Italy Diaries: Escape to Ischia

In which I make a hasty retreat from Naples to Ischia

We’re on the run. We wake up in bed in the hostel in Naples and decide to flee. We’ve had enough of scooters and sirens, it’s time to leave. This is supposed to be our one full day in Naples. But one afternoon and evening has proved enough, and we’re running for the port.

A boat is leaving in eight minutes, and there’s a queue for the ticket office. Will they take card? My girlfriend runs to get cash in case they don’t, and I stand in the queue and watch the clock. Five minutes.

A group of friends in front of me are trying to get to Capri. That’s a long boat ride from Naples. Four minutes. I get to the window. L.’s not back with the cash, but it’s okay, they take card. Three minutes. Two tickets to Ischia, per favore.

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We make the boat. The departure time comes and goes and the boat stands still in the harbour. But eventually we push off and leave Naples behind and we both heave enormous sighs of relief.

We had debated whether to spend more time in Naples, or go and see someplace else. We wanted to make sure we’d seen the sights we wanted to see, had eaten what we wanted to eat. But all the Neapolitan pizza in the world couldn’t make us spend another minute in Naples. Our debate took place before we arrived and were accosted by lollipops held by babies held by men on scooters.

And so we spend an hour looking out at the sea, straining to see Ischia in the distance.

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Now, Ischia is a delight. It’s wonderful, it’s gorgeous, it’s peaceful. It’s not Naples. I’d be willing to bet a lot of you hadn’t heard of it until about thirty seconds ago when I mentioned I was buying two tickets on a boat heading there.

It’s an island an hour or so by ferry from Naples, but unlike Capri it’s big and volcanic and is known as the “green island” thanks to all the, well, greenery on it. It has hot springs and sandy beaches and it’s to a sandy beach that we go.

We sit on sunbeds, almost alone, as unbeknownst to us we have picked not the popular, wide, clean beach that all of the other tourists are currently frolicking on, but its bedraggled poor relation.

We have for company some old plastic bags and sandwich wrappers, and a man who sits down on a sunbed, fully clothed, and then promptly falls asleep.

He’s joined by a man who is ancient. He must be in his eighties. He goes out to sea for a swim I can’t stop watching him. I look up from my book every two lines, afraid that I’ll see him lolling on his back, unconscious and not breathing. I realise I don’t know the Italian emergency number and I can’t remember my first aid course.

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The ancient isn’t dead when we leave, at least. We walk up to Castello Aragonese. It stands on a mound of rock joined to the island by a causeway. We plan to climb up to the top for the view, but it’s hot, really hot, the sun bakes the ground. It’s not summer, not even close, but the heat beats down and it pushes us back to the town.

Ischia has lots of towns, this isn’t Capri where there’s only a couple. There’s Forio and Barano and Panza, but we only explore the area around the port. Much as we’d like to forget and push on to the hot springs and beyond, we have a ticket on one of the last ferries back to the mainland. Our beds for the night are in Naples.

The town is quiet and dusty. It’s out of season, and when you’re not right on the coast there’s only odd bits of life. Elderly couples stroll amongst the shops, which are a mix of boutiques, bakeries and the odd bookshop.

As the sun begins to set we walk back to the port. There are a couple of ticket offices, motorcycle hire points, but it’s mainly bars and restaurants. We walk along and pick, almost at random, L’Altra Mezzanotte.

It’s run by a friendly man named Peter who spends the time when he isn’t serving us talking to anyone who passes. He’s charming. An older couple walks by and he shakes hands, kisses cheeks. Families come and wave and say hello. He has the air of a man who has done this for thirty years and will do so for thirty more.

The food is delicious. It’s our last night in Italy and it sends us off with fresh caprese salad and margherita pizza.

Peter likes Ischia, he tells us, but he used to live in Naples. I gasp. This man looks so relaxed, so content. He looks like a man who has never experienced the sensation of dodging a scooter and dog shit simultaneously. He must have hated it. “You either love it, or hate it,” he tells us, “I love it.”

No, Peter, I want to cry. You live on Ischia. It’s beautiful and clean and quiet and I haven’t seen a scooter all day. But he loves the noise of the city and the food. The life.

But Peter, I want to say. Have you seen the lollipops being held by babies held by men on scooters?

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Some housekeeping

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