DESIGNED BY ITALIANS

BUILT BY GODS

            Some years ago, a Neapolitan newspaper advised its readers that a bottle of water left on the doorstep would stop dogs widdling on the path. Most Italians would have regarded this advice as editorial fribble but, on the island of Capri, it was seized upon as a juicy myth. The Capresi simply love myths. They’ll show visitors where the Sirens lived and where the Romans came to castrate themselves. They have a lock-up where, they say, women were kept whilst their husbands worked and their garden Madonnas are often mysteriously attended by The Seven Dwarfs.

“And all the beautiful women,” added one lady, with commendable frankness, “were taken away by the Saracens”.

            The Capresi can’t stop the mythology and their visitors can’t stop devouring it. By the time Jayne and I arrived, four million people had already stopped by on Capri that year. Some had never got much beyond the gelati stands in Marina Grande and would have hydrofoiled back to Naples quite happy with the fishing village that they had found there. Others, like us, would have ridden up the lane to Capri town in a stubby bus or a frog-bodied taxi. There didn’t seem to be any normal cars on Capri. Most visitors would then totter around gobbling up myths and gelati. Some might even have splashed out on a little atomiser of ‘Capri Sexy’ or a fancy handbag but, by dusk, they’d all be back on their boats and gone.

 

            I knew, from the moment that I was extracted from our stretched Dinky, that I was glad to be among the few who actually stayed. Everything I saw pleased me – houses heaped up the hillside, buttresses, arches, columns and alleys that wandered off on their own secret assignations. No wonder this was the espionage capital of Napoleonic Italy. We shrugged off the electric-trolley boys and set off down the cobbled alleyways to the Hotel Floridiana. The Capresi probably still talk about the awful noise our suitcase wheels made. The tailor stopped sewing and boutique owners tottered to their doorways. An Irish wolfhound, wearing a crimson silk bow, lifted one ear off his marble floor; this close to Vesuvius, rumbles always arouse interest.

            We were happily oblivious. Look! A poster saying who’s died! And a fashion house spelt out in balls of mink! It came as no real surprise to find that our hotel had been built upside down on a cliff. Although it was all quietly spotless, portraits of debauching nymphs provided a reassuring link with the island’s mythological status as the orgy capital of Tiberius’ empire.

 

Each morning we climbed out of our hotel and pottered around the island. Tiberius had had a villa at each end, at Damecuta and Iovis. Capri being so small, he could have waddled between them in a few hours. The mythology, however, has him expending his energies on altar boys and lavish executions. But I had my doubts about these stories. Capri seemed too bright and exuberant to harbour serious mischief. Besides, Iovis was – although now luxuriantly colonised by broom and myrtle – a breezy, outward–looking palace, built by people enjoying the best of this extraordinary rock garden that had burst from the sea.

It constantly surprised me that, beyond the villas and the vineyards of the town, we were entirely alone. Our paths wriggled around wild, limestone formations of pinnacles and natural arches and through woodlands of Aleppos and holm oaks, always lurching towards those dizzying cliffs. At I Faraglioni, several massive columns of rock had pulled away from the cliffs and had become their own monolithic fortresses. One was inhabited by its own species of sky-blue lizard and by the diomedei gull, whose evolutionary trick was its whoops of dirty laughter.

 

Sometimes we walked to the western half of the island, which was separated from the rest by a precipice. Until a road was chiseled through in 1870, Anacapri was only safely accessible by a steep staircase, the Phoenician Steps. Once, when we tried to return via the temptingly-named Anginola Pass, we emerged from some bracken woods to see our path lollop over the lip of a chasm. There was a route through but it involved dangling on a chain several hundred feet above Capri town. Sadly, there was no-one around to enjoy our panic except a camouflaged hunter who had the good manners to just carry on blasting away at the bushes.

 

In isolation, Anacapri had developed rather differently to Capri. At best, it had a vaguely Moorish feel about it but it had become rather defined by its visitors, who were mostly cruise passengers. They came to see the Villa San Michele, whose gardens, pergolas and loggias sprawled magnificently along the edge of the precipice. It had been assembled by Dr Axel Munthe, a pioneering psychiatrist, for his collection of Pompeiian art, Gustavian furniture and stray dogs. We got in early, before a fleet of Noddy cars bearing Swedes, and then bounded free of Anacapri.

Further west, the promontory was deserted and the Maritime Police were merrily roasting peppers in their shuttered lighthouse. We hired battellieri to row us into the legendary Blue Grotto and they sang “Sole Mio” into the inky blueness as an indication of their contentment and their availability for tips.

 

Some days, we visited the bagni, the bathing establishments that nestled among the rocks. Despite their shortage of beaches, the Capresi were accomplished sea-siders. They arrived dressed in black and, after some deft sub-towel conjuring, they re-emerged in black bathing costumes. Occasionally, they executed perfect, parabolic dives into the sea but, although the water was warm, they didn’t waste time swimming. Everybody was very skilled at sunbathing and smoking and they made both look very important. Mostly, they shared towels so that they could cling onto each other more easily whilst telling stories. We all ate frito misto together in one of the beach restaurants and, at sundown, they were wafted home in taxi boats.

 

In the evenings, we tried several of Capri’s restaurants but always found ourselves drifting back to Gemma’s. It was tucked away up Via Madre Serafina, a medieval conduit of workshops and cells deep within the castle walls. The waiters all looked like boxers and always sniffed the wine-corks with just a hint of savagery but the risotto alla pescatore was rich and oceanic. The locals packed the place out and the walls were plastered with pictures of film stars in tuxedos and turtle necks. Had they walked all over the island? I suspect not; the well-heeled always come to Capri with the wrong shoes.

 

 

John Gimlette traveled as a guest of Headwater Holidays (01606 813 333) E-mail: info@headwater.com . Their 8 day “Enchanted Island of Capri” Holiday costs £… pp including flights and three-star accommodation on a B&B basis.

Further reading; “Bay of Naples and Southern Italy” (Cadogan £14.99).