The City on the Edge of Forever

Modern day Ercolano hugs the remains of its more illustrious predecessor. A myriad of boutique shops and eateries are commonplace. Nonetheless, successful trade is seasonal. In the main. foreign tourists frequent the area in June and July. With the summer of 2014 banished as a distant memory, tourists were few and far between. Even the Virtual Museum of Ercolano was virtually abandoned. In fairness, however, it would not have appealed to every palette. The term museum was a misnomer. Within the interior lay an auditorium which projected a multimedia re-enactment of that fateful day in 79 AD. I consciously declined the efforts of the admissions office.

The streets of modern Ercolano

The Virtual Museum of Ercolano

Eventually I made it to the much promised gates. Whilst it had been a long time coming, this portal into a microcosmos of antiquity availed little of what lay beyond:

Entrance to the Archaeological site

Although spartan in substance and design, the gateway beckoned me in. My first glimpse of Herculaneum was a panoramic statement of intent:

Panorama

Although some structural damage was evident, many of the city's buildings had remained intact. 20 metres of mud had provided a formidable preservative.Timber and tiled roofs, so often confined to artistic reconstruction, were all here in abundance.

As it reached midday, I became cognisant of the oppressive heat. Whilst the UK suffered 75 mph winds courtesy of Gonzales, Southern Italy was basking in 75 degrees of heat. As is typical of my constitution, I began to sweat profusely. Thankfully there was a brief reprieve. I reached the ticketing office where the air conditioning was worth its weight in gold. I stood momentarily and cooled off. After parting with the entrance fee, I scanned an adjacent desk for some literature in English. Maps and guides were all available. However, my mother tongue was conspicuous by its absence. Slightly irritated by this revelation, I then had a turn of good fortune. A resident professor was about to give a guided tour in English. I didn't think twice. Parting with yet more money, I joined a half dozen fellow travellers.

Public thoroughfare on to site

From the outset, it was clear that our guide had left her bedside manner at home. She never introduced herself and had conducted this tour ad nauseum. It showed. Her voice very rarely gravitated from a monotone. Her preamble of the site was rushed, truncated and lifeless. In the hope that matters could only improve, we trundled down into the city.

Garden blessed with Lemon trees

In some respects Herculaneum's struggle did not end in 79 CE. Although a veritable mix of academics and artists marvelled at this monument to antiquity, property developers were transfixed by an entirely different mandate. The battle that ensued meant that by the 1920's Herculaneum's exposure was being supplanted by a modern city. Nevertheless, purported "progress" was soon arrested by the machinations of the Fascists. A tenet of their beliefs was that longevity is legitimacy. In order to legitimise their right to rule, Benito Mussolini's government enthusiastically preserved every Roman structure and edifice they could cast their gaze on. According to their dogma, Fascist Italy was the natural successor to Imperial Rome. The net result is that one quarter of Herculaneum has thus far been excavated.

In its heyday, Herculaneum boasted a population of 4000 people. They were by and large aristocratic- the gliterrati of their age.And it follows that they lived in sumptuous luxury where they would want for nothing. The housing was the finest money could buy, designed to entertain guests. Dining rooms accommodated social butterflies. Gardens, although compact by modern standards, were aesthetically appealing. Apart from a kaleidoscope of Mediterranean flowers, the soil nourished a collection of fruit trees. 

I was led to believe that the streets were so quiet that you could hear the proverbial pin drop. The city was devoid of domestic animals, beasts of burden and carts. However, as our dour guide made this revelation I found the exception to the rule. Standing by the one time laundrette, my foot buckled in a crevice. The indentation was the tell tale sign of a cart, which had once negotiated the streets. Two thousand years ago, the adage of " airing your dirty washing in public " was never more apposite. I for one am glad though that in the 20th century we have more palatable detergents. To remove stains, the Romans relied on either human or camel urine! Makes you smell like roses, I'm sure.

The Local laundrette

To the not unrelated topic of sanitation, I turn next. The Romans are famed for their use of teracotta pipes, drains, fountains and baths. Unsurprisingly, all of these amenities are found here. I should however add that even by the Roman period, these supposed technological advances were in fact quite ancient. 1,600 years earlier they were commonplace on the Minoan island of Crete.

Antique drainage

Admiring the view!?!

The citizens of Herculaneum were both highly superstitious and god fearing. A pantheon of deities have been found emblazoned on houses, baths and temples. Archaeologists are also of the opinion that both Judaism and Christianity were in vogue by the 1st Century.

Neptune- as depicted in the Men's baths

The gods Neptune and Amphitrite

When Vesuvius erupted, the majority of inhabitants scurried away for cover. A few more "spiritual" souls put their stock in beseeching a higher order. At the temple of Augustus, a sentry guard succumbed to the elements. Ever faithful to protecting the shrine in life, it became a fitting mausoleum in death.

Shrine to the Emperor Augustus

Plaque identifies the eponymous temple

But what of this poor man's peers? Who were they? With the shadow of death hanging over them, what could they do?

To discover the answers and much, much more tune in to the next episode....

Metroland

This was my ante-penultimate day in Italy. Exiting the hotel revealed a crisp, cold morning - the first indications perhaps that winter's embrace was at hand. Turning immediately left, I ventured towards Naples Metro Station some 300 metres away. Hitherto, I was forced to negotiate a veritable street market. I passed a restaurant with the misleading eponym " Sharm el Sheikh. Despite the obviously Egyptian name, it served Indian cuisine. Although the day had barely begun, it was open for business. How successful it is, is anyone's guess. The thought of snacking on a Pyramid shaped samosa for Breakfast is probably the cause for some anxed. I avoided it like a biblical plague. Food poisoning is the scourge of every holiday maker.

I crossed at a sharp turn and approached my destination. At that juncture, I was accosted by a bedraggled gent offering a bootleg ipad and phone. I didn't dignify his approach with a response. Moments later I encountered a makeshift stool peddling AC Milan and Juventus football strips. Obviously a good seller in Southern Italy!

The metro station covers a wide berth. Fortunately the signage was accorded an English translation, so it was relatively easy to find the ticket office. This, alas was where my luck ended. Ironically, the ticket office relied on a ticketing service. I obtained docket A180 and waited patiently for my number to be called out. It would be a while yet. A155 was the most recent customer to approach the counter.

While I idled my time merely rolling my thumbs and anticipating my journey to Herculaneum, I began a dialogue with a fellow Brit. As I didn't catch his name, for the purposes of this blog I shall refer to him as John Bull - or John for short. John waxed lyrical about Naples and suggested I consider visiting some of the city's subterranean attractions. He had spent four months in the area as a crewman on a yacht. He was now returning to his home in Portugal. Whilst his pronounced Lancashire accent was clearly in evidence, he had not been to Blighty for almost twenty years. Such is the cosmopolitan nature of life in the EU!

Although the station employees are denuded of efficiency, they are perhaps the smartest dressed. Italy is a fashion capital and with good reason. When my number finally came up, I noticed that the clerk donned a cap and a finely pressed blazer. He looked more akin to a high ranking general! Whilst the thought placed a wry smile on my face, within moments my mood went south.When asking for a return ticket to Herculaneum, I was informed that I was inconveniently placed at the wrong ticket office. I needed to go to the one downstairs! Oh the joys of being a stranger in a strange land!

The lower tier of the station revealed a veritable rabbit's warren. Pathways led off in a multitude of directions. Suffice to say that I was still faced with the quandary of procuring a return ticket. Amongst the throng of Neapolitans, a sharp eye managed to spy a carefully concealed counter. For the equivalent of £2, I finally attained my return excursion. Grateful that this molehill come Mount Vesuvius was obviated, I made my way to the platform. In virtually no time at all, the train arrived.

At this point I again came unstuck. I was left scratching my head. My rudimentary Berlitz guide had provided a truncated map of the underground. There were two lines - L1 and L2 which seemed elementary enough. However, Berlitz in their infinite wisdom had failed to provide all the stations. Summoning up a modicum of courage and broken Italian, I asked a fellow passenger where Herculaneum was. 8 stops came the reply. It would be another forty minutes before I alighted. In the interim, I hoped to gaze upon scenic vistas. My hopes were somewhat dashed. Where I envisaged rolling hills and verdant lush valleys, the region had fallen victim to industrialisation. The factories and abandoned warehouses were unmistakeable. Again, graffiti was all pervasive.

Herculaneum station or as it is known in modern parlance - Ercolano was as dull as ditch water. In contrast to the more edifying Naples, it was as grey as John Major. As I ventured outside, I became aware of two things. Firstly, the street was awkward to negotiate. It had a nasty meandering slope. Secondly, I noted a group of English tourists who were as hopelessly lost as I was.

As I walked on a little further, a waitress from the local Cafe de Paris (don't ask) was encouraging people to partake of the menu. I sat down at a table and quenched my thirst with a glass of lemonade. I turned a blind eye to the fact that the table had a will of its own. The scourge of every budding restaurateur is the off balance table. Normally a piece of cardboard works miracles and keeps it in check. Only one problem. The offending article like the rest of the establishment was wrestling with the slope. I simply bit my lip.

With my glass empty, I asked the waitress the whereabouts of the ancient ruins. She motioned southwards and stated that within 15 minutes I would reach an archway, Without further or do, I left for my appointment with the past.

The Cream Always Rises To The Top

As we continued our traverse of Naple's grand metropolis, it became ever more evident that austerity was giving way to affluence. In the city's lower tier, the signs of poverty were prevalent. The aforementioned refuse was plain for the eye to see. A trail of rudimentary graffiti emblazoned almost every office and shop. The narrow winding streets also betrayed a medieval origin. There was little sign that the modern age had brought modern amenities.

Our bus began to climb a steep, spiralling elevation. Suddenly the dreary and fetid landscape was replaced by something far more utopian. The waste completely disappeared. No doubt the higher eschaleons of society included the mafia, who as previously mentioned  were charged with waste disposal. Whilst they did the bare minimum and pocketed the monies allocated for the duty, they were loathe to have any rubbish in their own backyard. Double standards are alive and well in Italy.

One particularly noteworthy location was a residence of the dowager queen Margerita. The eponymous pizza was dedicated to her and is a composite of Italy's tricolour - red (tomatoes), green (basil), white (mozzarella). A little distance away, we encountered the Castel dell'Ovo - the castle of the egg - another tangible manifestation of Italy's preoccupation with food. Legend has it that the Roman poet Virgil buried an egg on the site of the castle. If the egg is ever broken, then both the castle and Naples will fall. Where do they concoct such ideas? Strange but true.

Eventually, we reached our intended goal the summit. Once again, Luisa's machinations did not disappoint us. Yet another breathtaking panorama lay in store:

And let us not forget the millionaire's playground:

Unsurprisingly, Naples' plateau has emerged as the perfect locale for suitors to get down on a bended knee. On surrounding paving stones, betrothed couples have left testimony to their eternal love. One par amour writes boldly albeit concisely: " John + Cindy - 12/04/96". Etched in indelible ink, tourists of past and present can review this parade of romance.

Although it was October, the weather was unseasonally warm. The sun (sol invictus) ruled supreme in the skies; its rays easily penetrated the grey wafer thin clouds. Under such circumstances, the groups occidental dispensation took root. We began to thirst. Fortunately, a kiosk was a mere stones through away. The elderly Italian purveyor was soon parading a smile as we procured beverages at over inflated clip-joint prices.

As we returned to our bus, we spied a plethora of private roads. They boasted immaculate asphalt and ran adjacent to palatial mansions. This was how the other half lived. The cream literally does rise to the top. I made a mental note of the aesthetics. The propensity of verdant acreage contrasted markedly with the lower city. Fountains were commonplace and frivolously expelled water. Although a towering edifice was testimony to the vainglorious housing , one could imagine the opulent interiors -  a five level abode entailing 15 bedrooms, 20 bathrooms and a swimming pool or two. Of course the house was vacant. The proprietor was abroad having flown south for the winter, or applying himself/herself in a business venture. In the case of the latter, the enterprise might represent a tax loss. Any potential setbacks would be rectified through gains in stocks, shares and interest. Money, for some at least, works while you sleep.

Having gone off at a tangent, I've now lost my train of thought. Ah, yes, what next in Naples. Our final destination was the Church of gesu nouvo (new jesus). The exterior facade was quite unusual:

Luisa informed us that the unusual design was due to a guild of masons in the employ of the Jesuits. What I thought was embossed stone was in fact a pyramid. Each individual brick was designed in this fashion and has a unique symbol. The task of constructing the church must have been an extremely laborious task. One can only imagine.

The interior consisted of a whole panoply of icons, sculptures and artwork:

Forgive the poor image. Flash photography was strictly forbidden in the church. Whilst ambling inside I encountered an embarrassing problem. As I tread the marble floor, my recently purchased Marks and Sparks shoes began to emit a rasping squeak. It was as though Alvin and the chipmunks had come to Naples! People viewing the various exhibits or confiding in the priests probably found it difficult to focus. I tried to move as gingerly as possible. I had decided that if anyone confronted me on the issue, I would simply claim that these were not my footwear but the voices of heavenly angels brought courtesy of Hanna Barbera!

In the immediate aftermath of my incursion on the church floor, we removed our selves to the square outside:

This is the spire of the immaculate virgin. It was constructed between 1747-50. While this was the most prominent article in the square, something else had caught my attention. Italian soldiers together with an armoured car were apparently on sentry duty. I asked Luisa why this was necessary. She explained that it was simply a programme to make civilians feel safe. Personally I felt that a more nefarious reason was at play. Naples is a seaport on the mediterranean and sits not too far from North Africa. In this day and age, it is unfortunate that terrorist elements are using southern Europe for transit. Let us not forget the fatal shooting at the Jewish Museum in Belgium a few months ago.

For the next quarter of an hour, I sat once more in a cafe, reviewing the days events. It had been a fascinating, albeit tiring experience. I had packed virtually the whole of Naples into an afternoon. Tomorrow I hoped to visit Herculaneum, the very basis for my trip.

Naples in 3 hours: A Whirlwind tour

The first night I found it rather difficult to sleep. My mind was a hive of activity and I needed to acclimatise to the noise emanating from outside. Eventually I fell into a deep slumber. I had requested a wake up call for 7:30 which in retrospect was ill conceived. Italy was one hour ahead and I had failed to take this into account.

I rose the next morning slightly worse for ware. My back felt like it had been subjected to a slab of stone and my cold showed no sign of abating. After showering, I wandered off to the breakfast room. Something was becoming quite palpable. This was the country that gave the world art par excellence and yet the hotel was sparse. Wherever I cast my gaze, the walls betrayed nothing other than magnolia wallpaper. Rather odd. Just as peculiar was Breakfast.

The Breakfast area was a bizarre construct. In a central area, a limited assortment of food was placed on a table. Every single day (since time immemorial?), the menu was exactly the same. Heaven forbid that it should deviate from cornflakes, croissants and watered down pineapple juice. The staff simply stared into infinity like lifeless androids. A perfunctory " Bonjourno " was offered on entry, but otherwise guests were left to their own devices.

Breakfast also provided the opportunity for the residents to shine. A child gave out a rasping cough - a reminder then that I did not have a monopoly on illness. A Malay couple sat transfixed by one another and were oblivious to all around them. The prize however went to a gentleman who was dressed for the ski season. Why he walked in doors with a huge purple puffer jacket is anyone's guess. He also sported a shock of bright orange hair, but their was some symmetrical value. His face, like his locks were an artificial colour - a less than modest permatan.

After digesting the cardboard victuals, I ventured outside. Casting daylight on the city of Naples, did little to diminish my initial thoughts. Rubbish was strewn everywhere. Apparently word has it that the mafia were trusted with cleaning up the area. In more ways than one, this is a contradiction in terms. Suffice to say that instead of making the streets clean enough to eat off, they pocketed the money. Perhaps, indirectly this is a recruitment drive. Refuse will appeal to vermin and with their arrival mafia ranks are sure to swell.

Somewhat disappointed by my venture outside, I decided to plot my next course of action. I returned to the hotel where I started to flick through a travel guide. As Neapolitan roads made me nervous, I decided to book a tour of the city. This was supposed to get underway at 1:30, but by 1:45, I still remained firmly within the hotel reception. A further 10 minutes passed before my designated driver appeared fashionably late. He looked like he had been binging all morning. His hair was unkempt, straggling and hanging over the shoulders. The shirt was either bereft of buttons or struggled to contain his paunch. " You come with me ", he announced". Again I was exposed to the demolition derby that is Italian motoring.

Weaving between mopeds, cars and the occasional pedestrian we reached our intended destination in record time. I had to pinch myself. The driver hadn't broken a sweat and I had arrived in one piece.

I alighted by San Francesco Di Paolo - one of Naples numerous churches:

The venue itself was in the district referred to as Royal Naples. After waiting yet another 10 minutes (this appears to be a way of life here), my guide - a diminutive Italian lady by the name of Luisa appeared. She already had a cosmopolitan group with her. There were people hailing from Spain, Russia, the US and the UK. Incredibly, her mastery of international languages was such that she could cater for all of the aforementioned.

Luisa commenced by providing some background information on San Francesco di Paolo. The church was constructed in the 19th Century by the Bourbons. It replaced a monastery which had existed on the site and was dedicated to the eponymous saint.

The next topic of discussion flattered to deceive. Whilst the Royal Palace of Naples conjures up potent images of opulence and autocratic power, this visage was shattered by the machinations of the modern day:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you with the facelift to beat all facelifts. I don't think I have ever seen so much scaffolding in all my life. This monstrosity may be necessary, but it left everyone non-plussed about the marvel that exists beneath. Today, the Royal Palace has been converted into a library. I just hope the interior looks a good deal better.

Whilst we had been subjected to this veritable eye-sore, I am a passionate believer in balance. The next vista was a reminder of developments in the 20th Century. Beneath Vesuvius lay the port of Naples. Cruise liners still anchor here for the discerning pensioner:

The port evolved into its modern incarnation via the design of Benito Mussolini. In the 1920's and 30's, people migrating to Italy would be overawed by the vision of Il Duce. As they filed through to obtain a visa, three giant windows caught their attention. Each was fashioned in the shape of an "M", their new designate lord and master.

Still suffering the effects of my " insomnia " the previous night, I was glad when Luisa indicated that our next port of call (if you'll forgive the pun) would be a Cafeteria. The structure itself was a homage to the creativity of 19th Century artists; the assortment of cakes and ice cream a testimony to Italian culinary genius:

 






A photograph never lies. Whilst the sense of smell and touch are sadly lacking in this instance, I can assure you that these marvels of gastronomy were in every way masterpieces. Arguably, by virtue of their workmanship they are too good to consume. This fact is not lost on the proprietors, who charged a commensurate rate. In the end I declined savouring these delectables. Louisa attempted to convince me of the espressos redeeming features, but once more I was steadfast. I was concerned that too much caffeine may result in a second sleepless night.

Our unrelenting tour of the city continued. Next on the agenda was the Gallery of Umberto I. It took some 20 years to construct and is a marvellous feat of engineering even by modern standards:

 

Today, the structure is utilised as a shopping arcade. In the centre, the flooring revealed a zodiac which inevitably piqued everyone's curiousity.

Vacating the premises, we moved on to the Castel Nuovo. At this juncture, the Spanish contingent of our group decided to leave. Saying Adios, they removed themselves to a restaurant to enjoy a fiesta. We were now, but 5 people - myself plus four ladies from New Jersey.

As for the Castel Nuovo, the architecture represent an interesting mesh of Neapolitan, Moorish and Spanish art. The entrance was quite revealing:

This edifice is a testimony to various conquests in Naples turbulent history. Between the 13th and 15th Century, it was at the epicentre of a power struggle between the French and Spanish. The Entrance is in fact a triumphal arch built by the King of Aragon, Alfonso. Unfortunately, it has fallen into decay. At least one of the statues has collapsed and the carvings have become weathered with the course of time.

Whilst this was interesting from an artistic perspective, it did not register highly on my scale of personal fascination. My mood soon changed for the better when we walked a short distance of 100 Metres.

As a modern metropolis, Naples is continuously expanding and undergoing construction. About two years ago, the burgeoning metro sought an additional station. Its intended location was immediately opposite the Castel Nuovo. However, as engineers began unearthing the earmarked area, they chance upon the foundations of Naples earliest Greek polity:

Recognising the cultural significance of this site, conservationists now intend to build a museum. This will somehow operate in tandem with the aforementioned station. I look forward to one day visiting the finished article.

As the afternoon began to ebb away, Luisa summoned our transport. It was time to explore the upper tiers of Naples and see how the wealthy and influential lived.

A Room Without A View

No flight would ever been complete without the rebellious, non-conforming child. As we ascended the clouds, the relative tranquillity was pierced by the high pitched screams of a toddler. Eventually, these began to fade. It is conceivable that the parents were forced to "bribe" their reactionary son. Any deviation from this path would have resulted in disquiet from fellow passengers. Additionally sales of paracetamol would have climbed to an all time high at Naples Airport pharmacy.

After 2.5 hours, we began to descend. The unmistakable contour of Vesuvius was the first landmark to greet us. The mountain was adorned by a necklace of light emanating from the city and villages located at its base. As we headed ever closer to the runway, a woman in front made herself presentable. Fixing her hair and mascara, she briefly embraced her husband. Following this Public Display of Affection, some aesthetic heresy had been actualised. Not only had the mascara run down her cheeks like a car haemorrhaging oil, but the cosmetic had made its mark on the husband and his white polo neck. I only hope the purported brand name was a knock off!

I am glad to report that Naples airport was fairly amenable and didn't present me with any bureaucratic or logistical nightmares.  It was a peculiar phenomenon. Although by this juncture it was pitch black, the runway was completely empty save for our plane. After removing my handluggage, I alighted the plane and boarded the transit bus. The girl with the faux eye had evidently triumphed over security and was sitting placidly. Other passengers from the flight now broke their silence and began to express themselves in the vernacular. For my part, I didn't have a clue what they were discussing. Perhaps it was just as well. But that said, actions speak louder than words. The Italians are masters of gesticulation and even if I didn't gather the content of their message, I could discern the temper and tempo.

If I may be forgiven for using a nautical term, I sailed through passport and luggage collection. The latter was an added bonus. Believe it or not, my lime green case was the first of the carousel. However, once more this was the calm before the storm. Expedia, in their infinite travel wisdom, had not afforded me the opportunity of booking a transfer to my hotel. Thus I was at the mercy of unscrupulous taxi drivers. Not knowing better I was quickly lulled into a flase sense of security and snared by one of these pernicious characters.

My driver for the night attempted to curry favour by relying on broken English. He asked me where I was from - France, England, Spain, whatever? The gentleman in his middle years and sporting a brown leather jacket was quite sprightly and manifested all the signs of an overactive thyroid. He raced over to his vehicle before taking off at breakneck speed. It was then that I realised I was on my second "flight" of the day. Whilst my body was firmly affixed to terra firma, it was my piece of mind that took to the skies. Those of a certain age and stage will recall an arcade game from the 80's called pole position. For the uninitiated, as the name suggests this was a racer. As the driver weaved his way between one car and the next at an average speed of 70 KM/h, I was reminded of this episode in my misspent youth. That was where the comparison began and ended. This was real life. Unlike the arcade game, I wouldn't get another chance if this all ended unhappily. On a separate note, I was somewhat disappointed because I wanted to enjoy the picturesque nightscape of Naples and its surrounding environs. Instead, I would have to focus my mind on hope and perhaps a wayfairers prayer or three.

In a matter of minutes, if not micro-seconds we arrived at my hotel - the Cavorre. Shaking like the proverbial leaf, I left the car still somehow intact. For experiencing this mercurial talent on the road, I was asked to part company with a kings ransom. It had been a long day and I was loathe to argue. I gave the asking price more in the hope that I wouldn't see his dereliction of duty again.

Upon checking in I was presented with yet another bill. This time it was for municipality tax. It seemed to me that my current rate of expenditure was on par with a budding Rockefeller. Shame that I didn't quite have the deep pockets to match!

The porter at concierge, Paolo, was an amenable fellow. After all the usual bumpf and red tape was finalised, he offered me Room 79. I stated that it was an easy number to remember in the context of Vesuvius history. For whatever reason, the point seemed lost on Paolo.

My room was situated on the fourth floor. In order to reach it, I had to pass through the Entertainment room (consisting of one 28" CRT television) and the Business room (consisting of one overused and abused Dell Tower), before I reached the lift. I must be perfectly honest. I have never seen a smaller lift. For practical reasons, it could accommodate 6 munchkins or 3 homo sapiens. The interior gave pride of place to an advert for a myriad of excursions. Well beaten tracks were on offer - Pompeii, Pompeii and Vesuvius, the Amalfi coast and Napoli at night. Whilst the descriptions were highly tempting, the price provided a reality check. Even at low season, savouring the sights and smells of the locality came at a prohibitive cost.

Upon reaching the fourth floor, the doors opened to reveal a rabbit's warren. A dimly lit corridor led down to room 79. After adjusting my eyes, I crossed the threshold into my temporary abode. The inside was spacious, albeit spartan. The most important thing I suppose was that it was clean. One could hear the incessant traffic outside. Daredevil commuters hooted more as a reprimand than a warning.

After my great expense, I was in need of an ATM. I ventured outside to explore my immediate area. The bus station was immediately opposite, but this proved difficult to negotiate due to hoardings, boardings and the accumulation of rubbish which was ubiquitous. In around 1908, a meteor hit Siberia causing extensive devastation. What I saw outside my hotel was probably comparable.

Eventually I was able to withdraw funds. I then ambled about taking visual note of the streets, their shops and the Neapolitans. Two gentlemen greeted one another " Salam Alechem " - " Alechem Salam" came the response. Whilst Naples gives the impression of an affluent, western metropolis, it is somewhat dispelled by the recession. The economy has particularly suffered in Italy. It is in such dire straits that managers stand sentry outside their concerns hoping to attract well-healed customers. Fortunately, that isn't me.

Realising that by now it was 11 pm, I decided to call it a night. I needed to re-energise for the adventures that lay ahead.

Kings of the Sky

My journey, as in times past, began at Golders Green Station. I arrived at the National Express stop with a good fifteen minutes to spare. As expected, a crowd had already begun to congregate. A woman anxiously paced back and forth as she tried to contact the helpline on her mobile. The phone was on loud speaker, so all and sundry could hear the automated message. Her intention was to get the 09:35 to Edinburgh, but by now it was one hour later.

Out of the corner of my eye, a middle aged lady perhaps in her sixties was ambushed by a playful retriever. It was quite amusing. As the woman was pint sized herself, the dog very nearly succeeded in pushing her to the ground. A few moments later, a scrawny 20 something lad appeared hauling an oblong case over his shoulder. A sticker in emphatic black characters announced "handle with care". Clearly, the young lad had a very loose understanding of the concept.

Golders Green would not be Golders Green without the appearance of some orthodox Jews. I would surmise a recently married couple, barely out of their teens, materialised. They carefully scanned the timetable.

My coach, the A5 to Luton, was scheduled for 10:45. 5 minutes later and with little fanfare, it arrived. The vehicle was filled to the rafters. The driver insisted that only pre-booked tickets would be accepted. Of the burgeoning community of prospective commuters, only myself and one other managed to board. The rest were left to await the next bus.

My last memory of of Golders entailed a throng gathering outside HSBC. Reverting to type, this poor excuse for a bank had probably run out of money or suffered a total computer meltdown. In any event the idea that this little branch represents the "World's local bank" is the grossest misrepresentation of facts since "the Neverending Story".

"I love it when a plan comes together". I found the first available seat and got a little shut eye. After a journey lasting little more than 40 minutes, I arrived at Luton Airport. Never one to sit on my laurels, I went to the Monarch desk almost immediately. No queues. No headache. The helpful attendant took possession of my luggage and I was on route to security.

By contrast, security evokes all that is quintessentially British. The discomfort of queuing, the pregnant pauses, removing every last metallic vestige are all fulfilled under the visage of the stiff upper lip. The queue itself was rather representative of our motorways. After a while it  became convoluted and meandered in every direction. Matters were further complicated as demand outstripped supply. Would be fliers denuded of shoes, belts and money found themselves shy of trays to place them in. In spite of this potential minefield, I was soon on my way. As I looked around, I realised that one lady was sporting a false eye. I was curious as to whether this might present a problem. Esoteric and warped, but I guess that's how I'm wired up.

Alas, when it comes to variety Luton is found wanting. In fact it is almost as bland as the padded cells in a sanatorium. There are perhaps 10 retail outlets in total. I visited WH Smith's in the hope of procuring End Game by John Gray. My desire was kindled by the promise of £250,000 for anyone who can solve its cryptic riddles. After a 15 minute wait, a shop attendant informed me that they didn't have it in stock. My best laid plans had been foiled again.

In the current economic climate, we have evolved into creatures of necessity. The eateries like starbucks have no doubt generated a healthy profit margin. However, this has been offset by poor customer service. As I waited in (long) line for a cup of coffee, lesser mortals abandoned their place and opted for alternatives. I had hoped buying a mocha would be a simple, academic operation, but I was to be sorely disappointed. I paid for my order only to discover that someone else had taken it! Fortunately, after some consternation and deliberation, I was offered a fresh cup.

There was one shop that strangely seemed surplus to requirement. Victorias Secrets was completely empty. Perhaps the apparent allure of stick thin models and "edible" underwear is passez. Even the arcade games attracted more people as they looked to run down the clock.

Eventually, my stomach, by reason of its cries informed me that it was lunchtime. I went to the non-descript restaurant where there was a variety of Di Dis sandwiches. I paid a princely sum for a cheese and coleslaw combination.

With time still to spare, I decided to catch up on emails, facebook etc. An internet kiosk was purportedly operating adjacent to Starbucks. I went over to one of the workstations and lo and behold it swallowed up my money. In typical fashion, there was no one on hand to rectify the issue. In the absence of an information desk, I went to security who washed their hands of the matter. The computers, they argued, fell within the remit of a third party. I would have to contact them. It was evident that I would not be able to recoup my lost monies. But in the interim, I was in revanchist mood. I grabbed a scrap of paper and carefully marked it "Out of Order". I may haven fallen a foul, but I was adamant that no one else would be snared.

I was glad when Gate 22 finally opened. The wait had been too long and Luton airport is in great need of a retail therapists overhaul. As I made my way, I grabbed the complimentary paper which was laced with the usual tabloid smut and sensation. The sports section did not make much better reading. Tottenham had lost 4-1 at the weekend with Poccetino claiming that Spurs were unlucky. With too much fantasy and fiction, I soon jettisoned the paper.

Embarkation was seamless enough. In their infinite greed, Monarch airways (Kings of the Sky) had charged me for a limitless number of extas. When the dust settled, I was surprised not to be in Business class. For the time being I would content myself with seat 7C.

Unbeknownst to the flight crew, I was accompanied by an uninvited guest. In the days running up to my trip, I was struck down by a cold. No matter what I took, I could not shake it. It's a cliche, but we still don't have a cure to the common cold. Unfortunately, I have a jinx when it comes to such things. Every time I go abroad, I am afflicted by either a cold, a bad back or if I'm really unlucky a dose of both. In order to lighten the burden, I asked the attendant if I could have a cup of tea. But even this straightforward task proved beyond them. The boiler had broken and there were no hot beverages for the passengers. Instead, I closed my eyes and dreamed of warmer climates. 

Blithe Spirit

In the immediate aftermath of my cursory glance at Pompeii, I had wanted to visit its sister city - Herculaneum. Unfortunately, neither time nor money had afforded me the chance. I returned to Albion's shores and confined Herculaneum to the inner recesses of my mind.

In subsequent years I satisfied my travel curiousity by island hopping across the vast azure stretch the Roman's named mara nostra - the Mediterranean. Cyprus, Crete and Rhodes were principal locations. A blog delineating my adventures in Crete can be found here. However, nothing quite resonated in the same way as that initial trip to Southern Italy.

The tragedy that befell, Pompeii, Herculaneum and two smaller coastal villages is well documented. For the purposes of this blog, I will outline my own account extrapolated from the primary sources. The story, as the Mad Hatter instructed Alice starts at the beginning. Contrary to more orthodox minds, it does not commence on the Italian mainland, but some 1000 miles away in the Holy City of Jerusalem.

In 70 CE, the Roman general Flavius Titus besieged Jerusalem. For 4 long and gruelling years, the Jews had withheld the onslaught of the world's greatest military machine. Despite myriad internal divisions and a lack of strong leadership, they had hoped to redeem Jerusalem and preserve their independence from the pagans. Alas it was not to be. According to the historian Josephus, Titus gave unequivocal instructions to destroy the city, but leave the Temple unmolested. In a moment of zealous fury, the Roman legionaries now drunk with a blood lust paid little heed to their commanders prime directive. The Temple began to burn on the 7th Av. Two days latter it had been reduced to ash. Ever since that fateful event, global Jewry has commemorated the tragedy as a fast day.

As the last embers of revolt were quashed on the fort of Masada, the defeated Jews continued to hope for Divine intervention. Their situation had never been worse. They were forced from their country in a mass dispersion. The choice their Roman overlords gave them was decidedly unpalatable. Either they could embrace death as those last rebels on Masada, or they could persevere in servitude. In the event, 50000 Jews were relocated to Italy. There they were tasked with building monuments. Amongst the constructions was the amphitheatre Flavius, known today, albeit inaccurately, as the Colosseum.

There is anecdotal evidence to support the theory that Jews lived in both Pompeii and Herulaneum. If their masters were in charitable mood they could eventually achieve manumission. As free men, they were permitted to indulge in all Roman life had to offer. They took foreign wives, but certain Jewish characteristics remained ingrained. Dietary restrictions - koshrut - were adhered to.

It stands to reason that in the ancient world, little was understood about earthquakes and volcanic activity. Facets of the unknown were simply bracketed under the remit of the gods. There was also a collective resignation regarding an earthquakes destructive capacity. The Roman senator Seneca dismissed the idea of abandoning towns and cities. If a populace were relocated, what could stop an earthquake hitting their new environs?

Although a lack of understanding clearly benighted the people of Pompeii et al, mother nature itself provided them with a clarion call. In 62 CE, the region was hit by a massive earthquake. It was so devastating that 17 years later repairs were still underway on some of the structures. But in spite of their precarious situation, the city persisted. One appealing factor was the arable land. Vineyards were a good source of income and grew in abundance on the slopes of Vesuvius.

Eventually, however, the inevitable could be delayed no longer. On 25th August 79 CE, exactly 9 years after the Jerusalem Temple had been set alight, Vesuvius erupted enveloping everything in its path. By the time the dust settled two days later, a microcosm, a whole way of life had been wiped off the map.