… and the hairiest drive of my life. I took hold of Luigi as we departed Pulicaro and headed towards Napoli and the Amalfi coast. Besides for being scammed out of our money by a ‘helpful’ crook standing at one of the many tollgates (you know, as you do), the route had been relatively uneventful until we hit the outskirts of Naples. Trying to negotiate the uneven and ‘under construction’ highway flanked by Valentino Rossi on my left and with taunting orange beacons on my right, attempting to respect the temporary speed limit of 60kph (when everyone else was doing 130 plus!) was enough to bring happy hour half a day forward. Or so I thought, until I realized quite how extreme things could get as we passed Naples and got onto the coastal Amalfi road suspended between the mountains and the sea. In this world, lanes are ignored, overtaking into oncoming traffic to edge just one car ahead is the norm and hooting and rude hand gestures is encouraged. This gives new meaning to the words ‘road rage’ folks.
Now don’t get me wrong, our GPS had been a lifeline on more than one occasion during this trip and Chiara, with her nasal Italian accent, was paying her way on the journey. But good old TomTom doesn’t stand a chance when it comes to the backstreets of this part of the world. Unable to recognize the difference between streets and teeny tiny Vespa pathways, following Chiara can lead one to a fair amount of peril. And so it was that we passed by a sign, at some speed I might add, which had some curious red numbers on it and that we later understood indicated the maximum width of the upcoming road. Well we were a bit late on that lesson and soon found ourselves down an alley which was so tight that even the turned in wing-mirrors were being engraved by the stone walls on either side. With no chance of reversing back through the winding maze, I had no option but to keep moving forward and hope to the heavens that at some point we would find a driveway or exit or even a POSTAGE STAMP to at least turn the car around. As my claustrophobia began to rear its ugly head, Gary managed to exit the vehicle through the window and catch the attention of a man sitting on the top of one of these stone walls (What the dickens he was doing on the wall we will never know. Perhaps it’s a local sport, watching ridiculous tourists abandon rental cars in bicycle alleys? Who cares why, I have never been so grateful in all my life!) After laughing at our predicament and mimicking a scooter for some time, he kindly offered to open his gate and let us turn around in his garden. Just in the nick of time, as I had now all but suspended the entire car in the middle of this paper thin street. Reversing in front of this delightful gentleman’s entire family having their Sunday lunch, we handed out some SA key rings as a gesture of goodwill and rode the clutch all the way to our agritourismo.
Now this family-owned agritourismo, ladies and gentlemen, was unlike no other. A bright yellow little house from the 1800s perched directly on the corner of a turning blind rise, with its little farm of tomato plants and vineyards (and the cow, which later kept the entire neighbourhood awake due to being in heat for two days – who even knew cows did that?) spilling out haphazardly down the hill. With billowing smoke and the overpowering fumes of our burning clutch signalling our arrival, a worried son and manager Salvatore rushed out to greet us. Strapping Salvatore, and his slightly more robust brother Angelo who was the cook, were both ginger-haired and the splitting image not only of each other but also, strangely enough, of the hand-painted ceramic angels above our bed. Kinda creepy, but cute.
These two young guys run the agritourismo in the most sincere and charming way, along with the rest of their family who each have a role in the running of the restored house. Being the English speakers, we got to chat and get to know Angelo and Sal, who took to sitting with us each day at the end of our breakfast to help us plan the day’s adventure. On Friday evening they even cooked a homemade Italian dinner for the guests, complete with their farm’s limoncello, marmalade and pastries. Sitting with Gary having a drink on their veranda under the grapes of the ripe vines above, with a stunning view of the sun setting over the Amalfi coast, was a very special memory. However, even this perfect moment in time was not without the quirks we’d come to expect from our agritourismo, as the vapours of the neighbour’s clutch in reverse were only just overpowered by the burning of the electric fly trap and drunken guests at the party next door swiftly rammed their car into the wall of the agritourismo.
Never a dull moment. NOW its a party!
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