Boondock Puffins

Herculaneum is like Pompeii, but better. And I don’t say that lightly, because Pompeii has an excellent PR team and centuries of momentum behind it. This, however, is smaller, quieter, and far more intimate. Think: less “tourist spectacle” and more “oh, someone actually lived here.” You can peer into houses and imagine hearing arguments about dinner. If you want to understand daily Roman life without being herded along with a thousand matching hats, this is the place.

A note of caution: this is definitely still Naples. Which means driving there is an ordeal.

Driving in Naples follows its own logic, one that appears to have been developed collaboratively but without meetings. The rules seem to be:

• Stop signs are merely decorative.
• One-way streets are, in fact, philosophical suggestions.
• Two-way traffic can occur anywhere, at any time, regardless of width or common sense.
• As a pillion, I desperately needed a fog horn – or any way of giving other vehicles a reminder of our presence on the road.

It is chaotic, loud, and vaguely alarming, and yet, somehow, charming. The pizza remained spectacular. We didn’t see much of Naples itself due to time constraints, which feels like a huge shame, though the smog does its best to dull the appeal. It hangs over everything, flattening the sea, the mountains, the city itself, until the whole place feels heavy and enclosed, like it’s holding its breath.

Herculaneum, though, was genuinely wonderful. Calm, detailed, and deeply human. Unfortunately, this serenity was punctured by a phone call concerning the sale of our car in France and its apparently avant-garde approach to ownership. This is a stress that continues to follow us across borders, with very little we can do from here except repeatedly prod French bureaucracy and hope it eventually notices us. Who knew it could remain so emotionally committed months after we left the country?

The ride across the centre of Italy was, frankly, a let-down. There isn’t much there, it was oppressively hot, and the roads were lined with rubbish in a way that feels less accidental and more resigned. Around Foggia, ladies of the night (or in this case, resolutely the day) stood by the roadside, which only added to the general sense of bleakness. Perhaps it’s better on a less scorching, sweat-drenched day, but five hours on a bike in those conditions would make anyone grumpy. Even so, this stands out as one of the most miserable journeys we’ve had so far.

Italian roads deserve a special mention, and not a flattering one. Potholes everywhere, busy roads even when you actively avoid motorways and tolls, traffic jams appearing without warning, and an impressive number of near misses. Italian drivers are… enthusiastic. You know how, when learning to ride a motorbike, you’re told to assume everyone is out to get you and expect the worst? Here, you simply accept that everyone is out for themselves, brace for the worst, and oddly enough, it works. Once you surrender, peace follows.

In the end, we took some long-standing familial advice and decided to seek refuge from both the heat and the general grime. The east coast, we reasoned, might offer mercy. At the very least, it had to be cooler than this.