Middle-aged flash packers

We’ve adapted to our new abode and actually find our little home rather charming. I’ve decided I quite like the non fitted kitchen look. The distressed dresser looks really nice and there’s lots of room in it for pans etc. Never going to convince Steve though – he hates anything that looks cluttered – and I think a divorce is a bit extreme just to get the kitchen I want. 

The problem here is it’s so extremely hot. I never thought I would hear myself complain about heat, but it’s insanely hot. It hit 40degrees yesterday. The roads look as though they could become liquid at any moment and getting in the car makes hell seem an enticing prospect. As a result we are spending a lot more time around our accommodation than I expected.

Our host, Tonio, has decided that Steve and I need fattening up and brings us the most ridiculously enormous breakfast every morning. He leaves it outside for us on the sheltered table outside and it’s like Christmas every day unwrapping the paper to see what delights he’s left us this time.

Unfortunately for steve, he has a slightly dicky tum but feels obliged to wade through it all as he doesn’t want to appear ungrateful, or worse, incapable of eating it. 

Coming back to the heat, it’s made it very difficult to do anything. Sightseeing is a total no no, but we have forced ourselves to explore the coast a bit and to be honest, it’s ok but nothing special. 

The Italians themselves adore the beach. The weekend sees any patch of sand totally covered in bodies and sunshades. The prime sitting spot is right on the shoreline and people literally sit on each other’s laps to achieve this. No-one seems to mind this complete invasion of space. 

Late afternoon sees another surge of humanity as people finish work and take the family to enjoy some swimming and , of course, delicious Italian snacks. Everything is an eating experience here.

But life isn’t all good . As a tourist, it’s easy to think it’s all about La Dolce Vita, but scratch the surface a bit and (like everywhere) there’s quite a lot of bad too.

Illegal immigrants are a huge problem. I’m not calling them refugees because this doesn’t appear to be the case. Many of them are from poor but relatively stable African countries , (Senegal and Nigeria) they have come here to seek their fortunes , hoping to get out of Italy and get to the rich Northern European countries. Their own countries allow adverts and media to encourage them to take their chance for a life of milk and honey.

On arrival,the ones with enough money can buy fake passports and get out of Italy. The very poor immigrants (most are given money by their families as it’s seen as a good investment for the wealth they are going to send back to the family) and the vulnerable ones end up pretty much where they arrive. They are controlled by gangs and forced into beach hawking, prostitution and begging. 

We have seen the girls dressed in virtually nothing, standing by the side of the road in forty degree heat, waiting for someone to pick them up. No doubt any money they do earn goes straight into the gang’s pockets. 

We have seen the young men standing outside supermarkets begging for money. Again it’s organised. There’s always only one. 

We have seen the hawkers selling stuff no one wants , walking up and down the beach until 5.30pm when they all assemble at a point and are picked up en masse in a minibus. 

We have been told that nothing will change because both the mafia and the police are involved. Just to complicate matters even further, there are now gangs run by illegal Africans also peddling prostitution and organised crime. What a mess! 

Closer to home, Tonio and his wife Anna Maria are having to cope with a neighbour who is poisoning cats. 

The first we knew about it was when I heard Frida, (Tonio’s dog) whimpering and crying. I went to investigate and found her lying beside a dead cat. Frida was obviously fond of it as she wouldn’t move from its body until we located Tonio. That’s when Tonio told us that so far he had come across three other dead cats one of which wasn’t quite dead when he found it and had suffered terribly. He says it’s definitely his neighbour to the right of the  property.

He has reported it to the carabinieri but they need “proof”. How about 4 dead cats all in the same location? How about having a look in the neighbours garden for poison? The globalisation of rubbish police forces eh?

Anyway, I don’t want to bring you all down and maybe we should all carry on wearing our rose tinted spectacles and pretend that our holiday places are so much nicer than our own country. Personally though travel has made me realise that however flawed we might think dear old Blighty is, it’s really a pretty good place to live.

Right back to my chick lit ; I wonder what I should have for lunch?