Southwards

It takes about three and half hours to get from Rome to Amalfi, a distance of 275kms. About an hour of that is spent standing around on station platforms. Another hour is spent traveling the 220kms from Rome to Salerno on the Frecciarossa Very Fast Trains, which hit up to 290kph on the open track. And the final hour and half is taken up with a bus ride over the 18km from Salerno to Amalfi, which does not hit 260kph, or indeed 26kph. This is because the road from Salerno to Amalfi is about two inches wider than the bus, with a stone cliff wall on one side and a plummet into the Mediterranean on the other, and the bus has to share this narrow road with Fiats being driven badly by Italians, Volkswagens being driven even worse by tourists, foolhardy motorcyclists, delivery trucks, and the other Salerno-Amalfi bus being driven in the opposite direction.

But we got to Amalfi eventually, and once we were settled into our Airbnb, we went out to explore the town.

To say that Amalfi is a tourist town is like saying that Donald Trump is a somewhat divisive political figure. There’s a real town in there somewhere, with a school, a post office, policemen and a local council, but it’s buried under a thick blanket of souvenir stands, twee gourmet food shops, overpriced restaurants, pottery shops and boutiques selling those brightly coloured dresses that make perfect sense to women on holiday but just look cheap and tacky once they get home. It’s a beautiful little town, but at the same time it’s a hideous nightmare. I’ve never felt so conflicted about being in such a gorgeous place.