Postcards from the Edge part II

Part one can be found HERE


Speaking passable English my guide explained that it would be quicker to walk as the narrow streets and roads were blocked with holiday makers. Certainly the little square was heaving and it was hardly 10am with the sun was still burning the clouds from the mountain tops.


We left the square and entered a narrow alley which gave rise to a view of houses clinging precipitously to the mountainside. Space on the island was clearly at a premium


From there into a tiny shopping mall. Remarkably for such a small island, all the big fashion houses were represented. A photo outside a nearby café suggested Michael Douglas ate there regularly. I could now begin to see why this place was so expensive.


Walrus appeared to have only two speeds – dead slow and stop, so I paused to examine some shoes. Smiling inwardly, I reflected on who might like a pair or two from here. I pondered whether to shout SHOESSSSSSSSS, but decided against it. I even saw a pair with matching handbag I would wear. Sadly old walrus chops wasn’t for delaying.

We continued on our way until we stopped in front of a massive, wrought-iron gate set in a nine-foot tall, whitewashed wall. He pressed a combination of buttons and the gates slid silently open. Inside screened by a belt of tropical trees an impressive looking villa. Once inside my hat, camera bag, and little powder-blue bolero jacket with gold piping were taken from me by an elderly woman and I was ushered into an opulent looking office with views over the sea.

Pieces of original art leered down at me from gilt frames. The thing about under-stated wealth is that it can be incredibly intimidating. I tugged at my knickers which seemed to have gone walkabout on their own accord. A large walnut encased grandfather clock punctuated the silence with a steady tick-tock. Other than that there wasn’t a sound. Moments later a door silently opened and my client, a tall, handsome man in his late sixties walked in. He shook my hand and then sat behind a large, aircraft-carrier sized desk with an elegant tooled leather top. Once settled he spread his large tanned hands out in front of him as though presiding at the last supper and examining me with his pale blue eyes he bade me begin.

For the next ninety minutes I delivered my prepared report. While he for his part insisted on asking questions in French, even though he spoke perfect English. If I had to guess at his nationality I would have said Lithuanian or some other Baltic State. Not that you could tell from his accent. His French was impeccable and I felt increasingly rattled and responded accordingly by dropping down a gear into my childhood Yorkshire accent. He paused and smiled conspiratorially just to show he enjoyed rattling me.

The meeting ended the same way it began. My client shook my hand firmly, thanked me and silently left the room. Once more I was abandoned to total silence. Behind me another door opened and an immaculately-dressed, middle-aged woman appeared. Wordlessly she indicated I should follow her. We descended a steep flight of stairs and emerged onto a large sun-lit terrace. In the shade of an old lemon tree a table had been set for one. A plump woman in chef’s whites stood beside it. Smiling briefly she enquired what I would like for lunch. I responded by asking what was available. She smiled again as though addressing a child, indicating I could have whatever I wanted. I was having none of it, I knew exactly what to do when over-faced by servants. I smiled back, flapped my hand dismissively and replied I would accept her choice. It was the right answer and she went off smiling.

Seconds later another younger woman emerged and placed my camera bag by the table and left as silently as she had arrived. I grabbed a camera and walked to the edge of the terrace. Far below, at the bottom of a sheer cliff several hundred feet high, a vertigo-wrenching view of the Mediterranean.


Far out in the bay tourists in boats lazily circled the Faraglioni stacks that seem to feature on most postcards of the island and I made a mental note to buy a postcard for my mother.


Closer to, a group of teenagers were swimming from a boat. For some unaccountable reason I suddenly felt old. In an all too few, short years I realised I had moved from being one of the young things having fun, to a passive observer. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.


I was far too far away to hear them but the young lads were doing what lads always do in the presence of girls they were showing off, encouraged not unnaturally by the girls. I sighed inwardly. Oh to turn the clock back.


Even closer to a small yacht registered in the Bahamas. I’d heard of boat people before. It couldn’t be easy living on a boat with none of the normal luxuries of life I decided.

Behind me lunch had arrived. Returning to the table I noticed for the first time two attractive women in their early to mid-twenties sunbathing, face down, topless on a slightly raised part of the terrace. From what little they were wearing and their bling, it was clear they weren’t the cleaners.

On the table a bowl of salad, and some lightly sautéed calves’ livers sprinkled with chives. A chilled bottle of white wine and a basket of fresh baked bread accompanied them.

As I dragged the chair up to the table one of the pretty young things looked up, smiled and shyly waved her fingers accompanied by a dazzling sparkle of brilliant cut stones. She must work for Tiffany’s I decided. Not to be outdone, I smiled, raised my wrist slightly from the table and waggled my fingers. When confronted by wealth I find it’s always best to look casual.

I returned to the wine which was from one of the local islands. Given I had never heard of it, it really was very good. Crisp, clean, with the right amount of acid and delicious overtones of fruit. I poured myself a large glass and decided this might have the edge over photographing mountains of rubbish.

Minutes later the nearest pretty young thing raised her hips and slipped lazily out of her thong and rolled over onto her back. Suddenly, from where I was sitting, sliding lightly sautéed calves’ livers over my tongue didn’t seem a good idea. I decided that averting my eyes was a good move, consoling myself that at least the carpet matched the drapes, which as we all know is so rare these days. I guess the scene was what is called in the trade ‘a road accident scenario’ you know you don’t want to look, but equally you know sooner or later you’re going to have to. I lasted about three minutes.

Five minutes after completing the main course a dish of local lemon-flavoured ice cream arrived, as I watched the now naked hotties getting frisky with the sun tan lotion. For some obscure reason the ice cream seemed to melt in my mouth even quicker than normal. Minutes later as though sensing my increasing distress, Walrus Man arrived. He informed me that he would accompany me down to the harbour and as there was another ninety minutes before the next ferry, he had been instructed to take me around the island. At the front door the elderly woman returned my hat and jacket and presented me with a rose along with a small bottle of Carthusia perfume. In faltering English she explained that the perfume was made on the island and based on old formulae developed by the Carthusian monks at the Certosa di San Giacomo.


We made our way back through the town pausing to allow me to look around the perfumery…


….grab another ice cream and then taking an open top taxi we descended the winding road to the harbour. Set to one side was a private harbour and here Walrus jumped into a small speed boat and gestured me to follow.


Swinging out of the harbour, Walrus gave it a big handful as we say in the motorbike fraternity, while I sat back to enjoy the sea breeze and spray on my face. As we bounced along it soon became evident that the island was ringed by wildly beautiful precipitous cliffs dotted with numerous picturesque arches and caves, so I shouted and asked Walrus to slow down so I could stand up and take photos.


Not accustomed to taking instructions from a woman, he duly obliged with thinly disguised annoyance, but like any man he increasingly showed his displeasure when he found other boats with smaller engines overtaking him. I’ve always been of the view that if all men were born with equally sized dangly bits much of this testosterone fuelled nonsense would vanish from life.


Looming hundreds of feet above us the limestone cliffs were riddled with caves, arches and grottos. Some idea of the enormous scale can be obtained from the boat in this photograph.


Many of the rock formations have names and readers will need little imagination to guess what Walrus suggested the origins of this cave’s name were.


Around the island the sea is incredibly blue, which is one the reason tourists like to take to boats…..


Eventually we reached the famous Faraglioni stacks. The right hand one is said to have a unique blue lizard which is not found anywhere else. We paused while Walrus pointed out where I’d eaten my lunch and where the famous English singer Gracie Fields used to live and then headed back to the harbour at speed while I lazily dangled my hand in the water. All in all not a bad day I decided.


Back in the harbour I joined the stampede to get on the high speed ferry. This time without my minders I had to endure the elbows. Once on board, I settled down to watch TV and like any good Yorkshire girl wondered if I could get a refund for a half eaten breakfast.

Finally has anyone worked out the name of the island and port of departure?