Italy Diaries: Capri Sun

Boats, beauty and Balenciaga on Capri Island

I’m on my second boat of the day. It’s only 11 in the morning, but it turns out the only thing to do when you get off a boat onto the island of Capri is to immediately get on another boat and leave.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to saunter off into Capri Town and pretend I was Mariah Carey returning to her villa or Sophia Loren here to do a spot of shopping.

But when I boarded my first boat, leaving from Sorrento, I found the world’s happiest salesman, who proceeded to give a fifteen-minute pitch on all the things to do in Capri. Number one: leave. But preferably on one of his boats, which would take you on a fantastic tour of the island.

So here I am, sat on a boat, alongside a lot of other boats. Some are similar to mine, the nautical equivalent of a cattle wagon, heaving with tourists and bobbing from side to side like your uncle after eight pints. Others are more exclusive. Love Island rejects perch in couples atop their private vessels, the only people aboard aside from their captain, a perpetually unimpressed-looking Italian.

Our boat is alongside a lot of other boats because we’re queueing for the Blue Grotto, a small cave you have to lie down inside a rowboat to get into. It’s reportedly gorgeous and a vivid shade of blue inside.

But I don’t get to see it. The warning at the start of the tour said we’d stop to go inside the grotto if there weren’t many other boats waiting. Since the entrance currently looks like Monte Carlo on grand prix weekend, it’s off to see other sights. We go through the Natural Arch, spot the lighthouse at Punta Carena, spy in the distance the picturesque Marina Piccola. Then, well past lunchtime, it’s finally onto dry land.

It’s a short funicular ride up the hill into Capri Town, but after a brief lunch stop I’m walking straight back down the other side to Marina Piccola. I walk down roads and through small paths in the hillside that are hemmed in by villas and deluxe AirBnBs.

I flip between pulses of jealousy at those who get to stay or even live on the island, and pulses of fear while walking on the roads, when open-top taxis come barrelling around blind bends. The taxis are driven by stylish natives whose attentiveness at the wheel one could charitably describe as loose.

I’ve got road traffic accident written all over me, but I make it down the hill and onto a small pebbly beach that sits in a bay of stupendous beauty. The water is blue and clear and calm. Capri’s hills and mountains loom behind us. Tourists lie tanned and lithe in the surprisingly hot October sun.

It’s achingly pretty, the sort of sight that makes you wonder if there is really a God, because how could He make something as stunning as Capri at the same time as something as crap as Croydon. I know He only had a week, but come on.

Beachcombers are easily spotted amongst the crowd. I enter and exit the water like someone only recently acquainted with his legs. Those who spend a lot of time here expertly trot in and out as they have done their whole lives. A dog joins them, on the run from its owner in the little shop near the shore. They drag it out only to have it escape again. It exits the water and shakes itself dry onto a nearby sunbather.

My hair frizzy with seawater and my vitamin D levels at an all time high, it’s back up the hill to Capri Town. It’s a sweaty walk and I’m a dishevelled and damp presence among the elite shoppers. Everyone is on foot, the real rich and semi-famous as well as the pretenders, window shopping at Gucci and Prada and Balenciaga, hovering with credit cards over the 3000-euro bags and hats.

The only people with wheels underneath them are the workers. “Attenzione, attenzione,” they hum behind you as they drive what look like mini tractors full of luggage to their respective workplaces. The rich and semi-famous don’t carry their luggage, not on Capri.

It’s all too beautiful. The views to the marinas below, the Italian mainland in the distance, the small and bustling town. A wedding party passes and goes into the church at the top of the town and I stop and wonder what it must be like to be a guest. To call this little island home. To have your wedding on Capri.

A daydream I sometimes linger too long in when London is wet and dreary and it’s the middle of February is packing it all up, moving to somewhere like Capri and selling gelato or running a bar in the sunshine.

Capri may be overcrowded and full of tourists even in October, but I can see myself sitting by the marina with a gelato and a beer and telling the English and the Americans and the Australians that come and visit that I too was like them once. I also sent emails and made photocopies.

But for now it’s the boat back to Sorrento, which isn’t terrible, I suppose. I stand on the back of the biggest boat of the day, a ferry, really, and watch as the clouds roll in and Capri fades into the distance. Back into the daydreams, for now.

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A fantastic writing workshop I attended

Last summer I attended Peter Carty’s travel writing workshop. I completely recommend it. I attended the in person session in Arsenal, but Peter runs them online too. He’s an experienced travel journalist who has been teaching people how to get into the business for 24 years. The workshop is value for money in itself, but what’s also incredible is Peter offers up his support ongoing after the workshop, and keeps in touch with his participants. Check out his website for details. His next workshops are on Saturday February 25th and Saturday March 25th. He’s also running an evening class from Wednesday April 5th and anyone can sign up for his one-to-one distance learning course at any time.

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Some housekeeping

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