If you've read my other diaries you'll know that I've been intent on photographing and painting my impressions of the Amalfi Coast towns for about three years now. Each time I go there I understand a little more of what I love about the place and its inhabitants. I meet tourists like myself as well, from all over the world, and my diaries are a way of keeping all the experiences fresh in my own mind. I write daily notes for an illustrated article that I publish here when I get back to my computer. This is the diary of my trip to the Praiano and Positano areas in April 2007.
There are 422 steep stone steps between the main road from Amalfi and Sorrento, and the beach at Vettica, Praiano. I trod those steps six times in the first two days of my holiday.
I discovered the beach when I went out to get some shampoo on my first morning in Praiano, on Thursday, and was diverted down the Via Russolo by curiosity. Led further and further on by signs "alla Spiaggia", I found myself at the bottom with no materials or camera, confronted by a fantastic view of deep emerald and purple sea, distant islands, limestone cliffs and a Martello tower perched romantically at the edge of the little bay. So up I went again, and a little while (and 844 steps up and down the cliff) later I was settled on the concrete platform which Praiano calls its beach.
That day I completed two small colour sketches in acrylic paint on Bockingford paper. I was joined by Rudi and his wife, who took a kind interest in what I was doing and in the afternoon introduced me to a party who had been to Capri on the boat driven by Mario, the owner of the hotel that I had included in one of my pictures.
The Bellavista Hotel is well named. It's perched on the very edge of the cliff that I had painted and Mario was delighted to see it featured in my painting. He invited me to dinner at the hotel that evening and made a great fuss of me and my work. He offered to buy the sketch from me, which made this a perfect day.
The Bellavista caters for German tourists in particular so I was forced to use my dreadful Italian and even worse German language skills to be sociable. All the staff speak German rather than English - though most of the guests spoke fluent English too. The next day, Friday 13th, I was to go to Capri on Mario's boat as a paying customer. Unfortunately I was five minutes late and in efficient German mode, the boat left without me. Luckily I hadn't paid in advance, so I thought I would go on the public boat, another day. I was looking forward to it, because Capri is so crowded in the summer that when I went last, in August 2005, I couldn't see anything very much and was forced to hold my camera above my head to take photos of the places and buldings.
So I sat down on the beach again - I wasn't going back up those steps empty handed - and settled down to make a painting on the little canvas I had packed in readiness for Capri.
As I worked I heard a whistled tune coming from somewhere out of sight. After a while I heard "Ciao!" and looked round to see a camera trained on me by a girl carrying a great sheaf of leaves and flowers. Her face was very brown and she was grinning widely. This was Angela from Bulgaria.
I have never met anyone so skilled in making friends as Angela. She was the most charming companion from the first "Come si chiama?" ("What's your name?") to the end of the day by which time we were using the familiar "tu" and had had a really good laugh about all kinds of thing. This was despite the fact that she neither spoke nor understood a single word of English - and my Italian is nearly as bad.
Angela arrived, whistling tunefully through her teeth, laden with plants and flowers she had gathered from the gardens on the way down the steps to the beach, and made friends with me in a most purposeful way that was, nevertheless, utterly disarming.
Angela is Bulgarian but she has been in Italy for about a year. She told me that she had been in Praiano before that, though, and had worked for the Bellavista Hotel before going home to Bulgaria for a while - my Italian was not up to understanding the reason.
We spent the whole day in creativity and conversation. Our conversation was conducted mostly in bad Italian and sign language, with a little French. My Italian was marginally better than her English - which was nonexistent - but we were both very good at sign language. In sign -language we agreed on many things, ranging from politics to art to men to life in general.
We agreed that we both liked the Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd. Angela rummaged in her memory for an English author and came up with Gerald Durrell - who is, actually, one of my favourites from the past.
Angela was of the opinion that men named Mario are bad news and she had a photo to prove it - the Mario from Amalfi that she showed me certainly looked "bruto" as she described him. She expressed her feelings by taking her lighter and burning the corner of Mario's picture - "Pauvero Mario!"
She spoke very differently about the man who phoned her several times on her mobile, obviously concerned to check that she was safe. This was Francesco Mangieri, a ceramicist and sculptor who has an exhibition in Amalfi now. She gave me a card with his photo and address and asked me to publicise his address: 7 - Piazzetta C. Console, 7 - 84011 (Tel. 089-871929).
Angela was clearly an artist herself and what she made with the plants that she brought back from her periodic "shopping" trips (her term) would stand comparison with the best florist's - or land artist's - work. She obviously preferred the life of a land artist and she decked the cliff behind her with examples of her art. She collected pebbles, seaweed, flotsam and jetsam and even crabs, to add to her display. When we left the beach the fishing boat that was beached there was Angela's exhibition space.
Angela wove crowns of aromatic plants for herself and for me, and we laughed at ourselves and each other as we modelled them like children. We took photos of each other and I chronicled her work as it progressed. Angela kept us both sustained with sachets of acacia honey which she produced from her big orange bag. She had a supply of information in the bag, too: cards from galleries and hotels and brochures and pamphlets on all kinds of subjects. Some she gave to me, and I received them gratefully.
Luis, the fisherman attached to the Bellavista Hotel, arrived on the beach in the afternoon and he and Angela had a long serious conversation in Italian which I couldn't follow. He obviously admired her work and I photographed him with sections of it.
I wanted to write about Angela because she seems to me a model of a free-spirited but vulnerable woman who (apart from stealing a few flowers from private gardens) is quite without guile and yet strong and capable of surviving in a difficult world. I wish her as much success as possible in this life. I'm glad that I missed the boat to Capri - if I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the pleasure of meeting her.
Having enjoyed two hot days I was disappointed to find it raining and cold on Saturday. I decided to go to Sorrento on the bus, to say "Ciao" to my friend Giovanna in her shop in the Via dei Cesari and to buy a new adaptor plug because the one I had brought with me was damaged. As usual, I also took my folio, including some spare paper, and some drawing materials, just in case the weather cleared.
This was not a successful day. I found that Giovanna had not sold any more of my prints. The weather stayed cold and wet. I lost my umbrella and had to buy a new one for 3 euros (the one I lost had cost me 12 GBP at the airport, though). I spent 39 euros on a rainproof jacket that probably looks as cheap as it was.
I did manage to make an ink drawing in a break in the showers, down at the Marina Grande. I did find a cheap internet point. And I didn't miss the last bus back to Praiano. So on balance, this was not an unsuccessful day either.
The following day, Sunday, on the other hand, was great.
After the cold and rainy yesterday, the weather was perfect and I decided to go to Positano where I had made some friends last month. I took some drawing paper and a little canvas with me, and a few of my pieces of finished work, and set off into the village of Vettica Praiano to catch the bus. My pensione is about 10 minutes from the centre and though there is a bus stop in between, I wanted to do some things in the centre first.
I found a crowd of German holiday makers from the Bellavista Hotel waiting for the bus and within a few moments we realised that this was going to be a long wait. A car announcing the progress of a cycle race from Amalfi to Sorrento drove past, followed by two very fit racing cyclists, then a long pause.
We were all quite excited when a whole crowd of cyclists sped past, and we began clapping and cheering them on. It soon became clear that there were hundreds of competitors, strung out along the mountainous coast road, and that no buses would be coming by for quite a while.
We accepted the inevitable and settled down to cheer them all on as they went flying - or in some cases, toiling - past. We felt obliged to encourage all of them, especially the back-markers, some of whom looked too old or too well-fed to be cycling at 45 degrees up hills.
They responded variously by calling back "Grazie", waving an arm, taking both hands off the handlebars and looking very bouncy, or just gritting their teeth and trying to conserve their energy and breath (which is what I would have done in their place).
Eventually the bus arrived, an hour and a quarter late, and we were on our way.
Positano was in full holiday mode - quite a difference from the last time I had been there. That was on March 6th, when the streets were more like waterfalls and the sky was leaden. It was a cheerful sight this Sunday, down at the beach, where my artist friends greeted me warmly and asked me what my latest work was like. Pasquale Volpe, whom I had met two years ago, remembered me and was very encouraging about the pieces I had brought with me. He had some beautiful watercolour paintings of the town, which I admired. Pasquale has taken an art history course in England (Sheffield I think) and is full of praise for the English art education system. This is Pasquale...
And this is Domenico....
I went and found some boats on the beach because I'd decided to paint seascapes this week. I was soon involved in the painting. The sun was hot, the atmosphere was relaxed, and I was very happy. The colour sketch turned out reasonably well - rather impressionist, as might be expected.
Today I was using acrylic paint and it was drying almost as fast as I could dip the brush in it. Not an easy medium in the sun, but more convenient for carrying about, than oil paint, I found myself on a learning curve; I hadn't used acrylic paint for several years before this holiday.
At about four o'clock I decided to take a break and went to the restaurant on the beach that has an internet point and very sympathetic waiters. When I had finished my coffee, I asked the head waiter if I could draw the scene in the cafe. (I have been asked to paint a cafe scene by someone who visited my stall in Walton on Easter Monday and I thought the sketch might give me a starting point)
As I drew in pen and ink, adding customers and details as they came and went, I was encouraged by the attentions of a lot of people, of all ages. As often happens, an intense young person attached himself and watched my technique with such interest he seemed to be taking notes. He was about 12 and I was very glad to have his attention. I hope he will be a better artist than me one day.
There was talk of an exhibition of my Amalfi Coast work, at the art gallery attached to the restaurant, suggested by the manager of the restaurant. Watch this space, I thought, but don't hold your breath - there's many a slip twixt cup and lip as my grandma used to say.
It was very late when I left the beach restaurant and I was afraid I would miss the last bus home, so I called into the gallery where I had met Connie last month, because she lives only a few hundred yard from my pensione in Praiano. I helped her to pack up the display for the night, and she gave me a lift home when we finished at midnight. It was a long day, but a thoroughly enjoyable one.
Monday was hot again. I spent it on Praia beach, at the old Roman settlement. My technique with acrylic paint that dries in about 5 seconds flat was definitely improving. A small canvas, more boats, more rocks and another Martello tower, this time the one which is converted into a nightclub called the Afrikana Club. A very peaceful day, surrounded mostly by fishermen mending and painting their boats.
The weather next morning, Tuesday, was what in England we would call "iffy". It wasn't cold but there was a mist lying across the whole landscape so that the colours were muted and grey. The sky had blue patches but suspicious looking cloudy bits, so that it was hard to tell if it might or might not rain later.
I decided not to stray too far from the Casa Benvenuto, where I was staying, in case it rained, and as the light was very flat, without glare or deep shadows, I thought it would be a good day to draw the fantastic rock formation that I pass each day when I walk into Praiano village.
It's on a bend that goes round a deep cleft in the cliff called the Grotta di Diavolo. You emarge from a tunnel through the rock and to your left is the Devil's Grotto in a sheer sided inlet in the cliff; to your right is a huge formation of stalactites, like two enormous upturned crowns of thorns. Within the outer rings of spikes are inner rings, like teeth growing from the roof of huge open mouth. This is difficult to photograph without getting mown down by the traffic coming round the bend.
There's no pavement and little space at the sides of the bend when (as happens all the time in the holiday season) two buses are passing in opposite directions at once. I took my life in my hands, though, and installed myself. I had a morning of hooting traffic - not directed at me, but routine hooting as the drivers approached the tunnel and the Z bend.
I didn't finish the drawing because the sun came out at 11 o'clock and the light changed completely. For this drawing, in ink and white paint on a mid-toned paper, I needed consistent light. I thought I would be back there tomorrow morning. when the cliff was back in shadow.
So in the afternoon I perched on the wall at the other end of the tunnel and painted the beautiful view up the coast towards Amalfi. More hooting as cars and buses approached the tunnel. An Italian couple out for a day's outing stopped to photograph me and the painting so I asked them to take one on my camera too.
The painting is very high toned and I'm starting to worry that I shall run out of white acrylic paint . I'd forgotten how much is needed (even more than in oils) Perhaps I'll have to find out where the art suppliers' shops are in Naples before long.
On Wednesday it was too sunny to sit in the shade and draw rocks so I set off for Positano, intending to sit on the beach. While waiting for the bus, I had a pleasant chat with two German ladies who were newly arrived in Praiano. One of them said she had last been in Positano thirty years ago, when it was as quiet and unspoilt as Praiano. We agreed that it's probably the absence of a wide beach that saves Praiano from too much commercialisation.
Praiano is the only place where I don't mind hanging about for ages waiting for a bus. Unless I've got a plane to catch or it's pouring with rain, that is - and neither of those things was happening this morning. The sun was just exactly hot enough - not sweaty - I had nice people to talk to, and a stream of small incidents to look at.
The man who collects the litter with three donkeys, up and down the steps to the beach and above the road, came past and drove the poor creatures straight up the steps - they didn't hesitate, but I feared for their thin legs. (He carries a broom to clear up their litter behind them.)
Various small dogs came by, with and without their owners, and yelped in Italian dog language to each other. The old ladies across the road had a long conversation, about food (as usual.) The men stood in groups talking about cars (as usual).
Three cyclists came past waving (for a moment I feared another cycle race was following behind them, but they were just practising.)
When the bus came, the driver was one that I have seen in a furious temper before, but today he was friendly and patient when I put my ticket into the machine the wrong way up. It was one of those (good) days.
At Positano, I began to walk down the hill towards the beach, but I'd only gone a hundred yards down the hill when I found a perfect spot for a painting of the whole town, from the opposite direction from the one I had chosen last year. There was a wide pavement and I set up my easel and began.
Five hours later I was still there. The painting is only A3 size, but the view of the coast and the piled up houses is so complex that it needed a lot of concentration and an accurate drawing to begin with. The acrylic paint has to be applied in several layers if it is to work like oil paint, and I've complained before about the way it dries as I apply it.
Several people stopped to talk to me, including Debra from Vancouver who promised to write to me after we had been talking for a while. She doesn't use computers and I do hope I hear from her - getting "real" letters (or snail mail) is an old fashioned pleasure that I still enjoy. An American tourist asked me if I was selling my work. He was interested in paintings of the buildings, and I was surprised and pleased because painting buildings is something I enjoy but I thought seascapes would be more commercially successful.
At last I packed up and went on down the hill to the Buco di Bacca restaurant. It was late afternoon. Pasquale and Andrea were still painting on the beach and Domenico was watching his stall of prints and cards of his paintings. Pasquale's watercolours are very beautiful. He said he was selling well today and I wasn't surprised. He also told me where I might be able to buy white acrylic paint in Positano and offered to find a friend who ight be able to pass some on to me.
In the evening I went to the Internet cafe under the Buca di Bacca, wondering whether to splash out on a meal there or to go back to Praiano. There, at eight o'clock, I could buy a plate of chips or salad, a deep-fried veal or chicken cutlet and a bottle of Peroni from the "Oasi de Gusto" van that is parked and open every night at the Grotta di Diavolo. My apartment had a living room as well as a bedroom and bathroom, and most evenings I enjoyed using the place to the full, with a prosciutto and mozzarella roll, usually reading "Dune" (by Frank Herbert) which I had borrowed before I left.
The lovely weather continued in Italy as well as in England. On Thursday morning I decided to go into Positano again and to sit on the beach. I also wanted to see if I could get some more white paint. Connie at the Miniaci Gallery had said there was a shop near where I had stayed in March that kept some paints.
This time I waited for the bus at the stop nearest to the Casa Benvenuto, and got on a local Praiano - Positano bus, an orange one, as opposed to the blue or green Sita Amalfi - Sorrento one.
I found myself in the middle of a shouted conversation between the driver and two ladies of about my age, which to an English ear sounded more like the prelude to a fist fight but in fact was just three friends bantering with each other. Always courteous, one of them broke off mid-shout to fire a "Buon' giorno" in my direction and then continued her barrage of words without drawing breath.
Both ladies got off at a turning where the bus veered uphill in the centre of Priano and then the bus did what local buses tend to do everywhere - went on a tour of the entire village and arrived back at the stop where I had originally got on. This was fine, except that the traffic back into the centre was at a standstill.
We waited for ten minutes without moving, then the driver contacted the traffic warden who relayed back a message that there were five coaches trying to get past the parked cars that line both sides of the road through Praiano. Sure enough, one by one the five private buses came past us after who knows what fiendishly tricky manoeuvres had been accomplished round the corner in the village.
The rest of the journey was uneventful except for the normal near-misses as huge coaches, some with rear-view mirrors that stuck out in front like fighting bulls' horns, approached our puny bus at an unforgiving speed on the bends until the insistent hoots of our bus's horn made them pause for thought.
The shop in Positano only sold children's paints so I went on down to the beach. I wound down the hillside on the stepped streets, pausing at lovely views to take photos of the vistas of mountainside and sea and the pretty houses with wisteria and bourgainvillea beginning to come into full flower.
On the beach I found Pasquale and Domenico, who greeted me like an old friend. I had told Pasquale about my problem over running out of white acrylic paint, the day before, and he had said then that he would see if he could find someone who had some for me. (He is a watercolourist himself.) To my surprise and pleasure he had done that and I was able to buy a big pot of polymer titanium white from him. He would only accept 8 euros though it was a 10 euro pot, because it was open and some had been used. I promised to buy him a drink in return, and also to translate his flier into good English for him (he was aware that it needed doing).
I spent the rest of the day on the beach, near the sea, looking up at the heaped pink and yellow buildings, the green and yellow domed cathedral and the hunched crag that rises behind the town in an echo of its domes and arches. I was out of the way of most tourists, but there were a lot of families and young people on the beach.
At one point I was surrounded by students who were having a fine time on the beach - they were very considerate, refrained from having their water fight too close to where I was working and showed a genuine interest in my work until I had to tell them that I couldn't talk any more, I had to get on with the work. Another spectator was a charming lady from Oregon called Debbie, who was spending a few days in Italy while accompanying her son home from his French course in Switzerland. I didn't quite finish my painting before I went up the hill to catch the Sita bus back to Praiano.
Last night I had decided on the expensive option and had a delicious meal of gnocchi Minori style (with ricotta cheese mixed into the potato mixture) at the Ristorante del Pino, where Francesco takes a great pride in his cooking. He also serves honey with the cheese board - really delicious. It's the only independent restaurant in Praiano with a sea view on three of its sides. As I walked up the hill I wondered if the moon would be as beautiful tonight as it was last night - a thin sliver of light, lying on its back close to the horizon, while the sky near it glowed soft rose and peach colours. I resolved that tonight I should pick up a veal fillet and a bottle of Peroni from the Oasi del Gusto van at the Grotta del Diavolo.
Halfway through my holiday, and another seven days to enjoy - I felt very privileged to have such freedom. Part 2 of my diary will follow soon.
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