A Greek Affair. Linn Halton B.
The Morning After the Night Before
Oh, how my head aches this morning. I had two glasses of wine and three cocktails after our extensive tour of decks four and five. Harrison was true to his word; he does know the layout of this ship very well. I discovered two of the other restaurants, the coffee bar and café, the business centre and a massive lounge the other side of the concierge and reception area. We popped our heads into the upper level of the theatre, which is two decks high. Harrison suggested we catch a show there tonight so I can savour the full experience. He told me he can sort the tickets and it wasn’t a problem.
Everything is immaculate, of an extraordinary quality and even the lounges are sumptuous and individually designed. Almost like film sets, where a space is transformed into an experience that will transport you into another time and place. We visited a vast library and once inside it could easily have been on land somewhere, wrapped up in an old stone building. Each restaurant is so unique that just the surroundings are a delight in themselves, quite aside from the gourmet cuisine on offer.
And that was only deck five. Down on deck four was where we lingered over cocktails while visiting the casino. I’m not a gambler and I don’t usually drink more than a glass or two of wine, but the cocktails seemed like a good idea at the time. Afterwards we visited yet another lounge area where we had several cups of black coffee before saying goodnight. I crawled into bed, my head already beginning to buzz, but feeling content. My notebook is filling up and I managed to get some great photos.
I ease open first one eye and then, very gingerly, the second one. Why on earth I didn’t draw the curtains last night, I don’t know. Glancing out of the patio doors I can see that we’re in port again and, to my horror, there is another ship docked right alongside ours! Not only is it hard to believe we sailed over night and we’re in Portovenere this morning, but my room is now on full display to the ship parallel to us. I vault out of bed to find the handset to close the curtains, which is a rather rude awakening given my tender state.
When I told Harrison I was going ashore today as we don’t set sail again until 5 p.m. he asked if I’d like some company. I jumped at the offer because I wasn’t relishing the thought of wandering around alone. Or worse, other sightseers making polite conversation because that’s what good people do when it’s obvious someone is a lone traveller. In return, I agreed to have dinner with him this evening before we catch the show. He told me he’d make the necessary arrangements and we agreed to meet this morning in the café.
Reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed to experience the rainforest again, full force. It certainly does the trick and within an hour I’m feeling much better and surprisingly refreshed. I dress quite casually in navy linen trousers with a pale blue top. I manage to find my way down to the café on deck five without getting lost once. But as I’m looking around I can’t see Harrison anywhere.
I turn, wandering off with the intention of doing a little window shopping, when I spot him. He waves and I begin walking towards him.
‘Sorry, Leah. I overslept. Didn’t even hear the alarm going off and that’s unusual for me.’
He stands there rather awkwardly and then leans in to give me a quick hug. It’s brief enough to be simply a ‘good morning’ and as he pulls away I give him a big smile.
‘Well, my head was very tender first thing this morning,’ I admit. ‘Now I feel good but I’m in need of coffee, strong coffee. And a croissant.’
We idle away an hour over a simple breakfast. He explains that Portovenere is a medieval fishing village and it isn’t an arduous walking tour.
‘I took the liberty of booking us a taxi into the city centre rather than catching one of the tours. They set off too early, anyway. Besides, last night I felt that we both needed to have a little fun and lighten up so a gentle start to the day was necessary.’ He beams at me, possibly carrying just a little guilt for last night’s indulgences. I distinctly remember him saying ‘one more won’t hurt’ – but it totally did.
After several large cups of coffee we leave two half-finished croissants and head off to find our taxi. Large cruise ships are berthed at the new Molo Garibaldi, which is two kilometres away from Portovenere. Sitting on the Ligurian coast it turns out to be a sprawling port and the berths extend way out into the ocean on a series of jetties.
The town itself is a hub of beautiful old stone buildings. The backdrop is one of luscious green vegetation, over land rising up behind the heart of the original fishing village. Distinctive with its waterside row of six-storey buildings painted in an array of colours – from pale yellows and greens, to a soft terracotta – it’s picturesque.
‘It looks top-heavy,’ I can’t help remarking. ‘Almost as if it could all topple into the water. With so many windows at varying levels, different balconies and an array of shutters, it looks busy. I thought the promenade would be wider but it is lovely with all the small boats moored up along the edge.’
‘Ah, that’s the charm of it,’ Harrison agrees.
We stop to watch some fishermen offloading their catch, the smell of the sea surrounding us with a saltiness you can almost taste. That fresh, sharp tang is a reminder that fish dishes don’t get any fresher than those served by the local restaurants.
Wandering around the shopping area it’s bustling with people: full of restaurants and an assortment of shops. After about an hour we make the gentle climb up to San Puerto, the church of St Peter. It stands on the edge of a rocky promontory overlooking the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. Standing watch over the entrance to the port, alongside the castle Doria with its sturdy fortress walls, it dominates the scenery. Almost menacingly so.
‘It’s very Game of Thrones, isn’t it, with the flinty grey, mottled stone and the way it all seems to rise up out of the rock? There’s an overwhelming sense of the medieval about this place. It sends a shiver right through me.’
Harrison nods. ‘Yes, it’s a wonderful example of the Genovese Gothic style.’
He leads us along the north wall of the castle. We get to peek out of the keyhole-like slits to glimpse a view in miniature of sea, rocky cliffs and sky. I can imagine the soldiers with their crossbows ready to defend the port.
As we look down over the edge of the cliff we see people jumping into the water from various rocky ledges.
‘Ooh, that’s quite a way they’re jumping.’ I watch in amazement as one by one a small group line up, waiting their turn.
Harrison raises his arm, pointing to the curving, rocky cliff to our left. ‘Do you see that cave? That’s La Grotta di Byron, where the poet Byron used to swim. They call this the Gulf of Poets.’
It is stunningly beautiful, especially as today there isn’t a cloud in sight and the water is a pure shade of topaz blue. No wonder so many writers, poets and artists found their way here.
It’s a fun couple of hours and we take it in turns behind the camera, trying to capture some perfect shots for my readers.
We leisurely wander back down into town and find a little café to grab a drink and sample the local focaccia. It’s about an inch thick and stuffed with cheese and meat. Topped with sea salt and rosemary, it’s sliced into wedges and the perfect finger food to accompany a glass of Le Pinete; this local wine carries a very pleasant, slightly sweet scent.
‘A good choice.’ I raise my glass briefly in the air and look across at Harrison. He’s hungrily tucking into the focaccia.
‘I’ve been here before,’ he admits.
I watch him eating, curious about why I’m so content to be in Harrison’s company when he’s little more than a stranger. There’s nothing other than a little harmless banter going on between us, which is a fun kind of distraction. He’s very attractive, in a huggable way, like a big teddy bear. Or maybe it’s more about allowing myself to get to know him because he’s a genuinely good person and when you find