It would be the height of ignorance to dismiss the Italian island of Ischia on the basis of a single day spent there. But what a drab, dreary day it was.
There will be others who swear by its charms and claim them to be many. The tourism industry, we are told at Wikipedia, is centred on “thermal spas that cater mostly to European (especially German) and Asian tourists eager to enjoy the fruits of the island's natural volcanic activity, its hot springs and its volcanic mud”.
I am happy to challenge the Ischian tourist board, and any admirers of the island among Salut!’s learned, well-travelled readership, to enlighten me (in the former case, an invitation to re-visit would be warmly received).
But we were there for a day, the last full day of a brisk but memorable holiday, saw only the town and its immediate surrounds and were bored out of our minds. “It’s quiet because it's Monday,” a waiter insisted as we killed time in his bar before the boat back to Sorrento. “Much busier on weekends and Wednesdays.” I never got round to establishing why Wednesdays.
As I wrote here the other day, my first visit to the Sorrentine peninsula will not be my last. We stayed in a gorgeous villa, Alviani Anna, an easy walk from the centre of Sorrento. We visited Pompeii (plus the site of Vesuvius but not as far as sight of the crater), Amalfi and its glorious corniche, magnificent Positano and smug Capri. We travelled by rail into Naples – memo to self: plan the trip better next time to catch the fast train instead of the one that stops at every street corner - and liked it even on a rainy day. We had a generally great time. But Ischia was a waste of a final day.
It cost €80.80 for the pair of us to get across there and back. There is only one crossing each way daily, so you are stuck on the island from about 10.30am to 5.30pm.
As the Jetfoil boat approached the port, I felt the first pangs of doubt. The waterfront seem to consist of a long, built-up area without obvious aesthetic merit. I am afraid first impressions proved correct.
Disembarking, we spotted signs leading to the castle and followed a couple of middle-aged Englishwomen who seemed to know where they were going. A taxi driver accosted us with an offer of a three-hour island trip for €80; not too much, in all honesty, for his half-day’s work but too much for our budget. We pressed on by foot.
The streets were nondescript, despite the trees brightening their appearance a little. We reached another shopping area and then the castle approach. It looked majestic but not necessarily worth the €10-a-head entrance fee we eventually saw mentioned. Maybe others will say it is well worth the outlay.
Having decided against finding out, we turned back. The walk had eaten up most of what was left of the morning, so lunch beckoned. Into the pizzeria we went, lured by the promise of Wifi – e-mails and bank balances needed to be checked – and moderate prices. Our table by the window overlooked a building site – no one’s fault - but also commanded a view stretching out to sea. An English-speaking waiter eventually sorted out an internet connection, agreeable if stodgy food was served and off we went again.
On the walk back, there was the parc mediterrani, which was lush, relaxing and quite attractive. But all too soon we were back at the port. Shops were closed – lunch and siesta seems to stretch from 1pm to 5pm for most – and there is a limit to how many times you really want to stop for a drink.
About 20 cabs were lined up, fareless, near the disembarkation points. We asked about a hour-long trip. Fifty euros, said the most voluble of the drivers. “But how does that correspond to $80 for three hours?” we asked. “How about €20?”
“In Africa maybe,” came the reply and I could not quarrel with his point. “We have to pay for fuel and insurance like everyone else.” It was all fairly amicable and, eventually, a driver offered an hour for €30.
He stopped at a couple of photo-opportunity points where it struck me that I was being invited to take pictures of Vesuvius and other locations away from Ischia’s shores. He showed us a couple of pleasantly unremarkable buildings, one of them a hotel, plus the Barano d'Ischia rock, shaped by time to resemble a mushroom.
“Contento?” the driver asked, the little trip to the outskirts of town having lasted just under 50 minutes. He was nice and still got a tip.
When the tourist board invites us back, we’ll see so much more. What we did see did not merit the cost of getting there or, indeed, using up a day of our lives.
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