Oh I do like to be beside the seaside

After the double whammy of la carta d’identica and the car, what could possibly match up to those highpoints of our life in MSP? The answer, I guess, is Sunday lunch at the Fisherman’s chalet.

For those not conversant with beach life in Italy, I better point out that it is markedly different to other continental countries that I have visited. The big plus about lazing on Le Marche’s Adriatic coast is that there is no major holiday destination, at least for British people, therefore it is not littered with the multi-layering of international chains of hotels and what developments there are tend to be low rise ones.

That is not to say that beach resorts are not busy. During the summer, the Italians flood to the sea like a reverse tsunami. The merest suggestion that the weekend will be warm enough to slip on the swimwear and off they go for the day. During July, after the schools break up, and during August when the cities empty and businesses across the country close for at least two weeks, the coastal towns are thronged with people gradually going from a light tan colour to mahogany.

So if there are no high-rise developments, where do all these holidaymakers stay? Many will come for the day, but even those who live within spitting distance take up residence for a month or two in one of the many apartments that sprawl inland from the beaches. Which again highlights the difference between Italy and elsewhere – while there are some concessions to the needs of visitors, such as play areas and amusements, mostly they seem like towns that just happen to be next to the sea and which have a bewildering choice of places to eat fish and seafood. An Italian on holiday is very much like an Italian in his home, only browner; the routine of daily life is the same except working at a tan has replaced working behind a desk.

The biggest challenge of visiting one of these places, though, is finding somewhere to park. Unless you aim to arrive by 7am, you will invariably have to navigate the chequerboard of streets searching for the elusive space – as was the case when we turned up in Lido di Fermo somewhere around 1 o’clock today, (though, to our surprise and delight, we only spent 15 minutes looking for a suitable gap).

We were in Lido di Fermo because Samuel, one of the sons of the family Stefoni, had invited us along with several others to eat fish at the fishermen’s private chalet on the beach. And here you have another aspect of Italian seaside life. When you visit the beach, you have two options, one is to go on the public beach and the other is to use a chalet. The public beach is, of course, cheaper while to use a chalet (which basically means an area sectioned off and used by anyone willing to pay the price) is more expensive but perhaps gives a less frantic experience.

Whichever you choose, you will hire a sun bed and parasol, which can be yours for the day or for the week, though here again there is a pecking order. The prime positions are the ones at the front, for which you not only have to pay more but also have to make sure you are well in with the man (and it is men who work here) who assigns the beds. It’s not unusual for people to put their names on waiting lists in the expectation of moving up the rows to gain the uninterrupted view of the sea and the cachet of being ahead of the pack. As for me, a pale Brit who needs to daub on factor 50 as if making a plaster cast of myself, I am quite content to sit at the back under the parasol reading my Kindle while the rest of the beach sizzles.

So what of Samuel’s fish lunch? His chalet, the Fisherman’s chalet, is quite a exclusive one in that you have to be a member of the society to use it or to be invited by a member – a bit like a yacht club but without the snobbishness and cravats. It is their tradition that every Sunday during the summer they provide lunch for some sixty guests of the members, who do all the cooking and serving of the food. The chalet itself is a fairly simple structure in glass and concrete (having replaced the previous benches and tarpaulin) with a large covered area where the inevitable trestle tables were set out. A large section of one of the tables had been commandeered by the Stefoni contingent with enough seats for three generations and their hangers-on (i.e. Stephen and me).

And what of the meal? By now you will know that it ran to several courses, that it took a couple of hours and that there was much wandering and changing of places. The food was simple, ample and freshly caught this morning – seafood antipasti in various forms, pasta then grilled fish, grilled prawns and salad with chunks of watermelon to finish. Fortunately I was able to eat the pasta and the grilled fish, but passed on the seafood. I have tried to eat mussels and such like but it just not going to happen. Fortunately, Stephen can shell prawns for England so was able to polish off all my briny creepy crawlies and avoid causing offence.

But I am not complaining. I knew what the deal was when I signed up for the job, and there are many far worse places to spend your Sunday afternoon than in the chalet’s shade, drinking wine and watching the unhurried business of life on an Italian beach.