Italy

Other traveller reviews on Italy

2010-02-05T16:30:00Z

Read Italy travel reviews by other travellers from our friends at bugbitten.

Milan - fly into Linate Airport

2009-12-04T17:50:01Z

If you’re visiting Milan and flying into Malpensa Airport, try to avoid taking a taxi to the city.

My partner and I flew into Malpensa and had read a few guide books which said there was a set taxi fare to the city of €70.

After arguing with three different taxi drivers we were forced to have a metered fare and ended up paying €95.

Save yourself some cash and fly into Linate Airport – it’s much closer to the city.

Sarah

Pompeii. TNT Travel Writing Awards 2009.

2009-08-19T15:26:00Z

A TNT Travel Writing Awards 2009 entry

Author: Matt Aggett

The great mountain Vesuvius looms silently on the horizon, clouds slowly drifting across its crater. The November sun beats down from an azure sky with surprising strength. A couple struggle with their baby buggy up the narrow cobbled road. There is little noise beyond the small groups of people chattering to each other as they compose their photographs. This is the town of Pompeii, once a bustling vibrant home to some 20,000 inhabitants. Today it is silent.

Groups of dogs meander through the streets, many limping, the scars of battle clearly displayed. Others lie in the shadows as they shelter from the afternoon heat. A ghostly child skips by bouncing what looks like a rubber ball, chasing it round a corner, his laughter airily fading on the breeze. Intrigued, I follow.

I turn into a busy street. Carts pulled by oxen are slowly making their way along the cobbled road their wheels following the ruts worn into the stone through years of constant use. People dart in between the heavy traffic, stumbling from the high pavements and ignoring the warning cries of the drivers. Everyone is talking in a language I don't recognise let alone understand. Their clothes are also decidedly unfamiliar. This is ancient Pompeii and it is anything but silent.

Across the street is a crowd gathered outside a stall with large terracotta jars resting on hot stones. There appears to be something resembling a menu painted on the side of the wall. A large man in a leather apron is busy ladling food from the jars into bowls which he hands to his grateful patrons. There is a general air of conviviality and there is much discussion over cups of wine.

I make my way up the street and spot the young boy running into one of the houses. As I reach the point where he disappeared, I notice there is no doorway and I'm free to enter. I am standing in what seems to be a little courtyard with a small pool in front of me with a further courtyard behind. Here the walls are covered in beautiful frescoes with vivid reds and wonderfully rich blues. Figures and buildings have been painstakingly painted to reveal an image strangely reminiscent of Chinese willow pattern, a man crossing a bridge, a woman with her hair bunched up her shadow falling against a turreted tower. At the centre of the wall is a porch decorated in intricate mosaic work, covering a small fountain. To the right is a small bronze statue of a man sitting on a rock his hand pointing to the water and his foot resting against the stonework.

A loud cheering from outside catches my attention and I head out to investigate. A small group of people are laughing and smiling and making their way hastily through the crowded street. The group is mainly made up of young women, their long, braided hair flowing down their backs. They are obviously in a hurry to get somewhere and it is difficult to keep up pace with the throng of the city's populace. They head along a road leading out of the city and lined with tombs. This is the town's necropolis, its city of the dead.

The small group continues along the road, laughing and joking all the while. We arrive at a large villa complete with its own vineyard. Muscular men, skins bronzed from working long hours in the unforgiving sunshine are gathering grapes whilst others are working what appears to be a wine press. I take these men to be slaves. The clothes they wear are of a coarse looking material that lacks the refinement of the cotton or linen the young women are wearing and they are careful not to make eye contact with those directing them.

I slip unnoticed into the house. It is cool and comfortable and provides much needed relief from the heat of the day. The rooms are lined with various frescoes and it is quite evident that the owner is a man of some wealth. The frescoes in the final room depict some sort of initiation ceremony, possibly the cult of Bacchus - there is an image of him reclining in the arms of a woman. In another scene a young woman is preparing herself for marriage whilst in yet another a satyr plays pan pipes as a nymph suckles a goat. The paintings are extremely detailed, full of allegory and undoubtedly telling a tale familiar to the young women who'd led me here. Perhaps one of them was the subject for this story. Perhaps it was her marriage that inspired this scene.

Returning back to the town I continue my journey through its bustling streets savouring the sights and sounds - the beautifully sculptured statues, the courtyards with their manicured gardens, shouts of street vendors, children playing ball. Eventually I end up in a walled garden. A number of people seem to be sheltering against the left hand wall, their faces fearfully looking upwards. I'm suddenly aware the sky has darkened and the hum of the city has given way to a huge thundering sound.

I look round and the great mountain is angry. Large volumes of ash and pumice are spewing forth from its cone, filling the sky and hiding the sun as they rain down on the city and its terrified inhabitants. I turn back to the group huddling by the garden wall and they are lying on the ground curled up, struggling for breath, a fine layer of ash starting to cover them.

As the debris continues to fall the bodies begin to change, the skin turning white and solidifying. Where living humans once lay there are now plaster casts covering the remaining bones, preserving the dying expressions. The horror of their suffering is all too evident. The garden is over grown, the great mountain roars no more. This is modern Pompeii and it is eerily silent.

The Cinque Terre, Italy. TNT Travel Writing Awards 2009.

2009-08-18T13:21:00Z

A TNT Travel Writing Awards 2009 finalist

Author: Gemma Holt

Maybe it was a clear-cut hankering for the simple life, but of all the wonders I saw in Italy, it was the Cinque Terre that really made my feet itch for more. Momentarily, this undeniably beautiful 18km stretch of weathered cliffs - edged between Levanto and La Spezia on the Italian Riviera - made me forget every place I had previously visited: Thailand's beaches, London's energy, even Spain's tapas, wine and salsa. The Mediterranean holds many treats but for me, Cinque Terre was an unrivalled highlight.

A world heritage site, the Cinque Terre has long been the lure of travellers. I had yearned for years to visit this place - to dip my feet in its aquamarine waters and wander its steep cobbled streets.

Arriving after 18 days of trekking the Mediterranean coastline - through Barcelona, Montpellier, Nice (the dignified queen of the Cote d'Azur), and the glitz of Monte Carlo, Cinque Terre did not disappoint. My excitement at seeing the first glimpse of it from the cliff tops that uncurled near the border of Monterosso el Mare, was palpable.

Literally translated as ‘The Five Lands', Cinque Terre is a marriage of manmade and natural beauty encompassing five villages that cling to coastal crags: Monterosso al Mare, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore.

Far beyond the ancient wonders of Rome and the spectacles of Florence, the villages of the Cinque Terre lie about halfway between Genoa and Pisa. These villages are a rustic and seemingly untouched remnant of authentic Italian Riviera: olive groves, dry-stone-walled vineyards, patchwork terrace gardens, and spectacular coastline.

The lack of cars is a unique and notable characteristic of the Cinque Terre. Although there are some well-hidden roads, the main form of transport is the local train that connects the villages with high frequency. Ferry services between the villages give great vision of the coastline and they stop at all villages with the exception of Corniglia.

But cars would be an unwelcome intruder here, for the beauty of the Cinque Terre is in its world renowned cliff-side walking trail that connects the five villages. In the early morning heat, my traveling companion and I don trainers and suntan lotion, eager for the experience that is the Cinque Terre. Despite the many walkers, a respectful quiet prevails. The well laid out track allows each small group the solitude they need. The only interruptions are the lapping of the water below and the crunching of gravel beneath our feet.

Like me, these ready visitors stop frequently to admire the sun-lit water, a glorious translucent blue. While the cliff face draws the eye upwards, the incredibly clear waters of the vast Mediterranean, through which it seems each and every stone may be seen, is strikingly beautiful.

Perhaps the most famous stretch of the trail, Sentiero del'Amore runs between Manarola and Riomaggiore. You can stroll through an underpass graffitied with proclamations of love in a variety of languages. The sketched images that illustrate these words are countless and impressive. Although (to my great shame) I am unable to read most of the poetic declarations of love etched on the concrete walls, it is obvious that this place is dreamily romantic for holidaying lovers. The tradition of binding their amore - by fastening locks to the solid steel guardrails - is an enduring one. The railing is jammed heavily with padlocks of all sizes, a traditional symbol for the promise of secured love.

Despite the overflowing sentiment of the ‘Street of Love', the Cinque Terre is far from a lovers-only destination. Life here is simple, the tourism well disguised and the pesto magnificent. As we'd come to expect, the food in Cinque Terre lives up to Italy's reputation for excellence. Seafood is plentiful, with anchovies being a local specialty and ample pesto and focaccia are on every menu. To whet your taste buds, you can also sip local grappa and limoncello, and sample the strong, sweet tang of the Cinque Terre's most well known wine, Sciacchetrà.

Nursing the contentment and exhaustion that comes naturally with a day's walking and being well-fed, a fine array of accommodation choices is on offer. Despite rumour, every budget - from small hotels or inns and bed and breakfast accommodation - is available. For our three ‘peak-of-summer' nights staying in Vernazza - arguably the most beautiful of the villages - we arrived unplanned and easily found an excellent studio apartment for two. Only minutes from the water, we paid little more than what it cost for a rundown hostel in the back streets of Rome a week later.

Relishing the Cinque Terre is something that can be stretched over a week or more. In doing little more than appreciating the extraordinarily simple and stunning lifestyle that is the Cinque Terre, even if you have only two days - as I did on my first visit - don't miss it. It is undoubtedly my favourite place in Italy. So follow the lure of simplicity; dine on superb pesto and wine, surround yourself with first class views of the Mediterranean, and enjoy.

>This entry has been shortlisted vote here

>View all 2009 finalists

Emilia-Romagna in Italy

2009-07-24T14:59:00Z

Good Italian food

There’s no doubt that Italians are passionate about their food. According to our local guide: “Everything is carefully arranged and thought out – it’s all about texture.”

Wandering through Modena’s market only the freshest ingredients are on display. The market bursts with colour from blood-red peppers and Kermit-green lettuces to mushrooms of all shapes and sizes.

Emilia-Romagna has long been one of Italy’s richest gastronomic areas, producing staples such as tomatoes, potatoes and onions, as well as quality products such as Parma
ham, Parmigiano Reggiano and balsamic vinegar.

Fast cars

If you’re looking for a side dish, though, there’s plenty of history to the region.

The Romans set up garrison towns along the Via Emilia – an ancient road that connects Rome to the north through Bologna, Modena, Reggio-Emilia and Parma.

Without Roman roads, Modena wouldn’t have become the ‘capital of engines’ – spawning the factories for Ferrari, Lamborghini, Masarati, Pagani and De Tomaso. The Ferrari museum is well worth a visit for any Formula 1 fan as it holds the first 1947 125 S Ferrari, as well as the F1-2000 that helped Michael Schumacher win his first of five consecutive world championships with Ferrari.

Sing for your supper

Beyond the fast cars and fancy shops, though, is an ancient town known in Roman times as Mutina. We wander past the 19th-century Teatro Comunale Luciano Pavarotti, renamed after the death of the opera singer, who was a life-long resident of Modena. It’s no surprise the well-rounded tenor was from such a foodie area, being the son of a baker.

Tenor Andrea Bocelli and many others gathered at Modena’s World Heritage-listed cathedral Duomo for Pavarotti’s funeral. Built in 1099, it looms over the Piazza Grande like a white angel. Its Romanesque marble exterior is adorned in sculptured celestial and grotesque reliefs.

Soon enough it was time for the next meal and I wondered would it be local zampone (stuffed pig’s trotter) or succulent pork loin fried in the local grape sauce? It didn’t matter. Either way I was going to walk out a stuffed tortellino.

Traditionally speaking

Products from Emilia Romagna must adhere to strict criteria to gain certification.

Balsamic vinegar of modena

What: A thick tangy sweet syrup produced since the Middle Ages.
How it’s made: Juice from the grapes is boiled and stored in wooden barrels, and then continually blended.
Cheap imitation: Commercial balsamic vinegars used for salad dressings.

Parmigiano Reggiano

What: A hard cheese produced in Benedictine monasteries since 1200.
How it’s made: Pure cow’s milk is curdled in huge vats until it is salted and stored.
Cheap imitation: Parmesan is loosely used to describe similar cheese.

Lambrusco

What: A sparkling wine produced by the Etruscans and Romans. It’s traditionally dry, but some sweet wines are also made.
How it’s made: It goes through a second fermentation in a pressurized tank.
Cheap imitation: The New World produce medium-sweet ‘Lambrusco’ wines.

» Jo Cackett travelled to Italy with Emilia Romagna Turismo

Venice Carnival - Mask it up

2009-01-12T11:24:00Z

What: Venice Carnival

Where: Venice, Italy

When: February 13–24

Some festivals are all about doing wacky stuff (throwing tomatoes or dodging bulls), getting smashed (Oktoberfest) or listening to music in the rain (Glastonbury).

But then there are festivals that are all about class, sophistication and stunning costumes.

To describe the Venice Carnival as a giant dress-up party would be like saying Buckingham Palace is a simple family home with nice curtains.

With some of the balls costing hundreds of euros to attend, you certainly won’t find people dressed like a gorilla or sexy nurse.

Instead, it’s all about elaborate, beautiful costumes and masks.

As well as loads of dances, there’s plenty of music and theatre performances in the Piazza San Marco (the hub for the 12 days of festival activities), and a couple of parades, including a procession of decorated gondolas.

The Venetians take their masks very seriously, so forget the Darth Vader outfit and splurge on something classy.

See: www.carnevale-venezia.com

Northern Sardinia

2009-01-11T11:12:20Z

Since the development of the Costa Smeralda, Sardinia has been viewed as an exclusive holiday destination and not one that many travellers would be drawn to. However, many of the budget airlines (Ryanair/Easyjet) now fly to Northern Sardinia and there are many cheap fares still to be had. Alternatively, you can pick up a ferry in France or mainland Italy and sail to Porto Torres on the North Coast of Sardinia.

The North Coast is still relatively unspoilt and is the place where many mainland Italian holidaymakers head for. You can also quite easily take the ferry to Corsica from the North Coast. Last year, I spent several weeks taking in this coast and it really is beautiful. In particular, the coastal towns of Alghero and Castelsardo are well worth a visit. The food, wine and ambience are as it should be for an unspoilt hidden gem in the middle of the med. It is well worth looking into spending some time on this island, preferably out of season in May, June of September when the beaches are considerably quieter. You will need a car to get around and the Island infrastructure can still be quite basic - little lighting at night time and cliff hugging roads but car hire is relatively cheap if booked in advance. I stayed at this really peaceful apartment just outside of Castelsardo and it was a refreshing break from the hustle and bustle of the City. Check out the website www.simply-sardinia.co.uk

Venice Carnival

2008-12-31T15:02:00Z

The Venice carnival has paraded the city’s cobbled streets for centuries — the first recording of a festival was in the 13th century, when it’s said that men in masks threw scented eggs at passing ladies — with an interruption in the 1930s when, under the rule of Mussolini, Fascists banned the celebration.

Then in 1979 the Venice carnival was revived by locals, and since its rescue it has become an internationally renowned annual event, attracting hordes of tourists and Venetians alike every February.

The main attraction to the carnival has to be the many costumed characters in their theatrical garb. The combination of imagination and design by those parading is ultimately responsible for creating the dreamy, fantastical world of the carnival.

At times it feels like a souped-up fancy dress party, at others a bizarre ’80s music video, and while the mix might sound curious, the end result is an overdose of colour and drama set against the perfect backdrop of the old city. That, or a great excuse to show off.

As the carnival begins, the narrow streets of Venice slowly fill with tourists ready to ogle the best-dressed participant. Most visitors get into the celebratory spirit, browsing the many shops and stalls that sell finely crafted masks. Having chosen the one that best appeals to their inner Venetian, they then perform their own personal parade around the beautiful St Mark’s Square, incognito.

After my initial reluctance, I put my camera away, don my mask and get involved.

Time flies as I shuffle among crowds of excited people and soon night creeps up on the city. With darkness comes a choreographed lighting display flashing over the square, and as bands start up on nearby stages we’re suddenly tugged back into the 21st century.

In a bid to rest my weary legs I head towards the Grand Canal for pizza and a beer. Sitting in front of a canalside café watching the sun set over the city skyline, I feel privileged to have had the chance to learn some of Venice’s secrets — and share them with tourists and locals alike, strutting round like peacocks.

» Brendon Bishop travelled with Topdeck (0845-257 5215).

How to pick your mask

Many of the masks worn at carnival time depict characters from commedia dell’arte, a form of improvisational theatre which began in the 16th century.

The performances, which tended to revolve around the topics of adultery, jealousy, love and old age, involved a rotating cast of stock characters that would have been immediately recognisable to contemporary audiences.

Here are a few to look out for:

Abadea: a fool who laughs at nothing.
Arlecchino: also known as Harlequin, a wily servant.
Brighella: a cunning servant.
Il Capitano: a captain.
Il Dottore: a doctor.
Gianduiais: a well-mannered peasant.
Pagliaccio: a clown.
Pantalone: a greedy old merchant.
Pulcinella: a crooked-nosed hunchback (right).
La Ruffiana: an old woman with a shady past.
Scaramuccia: an unscrupulous adventurer and swordsman.

You like opera? Verona, where else?

2008-12-01T13:19:14Z

I decided to retire in April of this year. A surprise party was thrown by my daughter and son-in-law at their home in Manchester, of which until I walked through the door, I had no inkling. We had a great time; a gathering of family and friends, all of whom are very close.

Part-way through the evening, my daughter gave me an envelope with a home printed birthday wish, to 'The world’s biggest grump'. 'Where would you go if you could go anywhere in the world, and what would you do?' I was asked to answer the question without seeing the reverse of the print, but I immediately said, 'Verona, in Italy, to see and hear opera the way it should be heard’. This had been my dream for many years, but I had always found it out of my reach. I was then allowed to turn the card. It bore the legend, 'This entitles you to flights to Verona, the best seats in the Arena di Verona to see whichever opera is being performed during your stay, and all of your hotel bills paid for'. Hand on heart, I was moved to tears.

A week or two later, they did exactly the same thing to my son-in-law's mother, who is also an opera buff.

In August, my wife Beth and I, and Stephen’s parents, Peter and Pauline, found ourselves on a plane, winging its way from Manchester to Verona, via Frankfurt. We were picked up at Verona airport by Stephen, who with Heidi, was on an extended European holiday, and were staying at the same hotel.

The hotel, a tiny pension, was all of five minutes’ gentle stroll from the Arena di Verona, and on the evening of the opera, we did just that, we strolled around, very slowly, to a restaurant on the Via di Barbera just opposite the Arena, ate our pasta, drank some lovely cool Suave, then just as lazily, we sauntered over to gate 1, down a red carpet to our seats near the front. It really was lovely having first class seats, we knew that we had no need to rush; we would have no need to suffer pushing and shoving on the way into the arena.

The show turned out to be absolutely fantastic. 25,000 people were in the arena that lovely, warm evening, and except for an idiot German sitting behind me, the evening could not have been more enjoyable: but more about him later.

I’ll run through to the incredible, very special effects that occurred in the second act. Opera fans will know the story, and non-fans will not want to know it, so I’ll go to the scene in the dining room of Scarpia’s palace, and I’ll even condense that. Scarpia’s the bad guy, by the way. He’s had Mario Cavaradossi, who is Floria Tosca’s lover, thrown into his torture chamber, and is using Mario’s captivity as a lever so he can get into Tosca’s knickers, threatening to have him executed if she doesn’t play ball – as it were. Tosca hears Mario’s cries from where he’s being kept in the cells, and snitches on Angelotti, whom Mario has hidden in the well at his villa.

Tosca is prone at the side of the stage at this point, and she sings the beautiful aria ‘Visi d’arte’, after which Scarpia tries once again to convince Tosca that she should let him have his nasty way with her. As Tosca finished the aria, the entire arena erupted with a standing ovation. So excited were the audience that with a look between Tosca and the orchestra conductor, she launched right back into the same song. Now here was where it became a touch mystic, because at the end of the aria, Scarpia approached Tosca, and the clever girl does him in with a rather sharp steak knife, at which point, I happened to glance at my watch and saw that it was exactly midnight, and at that same moment, there was a roll of thunder and lightning flashed across the sky. 25,000 people looked up at the same moment, most probably thinking as I was that these were the best special effects ever more. I turned to my wife and said, ‘Wow, that is fantastic’, and my wife said that she thought the storm must be real, as the lightning was actually above the clouds, which would have been a difficult thing for a special effects person to achieve. The storm continued to the end of the programme, which considering the subject, was doubly effective.

Anyway, Mario is dragged up from the dungeon, and just before he faces the firing squad, which poor old Tosca had been told would be using blanks, (terrible fibber, was Scarpia), he sings the absolutely superb ‘E lucevan le stelle’, and when he finished, as with Tosca earlier, he was encored from all over the arena into a repeat performance.

Needless to say, that ended with a standing ovation. People were stamping their feet and clapping and shouting, and I will admit, I was right there along with them.

Now we come back to the stupid German guy in the row behind. He banged me on the shoulder and shouted ‘Will you sit down, I am trying to watch the show’. Now bear in mind that he was probably the only one in the arena not on his feet. I turned and said, ‘Pardon’, and he shouted, ‘You’re in the way, I cannot see’. Hand on heart, I thought he was kidding and said so. Seeing that he wasn’t, I’m afraid I got rather angry myself, and summoning what I remembered of my rock ‘n roll German from the 60s, I said, ‘Dummer Deutscher, nicht wissen sie was ein stehbeifall ist?’ (Stupid German, don’t you know what a standing ovation is?) I know I may have been rude, but the guy was going out of his way to spoil what, up to that point had been a fantastic evening, and I think it must have worked because he just sat down, absolutely stunned. The opera finished soon after, and the storm which had been threatening all evening very kindly waited until we were tucked up in bed before venting its temper on Verona.

If I could afford it, I would visit Verona again like a shot. Beautiful city; lovely museums, and delightful people. You never know, if I save enough...

Feast of the Immaculate Conception

2008-10-31T14:22:00Z

What: Feast of the Immaculate Conception

Where: Rome

When: December 8

It’s time to start planning your festive season getaways and the Italian capital’s Feast Of The Immaculate Conception is one worth checking out, particularly if you’re religiously inclined.

Forget Christmas markets packed with stockings, candy canes, snow globes and other tacky souvenirs. This one, celebrating what the church says was Mary’s immaculate conception nine months before the birth of Jesus, is about as authentic a Christmas festival as you could find. You’ll see the Vatican’s big wigs, including the Pope himself, lay down floral wreaths and decorations on and around the statue dedicated to Mary in Rome’s Piazza di Spagna (Spanish Steps).

While you’re in the capital, don’t miss a wander through the Roman forum, toss a coin into the Trevi Fountain and then tuck into a tasty slab of pizza and a few generous scoops of the city’s famous gelati ice cream.

See www.churchyear.net

Festa di San Niccolò

2008-10-24T15:23:00Z

What: Festa di San Niccolò

Where: Venice, Italy

When: December 1-8

This happy week-long holiday festival celebrates the jolliest of Italy’s patrons, St Nicholas — who also happens to be the patron saint of glass-blowers.

The highlight of the festival is the Regatta di San Niccolò on December 6. It’s a water procession organised by the glass-workers of Venice’s Murano Island, starting in the Grand Canal.

Visiting Pompeii, Italy

2008-10-10T16:26:00Z

It last erupted in 1944, wiping out five villages, but the havoc it wreaked nearly 2000 years ago and the historical snapshot of life it has since provided is what brings nearly 2 million visitors to the excavated ruins of ancient Pompeii each year.

The Roman poet Pliny the Younger, whose letters survived the eruption, tells of a column of smoke “like an umbrella pine” coming from the mountain on August 24, 79AD. Instead of prompting a mass evacuation, the locals saw the smoke as merely cause for curiosity rather than an indication to flee.

“They had no idea what was to come,” our guide Patricia says.

“That one eruption was the equivalent of two atomic bombs exploding. About 8000 people managed to run away, but 2000 others — mainly slaves — were killed as they were made to stay and protect the city.”

Poisonous gases travelling at speeds of up to 100km/h swept across Pompeii, killing those who were left behind before 5m of ash and pumice stone covered them.

At the time Pompeii was a holiday haven for wealthy Romans, and today you can still walk the streets they laid out, past an ancient takeaway shop and bakery and into the city’s houses where mosaic floors and frescoed walls remain intact.

The advanced double-walled heating system used in the sauna room and a sophisticated drinking water set-up suggest a society well ahead of its time.

Further down lies the most visited site of the excavated city: the Lupanare, Pompeii’s brothel. It has only been reopened to the public (no longer operating, of course) for two years after extensive restoration, and is thought to have been the city’s only purpose-built house of ill repute. Frescoes on the ceilings depict various erotic positions, said to inspire customers.

Pompeii’s prostitutes were known as she-wolves as they stood at the end of the street howling to attract customers. Local dogs barking created confusion, and no doubt got plenty of customers lost.

The amphitheatre, which would have held 20,000 spectators, provided Pompeii’s large-scale entertainment. It was where the gladiators competed, often against animals. While their battles have been glorified in film and literature, they only had short life expectancies, given it was an occupation usually filled by slaves.

One-fifth of the 160-acre city is yet to be excavated, and while you could spend a day taking it all in, you should allow yourself at least three hours. If you want to look around when it’s less crowded, visit in the afternoon. For more Roman ruins head for the smaller, lesser-known ancient cities of Herculaneum and Stabie and the Villa Poppaea, all close to Naples and Pompeii.

Most of the art and artefacts from Pompeii have been placed in museums. The Museo Nazionale Archeologico in Naples has the most extensive collection and is well worth the visit.

Arguably the most eerie reminders of the devastation caused by the explosion in 79AD are the cement casts of people who were killed around Pompeii and Herculaneum. Casts of families cowering from the onslaught can be seen in the Garden of the Fugitives.

Despite the imminent threat of another eruption, more than 700,000 people continue to live and prosper on the rich soils around the base of Vesuvius.

“The next eruption is predicted between 2009 and 2019,” Patricia says. “Between 79AD and 1944, Vesuvius erupted 42 times, so the longer we have to keep waiting, the greater the next eruption will be.”

The spell between eruptions has either lulled the locals of the Campania region into a sense of blissful ignorance or simply spurred their vibrant attitude to life.

When we remind our driver of the sleeping giant’s expected awakening he shrugs and replies, as we expect, “che sera”: whatever will be.

“Everything we need is here — good food, good wine, the bay and the sun.” And who could disagree? Only next time, you’d hope a column of smoke sparks more than curiosity.

» Dan Imhoff travelled to Pompeii with Campania Region Tourism (www.turismoregionecampania.it).

That's amore

If it’s difficult to grasp why anyone would live near an active volcano, one need only sample the cuisine Naples has to offer.

Being the home of pizza, your opinion of even the simplest Margherita will be enhanced after tasting the quality of ingredients made with recipes perfected by generations of Neapolitans.

Pomodorini (cherry tomatoes) grown in the area lay claim to being the best in Italy, while buffalo mozzarella is another speciality of the region.

Fresh octopus and fish from the Mediterranean only bolster the Neapolitans’ belief they serve up the finest food in Italy.

Rome - By Daniel Steffe

2008-09-10T15:51:44Z

Travel Writing Awards Entry

Picture this. It's a warm Saturday morning in Rome in the year 80 AD and after a hard week slaving (literally) you're keen for a bit of R and R. You’ve spent all week with people around you dieing of disease and people being executed for the pettiest of crimes. So what do you do with your day off? Why you head on down to the newly opened Coliseum to watch a good old fashioned Gladiator fight to the death.

You buy a ticket off a scalper, bargain down on some knock off merchandise, grab an over priced hot dog and take your position on the lower deck. Now you’re not here to see any of this Russell Crowe, mobile phone throwing, gladiator with a trailer and make up artist rubbish, but a proper bloodbath. There is no referee with a whistle or any padded poles or safety helmets. The weapons are real swords, knives, chains and lions. If that thumb points down, life will end for the sorry soul not strong enough to overpower his opponent. Trust me, Vulcan and Storm would not have lasted long in this environment.

Ah the good old days. It was a time when men were men and boys II men didn’t exist. A far cry from the world of today where a tradesman needs a method statement, a 10 metre orange cone perimeter fence and seventeen safety officers just to fix a leaking tap.

By now you’ve probably guessed that we’ve been to Rome. We surprised my little sister Carly with a trip there. She had been staying with us for a few weeks as part of her school trip to France and we decided to pop over for a few days before she went home. It’s an amazing place. Certainly the richest history of anywhere on Earth, as evidenced by the sheer number of things we saw that were dated BC or very early AD. The lack of Starbucks and Subway was also a giveaway.

There are many major attractions in Rome but none is more famous than The Vatican. Unfortunately the Pope was back packing in Australia on a surfing holiday at the time, so we couldn’t catch up for a beer, but we did visit his pad and it’s pretty impressive. Interestingly, they wouldn’t let us in because Carlie was wearing a short skirt and Carly was in a singlet. I had to wander the streets looking for scarves and eventually purchased some off a little old lady who screwed me on price. It was such a hassle and the security caused even more frustration when they let in a guy wearing a Slayer ‘South of Heaven’ t-shirt right before us. I tell you what, if the Pope came to my place in anything less than double plugger thongs from K-Mart, Brisbane Broncos football shorts and a navy blue singlet, he’d better be bringing a lot of beer.

We also went to the Vatican Museum, which houses the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo certainly knew how throw a brush around. It’s nothing short of brilliant. But what was almost as entertaining were the anti-photography guards in the museum. I saw a kid of 4have his hands chopped off for a quick snap of the masterpiece. He was 4. He needed that photo to remember it when he’s older. What if he had been seeking inspiration for a career as an artist? That’s all out the window now, as he has no hands.

The Romans certainly knew how to pull together a good water feature. There are literally fountains everywhere, even ones in dirty ally ways that you can drink out of. And people do. The most famous of these fountains is the Trevi, which is one of the most beautiful displays of stone and water I have ever seen. It’s not only brilliant for its visual appearance but for its ability to attract a crowd and create a central meeting place. The guards were quite overzealous there as well. Stabbing people for putting their toes in the water. As is tradition, we all threw money into the fountain over our shoulder, which means we have to return to Rome at some point in our lives. Sounds like a pyramid selling scheme to me.

All in all it’s a spectacular place and if you look past the graffiti is quite elegant too. They don’t make them like they used to, is a phrase that rings true in Rome. The fact that all those ruins and old buildings are still there is phenomenal. The other phrase that rings true is ‘when in Rome’. It’s amazing how funny you think it is when you’re actually in Rome. Another beer sir? ‘Oh go on then, when in Rome’. Guided tour of the Coliseum sir? ‘Why not, when in Rome’. Gimme all your money! ‘Yes sir, when in Rome’.
Next on the list is our long awaited Greek Island cruise with Joel and Leanne. We are off next Friday and the trip takes in a bunch of Greek Islands, a few days in Turkey and a few days in Athens. I’m nearly as excited about that as I am about seeing the new Batman film tomorrow.

Hail Caesar (dressing),

Daniel

Rome and Madrid - By Karen Quinn

2008-09-10T15:07:33Z

Travel Writing Awards Entry

Why did I agree to this? Karen Quinn wondered to herself. I’ll get to visit two

beautiful cities but is that really worth almost a month away

from home?

She sighed and told herself it would be fun. It was just her nerves kicking in. Karen

listened into the conversation the two girls beside her were having. They were on the

trip too.

The two girls were saying how excited they were about the trip.

“It’s going to be great!” said the woman with the blonde hair.

“I know, we’ll be visiting some great cities and the photographer will teach us how to

take some amazing photos,” replied the other woman.

“What cities are we visiting again?” the first woman asked, “Rome and Madrid?”

“Yeah, they’re the ones,” said the other woman.

Karen was on was a college trip. She went to an Art College where her Mum taught

and there was a summer trip available to go three cities and a lecture with a

professional photograph.

Karen’s Mum insisted she went.

“It’ll be a great opportunity for you, so you should definitely go,” she said.

Her Mum wouldn’t take no for an answer. None of Karen’s friends were going on

the trip. It was too expensive, they had said to her.

The first city they were visiting was Rome. A city Karen had always wanted to go to

and she was excited about going there. She was just about nervous of who her she’d

be sharing a room with.

“So what’s your name?” asked the blonde girl.

“I’m Karen,” she said, “You?”

“I’m Michelle and this is Louise, we’re sisters” she said.

“Cool!” Karen said.

“Are you excited?” Louise asked

“I’m a bit nervous because I don’t know anyone here. My Mum’s Mrs Quinn and she

insisted I came,” Karen said.

“I know Mrs Quinn!” said Michelle, “She did a lecture about drawing people and

animals.”

“Shame that you don’t know anyone,” said Louise sympathetically, “Still, you know

us now.”

Karen was feeling a lot better now. At least I know someone.

A couple of hours later the plane landed and Mr Umbridge, who was in charge of the

trip gathered up everyone.

“Now, you all know the rules. You are representing the college bla de bla bla. I’m

sure you’ve had it all through school and collage. So just behave and don’t do

anything I’d not do,” he said.

Someone wolf whistled and another person cheered. All the pupils liked Mr

Umbridge, he was funny.

“Not everyone here knows everybody so to allow to a chance to meet and spend time

with new people, myself and the other staff on the trip have chosen, at random, who

will be sharing rooms for the duration of the two weeks in Rome, and the next two

weeks in Madrid” he said.

Mr Umbridge started reading out who people were sharing with and what room

number they were to go to. Karen was to share a room with Michelle, and two other

girls called Alex and Zoë.

Later that night Karen was in her room with all the other girls sharing with her. The

hotel was lovely as was their room. They had met the photography tutor and he told

them once he gave them a lecture the next day, the rest of the trip was theirs to do

what they wanted. The photos they took over the trip could be put in their portfolio.

Karen had talked to everyone in her room. They were all really nice girls.

At the lecture the next day the photographer, Dave, showed them some really cool

stuff that Karen was definitely going try that trip. Later that day Mr Umbridge and all

the other staff took them to Pantheon!

“This is amazing!” she said to Michelle as the bus was approaching the place.

“I know, it’s beautiful,” Michelle replied, “I’ve always wanted t come here but I

never thought I would!”

“Me neither,” Karen said.

Before they all went in everyone was taking pictures of the entrance, including

Karen. This is the life, she thought. Karen got some amazing photographs. She loved

the pillars, it was beautiful. Inside was even better; the circle ceilings that she’d seen

in pictures were much more gorgeous in real life.

Karen’s time in Rome seemed to fly. They visited some awesome landmarks

including the Circus Maximus, Palazzo Farnese, Domus Aurea and Karen’s favourite,

The Colosseum. It was like nothing Karen had seen before. The photos she took of

turned out great and she couldn’t wait to show her parents and her friends.

Karen found herself -with what only seemed minutes but was really two weeks- back

on a plane to another country, Spain, heading for the capital, Madrid. This time she

was sitting with Zoë and Alex. The plane journey was ten times better than the last

one but the turbulence was really bad.

At midnight, the plane landed in Madrid. The weather was cool, but still very warm,

it was lovely. After the luggage was sorted they left for the hotel and when the arrived

they got a pleasant surprise. The hotel was gorgeous! The outdoor pool was amazing

too. Mr Umbridge said they’d be able to “chill out” there if they wanted.

“You missing everyone back home?” Alex asked her one night about a week into

their time at Madrid.

“Yeah, my friends and my Mum,” she said, “How about you?”

“My parents mostly, all my friends are here,” she replied.

“I can’t wait to get home but I’ll be sad when the trip’s over, it’s been so different

from anything I’ve ever done,” Karen said.

The group toured all around Madrid. Karen was glad she decided to come and she

had made some great friends.

On the plane back home she decided she was going to travel the world. In years to

come, Karen did travel the world, spending from a few days to six months in different

countries, but that’s another story.

Paradise

2008-09-10T14:48:49Z

Travel Writing Awards Entry

By Melissa Hayes

Stupid...bloody...travel...magazines.

As I inwardly curse my way up another flight of stone stairs, it seems even my thoughts are laboured and short of breath. I’m clammy, I’m cranky, and the word “chafe” has suddenly taking on a whole new personalised meaning...

... Welcome to the Cinque Terre.

Flashback to four weeks earlier. I’d been sifting through a ridiculously large pile of glossy travel magazines which I’d neurotically collected and hoarded during my phase of pre-trip over-excitement (at one point having been compared to an obsessive-compulsive squirrel on steroids), when I came across an article depicting this World Heritage listed destination. It described the five, neighbouring villages which comprised the Cinque Terre as possessing uneclipsed beauty: Riomaggiore, Manarola, Corniglia, Vernazza and Monterosso. Each village, it explained, clung stubbornly to the rugged, unforgiving cliffs of the north-west Italian coastline and was linked to its neighbours by a series of walking trails. The headline was without adornment, just three simple words - “The Romantic Road”.

I was sold.

Upon arriving at Riomaggiore, the beginning of the Cinque Terre walking trail, it was difficult not to be overcome by the landscape’s scenic splendour. Our train emerged from the veiled darkness of the underground tunnels into a flash of pure, bright sunlight.
Walking from Riomaggiore to Manarola, I followed a spellbinding path as it wove its way through a rainbow palette – on my left, a sheer cliff face of light yellow dropped away to disappear into the swirling, iridescent waves of the turquoise Ligurian sea; on my right the green-carpeted cliff wall stretched up and away towards the distant blue skyline, peppered in a myriad of colour that was the local, Mediterranean flora. Strolling along the flat, stone paths with a crisp sea breeze at my back, around each bend I was confronted with a spectacular view of the naked Italian coastline jutting boldly and unapologetically into the ocean – discernable by the individual clusters of brightly coloured buildings which, like so many multi-coloured barnacles, clung fiercely but haphazardly to the cliffs at uneven intervals.

Sounds perfect, right?

Well, for the first few kilometres, I thought so also. Unfortunately, about a third of the way through the walk, I discovered that some bright spark with an evidently twisted sense of humour had decided to incorporate hundreds of stairs, narrow pathways and steep inclines into my “relaxing stroll”. And making matters worse, the heavens suddenly and unpredictably opened up and erupted in a prolonged cascade of atmospheric tears. So all of a sudden the “Romantic Road” seemed to have come to an abrupt end and instead, I found myself labouring along “Nightmare on Elm Street”: trudging up slippery rock faces, being overtaken by couples three times my age and by children half my size, tramping through mud, squeezing along tiny ledges, and despite the rain, sweltering in the midday humidity.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I certainly didn’t harbour any misguided illusions when I woke up this morning that today’s 11km walk would be all about clear skies, tall, dark, Italian hiking guides and sipping mocha-frocca-happy-frappy-cocktails on the beach. I accepted that the weather can be inconvenient (calmly noting my various, water-logged cavities and the increasing transparency of my white singlet); I recognised that treks can be uncomfortable (as for the fourth time my blistered, Havianna-clad feet slipped out from under me and I rear-ended myself in ankle-deep mud); I even bravely acknowledged the necessity of making sacrifices when travelling (after three weeks without a washing machine, I was down to my last pair of underwear of the “never-meant-to-see-the-light-of-day, high-cut, parachute-size variety”, which, after 4km of trekking was so far lodged up unspeakable places that I wasn’t even sure I’d ever be able to retrieve them)! All this I could deal with. However, as soon there was any mention of a hill, incline, slant, slope, rise, step or gradient, then my non-existent leg muscles protest, my internal organs start to shut down, and you’ve pretty much got a full-body strike on your hands.

Which leads me to my current predicament – sitting on a rock on the side of a path in the middle of the Cinque Terre, waiting for three things:

1. The rain to stop and the steep inclines to miraculously disappear.
2. The chafing to settle down.
3. The rather large, shirtless, hairy European man standing in front of me to either pull his pants up, or kindly remove his buttocks cleavage from my direct line of vision as this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I read about the Cinque Terre’s “unique, unparalleled scenery”. I’m fairly certain that “plumber’s crack” looks universal no matter what country you are in!

But as I sit there, wallowing alone in my Western, creature-comfort-based self-pity, I see someone powering his way up the path to where I’m sitting. As he gets closer, I can make it out to be a short, elderly, and obviously quite Italian gentleman. He stops to say hello. We chat for a while, and he tells me he and his family have lived in the Cinque Terre region for generations – in his sixty seven years he has never had any desire to leave. Every day he walks the Cinque Terre paths. Every, single day. And it was in the midst of this rather unremarkable, non-descript conversation that this gentleman said something which I truly believe will be burned into my consciousness forever. As he got up to leave, I asked him why he chose to live here and undertake this walk each day. He turned towards me, and with the simplest smile on his lined, weather-beaten face, he said five words:

I choose Paradise for life.

I will never forget that. I choose Paradise for life. How simply, how beautifully, how poignantly can a person encapsulate their appreciation of the world, their pure love of living and untouched belief in the “here and now”, then in those five, unembellished words: I choose Paradise for life. From that point onwards, I clammed up about my complaints.

Looking back, I view my time in the Cinque Terre as being the highlight of my brief European holiday. Not because of its breathtaking scenery, not because of its wonderful people, not because of its comic elements – but because on a warm, rainy day in July, an unknown man on a mountain shared some of the most beautiful words of wisdom that I’d ever been privileged to received: Choose Paradise for Life.