La Dolce Vita: a Week on the Amalfi Coast

“Oh, it’s so touristy,” a friend told me. “And really busy.”

True. After all, the Amalfi Coast has been a popular tourist destination since the 18th century, part of the Grand Tour and later a favourite of the jet set. I’m sure I’d seen it in a Fellini film, as well as many other movies and travel shows.

We went in the summer, in the height of the tourist season. Yes, when the tour buses disgorged in Amalfi the main cobblestone street was shoulder to shoulder with travellers searching for limoncello and ceramics. But steps off the main thoroughfare we could sit in peace and eat a lemon sorbet, or drink an espresso.

On the island of Capri, we sat sweltering in our tour boat, waiting over an hour for our turn to get in a small rowboat and enter the Blue Grotto. Yet once inside, with the magical reflections of light in the water, and the songs of the boatmen echoing in the cavern, the wait was forgotten.

I understand why this area remains so popular. The scenery is spectacular, whether travelling by boat or along the narrow, twisting roads. The towns crowded up the slopes around the harbours are colourful and fascinating.

Despite the area’s popularity, despite the slow coastal roads and the ferry docks and boats full to capacity, it was easy to find space and silence. The local house wine was always good, as was the food, and while walking on the roads my attention was torn between the lemon groves, the ocean, and my footing.

On the one day we rented a car, for the experience of driving a cabriolet on the winding, narrow mountain roads, we discovered that much of the peninsula remains wild as part of Parco Regionale dei Monti Lattari. The nature was breathtaking.

Of course, we didn’t stay in a busy town. At Villa Scarpariello we ate our dinner alone on a terrace under the pergola of lemon trees. When we threw open the shutters in the morning all we saw and heard was the glittering Mediterranean, then the small fishing boats heading out shortly past dawn. Our suite was named after Wagner, and I could imagine the composer doing the same in the months that he stayed here, one long ago winter.

There was no wifi or housekeeping provided with the suite, and meals were only available when ordered well ahead. To get to the road from our room we climbed up 124 steps— but there were only a few dozen down to the sea. We did not swim in the lovely small pool, preferring to throw ourselves from the stone jetty into the warm salt water.

So many vivid memories.

Wandering aimlessly through the mountain village of Ravello and ending up the only people at a rooftop bar, looking down on the weddings in the gardens below.

Vehicles queuing, backing up, alternating, as large buses tried to navigate roads barely large enough for one lane of cars.

Buying limoncello from the family that grew the lemons, then sipping it on our deck, watching the mega-yachts between us and the fireworks erupting from the beach in Maiori.

Walking to the closest roadside bar, and devouring the best pasta and seafood that we’d had in Italy, including the 4 days we ate our way through Rome.

Christina bringing roasted peppers from the kitchen in the 16th Century watchtower, as Luigi spoke about his travels through America, and “just one glass” of wine turned into several bottles and the evening turned to night.

There are so many new places to see in the world. Yet somehow I think I will find myself on an Italian coast again.