Just Me Read online

Thank God it is not necessary to invade the beaches or parachute into Italy any more. Instead you take a plane from Stansted. Which for me was almost as alarming. The journey by road across London to get there is bad enough but air travel has become a miserable business. Airports are ugly and unwelcoming, with endless queues and no one telling you what is happening. If you dare to ask, you are subjected to people in dusty uniforms snapping your head off, and barking orders, forgetting that your money is paying their salaries. The latest con is security. Little old ladies are forced to remove their shoes, willy-nilly, although they can scarcely bend to take them off, let alone detonate a bomb in them. I once protested when a mother with a toddler and a screaming babe in arms was forced to hand over her jars of puréed food. The jobsworth barked that she could buy more in Duty Free. I wonder how much their sales have increased since this ludicrously over-zealous, mindlessly applied, new regime was brought in? And I am sick of being asked, what would I prefer: being blown up? The old lady and the harassed mother are no threat to me, and any well-trained, intelligent, security person, using their loaf, should know that.

  Budget airlines are the only ones to fly to Brindisi, the local airport in Puglia. I imagined that, for those prices, the planes would be falling apart, and the customers would be herded like cattle. My daughters didn't help by shaking their heads and warning me that I was in for a nasty shock. When I go to France my usual airport is Gatwick, where the BA special-services team that used to usher John through have become my friends, and do the same for me. So, since he died, I have never travelled without support. Stansted and easyJet on my own promised to be a rude awakening.

  I was agreeably surprised. Despite an unbelievable low fare, as apparently easyJet reckon to make a profit of a mere £2.50 per person, Stansted was well organised and attractive, and I was very happy taking on board my own, delicious, Pret A Manger sandwich. Anything is preferable to those anaemic white things, warmed up in plastic wraps, with something sticky and a slither of pale pink stuff inside. The easyJet steward was camp and jolly and startled me by actually offering to put my quite heavy bag in the locker, a first for me. Perhaps I looked particularly peaky and scared. The shiny new plane was mainly full of Italian passengers, who were very exuberant, cheering and applauding when we landed safely in Brindisi.

  I emerged from the small, haphazard airport to find no signs of taxis or buses. Gradually everyone disappeared, met by their friends and family. I had my first attack of lonesome nerves, wondering how to get to the hotel. The only Italian I speak is phrases from a revue sketch I once did, called 'Parlata in Italiano'. It was a send-up of Anna Magnani and Italian opera and films, so I had perfected Italian phrases that meant: 'Don't leave me alone in this life!', 'Assassin!', 'I hate you!' and 'È morto!' delivered like Callas in Tosca. None of which proved much use here, marooned in Brindisi airport. But Latin learnt at school and possibly something in my genes from Dad's Italian childhood, makes me understand the language quite well. My accent being good from the sketch, I asked, 'Masseria Torre Coccaro?' and was answered with a torrent of information, from which I gleaned they had a hotel bus. With a bit of mime and putting 'a's and 'o's on the ends of words, like telefono, I managed to persuade a man to phone the hotel, and indeed, after some time, a people carrier arrived. I was triumphant. Not much to achieve really, but alone I did it.

  We drove through groves of gnarled silver-grey olive trees, writhing above a carpet of blazing red poppies, yellow daisies and blue cornflowers. On one side are miles of sandy beaches and coves, with only the occasional car parked on the grass beside the unspoiled coastline. Remembering the same impression of Balinese beaches in 1970 which are now solid stretches of tourist hotels, I wondered if I was lucky to come here before, surely, such perfect beaches suffer the same fate. I had left behind a wet, cold London in April and here, three hours later, the sun was shining in a cloudless sky. Despite some flutters of anxiety, it was a cheerful start to my lone ranging.

  The approach to the hotel was impressive – through an olive grove that led to a gate in a tall wall, blinding white in the sun. Once through the gate we drove through luxurious gardens to be greeted by the owner of the hotel, Vittorio Muoli. Despite its five stars, no intimidating smooth operator he, but a shambling bear of a man in plimsolls and shirt-sleeves, shyly proud of what he has created, with the aid of his staff, all drawn from local villages. Vittorio told me that three years ago, this masseria had been a working farm.

  My room was cool and welcoming, with a private patio, but once I had unpacked I stood there, wondering what to do next. My mouth is dry and I feel absurdly apprehensive. This is a holiday, for God's sake, not a first night. I don't have to prove anything. Just enjoy myself. How could that be so frightening? I forced myself out of the safety of my room to look around.

  The masserias were originally built as fortresses to protect the inhabitants from Turkish pirates and their like; most of the hotel was adapted from original buildings from every period of history. There are even caves used by ancient dwellers that had been converted into atmospheric sitting and billiard rooms. One has become a spectacular Aveda spa. To kill time – a dreadful phrase to use, especially when supposedly on a blissful break – I had a steam bath.

  I am very partial to steam baths. I seek them out wherever I go. In my touring days in the fifties and sixties it was always comforting in winter, when the digs were freezing, to escape to a Turkish bath in those towns that were blessed with such indulgence. These old-fashioned baths are rapidly being replaced by upmarket, swanky spas, which are to my mind nowhere near as invigorating. Gone are the salt rubs and the scouring with loofahs by muscly ladies. This one at the masseria though was a unique experience. There is something primeval about sitting alone, stark naked, in an underground rocky cavern, that gradually fills with hot steam, seemingly from the bowels of the earth. I felt disembodied. I could be anywhere, any time. To bring me down to earth, I had a massage, given by a girl who lacked the brash confidence of the army of dubiously trained beauty therapists who have sprung up back home. No aimless chitter-chat: 'Where did you go on holiday this year?', 'What do you do? Actress? What would I have seen you in?' It was more of a quiet, soothing stroke, really. Which was just what I needed. A sweet young girl, innocent of feminist sisterhood ideas, nevertheless gently caring for an agitated, older woman. For an hour, and for a fee, but the female bonding was welcome and surprisingly real, considering our only communication was with smiles and gestures.

  Squeaky clean and feeling relaxed, I wandered into a garden created in Roman times. Ancient pillars line paths that wind through well-tended beds of vegetables and salad. The soft perfume of old-fashioned roses, jasmine and orange blossom fill the sunlit space, enclosed by the stone wall that has, with a bit of help, survived the centuries. In the centre is a well, feeding an elaborate irrigation system that is still partly functioning; they were clever with water, those Romans. I found wild caper, aromatic herbs of all sorts, fig, prickly pear, apple, apricot, quince and peach trees. No one was around. I sat on a stone bench, as many others must have done over the generations, and enjoyed the results of man's imagination, skill and weeding. From the primitive caves to this majestic garden, to me with my marvellous mobile phone, sitting here feeling sorry for myself. What a piece of work is man. And what a letdown I am to the human race for not valuing it.

  Full of resolve, I marched back to my room, donned my bathing costume and kaftan and set off for the pool. It is made to look like an oasis, surrounded by palm-tree umbrellas. There is a bar to slake your thirst after a swim in the crystal-clear blue water. Well, that's the theory. Hovering at the entrance, I cast my eye round the sun-basking customers. They were all ravishingly beautiful. They were all with someone. The loungers are double size, based on the assumption that no one would be fool enough to venture here on their own. I spied one at the back, near the entrance, and slunk towards it.

  It was too much to hope some nut-brown youth was going to leap on and lie
beside me, gazing into my eyes. Or even a grey-haired old codger. There were one or two of them, but they were all clambering on to couches with ladies much younger than I. So, I spread out my books and my swimming goggles in the empty space, took off my kaftan, and lay down very quickly, because when you lie flat the slack of your skin drops back and you look smoother than when you're standing up. Not that anyone noticed.

  Waiters were circulating, serving drinks, but none looked my way. It is a proven fact that after fifty women do dissolve. The one hour I spent by that pool, totally invisible to the waiters, will be added to my dossier of evidence of this disappearance phenomenon. My absence allowed me to gaze at the other sybarites. Obviously very rich, or with a rich man. It was, after all, an expensive hotel. Several, by the look of it, were on their honeymoon. How perfect. Lying hand in hand, on a sunbed, planning your life together. Occasionally a svelte girl would sashay down to the pool, dive in and emerge, glistening and bursting with health. I remember that feeling, when you know your body is in tiptop condition, and you are brown and bleached in the sun. You look your very best.

  I don't look like that any more. It is only since John died that I have noticed. He thought I was beautiful and never stopped saying so. Was it because he was too vain to wear glasses? Or because he loved me? If he had been there, I would not have thought twice of bounding down and plunging in for a swim. Without his loving gaze, I recognise the stark reality of the damage wrought by gravity. Germaine Greer and fellow feminists notwithstanding, I do not love what has happened to my buttocks. I would happily have forgone the experience that is supposed to make me proud of my wrinkles. If only for aesthetic reasons, I could not contemplate limping my sagging flesh down to the water. It could wait until dark when everyone was gone. So I cowered there, sneaking envious looks over my book at the nuzzling couples, feeling old, isolated, voyeuristic and thirsty.

  The book is a vital weapon for the lonely. Especially in restaurants. That evening, I contemplated room service, but dolled myself up and, armed with a paper and a book, braved the stares of the guests. The maître d' was startled, even alarmed, when I said I wanted a table for one. If he had been busy, I have no doubt that rather than waste a table for two, I would have been refused entrance, as I have been on other occasions, but I was lucky. He found me a seat near the door where the waiters push in and out. I thought to object, but the hush that descended on the room intimidated me, and I ordered a large gin instead.

  When the woman at the next table, sitting with her husband, sent a sympathetic glance in my direction, I looked at my watch and did a shrugging mime of being stood up by the vacant-chair person. It somehow seemed less shaming than being on my own. The secret was out the next night, however, when the same thing happened. So I resorted to Miss Havisham mode. If they think I am odd, I will damn well give them odd. I giggled out loud over my book, scribbled in my notebook and surrounded myself with bits of paper, drank a great deal and even did a bit of humming. It was a good ploy and I quite enjoyed myself.

  In an effort to meet some of the other guests, I signed up for a cookery course. In the event I was the only one who did. Everyone else had better things to do, or maybe the English translation of the leaflet about the cuisine I was about to master didn't sound overly tasty: 'The Puglesci don't throw nothing away of lambs and butcher's kid skins, prove our recipes of baked lamb's head, the quagghiaribde, a muffin filled of pluck, united scarmonza cheese'. I was particularly apprehensive about handling pluck.

  As I was the only pupil the tutor, Liberata, so called because she was born in 1945, decided to teach me in the hotel kitchen, rather than the special classroom, with – first – a walk round the garden to meet the happily frolicking ducks, chicken and turkeys. I couldn't look them in the eye, as she gleefully pointed out their plumpness. We picked pungent herbs and she showed me a thousand-year-old olive tree that still bore an annual crop. Then in the kitchen she tried to teach me how to knead and cook bread, and concoct a kind of Lancashire Hot Pot made with mussels (tiella), which tasted, frankly, pretty disgusting. The pasta was slightly better although a bit grubby after I had fingered one shell shape to her ten. I shall continue to buy ready-made pasta however, as I reckon life is too short to mould a shape that's going to be eaten and is only a texture with tasty sauce when all is said and done. Well, mine is anyway. She assured me that in that region, all women still bake their bread and cook everything, even if they go out to work, although as yet few do. I will not be following their worthy example.

  The chefs and waiters working in the kitchen were fascinated by my ineptitude and we made gesticulating jokes. Several spoke English, as waiters often do, because they work internationally. It was the most fun I had had since I arrived. It certainly eased the dining-room situation, because that night I got special treatment, as well as chats whilst they were serving me.

  I was beginning to do a John. I had found a comfort zone; I had got out of my room, but I was in danger of not venturing out of the hotel. I was quite happy reading in my Roman garden, swimming late at night and teaching a bit of English to the cleaners, in return for a smattering of Italian. However, it seemed silly to come all this way for that, and anyway I had an article to write.

  I went into pull-yourself-together mode, and jacked myself into action. I could source only one guidebook. In order to get the job the translator must have had the gift of the gab, but not in very good English. Maybe it was the same person who did the cooking-course leaflet. He boasted that Apulia has 'land humpy, sheer, barren and avaricious, a suggestive scenographical effect'. Sights were frequently called 'homonymous'; that I could only suppose meant 'harmonious'. However, the pictures displayed an area of amazing diversity: prehistoric caves with wall paintings, Greek and Roman ruins, baroque, classical, Byzantine: you name it, Apulia's got it.

  Trouble was, I had wasted so much time dithering I had only a few days left. I thought it best to recruit a driver rather than hire a car and drive myself, because when I am finding my way, and working out which side of the road I'm on, I miss so many of the sights. I justified the expense as necessary for my work and set off with a knowledgeable local man called Antonio at the wheel.

  At the Masseria Maccarone, an olive mill that incorporates a museum, I was greeted by a member of the Marquesa family, which has lived in this gracefully proportioned palace for generations. He, to put it baldly, or in this case luxuriantly, tousledly, grey-headedly, is a dish. Tall, slim, aristocratic and dressed in Armani-style casual that only Italians seem to really get right. Think José Mourinho, totally elegant, but seeming not to have bothered much (not Italian, but you get the picture). He speaks halting English with a bewitching accent. I rack my brains to remember any phrases in the sketch with which to dazzle him, but ciao, bambino doesn't seem appropriate. I gush my profound admiration of his ancient oil mill, which works on exactly the same principle as the high-tech modern version. I wax lyrical, during a tasting to demonstrate the subtle variation in different oils. On leaving, he presses upon me four beautiful examples, one a numbered bottle of a limited edition. I thank him profusely, with lots of moltos and bellissimas. He kissed my hand, and I would have replied, 'Will you marry me and let me live here in your palace and I will grind your olives for you', only the sketch dialogue didn't run to that.

  Apulia produces 70 per cent of Italy's olive oil and one-tenth of all Europe's wine, so I asked Antonio the driver to take me to Locorotundo, which yields a very tasty white. He took me to a café he knew, where an Anna Magnani look-alike was preparing the lunch. After my lesson, I watched with a newly expert eye as her deft fingers moulded pasta shapes with lightning speed, interrupted occasionally by vociferous exchanges with her clients that sounded like declarations of love and threats of murder, but were in fact about the weather and the neighbours. I decided I had underacted in the sketch. My reward for finishing a vast plateful was to be crushed on to her ample bosom in an emotional embrace.

  I was beginning to like these people
very much. And the region they inhabit is not only beautiful but also full of fascinating architecture and art. Cursing my stupidity at actually wanting to 'kill time' when I arrived, I was now in a frenzy to see more. With Antonio and my guidebook's help I endeavoured to cram in as many homonymous and suggestive sights as I could in the time I had left.

  I felt I was discovering new territory. Everyone knows the Forum in Rome, but how many have visited the ruins of Egnatia? No one on the day I was there, and it was much more evocative for being grown over with grass and wild flowers. Antonio showed me several archaeological sites, undiscovered , or at least unmarked, in olive groves and fields. Centuries ago, families of workers thought this was the be-all and end-all, they were important, and their work vital. Yet here I was, sitting on a broken wall of their house, not even knowing who they were. Civilisations come and go. I wonder what will survive of ours.

  But some of the grander buildings bygone Italians laboured to build are still there, intact. I'm grateful to them for that. I know of no other place with such infinite variety. Lecce is a stunning feast of the baroque, and it has rightful claims to be called the Florence of the South. In every town there are unexpected gems that Antonio dismissed with a shrug of indifference.

  At one of the few touristy spots, a marvellous set of caves, the Castellano Grotte, I became involved in a little human drama. In a party of children, one small boy caught my eye. With his skinny legs and huge brown eyes and shabby clothes he was unlike his boisterous mates. Memories of my evacuee days were stirred by his pathetic attempts to be one of the lads. His clumsy jokes, and stone-kicking, to court favour, were rejected, and he stood, numb with longing, on the periphery of the group. An unattractive large boy said something to him and suddenly he was galvanised into violent rage, punching the fat boy in the face; the latter behaved like a footballer and made a terrible fuss, although clearly not greatly damaged. The teacher in charge grabbed the scraggy kid by the arm and shouted at him in fury, then addressed the others, obviously telling them to have nothing to do with him. By this time, I had built a whole life history around him. My heart bled for this little lad, wide-eyed and isolated, as the others made a show of having a good time without him. The mob loves to ostracise an outcast. I catch his eye and smile and nod. He is baffled. After a lot of face-pulling on my part, he smiles tentatively back. Desperate for an ally, his eyes follow me around.