On a cloudy day we caught the bus to Ischia town to look around the Aragon Castle. It was built as a stronghold on a small island but connected to the main island of Ischia in 1441. It was a place of safety from pirates (and from those dastardly English who besieged the fortress in 1809 and shelled it badly!)
Now it's a peaceful place
with a good view of the town from the battlements of the castle.
We looked back at the castle from the town
and the sight of a masted boat in the bay reminded us
of the charming painting we'd seen on display in the castle.
Travelling around Ischia in the local buses is quite a business, very much like being on the London underground in the rush hour. Nicer by far to hop on one of the boats that circumnavigate the island.
We climbed aboard in Forio
and enjoyed looking at the coastal houses as we sailed by.
Before long the castle came into view.
Himself tried to fly the EU flag but he wasn't very successful!
(But don't blame us - we voted remain.)
We were on our way to the town of Sant Angelo where the boat would stop for an hour to enable us to look around.
Can you see the row of parasols high on the hill?
There were some nice shops. I saw this attractive dress in the window and went inside to take a closer look.
And a matching bag, how lovely - but I didn't like the price!
We've sailed right round the island and here on the right is the Chiesa del Socccorso, perched on a promontory of the town.
Forio looks beautiful in the early evening light.
Around Ischia by bus.
One main road circles the island of Ischia and our first glance told us that we should not consider hiring a car, nor a scooter, or even the sturdy-looking electric bicycles that whizz by at speed. The road also appears be a death trap for walkers. Where is the pavement? We are left with no option, we shall travel by bus. An English couple at the hotel who were coming to the end of their holiday offered to sell us their unused tickets, but I was already armed with a timetable and tickets bought from the hotel reception. We were ready to explore. We've travelled by bus in mainland Italy on various occasions and know the score; purchase your tickets before you get on the bus because then they are cheaper, be sure to stamp them in the machine on entering so that you don't incur a hefty fine.
But first to find a bus stop. Is this it? We wait......and wait.
When the bus arrives it is already packed solid with travellers. We had been warned that this would be the case. Somehow or other we get ourselves aboard. My arms are pinned to my sides and I sway with the general mass. At the next stop German tourists make an assault on the bus. Two hands push me firmly inwards, their backpack swipes across my face. It's war! I manage to free an arm and bang on her bag and give her a push with my shoulder. She's far bigger than me but my dander is up. British good manners, queuing, after you, please, thank you. Forget it. It's every man for himself.
The swaying, lurching journey seems to take forever, but we eventually arrive at the bus depot by the port. Here we get on another crammed bus to take us into town where we spill out and stretch and try not to think that the whole process will have to be repeated on our return. It's a grey day, pleasantly cool, ideal for looking around.
In the afternoon rain threatens and we decide to avoid one part of our return journey by walking back to the bus depot. A cake and ice-cream shop, The Vittoria Gran Caffe, stops us in our tracks. Everything looks divine. We have been wandering round the town for much of the day and I ask to use their washroom before choosing what to eat. The room is pleasingly large and clean, with good quality soap. Excellent. Refreshed, I unlock the door. It doesn't open. I fiddle with the lock repeatedly without success. I hammer on the door and shout for help. I am starting to panic. "Peter!" I yell. No response. I recall being in the washroom at the Uffizi Gallery when there was a commotion in one of the cubicles. We women by the sinks and mirrors didn't know quite what to do. Eventually the cubicle door opened and two diminutive and flustered Japanese ladies stepped out, beaming with relief at being free. The rest of us burst into spontaneous applause while the Japanese ladies bowed politely.
I look carefully at the door. It's a slider and I have been trying to push it! It glides open at the merest touch of my fingers and I walk through the cake shop as though any shouting was nothing to do with me. "You were a long time," says Peter.
We are mentally prepared for the bus journey back to the hotel. I'm up the steps and through the throng of bodies like an eel. I've got a seat! There are so many people in the bus that at each stop it is difficult for the doors to open. A general shout goes up. "Porta! Porta!" Eventually we elbow ourselves out. "Permesso, permesso! Porta!"
Further into our holiday another departing couple want to give us their used but unclipped bus tickets but we decline, we haven't yet managed to validate any of the tickets of our own. When it's time for us to return home we give our tickets to a couple of Germans staying at the hotel. They laugh. "We'll pass them on to others when we leave," they tell us. I have visions of a huge drift of tickets gathering at the hotel reception at the close of the holiday season.
At the port of Forio it's possible to catch a boat that will circumnavigate the island. Our ticket is taken, we have a seat, a view, fresh air. Aah, now this is the way to travel!
