... in Rome

The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Rome

 

It was an early start and we woke groggy. Dudley cat, acutely aware that something was afoot sat on me in an attempt to get me to stay.

Once on the road we set the sat nav to Gatwick. It got us nearby alright, but singularly failed to cope when it came to locating the car park, and as we had approached via a different route to that which the car park directions were expecting us to, we had some initial messing around and U turns before getting back on track.

It was cold. A chill morning air blew around my ankles – exposed, in summer wear – as we waited for the shuttle bus.

We had checked in the previous evening, which always seems a bizarre concept when you’re not even at the airport. What would happen if you had an accident on the way to the airport, or some other emergency occurred and you never made it. Would the flight be held up on the basis that a checked in person was not present? There was a moderate queue at the bag drop desk – which didn’t seem to be a much faster process than if you went through the full check in process. However, we were keen for the queue to move quickly as there were some unattended bags nearby which were catching the attention of the check in staff and a major security incident seemed imminent.

In the duty free shops there were some tasters of a limited edition run of (rather expensive) travel orientated whiskys, flavoured with various exotic spices. It seemed a little early to be drinking whisky. We hadn’t even had breakfast yet, but when in Rome and all that.

Once on the plane we seemed to sit there, parked up, for some time. Husband rather suspected this was while the captain had his tea and biscuits. However, eventually we were off, and given second breakfast. There was an interesting and amusing look on Husband’s face as he tucked into his Moma bircher yoghurt, confused by the bitterness and lumps. When coffee appeared I opened my carton of milk with rather explosive results.

Breakfast over, I settled down to watch the view from the window as we flew over Corsica, marooned in a calm and glistening blue sea, its outer edges lined with bays and beaches. /The sea itself seemed to be scored with glistening stretch marks and the occasional boat, bobbing about under the cloudless sky.

 

We got off the plane at Rome into noticeable heat and took the bus into the centre. At the Termini bus station I enquire, in Italian, about the local bus we needed to get to the apartment. She was, unusually for Romans, willing to converse with me in Italian. We had some initial trouble trying to validate the ticket – partly due to using the wrong machine on the bus, and I then watched the map closely to determine which stop we needed to get off at. The apartment was easy to find. It was small, cool, noisy and perfect, a stone’s throw from Campo di Fiori – to which we repaired for lunch. The apartment was in one of the small cobbled side roads that runs off from the Campo. It was on the ground floor so stayed cool and dark, with the 4 storey buildings rising above it in the narrow street. The buildings, typically Italian, were plastered but this did little to disguise the old, wonky and crumbly nature of the structure. However the inside of the apartment was clean and crisp, although a little damp from the lack of sun and heat.

 

We sat in the sun, eating salad, drinking wine and generally watching the world go by. We had unsuccessfully tried to connect up to the apartment wi fi, and Ricardo was due to pop round to see if he could see what the problem was. So we went back to the apartment, and got a little frisky while waiting. Ricardo appeared at a slightly inopportune moment.

 

In need of supplies for the self catering apartment, Husband went out to a nearby shop for the initial vital items – coffee and juice. We did after all have a coffee machine, which probably comes as standard in any Italian residence.

We had a momentary doze in the afternoon. The apartment was almost too cool, so we turned on the heater, and immediately blew a fuse. Stumbling around in the dark, trying to find a fuse box, was challenging. I had seen candles earlier, but had no idea now where they – or indeed matches – were. Once we had rectified the fuse situation, these things were set out in a more useful and prominent location. Just in case.

We went out to forage for dinner and Husband’s attention was momentarily grabbed by a young lady who was dressed in baby pink, with a matching pink helmet. We dined in a narrow alleyway, at one of a huddle of tables which nestled up alongside a bustling, vibrant restaurant, just behind Chiesa Nuova.

To enjoy the evening, and walk off dinner, we ambled to Piazza Navona, where the street seller were playing with fire fly toys, throwing the glowing items high into the air from where they slowly fluttered back down to earth.

Back at Campo di Fiori the evening had only just begun. It was buzzing, the streets were noisy and the bars were full. Girls in high heels and short skirts were riding scooters through the bustling streets, heading to their respective nights out. The heat of the day had gone and the evening was cool, but this didn’t stop people from being outdoors.

We slept well that night, penned in under old style heavy, rough cotton sheets and despite the noise coming from the clientele of the nearby bars.

We woke the next morning to the sound of church bells calling the faithful. Our plan for the day was to buy food from the market and go to the gardens above the forum for a picnic. Husband had played my toes in the morning, joking about ‘this little piggy goes to market’. We had wondered if the market would be in operation on a Sunday. It was, but was not yet in full swing, so we walked over to the river and along the embankment towards Castel St Angelo to kill some time. The river was very low, uninteresting and unused. In stark comparison to the city rivers in places like London and Paris. Tramps and fishermen were camped along the riverside paths, several metres below the high road side parapet where we stood. Trees, ripped up from previous storms, had collected at the edge, at a spot where the flow eased enough for gathered detritus to be dropped off. Some, clearly having been dumped there by nature a while ago, had rooted and continued to grow and thrive, still in the river.

 

We crossed over the long road leading up to St Peter’s and saw our first nun, before turning back towards the centre of town. As we passed a supermarket, we decided to pick up some additional supplies of things that we wouldn’t be able to get in the market. There were packets of mozzarella that looked very like the packets available in UK branches of Tesco. This seemed somehow disappointing. Then we saw a large basket, unchilled, filled with clear bags of milky liquid and mozzarella. This seemed like the stuff.

 

We had some amusement buying olives and salami from the girl behind the deli counter. With the aid of my Italian and a lot of pointing we finally got there.

At the market we wandered around the stalls to see which one we wanted to purchase salad items from. One vendor, assuming we were rubbernecking tourists, told us not to touch anything. Unimpressed and unwilling to buy from a stall where we couldn’t touch things, we decided not to use him. Instead we used a very willing, helpful chap at the staff next door, stocking up on tomatoes, rocket, peppers, oranges.

The rocket came in huge bunches, held together with a rubber band, costing a pittance and with a vibrant peppery taste. So different to the small, overpriced bagged produce in England. The man on the stall was Indian, and despite his best efforts, it was difficult to understand the Indian accented Italian that he spoke.

 

One of the shops on the market was a butchers – so filled with hanging meats that you could barely see the man behind the counter. He had a huge plate with samples of meats – rich, delicious, spicy. We bought a few slices of a couple of different meats but could easily have come away with a lot.

 

All we needed was a bottle of red wine. Unfortunately the wine all had corks and we were senza a corkscrew. However, realising our dilemma, the man used his corkscrew to pull it partially out of the bottle so that it wouldn’t leak, but also so that we could pull the rest of it out by hand.

Appropriately furnished with our picnic we wandered off towards the forum. Slowly, given the rising heat. On the way we ambled past the other coliseum, more ruinous and generally ignored by tourists, unless their direction of travel happened to take them along the path next to it. This combined to make the ruin have more pathos, more history than the main, hideously overcrowded arena.

 

In all my previous visits to Rome the forum had been free to enter, from any of the various entry points. However, when we came to the arch at city end, it was barricaded off with exit only turnstiles. The sign indicated that the entrance was from some other location but no further clues were provided, such as where this point was. We went back to the Piazza Venezia above – no joy. We then wandered around to one of the higher level viewing points to see if there were any clues or patterns of traffic that might indicate the entrance. What we did determine was that everyone was heading towards where we were, which implied that the entrance was at the other end.

 

The main road running alongside the forum was closed to traffic on Sundays. This proved useful as it allowed us to speed past the throngs of ambling tourists. The road was not, however, closed to cyclists, who tended to creep up on us silently and then utterly fail to negotiate the pedestrians in their way.

Half way along we noticed a large queue. On further investigation this unassuming area was confirmed as being the entrance. It seemed a little peculiar to make the entrance to such a significant monument in an unassuming, and utterly unmarked, unsignposted area. This was like Naples all over again.

The queue didn’t move. At all. I waited in it while Husband went off to examine a map placed helpfully near the entrance. From this he determined that there was another Palantine entrance, past the Colisseum. We decided to try that one instead. As we walked round it also transpired that the opening into the forum opposite the Colisseum was also an exit. Given the long, polished stone walk way into the forum at this point, it seemed a very peculiar decision. There was also considerably more room here to have a number of desks and thereby shorter queues.

The queue at the Palantine entrance was short, and in the shade. Moments later we were in.

 

We ambled around until we found a nice spot, and empty bench, to have our picnic. Now there is a story behind this picnic. Years ago, on my first visit to Rome, I had visited the gardens (much simpler to access in those days) and seen people sitting among the trees drinking wine and eating. It seemed like a splendid idea and perfect way to spend an afternoon. I had always wanted to come back and do that myself. Now here we were. And to my utter joy, many people walking past us looked over with an expression of ‘that looks like a mighty fine way to spend the afternoon’. So the word was spreading.

 

We were in no rush, so lingered over our picnic of bread, meat, tomatoes, rocket, olives and oranges; washed down with a very nice bottle of wine. We pulled the cork out fine, but couldn’t get it back in, so had no option other than to drink the lot.

Some pigeons came over to look at us, waddling around in the grass and wild flowers nearby. There was also an interesting herd of ants, busy in some activity which involved a narrow (the width of a finger) but deep hole in the mud. As they didn’t seem to want to travel much beyond this apparently interesting hole, we were largely unconcerned by them.

 

Across the path, one of the trees long trunk had the appearance of a pert naked bottom atop long, slender legs. Judging by the photos people took, I clearly wasn’t the only one who thought this.

 

Lunch finally done with, we washed our hands and filled out water bottle from the nearby fountain and carried on to explore the rest of the gardens. In the corner which overlooked the forum and back of the typewriter, a large seagull perched on the wall, inches away from people. Consequently, he was the subject of many pictures – and seemed to rather enjoy this attention. Nothing disturbed him or made him threaten to fly off. Instead, chest puffed out, he stood proudly above ancient Rome.

 

Having explored the gardens and ruins as much as we intended, we descended the hill into the forum.
 

As we had visited the forum many times before we ambled over to the exit and headed back into town – by now in search of beer and gelato. We successfully found both, and were served by a waitress who was so staggeringly rude that Husband left her no tip.

Thus replete, we set of in search of Husband’s favourite church – S Ignatious. We knew Rome well. We also knew well where the church was. However, in our determination to avoid the hideous mass of tourists traffic moving constantly between Piazza Navona, pantheon and Trevi fountain we dived off into the silent, empty side streets. And consequently lost our bearings a little. Stumbling across the back end of the pantheon we were quickly back on track and went into the church’s quiet coolness.

 

It was as magnificent as always. The wonderful trop d’oeil painted ceiling and fake dome made you want to lie on your back in the chair free nave and just look upwards.

 

Deciding to head back to the apartment, we passed through Piazza Navona and I noticed that the church opposite Bernini’s fountain was open. We hadn’t been inside this one before, so immediately set forth to rectify that situation. The church of St Agnes in Agony was small, circular. This seemed odd. So many churches in Italy appeared to nestle in among the surrounding buildings, almost hidden. But on entering them, they were massive, tardis like structures. St Agnes in Agony was a huge building outside, yet small, personal and private inside.

 

We looked at the paintings in the piazza – seeing ones we liked, with vibrant use of colour – but left empty handed. There was a man sitting on the edge of the piazza who looked like a typical Englishman on his holidays. Khaki shorts, gleaming white legs with a smattering of wispy hairs, sandals – with socks, shirt and sun hat. A man totally unprepared for hot weather and foreigners. His wife and children stood near him, awkward and embarrassed while he sat there – utterly confident that he had blended in.

 

Back at the apartment we started to work our way through the Italian CD’s which were there and played cards until it was time to start preparing dinner.

I made up a mozzarella and tomato salad. The mozzarella, in its unassuming plain bag, was the softest I have ever felt. It was almost impossible to cut as it compressed so much under the pressure of the knife. The tomatoes, as we had discovered at lunch, were incredibly flavoursome. Along the large bunch of basil we had picked up from the market, this was a delicious started – and one which would only be made quite so tastily if you were in Italy, using Italian ingredients. Dinner was accompanied by a spicy rocket and tomato salad, dressed with olive oil and balsamic. Somehow it just all tasted better here.

The rocket leaves were long, and Husband called me Ermingtrude as the ends dangled out of my mouth while I chewed on the bits I had managed to properly engage with.

We slept less well that night. I was worringly achy and it was extremely noisy with late night revellers, scooters hurtling along the cobbled road outside, street cleaners, bottles breaking and general Italian commotion.

The following morning, fired up on coffee, we finished the yoghurt we had bought before heading out into the market to buy more fresh produce for the coming day. This had, after all, been the intention behind getting a self catering apartment near to Campo di Fiori.

 

The coffee had been particularly strong. Husband had put me in charge of making it. There was the small container where the coffee granules were put and a small ‘plunger’ to push them down with. I had misunderstood and thought this meant that I had to fill, plunge hard, then fill some more – and so on. Consequently there was a lot of coffee in the machine.

As this day was our 8^th wedding anniversary, I put on my wedding dress (which still fitted) and Husband put on a new, but equally smart outfit. My wedding dress was cocktail dress length and therefore not overly excessive. We ambled to Trevi Fountain for some photos and then sipped glasses of prosecco in the sunshine. I was developing a rather heavy cold by now, which was unfortunate.

 

For lunch we went to the restaurant in the square outside S Ignatious which we hadn’t been to for years. The first time we went there, we discovered it by accident. And when closed, you wouldn’t even know that a restaurant was there at all. With the addition of food, the dress was becoming tighter – and sneezing consequently more difficult.

The waiter asked if we had just got married, which allowed the use of the phrase which I had been teaching to Husband: festeggiamo il nostro anniversario di matrimonio. And when, predictably, asked which anniversary: otto anni.

Feeling we had adequately covered the wedding promenading, we returned to the apartment to change into more practical clothing, before making for a bar in Campo di Fiori. We ended up in Sloppy Sams – partly due to the promise of wifi, which did actually work, and partly because Husband liked the staff T shirts which said (on the front) ‘Sloppy Sams, Classy in the Front’ and then, on the back, ‘Sloppy in the Back. He was tickled by the pretty waitress brandishing this slogan. We sat there, watching the world go by.

The market had finished for the day and the clean up operation was in full swing. This seemed a rather haphazard process. The stall holders had piled rubbish (food debris an boxes) around the various bins in the square. In addition, there was general litter scattered liberally all over the place. The squeakiest bin lorry in the world meandered between the bins and the bin men threw the boxed inside. The bin lorry would then squeakily crush or press these into the bowels of the vehicle, allowing further boxes to be collected. It was a small collection vehicle – partly dictated by the narrow streets it needed to negotiate to get to the market. Once full, which happened rather fast, it scurried off to be emptied before returning to carry on. In addition to this, a street sweeper and washer drove in circles round the square to gather up the other debris (the bin lorry only taking the boxes and crates). However, there was no order, or pattern or routine to this, no attempt to cover the whole market area. And he moved on to a new part of the square to clean up when it was quite clear he hadn’t finished by any means the part he had previously been attending to. It all seemed generally inefficient, very haphazard and very Italian.

 

We returned to the apartment for anti pasti – more deliciously sweet tomatoes with the rest of the soft mozzarella and slices from the meat sausage we had picked up in the supermarket. This was followed by a pasta dinner. Having only 2 hot plates and no oven, dinner was only ever going to be a relatively simple affair. We had bought a huge bag of past mix herbs in the market, along with some small Sicilian sun dried tomatoes – unclear if the tomatoes were from Sicily or dried in the sun from Sicily. They weren’t in oil, and had just been loose in a box. But they were utterly delicious, packed with flavour.

 

We had been told that the pasta mix herbs should be added in a ratio of around a spoonful per person. We should have realised that when you buy anything from an Indian, there is a danger of spiciness. The herbs were liberally filled with dried chilli flakes. The dinner was delicious, but melted our faces. We couldn’t eat it all.

We had bought some grapes – which only came in massive bunches – and were unfortunately filled with seeds. Husband had a rather good way of biting the grape in half, so that the tops of the seeds were exposed and could be picked out. I noted that there were always 3 and commented that nature liked things in uneven numbers. Husband agreed as he pointed out the uneven allocation of legs and arms and things. It wasn’t really that funny but we giggled for ages, until tears were rolling down our cheeks. And then giggled some more.

That night was loud again. I woke suddenly in the night, thinking that there was a terrible thunderstorm, such was the noise and flashing light. But realised it was a street sweeper – flashing orange lights aglow, slowly wending its way along the narrow street outside the apartment. It seemed a little peculiar to have such dedication that street cleaning was conducted at this hour given the complete lack of cleaning interest we had observed that afternoon in the market square.

The following day we went to the local bakery in search of breakfast. Husband espied some cornetto (croissants) and cheese pasties. The cornetto came in two flavours: apple or salt. He opted for salt. The first mouthful was odd. The second, not much improved. By the third you had rather got used to the idea, and by the end you weren’t sure you would repeat the exercise.

Our plan for the day was to go to Villa Borghese. I had been there before and seen the stunning Bernini sculptures inside. He made the stone seem soft, tactile. His sculpture of The Rape of Proserpina showed the tears running down her face, and his fingers pressing into the flesh of her thighs. It was incredible.

We had recently discovered that you now needed to book tickets a fortnight or so in advance. Knowing that is was unlikely we could get into the gallery, we went anyway on the basis that the gardens are extensive. I knew the bus number we needed. It was a tiny bus and initially we were both standing. The driver hurtled through the narrow cobbled streets – many of which we had walked in the previous days. It was a crazy, erratic journey. Finally we arrived at the gardens, and he drove in a rather meandering route through them, up to the villa.

Away from the traffic and under the trees it was cool and peaceful. The pace of life seemed slower. Although many people came to see the villa and gardens, it was noticeably less touristy, less crowded. You could hire small buggies that were operated by cycle power – slightly assisted cycle power it seemed, and all occupants were involved in the cycling. Some people seemed to cope with these contraptions better than other. A couple of girls seemed to perpetually steer theirs into the gravel verges. A man tried to take his up a slightly steep slope – his children in the back not aiding the cycling – and eventually just got out and pushed it instead. But on the whole it seemed a peaceful and fun way of exploring the huge grounds.

 

The hire place was advertising ‘noleggio bici’ – which is of course the Italian for cycle hire. Husband, however, found it amusing that you rent from ‘no leg bike’. We wandered around the villa, admiring the statues and gardens, as well as some private, ordered gardens which boasted stunted lemon trees, burdened with the weight of the largest lemons I have ever seen. The whitewashed, high gateposts into these gardens were topped with decorative carved dragons. A cat lay stretched out in the sun under the railings that separate these gardens from the public. Unfortunately my noticing and admiring it caused others to look at and try to stoke it. With the inevitable result that it got up, shook itself in rather a shirty manner and strode nonchalantly off to areas where it could not be disturbed.

 

The gardens was peppered with numerous statues in varying states of repair. Husband queried who had taken all the arms and heads and whether there was a building somewhere which now housed all the missing bits.

 

We happened across a museum for Pietro Canonica, which was next to the Italian globe theatre. The garden of the villa was quiet, consisting of orange trees and wisteria with a well in the centre. Husband and I sat there, enjoying the quiet beauty of the place, and the multiple birds when three girls appeared who vainly photographed each other in ridiculous poses around the garden, including making the pretence of picking an orange. This made the curator come bounding over telling them not to eat the oranges as they were very sour. I doubted this was the case. She probably just wanted to prevent them being picked – so that she could enjoy them.

 

We decided to go round the exhibition. This consisted of a modern building housing mock ups and templates of sculptures he then later produced. Even these versions were incredibly detailed and beautiful. Then there was access to his villa, decorated as it would have been in his day, simple, stunning. The back garden littered with sculptures, his studio filled with tools and pictures and outpourings of an active artistic imagination.

Now in need of food and drink we went off in search of lunch. A restaurant beckoned, nestled under the trees – well, actually the trees grew threw it. A rather clever irrigation system prevailed. We sat outside, unfortunately next to an annoying American family who talked about how the best thing about travelling was realising how great home was. To which they were welcome to return. Any time. Now, for instance. The father spoke to the waiter in condescendingly slow English. I spoke to the waiter in polite Italian – to which he responded appreciatively. Despite the presence of the colonials, the ambience was wonderful.

After lunch we decided to head over to the edge of the gardens and wander back down into town via the Spanish Steps. On the way we passed a harmonica player, who was giving a sterling rendition of Vivaldi as well as Mozart.

Near the edge there was a large, separate villa with gated entrance and red carpets. It transpired to be an extremely posh restaurant, one for which we were most certainly not dressed. One day, however, we may give it a visit. It’s high level terrace would have had stunning views over Rome. Indeed, we had not appreciated until now how high over the city we were. Heading towards the public viewing area, we looked out across Piazza del Popolo infront of us, and the Typewriter over to our left. Having momentarily rested and taken photos we then ambled along the road to the top of the Spanish Steps. We were now out of the shade and tranquillity of the Borghese gardens and the unrelenting sun beat down on us. The Steps were, as always, packed. As was Via del Condotti below. The narrow pavements were bursting with designer hunting tourists and women carrying multiple shopping bags, but walking in the road amongst the frustrated bad tempered romans was equally challenging.

After more or less successfully negotiating the crowds and some minor disorientation issues, we directed ourselves towards Piazza Navona. On the way we went back past the Pantheon where there seemed to be a bit of a stand off between street cleaners and the carabinieri, a lined up and facing each other on either side of the road for no apparent reason at all.

There was a carabinieri station nearby, with a row of marked up Alfa Romeo’s outside – black with red go faster stripes. We took a photo – discreetly in case we got in trouble, and they already looked a bit feisty – so that could consider re-decorating my Alfa in similar aggressive mode.

In need of more cash we stopped off at a bancomat. I was amused that the English instructions referred to your ‘secret code’ at the point where you needed to enter a PIN. A new phenomenon was present in Rome – guided tour by Segway. This seemed ridiculous on a number of counts. Firstly, much of the central part of Rome is very easily and quickly located by walking. Secondly, the narrow streets were thronging with people and the roads were crammed with hot, aggressive drivers. So there was no ‘ideal’ route to take the segways along. Thirdly, there is an excellent and cheap bus service which in itself should be experienced and savoured. Finally – and this is a point to note for all women as well as men of the large variety – much of Rome is cobbled, so as the Segway bobs along nicely, the driver’s bottom jiggles in an amusing way for all observers.

We returned to Sloppy Sams to watch the free entertainment that was the clearing up of the market. This time we had additional amusement. A drunk, black homeless woman who was wearing dirty baggy trousers and a bright red bra was asleep on the steps of the central statue. A group of youngsters had wondered if she was alright and alerted police. It seems that she was known to them, and they rather resented being summoned from their more important role of standing around looking threatening and impressive to deal with a tramp. Without any apparent regard for her welfare, they woke her and attempted to move her on. Dazed and disorientated, she stumbled around the square, approaching each bar and restaurant in turn in the search for victuals and money. Waiters in crisp white aprons, concerned about the reputation of their establishment and wanting to ensure that any spare change their customers had was left as tips for them, stood to attention, ready to shoo her away. And then she came over to Sloppy Sams. Close up we could see her wild, confused eyes, her unkempt hair which was full of debris and the vivid red of her satin bra against the dark brown of her skin. The waiter went out and spoke to her. Told her to wait there, rather than approach the customers. Then he went out the back and a short while later appeared with a cup which he put into her grateful hands. Appreciative of this crumb of humanity, she smiled, murmured genuine appreciation and walked off. We rather hoped that the cup contained a good strong coffee rather than anything else, but the gesture was heart warming and human.

The free entertainment did not stop there. At the restaurant next door a barrel was rolled out to the front, and on its upturned end was placed an example of the fine fare available within. Basically the largest calzone pizza I have ever seen. And then a trio of musicians came round. They didn’t just play half a song and expect some payment. We were serenaded for a good 15 to 20 minutes.

Across the square, the butcher leant on the railings outside an upper floor window, basking in the dying sunlight, also surveying the scene below – enjoying his involvement and yet slight detachment from it.

We returned to the apartment for dinner. By adding the remains of last night’s spicy meal to an relatively unseasoned new dinner, we managed to create something both well flavoured and edible. While waiting for it to cook, we ate the cheese pasty. Husband warmed these up by sitting them in a frying pan on the hob. They were strange things – a cheese soufflé encased in pastry. As with the cornetti, interesting, but not worth repeating.

 

That night, in our sleep, we seemed to have some sort of disagreement with the blanket. It appeared to be a 5 sided blanket. Odd number. Like in nature.

The following morning we woke to our last full day. While we had past Castello S Angello many times, we had never been inside and decided to make a visit today. We wandered over the St Angelo Bridge and Husband took photos of the statues of St Peter and St Paul, both looking a little bit as though they were playing instruments in a rock band. It wouldn’t take too much effort on photoshop to create something amusing.

 

The castle had been in existence since the time of Hadrian but subsequent emperors and popes had added, removed or amended various bits of it. Standing on one of the upper parapets of the outer defences, looking down at the circular fortress inside, the history of change was relatively clear in the pattern of stonework.

We looked out from the first level of outer parapet at the streets below. The pope escape route which ran between the castle and Vatican city, along a high wall, carved a route up to S Peter’s. There was a flurry of activity on the street below and we noticed that one of the groups of sun glasses sellers who had been on the bridge were fleeing down the street, hotly pursued by either carabinieri or polizia. After a few minutes, the chase was abandoned, and after a few more minutes, the sun glass sellers returned. Given that such street sellers are present at many of Rome’s attractions and indeed there were several others at the base of the castle, it was unclear why this particular group had been chased away.

 

The interior of the round fortress was very impressive. The large, deep jewel room, later used as a prison and the decorative private apartments. Photos were not allowed, but this instruction seemed largely ignored, so I also chose to ignore it. Once the attendant decided to try and clamp down on things a bit more, everyone still took pictures but more discreetly – pushing the click while the camera still hung round your neck.

 

There were a number of exhibitions about religious art and general nonsense about god and piety. The exhibition in itself was largely uninteresting, but the rooms the pictures were in were.

At the very top, we looked out over the skyline of Rome all around us. We could pick out much for ourselves, but when we looked at the information screen, this represented the view from a different side. We then realised that the 3 information screens were not screwed down and had been moved to utterly incorrect locations around the top. No one seemed particularly interested in correcting this.

Having fully explored, we went down the corkscrew to the bottom of the fortress, along a floor laid in the time of Hadrian. There were warnings about its uneven nature. Around the base, there were further such warnings. Hadrian, it seems, did not oversee the laying of smooth floors.

 

 

We sat in the shade of the walls and ate our remaining oranges and grapes.

Having done the castle we wandered along the river and then headed towards the Helmet Newton photography exhibition Husband had seen advertised at the Canonica exhibition. The photos were stunning. And huge/.Admittedly, the initial draw had been the nudity, but the pictures were incredible.

That evening we treated ourselves to a dinner out at one of the restaurants around Campo di Fiori. We had a starter of beef carpaccio. Raw cow – definitely no microwaved restaurant meals here. There were also strange, and rather nice, green things in the salad. We found out later that they were big capers – but the ones in England tasted revolting.

The next day we warmed up the cheese pasty thing for breakfast .

 

Soon afterwards Ricardo appeared and we handed the key over to him before getting the bus back to the station, which hurtled across the cobbles at such pace that my cheeks jiggled, and then on to the airport for the flight home.

 

 

 

 

NOTES

The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books.