... in Berlin

An early flight seemed like a sensible idea. Until the 4am alarm went off. We hadn't slept well having had a meal out with the mother and a foolishly late night. The morning news announced the likely hung parliament after May's snap election gamble backfired in spectacular fashion. The cat knew something was afoot and sulked around us in the morning.

At that hour the roads are quiet so we got to the airport in good time. This was handy as all of us were pulled over at the security check. Husband and I had left computer tablets inside our hand luggage. The tray emptying area had said we didn't need to take them out. The security scanning people disagreed, consequently the security boys were busy. When I explained to the very pleasant and reasonable young man why I had left it inside he told me, smilingly, that the customer was always right. I responded that in this scenario I rather suspected that the security team were always right. The mother was just subject to a random check. But she had put her pink handbag in the tray with Husband's rucksack. When security asked whose tray it was, he said it was his. They didn't question his ownership of the handbag, and fortunately it wasn't the contents of that which was the problem. 

As it was now breakfast time all the restaurants were full, with queues. We plumped for the queue outside Jamie's and, having got in relatively quickly, had a leisurely breakfast before going to the flight. However, we had to do a bit of re-packing at the boarding gate as the mother's handbag was considered so bulky that it was deemed a second piece of hand luggage. The re-packing was a pointless exercise. As soon as we were out of sight of the gate staff, she moved it all back again.

It was an uneventful flight, other than someone letting off an impressively stinky fart. 'Whose farted' exclaimed the mother, loudly. No one answered. Nor did they fart again.

We stepped out of the plane into a very warm Berlin. Once off the tarmac we entered a building and were immediately in the passport queue, where members of the EU were listed as EU burgers. The passport man was more interested in the lively group of young men further down the queue than in checking my details. The lads seemed harmless enough. But one of them was dressed as a chicken so an element of curiosity was probably an appropriate response. 

It was a short walk from the airport to a large concrete building where the train left from. The walk went past a wooden beer hut and grassy area where people lay in the sun to wait for their flights. It all seemed very civilised. There was also a food stall with a sign outside proudly boasting the best wurst which seemed a fantastic contradiction in terms.

The mother was now wise to the concept of old people train ticket concessions, but as exact change had to used it was too complicated to make use of the option.

When the train arrived, it was packed. We pushed our way on and stood in the aisle for the journey, during which a couple tried to steal a wallet from a girls rucksack. She turned and saw just as the man had her wallet in his hand. She grabbed her stuff back and held her rucksack closely to her chest, visibly upset. All of us who had witnessed the incident did nothing.

We got off at Ostbahnhof. So did the pickpocket couple, only to run along the platform and board a different carriage where they had not been exposed and could continue their plundering. 

We had chosen to get off early in order to see the East Side Gallery, rather than come back out for it. This was a substantial 1316 m long section of wall adorned with 105 paintings on the east side from artists across the world. It was completed in 1990 as an international memorial to freedom. Each panel of wall was the subject of a separate art work. Some were interesting, some were thought provoking. They documented a time of change and expressed the euphoria and great hopes for a better, freer future. The original art had been subject to graffiti and deterioration over the years. Renovation work has been controversial, and there was now herris fencing in front to protect against further vandalism. Overall it was underwhelming and the mother was pleased that we hadn't specifically travelled out to see it.

We returned to the station and took the S bahn to Hackescher Markt. Originally a marsh to the north of the city fortifications, this was now a thriving cultural hub. In the market square outside the station a busker was singing Wonderwall. A crowd of Brits stood around him, and joined in. It seemed particularly poignant as the song had recently become the theme tune of unity in Manchester following the terrorist bomb. 

We found the hotel, checked in, freshened up and set off for an explore. As we were quite near to a few things the mother was interest in seeing it made sense to do a circuit that took these in and would also help her get her bearings. We crossed over from the hotel to Oriengstrasse, passing a sex shop on the corner. The mother was particularly impressed by the window display of vibrators. One was turned on and placed in a swing to give a proper impression of the force of its vibration. 

We started off by seeing the Hamburger strasse statues in memory of Jews who had been held in a neighbouring building before being transported to the camps. Although many died beforehand.

We went past the Neue synagogue, glowing resplendently in the afternoon sun and found the bar that Husband and I had happened across on our first visit. Then it was a freezing day and to be indoors with a bowl of warm soup was a perfect feeling. Now it was hot and sunny, so we sat outside and indulged in beers and a sharing platter for two - that was a struggle to eat between three. But did include tasty curry wurst, potato salad and meat balls. Husband selected beers for us from the substantial menu.

The bar was much as we remembered it, quirky artwork on the wall and a basement feel due the darkly painted, dingy interior. 

While relaxing, Husband perused the phrase book. The mother said that phrase books from days of yore had vital phrases such as 'you've dropped ash in my turnups' and 'where can I restring my tennis racket'. 

I popped to loo, outside of which were two Scottish lads struggling with the cigarette machine. 'Excuse me' asked one, 'would you be able to help us'. 'Probably not' I replied, and my English accent confirmed the same thought in them as they needed help translating some German. 

We were very near the heavily graffitied building housing impromptu art studios and galleries that Husband and I had discovered on our first visit. We weren't sure if it was still there but decided to check. There was a large open space which initially gave us cause for concern, but then we saw, just beyond a scaffold clad, graffiti adorned building. It was still there. But shut up. And given the scaffolding, it was unclear how long it would still stand.

We hadn't previously seen it by day and it was an impressive building. Over the top of the building site hoarding we could see statues in the walls. Demolition, if that was the intention, seemed a shame. 

We wandered down towards museum island. A row of bars and eateries seemed to have some sort of street sign humour contest. One proclaimed ‘no hipsters’ were allowed in before correcting themselves to ‘no hamsters’. Another warned that bears may be ahead so, rather than take the risk, it was probably safer to come inside and have a drink. Then there was the deal of the day sign which offered the opportunity to select any two coffees and pay for both. And yet another boasted that they had the best looking waiting staff.

We crossed over the river towards the museums, stopping to admire a fleet of trabants drive past. Seeing the arches below the raised S bahn line Husband wanted to find the place we had squeezed into one evening, which had a carriage suspended from the ceiling. Surprisingly he found it. More surprisingly, the carriage was still there. 

We saw Brandenburg gate in the distance, at the end of Under den Linden as we crossed the road to Biebleplatz. There was much rebuilding and renovation around us. Many buildings were behind scaffold and hoardings. Half of Biebleplatz was barricaded off. Another sectioned off building was Neue Wache which was a shame as I had wanted to show the mother the enlarged version of the Kathe Kollwitz sculpture of a mother with her dead son that had sat within it. It was unclear where the sculpture now was. 

Passing Berliner Dom we reached Marienkirche shortly before it closed for the evening. The entrance of the church had an ancient frieze along the wall depicting the dance of death. It was hard to see, and the protective floor-to-ceiling screens kept the public several feet away from it. The mother said she wanted to go in to the church to see it better. I explained that this was the only view and access to it, which she seemed disappointed by. We went into the church anyway, where a woman wandered around taking pouty selfies, constantly posing, preening and positioning her hair just right - here is me by the pulpit. Here is me in the nave. I suspect she was unfamiliar with the views that the bible decrees about vanity. 

Having now achieved the broad objective of the afternoon, we went to see the fountain in the square outside, now filled with water, that Husband and I had played in over our previous new year visit when it was empty and apparently unused. 

As we were so near to the cobbled streets and alleys of Nikolaiviertel we ambled over and had a drink at the faithfully reconstructred 16^th century tavern, Zum Nussbaum. The original was said to have been a favourite watering hole of cartoonist Heinrich Zille, whose statue was just around the corner. While sitting there a street performer appeared. He turned on backing music on a speaker and then played a jazzy version of When the Saints Go Marching In on his trumpet, breaking off from playing to sing; totally unfazed by the fact that he didn't really know the words. It was very jolly and even the birds seemed to singalong with him.  He merrily sang and played the chorus multiple times before deciding we had probably heard enough, and came round to ask for money. While Husband and I are not football people, this tune is the song of a local derby football rival so it was difficult for us to fully enjoy it. 

Husband and I were starting to feel the lack of sleep, and the sky indicated that the weather was going to take a turn for the worse, so we headed back. On our return to Hackescher Markt we decided to stop and eat, before going back to the hotel. Husband only wanted a snack, I wanted more than a snack and mother only wanted apple strudel so we picked somewhere based on what was on its pudding menu and if it looked like it could accommodate our strange meal intention. We found a perfect candidate in the square, and sat outside under its ceiling of umbrellas.

Following dinner we found ourselves tempted by the cocktail menu, and noted that Sweet Pussy Deluxe had Liquor 43 in it. The martini espresso we had had in Melbourne used Liquor 42, so presumably this was the bottle next to it. In the context of a pussy cocktail, Husband suggested that 'the flavour next door' could be something quite different and unexpected. Husband and I ended up going for whisky, but picked a cocktail for the mother which included creme de menthe, cranberry liqueur, basil, raspberry and cherry - basically the drink would cover her 5 a day. I had a sip and said that it tasted like pesto. 'Like bisto?' questioned the mother, possibly already a little bit drunk.

Feeling full we pondered the likely impediment to shipping that would occur in the morning. We needed to linger a little longer as the rain came, but under the umbrellas (which now rocked in the wind) and wrapped in the restaurant blankets we stayed dry and warm.

Back at the hotel Husband mentioned to the receptionist that he had been struggling to connect to the wifi. The receptionist said that it had been re-set earlier in the day but that if he still had problems, let her know and she would come up to the room to help. The mother immediately joked that this was such a tempting offer that he was bound to take it up. Judging by the look on the receptionist’s face, she would not now be coming up to our room, under any circumstances, no matter what emergency may arise. 

We slept well, waking 10 minutes before our scheduled meeting time for breakfast as the alarm had been set to English time, Blackberry failing to auto adjust to German time. 

However, we managed to get up and ready promptly to meet the mother and go down for breakfast, which was sumptuous - fruit, yogurts, compote, meat, cheese, antipasti, pastries and smoked salmon. The yoghurt was served in individual glass pots, as was the compote and Husband noted that eating it required a process that was similar to a Muller corner, but slightly less satisfactory.

I had taken the room key downstairs, but gave it to Husband as we left breakfast. As we got upstairs he took out the huge hunk of metal that the key was attached to, only it wasn't. He looked at the hunk of metal for a minute or two, mentally questioning the absence of the key. I suggested that it may have separated downstairs and still be on the table, so Husband got back in the lift. I then put my hand in my pocket and found the key, pulling it out to show Husband just as the lift doors shut. The hilarity of this made me and the mother double up laughing and we hadn't fully recovered by the time Husband came back up in the lift. Oddly, he seemed to find it all a lot less amusing.

We set off to the station together, running a bit behind our intended schedule. However, the morning light on the brick built high level station building was stunning so the mother and I paused to take photos. 'I thought we were in a rush' said Husband. 'We are in a rush' replied the mother and I in unison. We needed to change from S bahn to U bahn at Friedrickstrasse and set the mother off on her days touring from there.

After initially struggling to find the U bahn, we successfully navigated our way to Templehof airport. The airport is a thirties era gargantuan monolith, which ceased operations as an airport in 2008. The main building was once among the top 20 largest buildings on earth. On entering, we found ourselves inside a huge foyer with check-in desks installed down one side, a departure board at the far end and a symbolic baggage carousel at the far end, with a perpetual circle of eclectic item.

In the middle was a one man band on a platform, playing jolly music on a piano which seemed a bit incongruous in such an imposing, aggressive building.

We went outside where the thirties feel and solid dominance of the building remained prominent while the two huge wings of the airport stretched out into the distance on either side. The massive canopy-style roof extending over this was able to accommodate airliners of the 1950’s and 1960’s, protecting passengers from the elements.

And beneath this was the e-village and a range of food and drink options as well as table and chairs, deckchairs and an area fill with bean bags and soft lying areas on which people were stretched out, asleep. However, we needed to head straight for the pit lane walk queue which we were just about on time for. The pit lane walk was interesting, and far quieter than in F1. Formula E was starting to get serious.

After the pit walk, we explored the exhibits under the canopy, which included student built electric cars that were mini sized, but could still just about accommodate a human driver. There was also a DHL apple cart - filled with delicious apples - but more cleverly it followed its owner around like a dog, altering speed based on the speed the owner walked, and responding to him raising a hand to halt it entirely, before continuing to trundle along behind him when he walked off again. 

We watched qualifying and then foraged for food - as had everyone else so the queues were reasonably long. While eating we watched the footage of a car race operated by computer. A man was in the car for safety reasons, but was basically a passenger. This seemed a most alarming situation to be in, entirely trusting the computer to whizz you round the track safely.

A brass band wandered through, dressed like students with pretensions and a singer who belted out the words through a loud speaker. There was a band on stage who were rather good, although it was a shame that all the stuff they sang was English. But they did do 99 red balloons in German which was quite fun.

It was hot and sunny under a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, so the shade of the canopy was a welcome relief, and the forecast rain didn't look likely to appear.

The race was relatively uneventful. We were sitting on the first corner and rather expected some coming together when they set off, but it didn't happen. A late overtake meant that the lead changed and the race was ultimately won by Rosenqvist who crossed the line as his battery level fell to 0%. In the post race interview he was asked if this was good luck or had been timed to perfection. Naturally he indicated the latter.

We texted the mother to say we were heading back and would meet her at the hotel. Given how many were at the E prix we got back remarkably quickly, so decided to pop into Hackesche Hofe on the way as the mother had said that this was somewhere worth visiting. We were initially unclear why. There was a courtyard surrounded by tall building, decorated in glazed, coloured bricks. This led through to a network of other smaller courtyards which were quiet, pretty in an understated way and filled with greenery but didn't have the 'must see' impact that the mother had implied.

We came out a different way and headed back to the hotel. And then we saw a heavily street art adorned alleyway. We went in. It was a dead end but curled around grungy buildings that housed art studios and bars, only distinguishable by the rustic tables outside spilling over with hipsters, and every wall was covered in artwork. In some places, it had clearly been there a while as ivy and shrubs grew over it.

This must be what the mother had referred to, and it felt like the new home of the artists who had once occupied the thickly graffitied building in Oriengstrasse, now empty and looking set for demolition. But this too was prime real estate, so the length of their tenure seemed doubtful.

On the street outside, the lampposts were thickly pasted with a thousand posters that were gradually decomposing and peeling off giving them the look of badly fitting leggings on chunky thighs. 

We met up with the mother back at the hotel, and went back to the grungy area of the Hofe as she had failed to find it in her earlier forage. Husband banned any photo taking until he was sitting down and on the outside of a beer. Once this was achieved, the mother wandered off to take pictures of the vast array of street art, while the air around Husband and I gently filled with the perfumed aroma of cannabis. The mother was wearing a shocking ensemble - a lime green and floral flouncy shirt with black trousers adorned with flowers.

We were unsure what to do for dinner, so went over to Friedrickstrasse with the intent of going to one of the restaurants under the railway arches. On the walk from the station we passed a lot of homeless people, crying and shouting either because of too much or not enough alcohol.

It was early so many of the restaurants were largely empty. Consequently we opted for the one which seemed busiest - The 12 apostles. It was an Italian - and huge, stretching under several of the arched rooms beneath the railway, the ceilings of which were ornately painted in religious imagery. As there was a wood fired pizza oven in the corner, we all went for pizza. And they were massive. We each struggled to eat even half of our respect pizzas. The mother, whose pizza was barely touched, asked me to have some. I was too full, but also it had pepperoni which I don't like and which therefore served as adequate excuse. I offered some of mine to Husband, but it had figs on it and he didn’t believe in mixing sweet with savoury. And Husband's had anchovies, which neither I nor the mother liked. As we realised this, the mother reminded us that we had originally planned to share and had then brilliantly each of us ordered pizzas that the others wouldn't eat! The mother claimed that she would have something else had she known, and Husband claimed likewise. 

The mother then started to doubt the wood burning cooking of the pizzas, saying that she could see into the oven and there was no wood. Husband pointed out that the wood burning would usually be underneath rather than pizzas draped over a pile of wood inside the oven itself.

When Husband mentioned that he needed to go for a pee the mother informed him that in Germany it is traditional for men to sit down. Husband responded by saying that over the last couple of days he'd seen a lot of men at urinalysis and none of them sat down. 

We walked back to the hotel, partly hoping to walk off the immense fullness from dinner, over museum island and paused to watch people dancing in the grounds of a riverside bar. There was a huge crowd dancing, and all doing it properly; as in, paired up and doing the same dance. 

We passed the sex shop on our way back, which was attracting much excitement and amusement, before returning to the hotel for bed.

In the morning, slightly late for our agreed meet time, I knocked on the mother’s door. No response. This seemed odd. I knocked again. Still nothing. I wondered whether she had gone out and not noticed the time. I knocked again. And then heard a noise from within shortly followed by the door opening and the mother appearing, dripping wet, covered in soap and holding a barely adequate towel around her, which she momentarily lost grip of. She had woken early, turned off her alarm and then fallen back asleep, waking again only minutes ago. In short, she needed a bit longer. This much was clear and I happily turned my gaze away and let her shut the door and return to her shower. 

A short while later she emerged - wearing another reasonably offensive floral outfit, and we went down for breakfast. She ate, but claimed that she was still full from Friday, let alone last night. When I questioned the ensemble she responded that patterns were back in fashion. I observed that she was perhaps getting confused with the 1970's. With her flowery get up and cream hat the mother could be identified as a tourist from a good fifty paces.

As we left the hotel that morning we noticed 4 small brass plaques on the pavement outside. They had the name, date of birth and date of death of members of a Jewish family, who had presumably lived in this building before heir untimely end. It was a sobering thought. We took the train over to the west of the city. A couple of musicians boarded and drummed out a jazzed up version of on when the saints. This was clearly the only song known by the local street performers.

Our objective of the morning was to see the ruins of the Kaiser Wilhelm memorial church with its bomb shattered tower.  Built in 1895 it fell victim to Allied bombing in November 1943 leaving only the severely damaged west end standing. We got a reasonable view of it from the train. When we disembarked the mother went to consult her map for directions. Husband, recalling what we had seen only minutes before from the train and where we had seen it, commented that it was just over there, and a map probably wasn't necessary as he was pretty sure that he could reliably point us in the correct direction. Which indeed he did.

We had the same feeling about the western city as we had had in our previous visit. It just seemed a bit flat, something and nothing. There wasn't the vibrancy and interest which you had in the east.

Having seen the ruin, and with time to kill as the museums we wanted to see didn’t open until 11am we found a bar for a drink. The mother went to the loo, and was gone for ages. When she finally re appeared it transpired that she had come back out of a different door of the bar (for reasons unclear) and then lingered by empty tables, assuming we had also gone to the loo - all the while getting strange looks from the waitress who, the mother concluded, had thought her mad. Husband decided that the waitress was a very astute judge of character, particularly given that she had only just met the mother. 

As we had around an hour until needing to make tracks towards the airport we parted ways so that we could go to the Helmet Newton museum while the mother went off to her museum. She stood at the crossroads bouncing around and waving. As we gradually moved out of sight she bent her body round the corner to keep watching us, bouncing, waving and blowing kisses all the while.

After our visit to the museum, we had a relatively straightforward journey to the airport, but texted the mother with details of what train platform to be on for her return the following day. We got back to the airport early, so popped into to wooden beer hut for a drink and a snack rather than killing time in the tedium of the airport departures lounge. 

The airport put us through body scanners and we then sat upstairs in what seemed a particularly small waiting area. It was only when we came to go to the gate that we went round the corner and found the usual airport food, drinks and shops arrangement. 

As soon as we were all aboard, the captain thanked us for our prompt boarding and then merrily informed us that we wouldn't take off for another 45 minutes, during which time a child in front of us and a child a couple of rows behind us both screamed, more or less constantly. I have to admit, my feelings about the situation were similar.

Finally in the air we scuttled through the skies and soon approached Gatwick, at which point the captain again came on air to let us know that Gatwick was busy, so we would have a pleasant (repetitive) view of the south coast as we would be circling around it for 20 minutes or so. This all amounted to an overall long and frustrating delay.

Finally we landed to an England that was refreshingly cool after the heat of Berlin. I suggested to Husband that for our next trip we should go somewhere less warm. ‘That's handy’, he replied, ‘our plans might just cover that’. 

... in Rome and Naples

Adventures of the Anonymous in Rome and Naples

In hindsight, going to see Tosca with the mother the night before an early flight meant we didn’t get to bed before midnight, which was not ideal given the 3.30am alarm.

 

We left home a fraction later than planned and had an uneventful, straightforward drive to the airport where it all started to unravel a bit. The queue for the car park transfer bus was ominously long, and growing by the minute. We stood waiting in the freezing air for longer than expected until, finally, a bus appeared. However, there was no way that it could accommodate the waiting crowd. We needed to be on this one, so sharpened our elbows and prepared to throw women and children asunder if necessary. Our determined efforts paid off, and we boarded.

 

However, thing did not improve the airport. Fortunately we had no hold luggage to drop so didn’t need to contend with the mammoth queues that wound around the departures hall. Gatwick was having some improvement work done, which meant that for a while, service was materially worse. So the security screening process was a lengthy process. If we hadn’t been in such a hurry I may have taken more issue with the security woman who challenged my plastic bag of liquids. The fastening part of the bag had a grey strip through it – but the contents were clearly visible and not encroaching on the grey strip. However, the woman looked at it and, passing me one of their bags, informed me that liquids have to be in a clear bag. I picked up my bag and asked ‘so this isn’t see through enough’. No – it wasn’t. Because of the grey strip. Not having the time or inclination to get arrested by making a fuss, I changed the items into the new bag.

 

 

We finally emerged at the other end and saw that the gate for our flight had already been announced. However, we needed to collect euros and pick up a couple of things from the shops before setting off in the direction of the plane. And, typically, the gate was a lengthy hike away.

 

There was no time for breakfast – or (more importantly) a coffee. So it was a little annoying that we then sat on a stationary plane, still attached to the airport, for around 30 minutes before taxi-ing to the take-off queue and finally leaving the ground approximately one hour late. Our captain feebly explained that this was something to do with half term and the start of the skiing season. While these events were indeed true, it seemed highly improbable that the airport schedule had been comprehensively ignored on this account.

 

This did mean we had our first experience of buying food and drink on the plane. It seemed that we were not the only ones in this predicament because the cabin crew rapidly ran out of food and change – and spent most of the flight serving passengers rather than attending to whatever other vital safety requirements they should have been attending to.

 

 

When we landed the captain started a peculiar announcement, apologising for the delayed departure and lumpy weather en route, before rounding off with the words ‘swing low sweet chariot’ – which was greeted by a cheer from the passengers – before hastily signing off.

 

Once out of the airport we bought quattro biglietti and located the transfer bus into Naples centre. Once there, however, it wasn’t immediately clear where the station was. However, as most of the people on the bus were also aiming to travel to Rome, I decided to see where they headed. Confidently, they all marched off down the road. We followed – and sure enough, the station was directly ahead, slightly disguised by building work in the piazza in front of it. As we walked there, the sky darkened and fat rain drops started to fall.

 

Successfully navigating the ticket machines, we located the required binario and boarded the train. What we hadn’t realised – until some other lads boarded – was that there was an allocated coach and seat number on the ticket. We were in wrong place, so went for a little wander along the train before finally settling in for the hour long journey through the Italian countryside , the long scar of the X mountains to the side of us.

 

Arriving at Rome we got the bus into town. We were due to meet Miss Rosella to collect the apartment keys just after 2pm. That gave us about half an hour to kill, and it seemed appropriate to spend that time in Campo di Fiori having a much needed beer. Sloppy Sam’s – which we had made appropriate use of in our last visit (largely to access the Wi-Fi) seemed to have closed down. All the signage was still there, indicating a recent closure.

 

The appointed meeting time arrived so we wandered over to the apartment, which was on Corso X, just opposite Chiesa Nuova. Husband used the waiting time to meander down the road to the supermarket and pick up beer and wine. Then he wandered off again to pick up an arancini. We were hungry. He then texted Miss R – who immediately came down and appeared at the door. It was therefore possible that we could have done this 20 minutes ago rather than waiting outside all this time.

 

 

Huge wood doors opened from the street into a quiet, private courtyard inside with a water feature at one end. She directed us up the first floor and into the apartment. We looked out on to the Chiesa and had a comfortable two bedrooms, two bathrooms, living/dining room and small kitchen. There was Wi-Fi – but this seemed quite localised as the connection only seemed available in one room.

 

We decided to make a relatively quick turn around so that we had time to get to the market to forage for supplies and have lunch. There were some herbs we wanted to stock up on for home. But we decided to investigate some of the other offerings. The sale man held up spoonfuls of various other options for us to smell. I accidently inhaled a breathful – this is not something I would recommend. I spent the next half an hour sneezing and blowing herbs out of my nose. My handkerchief looked as though I had dropped it in grass cuttings. The shops had closed for siesta so we indulged in beer consumption and lunch until they opened, which allowed us to indulge in one of our favourite pass times – watching the chaotic market clear up which really looked more like robot wars between the miniature road sweepers than a concerted cleaning effort. It was a spectacularly inefficient process, the trucks going round in circles, making the piazza wet and largely ignoring the vegetable scraps. The cleaning trucks all had witches brooms on the back and I liked the fact that despite all other 21^st century advancements, there was nothing which quite replaced the functionality of a broom of sticks. Female bin ladies wandered around in a sultry fashion, wearing knee high hi-vis X over their green work clothes, nonchalantly dragging a broom behind, cigarette in mouth and swinging hips as though this was the pre-amble to a porn film. After some time, by luck or by judgement, the place was spotless.

 

 

I had Pizza Fiori for lunch, which seemed appropriate in Campo di Fiori. It comprised courgette flowers and anchovies and was consequently very salty.

 

As the shops were now opening up again we furnished ourselves with further supplies and returned to the apartment to watch the Wales v Scotland 6 nations game – with Italian commentary.

 

The apartment had some interesting decoration features. There was one reasonably sized photo frame attached to a chain which ran from ceiling to floor, with nothing in it. So you just had a really good view of the full length of the chain. Another, smaller frame was also empty. I say smaller – the aperture was smaller but the frame itself was reasonably chunky.

 

 

Now the tiredness caught up with me. I dozed through the match and finally conceded defeat by going to lie down in bed for a while. I woke, an hour or so later aware that Shrek and Princess Fiona had now arrived.

 

We then spent a few hours chatting and drinking before I decided that bed really was the sensible option. Sleep, however, was impossible due to the music and chatter from Husband, Shrek and Princess Fiona. At around 3am they also retired for the night – primarily due to the boys running out of beer, despite having popped out for more earlier in the evening. In his well pickled state Husband promptly fell into an alcohol induced stupor and snored loudly. Sleep was not going to be forthcoming and, annoyingly, despite knowing how tired I must be, I had never felt so wide awake.

 

I heard a noise in the living and going to investigate saw someone asleep on the sofa. I could hear Shrek snoring in a manner that implied some form of unknown noise competition between him and Husband, so assumed that Princess Fiona had removed herself from the din.

 

Shortly after that, finally and thankfully, sleep came. And shortly after that it was morning. I decided to get up and showered, and went to make myself a serious coffee while I waited for the others to wake up. When I went into the living room I noticed that the door was wide open. Initially I wondered whether Shrek or Princess Fiona had popped out but both sets of keys were still there. I closed the door and double checked that our worldly possessions were present and correct. I also now wondered who had been asleep on the sofa in the night. Perhaps it was someone from a neighbouring apartment who had wandered in whilst under the influence.

 

Like any decent Italian apartment, it was equipped with a coffee maker. So, while I waited for the others to wake up I made a coffee. The device made enough for 3 espressos. I put the entire contents into a mug, added some milk and drank the lot. Given how little sleep I had had over the past 48 hours, lethal amounts of caffeine were very much in order.

 

After a little while, the others started to rouse themselves. Husband and Princess Fiona appeared in the living room, so I put more tea and coffee on the go. This time I shared the coffee between me and Husband. From the breakfast table Husband and I had a view of the bedrooms, and small hallway outside the bathroom. Princess Fiona was sitting with her back to this. However, she could tell from our expressions that Shrek had got up and was wandering freely between bedroom and bathroom, bollock naked.

 

When Shrek subsequently emerged, fully clothed, we put on another round of coffee and this time split it between three of us. That would make it my fifth espresso of the morning.

 

With toast, cured meat and soft boiled eggs on the go, everyone seemed to start feeling a little bit more lively. I peeled my egg using the handle of a teaspoon, which made relatively short work of it. Shrek and Husband sat there, concentrating intensely as they picked away as the shells of their eggs which only seemed to want to come away in tiny segments, pulling at the white flesh beneath. They certainly looked like two men trying to attend to a complex task after a late night involving a lot of beer. When finally peeled, their eggs looked like something that had suffered from a serious case of the pox.

 

Public transport to Stadio Olimpico was possible, but not straightforward. There were various options, but all involved a bit of a walk to a bus, tram or metro (depending on the route we selected) which we needed to take for a couple of stops, and then change onto another bus which would take us near to the stadium, leaving us with a 10 to 15 minute walk. The entire process would take around an hour. So, we decided to take a taxi instead. And handily, there was a taxi rank just outside the apartment.

 

We were due to meet R2D2 and C3PO in the vicinity of Ponte Melvio for pre-game drinks. The taxi journey took us along the Tiber and past the stadium. The entrance buildings were a tired peachy colour and reminiscent of 1930’s splendour – and fascist power statement.

 

 

R2D2 and C3PO were in a bar and had commandeered a large table. Their criteria had been simple – somewhere that had beer, food and somewhere to sit. I wasn’t sure that I was ready for alcohol just yet, but the boys broadly picked up from where they had left off last night. We asked R2D2 and C3PO what they had been up to so far during their long weekend in Rom. They had visited the Spanish Scaffolding and the Colosseum – R2D2 commented that the changing rooms were similar to ones he had been subjected to in his rugby playing days, and that he wished he had played there. We pointed out that games didn’t always end that well for the human participants.

 

The group decided to make a move towards the stadium. To one side there was a running track with stepped stone seating surrounding it and encircled by dozens of huge gleaming statues of nude, muscle bound men partaking in various sporting activities. A number of them had had their modesty covered in what was clearly a later addition. One or two of them seemed a little fay – catering to the Graham Norton contingent, Shrek pointed out. Shrek was overcome by an urge to pose in front of the statues – if there had been fewer people around, he probably would have taken his kit off to demonstrate how equal a match his body was.

 

 

The crowds were building, and we could hear the sound of lively music. Then we saw a brass band which included fully grown men wearing 10 foot high peroni beer bottle costumes and holding vast quantities of red, heart shaped peroni balloons. Well, it was Valentine ’s Day.

 

This, we soon discovered, was the only thing that peroni did well. We went to the vast peroni beer and food tent. Buying was straightforward. Getting, however, involved joining a different queue. A long queue. There were various queuing options and it was unclear which one we were meant to join. So we split into two groups to hedge our bets. Half an hour later Husband and I had reached the front of our queue whereas Shrek and Princess Fiona had not moved anywhere. But when we got to the front, the man said that this was just for beer – the food queue was the stationary one. As kick off was about 15 minutes away, a bit of grumbling was expressed and finally food appeared. Husband’s considered opinion was that it wasn’t worth the wait. And it was still unclear why it had taken so long – behind the scenes we could see people frenetically preparing food, but it never seemed to reach the people outside. Shrek suggested that McDonald’s should take over as they had a better concept of providing fast food, with appropriate emphasis on the word fast.

 

We set off at a determined pace to get into the ground. As we got to our seats a helicopter flew low and slowly over the ground to much cheering – there was someone inside waving at the crowd. We had no idea who, but based on the reaction they were obviously popular. A loud rendition of swing low sweet chariot resounded around the stadium. There was a significant quantity of inglesi here. I, however, was supporting i fratelli azzurri. As was bear.

 

It was a pity to see large numbers of empty seats. Despite this, there was still a good atmosphere and plenty of noise. Husband was excited to see Victor Ubogu sitting a couple of rows in front of us.

 

It was a scrappy game, with the first half going much more in favour of Italy while England’s game was littered with carelessness. But following an interception try for England in the second half, things turned around resulting in a convincing win for England.

 

 

We met at our agreed post game meet point – the peroni stand. We had selected this on the basis that we had spent so long there already, we were very familiar with it as a waiting place. R2D2 and C3PO were off for a romantic valentine’s dinner, but we met up with Shrek and Princess Fiona for the journey back. We hadn’t really thought much about how we wanted to get back but initially decided to walk, primarily to get away from the crowds and the hope of finding a bar which wasn’t too crowded. The main reason for this objective was that Shrek needed a pee. Such was his need that he was going to go in the shrubbery alongside the footpath. There were armed traffic police around so Princess Fiona and I suggested that this might not be wise as he might be arrested – or shot.

 

A few minutes further down the road – and out of sight of the police – he wandered towards a line of trees by the road. The rest of us kept on walking, trying to pretend that we had no idea what was going on. If necessary, we were willing to claim we had no idea who he was. But he did what he needed to do without incident.

 

We carried on walking and started to realise that we probably would walk all the way back. There were still traffic police trying to manage the crowds. As they were not in cars and therefore castrated by the absence of horns they made up for this loss with whistles instead. Rain started to fall at around the same time that we became aware we had been walking back on the wrong road and needed to do a bit of a left to get back on track.

 

As we had now broken the back of the walk home and the boys seemed to be tiring, Princess Fiona and I looked out for a bar. Happily, we soon found one and settled down in the seats outside. And it was there that Princess Fiona first tasted aperol spritz. Shortly followed by another.

 

We stayed for a few drinks and therefore had the inevitable trip to the toilet. Princess Fiona went, and very quickly came back. It seemed that the ladies had been occupied so she tried the door for the gents – which opened to reveal a man attending to his lavatorial business. Not wanting to wait outside for the ladies to become unoccupied in case of the embarrassment of seeing the man come out, she returned to the table. She was only really willing to go back in once the man had emerged. A little while later I went. The ladies was occupied but I knew better than try the gents. So I waited. And a minute or two later Shrek appeared from the ladies.

 

Our waiter gave us complimentary limoncellos and we continued on our way back, arriving before long in Piazza Navona. In the winding, narrow, cobbled streets between the Piazza Navona and Piazza Chiesa Nuova we found a contender for dinner, and sat as a table outside as – despite the period rain – it was still warm.

 

Shrek wanted anchovies so as well as antipasti starter we also picked and anchovy and endive pie for starter. It was surprisingly delicious and after devouring it between us Husband asked whether Shrek’s anchovy box had been ticked. This was met with much hilarity and resulted in a giggle strewn discussion about anchovy boxes in the widest sense.

 

The ladies loo also caused a stir as it has a mirrored loo seat which seemed like a peculiar option.

 

We had a few drinks and a good meal before the rain started to come down heavily again. As the side of the table where Shrek and I were was not quite under the cover of the canopy we were now being rained on it seemed like an appropriate time to walk the final few minutes back to the apartment, which I did by briskly walking to each shop canopy and pausing in the dry before scurrying on to the next bit of cover. It was after we got back that I remembered I had an umbrella with me.

 

Back at the apartment we sat down for a cup of tea, and shortly afterwards both Shrek and Princess Fiona fell asleep. I felt like smug parent who wanted a good nights sleep and had therefore deliberately tired out the children. Husband and I smiled at each other and we all retired to bed.

 

Our sleep was rudely interrupted early the next morning with a persistent banging and hammering from buildings in the apartment above.

 

So we all got up and had breakfast. Dealing with the boiled eggs was still an amusing affair. This time they were much hotter to hold, which added further difficulty in its own right. Shrek’s rolled his to break up the shell,  but then the egg broke in half as he tried to peel it. As it happened, he found that this made it much simpler to remove from the shell as he could simply scoop it out. When Princess Fiona attempted hers he mentioned that it was easier by having the egg in half. So Princess Fiona just cut hers in half. This wasn’t quite what we had meant.

 

Shrek then had a yogurt and commented that the crunch of egg shell in his yogurt was a little unexpected and unwelcome. I wasn’t entirely sure how he managed to contaminate his yogurt.

 

Princess Fiona and I took on the task of washing up. The kitchen cupboards has initially confused me. They had not handles. Instead there was a device inside so that when you pushed the cupboard in the right place, the door opened. And you pushed it back again to close it. This did involve knowing where to push which wasn’t always entirely clear. Anyway, while putting some of the plates away I managed to know this shutting device which promptly fell off. It took a minute or two to realise how it re-attached but before long the situation was fully rectified.

 

We went to Campo di Fiori in the morning to get some meats and herbs then parted company as Shrek and Princess Fiona wanted to see the Colosseum and forum. Husband and I decided to visit Chiesa Nuova as it was right opposite the apartment and we weren’t sure if we had been in it before.

 

We looked at the painted ceiling and the dormer windows along it. At we stood underneath one Husband commented that it looked wonky. He then noticed that the lintel was broken. I asked him if we were therefore standing in a dangerous place, right below it. Yes, he responded, so we promptly left. Seeing the scaffolding outside we realised that someone else had noticed the broken lintel as well.

 

We ambled towards Piazza Navona. The rain soaked cobbled streets glistened blindingly in the warm morning sun. Perhaps due to the weather there were hardly any artist stands in the Piazza but we looked at the wares of some that were there, and bought an oil on canvas painting of a scene in the vicinity of Campo di Fiori. At some point, we will need to find where this picture is of.

 

We then followed the well-trodden path to the Pantheon. The centre of the floor was roped off and wet being, as it was, underneath the deliberate hole in the concrete domed roof. Husband commented that the best part of a church is the dome and the Pantheon had taken this on board, and was, to all intents and purposes, just a dome. Working on the basis that another city existed below almost every street of Rome, I pointed out that there may be a whole, enormous church underneath if it was excavated.

 

 

We went on to Trevi fountain to throw money in and thereby ensure our return. The fountain had been cleaned, presumably in readiness for the tourist season ahead. The façade gleamed white and brightly and the turquoise water had a faint whiff of bleach. I wasn’t sure if I liked it quite so clean. We ambled round to the Spanish Steps and paused for a beer accompanied by complimentary snacks, which in this case were sandwiches made with multi coloured bread. Some slices were green and others were swirls of white and orange.

 

We meandered back to the apartment, window shopping in the tourist shops where I was slightly surprised by the presence of Pope Benedict lollipops, and questioned the appropriateness of this. We had a brief snooze before meeting Shrek and Princess Fiona in Campo di Fiori for drinks as they had recently returned from their sightseeing day out. The bin lorries were in the final stages of cleaning the square.

 

As we chatted I mentioned that I keep this blog and gave them the opportunity to select their own pseudonyms. So this was their choice.

 

As dusk fell a band struck up the middle of the square, playing music very similar to the Jeeves and Wooster theme tune. They played a tune for several minutes before it actually broke into the tune in question and something recognisable.

 

Our bar man seemed to have been time warped in from the 1970’s and seemed to be single handedly dealing with the entire establishment. The boys ordered up another round of drinks and then went to the nearby deli to get a hunk of parmesan to accompany dinner.

 

The boys cooked dinner that night with the aim of using up as much of the remaining food we had as possible. I suppose we were lucky then that they only used 1 bulb of garlic rather than 4. Shrek used some of the spicy herbs he had bought that morning. Bizarrely as we chatted on the sofa, Princess Fiona and I failed to notice him sidle past, whistling innocently, bag of arrabiata mix in his hands behind his back which he then ‘accidentally’ spilled into dinner. The supermarket shopping bags had a silky smooth latex feel to them which Princess Fiona now became familiar with. And we both gently stroked them for a while, to the bemusement of the boys.

 

I sorted out the mozzarella, fresh pesto and tomato salad, managing to break the waters of the mozzarella packet all over the kitchen floor.

 

As serving approached the boys drained the pasta. I suggested using the colander. They hadn’t noticed we had one, but had already drained it via other means.

 

Princess Fiona and I opened a bottle of wine each. The cork from my bottle immediately fattened on being removed and was consequently impossible to replace. As this was our last night that meant our only option was to finish the bottle or leave it behind the following day. So I used the cork from Princess Fiona’s bottle which meant that now she had the problem. The boys helpfully proffered the suggestion of wine for breakfast.

 

Dinner was delicious, and mildly spicy.

 

After dinner Princess Fiona started reading the guide book they had bought earlier that day. Shrek boasted that he had a reasonable knowledge of Roman history, so Princess Fiona decided to test him and looked through the book to find a tough question and finally settles on ‘when did the Visigoths sack Rome?’ Husband jokes that she needs to give Shrek a blowjob if he gets it right. 410 says Shrek. Princess Fiona can’t believe it. He’s spot on. Husband laughed, remembering the blow job penalty.

 

As the evening progressed Princess Fiona, feeling tired, said she was going to hit the sack. The Visigoth’s sack, we ventured and a chuckling Shrek pointed at his wedding vegetables.

 

The following morning we woke again to the sound of building work. Over breakfast Shrek commented that one could tire of hammering. We wondered why the work wasn’t finished, or even apparently progressing as the hammering seemed to be in exactly the same place. We mused that it could be criminal re-hab process to replace Hail Mary’s whereby one guy hammers nails in all day and behind him another man spends all day taking them out in a constant relay, day after day.

 

The flush on the loo had decided to break that morning, and was now constantly flushing. We wondered whether the workmen upstairs could fix it, but realised that the only tools they apparently had was a hammer and that perhaps applying a hammer to the situation was not going to make matters better. Given the spicy dinner the previous evening, and consequent biological processing from us that morning, it was perhaps possible that the loo had formulated its own self cooling device.

 

Husband sent a text to Miss Rosella to let her know that the flush had broken despite having pushed the button in the normal way. Princess Fiona wondered what pushing it an abnormal way would have involved.

 

Breakfast was our final chance to finish off the food we didn’t want to take with us as snacks on the train. This did involve Husband delving into experimental areas involving a sweet croissant filled with slices of salami and prosciutto. I reminded him that the croissant was sweet and even pointed out the lumps of crystallised sugar on the top but he was confident it would be ok, and added a gherkin just to be sure.

 

He barely grimaced when he ate it and this gave Princess Fiona the confidence to do the same, thinking that it could be too bad. She used a bit less meat filling and no gherkin. Consequently her reaction was a bit more extreme, giving the strong impression that the ham cake (as we now called it) was revolting.

 

Over breakfast Shrek decided that Italian was, broadly speaking, English with an i on the end. By way of example he read from the gherkin jar: ingredienti, anti oxidanti.

 

We packed up our stuff and the rest of the food for the train picnic. This included 3 bottles of wine, a jar of gherkins, dry pasta and a tea bag. The shopping bag Princess Fiona was using felt inadequate under the weight and she asked Shrek if he had another. He passed her one – but she asked whether he had a bigger one. We wondered if this was a common question, but were relatively confident that the usual answer was not ‘I’ve got another one’.

 

 

Being all ready to go, we decided to head off to the station. The bus took us on a bone shattering journey along the stone cobbled streets. A woman got on and mistook Shrek for an Italian – he was rather chuffed by this and I wondered whether it due to the very strong garlic aroma that must be emanating from him. Well, from all of us really.

 

At Roma Termini we were approached by a begging man, dragging around a child in designer clothes eating a panini and trying to look sorry for himself.

 

We took the slow train to Naples as we were in no rush, and the ticket price was cheap. It did mean that there was no seat allocation and as there were 4 of us plus luggage we got on the train early in order to secure our spot. For the first few miles we could see the periodic remains of the Roman aqueduct stretching out to the mountains. The journey took as through valleys, past vast stone quarries and again along the mountainous spine of Italy before the coast and sea appeared suddenly to one side of us. It was stuffy on board and notably hotter as we journeyed south.

 

About half way through the journey we decided to tuck into our picnic. Getting the final gherkins out of the jar ended up being a bit involved. The boys fingers were too chunky to fit into the jar. Princess Fiona’s did fit but were too short to reach the gherkins. With a bit of shaking and stirring, Shrek managed to successfully fish for the remaining few. So now we smelled of garlic and gherkin pickle juice. And we were spectacularly covered in crumbs.

 

Finally arriving at Naples we had a short, but hot walk to Hotel Columbo. And it looked as though we might need him. Naples was a dirtier and more aggressive city than Rome and our hotel was in a small road which looked particularly menacing. When we got to the door, there were workmen just inside standing on a scaffold doing some repair work. For a moment we therefore wondered if the hotel was actually open. As we stood in the street, momentarily confused, a man came rushing out asking if we were due to stay. Getting the builders to move to one side, we entered and checked in. It was nice to know that there was some building work and potential for hammering. The room had peach coloured walls, a bottle green polyester throw on the bed and very very lump pillows. But it was only for one night and fitted the bill. We weren’t entirely sure if the hotel was finished and nicknamed it Hotel Marigold. This opinion was enhanced when we walked down the stairs to the lobby – but couldn’t walk down all the way due to building work in progress.

 

 

We wandered into town and Shrek was keen to find some sandals as he had packed shorts but not accompanying footwear – and it was warm. We wandered into the market area where one of the shopkeepers was mortified by the enormity of Shrek’s shoe size. The concept of 47 virtually sent him into a seizure.

 

We wandered the narrow, hilly streets to the Centro Storico which were peppered with crazy, helmetless drivered mopeds and the constant sound of horns. The city comprised graffiti covered tall, rundown buildings. Accompanying this din were the strains of music from surrounding bars and music shops. We ambled slowly amongst the frantic pace of life in the historical centre. Having climbed up the hill into the centre, we then dropped down towards the port and view of Vesuvius looming in the distance.

 

 

We walked to Castel Nuovo and then took a taxi to Castel Uvo. On the road to the castle entrance a black man was selling his wares. He engaged us on conversation as we passed. He was from Senegal and complimented the beauty of me and Princess Fiona before warning that in his culture men who are bad to their women are cursed. As we left he reached into his pocket and gave both Princess Fiona and I a gift of a small blood red elephant statuette. Simultaneously we wondered if it contained cocaine. But then thought that this was possibly unlikely as he didn’t know when we were leaving or where we were flying to or even who we were – so collecting the goods would be nigh on impossible. Even so, we found it baffling. That in itself bothered us, that fact that in this day and age we couldn’t be given a gift from a stranger was quite simply just a gift. Our suspicions remained heightened. We wondered about leaving them behind and whether it would freak out the cleaner to find the same ornament in two, apparently unrelated rooms.

 

The castle was still open so we walked up the steep pathway to the ramparts from where we could see the sun setting over the city. We asked Princess Fiona if she wanted to challenge Shrek about the date of its famous eruption. She didn’t. The whole Visigoths situation had unnerved her somewhat.

 

Naples was not pretty, even at dusk and from a distance. Topping the hill above the city loomed the castle. The cannon on the ramparts were facing the city. Either this was in acknowledgement of the underlying tangible tension in the city and hard aggression of the inhabitants, or there was a genuine strategic purpose.

 

When Husband and I were last here the cafes and bars on the waterfront below the castle bustled with life. As we looked down on them from the castle walls they were largely closed for the winter. One or two were open, but sorely lacking in custom – and consequently, atmosphere.

 

We wandered amongst them anyway, just in case we had missed something. Also we were hoping to avoid running the gauntlet of the man from Senegal. It looked like we would be thwarted in our attempts to avoid him. There was a small stretch of water with a bridge over the top. Just over the bridge was our man. We momentarily contemplated swimming it, or borrowing one of the small boats. But we decided to brave the walk. I wondered whether he would summon the carabinieri and accuse us of theft. After all, we had his good and hadn’t given him money. Perhaps he would force us to buy something. However, just before his sales spot some steps led down off the road to the shore line the other side of the annoyingly placed piece of water. We were saved.

 

There was a bar along the waterfront and we decided to have a quick drink before heading back. There were a handful of other people there who were possibly also avoiding Mr Senegal. Shrek then wondered if the Senegal man was actually the catcher for this bar, forcing people to return on this route in order to avoid him.

 

 

As the sun set, the warmth of the day went with it so it seemed an appropriate moment to get a taxi back to the hotel and ready ourselves for dinner. Shrek sat in the front and found it to be the single most frightening experience of his lift. Firstly, the seatbelt didn’t work. Then the taxi driver seemed determined to create and drive in a third lane on the 2 lane road. But to top it off, the driver was totally untroubled by the frequent and erratic moped drivers crossing his path, very much taking the view that if there was a collision, the car was likely to win the encounter.

 

We found a fabulous little trattoria for dinner which reminded us of the place we had found in Bari. The antipasti were laid out on a central table for us to help ourselves and consisted of griddled courgettes, aubergines topped with tomatoes, mushrooms, broccoli, potato, olives and various other tasty morsels. We also had a plate of fresh mozzarella. We had pasta dishes for main course. Husband had polpetti past which was satisfactorily littered with little octopi. Princess Fiona squirmed a little. She didn’t like to eat anything that looked like the animal it had once been. We wondered how many babies an octopus had at a single sitting. Shrek said that if he gave the correct answer, would Princess Fiona need to give him sexual favours. Princess Fiona was unwilling to take the bet – getting increasingly concerned about the extent of Shrek’s knowledge. Princess Fiona, Husband and I decided to have pudding but Shrek wanted to have a meat course instead – so had pork while we tucked into ice cream. A fun little old man was serving who reminded Princess Fiona of Pinocchio’s father, Guiseppe. In the street outside there seemed to be an incident kicking off. Groups of people were standing around threateningly. It all seemed like a good reason to stay put and enjoy the evening with coffee and grappa.

 

There was a small convenience store just up the road selling bottles of beer cheaply. So the boys pick up a few and we went back to the hotel to sit on one of our rooms for a few drinks. We were clearly the only guests because when we went to reception we were greeted by someone we hadn’t seen before who immediately took out the keys for our two rooms without us uttering a syllable.

 

Princess Fiona and I tucked into her carton of white wine which we drank out of plastic cups. I’ll be honest – I’ve drunk nicer wines. While the whole set up was a long way from being classy, it was very reminiscent of student days.

 

The beer had been provided in one of the silky smooth latex bags. Princess Fiona sat on the bed, stroking it and I wondered whether she would be as keen to stroke it if it was being ‘worn’ by the sack of Rome. We returned to our room for our final night, Husband grabbing the bag on the way.

 

We met early for breakfast as Husband and I needed to get the bus back to the airport for our plane home. Shrek and Princess Fiona weren’t leaving until the evening and intended to go the Herculaneum, so again, an early start suited them. Breakfast consisted of bread, cakes and yoghurt. We were asked if we wanted coffee. Despite all wanting black coffee with milk, what arrived was a cappuccino, an espresso and a latte. Princess Fiona attended to making toast – the first round was a little pale, the second round was close to being burnt to a crisp. It was certainly crisp. The final round was pretty much there.

 

We said our goodbyes and walked back to the airport shuttle bus. As the bus hurtled along the streets out of the city Husband commented that living here would get you down. Perhaps that explained the hard, uncompromising look of the Neopolitan people. Glass clad skyscrapers rose up from what was presumably the business centre, and they looked strangely out of place among the unkempt detritus of the surrounding area. The sun was rising and the day was warming up. The early morning cloud which had been resting on Vesuvius lifted and carried on its journey.

 

We checked in and went through security relatively rapidly. Well, until the man asked if this bag was ours. Although I had been carrying it, it was Husband’s and so I said so. He called Husband over to query a bottle of liquid. It was in fact a jar of truffle paste which seemed to cause no further offence. We were obviously gratified to find hammering and building work in the duty free area. Unlike our trip over, we had a couple of hours to kill before our flight was due to leave. While we waited Husband received a text from Shrek which read ‘79AD. Get in’.

 

 

We arrived back to a cold and frosty England. And the elephant? Well, I left that behind. The elephant is in the room.