16th April 1996

It's been a funny day from start to finish. We got up at 5.30 and were ready for Dennis at 6.30. Soothing us with his reassuring philosophy he conveyed us up the M25 at the front end of the morning rush for our 9.30 flight to Naples. All augured well with only a few passengers at the check in line. The false start came with the announcement of a technical fault and our plane would have to be replaced. Then there was a second announcement. The second plane was also faulty. But we were soon issued with red plastic transit cards and ushered to a different gate. The flight was only an hour late - and don't ask me which plane it was, the first, second or third.

The flight had its surreal quality. The Italian passengers sauntered up and down the aisles, smoking cigarettes until reprimanded by the hostesses, upon which they sat down for a few minutes only to bob up again and light up. A young sallow faced Italian man sitting next to me spent the flight alternately sleeping, muttering and blowing his nose into a cotton handkerchief. Each time he blew I held my breath and closed my eyes so as to avoid seeing the state of the handkerchief which, out of the corner of my eye, (I didn't dare look at it head on) looked distinctly grey and damp. A girl in the seat across the aisle was sick into a paper bag. I have never actually seen anyone being airsick before. And a sad crippled man in the back seat had to be given oxygen, at which point the no smoking signs went on, much to the chagrin of the Italians.

At the airport we collected our hire car, a very smart Fiat in racing green with warnings from the man about car theft in Apulia and advice about not wearing my gold necklace in the car. The man who delivered the car to our feet (so to speak) insisted that I put my handbag in the boot so that no one would smash the car window and steal it.

So it was with an advanced case of paranoia that we started towards the A16 motorway to Bari on the blippy peninsula of the heel of Italy which on the map looks like a loose flap of skin protruding from the elegant foot. We quickly fell into evasive action as far as the Italian drivers were concerned. Within a few kilometres we had learnt instinctively when a car, or more alarmingly a truck, was about to swerve from one lane to another or overtake on a hairpin bend. The motorway itself was an assault course, pitted with holes, repaired in a de facto manner and seamed with tarred ridges that made the car emit a rhythmic humping sound like a steam train travelling across sleepers.

The vivid green landscape sped past. Rolling hills stretched away from us like pastry on an apple flan. There were olive groves in abundance and villages of a third world cemented kind dotted over the slopes as if a giant hand had scattered them like so many crumbs to feed the birds.

Assiduously I navigated, tracing my fingers across the map on my lap, directing our itinerary, having planned that we should turn South off the motorway towards Potenza where we would find what we hoped would be a trail of medieval towns and villages each with a medieval church and nestling in its shadow an old hotel with a room with a view and cuisine to die for.

We went off the main road several times in search of this elusive goal and at one point saw across a green valley a town on a hill and at its pinnacle an ancient church with creamy buildings spilling down the slope like custard on a suet pudding. The town, called Ripacandida, proved to be a maze of half-finished concrete tenements cocking a snoop at the hills and valleys below. We stopped abruptly at a street that climbed to what appeared to be a narrowing cul de sac too small for a car, so we descended and carried on Southwards while the shadows lengthened and the air grew chilly. Potenza, our destination, looked quite large occupying an irregular pink triangle on the map. It proved to be shabbily commercial and traffic-filled. We followed a sign to 'Tourist Hotel' and found it just as it was getting dark. We were happy that we had a bed for the night, albeit in an echoing boxlike room on the 4th floor. It had a view, though, across a valley where, again, a giant hand had scattered detritus across the landscape.

We had a hot shower and then a chilly drink in the draughty foyer bar that was suddenly invaded by the arrival of a coach load of school children who filled the air with their chatter. In the cold dining room the food was simple but tasty - proscuitto, pasta and meat with fresh bread and house wine served unceremoniously in large pyrex jugs.

How exciting not to know what tomorrow will bring.

Wednesday, 17th April

In the morning we looked out on the concrete bunkers scattered across the countryside like newsreel pictures sent from a war zone. We felt refreshed. The sun was shining, though the air was chilly.

Our breakfast in the lobby was unsatisfactory. The coffee and milk were lukewarm. We asked for coffee on its own which helped to invigorate the tepid brew.

The school children appeared, milling aimlessly around their teachers, listless and tired after whatever they had been up to the night before. The lift wasn't working so Ralph had to hump the luggage down four flights of stairs.

To get out of Potenza was as difficult as getting into it. We ended up in a dismal cul de sac. At the side of the road a distinguished silver haired man was leaning on his gleaming BMW, his overcoat draped stylishly over his shoulders and he offered to drive ahead of us to the road for Basento which a garage man had assured us was the way we needed to go. Our new guide, incidentally, had a thick mop of hair that anyone of a certain age would have been proud of. He was quite peremptory in his insistence on guiding us personally, the assumption being that he wanted to go in that direction anyway. And so we did. But, having parted company, we lost our way again. I had been fixed on the map route on the S169 North that would take us through Gravina di Puglia. The guide book said it is built into a ravine, has a church with a mean looking eagle with wings outstretched, another church with two 'fey' skeletons above the door, two more dark churches with peeling frescoes and a bone cemetery housing the remains of more than 400 victims of a Saracen massacre.

After a couple of false starts we took a sign to Pietragalla which seemed to be the road we wanted but we ended up in a ramshackle hamlet which led nowhere. An old couple sat outside their lowly concrete bunker. They shrugged their shoulders at us which we took for a sign that the road we were looking for was blocked off or no longer existed.

We bought a picnic in a sparsely stocked supermarket in the next village. This place was so ill equipped that it had run out of local wine, or any wine, for that matter. But we bought the local hard crusty cheese, some slices of mortadella, water, cheese crackers and olives.

Our next road was the S407 West through the mountains down to the sea past gentle foothills bright green with young wheat and groves of old olive trees and the River Basento thrashing and curving, appearing and disappearing, orchestrating itself with the road in a baroque fashion. As we descended to sea level the air grew warmer and wild flowers beckoned on the verges. Then there were vineyards and prickly pears and old stone walls and the atmosphere had changed from the bleak uplands to a mellow southern feel.

The road ended at Metaponto and its Lido, approached through streets of affluent shuttered summer homes behind tall railings and padlocked gates. The Lido was merely a stretch of beach with an abandoned funfair at one end and a collection of hastily built hotels at the other. But we had the sun and the sea and a low concrete bench served as a picnic table where we ate our simple picnic.

We investigated Castellaneta Marina which had a windswept promenade and a pretty narrow golden beach with abandoned fishing boats and jellyfish flopping bulbously at the edge of the water.

We carried on around the Golfo di Taranto to the city of Taranto and its smelly industrial docks. Beyond the ruined castle we came upon the Palazio di Governo, a mausoleum of a building with huge black eagles guarding the portico. It looked like something Mussollini might have built.

Having negotiated our way through protracted and irrational road signs we found ourselves on the road to Lecce as intended. I had become strangely fixated on a section of the guide book (p. 263):

'Otherwise, a half hour's drive from the coast at Avetrana is the Castello di Mudonato which offers excellent accommodations in the peaceful countryside setting of a refurbished masseria .'

Our route was a little tortuous but we found the main square of the little town and stopped for a coffee and ice cream in a small café where the patron was most solicitous and put out a table and chairs for us and told us that the Castello was 2 kilometres down the road.

And there it was, among the olive groves approached through an avenue of old gum trees through a stone archway to a rectangular enclave of thick-walled stone farm buildings.

There seemed to be no one around, except for a barking dog but eventually a man appeared from a wooden front door. He looked kindly with a face tanned by the outdoor life tending his vines and olives. He had an uncanny resemblance to Eduardo Paolozzi. He seemed happy for us to stay there, much to our relief. We communicated in pigeon Italian, French and English. He pointed to the square tower in the corner of the enclave with stone steps leading to a doorway. It was wonderful inside, a large dining cum sitting room with high arched ceilings and a terrace on the roof overlooking the placid countryside. We could hardly believe our luck. Our host, whose name was Marcello, told us that his wife was spending the day in Taranto. So we clinched the deal in his kitchen over a glass of whisky for Ralph and a rose petal liqueur for me. Marcello drove us into town where he orchestrated the buying of our provisions at the supermarket and ushered us into the bank where a smiling man in an official blue anorak helped Ralph withdraw thousands of lira from the hole in the wall, thus solving the problem of rent money. On the way back Marcello picked up their maid from her house in one of the back streets. She was neat, plump and middle aged and her name was Dolores. She smelt neat and fresh of soap and had the gentle kindliness of Cinderella's fairy godmother.

Back at the Castello, Dolores busied herself preparing our quarters while we drove back to town to pick up the carboy of wine that we had left in the supermarket. On our return, we met Marcello's wife, Barbara, a lovely lady who also exuded friendliness and kindliness. She was, in fact, German, and had spent some time in England, so spoke good English. She showed us where everything was and we could hardly believe how lucky we were. As the day drew to a close it became quite chilly. We lit a fire of olive branches in the stone fireplace and ate pasta with salad and the local rose wine. We went to bed early in our spacious bedroom.

Thursday, 18th April

It was warm enough to breakfast on the terrace and then a shopping trip in Avetrana for a few things that we hadn't thought of the day before: an adaptor plug to charge up the video camera, bacon, some meat and so on. Everyone was most helpful. In the electrical shop the lady directed us to the butcher's. I have already grown to like the town even though I thought it was alien and shabby first time round. But one begins to feel a part of a place merely by using the local shops. I guess it's a question of exerting yourself to put something in before you can get the feedback.

With a picnic in the boot of the car we set off for the local beaches, stopping to sketch an imposing fortified tower, one of many that punctuate the coastline, standing on a rocky escarpment overlooking the sea. We found a solitary sandy beach where we watched two lonely fishing boats, each man standing in his boat motionless, as if they were crossing the River Styx for the last time. The scene had come straight from a symbolist painting come to life. It became chilly with menacing clouds that cast their shadows on the sea turning it a deep turquoise.

Then we drove along the coast to Gallipoli that jutted out to sea on a spit of land to the south. Ralph parked below the crumbling old castle near the fish market. We climbed some steps and found ourselves in another world of sun-bright buildings that curved along a low-walled esplanade. Here was a wonderful opportunity to gaze at baroque carvings over windows and doors, creamy yellow stained walls and bright green doors and shutters. Our walk was cut shorter than intended because my guts were playing up and I had to make a swift visit to a café so I could use the toilet. Ralph bought me a campari soda which helped to settle things down. We drove back along the coast, passing a pretty town called Santa Caterina on a bay and we stopped once more to sketch the four towers at S. Maria al Bagno.

As we drove back we remarked on the profusion of flowers on the verges, in the fields and olive groves. Sometimes one flower had dominance, turning the ground into a festival of pink, yellow or orange. In other places the colour spectrum had woven a tapestry, a carpet of brilliance. Occasionally on our journeyings we have passed a shepherd with a flock of sheep or goats, driving them forward just as he would have a thousand years ago. Strange when you see a quick fix conurbation built of cement and concrete in the background.

On our return we walked around the Castello. Poppies glowed in the late afternoon sun and the silhouettes of the olive trees darkened. We collected some twigs and sticks to help the fire along. The night was chilly again. Barbara called us on to the terrace to watch the sunset - a glowing orange ball sinking into the horizon and turning the sky into a pink glow.

We cooked spicy sausages and ate our supper at the long dining room table. Then we huddled round the fire and chatted till bedtime. It is quite exhilarating being so isolated. No one knows where we are. There is no TV, Radio (except in Italian) or telephone. A purging process. Like going on a fast.

Friday, 19th April

We awoke to a chilly morning and so lit the fire. As the morning progressed it became warmer and after a leisurely breakfast on the terrace we drove to the market at Avetrana. Ralph bought a cardigan and we chose wonderful vegetables and meats from the stalls brimming with baby artichokes, raddichio, glistening peppers and aubergines, bunches of tomatoes and tubs of olives - a feast for the eyes and the stomach. We had protracted negotiations at a tiny tobacconist where we bought faded postcards of Avetrana.

How good it is to sit on the terrace on top of the world and to know that we have nothing to do. We can hear the wind in the trees, the twitter of the birds and the farmyard voices from below.

After lunch I started to sketch the view of the courtyard below. It was a complex arrangement of outbuildings, roofs and corners, a challenge that will take me a few days. I also have to decide the time of day so that I can have some consistency. How clever Monet was to work on a different canvas every so often at the same time of day for each painting.

Barbara and her daughter, Maria Vittoria, came over for a chat. We ascertained that Barbara is German, though Italian in spirit, she assured us. Her daughter is studying law in Florence. We invited them, with Marcello for a drink at six. So at about 4 oclock we set off for a little walk through the flower spattered olive grove, the little dog Billie hard on our heels.

We came across the stone trulli that we had seen from our terrace and spent some time drawing, admiring and photographing. These ancient dwellings are extraordinary with their rounded roofs and stone 'nipples' on the top. Inside, the trulli was a miracle of structural engineering, the stones following a circular perfection. According to the guide book the construction method is prehistoric, so whether the originals were constructed by the apuli tribes is anyone's guess.

Again, as the guidebook says, another architectural feature is the plethora of forts and fortified farmhouses. It seems that the region was occupied by all and sundry - Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Lombards, Franks and Saracens - and most particularly by the Normans and Hohenstaufens. Frederick II of Hohenstaufen built many castles in the 13th century. He actually stayed in the region, being an enlightened leader and man of letters, though most people passed through, taking what they could grab on the way.

We walked to the end of the olive grove to a dry stone wall which we clambered over at a point where it had collapsed to create a convenient gap into a large vineyard. The vines were trained high up on trellises. And so we wended our way back to the castello passing apple trees full of delicate blossoms, too impossibly fresh and fragrant to describe. It was indeed an idyllic walk with the long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. On the way back I stumbled and fell over. My ankle is a little swollen.

I just had time to prepare a coq au vin going before Marcello and Barbara arrived. They are very warm people. They admired our drawings and invited us for a pizza in a restaurant tomorrow night. Barbara wants to take us sightseeing on Monday. After supper Ralph and I had a game of scrabble sitting cosily by the fire. It is throwing out a wonderful heat now that it has a good bed of ash.

Saturday, 20th April

We spent the morning in Lecce, known as the 'Athens of Apulia'. It lives up to its name. The creamy local sandstone has been carved on the buildings into its own particular mixture of saints and sinners, fantastical animals and architectural arabesques. Churches and palaces, domes and bell towers are fashioned in this very local style called 'Barocco Leccese' crafted at the peak of its ingenuity by the artists and architects of the Spanish court in the 16th century in a wonderfully vigorous mixture of secular and religious.

After a tense time getting out of Lecce in heavy traffic we drove east to the Adriatic coast for our picnic, reaching the coast at Santa Foca. We found a deserted bay, very dramatic with a breezy turquoise sea creating bewitching movement on the surface, though the beach itself was a testament to the untidiness and thoughtlessness of people drawn to the seaside - loads of rubbish everywhere.

Then we drove further South where we found a pristine cove of yellow sand hedged in by a forest of pines. Here I lay on the sand while Ralph alternately swam and searched for various found objects (bits of driftwood, an old shoe, etc.) and made a readymade sculpture that he called "The Meaning of Life". This beach was at Torre dell'Orso, the torre or tower perched on the cliffs, its ancient purpose to give warning of the marauding hordes. Warning signs would be given to the inhabitants in the shape of fires and the flashing of mirrors so that they could scuttle to the safety of their forts, fortified farmhouses and castles.

I had a chat with Barbara about all these interesting historical things. She pointed out the extent of their land, about 40 hectares of vines, olives and fields (the newly ploughed one for potatoes though they rotate with peppers and tomatoes).

Sunday, 21st April

We played scrabble by the fire last night after a supper of young artichokes and the rest of the coq au vin.

We decided that today would be our day of rest.

Ralph has started his children's book, Garibaldi's Biscuits. So while he worked on that I did some washing and then we went for a walk on a dirt track that runs parallel to the Avetrana road. On our left were the olive trees behind their dry stone walls. We passed a small trulli surrounded by dense thickets with the odd wild flower creating a glow in the gloom of dark foliage and sombre stone. As we progressed the olive groves became ever more colourful, the gnarled trunks and bluish leaves serving as a counterfoil to the carpet of ever more intense flowering beneath. At certain stages we stood in one spot mesmerised - for here was a wonderfully random patterning of orange, lemon yellow, blue, white and red, creating such a picture of perfection that no artificial garden could come close to it. Swirls of yellow complemented the formality of the olive trees with clusters of velvet blue, red and pink in its background of grasses and foliage of the freshest green - and as a bonus all recorded on Ralph's video camera. The walk, though only a modest circular tour, took us till lunchtime, a salald of raddichio, onions, peppers, dill cucumbers and parsley with salami and dolcellata cheese. It was deliciously quiet. Even our hosts have gone out so there's not even the clang of a door or Italian remark, just the twitter of the birds and the odd car zooming coast wards on the road outside.

We spent the early part of the afternoon pottering on the terrace. I tried to do a watercolour and failed dismally and compensated by doing a quick sketch in biro.

We drove down the road at 4 o'clock to search for an abandoned house that we had seen the other day. We found it on the road to Torre Colimena. It was set back from the road, early 19th century with a vaulted ceiling inside and windows and doors decorated with stone carvings. The walled garden had a stone archway and wisteria dripping in abundance over the wall. Behind was an overgrown olive grove with wild flowers growing in vigorous exuberance - and all in the golden mellow late afternoon light and long soft shadows. We stopped on the way back at Avetrana and sat in our usual café watching the Sunday pursuits of the locals. The 'Good ole boys' stood in groups (they always look very wise as if they are talking about the state of the world and as if they are just about to say something full of wisdom and nostalgia). The young bloods thudded past on their motorbikes or sat nonchalantly on street benches. The young girls languished in café corners eating ice cream and tossing their lustrous black hair.

Back at the Castello we knocked on our kind hosts door. They were entertaining their friend called Nina and a young Briton who is on a sponsored cycle ride to Australia. We drank a cup of lemon tea and learned that tonight we are to eat pizza in a restaurant with them.

Marcello drove us all in his farm van. Nina speaks impeccable English with a drawling Milan accent, she is a sophisticated lady, knows her art and history and has a ready sense of humour. Our destination was Porto Caesareo, the place to go on a Sunday, judging by the crowds promenading on the sea front. Fishing boats bobbed along the waterfront heaped with fishing nets. The narrow streets behind the sea front buzzed with a multitude of conversations. We were ushered into a large restaurant with vaulted ceilings. We sat in the back room where imitation pine panelling made a strange contrast to the old part in the front. Right at the back was a huge wood stove for cooking the pizzas and a side table was arrayed with the antipasto - baked peppers, mushrooms, aubergines, battered cauliflower, marinated onions and olives. And then the pizza. More than we could finish.

After dinner we took a walk. The evening was mild and the sky was full of stars and a bright crescent moon. We came to a brightly lit fish shop and admired the gleaming fish on the marble counters.

What a pleasant evening we had. What kind people. We would have liked to talk more to Marcello but he doesn't speak English and our Italian is monosyllabic.

Nina and her husband live in the region for the summer months in a trulli but every winter they store their belongs for fear of being robbed. Paranoia again.

Monday, 22nd April

Notes:

Driving out with Barbara as our guide. Out of Avetrana across flat vineyards just coming into green leaf. Men in the vineyards. Fields of poppies. MANDURIA. A church with no roof. A megalithic site with walls, and round stone wells that are tombs. A building completely gutted inside. Olive groves. A roadside shrine. Dramatic entrance to ORIA on a hill crowned by a dome shining in the sunshine. A half destroyed pigeon tower. We stopped to look at the honeycomb effect inside. Like a sculpture.

Old olive trees. FRANCAVILLA. Another domed cathedral. An old factory for washing olives remains after pressing. Extract oil for burning. Flooded vineyards.

What a day of visual delights we have had. I made quick notes as I sat in the back of the car so that Barbara could navigate. It was a great relief to be with someone who knew the roads and so patient with all our stopping for videoing and photographing.

Our first stop was GROTTAGLIE, a pottery town of white buildings and steep streets. Many of the pottery workshops are located in cellars that were and still are used to dry the pottery, so that it can dry slowly in a cool atmosphere. Very fine work. Barbara took us to a family workshop where the patron was making a bowl on the potter's wheel. The traditional country design has cockerels raising their wings because they used to tie the cockerels on to sticks that made them flap their wings. A symbol of fertility. The maestro showed us exquisite tureens decorated with fruits and leaves. Some of the plates were delicately and intricately hand painted. We bought a jug and a salad bowl in the rustic cockerel design. We drank a capachino in a small outdoor café before driving on.

MARTINA FRANCA is called 'the pearl of the south' and is aptly named. Through an archway adorned with baroque figures we came to the Palazzo Imperiale set in a square of palaces with sandstone decorations, balustrades and old doorways. Barbara ushered us inside. It is now used as municipal offices, for wedding ceremonies and offices for the police. In the upper chambers where the civil marriages take place an official kindly showed us the hand painted walls and ceilings with arabesque lintels surrounding pastoral scenes and cherubic goings-on among the clouds of heaven and so on.

Through another archway was a semi-circular piazza with a creamy rococo church unfortunately covered in scaffolding for cleaning with a separate clock tower and all around buildings with fantastic architraves, balustrades and baroque decorations. The narrow streets behind were also redolent of the prevalent decorative style. We had some snacks and a drink in a tiny square where a pretty bride and her military uniformed groom were being photographed and videoed like film stars - a very Italian thing to do - all at enormous expense, according to Barbara.

If Martina Franca was stately then LOCOROTONDA was more down to earth, narrow white washed streets and a plethora of lush green plants and flowers on every step and hanging from every balcony. A far cry from AROBERELLO with its stone trullis huddled together in an over-restored, selfconscious manner. Many are now tourist shops selling cheap tat. Glad we'd seen the countryside trullis first in the Itria Valley in an idyllic verdant swathe of almond trees blossoming in a rich red soil, stone walls encircling fields, orchards and vineyards and the trullis with their painted white roofs gleaming through the trees.

Tuesday 23rd April

We packed ready for our departure as Barbara had new guests arriving tomorrow. I felt sad to be going but one becomes psychologically prepared and ready for the unknown ahead. Barbara and Marcello waved to us from the gate until we had turned onto the main road.

We negotiated the route through Taranto and Bari pretty well and continued on north along the coast, first to stop for a picnic by the sea and then headed towards the 14th century Castel del Monte built by the poet king, Frederick II.

Following the coast road north we were keen to get beyond the jerry built concrete highrise tenements that surround even the most exquisite towns. At Palese I caught glimpses of an enticing seaside promenade with palm trees and tantalising vistas of walls dripping with bourganvillea and wisteria.

We finally stopped between Bisceglie and Trani at a Jacques Tati-esque street of modern villas behind iron railings overlooking a rocky beach. Here we picnicked with the beach to ourselves and a view of Trani and its medieval ramparts and cathedral in the distance.

Then we drove into Trani and drank a capuchino in the harbour square. The creamy stone buildings were a testament to the town's prosperity centuries ago with its spacious esplanade as wide as the harbour itself edged with stately cream and ochre palaces, churches and cloisters. I must also mention the Romanesque cathedral by the sea.

We drove through Corato into a different landscape of hills, woods and valleys to the Castel del Monte. At first sight it seemed like group of silos or some futuristic factory. It was extraordinary to think that it was 500 years old. The approach road was narrow and winding past a strange slope of scattered rocks and squat trullis that looked more primitive that the ones in the south.

The castle was a magnificent testament to the vision of the Frederick II. He was, so Barbara had told me, a great scholar whose teachers were Arabian. They taught him a great deal of mathematics and astronomy. It is now thought that the castle was built as an observatory and that Frederick studied the stars there. Walking around we could see how aptly it was sited since there were vantage points from all around it.

The fact that it is a well known tourist destination made us feel a certain violation. We had become so used to solitude. We have been so used to having the southern towns and landscape to ourselves. We had a drink in the bar with a noisy group of children and their good natured teachers. The children were getting restless while waiting for their charabancs home.

By now it was five o'clock and time to find a bed for the night. It is the worst time in a day of travelling when fatigue begins to take hold, especially for Ralph who had to drive among the devil-may-care Italians and negotiate the erratic road signs, though I tried to help by reading the map and generally navigating with varying degrees of success.

I had read in the guide book that the town of ANDRIA had an old hotel called La Vecchio Messaria. This entailed driving north again and the town turned out to be an industrial nightmare with nasty modern buildings and urban degeneration, in spite of its baroque cathedral. There was no masseria in sight, or even a hotel that deserved the title, so we turned east towards CORATO that we had already passed and beyond to RUVO DI PUGLIA which, at least on the map looked smaller than the other towns we had passed through. The guidebook mentioned it having 'another lovely Romanesque church as well as the Museo Jatta containing terracotta vases and rytons (drinking vessels in the shape of animal heads).'

Past the usual urban wasteland of half finished buildings and anonymous apartment blocks the old town opened out into a wide piazza with a church (Romanesque, of course) and old buildings of faded splendour. There were two hotels sign posted so we followed the signs to the Hotel Pineta which had a symbol of two elegant pine trees on them. It turned out to have a bland glass façade within tall prison like railings. We decided to try the Talos Hotel which, though modern and facing bland apartment blocks was at least near the centre and had a semblance of comfort with a more welcoming façade and an awning and a baize carpet running up to the door.

The man on the reception desk was solicitous and so it was with relief that we showered and set out for the short stroll into the town. As we came to the square a resonant cacophony reached our ears. A vast number of swallows twittered and swooped from building to building but most of the noise came from literarily hordes of elderly and middle aged men standing and sitting in groups and jabbering away to one another. It was extraordinary to come across this vast area packed with so many men with their shiny Sunday suits and cloth caps. It was as if some great event had taken place and had to be discussed and dissected.

In fact, something HAD been going on - elections. According to the man in the café where we drank an aperitif (who spoke excellent English) the result had been a victory for the left. He was, himself, highly delighted. Not finding any restaurants open we walked back to the hotel for supper where we enjoyed a simple meal of proscuitto, pasta and grilled fish with a mellow red wine from Castel de Monte.

Wednesday, 24th April

We had breakfast in the hotel lobby that, we presumed, was where it was normally served. The reception desk was not just for administration. It also served as a coffee shop. The capuchino was delicious with croissant fresh from the oven, stuffed with a sort of custard cream and dusted with icing sugar. In the end, we were led by the kind manager into the dining room for our comfort. We had probably looked a little uncomfortable perched on the sofa in the lobby.

We had a few false starts to get on to the S93 road south to MELFI. The road led us through a verdant landscape of fields of young corn and undulating hills and valleys. To reach Melfi on the secondary road to avoid the trauma of motorways we had to circumvent Mt. Vulture, a landmark shaped like an upturned basin with a pointed top. Across the valleys the hills supported cream and pink villages all with their domed and steepled churches and stalwart ramparts.

Melfi had its share of treasures, a baroque church, a Norman tower, a medieval castle like Castel del Monte. A horde of children poured out of the castle engulfing a couple of newlyweds being videoed with the castle as their backdrop. The groom wore a pale blue sixties style suit with wide lapels and springy hair flattened into a post modern centre parting. We drank a cappuchino in a café opposite the church and took the scenic route (having had difficulty getting out of the town down the narrow cobbled streets where drivers stopped their cars to have a chat with friends and parked so badly that to pass was to risk serious damage to the car) but we made it and continued through the wide green valleys that rose up to bright green slopes and wooded promontories until we merged with the wider road to AVENILLO.

We stopped for our picnic on a grassy knoll par excellence, a sloping wheat field that descended into a valley and rose again into steep wooded rounded peaks on the other side. We chewed wafer thin slices of mortadella, fresh bread, tomatoes and olives. We heard cowbells as a small herd of cattle moved ponderously across the opposite slope.

And so we carried on driving west past high ridges and along valley floors, past the Lago di Conza on a wide plain and villages that became more exuberant and Mediterranean in feel. Then we took the scenic route south down to the coast. This was real Heidi country, green pastures dotted with tall trees, primroses and buttercups on the verges and cows with big bells round their necks. Then we were suddenly in the rush hour and car fumes of SALERNO heading west towards the dramatic coast towards AMALFI.

The narrow tortuous road had views of houses and towns clinging on to the rock faces, terraced orange and lemon groves and grand old villas facing out to sea. It would have been a pleasure if it hadn't been for the coaches and buses that only just managed to squeeze past us. We were very tired. It was six o'clock already. So we stopped in Amalfi and while Ralph parked precariously by the taxi rank and buspark, I asked for a room at the Hotel Residence (recommended by the guide book) and booked a room for two nights. I also arranged for the car to be put into a lock up garage. It would be a liability here and we had done enough driving for a while.

The Hotel Residence was a fine old hotel and we had a charming room overlooking the harbour (and the crowds of sightseers, buses, scooters and cars) and a wonderfully baroque fresco on the ceiling. Outside the room was a circular staircase built of stone and marble and old artefacts - even a model of the Duomo with its intricate Arab inspired designs.

We showered and walked out in the dusk to see the Duomo and to eat in a trattoria nearby. In spite of the patron being rather brusque we enjoyed our pasta, fish and salad. We had intended to walk round the town before bed but felt too tired.

Thursday, 25th April.

Picture the scene. It is nine o'clock in the morning. The harbour is bustling with morning activity. Coaches are arriving dispersing their passengers and the Italians in their neat suits are strolling about uncertainly wondering where to start their day. A portly man has just had a brisk swim and a group of young men sit on a step and look around aimlessly. A man puts tables and chairs out on the patio of his restaurant and the sea pounds the rocks.

We have stopped for a cappuchino in an outdoor café on the long main street that goes from the piazza towards its craggy backdrop of cliffs and rocks. The narrow street is lined with bars, alimentaria where huge cheeses and hams hang up and the odd souvenir shop. It's thronging with people. We have just learned that it is a public holiday today, so no wonder. It is Garibaldi Day and a lot of people have come in from Naples. The place is teeming like Blackpool on August Bank Holiday, except that it seems more exotic here with its sartorial Italian trippers. They wear their Sunday best, the men in shiny suits and women in suits and high heeled shoes, though there is a sprinkling of foreign tourists in Bermuda shorts, white trainers and body belts.

The narrow coast road is choc a bloc, nose to tail traffic and a pall of exhaust fumes and the noise of roaring engines and impatient car horns that hoot at the slightest provocation.

We had breakfasted on the elegant hotel terrace and set out to explore the town and buy our picnic which we did in a vaulted shop, the upper level lined with dozens of different types of pasta and downstairs a long counter full of wondrous cheeses and salamis. We bought mortadella, olives, cheese, water and wine and bread in a small bakery.

The guidebook intrigued us with mention of a way to walk to Atrani, the town in the neighbouring cove to the east of Amalfi.

'From Amalfi, walk down the hill to the right of the highway, just past the town, until you come to a small beach and arches (the highway's supports), walk through the arches and you'll reach a delightful piazza...'

There were indeed archways to the right of the beach but all blocked off, so we walked along the road which was rather alarming, alongside the jostling, hooting cars and had no choice but to sidle our way through the unlit road tunnel where there were steps down to the beach on the other side. When we emerged the view of Atrani was breathtaking with the green and yellow cathedral domes rearing skywards above rooftops one on top of the other like a haphazardly placed stack of cards.

Here on the beach we had our picnic and I drew while Ralph swam in the cold sea. The weather was balmy, warm without the sting of high summer. We sat on an upturned fishing boat. An archway to the back of the beach led into what we assumed was the 'delightful piazza' and to celebrate our find we drank a cappuchino and gazed at the square and the creams, yellows and pale pinks of the buildings, the dark green doors and shutters and the pinks and reds of the flowers on the wrought iron balconies.

Wishing to return to Amalfi by a different route we found that there was indeed a route back through half hidden archways, up secretive passages and alleyways, up steps and down again, past a maze of houses screened behind walls and entrances obscured by the elevations of neighbouring houses. And suddenly we emerged from our solitary expedition into the bright sunlight and the hustle and bustle of the harbour again.

We came back to the hotel a little over-heated and lay down for an hour, looking up at our fresco on the ceiling, its azure sky and the wreaths of flowers a calming affirmation of the pleasant day we had had.

I spent a while drying my hair on the balcony and became fascinated by the relentless flow of traffic and the policeman in his pristine blue serge uniform. He blew his whistle and waved his arms about without making much difference to the progress of the cars. Some cars took a sharp right turn while others went all round the statue before taking the same right turn. The statue was of the man credited with inventing the compass in the 14th century. I was mesmerised. On the beach people were packing up their bits and pieces, shaking sand from their towels and folding them up. On the road, men and boys on mopeds and scooters weaved in and out of the traffic.

Refreshed and rested we sallied forth, walking across the harbour to the western side of town where fishing boats and a few luxury cruisers bobbed up and down against the jetty. At the end of the jetty was a fine view of Amalfi. Hoary old men mended their nets or grunted to one another as they leant on the railings.

Back on the main street we resolved to find the paper mill mentioned in the guide book: 'At the top of the central street (number 92) is a mill where fine paper with Amalfi watermarks is made.' On reading this, I remembered that our friend Simon Green had mentioned a paper mill in Amalfi. So we walked up the street to the top where tourists don't usually come and where a river roared below the level of the pavement. And there it was, a humble building built into the rock cavity with the door ajar.

We had, in fact, asked the very helpful man on the reception desk at the hotel where to find it. He told us that he was the son of the papermaker himself. He worked in the hotel in the summer and made paper in the winter.

We walked through the door to the sound of the river gushing underground below our feet. The space was little more than a narrow cellar built into the rocks. An old man with a bulbous red nose sat at a table examining sheets of paper. A younger man in denims stood by his side. He was another son and spoke good English. He showed us up some steps to another room built into the rocks with the old water wheel and the machine for making recycled paper. We explained our connection with the Barcham Greens and Hayle Mill back home. The son said he remembered Simon coming here about 20 years ago. The father was silent and morose. We bought some paper and walked back down the street to a small Taverna and were ushered in by a corpulent young man. I chose fish from the cold cabinet and asked for it to be grilled. It was delicious.

We talked to a Danish couple at the next table. The woman said that the mill was well known as a tourist destination. But still it was nice that we had found it on our own and had that personal connection with it through Simon Green.

Friday, 26th April

The day started overcast but felt warm as the sun was filtering through. We sat for a while on the beach. Ralph tape recorded the sea, or rather the waves for his 'sounds of Italy' archive and I sketched a section of the town with the ruined castle on the ridge above us.

The nice man in the hotel had found us another room to stay in for our last night. It was on the side with a view of the Duomo and so has a lively outlook. The room is large with a subtle ceiling painting of a cameo style portrait of two young girls laughing together.

Having bought our picnic (Guess what - Mortadella, cheese and bread with Amalfi oranges) we walked up the street past the paper mill where it narrows dramatically between two steep escarpments terraced with lemon groves. We climbed up a series of stone steps between high walls and could see that the valley ended abruptly at the convergence of these two slopes. A massive old empty factory or mill stood wedged in a dramatic structure of natural architecture. We followed the path along the western slope until we came to a level area which must have been the roof of an old farm house and had our picnic. For a while we had the place to ourselves until some other people arrived to have their picnics. They went further on to find some privacy, not so a French family who stood practically on top of me for a good ten minutes. Odd behaviour, I thought. Ralph had gone further up the slope to explore.

As we descended it started to rain. By the time we were in the main street it was raining quite heavily so we had a capuchino in what has become our favourite café because it is in the 'real' part of the town where the 'real' people live. The papermaker's son was there and we chatted for a while. We also waved to his father who passed by.

We decided to rest in our room for a while, though the rain was beginning to ease. I sketched our view from the balcony, testing my skills of perspective. I didn't get to finish all the details but can use my photographs as reference when we get home.

We emerged at about 6.30 and sat in our favourite café watching the locals chat in groups and then had supper further up under a bamboo awning. The meal was somewhat pedestrian. They had no fish but everything was fresh. We came back and played scrabble in our room.

Saturday, 27th April

It's time to pack. Franco Cavaliere, the paper maker's son, had advised us not to take the road we came on back to Salerno because of the traffic but to take the winding road inland across the peninsula to Castellammare. He was right. It was very quiet compared to the coast road and gave us stunning views above Conca dei Marmi and Furore past hilltop villages and dramatic overhanging rocks that seemed as if they were about to fall on top of us. Then past Vesuvius that rose from a polluted haze above the flat plain below and onto the motorway and not very far to the airport.

And so, basically, that was that - a reasonable flight home to our burgeoning garden. The cherry blossom is about to burst, the wisteria flowers beginning to bulge, the clematis poised to open, the grass getting long and the patio plants spreading generously. So we don't feel too much the withdrawal systems from the brilliant flowers in the olive groves or the fresh leaves on the vines and the fig trees, or even the bright yellow of the lemons above Amalfi. Spring is spring wherever you go!

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