Unless it’s New York, which keeps opening like a kaleidoscope and reinventing, I’m not usually a fan of visiting the same place twice. For Ischia, one of three islands in the bay of Naples, I have made an exception, if only to rewrite history.
My first experience of it nearly twenty years ago went down as the worst holiday of all time – a joyless cocktail of deranged travelling companion, subsequent high drama and ankles so swollen with infected mosquito bites, I couldn’t get my shoes on at Heathrow airport. The only saving grace was meeting a lovely American woman called Lisa who offered me the respite of an empathetic ear and plenty of prosecco. We reconnected later on social media and have stayed in touch ever since, so when she invited me to join her and her friend Ann again in the magical Castello Aragonese, I decided to abandon my usual travelling rule and see what else the island had to offer.
I arrive at Naples airport – a notoriously treacherous city to land a plane in – and am greeted by the reassuring sight of Bruno who is holding a sign with my name on. Naples is the gateway to the islands and if you can stretch to a car to get you to the port, I’d recommend it because this place, and its honking traffic, is insane. Ischia, about an hour on the fast boat, is a much sleepier sister to the glitzy and overrated Capri and remains unspoilt by tourism. Its big moment was as backdrop to The Talented Mr Ripley in 1999, where a white and pasty Tom Ripley first spies Dickie Greenleaf glistening on the beach. During my last visit in 2005, the Ishcitans were still dining out on its cinematic spoils.
As hardly anyone reads this blog, I can safely disclose the secret of Il Monastero without fear of a stampede. Situated half-way up the castle, it’s changed a lot in twenty years and is now far more Chi-Chi (with far less purgatorial beds). There are ridiculous sea views from the terrace and you can watch people and scooters make their way up the castle’s cobbled causeway like ants. Another happy new addition is the ‘secret garden’, a place which frankly you may wish to revisit in a meditation, with its allotments, citrus trees, olive groves, and small vineyard. Weeks of uncharacteristic rain have finally stopped, and everything is verdant green and blooming. The air is heavy with white jasmine and sea salt. Am I selling it to you yet? Ommmmmmm.
Ischia Porte is the pretty main town and only a 20-minute walk from the castle. There is good shopping along Via Roma and if you want an authentic and unpretentious dining experience where you can be serenaded al-fresco with traditional live music, head to Il Giardino degli Aranci on a Friday evening. Here you will witness what is effectively the island’s date night. Dressed up couples eating copious courses and banging the table to ‘Volare’, it’s got that Louis Prima 1950s vibe with black and white photographs of celebrities adorning the walls. This is old school Italy.
Back at Ischia Ponte, and it seems incapable of serving up a bad meal for this glutton. I can recommend Il Pontile for the coniglio all’ischitana, Ischia’s most famous rabbit dish, and nearby Auras for seafood and stuffed zucchini flowers. For a laugh-out-loud beautiful view, to be enjoyed with a limoncello spritz (Aperol, I bid you a fond farewell) and homemade canapes, the terrace at Hotel Don Felipe is the only place to be at the golden hour.
Expect to spend a lot of time on boats here, so much so that you may feel like you’re slightly rocking whilst stationary. We head to Capri as I feel it’s something I need to experience and, whilst its shoreline is undeniably breathtaking, up close its disappointingly low rent. Fortunately, Lisa knows what she’s doing because without her insight we would have spent the day sweating amongst teeming crowds of Japanese tourists and the badly dressed. (I’m not sure where Capri gets its reputation for glamour from, but they love a crocheted mid riff top here. Jackie Onassis has long gone). We heave our way up to the funicular railway because the taxi lines are snaking around the block and find an oasis of tranquility at Hotel Luna. Tucked away in perfectly manicured gardens, it has a view of the Faraglione Rocks and the flotillas of yachts that flock around them. Just gaze out and smell the oligarchs. Then go back to Ischia.
Just as I’m starting to feel relaxed, it’s time to go to crazy Napoli. Frenetic at the best of times, I am arriving on the night they officially win the football, so this is going to be a double whammy. My friend Caroline – whom I am meeting for dinner – texts me during the boat over and says, ‘are you ready for this?’ I feel my wobbly inner compass failing. How am I even going to find the hotel?
The first thing to say about Naples is they have an entirely different relationship with risk than say, someone from Nuneaton. Why bother with health and safety when you live on the edge of a volcano? I see an entire family – two parents and two kids – all bare-headed on the back of a scooter. The father is nonchalantly smoking a cigarette whilst weaving his way through the traffic, which is full of people flying flags out of the back of Cinquecento’s. The din of vuvuzelas is headachingly deafening, but the energy of everyone coalescing around this one team is joyful.
The only glamourous people around are the handsome Carabinieri with their immaculate black and red uniforms and their equally immaculate hair. If you want to channel your inner Sophia Loren, maybe save it for Puglia. This is a street-smart city that needs the right attire and demands comfortable footwear to navigate the hills. There is real poverty here, but I feel perfectly safe wandering the backstreets solo and peering into the tiny, industrious shops. Everything is graffiti coated and strewn with blue and white bunting in honour of the national game, and I pass a shrine that includes Christ on the cross and a photograph of Maradona, who remains a demi-god here.
There’s a plethora of churches – hey, it’s an Italian city – but my big recommendation would be Palazzo Reale which is a jewel box capturing a time when Naples was part of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. It can be found on Piazza del Plebiscito, Naples’ most elegant square (less so for me – it was covered in scaffolding from the football) and is all lacquered doors, chandeliers and sweeping marble staircases. I love walking around the interior, but The Hotel Transatlantico provides a harbourside escape from the heat and fumes and the best swordfish and tiramisu I’ve ever had. By 6 pm, I’m back in my room tapping into someone else’s Netflix account (always feels weirdly voyeuristic) and unable to move much until morning. It’s a lot, but it’s worth it and the Neapolitans are only too happy to welcome you to their city where somehow things work amongst the chaos.
Thank you to all my delightful travelling companions – especially Lisa with her encyclopaedic knowledge of Ischia and perfect taste. I came home without a single mosquito bite. What a result.
