You may have wondered where I’d got to. There again, maybe not. Any way, I’ve spent a few days settling into my Italian home for the next two weeks. I have come 100 or so miles south, just inland from Anconna. This country side stretches away from the tops of rolling hills in every direction. Gentle valleys contour around slopes and folds of land like the swirls created by a gymnast ‘s ribbon. Fields of browns & tans and earthy hues jigsaw together with the green bubbles of deciduous trees and woods. Farms and barns are scattered over the land, in between the steeples and spires and walls of hilltop villages which draw the visitor like a magnet. In the distance the panorama is framed by the turqoise waters of the Adriatic around a rim of truncated volcanoes that explain why this area is subject to earthquakes.

This is the view from our terrace:

My home is set down a ‘white road’, rather a pitted track which one can get up if driven in first at 20km an hour. I am surrounded by the patchwork fields of La Marche. My silence is only disturbed by the call of circling buzzards and in the distance the metallic squeaking of harvesting tractors that quietly roar their wayup and down the gradients and then chugger to each other as they summon up the strength for another run. Within a few hours the crop is harvested & taken off, the remnants bailed and left littering the field in haphazard cuboids and deep silence descend around me again.

Cupramontana is the closest settlement of any size, just up the road. Not a lot goes on here. As the day comes to an end and the buildings give up their heat, the locals grab a chair or find a seat in the shade and ponder over events and share anecdotes and gently wind down with friends and neighbours before disappearing inside as darkness falls. Everyone seems comfortable in their groups which tend to be gender and age specific with little mixing it up.

Can life really be that simple?

All memories of yesterday’s storm are forgotten when drawn curtains reveal solid blue sky. Today Ravenna’s secrets are to be unlocked. This is why I love Italy. To walk around narrow streets and piazzas, shaded by ancient buildings and chapels and churches and statues on pillars and surrounded by history and culture and food and coffee. Cafes with tables line the cobbled streets with men drinking their espresso behind their spread newspapers as I seek that restaurant for dinner where the locals will be eating. A gentle trickle of folk pass – mamas with shopping bags half full, classy ladies struggling to keep up with their scuttling dachshunds, tattooed youth on their way somewhere or other. In these car-free streets a constant stream of cyclists gently avoid the pedestrians with a tinkle of a bell – sexy girls with long tanned legs in short shorts, elegant moustached gentlemen and the whole gambit of Italian society on their way to work, to shop, to play.

Nothing out of the ordinary you might think. It sounds like a typical Italian town. But Ravenna is like a geologist’s display cabinet. It has been the capital city of three different civilisations in its time and so is quite an important place. From 400 AD the early Christians have impacted on its society and its buildings. Religious buildings cover the old centre, mostly red-bricked. Crack their dull, dusty shell open and be aghast. As each reveals their glistening, sparkling, crystalled inside,yourr breath will be dragged from your body in awe. Mosaics have used as an art form for centuries to decorate and commemorate the inside of churches and mausoleums. Here are a few.

I am going to start with the old library which is upstairs in the new library. Whilst not a mosaic in sight it feels to me like the Bodleian in Oxford and I wanted to share.

The crypt of the church of San Francesco its mosaics underwater. You may be able to spot the carp.

The Mausoleum di Galla Placidia, an important lady of the 13th century, is small and intimate and glorious. Mosaics, remember. Little bits of tile.

Basilico di San Vitale has these positioning around its dome but the whole alter is surrounded by a gargantuan spread of mosaic saints.

Battistero degli Ariani, Basilica di Apollinare Nuono and the Neonian Baptistry are three more temples to the mosaic.

Well here we are again. Like a cosy pair of slippers, I am in Italy once more. Starting off in Bologna to get everything together. Well, you have to plan a trip properly. So, fly in, pick up a car, check in to hotel for one night, a beer in the back streets of this impressive city …..

…..pick up Hazel, sleep and hit the road.

I choose the straightest of straight Roman roads that runs from Bologna to Rimini for at least 60 miles, without a bend or diversion. Straight as a die (what does that mean?). There are three towns on the line. The first is Imola.

Under a blue, blue sky, I wander the almost empty streets, disturbed by the odd cyclist, the small clutter of pedestrians and the building work that goes on ahead of me (that’s a picture of a clock, by the way, printed with the windows on a screen to cover the manky scaffolding). Coffee is good. Almost afraid to admit a visit to the duomo, a worshipper peers out and hobbles off before anyone sees him.

The third town in this straight line to the Adriatic is Forli. A wander to the large, open space of the central square is worth it. On all 4 sides elegant buildings compete with each other for the accolade for the grandest frontage.

However, it is the Palazzio del Poste e dei Telegrafi that wins the prize hands down – a glorious edifice to the time when to be a postie was an essential role in any country that has aspirations on the world stage. Look & admire.

Now you might get a clue from this picture about the impending doom that is about to descend on Forli in the next 10 minutes. The skies darken and darken with every quickening pace back to the car. The timing is perfect – doors thunk as huge spots of rain thwack on the window and a whirl of winds rush and pound and glower and push all around the piazza. In the centre of town the buildings protect cycles & cars from the squally outbursts of torrential sprays from the mouth of the storm, accompanied by thundering claps and explosive lightning.

The real war zone lies on the plane tree-lined avenues leading out of town. Huge cannon balls of weather have blasted their wet, destructive force through the branches and trunks leaving them broken and maimed on the streets and parked cars below. A few of us try to slalom our way around the carnage, lights flashing as we avoid the dangers we can see but very aware that above, the wind still shakes the trees searching for weaknesses to drop down on our convoy.

Peering through the deluge of curtained rain and wooded obstacles, I follow the sat nav through the gloom. The wreckage becomes lighter, the sound of the storm becomes calmer and the rain patters then pitters and the world returns to normal. Having survived 30 minutes of wet, stormy hell and successfully found a way out of town, the road to Ravenna beckons. An hour later the clouds break, the sky resumes its heated blue and reason returns.

So does the sun always shine on Capri? Well I don’t know the answer to that but it certainly did on the 6 days I was there; and, boy, was it glorious. It really is a lovely place to visit on a short trip. Yes, it is expensive as everything has to come by sea, and, yes, during the day the ferries discharge day trippers galore to clog up the narrow streets and lanes in the two main centres of Capri town and Anacapri. Other than these two factors it is a great place to explore.

Capri town has a classy feel about it but as long as you keep to window-shopping and people-watching over your one coffee it is a busy but intriguing experience. It does help that the last ferry off the island is at 6pm so in the evenings everything calms down, the shops shut and some gentle nightlife can take over in bars and restaurants.

Anacapri is smaller and much more Italian with fewer columns of visitors. The one reason to visit the town is to get the chair lift up to the top of the highest peak. It is a peaceful 10 minute swing each way and is well worth the effort as the whole island and nearby mainland spreads out in below you in a landscape of rock and canopies, scattered white villas around hotels, and tracks of vessels sniffing around in the coastal waters.

I stayed even further west at a small B&B, il Paradiso di Capri, run by Guiliano and his family. The breakfast terrace and my balcony overlooked the sea and Ischia to the west, hence the sunsets.

Nothing was to much trouble for Guiliano. He made reservations for dinner, dashed up and down the hillside to collect and deposit visitors at the port, always had a smile and a happy greeting. A lovely man.

We ate at places he recommended. Restaurants on the island run this truly great service. Each one will collect their punters from their accommodation and take then back when they have eaten. Now that is cool. We took to Le Arcate in Anacapri and ate there three times. No view, no sunsets but the friendliest of welcomes, amazing service and great food. Papa opened it 36 years ago when he arrived from Naples with his family. Nico, the head waiter, looked after us- a lovely man with a dry sense of humour and a twinkle in his eye and always up to mischief whilst looking after his clients so well. On the last night he had our table waiting and set, with our favourite bottle of Chianti standing guard. The homemade lemoncello was to die for.

So thank you Capri. If any of you want to get away from it all for a while, I thoroughly recommend it.

So here we go, around the small island of Capri. This is Nico. He has a small, traditional boat painted blue. He meets his guests in the harbour, gives us a steadying hand to board,  settles us down and casts off. Leaving Capri behind us we set out into the open sea.

We sail, rather motor, anticlockwise around the island. It is a crowded procession of boats, all showing off their beautifully painted and varnished hulls and masts with bright chrome gleaming proudly in the sun. Most carry a handful of passengers but occasionally one of the harbour big boys tries to bully everyone else out the way with a hundred or so passengers pointing their iphones at the craft below.

Under blue skies and on turquoise waters, with gentle breezes cooling us down, we gasp in wonder at the ruins of castles and Roman villas perched high up at the tops of sheer cliffs. Down at sea level rocky ledges & platforms, laughingly called beaches, provide safe bathing areas for locals & tourists or acess to a private villa or an upmarket restaurant. In places ingenious designers have created formal bathing areas with bathing hits and rows of sunbeds.

The flotilla of boats hug the coastline sniffing out caves & grottos. Once one is found the skippers very politely allow each other in turn to enter the shady darkness of these arched cathedrals shaped by the sea. There is no queue barging here.

Around strong headlands arched villas or cloistered hotels appear. Natural rock formations address given human names like ‘the heart’.

Very high end, luxury craft, are moored off the coast, yatchts and sail, acting as bathing and sunning platforms for rich families and gorgeous gals & guys. A nice life if you can get it.

The town of Capri is very different to Anacapri. The tourists arrive at the harbour and get a bus or the vernacular railway up the hill short distance to the small central piazza beside the church.

In this space four cafes have packed their tables and umbrellas leaving three narrow pathways to the archways and the town’s riches. Elegant & suave locals drink their coffee surveying the lines of  tourists come to disturb their peace.

They view the lines of chattering pale-skinned Chinese and the drawling large American from their wicker chairs, faintly amused by the endless stream of overheated, sunhatted visitors in columns of minipeded legs lead by the raised furled umbrella – a beacon to all tourists seeking that one image or piece of tat to impress their pals back home.

Taking one of the narrow alleys the town reveals itself.

Elegant hotels welcome high end visitors to relax in cool gardens after visiting those really upmarket designer stores that the rest of us pass by laughing in envy. Well, I love the style of the mature Italian gentleman but is this really my look: the total outfit costs £5,00 euros from the Dolce & Gabbana shop.

Tourist watering holes and rich oases need servicing. Special porters’ carts, delivery vehicles and even dustbin trucks squeeze through Capri’s arteries.

Evidence of the playground of many Caesars is dotted around the edges of the cliffs. These are the gardens of Caesar Augustus.

Most visitors head for Capri for the day. They crawl around the town, grab a piece of cold pizza and board a bus and head out to Anacapri. The little mini-mope buses scurry up & down the hill between Capri & Anacapri, the orange local buses and the smart blue private company ones, competing with each other to deliver their human cargo as quickly as possible. Out they tumble, “Ooooh, arhhh”; pizza or mozzarella & tomatoes for a tenner and back to the ferry; “ We’ve done Capri” shout American & Chinese voices “and we bought the bag”.

The rest of us can enjoy the peace of shady evenings in warm stoned streets once they have returned to the mainland.

So how does this large rock called Capri work? The island lies from east to west. It consists of hard, rocky cliffs and hillsides covered in scrubby pines and cyprus trees. It doesn’t take long to drive from one end of the island to the other. There are two main settlements. There is the town of Capri which spirals around the cliffs above the harbour and there is the town of Anacapri which is situated high up amongst the crags & boulders of the dry hills. Each is very different to the other. My B&B is great over on the west coast near Faro, which means lighthouse and, yes, there is a lighthouse down at the bottom of a whole load of steps.

Capri and Anacapri and Faro are linked by narrow, and I mean narrow, roads that run between high, hard walls. These are wide enough to fit in three scooters side by side. So this is the ultimate game of chicken and the home of the the small car. Small buses, carrying locals & tourists alike, run around like sardine cans on wheels. 8 people can sit and up to 24 can stand as they jerk their way around and down the helter-skelter of alleys and aisles, competing with scooters and those little pop-pop three wheeled, wobbly trucks.

Occasionally big brother taxis push their way to the front. These are rather grand. They are cut off Nissan & Fiats. Instead of a roof they have a canvas canopy, beneath which punters laze and view passers-by.

Anacapri has all the elements of a small Italian town. Old streets undulate around the church.

Cafes and restaurants create their piece of umbrellared shade and mix it with smart clothes shops selling linen and kashmere. Above a small square a promenade provides a wonderful view of the harbour and Capri town down below.

It has a chair lift that takes punters up to the highest peak. Small streets provide homes for these classy tourist outlets whilst locals live, work and play and get on with their everyday lives.

As night falls the tourists ebb away leaving a dusky, eerie peace within shuttered streets.

Well, my loyal readers, I am back in my beloved Italy. I do love this country – the climate, the people, the way of life, the lyrical, lilting rhythmns of the language between gesturing locals, the elegant dress of the guys looking so cool whatever the weather, the wine, the linguini del mare, the blueness of the sky, the turquoise of the sea, the history, the cyprus trees, the peeling plasterwork and the bleached colours of medieval churches and temples and statues. I love it.

I am on the island of Capri with the rich around famous. It’s a short journey across Naples from the airport to the port through the tall tenement blocks of uniform windows above graffitied shuttered fronts and squiggled walls through horned traffic and yelling mopeds. No laws about using mobiles when driving through these streets. One hand on front bars of scooters, balancing the phone while swerving through cars & buses, the other dances over the key pad to text or to call then it is tucked into the crash helmet to enable a proper conversation whilst using two hands to negotiate the next junction. A skill all of its own.

So, I buy a ticket, have the espresso whilst I wait to take my place in the queue. I use the word lightly. It starts off nice & ordered until the boat comes in and then we are squeezed through the gate and along the quay, onto the ferry and deposited in a hard plastic seat somewhere on board.

But it is exciting as the turbos wind up and we leave the harbour, leaving the unmistakable shape of Vesuvious on the port side (or is it the starboard?). It takes about 45 minutes to cross. The sleepy harbour greets the ferry.

Guiliano is there to drive to his B&B. “Oh, Mark. Put you elbow in from the window as sometimes I have to scrape the walls”. A hairy 30 minute drive up & down narrow, stone-walled aisles/streets brings me to my accommodation on the cliffs of the far west coast of the island.

An afternoon on the balcony snoozing with a beer in the sun, occasionally opening one eye to check that the view is still there – the island of Iscia across the water, the trail of tourist boats popping in and out of grottos and caves like lines of earwigs exploring cracks beneath our skirting boards, sweeping, soaring gulls hang & glide like hang-gliders on a vortex of currents crying & crawing for company.

Yep, eating mama’s ravioli on the terrace as the sun sets confirms the view is still there.

Bring on tomorrow.