Four days in Vancouver and environs

How can you possibly do this great part of the world justice in just four days?  Basically by picking the eye teeth out of the attractions.  Here’s how we did it.

Day 1 – Grouse Mountain and Capilano

Joy – it’s not raining.  Just a bit of cloud.  We hop on the bus north to Grouse Mountain, renowned for hiking, mountain biking and of course in winter, skiing and snowboarding.

I was last there in December 2005 hoping to do the Grouse Grind, a 2.5 km trail climbing 800m straight up the mountain.  Sadly I was confronted by a large sign:

 

Here it is summer of 2026 and I’m good to go, taking Pauline (and Sam’s pet monkey) with me.

 

Just a few little problems.  Back then I was super-fit.  Advance 21 years and I’m an unfit pensioner with a steel plate in my ankle.  Pauline looks a bit dubious too, but monkey was keen to go.

Perhaps we’ll take the gondola to the top instead for the views.  I look up to see the gondola cables ascending into swirling gloom, and we agree to not spend $200 to see the inside of a cloud.

A gentle walk along the BMC trail instead, taking in the Western Hemlock, Douglas Fir and Western Red Cedars as we step over the rocks and roots.  There’s a certain sameness to North American cedars, and the deep shade and toxic soil they create means there’s very little undergrowth.  A strong contrast to the variety we see in kiwi bush.

Back down the hill to the Capilano Suspension Bridge – another revisit for me.  The bridge and treetop walk are as spectacular as ever,

and now they’ve added a Clifftop walk as well. 

I’m still puzzling why Pauline posed me here.

 

In case you’re wondering about the suspension bridge, it was constructed in 1889 by George Grant Mackay, a Scottish civil engineer.  Just like the chicken crossing the road, he wanted to get to the other side.

There’s a gift shop (of course) on the way out.  Noting I don’t have a Canada sticker on my suitcase I pop in to get one, even if it means blowing a couple of dollars.  No stickers.  However Pauline did spot a collection of fine hand-crafted buffalo leather handbags.  “This old army surplus bag I bought in Wellington years ago has had its day”, she says with a gleam in her eye.  We exit the shop $220 lighter, and Pauline is delighted.

On our way back to the BnB we note how Vancouver is very much like Auckland, a port city but on a grander scale.  The commercial heart is on the south side, with residential on the North Shore (where unlike Auckland you can actually cycle across the bridges).  Our area seems a bit scruffy though – many lawns are unkempt, weeds grow in the gutters, and the houses are looking a bit tired.  “A bit like Glenfield”, I remark, and get a swift slapping from Pauline.

But apart from the obvious of the traffic driving on the wrong side of the road, there are a few other things that set Vancouver apart from Auckland:

• Metre-high fire hydrants.  Perfect for dogs to mark their patch
• Squirrels darting up trees, and crows cawing from the power lines
• Bear-proof rubbish bins
• Heaps of Teslas but no Chinese EVs
• An efficient ferry and metro system
• Electric jugs that take an eternity to boil.  At 110V in North America you can only push 14A down a domestic wire, so jugs are 1500W vs our 2400W.  Pauline can get grumpy if her cup of tea is delayed, so this one’s important.  I think of the economic cost.  Half a billion people waiting an extra minute for the jug to boil four times a day.  That’s 3,800 man-years of lost productivity every day.  Or more to the point, 3,800 grumpy woman years.

 

Day 2 – Victoria and Vancouver Island

Why Victoria?  I’ll let AI answer this one:

Victoria is the capital of British Columbia, located on the southern tip of Vancouver Island, and it blends historic architecture, coastal scenery, gardens, and a compact, walkable downtown. It’s consistently described as one of Canada’s most beautiful and visitor‑friendly small cities.

Indeed it is.  What the blurb doesn’t tell you is that it’s a real mission to get there.  Hop on a ferry in Vancouver harbour and disembark in Victoria?  You have to be kidding!  It’s a train – bus – ferry – bus sequence to get there.  Each leg takes a significant amount of time, and Vancouver’s amazingly efficient Compass transit card doesn’t work on Vancouver Island.

We’d initially planned to combine the Butchart Gardens with Victoria, but quickly realised we’d run out of time with only a day at our disposal, so the gardens got the chop.  After an early start we arrive at lunchtime after an hour-long bus trip from the ferry terminal.  Standing pretty much the entire way as the bus was so full.  No scenery to speak of on the way either.

The ferry trip was better – we could actually sit down, and enjoy the islands as we approached.  I was a little concerned we were sailing over a very small triangle of USA territory, and had visions of the ferry being boarded by US Marines, passengers interrogated, and me locked in a Texas cell due to some of my social media followings.  This at a time of heightened Canada/USA tensions with Canada walking away from an unfair trade deal, and the Americans ramping up tariffs.  The disdain, bordering on contempt that normally mild-mannered Canadians have for the Trump administration is palpable.

But Victoria is a gem, and well worth the visit.

And of course no visit to Victoria is complete without seeing Fan Tan Alley in Chinatown, famous for being the narrowest street in Canada.

 

I wasn’t looking forward to the return trip to Vancouver, and was sorely tempted to blow $200 on a float plane.  Common sense prevailed, and we queue up at the bus stop.  Canadians are so polite they apologise when bumping into furniture, and queue along with the rest of us.  Not so an aggressive group of Chinese tourists who push in in front of us as we’re about to board.  Pauline signals them to the end of the queue.  “Oh we have friend on bus” as they march on.  Standing room for me as we head back to the ferry terminal.  Should have taken the plane!

Day 3 – seeing Vancouver city

Having explored the city environs, it was time to focus on the city itself.  It’s too big to walk, so the obvious solution is to bike it.  Despite being a heavily motorised city, Vancouver is blessed with an excellent network of protected cycle lanes, cycle-friendly crossings, and off-road paths.  From the heart of town we hire an e-bike for Pauline and conventional pedal power for me.  A good combination – while Pauline blitzes me on the uphills I catch up on the downhills.

First up, the totems at Stanley Park.

While the geese remind us which country we’re in.

Lunch and plenty of attractions on Granville Island, but the highlight for me was a country singer/harpist, with a Gordon Lightfoot song peculiarly poignant.

A backtrack to Kitsilano was barely worth it, but if you go to Vancouver you have to say you’ve been to Kits Beach.  By kiwi standards it’s nothing to write home about, so we continued our trek around the False Creek harbourside to return to Stanley Park.

By now we’ve covered just under 40km, and Pauline’s bum is starting to protest.  My suggestion to cycle over the Lion’s Gate Bridge isn’t well-received, so we head back to the bike shop with an hour to spare.

That means we can squeeze in a quick excursion to Gastown to see the clock, but more on that tomorrow.  We head back on the ferry for a slap-up meal at a well-regarded seafood restaurant close to Lonsdale Quay.  We always try and eat and drink local, so I choose a Sockeye salmon washed down with a pinot noir, while Pauline has the Halibut and a pinot gris.  Both wines perfectly acceptable, but lacking the depth and complexity of their kiwi equivalents.  The halibut is fine, and the salmon not as oily or flavoursome as the kiwi variety, but perfectly acceptable.  The standout is the octopus though, which we share for an entrée.

Day 4 – flying out

Our run of cloudy/fine weather has come to an end, and we wake to grey skies and light rain.  We don’t need to be at the airport until 6pm so have a leisurely checkout and head into town.

There are no baggage lockers at the terminal, so seek out a couple of options.  BagsAway in Howe St is close.  Expecting to see a large bank of lockable lockers, we find ourselves in a small convenience store at the base of the PWC building.  “Yes yes – this is BagsAway”.  We dubiously check in our bags, noting a bunch of others in the storeroom behind the counter.  It worked perfectly.

First stop the Gastown steam clock.  Built in 1977 to prevent vagrants from hanging around a steam vent, the clock is an engineering marvel.

It “chimes” just like a grandfather clock every 15 minutes, but the chimes are actually steam whistles.  Midday sees it at its most spectacular as it goes on to produce 12 steam blasts that echo around the neighbourhood.

But the best place to spend time is the Dr Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden.  An oasis of calm in the bustling heart of Vancouver, with just the odd siren or train rattle intruding to break the serenity.

 

Can Canadians now do a flat white?

As we sit in the departure lounge at YVR we can reflect on a fantastic four days in British Columbia, and respond to a 21 year old question.  When I was last here the local cafes had no idea what a flat white was.  The closest I could get was to ask for a 12oz double-shot latte, easy on the foam.

The situation has improved, but not markedly.

 

Espresso machines still aren’t common, but occasionally you’ll find a café with one, and even more occasionally a signboard offering a flat white.

But don’t get your hopes up.  Kiwi baristas have mastered the art of stretching quality milk into an ultra-fine, velvety microfoam.  Combined with a double shot of espresso from quality beans the result is flat white perfection.  While some Canadian efforts come close, most fall well short.  Let’s see what the London baristas can do.  Stay tuned!

Postscript: for the best NZ flat white look no further than Jim and Jenny’s Kotare Mara Rural Coffee Stop in rural Waihou near Te Aroha.  Just round the corner from where Pauline and I live.  We certainly lucked out there!

Captain’s Log, Stardate 2026.08.30 - Vancouver

Has it really been 12 years since I last applied fingers to keyboard?  It seems as though Pauline and I have travelled at warp speed across the space/time continuum since then.  Let's do a little recap.

In my last post the Proon had concluded on our return to Auckland from Europe via Hong Kong and Macau.  Proon?  You'll have to do a little back-reading to understand that one...

What have we done since then?

• We got married, and to my delight Pauline is still putting up with me more than a decade later
• We both collected our Gold cards.  More delight in that the Government is actually paying us money for a change
• Pauline started, executed and completed a successful, if short-lived, career in kitchen design
• I concluded 30 years of IT project management, and now consider myself a general consulting geek/nerd, not quite fully retired
• We exited Auckland's rat race and built a new eHaus on an acre of land in rural Waihou near Te Aroha, the guest wing of which is rented out through Airbnb
• Continuing the sustainability theme, we invested in solar, an EV, home automation, robotics, and two manic chooks.  Well - down to two - the rest progressively died despite our best intentions as chooks are wont to do.

But the desire for travel never really leaves.  We'd both been to England before, but in separate lives.  Wouldn't it be great to do it together, but exploring out of the way places rather than the tourist hot spots?  And neither of us have been to Ireland - a mist‑soft, story‑rich island where ancient stones, wild Atlantic coastlines, and warm, musical towns weave together into a landscape that feels both timeless and vividly alive.  Thank you AI, that's enough for now.

Planning progressed in earnest over July and August.  Passports current - check.  Remote access - check.  eSIMs - check.  Wise card - check.  eTAs - check.  Termination of two feathered stock units nearing end of life, one of which had stopped laying - check.  Oops - hold that last one.

My solution to dispatch the chooks did not go down well with Pauline.  "You're not a farmer dealing in stock units, Steve.  You can't just kill our chooks for your convenience because they're elderly.  They're our beloved pets!"  Pause for thought.  My mind went back to my childhood on a dairy farm in the Waikato.  Mum would grab a chook out of the hen house, chop off its head with a hatchet, plunge it into hot water, pluck it, gut it, and have it as the Sunday roast that evening, with giblet gravy.  Pauline is not my Mum.

Ok - but who's going to look after them while we're away?  The anguished call went out, and to Pauline's great relief her brother and sister-in-law agreed to drop by periodically to make sure they were fed, watered, and de-mucked.  They generously agreed to look after our indoor plants too.  Thank you John and Nat!

Final packing underway and the call comes down from Auckland.  "Sam can't find his toy monkey.  Did he leave it at your place?"

"Do you have anything to declare, sir?"

"Yes - a monkey..."

Fortunately we made it through Vancouver customs and find ourselves in a lovely Airbnb in North Vancouver.  Three full days to explore this beautiful city at our leisure.  Pauline's never been here before, but I was here 20 years ago.  I wonder if they've learnt to do a proper flat white?

Hong Kong and home

30 November. Our final day in Italy, in Europe. The trip’s coming to an end - now it’s the homeward leg.

We saw Rome the last time we were in Europe. It’s a big sprawling city, and I’m not keen to return. Once you’ve seen the artworks in the Vatican, the Colosseum, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps you’ve pretty much done Rome. Ok I might be accused of being a heretic, or a peasant, but that’s my opinion. Perhaps if we were there on a sunny Sunday we could cycle the Appian Way, but it’s not going to happen this time.

So we’re staying at Parco Leonardo, just one train stop from Rome’s Fiumicino airport. It’s comfortable, it’s quiet, it’s economical, and it’s practical for our morning flight. Even better, there’s a huge shopping mall over the road, not that there’s a lot to buy.

Arriving in Hong Kong is like revisiting an old friend. It’s a bit like flying in to the Northcote Shopping Centre, only a little bigger and with worse traffic.

And it’s the first city on our entire trip where we don’t immediately give ourselves away as tourists as soon as we open our mouths.

During our last visit we stayed in Mong Kok in a tiny apartment where there wasn’t enough room to swing a cat. This time we’ve gone up-market, and our apartment is on the island within easy reach of the central train stations and ferry terminals.

Even better, we’re on Graham St where the local food market’s located. You’re not going to get a more authentic introduction to old Hong Kong than this. The apartment’s still not huge. A swing of five cats tied end to end would mark out the main living space, though it would probably be fairly noisy.

We don’t have a big agenda for Hong Kong. It’s more just a bit of shopping and R&R at the end of the trip. But one place we missed last time was Macau.

Situated across the bay to the west, Macau is another SAR (Special Autonomous Region) ceded back to China in 1999 by the Portuguese, who had been there since the 1500s.

But a substantial blight on this otherwise delightful island are the gaudy and ostentatious hotels and casinos that first started springing up in the 1960s. It would be fair to say many Chinese have a penchant for gambling, and in the absence of casinos in Hong Kong and the mainland, Macau is rather popular. So much so the 15 minute frequency ferry service from Hong Kong is about to be superseded by a 50km bridge. Sad really.

Like Hong Kong the motorised traffic in Macau is dominant and it’s not that pleasant to get around on foot unless you’re in the middle of the old town.

It’s got a long way to go to becoming pedestrian and cycle friendly.

The fort is a welcome relief, rising above the traffic and crowds.

Built initially to protect the nearby church (of which only the facade remains after a fire), the fort was repurposed to protect the island from the Dutch, which its large number of cannons did extremely well.

I’m helping to do a bit of repurposing myself - the cannons for Gamblers Anonymous.

True to form our last evening in a city sees us splash out on local cuisine at a good restaurant. When we were last in Hong Kong we found Cicada, just off the Mid-levels escalator. They did an excellent range of Cantonese dishes, and I’m hoping we can do a repeat. Sadly where they were is now just a large hole in the ground pending the construction of a hotel, so we look elsewhere.

As luck would have it, we find Chilli Fagara quite close to our apartment, and despite the Reserved signs on the tables, they agree to seat us. Very small, authentic Szechuan which means bold flavours, and with a real chilly bent - three levels of chilli in fact (tang, ma and la), in increasing hotness. We choose one of each, and it would be fair to say that by the end of the evening we’re breathing the fire of a Chinese dragon, and my beer runs out a couple of mouthfuls too early.

Very tasty food though, but right on the very limit between pleasure and pain. When we get back to the apartment and look them up on the Internet we discover they’re well regarded with great reviews, have just been awarded a Michelin star, and are expanding into a second restaurant. Lucky we got in indeed.

Arriving in Auckland we’re met by Pauline’s Dad and whisked home. It’s good to be back. I’m eight weeks shaggy and desperately need to visit Bob the Barber, followed by a shower, and an appointment for new hearing aids - my old ones expired in Europe. Then there’s Christmas to look forward to.

But most of all it’s good to be home to get back in touch with friends and family, and to get back on two wheels again. If there’s one thing travelling does, it’s to remind us just how good home is. And it gives us a breather so we can start planning the next trip. Mightn’t be for a while though. 2015 has other priorities. 

 I’m delighted you agreed to marry me Pauline. Hope you enjoyed our Proon.

A return to Florence

Author’s note: if you’re religious and easily offended, don’t read this post.

As the train speeds north through the Tuscan countryside, I’m contemplating my third (and Pauline’s second) return to Florence. Already been there and done the sights. Why return? Does it have anything to do with the boar’s snout?

I don’t know exactly what it is, but Florence is just a great place to be.

Sure it has the beautifully ornate cathedral, the Uffizi filled with priceless artistic treasures, Michelangelo’s David, fine palaces bordering the piazzas, and spectacular monuments commemorating Florence’s past.

But it’s more than that. It has a vibe, a feel to it, a sense of purpose, The heart of the city is compact and very walkable, with only a few residents’ vehicles and taxis to dodge. And the Vespas and cyclists of course, which regard themselves as honorary pedestrians when it comes to traffic lights.

So once you’ve done the major sights, the best thing to do is just chill out and enjoy walking everywhere, ducking into the shops and cafes, visiting the markets (choosing the very best gorgonzola), and seeing an unexpected tower, church, statue or square as you round the next corner.

The people are friendly, and it feels good.

Three yeas ago we dropped by Palazzo Strozzi for an art exhibition, and as luck would have it, there was another to our taste in progress - Picasso.

It’s impossible to describe the awe I feel when looking at his work, including a number of studies for Guernica. Quite simply the man was a genius.

With the Duomo under our belt from three years ago, it’s time to tackle the Campanile. No longer used as a bell tower, its primary purpose is to entice tourists to part with 10 euros to sweat up 400 steps and see the view. And spectacular it is, particularly for a closeup of the ornately marbled Duomo itself.

Having seen the major attractions, it gives us the opportunity to stumble over the lesser known (and less crowded) attractions, with the Convent of San Marco being a case in point. Now a museum, I’m interested to see the Fra Angelico frescoes. Why? I’m not at all religious, but I’m interested in the power art wielded in historical times, with my interest first whetted when I visited the Duomo three years ago.

Consider a poor, illiterate peasant in the middle ages. He’s tithed so a proportion of his income goes to the church, and he pays more to be baptised, married or buried. The church is not only enormously wealthy, it is the repository of learning and literacy, and promotes a dogma with which no one can argue. It builds grand monuments to itself, and pays to have them decorated with elaborate frescoes reinforcing its message.

The painting of Judgement Day at San Marco is a case in point.

Here the believers are separated from the “sinners”. The believers are elevated to a cherubic heaven, while those who don’t quite make the grade are savaged by pitchforks, run through with spears, devoured by monsters, cannibalise each other and themselves, and are boiled in pots in Hell’s fire. Lovely stuff. What’s a poor peasant coerced to think? And of course if he did have the misfortune to voice a rational thought, it (and he) was quickly snuffed out.

Fortunately we live in more enlightened secular times, where rationality, scientific reason and the experimental method have relegated religious dogma to a historical cultural curiosity. Or have we? Wars are still being fought by people who think the way they worship their non-existent God is better than the way someone else worships their non-existent God, or chooses to worship a rabbit’s foot, or nothing at all. And people are dying because of this?

It perpetuates in religious schools where vulnerable children are indoctrinated with this stuff, and the schools have the gall to put their hands out for taxpayer funding. I see the Destiny Church’s application to run a Charter School has been rejected - at least reason prevails in some instances. How about we teach kids in a secular environment until they’re 18, then they can make an informed choice of how many gods they want to worship, ranging from zero to 330 million if they choose to be Hindu.

Humankind still has a long way to go.

To provide balance in this place of bloody crucifixion portrayals, there are some lighter moments.

Here Christ flattens the devil under a door as he wafts in.

But I digress. Moving on from San Marco, I’m keen to drop in at a motorcycle accessory shop. I’d like to buy a pair of bike boots that are stylish enough to wear to work, and Italy with its design flair should be the place to buy them. I look up the websites of a number of shops. They’re all open from 9 to 7 on a Friday, and Motorama on the eastern side of town is accessible given we want to go on to Piazzale Michelangelo over the river for the views back over Florence.

We arrive at Motorama at 2pm. I should have guessed - this is Italy where customer service counts for nought. Closed between 1pm and 3pm. Nice of them to not bother mentioning it on their website. Buggered if I’m going to hang round for an hour to spend 200 euros with a shop that doesn’t give a rat’s arse about its potential customers. I’ll search harder and buy my boots at home. Barrys Point Rd doesn’t close for an afternoon siesta on working days.

We sweat to the top of the hill and get to Piazzale Michelangelo.

Fantastic views, and I cheer myself up with a street vendor ice cream. Not a good choice, but it’s cold and sweet. Pizza down the hill and proper ice-cream at a Gelato shop past the Ponte Vecchio cheers me up even more.

Back home via Il Porcellino. I tease Pauline by just pretending, but she won’t have a bar of it and clamps my hand onto the boar’s snout.

  

Looks like we’re destined to return to Florence.

Florence is giving me a few more ups and downs this time. I still love the city, but it’s just dropped a peg over the last three years. Perhaps most noticeable is the increase in both the number of beggars and the amount of graffiti, though nowhere near Naples’ level. It seems the whole of Italy is coming under more economic pressure. It’s not a basket-case like Greece, but like Spain and Portugal it’s teetering on the brink. Product design and manufacture is great - just think of Ducati, Aprilia, MV, Cagiva, Moto Guzzi, Vespa, Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, Alfa, and Fiat.

But it’s the lack of organisation and customer service that lets the country down. Most noticeably for us it’s the trains that don’t run on time and we end up missing connections and continually advising our hosts we’re going to be late. A real contrast to German and Austrian trains - you can usually set your watch by them.

Perhaps it’s just the Italian psyche. Returning to a religious theme, there’s an old joke that’s been around for decades.

Heaven is where:
The police are British
The chefs are Italian
The mechanics are German
The lovers are French
and it's all organised by the Swiss.

Hell is where:
The police are German
The chefs are British
The mechanics are French
The lovers are Swiss
and it's all organised by the Italians.

Not too far wrong.

Italian cuisine is certainly good, but it’s stuck in a time warp. Nothing changes. There are classic dishes, but they remain classics unchanged over time. What I admire about NZ cuisine, as exemplified by Pauline through her devouring of Cuisine mags, is that kiwis take the best of the best from all around the world and enhance it with constant innovation, strong flavours and the freshest of ingredients. Just one of the many reasons I’m marrying this woman.

If she’s willing to stick with an opinionated old curmudgeon like me, that is.

So what’s next for the peripatetic itinerants? Has nostomania kicked in, or are we going to extend our travels?

The festive lights are all up, the cities are looking lovely after dark, and it would be great to have a white Christmas as winter starts to bite. Spain, Portugal and Morocco are nice at this time of year too if we wanted to follow the sun. Or we could return to Santorini or Rhodes, which we loved. Maybe even Cappadocia which we missed when we were in Turkey.

Sadly the tickets are booked and we’ll be home in a week via Hong Kong. I’ve got a project to run, and so too has Pauline - it’s called a wedding. I’ve skilfully delegated all the detail to her. Just tell me where to stand and when to say “I do”. Sorted.

We’ve cleverly missed the spring squalls back home, and I’m looking forward to shedding layers as we head into a kiwi summer. Shedding the lard layer and getting my body back into shape is on the agenda too.

So stay tuned. One more post from Hong Kong, then a Tramp Abroad will go quiet. For a while.

Sorrento and surrounds

It’s Friday 21 November. We’re heading south from Rome towards Naples, and I’m a bit cautious. Naples has a poor reputation with tourists - a big impoverished city run by the Camorra (local mafia), hopelessly in debt, garbage stacking up on the streets because they’ve run out of landfills, landmarks defaced by graffiti, and petty crime rife. Stories of pickpockets abound, and scooter pillions who’ll wrestle your shoulder bag from you or rip a necklace from your throat. Some describe it as the arsehole of Italy.

It can’t be as bad as that, can it? There are a few who say the crime is over-hyped, and it’s no worse than you’d get in any big city. Nikki visited a few months ago without problems, but did concede a level of grunge-chic.

We arrive at Napoli Centrale, and buy our Unico Artecards. Eurail doesn’t cover the private railway that runs from Naples to Sorrento, so we buy Aretcards which give us three days of unlimited travel in the Unico Campana region, and include entry to two of the many museums available, including Pompeii. The idea of avoiding the ticket queues at these attractions sounds good. Clever marketing here.

It’s 3pm and we drop down to the Napoli Garibaldi station on the Circumvesuviana line that will take us to Sorrento. It’s like descending into hell. There are no lifts or down-escalators, so we lug heavy suitcases down the steps into a seething mass of sweaty humanity. There’s graffiti everywhere - in the station and on the trains, with no attempt to clean it off.

I double-check that my valuables are tucked away in my bag or behind zipped or domed pockets. With a large suitcase in tow it’s impossible to be inconspicuous.

The train arrives and it’s already full. A few people get off, then there’s a general scramble for a place, with a lot of jostling as we wrestle our suitcases towards the open door.

I feel a little tug on my jacket, and look down to see a hand deftly sliding into the now undomed pocket. I spin around as I grab at my chest, and see a swarthy but unassuming middle-aged man melt away into the crowd. That was close. Nothing stolen.

We bash shins as we lug our suitcases over the threshold into the train and find a place to stand over them. I’m on high alert, and everyone around me is a potential pickpocket or mugger. It’s sweltering but I zip my jacket up tighter so I can more easily feel if someone’s going for a pocket.

I’m starting to think those who call Naples the arsehole of Italy are right, and the Circumvesuviana line is the diarrhoea trail to the south. Our first stop is Via Gianturco, which I’m sure loosely translates as giant turd. A few stops on is Bellavista - what a joke. Nothing good-looking about this place. It’s black with graffiti.

By the time we get to Herculaneum I manage to get a (nasty plastic) seat with Pauline and recount what happened. We’re both incredulous that the main tourist route from Naples to Herculaneum, Pompeii and Sorrento is such an excruciating experience. The railway treats its passengers with contempt, and the passengers in turn treat the railways and other passengers with contempt. Surely things can only get better from here, and we’re dreading taking this line again for the return trip, particularly the section closer to Naples.

We get to Teresa’s apartment in Sorrento, have a cup of tea, feel the stress start to melt away, and plan our next three days.

Sorrento’s a nice little town, particularly now the Christmas decorations are out. It’s glorious weather too - good call leaving the fog and rain of Florence till later. With our Artecards we’ll do Pompeii and Herculaneum tomorrow, the Amalfi Coast on Sunday, and the Isle of Capri on Monday. Sorted.

With new-found vigour we board the train to Pompeii, disembark past all the touts trying to flog us maps and tours, and head for the entrance. Being the low season the queues at the ticket office aren’t huge, but we’re feeling smug as we bypass them and head direct to the entry portal with Artecards in hand. What happens next should have been expected - this is Italy after all. “No, you can’t enter with those. You have to return to the ticket office and get them validated, and tickets specifically for Pompeii issued”. I restrain myself to some extent, but the attendant is left under no illusion that I’m not impressed by how Italy treats tourists.

But once inside, it’s great. Pauline and I spend a couple of hours wandering up the cobbled streets.

 Vesuvius looms ominously in the background.

It was AD79 when Vesuvius erupted, burying this thriving town of 20,000 people under 10m of volcanic ash and mud, and forming an excellent time capsule of what life was like in Roman times.

Interesting that the larger houses owned by the wealthy are up near the top of the hill, while smaller poorer houses are towards the bottom. The reason’s quite logical when you think about it - the sanitation systems weren’t great in those days, and the sewers got smellier as the shit slowly flushed down hill. The same thing happens in modern times of course. Economists call it the trickle-down effect.

Perhaps the highlight of Pompeii is the lupanar (literally wolf den).

This one is actually the Lupanare Grande, the largest of 35 lupanares unearthed in Pompeii, which equates to approximately one brothel per 71 adult males. Two stories high and with 10 rooms, it was conveniently located close to the Forum, in a rough triangle with the Theatre quarter and the Temple quarter. I suppose you’d watch a bawdy show in the amphitheatre, have it off with a lupa, then repent your lusty desires at the Temple of Apollo.

As Pauline and I are lingering over the erotic paintings on the wall, I remark that it’s clear Pompeii was buried in pre-Christian times as there isn’t a missionary amongst them. I didn’t mean for my comment to be overheard, but an English guy behind us cracked up. He was still grinning in our direction a couple of monuments later.

It’s hard work doing Pompeii in the hot sun. The place is huge, and there’s a lot to see.

I’m feeling a little jaded by the end of it, and Pauline’s developing a headache which has the hallmarks of a developing migraine, so we cut for home on the Circumvesuviana without seeing Herculaneum.

We’re a couple of stops south when a young guy gets on. He casually pulls out a blue felt pen, and tags the inside of the window. No one bats an eyelid. He gets off at the next station, and tags the outside of the window in full view of all the embarking and disembarking passengers. No one bats an eyelid. This place is going to the dogs. No - it’s worse than that - dogs are civilised in comparison.

Arriving back at the apartment early gives me an opportunity to plan Sunday’s activities along the Amalfi Coast. Hugging the coast for 70 twisty kilometres from Sorrento to Salerno, the route looks like a motorcyclist’s paradise. I consult the on-line forums. “Don’t do it, you’ll die” was the overwhelming commentary. Given I don’t have an International Driving Permit, my travel insurance limits me to a bike under 200cc, and Pauline’s desire to marry a living human being rather than an assortment of body parts, I reluctantly put the idea aside. We’ll go by bus.

After consulting the latest on-line bus timetable, I have it all figured out. 8.30am bus to Amalfi via Positano, a coffee in Amalfi, a return bus to Positano where we’ll have lunch, then back to Sorrento. All the times carefully entered into Tripit so we won’t miss a departure.

We rock up to the bus stop and board the bus for Amalfi, carefully choosing seats on the right hand side of the bus for the views out over the coast. A couple of Italians come to board, and we hear the word “Positano”, but they then disembark. Strange.

The bus heads for Meta as per the timetable, then instead of returning to the coast for Positano it climbs inland. Some fantastic views and not a bad trip, but it rejoins the coast road past Positano before arriving at Amalfi. I figured I’d misread the timetable and routes. I ask the driver when the next bus leaves from Amalfi for Positano. 2.30pm. Ok - not as per the timetable. Better check at the bus information office.

“There is no bus to Positano. The road is kaput. Cars can get through, but not buses”. Now I understand why our morning route went inland, but why didn’t the bus driver say anything? And now we’re here, how do we get back to Sorrento? “Take the 12.30pm bus to Salerno, regional train to Naples, then back on the Circumvesuviana to Sorrento. Or the 5pm bus to Sorrento”. Aargh - not what we wanted. Surely there’s another way? We ask others - bus drivers, the waiter at the cafe, we consult timetables. Yes, there might be a bus to Positano, but nowhere can we get consistent information about what’s going on and what’s possible. Customer service for tourists is appalling.

But Amalfi’s a nice little town.

A peloton has just arrived, and as cyclists know the best place for a coffee and snack, we choose the same cafe. All is excellent, but the coffee’s a little cool - probably suits a flying stop.

We decide to cut our losses. Rather than get stuck in Amalfi, we take the bus to Salerno at 12.30, and it’s a great trip along the coast. It more than meets expectations. The train to Naples takes us on the eastern side of Vesuvius, and we get to see a bit more of the countryside. Without suitcases we blend in with the locals and don’t have any trouble running the gauntlet of the Circumvesuviana.

So we missed Positano, and were frustrated by the Italian transport system and abysmal communication, but otherwise we had a great day.

Our final route could actually have been planned that way, and we have a great bunch of photos for the library.

Of course if we’d been on a bike we’d have done the whole coast road and back. For a competent motorcyclist it’s no trouble at all. So long as you can handle hairpins and take evasive action periodically, it’s a great ride. And if you get scared, all you’ve got to do is sit behind a bus and let it bulldoze errant motorists out of the way. Perhaps I’ll come back and ride it one day.

Day three on the coast, and it’s time to visit the Isle of Capri. My parents were here nearly half a century ago on a Mediterranean cruise, and I wonder if I’m retracing their footsteps at all. But my first thought is are we even going to get to the island? The online timetables say the ferries are running and the sea is like a millpond, but I continue to remind myself that this is Italy. Something has to go wrong. But it doesn’t.

The guidebooks say Capri is the pits at the height of the season, with gawky tourists looking for the rich and famous, but only finding their prices.

We arrive at the port and take the funicular up to Capri township. What a relief. Gucci, Prado and other up-market stores line the streets. It’s clean, it’s cool, there’s no graffiti, and the views are to die for. I can see why the Roman emperors Augustus and Tiberius liked it so much as their holiday hideaway. Give me money and I’ll happily live here.

We do a lovely walk out to the Arco Naturale on the eastern side of the island.

The arch, the remains of a collapsed limestone grotto, is stunning. Why can’t the rest of Italy be like this? Clean, safe, attractive, on time… Is this just the preserve of the rich and famous in Italy?

We hop on the minibus to Anacapri on the western side and take the 12 minute chair lift up to Monte Solaro for more great views.

This place is fantastic. But we can’t do everything. We have neither time nor inclination to do the Blue Grotto for which Capri is famed, but which many say is nothing special and an expensive ripoff. It’s a bit like a gondola ride in Venice. Large amounts of money for what in the end is a ho-hum experience. A sea cave with blue light? A ride in a little boat? Hmm - I’d rather go kayaking around NZ’s coastline.

Lunch in a pleasant cafe in Anacapri isn’t too expensive.

I bathe my face in the weak afternoon sun thinking life can’t get much better. But I still have a nagging feeling that the return ferry may be cancelled. Spurning the funicular, we walk back down to the port, and the ferry leaving for Sorrento is right on time. We enjoy dinner in a local seafood restaurant that nearly rivals Pescheria Backi in Salzburg. All is good. A day of bliss in Italy.

In an email from my sister I subsequently discover that Mum and Dad did indeed do the Blue Grotto and really enjoyed it. Perhaps when I come back to bike the Amalfi Coast I’ll squeeze in the grotto as well.

Where to from here?  We’re trying to work the itinerary so we can overnight in a trulli house. They’re ancient Apulian small round houses of stone with a conical roof, and Pauline rather fancies staying in one. But located in the heel of Italy’s boot, it’s just too much of a logistical challenge to get there and still do justice to Florence.

Having run the gauntlet of Circumvesuviana a final time, with our valuables stowed deep in our shoulder bags, we set our sights for Florence. The weather doesn’t look that great, but it doesn’t matter. There can be a howling gale in Florence and we’ll still love it, but the extra time does perhaps give us the opportunity for a day trip.

Would we go back to Naples? Not if we could help it. We’d find some other way to get to parts of the south coast. It’s a shame. Naples used to be a proud, wealthy city. Over time it’s become economically depressed, the people impoverished and the mafia has taken over. Avoid it like the plague.

Venice - Italy redeemed

After an ignominious start to our Italian adventure, Venice is making up for it in spades.

We set off on Tuesday morning, 18 November, in glorious sunshine.

The markets are bustling, boats are cruising up and down the canals, and the odd gullible tourist has been sucked in to a gondola ride.

I stop off at a WIND store for another attempt at getting a 3G data SIM, and this time it’s third time lucky. 4Gb for 35 euros - should keep us going for two weeks. Takes three hours to activate, and is a bit slow at times, but at last I’m connected to the world again.

The best way to get an overview of Venice is by boat (cycleways are few and far between!). We hop on a vaporetto (ferry) near the train station, and wend our way down the Grand Canal in a lazy S to St Marks square.

Ah - there’s the Bridge of Sighs - so named as it was the last glimpse of Venice prisoners got as they were lead from the law courts to the dungeons - including legendary lothario Casanova.

Venice is a funny place. There is a sense of grunge and dilapidation with many of the buildings. Plaster is peeling off the brickwork and a lot of the walls are black with mould. It wouldn’t surprise me if they had a rising damp problem.

Then of course there are majestic palaces, towers and cathedrals, but at present we don’t feel like parting with a substantial number or euros to go inside.

We’ve seen lots of ornate interiors on our travels, and more are just sensory overload.

More fun is just looking at Venetians getting on with their every day life - shipping materials up and down the canals in little utility boats, haggling for the best deal at the fish market, or setting up and taking down the raised walking platforms for acqua alta.

Acqua alta? High water.

Venice is slowly sinking into the ooze of the lagoon, and already many ground floor rooms are uninhabitable and just used for storage. At king tides sirens sound and the walking platforms are assembled as water sloshes over the edges of the canals and inundates the footpaths. Steel plates with rubber gaskets are put in place at the doorways, and designer gumboots feature prominently in the shoe shops. If I had worries about Shanghai with imminent sea level rises, I’ve got even more worries for Venice.

Venice is also very tricky to navigate on foot. A lattice of little canals and lanes twist and turn in every direction, and if the sun’s not readily visible it’s easy to get disoriented. Thank goodness for iPhones and GPS, and pre-loaded maps showing where the bridges are.

Pauline and I have been on the road for six weeks now, and we’re in alignment on just about everything. Augurs well for the future. But we do have subtle differences in our approach to sight-seeing.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a left-brain traveller.

I do a bit of background reading, identify the attractions I want to visit on a digital map, and join up the stars with an efficient shortest path algorithm. A little blue GPS dot guides me unerringly to where I want to go.

Pauline is a right-brain traveller. “We haven’t seen that area of Venice there”, she declares, stabbing at a broad swathe of the map with her finger. “Ok”, I say, “You lead”. We set off to explore. We head down a long and interesting little lane, and nearly fall into the canal at the end of it. There’s no bridge. We backtrack. After more wandering we discover we’ve done a tight loop and ended up where we started from - not quite the intention.

But to make matters worse, Pauline’s so busy looking up at the sights and to get oriented she doesn’t notice the large dog shit on the pavement.

The next 10 minutes are spent looking for sticks and puddles, and extracting what she can from the treads of her shoe. I helpfully ask if she’d like me to lead, but get a rather frosty reception. I offer her the use of my toothbrush when we get home, which cheers her up a bit. And of course we have some photos of places in Venice that I can almost guarantee no other tourist has.

There’s more to Venice than the main island of course.

To guard against the place being razed by fire, Venetian glassmakers were banished to the island of Murano in the 13th century. 

 It’s great to get out on a boat again, and in no time we’re wandering the trinket shops and being invited in to glass-making demonstrations.

Perhaps it’s the end of the season, perhaps our taste in glass just doesn’t match what’s on offer, and we come away slightly disappointed.

Burano, on the other hand, is delightful.

A bit further out into the lagoon and the home of Venetian lace-making, Burano is famed for its picturesque multi-coloured houses.

The vibe is good, the scenery (including its own leaning tower) great, and both the food and beer good.

On the subject of food (one of the main reasons for travelling), it’s good to get away from the heavier German meals and into the lighter and more flavoursome Italian cuisine. Despite its Neapolitan origins, pizza is economical and widely available throughout Italy. But it is Italian pizza - not kiwi pizza. Spurning pizzas with bland ingredients, we choose one with gorgonzola - this’ll give us a flavour hit.

But we’re disappointed when the pizza arrives. The gorgonzola block has been waved over the pizza, and a couple of crumbs have dropped onto the surface. I remember now that Italian pastas and pizzas have a lot of carb filling, but are relatively modest on toppings and flavoursome ingredients. I wonder how well a Hell Pizza franchise would go down in Italy - I suspect not well for a number of reasons. But it does remind me that back home we’re blessed for choice, with both quality and quantity when it comes to ingredients to stimulate the taste buds.

Our final attraction in Venice is a modern art stop.

Peggy Guggenheim acquired a superb collection of mid-20th century pieces, many of which I’d be delighted to have in my home, but certainly some I’d consign to the rubbish tip too. Art is a very personal thing - I want it to be both decorative, and to make a statement. What is the artist saying in the political or social context of his/her time? Why do I like surrealists like Miro, Ernst and Dali while Jackson Pollock’s abstract expressionism leaves me cold? And why is it necessary to push artistic boundaries, if the current boundaries are there for a reason, and overstepping them just results in contrived ugliness? The best place for some of this stuff is indeed a gallery where students of art history and learn from past mistakes, but it has no place in my consciousness. Perhaps I’m an anarchist, then perhaps I’m not.

We see another Giacometti in the garden.

Millions of dollars worth of sculpture out in the open air. Hope their security’s good. I suspect Pauline is reflecting on what size she needs to be to fit into her wedding dress, and reconciling it with her last healthy nut treat glued together with just a little toffee. We’ll be able to put a bit of elastic in the dress I’m sure. Fortunately my suit rental can be done last thing - I’m certain I’ve expanded a size while travelling. Too much good food, good beer, good wine, and only walking for exercise. Looks like we’re both in for a summer of salads and aerobics.

After three full days in Venice we’ve done our dash, and we've loved it.

But there’s more of Italy to explore, so where next? The base plan is to head for Florence, but a beautiful sunny weekend is forecast for Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast. We set our sights for Naples instead, but as we speed through Tuscany on the train we remember why we liked this part of the country so much last time. Don’t worry, Florence, we’ll be coming back before we fly out of Rome. We rubbed the boar's snout, remember?

Note to self - buy a new toothbrush in Sorrento.