On August 24th 79AD Vesuvius erupted. Pompeii, which by then had been an established town for well over 600 years, bore the full force of not lava, but pyroclastic flows.
Whenever I tried to write about Sorrento, my head filled with lemons. The symbiotic relationship that the Italian seaside town has with the citrus fruit is my overwhelming memory of four days in the region.
“The epiphany was served cold with that final smiley-faced cappuccino. A little teaser of a true connection; A touch of local life during my short visit.”
If I’m honest, I was drunk. The Chianti had gone to my head and the already glowing evening had taken on an ethereal quality, framed by a heavy Photoshop vignette.
Florence’s famous Medici family constructed an entire network of secret passages across the city to connect them to their residences, work and places of worship. Many take the form of tiny bridges that span narrow streets; barely noticeable at first glance.
I got an acute sense of time passing inside Rome’s Pantheon. Not only because it was built almost two millennia ago, but because its ancient architecture acts as a colossal sun dial.
From the 1620s Italy has attracted and rewarded the inquisitive. The Grand Tour, as it later became known, saw British youngsters of the upper classes travelling slowly into southern Italy from London. They often encountered treacherous alpine passes, terrible weather and disease on route.