TRAVEL

Travel

THE ITALIAN RIVIERA

Chris Sullivan lands in Milan and takes an extended passeggiata around the coast of Northern Italy

any of the uninformed regard Milan as

Ma rather ugly industrial city, but the reality could not be further from this perception. As the first leg of my sojourn around Northern Italy and the Italian Riviera, I was entirely enamoured of a city centre that is as remarkable as many any of the great Italian cities. The Duomo di Milano is a classic of Renaissance architecture, while the breathtaking glass-domed arcades and art deco features are sights to behold. I was there to DJ at the opening of Milan Fashion Week, so added to the wonderful vistas surrounding one was a cavalcade of beautiful people rarely ever seen in one place at one time.

I arrived post-Covid and found that, despite the regulation vaccination passes and multiple and exhaustive online form-filling, which took an entire frustrating day, the journey’s only hitch was a few unscrupulous taxi drivers trying to charge me double the fixed rate of 80 euros from Milan Malpensa Airport to the centre. So I took a far more reasonable 13-euro train instead.

On the first day, I took in the aforementioned Duomo (as one does) and walked about aimlessly, ending up in the utterly remarkable restaurant Santa Lucia, which served me one of the finest yet simplest pasta in tomato sauce this scribe has ever tasted, followed by an equally astounding steak with sautéed potatoes. I eased it down with a bottle of my favourite wine, Sesti Brunello di Montalcino 2018, putting

“Just as I arrived the heavens opened, Old Testament style – thunder, lighting, frogs etc – so I randomly alighted on Pasticceria Orneto, a caffe overlooking the bay full of boats and the adjacent beach, opened in 1953 and entirely unchanged since”

me in the perfect mood to play my brand of Latino funk to a crowd of Milanese hepcats that evening.

The next day I awoke at 11 am to a temperature of a stonking 32 degrees (it was late September) so I took myself to the art deco swimming baths, Bagni Misteriosi, where they offer drinks, food and a DJ who, although not to my taste, didn’t intrude too much, after which I took to the rooftop bar at the Rinascenti department store, whose 7th floor proffers a rather wonderful view of Milan.

Come Saturday, Milan was heaving with people and it was rather too much for a gentle soul such as I, so I availed myself of a slap-up lunch at the tiny Latteria di San Marco, washed down with a bottle of Chianti Classico, a couple of grappas and a large espresso. This fortified me for the train journey from Milano Centrale to Santa Margherita on the famed Italian Riviera and directly opposite Monaco. The two-hour journey took me to a typical Italian seaside resort, where one might imagine Fellini plotting up his next film and taking his evening passeggiata.

Just as I arrived the heavens opened, Old Testament style – thunder, lighting, frogs etc – so I randomly alighted on Pasticceria Orneto, a caffe overlooking the bay full of boats and the adjacent beach, opened in 1953 and entirely unchanged since. They served me a rather fine Ligurian sandwich with rescinseua cheese, grilled aubergine, chickpea pancakes and peppers, accompanied by few small beers and a macchiato to finish. Thus fuelled, I wandered the town and found it to be a charmingly unpretentious place full of butchers and bakers and candlestick makers, alongside typical Italian delis, pastry shops and hardware stores.

That night, on the recommendation of Italian gourmand Marco Maccarpane, I sidled up a back street and into Trattoria di Pino, to sample the awe-inspiring Cappon Magro, the King of Ligurian seafood salads, with prawns, clams (or whatever fresh

Portofino

“The fare was really rather fine and the view unimpeachable, but the tang of Gucci loafer was very much in the air, so I got the bus back to Santa Margherita and had a few pints in a bar full of builders”

seafood is available on the day) atop bruschetta with celery, potatoes, carrots, beans and artichoke, all covered with a tangy sauce made from eggs, breadcrumbs, vinegar, parsley, garlic, capers, olives and anchovies. A new dish for yours truly, it was simply incredible. Next up was stunning Spaghetti Vongole, benefitting immensely from the restaurant’s proximity to the sea, and then a plate of fritto misto di mare (fried mixed seafood) that was above and beyond the call. And then there was the dessert: a delicious pana cotta with fresh strawberries and raspberries with a caramel sauce.

The next day the sun politely took its hat off and I walked the rather perilous 5 km coastal road to Portofino. On the way I visited some rather marvellous little beaches, such as Paraggi, well worth a visit. As I reached Portofino I was a little confused. Basically, it’s a tiny port the size of a fivea-side pitch, replete with big yachts and a gaggle of Rolex, Louis Vuitton and Dior outlets. Packed with tourists and souvenir stores, it wasn’t my bag, but nevertheless, with its pastel coloured buildings leaning over into the sea, it’s worthy of its reputation. As I was there, after a pint of draft Moretti (12 euros) I thought it my duty to partake of supper as the sun went down, so I sat and looked out to sea and enjoyed a magnificent dinner at Dai Gemelli, right on

Santa Margherita

the harbour, which served me a rather special spaghetti with seafood followed by a Genoese fish dish with sea bream, sea bass, snapper, amberjack, san Pietro and gurnard. The fare was really rather fine and the view unimpeachable, but the tang of Gucci loafer was very much in the air, so I got the bus back to Santa Margherita and had a few pints in a bar full of builders.

But I wasn’t quite done with Liguria just yet, having seen many amazing photos of Cinque Terra (a region comprising five towns) and its almost mythical bay, Verazza, surrounded by pinkstuccoed five-storey buildings. I took the train from Santa Margherita and changed on to a tiny train at Levanto, two stops later exiting the broken-down station down a rickety staircase into a street that led to what I can only describe as the Italy of a bygone era. Although similar in shape and size, Verazza is the polar opposite of Portofino and looks like the harbour location in Plein Soleil or The Talented Mr. Ripley.

Very much like a film set in the Naples or Sicily of the fifties, gangs of scruffy kids played hide and seek, old men in shirtsleeves sat outside the church next to even older ladies dressed in black. There were no fancy restaurants or bars, just a pizza place and a trattoria full of families, while on the seafront perched a family run bar/restaurant called Beloforte, cut out of the rocks some 100 feet up. Here I paid half of what I’d forked out at Portofino for a far superior meal, with a far better view and far better service. I left when the sun went down, feeling that I’d sampled the proper Italy.

“One doesn’t see ugly new skyscrapers, brand new copycat blocks of luxury apartments or ugly shop facades of chrome and aluminium. What we see is not so much a locale that has resisted change but one that respects its past”

Verazza

Looking out over Santa Margherita from my balcony on my last morning, I noticed the logo on the paper bag I’d been given from Ricci, a local food shop. A simple blue monotone logo with an illustration of a harbour that might have been drawn in the 1930s, it dawned on me that what is so special about this region is their total respect for their heritage and history. One doesn’t see ugly new skyscrapers, brand new copycat blocks of luxury apartments or ugly shop facades of chrome and aluminium. What we see is less a locale that has resisted change but more one that respects its past. We in the UK could learn a lot from the Italians in this respect, as they know the wealth of what they have in the long term and not the short, whereas in the UK it’s all about making money now and screw the future, while tearing down the old wonderful heritage buildings and putting up the new. The Italians know that history has a currency and that legacy is not only long lasting but is passed on to our loved ones. n

Brooklands Motor Circuit

Motoring

Actuarius fires up a brand-new motoring column by fixing his sights on Britain’s first and foremost motor racing circuit

rooklands! Is there any other name, or any

Bother motor circuit, that stirs the soul in quite the same way? Although Australia may lay claim to the first purpose-built car-racing track at Aspendale, it only beat Brooklands by a year, being opened in 1906 to the Surrey venue’s inauguration in 1907. However, Aspendale was speculatively built within a horse-racing course and only lasted a few years, while the vision and impact of Brooklands would be altogether more radical and far reaching. Born of a wish to stimulate the British motor industry by providing an up-to-date proving ground, rather than specifically as a venue for motor sport, this 2¾ mile long kidney-shaped circuit was built by Hugh Locke King and his wife Ethel, among the then sleepy meadows near Weybridge. Although its “Brooklands became home to not only the car and motorbike community but also the fledgling aviation industry. The latter would be referenced in Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines, where the starting point in the film has cars racing around banking and an aircraft crashing into a pond of effluent”