... in Puglia

The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Puglia

When the alarm went off at 1.30am – two and a half hours after we had gone to bed – the rationale for an early flight somewhat escaped me. On the plus side it meant a traffic free, uneventful drive to the airport through April drizzle.

 

By 4am we were in the airport attending to coffee. Or trying to. They needed to see boarding cards even for that. As it was a bar and as they were serving beer Husband decided to have one, proving that it is never too early for a pint of ale.

We occupied ourselves in the long wait by watching the China grand prix third practice session before the rather long walk to the departure gate. In the queue for the plane it became clear that there was a large group of lads who were combining a rugby tour with a stag party, so much fancy dress was in display and the bizarre outfits included a carrot and a baby.

Having (unsurprisingly) dozed off on the flight, Husband woke me to show me the mountains we were flying over. Spiky and snow covered with the valleys in between filled with rivers of cloud or deep untouched snow. They went on for miles before finally the snow petered out and we had sight of small villages nestled in the foothills.

 

 

We came in to land over a dry and barren landscape – which also looked hot. We were bussed into the arrivals hall where a customs mad stood to attention looking very much like Catarella from the Italian TV series, Montalbano.

Once we had collected our hire car Fiat Panda, and dealt with some initial trouble finding the air con, we were on our way. The objective of the trip was to cover as much ground as possible in order to get a feel for Puglia and help narrow down which parts of it we might want to live in. We were not there for sightseeing.

Puglia is located at the southern Italian peninsular, forming the heel of Italy’s boot and holds the record for the less mountainous region of Italy.

Having flown over Palese and concluded that it looked uninspiring, we took the main road past it with the intention of then dropping onto the coast road up to Trani. This seemed a good idea in order to reduce the risk of accidentally running anyone over given that on the dual carriageway there had been a cyclist who merrily stopped, propped his bicycle up against the edge of road barrier and then proceeded to cross the road. But people weren’t the only risk. Dogs – seemingly unattended – casually crossed the roads as well.

 

The first town we arrived at was Giovinazzo, a small fortified town on a cliff overlooking the sea.  It was a quiet, tumbledown place with streets winding through it in no clearly indicated direction. There was a distinct lack of signposts and a series of one way roads so we were momentarily unclear if we would ever get out of the town. Suddenly we happened across a large piazza and followed the narrow road out of the corner (as this was where most cars seemed to be going) which led to a small, peaceful harbour where people were sitting, passing the time of day. Clothes horses of washing stood on the pavement outside people’s apartments. A round tower stood watch over the harbour, which had clearly been converted to flats and a man stood in his balconied window, surveying the quiet scene beneath him. We stopped for a short stroll before continuing on to Molfetta. This was a large town – equally challenging to navigate due to lack of any ‘through road’ direction. Molfetta is well known for having a substantial fish market – so substantial that much of the main road was temporarily closed while the market was in full swing. This did not aid the navigational challenges. But that’s what you get for trying to drive through the largest fishing centre in the southern Adriatic on market day.

We then passed through Bisceglie before arriving at Trani. This was of course amusing named, but to drive the point home it had a small suburb named Villa Draghetti. The towns stopped and started suddenly with the barren space in between filled with stumpy olive trees, their knarled branches collapsing to the ground under their own weight.

What we had noticed with all these towns is that they contained a small, medieval, narrow core old town. But to accommodate the increasing population over the years they were spreading outwards into wider but equally higgledy piggeldy streets of apartment blocks that had an outward impression of poverty and slums. Certainly no attempt was made to build with sympathy to the original town style so they were cursed by their surroundings, slightly sprawling and unattractive residential outskirts. Trani did not suffer this fate to the same extent.

Driving around Trani was equally challenging, which was added to by our need to find the place we were staying at. The streets were paved with stone which, due to years of wear, were smooth and shiny, gleaming in the afternoon sun. They were narrow, winding their way in between the tall buildings and to be honest, a car larger than our Panda would have been difficult to manoeuvre, our tyres screeched on the stone surface as we went round the sharp corners. It was like being in the Italian Job. Up slopes, through arches, round piazzas, past residential streets – the one way system forced us on. We drove along the harbour – an extensive bay filled with fishing boats, and circled back into town. We drove past our destination once, unaware, before finding a street name that I could find on the town map we had. At last, we knew where we were.

Parking was going to be tricky, so as soon as we saw a space, we dumped the car. It was unclear from the signs where this was somewhere that you were allowed to park or whether it was a tow zone. But other cars were there, so we took the view that it would be ok. Then we wandered up the hill to the place we were staying – the White House.

The name of the place was possibly derived from a building just down the road. We read on the sign outside a very small chapel that the patron saint of Trani – St Nicolas – had stayed there. It had at one time been a stable (not sure why people of religion seem so insistent on sleeping in stables) and had since been converted into a small chapel. The adjoining terraced building was called Casa Bianca (white house) in which there had been kept, allegedly, a thorn from the crown Christ wore during his crucifixion. It was unclear why the town had chosen this man as their patron saint – having arrived in Trani he only stayed in the stable for 15 days before promptly dying. Perhaps they felt guilty, Husband pondered.

There was a buzzer outside the door. We pushed it. No one answered. We paused momentarily, unsure what Plan B was. Then a man standing outside with a bicycle turned around and said ‘White House?’. Yes, we replied, whereupon he opened the door which led into a cool, quiet, private courtyard. He brought his bicycle in, and then led us upstairs. We were on the second floor – well, if the steps were normal sized, it would probably have been the third floor. Husband giggled walking behind me, saying I looked like a child trying to climb them so high were they. Although randomly so – others were set at perfectly acceptable riser levels. There was no lift.

We were planning to retire in Italy and Husband wondered how well we would, as old people, cope with steps like this. I then wondered if that was why there were so many older men in Italy sitting in the piazzas. They had come down in the morning and didn’t have the energy to go back up again, so stayed sitting outside until the day has passed.

He let us in and started the check in process, having explained that he spoke no English and asking whether we could speak Italian. Fortunately I could and this presented a good opportunity to practice. The first instance being where he appeared to be checking us in for one night, and I explained to him that we were there for two. He agreed this was correct, and that he had forgotten.

Then he showed us round the room, explaining in Italian how the air con worked and even pointing out the towels on the bed, proudly announcing that these were the ascuigamano – as though the mere sight of towels was not clue enough. More proudly he demonstrated the radio which also played in the bathroom. Breakfast was at a small bistro in the piazza below, which he showed us from the window. The view – while we’re at the window – was spectacular, across the piazza to the cathedral whose address was Number 1 Trani according to our excitable man.

 

Finally we were shown upstairs to the roof top terrace. This was the assigned smoking zone, smoking being an important cultural part of Italian life, but we thought it may be nice just to sit out there of an evening, enjoying the sun and scenery.

Seeing that there were free parking spaces in the piazza outside our window, Husband decided to move the car. The parking signs indicated the daily charge, but there were no clues at all as to where one should pay. Also, none of the other cars appeared to have tickets in their window. We made enquiries and were told that it was fine to park there, and you didn’t need to pay. Despite what the signs said.

Quickly we settled in – where I noticed that the booking information had a picture of the outside of the White House, I pointed this out to Husband. If I had seen this before, there is a small possibility we would have found it more quickly.

We wandered into town for food, finding a busy looking fish restaurant on the harbour front. Lunch consisted mainly of fish, the antipasti including a series of plates of fish arranged in different ways – salmon, clams, mussels, whitebait.

We then meandered around the harbour to the cathedral. This was next to the shore, which was now well defended against the weather with large protective boulders piled up on the sea side of the coastal wall. Stray cats sunbathed on these rocks, overlooking the sea – which somehow seemed an environment that I wouldn’t normally associate with a cat. It stood in a large open space, which seemed particularly wide and open given the small, narrow, dark streets alongside. From the outside, this huge edifice rose high with barely any windows. Steps swept up to the entrance doors, but the way in at the moment was underneath these steps, into the chapel underneath the main church, dark after the brightness of outside, with squat columns lining its nave. At the end of this, there were steps down to a further chapel, which was higher ceilinged and forested with dozens of slender pillars.

 

 

 

We also found steps down to what was possibly part of the original church. In a wonderful absence of health and safety the uneven steps led down to a small, broadly unlit, dark room, in the centre of which was an old looking arched building. We walked around it, on mud floors in virtual darkness. Having been into the depths it was then time to ascend into the main cathedral which was surprisingly bright and well lit considering the small and sparse windows, high up on the walls. The unadorned white stone helped to reflect the light. It was remarkably bare, unusual for a catholic church which have a tendency towards gaudy displays of wealth.

The columns through the nave appeared to have been plundered from other buildings; such was their variety in style and look – as well as weathering. Some looked as though they had spent millennia subject to the elements, while others had the appearance of having been freshly cut that morning. There had clearly been a limited supply in the plundered source as some columns were too short, with additional sections bolted on using large metal pins.

 

The ceiling was, unusually, wood vaulted.

We then decided to climb the narrow steps which led to the bell tower, which was adjacent to the main cathedral. Inside the tower a circulating wooden staircase has been constructed. It was unclear what the method for climbing would once have been, if indeed it was climbed at all. We reached the point where the bells were housed, a series of different sized domes on each side of the tower. While they had ringers inside, these were now unused, and instead the chimes were set off electronically. Each bell had a hammer on the outside, rigged up to various cables and wires.

 

 

We continued our climb upwards. From the top we had views across Trani, to the harbour and also of our room.

 

A saxophonist was playing the square in front of the cathedral, and the strains of his not that great tunes rose through the summer air to meet us at the top of the tower.

As we descended there was a sudden, loud noise. The quarter past three bell chimes. The bells went every fifteen minutes, one bell marking the time and another bell (with a lighter sound) indicating the quarter hour. Being virtually next to the bells at this time was fun – if being slightly deafened without warning is your idea of fun.

We returned to our room and, inevitably, fell asleep, rising from our slumber to venture out for dinner. We had a pleasant, exploratory stroll along the harbour where there were rows of working fishing boats, nets piled in the back. In one or two boats there was a mangy looking dog, sleeping among the nets, making the most of the last of the afternoon sun.

 

 

Finding a bar was challenging, and when we did, they seemed a bit put out that we only wanted a couple of beers rather than anything from their extensive menu of cocktails (the menu made no reference to any other drink option). Minutes passed. No beers arrived. Finally the drinks begrudgingly appeared. By the time we came to our second round the staff had warmed up to us a bit.

Dinner was located in the square underneath our room. I’m sure its name – Birreria – had nothing at all to do with Husband’s interest in the place. We went in. It was dark, full and busy. The waiter led us through was felt like subterranean stone arch vaulted rooms, through an unprepossessing ‘back stairs’ corridor to another room at the back and our piccolo tavolo. This was room was also full, families out with their remarkably well behaved children. And it was about 10pm. But then again, it was Saturday.

The beer menu was extensive and Husband merrily worked his way through a number of the options as we tucked into pizza. Momentarily dinner had seemed under threat when, without warning, all the lights went off plunging us into considerable darkness. The beer menu also referred to their metre of beer option – glasses of beer lined up to cover a metre. We thought of the rugby tour lads and this being an appropriate challenge for them.

The following morning, after breakfasting at the small bistro and watching the grand prix, we explored northwards, initially aiming for Malfredonia. The roads were in a pretty poor state, pot holes and uneven surfaces on the dual carriageway. We did drive along one stretch of wonderfully newly re-surfaced tarmac, black and smooth. However, about a foot beyond where new surface abruptly stopped was a deep and substantial pot hole. It seemed an odd choice to have ended the re-surfacing there and choose not to make use of the new tarmac to fill this hole. And the navigational challenges continued when trying to go through towns. One large roundabout would provide clear signposting, but the next few would give no clues at all. If you managed to inadvertently select the correct route you would then be rewarded with more signage. Sometimes you could take the view that in the absence of any alternative instruction, carry on in the same direction of travel. However, at other times, such an option was not possible. Once we ventured down each road off a roundabout in sequence before finding the correct road.

The road conditions experienced so far were nothing compared to what we soon came upon. We had decided to come off the dual carriageway and take an A road. After a while we came across signs indicating the re-surface work was underway. Good, we thought. Then there was what appeared to be a road block fence in the road, but this had been moved aside. And other cars were merrily carrying on. So we did too. We soon decided that the road block was not ‘real’ as there were temporary sign posts installed for drivers, so clearly it was expected for us to be driving here.

However, this was re-surfacing like no other. It was not so much that the tarmac had been scrapped off the road, but more that the entire road had been taken up and re-laid with the initial rubble which would sit under the new surface. There was no attempt to do one side first so that traffic could use the other, surfaced, carriageway. No – we just had a long straight road of blinding white rocks. And the road wasn’t even, of course, so there were dips and holes. We soon caught up with the end of a trail of cars negotiating this road. When the surface on our side became too uneven and rocky, everyone simply moved over to the other side of the road. The traffic was light and in true Italian style, there was no regard for anything which could be seen as rules. We felt like the team from the TV show formerly known as Top Gear. The Panda was coping excellently, and possibly hadn’t expected adventure when we picked him up in Bari.

 

Finally the road regained some tarmac and we continued on to Mattinata, and then took the coast road to Mattinela. It was warm, hot and stunning. The countryside seemed much greener and the road snaked around the hillside above a turquoise, azure sea. No wonder Italians are the azzuri and have this as the colour of their rugby team shirts.

 

 

Being a sunny Sunday, the bikers and cyclists were out en masse, enjoying the quiet, hilly, hair pin roads. This was the stunning Gargano promontory which forms the spur of Italy’s boot. The national park contains an environment variety unique in the region, which includes salt mines, canyons and oasis lakes.

 

 

As we continued on along the road Husband asked we passed a sign post and Husband asked what it said. Slow down, significant hair pins, I told him. ‘Oh right, because the road hasn’t been windy so far’ he exclaimed, wondering if this was a late warning or whether the corners were genuinely about to become sharper. Husband pointed out that the car dashboard would light up occasionally requesting him to change gear (the hills and bends resulting in much gear changing) and he wondered (grand prix being very recent in our minds) whether anyone had access to remote telemetry who could see how well he was driving. I suggested that he was already being remotely monitored and hence the reason for the dashboard messages. Fiat Panda is perhaps a more advance vehicle that you would give it credit for.

It was now technically beyond the traditional time for lunch and we were keen to locate food. Looking at the map there appeared to a small town or village called Pugnochiuso. We missed the initial turning down to the place so carried on and took a subsequent turn off which looped back. This was a wonderfully small and even more coastal road. The advantage of missing the initial turning was that we now came to Torre di Porto Greco.

 

 

This strange, abandoned fort tower was one of many that run down the eastern coast of southern Italy. It was quiet, peaceful, apparently maintained but also gradually succumbing to the ravages of nature – grass now growing out of the side of its high walls. The ‘protective’ wooden rail around the concrete platform on which the fort stood amusingly vanished on the coast side, so there was nothing in particular to stop an incautious person from tumbling down the bush and cactus lined cliff into the sea below.

 

 

There had clearly been later additions – and then removals – to the fort, evidence by the bolt holes left in the ground indicating pre-fab walls around the two lavatory holes in the ground, which were now filled with sand and dust. It was unclear whether these had been intentionally filled or if this was merely a feature of time and nature.

 

All along the coast line there were stumpy trees clinging to the crumbling white cliffs. The lay by outside the fort, and indeed lay bys where we had paused to admire the view, appeared to be used by campers. In many there were stone rings on the ground filled the ash and charcoal remains of former camp fires. We saw a tent in one and a group having a picnic in another. Husband wondered whether Italian laws were relaxed enough for you to come here with a tent and stay for a few days. The idea of Italy having laws at such a finicky level at all, let alone bothered to enforce amused me. Having Gargano in Puglia was a definite tick in the box.

It was a national park and at one point we saw various cars deposit groups of walkers, out for a pleasant afternoon hike.

 

However, it was also mid-April, and not yet into the ‘season’. The town we thought we had identified on the map as a place for lunch turned out to be a large – currently empty – holiday park. Clearly, in the summer, the current wild emptiness and peace would be somewhat disturbed.

We took the main road back to Mattinata and then inland up into the Gargano hills to Monte Sant’Angelo, still hoping to forage for food. The hillsides were formed into stepped terraces, covered with olive trees. Puglia olive oil, which we had been recently buying from Tesco, would now take on a whole new meaning.

 

Road side signposts had images of snowflakes so obviously this region did get winter weather. However, at this time of year the mountains around the Italian lakes are still snow-capped and some of the higher mountain road passes still closed due to being thick with ice. All winter weather melted away at a faster rate in this warmer, southern region.

Monte Sant’Angelo appeared before us. It consisted of row upon row of white terraced buildings, dirty and uneven, capped with wonky red tiled roves. As we entered the town it seemed asleep. There was nothing, and no one. No sign of life at all. Perhaps we were destined not to have lunch today. We past a small turn off into the town, up a particularly steep slope. Husband wanted to explore a bit more, so turned off. Initially the Panda seemed reluctant to get up the slope and once we did, it was clearly just a residential parking area. We found a space, and ventured forth for more of an explore.

 

Liking foreign language films I had recently rented an Italian film Le Quattro Volte. This followed one year in the life of a tiny village – a goat herder, his goats, the charcoal pile being built and then subsequently dismantled once ready, a town May Day festival, the goat herder’s death and a truck rolling across the road causing an accident. It went on for an hour and a half and that’s pretty much all that happened. There was no dialogue. At all. This place reminded me of that film. I saw a solitary old man slowly walk along the pavement between the houses. We could hear the sounds of anonymous families escaping from open doors and windows while the smell of cooking curled its way through the air around us, reminding us we were hungry.

 

 

Being on a hill the cobbled, slightly stepped path between the houses rose, and met other narrow paths which also wound their way between the buildings, or through arches under them. Husband momentarily worried whether we would find our way back to the car. There were occasional man holes and I could hear water rushing beneath our feet. Perhaps the winter melt hadn’t been that long ago.

We saw a couple of small trattorias but they seemed closed, it now being well beyond lunch time. The narrow paths soon opened up into a square in front of a church and then a wider path led higher. I followed this and arrived on what seemed to be a main pedestrian street through the centre of town. And which was populated with about 500 people. It was very unclear where they had all come from. We had suddenly and quite by chance arrived at the tourist hub of the town. Take one pace to the side, and you entered the quiet, peaceful slow paced of life tranquillity of the town. But not one of these visitors did so. And in some ways, I was pleased that they didn’t.

We walked along this busily alive street towards a bell tower, next to which was a courtyard and what seemed to be a church entrance. Intrigued, we went in and were surprised that instead of taking us into a nave or chapel, once inside the door we were confronted with a wide, sweeping descending stone staircase. We had now moved beyond intrigued into full blown curious, so kept on following the steps down and down. They led to another church door and inside this there was a church – built into a cave – with a service in progress. The church vaulted church walls and roof were built on top of the cave and therefore started from completely uneven points as they rose up out of the rock.

 

This was the draw for the hundreds of people in street outside.

After climbing back up the steps we continued up the sloping main street to the large, squat castle which sat above the town. This also sat upon a rock which served to provide a natural moat and from here we had spectacular views over the town and the surrounding countryside. We could hear the sounds of the crowds rising from the narrow streets below, who were at the same time entirely blocked from view.

 

We returned to the car back through the residential area whose peace and quiet was a sudden, stark comparison to the main street we had left; picking up some food on the way, and pressed on. The road quickly wound round to the large public car park, filled with coaches and we were pleased we hadn’t seen this first as it was unlikely that we would then have wandered around in the smaller, quiet, residential streets.

As we zig zagged down the road away from the hill top town, two more coaches slowly climbed up, and ahead of us was one which had recently left. This was tourism at its most horrific.

We took the motorway most of the way back before slightly premature turn took us onto a road barely wide enough for 2 cars which would through olive groves and vineyards. They certainly make a lot of olives and lot of wine here and you can’t really dislike anyone who does that.

Despite now having our bearings in Trani as well as the advantage of knowing where we were staying (and what it looked like) we were still navigationally challenged by the one way streets and enormous volume of traffic bringing every road to a clogged crawl which made it difficult to quickly correct any errors. To compound matters further, the road along the harbour was closed off for pedestrian hour – state sponsored promenading.

I heard the cathedral bells so instructed Husband to follow that sound. Finally we arrived back at where we were staying and miraculously found a parking space in the piazza outside. We joined the promenaders for an evening stroll along the front. Everyone in town was there, couples, families, teenagers sitting along a wall in the sun.

 

 

For dinner we went to the small restaurant near to where we were staying which Husband had had his eye on since our arrival – Smorfia. We had polpetti starters – around 10 baby octopus cooked in a spicy tomato sauce. The octopuses were whole, with the remains of their bulbous head lolling slightly to one side. And they were very tasty. I was extremely impressed with myself for eating them given that tentacles are something which I find a little off putting. Their pizza menu included pizza surprise and it seemed silly not to go for it. We could see the pizza chef from our table, and the pizza oven. We watched him spin the dough in a totally not showy off way. The pizza was a calzone which had chopped tomato and basil sprinkled over the top of it. Husband described it as the nicest pizza he has ever eaten, the dough light and not giving you that over eating stuffed feeling. This was all washed down with lashings of quaffable local wine.

The following morning we were due to leave. There was no one on the premises at the White House (nor did it seem that there were any other guests) and the check-out process was leave your keys on the desk inside, and then leave the building closing the doors behind you.

About 5 second after we had locked ourselves out Husband remembered that he had left £80 of sterling in the bedside table drawer. This was going to be complicated. Outside the building there was a sign with a couple of phone numbers which Husband tried to dial. This involved some trial and error in knowing what dialling code to use to call an Italian number while in Italy but from a phone that thinks it’s English.

After a few tries, it rang whereupon Husband passed his phone to me. After all, the chap spoke no word of English. I told him that abbiamo lasciato le chiave dentro. He responded monosyllabically, implying well yes, that’s what you were supposed to do, I don’t need to know. Ma, I persisted, abbiamo lasciato qualcosa nella camera. He realised the dilemma before us. Quindi, I continued, but he had already grasped what we needed and informed me that someone would be there in 10 minutes.

While I waited, Husband wandered down the road to the harbour. We wanted to see if there were any fish being sold and this seemed like a sensible use of the time. A short while later I saw him coming back up the street, beckoning to me. It seemed that the man had phoned back and Husband had been struggling to understand what he was saying, but had understood the phrase venti minuti. So, 20 minutes instead of 10.

We then both went to the harbour to see the fish from that days catch. There were a series of small table set up behind where the fishing boats had been. What was odd is that the fishing boats weren’t there, so it unclear whether they had come in to drop off some of their night catch and then go out again.

There were prawns, sea urchins, octopus, black ink squid and numerous other fish. Most of them hadn’t yet finished dying. The prawn legs wiggled vigorously, the fish gasped for breath and expanded their gills. The octopus gently slithered around. I wondered if you could take them home put them in water and actually eat them a fortnight later.

With the room situation addressed, we set off southwards, again intending to take coastal roads through towns en-route. There was no improvement in the state of the roads and we started discussing which car would be practical in Italy. The Panda was serving us well and reminded us that in the narrow streets of these old towns you really needed something small. This also gave an advantage when trying to park, even taking into the account the slightly erratic method of parking used by some Italians. Alfi would possibly be a bit fat. Husband pondered whether you could get a left hand drive scooter.

It was nice to self-navigate our way around, even with the attendant issues that we had encountered, and use the dying art of map reading rather than blindly following the sat nav. Also, by self-navigating our way to wrong or missed turnings we had happened across things which we wouldn’t otherwise have found. We had erred but it always seemed to end up ok.

We stopped off in Monopoly. Again, it was unclear what the parking regulations were so we dumped the car in space along with a load of others and wandered into the old town. Our mini guide suggested getting lost in the maze of tightly packed streets. Husband suggested we didn’t as we needed to find our way back to the car.

 

Through a gateway in the terrace of houses we could see a small harbour and went out to wander around by the sea walls. Small schools of fish swam around in the warm shallows. It was quiet and there were a number of properties for sale. Beyond the fortification on the harbour corner there were men either building or mending a sea front property, chipping at the new stone to make it look as weathered as the stones on the surrounding buildings.

When we returned to the car, we were the only ones parked in that part of the street, all the others having moved. Also, the car was now becoming quite urgent about telling us to fill up with fuel so the process of getting out of Monopoly now had the added pressure of needing to find a petrol station.

Finally fuelled up, we continued on southwards towards Ostuni, deciding to take a small quiet road which led through Montalbano. The town was small, provincial and quiet. It wasn’t especially pretty but it was interesting to visit given the name. Slightly further down the road was a sign to Vecchio Montalbano. This road led to what appeared to be an old farm or olives press. There was an old wall around one estate and fields of olive trees. It seemed that one of the buildings was now a hotel and conference centre, but clearly out of season as it seemed utterly uninhabited. Husband was drawn to a ramshackle building with an established garden and its own collection of olive trees, wondering how much effort it might take to renovate it. At the very least, you would need an appreciation of how to do dry stone walling.

 

We were noticing different methods of olive farming. Some trees were in fields where there was nothing else growing. Others had grass or other plants around them. In Vecchio Montalbano was saw a convoluted hosing system weaving its way through the trees providing irrigation and Husband wondered if in the fields which were being watered, the pulled up other plants so that only the olive trees were using the water. Or perhaps different olives need different environments. We stopped and got out of the car for a moment. There was utter peace and quiet.

Due to driving and parking limitations within the old town, Husband had chosen a hotel just outside the town of Ostuni. On the map, this looked like it was just off the ring road which circled the hill top town. In reality, the actual road bore little resemblance to the map. We followed it round in a vague direction and just as I was starting to slightly despair of having the faintest idea where we were or where we needed to go, we saw the hotel. It had a car park which was largely empty – but which at the height of the season was probably not quite large enough to accommodate the guests. The hotel had a series of sun trap terraces which were unoccupied. There was no bar and dinner was available by prior arrangement.

 

 

The receptionist gave us a map of the town on which she marked up where we were and drew what appeared to be simple directions to the cathedral at the top. We set off. And quickly went awry, finding ourselves climbing up into the quiet residential streets rather than into the old town. A number of houses had converted their ground floor into garage space and as the streets were so narrow, there was little other option if you wanted to have your car anywhere near where you lived. This was an area which apparently had a large English ex pat population. I couldn’t understand why. It was nice, but somewhere we would have wanted to live. All the roads started to look similar, so to correct our now identified error, we just tried to go downhill – accepting that we wouldn’t find the roads which we had come up.

As soon as we returned to Piazza Liberta and on the correct direction for the cathedral, we recalled some of the vital details of the instructions which the reception had given us. Via Cattedrale was a steep, cobbled meandering road rising to the top of the hill top town. It was largely closed to traffic. There were a series of tourist groups, plodding along in disinterestedly behind a leader who held aloft an identifying placard. It was all pretty ghastly. Off the main street, the narrow alley ways between the white washed buildings which crept around the edge of the hill were quite with occasional views across the flat plains below, and out towards the sea. The city was a succession of arches, towers, palaces, courtyards, terraces, alleys and shops.

 

 We were again in search of lunch in that awkward time when lunch is technically over but dinner has definitely not yet started. This proved challenging. We climbed to the top, we came back down and seeing a café which was open decided that that would have to do. So we sat down with a drink and couple of paninis to watch the world go by. There were a lot of English people. One English speaking couple came and sat down. He obviously wanted something to eat but she, rigorously imposing the ‘not lunch time, not dinner time’ rule informed him that it was too early for food. Whereupon Husband helpfully informed him that this was the best panini he had ever eaten.

I saw on the chalk board outside the café opposite that they had a special of panini con polpetto. I wondered whether the octopus legs dangled out of the edge of the panini.

We bought a bottle of oil, a bottle of wine – slightly pondering the idea of drinking it on the hotel terrace – and a back of the taralllini snacks which seemed a Puglia specific snack. They were made from olive oil and white wine. I liked the idea that realising there was a lot of this stuff in the region, and wanted some sort of crispy bread type snack; they had come up with something which worked. Some were plain while others were flavoured with finocchio (fennel), onion or garlic.

One tiny flaw in our plan was that we didn’t have a corkscrew – and buying one seemed to be challenging. This wasn’t a problem, The last place we were due to stay on this trip was a self-catering apartment, and that was bound to have one.

We went back to the hotel for a nap, and didn’t venture out again that evening.

Breakfast was served in a lower room which led out onto a terrace but which also had the looked and feel of a subterranean cellar or store room. A wide stone staircase led down into it and a huge wrought iron chandelier was suspended over one part of the room, which then stretched out to one side to a lower ceilinged, alcove area. It felt a bit like being on the set of Game of Thrones. Or how I imaged it would given that I’ve ever seen the programme. The table cloth reached the floor, thus cunningly disguising the ring of metal on the table around knee height, perfectly positioned to smash into your bones if you pulled your chair in a fraction too much.

 

This was a sumptuous breakfast – croissants, boiled eggers, meat, cheese, yogurt, cakes. The croissants and eggs were still warm which seemed odd given that no one else was here and they had no idea when we would come down. I tried a bizarrely named coffee and cereal yogurt. There’s a reason why they don’t have these in England. It was pretty unpleasant.

Fully replete we made our way to Alberobello. This was a town famous for its large population of trulli – curious one roomed conical houses. We had seen a few dotted around the area already. On the road there we passed Cisternino and Locorotundo – both of which were hill top, walled white cities like Ostuni rising up out of the otherwise flat landscape of olive trees. Husband suspected that in days of yore these flats must have been bandit territory.

At Alberobello there were no helpful signs to direct us to where the trulli were. We drove around, slightly aimlessly until we caught a glimpse of them beyond a street that we were in. As there was a parking space handy, we parked up. This street did need you to pay to park, and there was a ticket machine. There was also an attractive brunette traffic warden on duty. Husband commented that the quality of traffic warden was considerably greater in Italy compared to England. She smiled at us as we purchase our ticket, with a mild expression of surprise that tourists were in this street.

We walked towards the trulli. The road we were in afforded us a good view across the trulli population which were huddled together on the opposite slope before we descended the steps to cross the road and into trulli town. There was masses of parking here – out of interest we looked at the prices. €2 per hour. We had parked up at €0.60 per hour and consequently felt a bit smug.

 

 

One main street ran up the hill to the trulli church at the top.

 

 

Almost everyone was a shop selling tourist stuff. For all of these businesses to survive must mean that this town gets very very busy and as the locals started getting out their displays of tat clearly the hordes were expected – the enormous parking area and space for coaches was also clue to this (although how anyone found this parking given that we had so utterly failed to do so was another matter). We were there by 9.30am and there was no one else about. We had missed the inevitable rush and felt doubly smug.

 

 

You could go into many of the trulli, as they were shops. There were strange single roomed buildings with small alcoves off the side of the main central room – some of these alcoves were larger and formed a small room. There was a few for sale, referred to as the number of cones rather than the number of rooms. They were built from dry overlapping stone, whitewashed base and cone shaped roves with pinnacles of various shapes and symbols.

 

It didn’t take too long to have our fill of the novelty from these funny little, hobbit like dwellings and we tried to find the olive oil museum. This was also poorly signposted. When we did find a sign we followed it eagerly, only to have the usual situation where the signs stopped. We had been directed to a quiet road of trulli, away from the main tourist grabbing throng. There was no indication of an olive oil museum. But we did find a funny little old man who asked us to visit the 4 cone trulli he was guarding, set out like a home but uninhabited.

 

 

It was the height of open plan living. Even the bedroom had no doors on it. He smoke and burbled away in Italian, telling us that he had featured on Francesco da Mosto TV programme, excitedly mentioning the BBC – which was pretty much the only thing he could say in English. We carried on down the road at the end of which was a sign for the olive oil museum pointing back the way we had come. Well, if anything, this helped to narrow down the search area. By now there were about half a dozen people all searching for the museum. A local woman appeared so I asked her dove il museo del ulivo? E La, she responded. So La we went – as I heard another man ask her exactly the same question.

The museum had an olive tree outside it – but this was the olive growing region of Puglia so that in itself was not necessarily a clue which we should have picked up on. And it was clearly closed. There was neither name on the outside nor any signage to indicate its opening hours. The guide book information suggested that museums opened at 10am. It was passed 10, and being Italy, there was probably fluidity about opening times.

In the absence of any useful information, we decided to call it a day and make our way to Martina Franca which was a large town with a smaller walled maze which comprised the old town. Again, we were fortunate in finding somewhere to park the car, but again were unclear whether we should be paying. Although as old as many of the other towns we had visited, there was a baroque grandeur to Martina Franca. This could be due to its ducal history. The buildings seemed taller and were adorned with decorative wrought iron balconies laden with wisteria. The tiny, winding streets trickled down from the main piazza Plebiscito to gates in the old city walls, beyond which sprawled the new town. We saw a post van driving through these streets – if anywhere there was a place for a postman on a bicycle for ease of travel, this surely was it.

 

We were discovering that the various towns tended to have a local speciality. Noci was famous for its cheeses and dairy products. This amused me, coming from a town called Nuts, but not being known for nut products. Martina Franca made a particular type of sausage.

The town reminded me of Rome, but a quiet, untouristy Rome. It was largely shut and clearly not expecting guests. Finding anywhere selling local sausage was going to be tricky. It was also lunchtime and went to one of the only open looking restaurants in the palatial and contrarily names Piazza Plebiscito. We had bread, wine, beer, water, starters and pasta – all for the bargain price of €34. This was even more unexpected given the outward grandeur of the place. The staff spoke minimal English so my Italian was useful when we needed to ask for an altro coltello, and also when we paid with e €50 noted and the waiter needed to inform us that they didn’t have any spiccioli, and did we have anything smaller. But for the first time we had managed to have lunch at lunch time.

As it was still relatively early and we had achieved the objective of the day, we looked at the map to decide what route back to take and opted on a return journey via San Paolo and over some hills. Our map was a little casual about its accuracy of distance, so the turn off appeared sooner than expected and we missed it. Planning to turn around, Husband took the next exit, but this led into a one way road through a peaceful, stunning wood. Unable to turn back, we carried on. The road descended determinedly and continually. Husband commented that he hadn’t been aware we had been so high. I looked on the map, trying to find where we might be, and eventually found what was likely to be the road we were on – which did eventually lead back to the main road allowing our intended about turn.

It was a rather fun detour. Getting back to San Paolo, we turned off and then tried to navigate our way to the hill road. This proved interesting. We were faced with junctions that either had no sign posts or indicated to places that weren’t on my map, or indeed to places which were on the map but based on the various places indicated and directions of these, it was actually unclear which direction we should aim for. Eventually, and more by accident than design we realised that we were atop a modest hill with view across the flat landscape to the in-step town of Taranto. Additional clues were provided by the presence of cyclists – who rather impressed me. There was nothing for miles, so they were clearly out for a long ride.

As we dropped down the side of the hill Husband looked back and saw a small rocky outcrop on the escarpment – look, he insisted, we just went through all that to find this, so appreciate it.

We carried on along the flat, empty countryside roads to a destination unknown. There were signs for various masserias, but none of the ones marked on the map were on these signposts. Eventually we found ourselves on the outskirts of Grottaglie. This wasn’t where we wanted to be and we certainly didn’t want to get too bogged down in the town centre roads. So, now knowing where we were and back in the realm of main roads, we turned around and pointed our nose in the direction of Ostuni.

We had hoped that navigating to the hotel would be a little easier this time. We knew where it was and had our bearings of the town. This time we were approaching from the south and due to go around an edge of Ostuni which we had not as yet travelled. And it proved challenging. Initially we came off too soon and ended up becoming embedded into the residential area. Getting back to the main road we continued round. There was a point where the road would merrily dive off to a totally different destination and I needed to ensure that we came off before that happened. However, this was easier said than done. Fortunately the relaxed state of rules of the road meant that we could more or less park up front of the road signs as we approached each roundabout and decide which direction to follow. Finally we started to get on track and then at the final hurdle missed the road which led down to our hotel. In fairness, it looked as though it went to an underground car park, and its true destination was only revealed once you had gone too far. On the plus side, we were now back onto the roads that had led us to the hotel on our initial arrival.

For dinner that night we intended to go to Osteria del Tempo Perso. The name had appealed to me. Anywhere called the hostelry of lost time had to be good. However, being a little early for dinner, we repaired to a bar outside the front of the cathedral for a couple of drinks. Immediately large quantities of snacks appeared – tarallini, bread, olives, and strange warm pastry things. 3 or 4 plates of food. All at no extra cost. For a moment I was concerned that we wouldn’t be hungry for dinner. The town was in the process of closing as we had climbed the hill to the cathedral. The tourist shops shutting up after the day’s business.

It was situated on the edge of the hill on which Ostuni nestled. We diverted off the main Via Cattedrale, near the top, and followed the streets as they narrowed and wound their way around the hill side. There were steps up to the restaurant surrounded by billows of whitewashed cement so it felt a little bit like climbing up into marshmallow. Or a cloud. The restaurant itself was hewn out of the rock on which Ostuni was built and was therefore, to all intents and purposes, a cave.

Fortunately they could fit is in, and the food was sensational. We asked for a wine recommendation as the wine list included 4 pages of Puglia wines. A negromaro called Masseria Maime was the result, and a most excellent choice.

 

On one of our starters we had what looked like mozzarella balls but when you cut it in half, the centre oozed out like a well prepared chocolate fondant. We later found out that this was called burrata and was made from mozzarella, cream and milk. It was sumptuous and I wondered if it had been made in nearby Noci.

I had a tiramisu pudding and this was unlike any that I had ever had before. There was no alcohol soaked soggy cake in it – well, maybe half a teaspoon lingering in the middle. Instead it was a substantial coupe of richly flavoured cream. It was enormous but I had to eat all of it.

When we left the town was dead. We were pleased of the cool night air and the chance of the walk after the big meal we had had, Between two building in the narrow streets a buttress arch had been built – presumably needed for structural reasons. But as it was there, one of the residents had converted the top of it to a terrace. Husband then suspected that what had really happened was one of the neighbours had always wanted his outside living space, so waited till the others were away for the weekend and then built his buttress terrace.

As we came down, and moved outside the city walls we tried to take night time shots of where the restaurant had been – not entirely successfully. We were both slightly surprised by how quickly we were back down considering how far it seemed that we had come.

The following morning, after another reasonably breakfast – which did not include coffee and cereal flavoured yogurt – we drove north to Bari. The first objective was to find the hire car office as this was our last day with the trusty Panda. As we scurried along the dual carriageway we could see signs for numerous towns that we had visited or passed through and it was nice to be able to add a mental picture to each of these names. Then we went through some areas which one must have been sites of fierce battles in days of yore, now bearing names such as Pezze di Greco which bizarrely carried no romance at all.

We navigated suspiciously easily to the Hertz office and left the Panda – 749km wiser than he had been when we picked him up 4 days earlier. It was now a short walk to the hotel, in the increasing and growing heat of southern Italy morning sun. We were by the main railway station in Bari and needed to walk through the modern city to the old town on the coast. Pulling the wheeled suitcase behind us, which made a permanent growling sound on the textured paving slabs, Husband referred to this as the walk of shame. To our right we saw the façade and domed roof of Teatro Petruzzelli. According to a guide book we saw, this was the largest private theatre in Europe – and fourth largest in Italy. That didn’t make any sense to us either. The guide information was in Italian and English so I checked the Italian in case there had been some error in translation – no, the information was the same. No wonder the country was in such financial difficulty if this was an example of their understanding of numbers.

We approached the city wall of the old town and from here navigation became more interesting. The town was a muddle of narrow, medieval streets which in the main had no street names. Up until this point I had been in control of the map but now handed it to Husband. After all, he had not been able to enjoy the navigational challenges of Puglia until now. He led us into the midst of the chaotic town to where the road we were staying in should have been. We asked a local man who was helpfully lingering, and he pointed us to the street just around the corner. We found the place. It wasn’t a hotel so much as a residential building, with no one obviously about. Children scampered about in the streets and washing was strung from the balconies of neighbouring buildings. Then a matronly woman appeared who spoke not one word of English – I explained who we were. She took us to a room which led straight off the street which was still in the process of being made up, and asked us to come back in half an hour. We were, however, able to leave our bags in the room. Husband wanted me to clarify with her that this was to be our room. It was and she gave us the key.

We found out later, after getting home, that the ‘hotel’ claimed to have staff who spoke English and some of the feedback comments vigorously disputed this. I totally agree, but having enough Italian to deal with the situation, their lack of English wasn’t an issue.

Unbaggaged, we went for an explore. Unlike other old towns of Europe, this was primarily residential. There was very little in the way of bars or shops. The shaded meandering winding streets would suddenly open into huge sunlit squares in front of churches. We looked in the Basilica di San Nicola which had a crypt with the tomb of the saint, in which the faithful were on their knees, in prayer, visibly in awe and humbled by their proximity to the resting place of such a holy man. The arches down the nave were arranged in a way such that they looked skewed.

 

Part of our wanderings took us on to the walls and we briefly wandered along, looking at the sea and the new town. Apparently you could take a boat from Bari to Dubrovnik and we yearned to do so. We had been in town for less than hour and concluded that we didn’t like Bari. At all. We had seen all that we wanted to, and were ready to go. Out initial plan had been to get a train the following day to our next destination. We now looked up train times to see if there was the option of an earlier one – there was, 9.40am.

Still having some time to kill before the room would be ready we attempted to find a bar, and ended up in a place on the corner of the old town and large road which ran round the outside of it, with a view of the squat castle. The bar was soon filled with middle aged, white skinned English tourists who annoyingly and rudely made no attempt to speak Italian, not even buongiorno or grazie, talking away arrogantly in clipped English. They were fortunate that the waiter had reasonable English – which was definitely not a given in Bari. We engaged with the man in Italian and he never, at any point, broke into English – which does happen in cities like Rome where waiters almost deliberately refuse to let you speak Italian.

As we sat there, drinking a beer in the sunshine Husband observed that this was the first time we had been let down by the old town part of any city we had ever been to. The bar man and some locals started to engage in a robust and loud discussion, peppered with typically Italian gesticulation. This was a city on the verge of violence, Husband commented. And he didn’t just mean the argument we were watching. There was a general feeling in the air, and undercurrent of revolution.

The castle we within our view gave testament to this. The original Norman construction had been partly destroyed in 1156 by the people of Bari, tired of struggle and rebellion against the Normans. It was rebuilt in 1233 in a new style, the stone become soft and windows were built into the towers to mitigate the austerity and give the castle a more homely look

We returned to our room to finalise checking in, and discovered that we still had the card key for the Ostuni hotel room. This trip seemed to all about hotel room key issues!

To check in we were led to another building around the corner and it was explained that this is where we should come for breakfast. Our room was a slightly below street level grotto, with the appearance of a room that was once perhaps an old storage cellar. There was a 4 poster bed and small bathroom tucked in at the back. Once the formalities were done, we continued our perambulations, stumbling across the only tourist street in the old town where there was a smattering of small shops selling the standard tourist tat. We didn’t buy a fridge magnet – and we get fridge magnets from everywhere we go. It’s a small and manageable way of having a personal souvenir from the places we visit. But we didn’t get one. That in itself was telling, as though we never wanted to admit to ourselves or be reminded of our time in Bari.

In fairness to Bari, it is entirely possible that the modern town is a hubbub of life and entertainment which we never went to. There may also be interesting tourist attractions, such as the castle, but that wasn’t the purpose of our trip.

Our wider wandering did nothing to change our opinion of Bari and we were desperate to find some way to kill the time. Happily we came upon a bar with a menu of 50ish beers. This would be a perfectly acceptable way of passing the afternoon, and we stayed for some time. Our waiter was very helpful and pleased to have someone there to chat with. He brought us some nibbles – toasted bread with spicy greens on top. It was delicious and we didn’t know then that these greens must have been the local speciality of cime di rape (turnip tops). This was followed by a sumptuous plate of meats and cheeses.

Finally we reached a point where more drink wasn’t really viable so we ambled back. On the way we visited the Cattedrale di San Sabino whose air was thick with incense from a recent funeral.

 

 

In the muddle of residential streets there were muslin covered trays filled with the local homemade pasta – orecchiette – drying in the late afternoon sun. Nestled into spaces and gaps in the busy walls of houses were numerous shrines, with statues of the virgin or random saints. This was a city of believers, or people requiring regular absolution. We did also see a buttress between properties under repair. Husband pointed at it – neighbours are away for the weekend he commented, suggesting that this was roof terrace construction in progress.

 

Our room, being street level, had a slight air of stuffy dampness about it. No matter how hot and sunny it may be outside, the houses at bottom part of these narrow, high sided streets never really benefit from this. We had experienced this phenomenon before in the apartment we rented just off Campo di Fiori in Rome. Husband spent some time perusing the internet to find somewhere for dinner. Today was, after all, our 10^th wedding anniversary. We had made this trip to coincide with the event, thinking that a holiday to our favourite country to the area we intended to find a place to live seemed a fitting honour.

Husband located a potential dinner venue on what was allegedly a Michelin restaurant website, Osteria Delle Travi ‘Il Buco’ described as a family run establishment on the edge of the old town offering home cooked traditional local cuisine. If we hadn’t known about it from the internet, we would never have found it. From the outside, there were no clues that this was a restaurant. Subtly written above a large, wooden door was the name Il Buco. We opened the door. Inside there was lino floored empty room, and we could hear the sound of diners spilling through from the neighbouring room. A man appeared and took us through to a table. It was like a school dining room, trestle tables with wooden chairs, and benches on the large tables. There was no unnecessary adornment. The lino floor and uncurtained windows meant the sound of dinner guests echoed freely around the high ceilinged room. Our host also spoke no English but we sorted out a beer, water and carafe of wine. He then instructed us to help ourselves from the antipasti on the table. It was difficult not be extremely greedy. The food was fabulous – a huge bowl of fat, green olives, chargrilled aubergine and courgette, tomatoes, strips of mozzarella that had a knot tied in the middle. We piled our plates and sat down. Shortly afterwards, more food was brought to the anti pasti table. The host piled some onto a plate and brought it over to us, recognising that it hadn’t been there when we got our food. The additions were warm and delicious. I have no idea at all what they were. I did know that we were becoming full and had barely touched the basket of bread. Clearly away the antipasti plates the host asked if we would like a traditional pasta. Yes – of course we would. Shortly afterwards we were each given an enormous bowl of freshly made orecchiette with cime di rape. We were proudly told that the pasta had been home made today by le donne. I liked the total absence of sexism nonsense. Pasta making was a job for women. They did it proudly, and no one had any qualms about saying so. In England, someone somewhere would get their knickers in a twist about such a statement.

Again, the turnip greens. Husband was curious about what happened to the turnip itself. We tried to ask, but the host was too keen to talk about what was in the bowl, rather than the bits which weren’t and my Italian was not competent enough to push the point. He had initially been a bit cool – perhaps expecting difficulties with language barriers, but was not warming to us, hopefully relaxing  in the knowledge that we could understand him and were able to communicate, at least to some extent. Irrespective of what happened to the turnip, it struck me as odd that turnips grew here at all. I now realised that I had associated the vegetable with cooler climates. What’s more, in England the green bits were usually discarded – here they seemed to be the only part that was eaten and were delicious, with a flavour similar to spinach.

It was delicious, the pasta was soft and swollen in the way that only freshly made pasta is. We were now comprehensively stuffed. However, this was not the end. Pasta bowls cleared we were asked if we wanted our fish fried or grilled. I liked the absence of menu and lack of options. It was like eating at your Granny’s. Whatever was fresh and available that day had been bought, and that’s what you were getting. As other tables came in I realised there was some limited option of pasta choice, but our host had obviously decided that this would lead to too complicated a discussion so had chosen to offer only the more straightforward option of a local speciality. I didn’t mind in the slightest – that is what we would have picked anyway, even given a choice.

We both went for grilled, and were subsequently each presented with a whole fish of substantial proportions, a bowl of salad and hunk of lemon. We had no idea what the fish was, but it was meaty and delicious.

This was followed by a large slice of fresh melon and a liqueur.

The total cost for this enormous meal came to €50. Although the food had been spectacular, Husband wondered if it had been the Mickey Mouse Michelin website, given the lack of visual finesse which is usually associated with Michelin star food.

The following morning, as soon as breakfast was finished, we went to the station to get the train to Polignano a Mare. Buying tickets was straightforward as was finding the platform, although there was no confirmation of the stops that the train would make to give you the re-assurance you were in the right place.

The train was spacious and empty – and quiet. There were no warnings to mind the gap, no reminder to take all your belongings with you went you left, no perpetual commentary on what station was next and which stations were to follow (although, in this instance, such information could have been useful).

 

After half an hour, we arrived. Polignano was small, quiet and very friendly. Everyone we saw said hello to us. We found the apartment in Via Roma where we would be staying in but as we weren’t due to meet Gabrielle for the key for half an hour or so, we went round the corner to a small bar. Just beyond the bar the road was a metal gate across the end of the road. I looked over this, down the sheer cliff drip to the azure sea below, and looked at the town which was built onto this rocky outcrop. Again, unsurprisingly, the woman in the bar spoke no English. A northern English couple came and sat down, and tried to explain that they didn’t want ice. I could see the conversation going nowhere, so stepped in to help. You with know the word ghiaccio or you don’t. But it did seem odd to me that if you knew there was something you didn’t like, you’d make the effort to at least learn that word. They then asked us how you pronounce the name of the place we were at.

We went to meet Gabrielle who showed us round the apartment. The narrow front door opened to a staircase. On the first floor was a living room, bathroom, bedroom and small balcony. Upstairs from this was the kitchen and roof top terrace.

Outside again, we directed ourselves towards the coast and initially walked towards the southern edge of town. It was quiet, but as we walked along we saw a number of buildings in progress which looked as though they would grow up to become holiday lets or hotels. We started to see a few properties with signs in the window stating that this property was available for rent – including the place where we were staying. Clearly there was a holiday season here which was not yet underway. We turned back and headed north. People fished from the high vantage point of the town and old men sat in groups, chattering and laughing. As we passed them they stopped and greeted us warmly before carrying on putting the world to rights.

 

There were stunning views of the volcanic cliffs and numerous caves. It started to become a little concerning knowing how much of the town rested on top of these vast caverns. The sky was filled with birds, nesting in the many nooks and crannies of the cliffs – pigeons, not seagulls. This seemed peculiar. 

 

We walked through the shining stone streets of the town which was white, clean and pristine. Some of the little paths and alleys we followed we dead ends, otherwise gently wove their way through to an unknown destination. There weren’t many tourists around but those that were all did the same, walking around, looking at the stunning views every time there was a gap between the close knit buildings which allowed a view. This included two firemen, who were even taking pictures of themselves posing with sea views behind them. We came out through the main gate of the old town wall and over the high bridge which stretched across a deep ravine that ran down to a small pebbled bay that served as a beach.  Even this bay had some caves around the edge, affording some shade from the hot afternoon sun. Before the bridge, the town must have seemed very forbidding if approached from sea level. We could see an old set of steps cut into the cliff which rose up from the beach. These were now closed, having given way in part and fallen off the cliff side. What was left was now heavily overgrown.

 

We saw concrete shells of buildings under construction or repair in the heart of the old town, and started to suspect that this was why the town seemed so clean and neat – perhaps it was in fact largely constructed from modern buildings that had been coated in stone to make them look older, and then neatly whitewashed.

We had lunch in a pizzeria overlooking the sea, La Balconetta. I had the pizza named after the restaurant which came served with, bizarrely, a large leaf of lettuce on top which housed a helping of prawn cocktail. This was very odd. Starter and main course in one. Anyway, when in Rome and all that.

 

As we were staying in a self-catering apartment, we visited a couple of locale shops to pick up supplies and food for dinner that evening and breakfast. We finally had access to a corkscrew and so would be able to enjoy the bottles of wine that we had picked up on our journey so far.

We saw a poster advertising boat trips round the caves and decided, for our last day, to do something touristy so arranged a trip for the following afternoon. We were told that the boat would leave from Cala Paura. Slightly unsure of exactly where this was, we decided to explore before dinner. It was dark when we ventured out, and crossed over the high bridge. Once over, we went towards the coast. There was a long set of steps running down to rocky outcrop which looked back towards the bay. We went down and walked cautiously around the uneven, rocky ground, mindful of the fact there was an edge and a drop into the sea. Back up the steps, we continued along the road, trying to find the bay. There was an empty, almost derelict building which claimed to be a restaurant – obviously only during high season. But was walked down the small road behind it to look at the natural bay beneath. Husband insisted on looking right over the edge and I was concerned about the risk of him falling in. After all, he had the keys to the apartment.

We continued onward, and then found a path down to another little bay. There were lights on in some of the small buildings which nestled nearby which was welcome in an otherwise unlit area. Although it did feel a little bit like walking into the smuggling plot of a Daphne du Maurier novel.

This must be the place, we decided. There were rowing boats pulled up onto the shore and a jetty where a boat could pull up to. We headed back to town and noticed that next to the high level bridge there was a small, lower level one. This could be accessed down some steps of the main road which led down to a cobbled old road that was significantly worn by carts, with two deep grooves worn deeply into the already uneven surface.

Night time exploring complete, we returned to the apartment.

 The following morning was slightly cloudy and cool, but this soon warmed into a blisteringly hot day. We passed some time in the morning lingering in a bar overlooking one of the squares. We were the first people there but, in accordance with the laws of people wanting to go to places that seem popular, another couple came and sat down. Then two women with their babies. Then a group of girls, and then a couple from England. This gave Husband an idea of opening a bar in Trani and having an advert which said ‘if there’s no one here and you’re the first to sit down, you get a 50% discount’. We could imagine this would become a popular gimmick with young people on budget trips as well as a sure fire way of keeping the establishment busy.

At the appointed hour, we returned to the bay for the boat trip – well, we went there in good time. This was partly as Husband wanted to visit by day the places we had looked at the previous evening. The natural bay by the closed restaurant had a large square enclosed bay which looked as though it had been man made as a lido. But there was no clear access. Alternatively, when the tide was high this may have been a protected area for boats.

We went round towards the area we had identified as being the likely pick up point. A random octopus leg was on one of the steps down to the bay, indicative of the content of the morning catch. Polignano had very little in the way of beaches, so there people lying on the narrow path around the edge of the harbour sun bathing. We sat there for a few minutes to enjoy the warmth and the view, rowing boats floating on the crystal clear water.

 

 

There was another, larger bay around the corner. This seemed more man made with a large, wide concrete slipway cut through the rocks. There was a shop there selling drinks and ice creams. With still some time to kill, we went over there. We noticed that there was more litter and detritus outside the town. At this bay were a group of sunbathers who seemed to be regulars. They appeared to know each other and were leathery brown. A radio loudly played music, and most of the sunbathers were smoking prohibited substances. Husband referred to it as stoners’ beach. Occasionally they would go into the water. One lad walked in so far, and then knelt down. Husband thought this odd, but I suspected he just needed a pee. From the far side a much tanned older man with long dreadlocks went into the sea and just lay there, face down. I wondered whether he would drown or if he was experiencing a drug induced euphoria with the ocean floor.

We saw a boat arrive which had to be the one for our tour – but it was in the small bay that we had come from, so we walked back there and climbed aboard. Our captain was Michele and as well as us there was a couple from the Netherlands.

From the sea you gained an even more impressive image of the town perched on the high and jagged coastline. Michele told us that there were annual diving contest from one of the balconies, which attracted divers from around the world.

Polignano has over 70 caves, and the tour aimed to view the most significant.

 

 

 

This included the largest which one – Grotta Palazzese - been a private cave and was now a restaurant in a hotel. The cave had a high level natural mezzanine floor and enclave which is where the restaurant was housed, above the water and accessible from above. Having a private cave seemed a very exciting and James Bond style concept.

 

 

There was pigeon cave – although it was unclear why this was so named given that all the caves were filled with pigeons, and azzuri cave - so called because of the colour of the water, which again, was a gleaming turquoise in all the caves.

 

 

 

Some of the caves away from the town had gaps in the roof, allowing a beam of light to pour through into what would otherwise be a dark and dank interior. In some, large drops of water fell into us, in other stalactites were successfully forming from the cave roof.

 

 

 

As we moved south from the town, the cliffs were less high but still high enough to house caves and just off the coast was a small rocky island on which a hermit had once set up residence. On the top of them there were men running around anxiously, calling out to Michele. I wondered whether they were fishing and the boat was disturbing the fish or lines, but it seems they were looking for a diving ball. Michele spotted it in a cove, and told them. But this seemed only part of the problem. The diver was missing. On our return journey the men had vanished so we assumed that all was well with the diver.

 

 

At the southern end of the town was the tiny fishing port of Cala Porto, with a handful of Polignano coloured boats in the small harbour.

 

When we returned to the bay an hour and half later, stoners beach was still well populated and now included a slim girl doing yoga style standing stretches, or some other form of sun worship.

 

As it was our last night in Italy we looked for somewhere nice for dinner once we had finished the wine and tarallini we still had in the apartment. We found a restaurant in Piazza dell’Orologio. Outside there was an ice filled cabinet filled with the sea creatures which were on the menu that evening. The wine list included Masseria Maime so we were off to a good start. We had decided to go for the full whack – antipasti, primo and secondo. After ordering antipasti and primo the waitress stopped us, suggesting we wait and see, surprised that we wanted to eat that much. This seemed odd – the option was there but you weren’t meant to have it. The menu asterisked 2 items, and alerted you to the fact these were frozen. I wondered what an England restaurant menu would look like if frozen food was indicated in this way. Husband had wanted fresh scampi but they had run out, and the waitress informed him that all they was the frozen version, but sneered with derision at this option as though this was a ridiculous, almost embarrassing offer. Husband agreed, and picked the fish mixed grill instead.

We cleaned up the apartment that evening and finished our packing the following morning, then stood on the balcony in the morning sun waiting for Gabrielle, watching the pigeons scavenging in the cobbled streets below – every crack and crevice between them were filled with cigarette ends.

On the train back to Bari we sat on the upper level. Unlike England, the platforms are low which means that when the bogeys appear, there is a need for steps on the train. At this point they put in steep steps to an upper level and steps down to a lower level. You wouldn’t be allowed steps on trains in England. People would complain it was dangerous.

As we pulled into the edge of Bari we stopped at a large station where most of the lines had been pulled up, but the signs were still in place insistently asking people not to cross the tracks. We caught our intended connecting train to the airport and joined the long queue to check in. At the security check our boarding pass was checked before we walked through the scanner, and then checked again afterwards – as though something might have changed in those couple of steps. Perhaps we had passed into a parallel universe without realising it.

It was hot on the plane and I heard a young lad say it was a shame that you couldn’t open the window. Before long we were back over the fields of England, and then landed. While we waited for the cabin doors to open I watched the baggage handlers unload the suitcases. They seemed to be making a concerted effort to throw them into the trailer; even as the pile of bags grew they would lift the next suitcase high above their heads and hurl it down onto the pile, making as much effort as possible to damage anything in the luggage or those underneath. This was a flight back from Puglia, the wine and olive oil centre of Italy. Passengers watched in horror, anticipating the wine and oil soaked mess which may greet them when they opened their bags.

Fortunately the oil we were bringing back was in a tin and we had already drunk our wine.

We took the bus back to our car – which was in a car park next to the end of the runway we had just landed on – and made our way back home to see the cats, pleased with how successful the trip had been in terms of narrowing down where we wanted to live.