When in Capri : Winding roads and cool vibes
From where he lay he had been able to see those two great rocks called the Faraglioni. Perhaps he died of the beauty of that sight...
-W. Somerset Maugham. The Lotus Eater.
Τiberius had one hell of a view.
His rare guests at Villa Jovis up in Capri appreciated it too unless some instructed hand unexpectedly gave them a little push towards the magnificent cliffs and the emerald sea 300 metres below. But then again Tiberius was a sombre, misanthropic dude. Yet a stylish one. He built his magnificent villa to live as a hermit and govern his empire remotely from this little gem of an island.
Standing in front of this very view, I’m suspiciously looking around, but there’s no one to see, let alone push me to my demise. I didn’t even pay for the ticket to Tiberius’ villa’s grounds. The entrance booth was abandoned in a typical Caprese take-it-easy fashion. Music was playing from a little radio on an old chair. I’m roaming through the quiet, vast Roman villa, admiring the view to the Bay of Naples, Vesuvius, the Sorrento peninsula, and the countless boats dragging their white foam tails through the deep blue sea like meteorites.
It’s June and Capri is already packed, or so it seems during the day. But none of the buzz is felt around this bit of the island. It takes quite some walking to get here. Proper, straight-up walking, mostly uphill. No cars, no bikes, no buses, no speedboats. None of the little comforts one enjoys in other parts of the island. But what a walk that is! 45 minutes of immaculate gardens, stunning homes, subtropical plants, and rare breeds of cats. Even the names of the roads sound magical. Via Longarno, Via Sopramonte, Via Tiberius.
On my way back to the centre of the Caprese universe, the Piazzetta, dusk drizzles upon me. The blue hour is the gateway to another facet of the island altogether. Gone are the hordes of day-trippers from Naples and Sorrento, gone is the mid-day heat and the scorching sun. Golden-hued lights are on, and perfumes fill the air mixed with notions of apres-soleil lotions and expensive cigars. Restaurants are filling up, white trousers, linen jackets and silk scarves are lining up for gelato, blazers and cocktail dresses are sipping their Negronis and their long drinks at the veranda of the Grand Hotel Quisisana.
But even these glamorous sightings can’t keep me here. I’ve had a long day, my trainers are dusty and my backpack seems to weigh much more than it actually does. Yet, I have a bit of a drive ahead to get to my hotel high in Anacapri, the upper Capri so to speak, where my well-experienced friends advised me to stay.
I head to my scooter, the only decent means of transportation for a curious tourist with a camera on an island with a serious parking problem. I tried to rent a Vespa earlier, to feel a bit more like a proper Paparazzo, but to no avail. All rented out. So I make do with a little machine of questionable mechanics that makes strange noises when braking. Still, fun is to be had. The winding road climbing up the forested slopes offers heart-stopping views and scary encounters with countless busses and taxis, carrying phone-holding tourists trying to grab the perfect Instagram story.
Anacapri, the upper part of the island remains significantly quieter and far more casual. People are strolling through the warmly lit, cobbled-stoned streets, small shops and bars, pretty much the same way W. Somerset Maugham or Maxim Gorky would have done in their day.
Capri’s charm has always tickled the interest of the most diverse and controversial people. The Greeks were here, as were the Phoenicians, then later the Romans and their Emperors. The small island, part exile, part paradise has always offered seclusion and privacy. Scandals were hushed, sexual preferences were tolerated or just ignored and eccentrics were very much welcomed.
One Marchesa Luisa Casati is even said to have dyed her dogs according to her stylish outfits, and Curzio Malaparte, the fachist-turned-maoist esthète built his notoriously inaccessible pompeian-red villa on a rock close to the Faraglioni.
My initial plan is to visit it (an old dream of mine), but I learn it’s not open to the public. So, early next morning I decide to go for a swim at the Marina Picolla, more specifically to the Bagni Internationali, a popular and somehow vintage-posh establishment by the water. My disreputable scooter is not allowed to park there ( not because it’s disreputable, but because nothing on wheels is allowed to park) but it’s really early and since only a bunch of people are around the very kind man at the entrance agrees to let me park for "solo venti minuti signore, per favore". Italians and Greeks have a way of cooperating.
The landscape is wonderful, the sea calm and mellow. I dip in quickly along with some old-fashioned Capresi who smile reassuringly.
On my way back up, my Italian friend at the entrance waves to me to hurry up and as I’m starting the scooter I see the first busses driving down.
The road is absolutely stunning, the villas are magnificent. Little Fiats in old-fashioned colours are parked in front of them. Flashy cars are not welcome here. Even the taxis are either vintage convertibles of humble descent or topless minivans.
Later, I’m heading to Villa San Michele.
As opposed to Tiberius, Mr. Axel Munthe who built it, was a man of the world. A famous doctor of rich and poor ( including the homeless of Naples and his compatriot, the Queen of Sweden) he fell in love with the little chapel of San Michele and years later bought the land around it and built this wonderfully relaxing place.
Surprisingly I have it to myself. No queues, no crowds. Fine with me! It takes a while to run through the wonderful, eclectic villa, enjoy the artefacts and the gardens and grab a coffee. Then a group of people arrives. It’s noon and the day-trippers are commandeering the island.
The crowds are thickening in Anacapri. I cunningly escape to the absolute top of the isle, the Monte Solaro.
The chair lift that leads there is around the corner. A queue has formed but it’s moving fast. In front of me, a family can’t decide who’s going first. Dad is bored. Mom’s scared. The sons can’t wait. So can’t I.
As my chair is smoothly pulled up to the peak, the geography of Capri becomes apparent. So does the whole of the region. The Tyrrhenian Sea sparkles. Ischia to the northwest seems a swim away. Vesuvius to the north is threatening Naples. I wonder how the Capresi experienced its devastating eruption of 79 A.D. or even the last one in 1944.
Towards the south, the Punta Carena lighthouse marks the end of the island. And my last stop for the day.
The sunset there is supposed to be gorgeous. So, I’m back onto the lift and down the mountain.
Anacapri is busy now. Shops offer loose, light-coloured, linen clothing for the style-conscious and (what else?) capri-trousers in all sorts of fabrics and patterns. I grab a sfogliatella to top up on energy, visit quickly the wonderful Chiesa san Michele (not the chapel by the villa, that’s a different one) with the magnificent majolica floor and I head to my trusted scooter to drive around a bit before heading to the Punta.
I arrive just in time for an apperitivo.
There's a lovely canteen-style beach house on the rocky shore. A colourful crowd has gathered. I wish I had come earlier for a quick afternoon swim.
The water is incredibly blue. The sky is golden. “Appuntamento” by Ornella Vanoni is coming through the bar’s speakers. I expect to see Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni arriving, sunglasses on. But they don’t. Some happy young people in straw hats and white linen shirts do.
The sun is setting through my Aperol.
Early the next morning I check out, drop off my trusted scooter in Anacapri and climb down the over 900 Phoenician steps to the Marina Grande to grab my ship to Sorrento. Apparently, it’s easier to climb up than down because of the large steps, but I won’t find out this time. Going down only.
The air is still cool and there’s no one around. Smells of Mediterranean flora mix with a warm sea breeze. Bees are busy working on flowers. I walk slowly. It’s getting hotter
Down at the harbour tourists and luggage are moving around. Taxis are loading and unloading. Yachts are being polished. Speedboats are roaring. At the small pebbly beach of the Marina Grande (Capri has very few easily accessible beaches) tanned people are getting even more tanned and untanned ones are turning pink. I grab a capuccino and wait for my boat to arrive. I look across the road and I see a rent-a-bike store. Full of shiny new Vespas! Oh damn!
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