Vendettas, nuraghi and the marches: Ancient port across the sea

We hunted down a ferry that would take us to Genoa so we could explore this city that had so much influence over Sardinia and Corsica. After a 10 hour crossing, and very near dark, we discovered that Genoa is built on steep hills that fall quickly to the water.

We eventually tracked down a campsite on one of these hills after a near collision with a three metre high railway bridge that demanded we not go under it as we exceeded its height limit. But, with help from a passerby who indicated we had room to manoeuvre Pete eventually drove under with barely a hairs breath to spare.

Genoa is the home of Christopher Columbus, and even today, at its heart, it is still a massive seaport. Which unfortunately keeps its waterfront busy, filled with ugly vessels and heavy container carrying equipment. All around its edges its suburbs are similarly bereft and depressing. It is not a pretty city.

And if Cagliara is in need of soap and water Genoa needs every resident, in lieu of a siesta, to take up a gerni and clean. With bleach. If they start one Monday by Friday they might rid much of the exterior of their own buildings of centuries of encrusted grime, pollution and dirt. The following week they might begin spraying down their parks, footpaths and streets. Cities do not need to be falling down and filthy to be interesting.

Luckily, the centre storico, while small, is not only full of character but is full of characters. Albeit very grubby. In the old section around Porto Soprano you could imagine how long ago traders would bring their imports from their galleons to sell direct to buyers from all over the continent: the best cork, wines and grains would have come from Corsica and Sardinia. You could almost smell them here.

And old families, like the Grimaldis, who go way back to the Crusades, would have been able to fill their purses heavily and steadily given the powerful positions they held in this ancient port city. Today many of the family palazzos along Via Garibaldi have been inscribed as UNESCO sites and offer great photo ops.

We left Genoa and headed west along the narrow coast road to Saint Tropez a route which is a virtual parking lot. It took us six hours to go less than 140 kms. On two separate days. Driving was tedious. Some walkers and the mad mass of Vespa vipers and Harley hoons moved much faster than we did.

The towns that line the route are ports of call for the beautiful people: San Remo, Monte Carlo, Monaco, Antibes and Cannes. This year they are not so beautiful. All getting a little pouchy around the gills, sadly; and their facelifts, like their beaches, need a bit of a touch up. And their sad yappy little pooches, zipped into their handbags like compulsory accessories, must surely be dying of galloping lung consumption after such constant exposure to never-ending exhaust fume pollution.

Yet between these beaches crowded with pink tiled apartment blocks that stretch nearly as high as the mountains we are negotiating are lonely rugged headlands topped with remnants of old towers, steeples and ruined chateaux: likely the homes and the places of worship of some of those old families who once sent those beautiful old galleons sailing gracefully across these waters.

oooOOOooo