Travelling boy

Here we are at the beginning of September, which means that there is almost half of August to bring you up to date with. Don’t worry, though, for as nearly all of this period was my holiday in Cyprus at Eric’s, it can be covered, theoretically, with a quick summary.

Before I made it to Eric’s however, there was the small matter of getting there. This was not quite as simple as shooting up to Ancona when travelling to the UK as the only airline that flies from Italy to Paphos is Ryan Air, and the only airport they use for these flights is Rome Ciampino, and to get there from MSP called for some creativity and a four stage journey. Stage one involved us leaving LCDDB at just after 10 a.m. for the hour or so’s car journey to Foligno in Umbria, just on the other side of the Sibillini mountains, to catch the train to Rome. Here I had about a forty-minute wait, enough time to use the facilities and buy a sandwich and a bottle of water for the train, which was on time.

Two hours later we pulled into Termini station (after a stop at a station on the outskirts, which prompted an Englishwoman across the aisle from me to stand and demand imperiously and in English if there was another station after this, expecting, of course that she would be understood and oblivious to the quizzical looks of the Italians). The particular train that I was on has the quaint habit of arriving, in Termini, at a sort of annex rather than the main station, meaning that I then had a forced march of some 15 minutes up into the station concourse then out the other side and down the street almost parallel to where I had got off the train. The wait here was quite short, maybe ten minutes, before the Terravision coach arrived and I got on for the twenty-five minute transfer to Ciampino airport.

We had planned the other parts of the journey to allow for any delays, but as there were none I arrived with more than enough time to spare, so much so that it was over an hour before I was able to check in my luggage and then another two hours before take off. That’s ok, I mistakenly thought, as I can treat myself to a decent meal to while away the hours, not realising that Ciampino is more or less a glorified bus station designed as a holding pen for all the travellers who have opted for a budget airline. Apart from a small duty free, an Italian equivalent of Boots and a “gift” shop, the only other outlets were food ones selling sandwiches and… sandwiches. I did try to make the best of it by buying a wholegrain roasted vegetable one and a carton of fruit salad but they were small consolation.

And then it was all over bar the shouting (figuratively, thankfully, not literally). The flight was on time, Eric and Dean met me at Paphos and I was in their house around 11.30 p.m., just over twelve hours after leaving my own. When you think of the distance I’d covered, that doesn’t seem too bad, but my body was more than thankful when after a light salad followed by unpacking my few things it was allowed to go to bed.

I will refrain from giving you a blow-by-blow breakdown of my ten days in Paphos, partly because I take seriously my role as custodian of your literary souls and partly because the days were somewhat repetitive and without incident (if you overlook Eric and Dean getting an €80 fine for parking in a disabled bay at the Kings Avenue Mall because, although they don’t have a relevant sticker, Eric is somewhat unsteady on his feet these days and anyway they had done it before because the security attendants said it was all right; the zealous policeman who issued the ticket obviously disagreed).

The days quickly settled into a routine, with a brisk hour’s walk along the very pleasant promenade, past the beaches and rocks on one side and a bewildering assortment of hotels on the other, first thing in the morning before it became too hot and a jaunt out to browse the shops in the late afternoon when it had stopped being too hot. Actually, it wasn’t the heat itself that was the problem, as the temperatures were comparable with home in MSP, but the intense humidity that takes up residence there for the months of July and August, so humid in fact that just sitting still outside is enough for one to break out in chronic perspiration.

As for the shopping, there was nothing serious going on apart from a little light jewellery purchasing. This, though, proved a little more difficult than expected due to the very precise requirements that Stephen has this side of life. I did, though, eventually track down a bracelet by the Greek designer, Gregio, in beads that were both the correct size and shade of blue that he had requested. I also managed to locater the somewhat cheaper knotted ones that used to be available in the gift shops by Paphos harbour but which now had almost totally disappeared. Dean came to the rescue with these latter ones as he took me to the Greek Orthodox Church’s shop in Paphos town where there were an abundance of them. Allegedly, they are made by monks and sold at churches, presumably for people to buy and give as some sort of blessing.

This being the case, Stephen was mightily blessed as I bought him one in every colourway available, not knowing when I would have the opportunity again. As for me, I added to my small Pandora collection with a charm for my bracelet, an early birthday present from Mum and Dad, in the shape of Donald Duck’s head, which I assure you is much more pleasing than the image of a decapitated cartoon character might suggest. Not that the assistant seemed to think I should be looking at that particular tray, it being the ones showing the Disney range which, she said, were popular with and for children. Well, can I help it if I look old for my age?

We ate at home more than we ate out, the latter with varied success. The highlights were Eric’s birthday lunch at Amavi and a last night supper at Muse, a very popular café bar in the town whose terrace offers a panoramic sweep of the lower town and the coast. Amavi is a very impressive new hotel ten minutes walk away (less for Eric on his scooter wearing his go-faster flat cap, but that’s another story) on the promenade that advertises itself as a couples only hotel. They did, though, allow three of us to eat there, and very good it was, both the food (including the lightest pitta bread I’ve ever eaten) and the efficiently understated service. The low point was Saturday night at a “taverna” on the road down to the harbour where I mistakenly ordered fried fish, thinking it might be a lightly cooked fillet fresh from the boats rather than what appeared, which had come from the freezer before being battered and deep fried and which was so mushy I had to squash it onto my fork to eat. The restaurant might have been called Happy Island, but I can’t say it filled me with joviality.

And all too soon, as they say, the holiday came to an end and it was time to return, which I did last Friday. The journey home followed the same stages as the journey out, only in reverse of course, and took slightly less time. This was mainly due to not having over three hours to wait before boarding and the early departure, 7.15, meaning I was home in LCDDB mid-afternoon to a rapturous welcome from Bella and Harry. I did, though, have an hour or so to kill in Rome’s Termini station, and this time I opted to walk through the inside of the building rather then jostling my way along the crowded pavements. This was interesting because after passing through various booking halls and past an excess of car hire firms (Why? Driving in Rome, why?) I had to go through a branch of Coin, the department store, before arriving at the main concourse.

This, too, was on a bewildering scale, being the station that services the capital. If you want some idea of how busy it is, just think that where London has twelve main line stations, Rome has one and the concourse is of such a length that a few circuits would probably stand you in good stead for marathon training. As opposed to Ciampino, which as I said was really a bus station, Termini is on a grand scale, including an entire upper level the same length as the lower one dedicated to food outlets, and all looking very spruce. At least, I thought, I could find a plate of pasta at last, and after examining all the food stations I plumped for one offering Neapolitan specialities and its advertised plate of rigatoni alla Norma. Sorry said the nice man behind the counter, but the kitchen is closed, so I had to settle for, yes, a sandwich.

Anyway, to cut a long story to a tolerable medium length, I eventually made it to Foligno where Stephen met me. We would have been home slightly sooner if he hadn’t decided to ignore the sign on the slip road, meaning we had to circumnavigate the town in order to get back to where we should have been. It was good to be home and back to normality.

And the weekend was comfortingly normal, too – almost. A spot of shopping yesterday and a beach walk this morning were as usual, though the walk may well be our last of the year. But then this evening we welcomed our latest guests, Dave and Josie, friends from Darwen, to stay for a few days. They, too, had landed at Ciampino courtesy of Ryan Air, but from Manchester. They, however, have hired a car for the duration of their stay in Italy, forgoing the excitement of public transport. They don’t know what they’ve missed.