It’s a bit up and down

Pisa to Riomaggiore, Italy, Monday 28 September

We arrived yesterday from Pisa with one of our band still suffering from some bug picked up in the US. The rest of us having enjoyed a delicious dinner (I had Octopus, probably the best I have ever had – meaty and succulent served with braised and lightly spiced fennel. Belissimo) and were probably feeling more comfortable about the train journey across the hills and to the coast.

September is a great time to visit here. The air is definitely cooler overnight but still hot during the day. I decided to wander up the river when I woke early and was surprised that there was a distinct chill in the air. The locals were wearing hoodies, one of them an AB parka. It was probably about 15 degrees. Showing great Wellingtonian spirit I was in sheer sleeveless cotton. I strode out to take in Pisa town camera in hand but couldn’t take many photos as the sun wasn’t up…and was taking its sweet time to make a move. I killed some time blinding the locals by inadvertently flashing them with my camera but then got bored and decided to come back later to capture that cloudless Tuscany sky over the township.

We made the train station in really good time (I have now been early twice this week) taking into account we had to get our luggage down and then up two flights of stairs each side of the tracks to find the right train and set off through the hills to the coast. Not as easy as it sounds with 20 plus kgs. And anyaway half way into our trip we learned from the conductor that we were on the wrong train. Luckily we were still going to the same destination (we could read the station directions ok) it was just going to take us longer to get there. We were on the slow regional train instead of the faster tourist train.

We made two train changes again carrying luggage down and up and down and up flights of steps to get to the correct platform, various techniques were initiated. While slow going, like an elastic band we reformed as a unit on the next platform ready to do it again at the next station.

We arrived in Riomaggiore only a little later than planned. The sky was cloudless. It was hot but not oppressive and there was a general buzz of excitement. We took on the last set of train stairs, thank goodness, we were here at last. We walked through a long slightly weird pedestrian tunnel and suddenly exited into the sunshine of the Riomaggiore village. We were a stones throw from the sea. There were lovely cafes and sweet little shops, there were romantic looking alleys with steps leading somewhere mysterious and there were towers of faded terracotta houses surrounding us. It was gorgeous.
I and another of the group were in search of Claudio, the representative of the owners of the apartments we were renting in the area and as it finally turns out the man with the patience of a saint. I was not supposed to be here till tomorrow, so Claudio had been looking to find me somewhere to stay. The others were escorted to their rooms group by group by the owners, their luggage in tow again. Good news for me, Giovanni 1 was available (the rooms are named after their owners). Fantastico. After some time I was introduced to Giovanni (female) who with her seven words of English communicated I should follow her which I did to a little green bus. We sat in the bus with six or eight other locals, she chatted with them and we managed a few exchanged comments which I don’t’ think either of us really understood while I just got hotter and hotter. There were no windows it was just glass. After a few minutes she mimed the action of a driver at a steering wheel and then (the international sign for?) sleep. My interpretation was: the bloody driver is not here, he bloody should be, he’s bloody asleep and bloody hell it is hot. I think hers was: oh dear the driver isn’t here. He will turn up some time so lets just wait. Not much I could do about it, it was like sitting in a oven. Finally (maybe 15 mins) the driver leaps in the bus and apologetically gets us under way. Vroom we are off. I resist the urge to be narky. I am on holiday. I am in good space. I still need a bed.

Up we go, climbing the same stretch of road higher and higher, we stop twice in 200 metres or so to let off locals and then suddenly the road steepens and we are on the equivalent of Dunedin’s Bolton St - we haven’t had a gear change yet. We turn around a traffic island and then power off along a flat but windy one way road. After five minutes or we slow and Giovanni signals that we should get off. Thank god. I thought I was off to another village for a moment there.

She helps me with my bag down 20 or so steep steps, shaming a man who didn’t offer to help us to carry the bags with polite but no doubt about it unimpressed contempt. She gives me a tour. We past ‘il castello’ (so far I still know nothing about it except it is positioned on top of a cliff and therefore has a great view); the tiniest and cutest of all churches ever ‘piccolo chiesa’; and then, traditional style houses, pedestrian access only, which wind down and down into the town now about 500 feet below me.

Claudio was waiting. He had walked up from the bottom to make sure everything was all right. Turns out that by taking me on the bus, Giovanni had saved me from having to lug my bags up the masses of steps and the path. I loved Giovanni. I loved the bus.

We have realized since that every day one of the sounds of Riomaggiore is the sound of suitcase wheels rolling up or down the pavements, then a thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump… depending on how many…thump…stairs you have to…thump… climb to access or descend from your accommodation. With thousands of tourists visiting over the summer, no one wants to carry bags to the heights required here. One or two of us have planned our departure already, we are on the lookout for strong young men who can be swayed to help carry our bags, for the right price of course.