SORRENTO DIARIES: PART 7

Don't worry. Nearly there. In today's episode of my holiday-diary from three years ago, I go to the Isle of Capri, inspiration for that awful Ford car from the 1980s and a brand of squishy drinks cartons which carried enough E numbers to make them basically radioactive.

I digress. I climbed aboard a questionable ferry in Sorrento harbour and chuntered across the Mediterranean to see what this infamous island was like...


September 11th, 2013

4.55pm. Capri. The sun hangs behind the island now but the air is still hot and sultry. I have a small table overlooking the harbour and a glass of lemon soda. This little glass of processed lemons is the highlight of this claustrophobic island. There are people walking round with carrier bags which say "I [heart] Capri". I want a t-shirt that says, "I can't bear Capri" or "I went to Capri and getting ripped off for this lousy t-shirt was the best bit."

What does it conjur in the mind, this island, 'Capri'? (stress on the first syllable). An exotic, mediterranean paradise of cocktails and white sandy beaches? Maybe fruit hanging from trees, ready to be squeezed by beautiful maidens who lovingly pour it into bottles on their way to the blue grotto caves.

It might have been that once. It is now a bustling tourist trap. I don't understand why this has to happen in poor but beautiful places: what you come to see is obscured by everyone else who's come to see it. In the end you end up wandering around with milling visitors, peering at paradise through a sea of hats, cameras, children and loud shirts and a series of commercialised distractions. And they're expensive distractions.

What's more, the dirty, smelly, awful ferry that brought me here doesn't leave again until 6:45, which even now as I glance at my watch, is an hour and twenty five minutes away. The waiter here at the Cafe Apreo said he'd let me know when it arrives but given a can of lemon soda is 5 Euros, I question his motives.

So, here on Capri, you can't leave for hours and there's nothing to do except wander about with your excess Euros and the seething hordes - and I mean, it's like Oxford Street - and spend, spend, spend.

I did attempt to climb into the island. I was half-hopeful that I'd stumble across a breathtaking view I could enjoy on my own. However, the Via Truglio went up and up and I got lost in the back streets.

They call it the 'island of love'. They, being the Capri Tourism Board I suppose.

I've finished my lemon soda and the helpful waiter is buzzing round, uncertainly. There's still a miserable hour to go before fume cupboard with funnels arrives. Tonight, when Sorrento comes into view across the smoke-filled water, I shall be glad to see the Gran Paradiso glimmering on the hill.

9:07pm. The dirty rustbcuket was late docking at Capri. I glanced at my watch as the engines shuddered into life and the cabin shook. It was nearly seven and I would be late for dinner at my hotel. Across the bay we chugged in a dusty golden glow.

The sunset flooded through the filthy windows. Capri looks much better as you sail away from it. It pokes out of the ocean, volcanic and jagged. As it gets smaller, those steep edges seem to smooth out and against the sunset, from a safe distance, the 'island of love' looks a bit like the top of a heart, half-sunk into the sea. Twinkling at its centre, were the lights of il Porto, which had made me feel stressed for the first time in about a week. I waved goodbye, hoping I might never have to return.

I'm in my traditional spot in the bar again tonight. The foot-tapping Germans are back but there's no all-round entertainer this evening with his blend of pan-European jazz classics.  I've noticed tonight that there are quite a few different faces scattered around the hotel. It does make sense, reminding me that someone's holiday is just beginning and others are coming to an end.

Tomorrow is my last full day here. I am quite ready to go home. My plan is to stay in the hotel, relax and prepare for travelling on Friday.

Maybe Capri was all about showing me how not to treat romance, how not to abuse it until it becomes just a selfish way to invite pleasure without the depth. There is no doubt that it is the kind of island where love could be fired and romance could be born. It was just that all the limoncello shops, overpriced bars, trattorias and t-shirt stalls had pushed all of that real romance to the top of a very steep and lonely climb.