29th Oct – 8th Nov 2024
It was time to leave the history laden cities behind us for a while and get back to some sea air. Did this mean that we would also be escaping the crowds and turning away from Italy’s over-touristed hotspots? Well….maybe not.
Next stop, Cinque Terre.
We hadn’t planned on visiting this area when (very loosely) planning this segment of the trip, but that was because we hadn’t done any research and thought it was somewhere on the Amalfi coast. Nope, it isn’t. It is here on the eastern edge of the Italian Riviera, that bit of coast that runs around through Genoa to meet France. Also I had it in my mind that it was so mobbed by poorly behaved tourists that it was a place to avoid altogether. That is true in the busy months, but knowing that we would be passing so close as the craziness was subsiding for the season, we felt that we could risk a visit without compounding the problem.
For those that are not familiar with Cinque Terre, it is a group of five very scenic, medieval fishing villages ingeniously constructed along and against the cliffs of a spectacular segment of coastline. Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore are linked by an ancient coastal path that winds a total of 12km around headlands, up slopes and steps, down slopes and steps, through olive groves and into and out of the villages which are also linked by a railway line that runs just above sea level and a now also a road that runs at the top of the cliffs. Coming here to walk sections of the path is a very popular activity, so much so that in 2001 a daily fee was introduced. An early attempt to control the numbers, raise funds for the path’s maintenance and pay for resources in the area. Camping anywhere near here is impossible so we based ourselves further up the coast in a town called Sestri Levante which is also on the train line and a place worth visiting in its own right.
It was a lovely sunny day when we arrived and we strolled to the waterfront to have a look around. This place was charming. There was a large sandy beach that obviously was usually covered in beach-club parasols and loungers, but was now deserted and empty, a small marina, a headland and a cute old town with its own small sandy beach on a sheltered bay. This, in the last few days of October, was full of people sunbathing and swimming. How amazing. We were a bit sorry to have come unprepared to join them and we headed home.
The next day, armed with our online passes for the track, a day pack of essentials and my poleskis (walking poles purchased in Poland) we caught the train to take us to Cinque Terre. More and more walkers joined the train at each stop. We had decided to stay on the train to Corniglia, the middle of the five villages, and walk back to the start point in Monterosso, a distance of about 8km. We were strangely almost alone in our decision making as the train pretty much emptied at Monterosso. This pleased us. In Corniglia a little shuttle bus met the train giving us an option to bypass the 200 step climb up to the village, and we took it. Here we briefly explored the very sweet village, a maze of narrow streets and steps, perched atop a rocky knoll which is now mainly home to cafés, holiday appartments and souvenir shops. We bought nothing and headed to the track. Our passes were checked by an official in a little booth and we set off. It was a perfect day for it. Sunny, warm and with a gentle breeze. Having chosen to walk in a NW direction, rather than a SE direction the sun was on our backs not in our eyes and the views were superb. We also, for the first one and a half hours, had huge swathes of the path to ourselves. Quite a treat. The terrain was fairly uneven, and either up or down, but then what great walk doesn’t get you sweating a bit?? It was a delight.
As the morning wore on, and we passed throught our second village, Venazza, the crowds started to build. 95% of the people were walking in the opposite direction as us, having started in Monterosso. They were also seemingly 95% French. There were a lot of kids too, making us realise that a) it was Autumn half term holidays and b) the French come in droves to Italy to walk the Cinque Terre. Is that because it has a French name, or the reason it has a French name? Who would I ask about that? ‘Going against the flow’ had its pros and cons. It was a bit tedious to have to be constantly stopping to let people past in the narrow areas, but it was also great to not be stuck behind people. We also got to play our favourite game whilst out walking which is ‘Force the person walking towards you to make eye contact and say hello’. The game can be enhanced by making your greetings in a different languages to sow confusion, or by adding an inane grin on approach. The kilometers just fly by.
After 2.5 hours of walking, our final decent into the town of Monterosso was down a steep and relentlessly long rocky staircase. It was slippy and the going was slow. This was my least favourite section of the walk. This was also the busiest section as loads of people were walking up, suffering the torture of a significant climb. It looked tough enough for the young and fit, and there were many who looked nothing like that. I wonder how many of these folk had romantised the notion of ‘walking a small part of the Cinque Terre path’ then were disappointed having picked the sh*ttiest section to do. We were happy to arrive in the town, treated ourselves to a nice lunch in a shady spot and got the train home again. It had been a great day.
From here we continued west along the coast, cruising past Genoa and stopping in the rather grandly named city of Imperia. This was created by Mussolini in 1923 with the amalgamation of two towns and ten villages. This was to be our last stop in Italy and our two nights here coincided with a long weekend so it was going to be busy. We had discovered this late, as 31st October is not a public holiday anywhere we had ever been before. I called a campsite to make sure they had space and after a conversation in my very rudimentary Duolingo Italian with the non-English speaking chap on the other end of the phone I was fairly sure that I had booked a spot. We arrived and happily a spot was ours! My very friendly non- English speaking friend, the manager, was busy all day as the place soon filled up with Italian campers, and once it was full, he let four or five more vans in. So very Italian! Always room for a few more and nobody cares about a bit of double parking or close quarters. When we left two days later we had to ask two vans to move so that we could get out. Nobody cares about this sort of stuff here. In the UK or Germany…Apoplexy would ensue!
Imperia itself wasn’t really the reason that we were here although it was quite pretty and we did have a trip into the centre on our bikes do do some laundry. (It is going to be quite a treat to live in a place over the winter with its own washing machine again!). The main reason for coming here was to go fo a bike ride on the very epic cycle path that runs from here. The pista ciclabile del Ponete Ligure is an amazing 28km, mostly flat, mostly tarmac, mostly duel lane cycle path that follows the route of a decommissioned coastal railway line that currently runs from Imperia to San Remo.
The views are amazing, there are some judiciously spaced and located refreshment stops and it also runs through some cool tunnels. On a benign and sunny day like the one that we were lucky enough to score this day I can’t really imagine anything much more delightful than throwing a couple of crispy apples in the panniers and going for an hour’s electrically assisted cruise along the ‘Flower Riviera‘. The path was well used by a happy population of walkers, runners and cyclists but there was plenty of space for all and loads of places to stop and sit and appretiate the view.
When we arrived in San Remo we chilled for a while on a bench, ate our apples and then we did a tour of the large marina on our bikes. This is another of our favourite activities: window shopping for boats. Which ones would we have when we win the lottery, the pros and cons of the various sizes, shapes and hulls, the memorable and the terrible boat names, what size lottery win would prompt the purchase of which boat. You know, that sort of thing. Once we had delivered an opinion on all the larger vessels in the marina we headed back. The ‘benign’ day had aquired a significant headwind in the homeward direction but luckily we had electricity to throw at that problem and our enjoyment of the return journey was almost equal to the outbound one. This was a brilliant, brilliant, brilliant place for a bike ride. I love it when the powers that be invest money in this sort of infrastructure.
So the next morning it was time to leave Italy after six weeks of mooching about. We had loved the scenery, the history, the beauty of its old towns, the food, the wine, the prices, their love of socialising, their prioritisation of family and meal-times over money and business, the language, and their relaxed attitudes to free-camping ( and pretty much anything that doesn’t directly affect them personally). We hadn’t been so enamoured with their driving, the litter down south, their low levels of respect for personal space and the sheer VOLUME of the whole nation. These people talk LOUD no matter how far apart they are. It had been a ball and it is a place that we would definitely come back to……………………
……………………….if we could only drag ourselves out of France to get here.
It was a modest hop along the autostrada, a final toll to pay and then we were suddenly back into France. The beautiful port town of Menton came into view but rather than go there it was time to turn inland and head into the hills. Our destination was the village of Sospel located a 15km drive up a tortuously winding mountain road. It was an exhausting journey, even for me. We were going here for one reason only and that was because here was an aire campsite where we could safely and cheaply leave Davide unattended for a few days whilst being within striking distance of our next destination, Nice, by public transport. In Nice we we were meeting our friends Nicholas and Julian who were flying out from the UK for a four night visit. We had rented an apartment in the Old Town near the beach and had plans for several days of eating, drinking, sunshine, exploring and general merriment.
The next day we packed our bags, hid the valuables, locked Davide up and walked to the station. Our research had told us that Sospel has trains running through to Nice in about 50 minutes but the reality was, that for whatever reason, there was a bus replacement service. That was fine, at least someone else would be driving that stressful road this time. The driver then asked us if we had ID documents as the police might stop the bus us to check them at the bottom of the hill after we got back onto the motorway. Luckily I had thought to put our passports in. As we descended the windy mountain road my mind was very distracted. I know that these ID checks are being increasingly carried out on people crossing between Schengen countries to flush out illegal immigrants, who often travel by bus. We were on a bus that would be rejoining the motorway that connects Italy and France, thus appearing to have crossed the border. We had been in Europe for nearly six months. Having done plenty of research on the lesser known ‘bilateral accords’ that NZ has in place with many European countries, we were working on the educated assumption that our NZ passports would give us an extended stay in Europe, but I was planning on testing this theory, and it being accepted by an equally educated border official, as we were leaving France to get on a ferry back to the UK in three and a half weeks time, not in the next fifteen minutes. For all intents and purposes we were apparently significant Schengen Area overstayers. To say that I was quite nervous as the bus was was indeed flagged down at the Péage station and two Police officers came aboard is an understatement. There were three other passengers to check and then I handed over our passports. They were scrutinised. The pages were flicked through until the one with the entry stamp was found. The date was spoken between the two. A third, more senior officer came abord and was consulted. Some words were spoken, he looked at our passports, he said something, he passed them back and they were returned to us. They all smiled, said their farewells and got off. Then the bus drove on. I have no idea what they said, but it was ok and we weren’t being deported today. Hoorah!
Nice was a blast but in the interests of getting this post done I am going to keep details of our stay here brief and succinct.
-Our old town apartment was amazing with views over the Cours Saleya and its various markets of flowers,vegetable and fleas and the sea. It was only a few steps to many bars and restaurants, to the spectacular ‘Promenade Des Anglais’ and to the beach.We ate well and drank consistantly, and no-one disgraced themselves.
-We went to Monacco on the train one day. This is a funny old place. Part building site, part gold-trimmed tosh, the best bits are its old town and the park on the other side of the old town hill. The marina is always good for some window shopping and there are some amazing supercars crawling around at 30kph. We were all bizzarely excited to find salad bowls for our lunch.
-we did lots of exploring the old town, walking the prom, walking up the hill to Colline du Château, appreciating Nice’s beauty, charm and climate, completely understanding why generations of British have flocked here in the Autumn: to soak up the sunshine, of course.
-Rosé, of course.
-Oysters, of course.
-Orange trousers, of course.
-Croissants, of course.
-Cocktails at the Negresco Hotel, of course.
-Photo ops, of course.
-Swimming in the sea in November, of course. In yer pants because you forgot your trunks, Nicholas and Julian, of course.
-Ready to go home after four days of fun? About right.
It was soon time to say our goodbyes as Nicholas and Julian headed off to the airport and we headed off to the train station. Here we made an educated guess that there was still a replacement bus instead of a train (despite the fact that there was zero information online or at the unmanned station to confirm this) and that it was picking up across the road from where it dropped us of. Right on both counts, thank goodness. Back up the hill we went, another dicey journey as the bus driver had to contend with lots of downhill-bound trucks, but at least there was no passport checking this time.
In Sospel we bought a hot chicken at the unexpected market on the walk home and were happy to find Davide exactly as we had left him. Happy days. We had a recovery night here: no booze, healthy food and an early night and continued on our way in the morning, back down that blessed hill.
Being back in France feels like coming home. It is a place we have spent a alot of time over the years and our French, although woefully rusty, is infinitely better than our German, Polish, Slovakian, Hungarian, Croatian, Czech,Slovenian or Italian. Being able to communicate completely changes the travel experience and we were looking forward to the next three weeks of mooching up the country.