Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Most of the shops lay beyond the church, up the steps from the central piazza
,
in yet another series of
lanes and little squares of unutterable charm. They all had names like Gucci and Yves St Laurent, which
suggested that the summertime habitu￩s must be rich and insufferable, but mercifully most of the shops
were still not open for the season, and there was no sign of the yachting-capped assholes and bejewelled
crinkly women who must make them prosper in the summer.
A few of the lanes were enclosed, like catacombs, with the upper storeys of the houses completely
covering the passageways. I followed one of these lanes now as it wandered upward through the town and
finally opened again to the sky in a neighbourhood where the villas began to grow larger and enjoy more
spacious grounds. The path meandered and climbed, so much so that I grew breathless again and
propelled myself onwards by pushing my hands against my knees, but the scenery and setting were so
fabulous that I was dragged on, as if by magnets. Near the top of the hillside the path levelled out and ran
through a grove of pine trees, heavy with the smell of rising sap. On one side of the path were grand villas - I
couldn't imagine by what method they got the furniture there when people moved in or out - and on the other
was a giddying view of the island: white villas strewn across the hillsides, half buried in hibiscus and
bougainvillaea and a hundred other types of shrub.
It was nearly dusk. A couple of hundred yards further on the path rounded a bend through the trees and
ended suddenly, breathtakingly, in a viewing platform hanging out over a precipice of rock - a little patio in
the sky. It was a look-out built for the public, but I had the feeling that no one had been there for years,
certainly no tourist. It was the sheerest stroke of luck that I had stumbled on it. I have never seen anything half
as beautiful: on one side the town of Capri spilling down the hillside, on the other the twinkling lights of the
cove at Anacapri and the houses gathered around it, and in front of me a sheer drop of - what? - 200 feet,
300 feet, to a sea of the lushest aquamarine washing against outcrops of jagged rock. The sea was so far
below that the sound of breaking waves reached me as the faintest of whispers. A sliver of moon, brilliantly
white, hung in a pale blue evening sky, a warm breeze teased my hair and everywhere there was the scent
of lemon, honeysuckle and pine. It was like being in the household-products section of Sainsbury's. Ahead
of me there was nothing but open sea, calm and seductive, for 150 miles to Sicily. I would do anything to
own that view, anything. I would sell my mother to Robert Maxwell for it. I would renounce my citizenship and
walk across fire. I would swap hair - yes! - with Andrew Neil.
Just above me, I realized after a moment, overlooking this secret place was the patio of a villa set back
just out of sight. Somebody
did
own that view, could sit there every morning with his muesli and orange
juice, in his Yves St Laurent bathrobe and Gucci slippers, and look out on this sweep of Mediterranean
heaven. It occurred to me that it probably was owned by Donald Trump, or the Italian equivalent, some guy
who only uses it for about two minutes a decade and then is too busy making deals and screwing people by
telephone to notice the view. Isn't it strange how wealth is always wasted on the rich? And with this
discouraging thought I returned to the town.
I had dinner in a splendid, friendly, almost empty restaurant on a back street, sitting in a window seat
with a view over the sea, and had the chilling thought that I was becoming stupefied with all this ease and
perfection. I began to feel that sort of queasy guilt that you can only know if you have lived among the English
- a terrible sense that any pleasure involving anything more than a cup of milky tea and a chocolate
digestive biscuit is somehow irreligiously excessive. I knew with a profound sense of doom that I would pay
for this when I got home - I would have to sit for whole evenings in an icy draught and go for long tramps
over wild, spongy moors and eat at a Wimpy at least twice before I began to feel even the tiniest sense of
expiation. Still, at least I was feeling guilty for enjoying myself so much, and that made me feel slightly better.
It was after eight when I emerged from the restaurant, but the neighbouring businesses were still open -
people were buying wine and cheese, picking up a loaf of bread, even having their hair cut. The Italians sure
know how to arrange things. I had a couple of beers in the Caff￨ Funicolare, then wandered idly into the
main square. The German and Japanese tourists were nowhere to be seen, presumably tucked up in bed
or more probably hustled back to the mainland on the last afternoon ferry. Now it was just locals, standing
around in groups of five or six, chatting in the warm evening air, beneath the stars, with the black sea and
far-off lights of Naples as a backdrop. It seemed to be the practice of the townspeople to congregate here
after supper for a half-hour's conversation. The teenagers all lounged on the church steps, while the smaller
