known for its own wine, Orvieto features an ornate cathedral and a thriving arts and crafts scene, and with Zoë and I yet to buy souvenirs, we thought this would be a perfect opportunity, so we joined Alice, Liam, Sally and Pete for today’s trip.

It is a beautiful place, seemingly more developed and bustling than the closer Palombara Sabina and Cretone, and for this reason it has a more obviously tourist feel to it. The cathedral seems to creep up on you, as the streets are quite closely packed, and you suddenly emerge in a square dominated by a quirky piece of architecture: The façade of the cathedral is covered in colourful religious paintings, yet the building itself is constructed from alternating layers of dark and white stone, creating a striped pattern that makes the cathedral look like a holy humbug! To be honest the outside is more engaging than its interior. While the striped stone is reproduced inside and the ceiling is high and vaulted, it is quite a sparse, functional place of worship, much more picturesque from the square than from within.

We arrived shortly before most of the shops closed for the siesta, but a considerable area of the town seemed to buck this trend, I imagine to satisfy the tourist trade. A tiny street, more of an alley in fact, is filled with small shops and workshops, most of which are devoted to a specific craft, be it ceramics, jewellery, leatherwork or paintings. One particular shop had a very bizarre mixture of medieval weaponry, including crossbows, swords and a suit of armour, and a more new age, even druidic selection of ceramics decorated with pressed leaves. It also advertised its own range of Lord of the Rings artefacts such as figurines, jewellery etc, so clearly the proprietor was canny enough to recognize how to appeal to tourists who don’t place authenticity high on their list of travel priorities.

Some of these shops had small workshops at the rear where the craftspeople were working, whereas others simply advertised that all the goods were handmade. There were some lovely items on offer, particularly the ceramics and an artist whose work was a very intriguing mixture of commedia clowns, surrealist painting, and caricatured people. The originals were too expensive to buy, but I did manage to find a print that attracted me. We also managed to pick up some really nice ceramics for others, and ourselves, leaving us with a minor worry about how to get them home intact.

Zoë and I met up with Alice and Liam for lunch, and to our shame (but not much of it) we were distinctly unadventurous in our choice of meal. The food we had eaten so far had been delicious, varied and plentiful, but for some reason we found ourselves craving good old-fashioned junk food, so we ordered hot dogs and hamburgers from a restaurant that catered for international tastes. To our credit, Zoë did opt for Italian with a pizza, and we did order our food in Italian. This felt like something of a guilty pleasure and was our only concession to the stereotype of the English abroad in the whole two weeks.

We had another wander around the artists’ section after lunch, but it was a bit too bustling for our tastes and to be truthful some of the shops were a bit suspicious. Liam mentioned that on his previous visit he had noticed a moped pull up outside one of the “handmade crafts” shops with a box of stock on the back clearly labeled “Made in China” and this obviously didn’t allay our doubts. As it was a hot day and we were laden with shopping, we left at around 3.30.

This was to be our last outing, as I am looking forward to a final couple of days of slobbery before I have to spend Saturday worrying about the flight home. Our last meal out is booked for tomorrow, when I will finally have a proper Italian pizza.

This holiday lark is turning out to be quite stressful. So many decisions to make: How long do I spend in the pool? Do I have a nap or read a book? What colour wine will I drink? How many courses will I order for dinner? It’s just non-stop pressure!

Day 13

Our meal tonight was a wonderful mix of the bizarre and the spontaneous. The pizzeria was a sizeable establishment, yet apart from our group of ten there were only six other diners there. This is currently the festival season in which many Italians close up and go on holiday, and we got the impression that the owner had opened up just for us, which was very kind. Not only that, but entertainment had been laid on in the form of a singer behind a keyboard and a young woman whose role we initially thought was to play Solitaire on the laptop while her partner sang a variety of fairly cheesy songs.

Menus in Italy seem to be something of a rarity, and the volume of the music was at first quite intrusive as the manager had to reel off what dishes were available, Jacquie had to translate and relate, then remember the orders and feed them back to the staff. Being in a very rural area, all restaurants seems to be reliant on what producers can supply at any given time, and this meant that a number of items on the menu that was eventually put in front of us were not available. With the kind of service that would cause complaints in an English restaurant, the manager crossed off what we couldn’t have, and when Pete asked for fish, the retort came back “Why do you want fish? You’re in the mountains!” I found this actually quite charming and reassuring, as it meant that what we would be eating was probably fresh, locally supplied and likely to be of a better quality than any supermarket or wholesaler bought goods.

When we had managed to make choices that could be accommodated, the service continued in a haphazard manner, as we couldn’t really hear what was being brought out and some people had had to change their minds so often they forgot what they’d ordered. It seems that the musician had been told that we were English, as he adapted his repertoire to suit our “tastes” by singing staple English (largely American, in fact) songs with a very thick accent. The result was very sweet and occasionally comic, and gave us an insight into how the English might be viewed by the Italians.

As the evening progressed it became clear that the intention was to get us up and dancing, and this was where the young woman came in, as she would dance with her partner to some pre-recorded tracks. At some point, I think Jaqcuie had spoken to the musician and told him that Alice was quite a good singer herself. Alice hadn’t been party to this discussion and the first she heard about it was when she was being invited over to the microphone. There was a slightly embarrassed search through the guy’s repertoire to see if he had anything that Alice would know. Before we knew it, Alice was singing away, and seemed to impress the hired entertainment, as she stayed for another number. Unfortunately we were the only diners left by this time, so no-one else had the pleasure of hearing Alice’s voice, but this event did seem to loosen everyone up suddenly.

I turned round to see Alice, Ingrid and Jacquie being taught some fairly complex dance steps, which they picked up surprisingly quickly, and what had started off, for me, as a slightly tacky, but good-natured entertainment became a really nice end to the evening. It wasn’t long before the obligatory YMCA was played, which led to more people filling the dance floor (but not me, oh no siree, never!). This grew even more surreal as those of us observing noticed that there were some people on the roof of a building behind the restaurant dancing along as well!

So another evening of good food, good drink and laughter from an unlikely source. Magic! Tomorrow is our last full day in Italy, and we plan to take it easy, pack and enjoy the villa for one final time. The fortnight has suddenly gone quite quickly, but I have to say that I am now looking forward to going home. I always feel that one of the nicest aspects of any holiday is coming home again.

Day 14

Friday was a nice relaxing day, where most discussion seemed to be about the logistics of getting home. With the recent terrorist plot, we still weren’t sure how tight security was going to be at the airport, and whether or not we would be able to take on hand luggage. We had planned for a worst-case scenario by buying extra bags to check in as standard baggage, but we were still getting mixed messages from the airport and Alitalia. We also weren’t sure how much time would be needed for checking in, as we were half expecting delays and longer security checks.

As we had to leave the villa at midday on the Saturday and our flight wasn’t due to leave until 9.15 that evening, there were also a number of suggestions as to how to fill or kill the time. In the end the consensus was that people preferred to get going and get to Fiumicino in good time, then maybe find somewhere for lunch once the journey was effectively behind us.

These things decided, we were left with another strenuous day of nothing much. Most of us wanted to take advantage of the pool for one final time, and so we ended up with eight or nine of us in the water playing catch and an aquatic version of keepy-uppy. This provided hysterical laughter at many times. The pool, it seems, is an excellent forum for physical comedy and general high-jinx. It was the single longest time I’d spent in the pool, and having cut my toes on the rough bottom of the pool earlier and having neglected to put on sunblock this time I decided to leave before the game ended, before I toasted or drew further blood.

Sitting back on the terrace reading, it was lovely hearing the shouts and giggles from across the way.

Flying Home

Oh dear God. Did I not like that?! Our smooth flight to Rome was not matched on the way back. After boarding was delayed by about half an hour for reasons unknown, we then sat on the plane to await take-off. As we taxied to the runway, I began to think that we were leaving it a little late before leaving the ground. As it happened, we had turned round and returned to the airport. Naturally, my usual flight nerves were being sharpened by the recent bomb attempts that we’d heard about, and this did not help things. Looking up, I saw some vapour entering the fuselage, which I thought didn’t look very reassuring (the rational part of my brain told me this was probably the cabin pressurizing or something, but I wasn’t listening to Mr. Rational). Also, from my window seat I was able to see the stairs being replaced at the plane’s door, and then an Italian police car arrive. What the hell is going on? It took the captain a while before he decided to tell us that there were concerns over the tyre pressure, and that was the reason for the delay, by which time all sorts of gruesome scenarios had been played out in my head.

Things didn’t improve when we eventually left the ground. A short while into our ascent, the plane hit some seriously rough turbulence. The plane was shaking, dropping, jerking sideways with a ferocity that I considered entirely selfish. Zoë, Alice and myself formed a kind of terrified trio. The deep, reassuring breaths I was taking were becoming so frequent that I was almost hyperventilating, Zoë’s travel sickness had arrived big time and Alice sat rigid in her seat. Speaking to each other later, we decided that had this continued for much longer, I probably would have fainted, Zoe would have thrown up and Alice would have burst into tears!

Anyway, the flight ran smoothly from that point on, and a glass of red wine was very welcome. Much more welcome, in fact, than the sorry excuse for food that they offered us, which was a dry roll containing some kind of alien vegetation, a fruit pastille and two incredibly dry and tasteless biscuits. This was an Italian airline, surely they could have done better than that.

Despite the initial delays, we actually made up a good deal of time in the air and touched down only 30 minutes late, some of us extremely relieved. We have made it home, and now our own beds await our return. There’s nothing like your own bed, is there?

Arrivederci!

Well, that was the holiday. I would like to thank Zoe, Alice, Liam, Pete, Sally, Peter and Ingrid, and especially David and Jacquie for making this happen.

I had a wonderful time with some excellent people, and I hope we can do it again sometime.