The Amalfi Coast
I've been having difficulty starting this particular blog. I have ambivalence exceptionally badly and it's affecting my mind. On the one hand we have the beauty of the Amalfi coast, the incredible blue colour of the ocean, the food and the wonderful people, the craggy mountainous landscape dropping precipitously into the sea - but then on the other hand we have all the other people. Not just a few, but teeming hordes of humanity crawling like the Christmas Island Red Crabs over roads and paths and parks, on a quest for something more than just an ordinary existance. Helped on their way by the grandsons and granddaughters of the penniless fisherman who remained after the 1950's exodus of the dreamers of a better life. Those who stayed finally reaping the benefits of their old, renovated houses for AirBNB, hotels and assisting the feeding, hospitality and transport of the teeming mass of humanity who surge toward beauty and romance and a huge ignorance of historicity which feeds into the needs of the called hordes.
But then, I am one of these people. The names, Amalfi, Positano, Praiano, Furore I've heard uttered by those expatriate fisherfolk for decades. Names on Cafes, bucolic rustic murals of fishing ports on the walls of eateries, all evoke that homesickness for a world lost in the mists of time.
Well, lost it is. It is no more. The places are there, but they are not what they were. The houses are there, colourful and picturesque, perched on the side of the mountains tumbling into the Med, and the rocks and gorges and trees are still there. Nature is still magnificent, and that is where the beauty and romance can be found. The towns are no longer invaded by Barbary pirates, but by international bank accounts, easily plundered and then the owners put back on their vessels and taken back to their mother-ship lying off in the bay, full of beer and wine pastries and pasta, phones filled with the proof of their adventurous spirit and envied lifestyle.
We were there to bear witness. All that said, we had a great time. The road there and back for some reason had been cleared by the God of Tarmac and our Vespa made light of it. Fear of the goat-track parking lot proving surprisingly needless we zoomed and zoomed around corners, through narrow tunnels and stopping for exhilarating photos at all the pull-overs of worth. It was truly fantastic and for some reason we were graced with the easiest and joyful of journeys there and back. As long as you didn't actually go down into the towns you could pretend that the places were still the same. But no, the dreams are crushed as soon as you enter the narrow streets, banned parking, overcrowded eateries and bars.
It's true. The Journey is the most rewarding experience. Arrival is always bound to disappoint or result in ennui. Let this be a life lesson.
But then, I am one of these people. The names, Amalfi, Positano, Praiano, Furore I've heard uttered by those expatriate fisherfolk for decades. Names on Cafes, bucolic rustic murals of fishing ports on the walls of eateries, all evoke that homesickness for a world lost in the mists of time.
Well, lost it is. It is no more. The places are there, but they are not what they were. The houses are there, colourful and picturesque, perched on the side of the mountains tumbling into the Med, and the rocks and gorges and trees are still there. Nature is still magnificent, and that is where the beauty and romance can be found. The towns are no longer invaded by Barbary pirates, but by international bank accounts, easily plundered and then the owners put back on their vessels and taken back to their mother-ship lying off in the bay, full of beer and wine pastries and pasta, phones filled with the proof of their adventurous spirit and envied lifestyle.
We were there to bear witness. All that said, we had a great time. The road there and back for some reason had been cleared by the God of Tarmac and our Vespa made light of it. Fear of the goat-track parking lot proving surprisingly needless we zoomed and zoomed around corners, through narrow tunnels and stopping for exhilarating photos at all the pull-overs of worth. It was truly fantastic and for some reason we were graced with the easiest and joyful of journeys there and back. As long as you didn't actually go down into the towns you could pretend that the places were still the same. But no, the dreams are crushed as soon as you enter the narrow streets, banned parking, overcrowded eateries and bars.
It's true. The Journey is the most rewarding experience. Arrival is always bound to disappoint or result in ennui. Let this be a life lesson.
Great overview Linda, I loved your prose. Sue x
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