Day 1
We arrived in late September, the air still thick with a summer heat that refused to make way for autumn. No August crowds, thankfully. We had rented a car in Lamezia Terme, convinced it was the most practical way to get around. Mistake number one: underestimating the gradients. The old part of Tropea is an impassable ZTL. We left the car in the parking areas down by the port. A good thirty minutes were spent trying to figure out how the parking meter worked; it wouldn't take cards, forcing us to rummage in the bottom of our pockets for coins to pay the €2 per hour required. Then came the climb.
We are not hiking types, and I've always admitted it. Taking on the steps up to the village under the blazing sun practically took our legs out. Marco was huffing and puffing at every landing. When we finally emerged onto the Centro Storico e Belvedere di Piazza del Cannone, our breathlessness faded into the background. Historic palazzi on one side, the blue sea on the other, and down below, the rocky headland with the Santuario di Santa Maria dell'Isola. We avoided climbing all the way up there as well; honestly, we didn't have the physical energy, so we settled for admiring it from the lookout.
From above, you had a clear view of Spiaggia della Rotonda. It's famous, everyone raves about it. Beautiful, of course, but looking down from up there it seemed slightly overrated to me. The strip of sand beneath the cliff was still far too crowded for my liking, even in September. We preferred to get back in the car in the late afternoon and head towards Ricadi, aiming for the Faro e Belvedere di Capo Vaticano. Here, the view over the Isole Eolie pays you back for every drop of morning sweat. The sun was setting, the sky a burnt orange.
For the night, we had booked Villa Paola. It had an enormous bed and shower pressure finally worthy of the name, a miracle after hours of sticky sea salt clinging to our skin. We dined right there, at Ristorante De' Minimi, sampling local dishes without having to move an inch from our base. Laziness always wins.
Day 2
The following morning, the plan was to pop over to Spiaggia di Grotticelle. Crystal-clear water, rocks, the usual story. We stayed a couple of hours; the water was a bit chilly, but pleasant. After lunch, we headed south towards Scilla.
I knew the Borgo marinaro di Chianalea was entirely pedestrianised. The problem was convincing Marco to park the car down in the Marina Grande area. He insisted on looking for a spot closer by, turning down a steep dead-end alley. The result: twenty minutes of embarrassing manoeuvres, wing mirrors folded in by hand to avoid scraping the walls, and the chuckles of an elderly man sitting outside his front door watching us while shaking his head. In the end, we parked uphill and walked down the staircases, cursing at the thought of having to slog back up them later.
Chianalea really is a tangle of narrow alleys, with waves literally crashing against the walls of the fishermen's cottages. We perched on a low wall to catch our breath. Then we headed towards Castello Ruffo. The fortress towers over the Stretto di Messina. An hour's visit, a stiff breeze in our hair and the scent of the sea everywhere.
For sunset, the place to be is the Belvedere di Piazza San Rocco. From that terrace, you can take in the entire cliff edge. The lights in the houses flickered on one by one as the sea turned dark. That evening we drove to Bagnara Calabra for dinner at Taverna Kerkira. No tourist menu, fresh fish, bold flavours, a touch of Greece on the plate and plenty of southern Italy.
Day 3
Final stop, Reggio Calabria. We arrived mid-morning. I had booked tickets online for the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Reggio Calabria (MArRC). Even out of season, the thought of queueing outside didn't appeal. Stepping into the air-conditioned room housing the Bronzi di Riace was a physical relief before it was even a cultural one. They are colossal, detailed to an almost eerie degree. Two hours spent wandering amongst artefacts from Magna Grecia, enveloped in a silence unusual for such a chaotic city.
Leaving the museum, the sun was pounding the tarmac. We dragged ourselves towards Lungomare Falcomatà e Arena dello Stretto. The centuries-old weeping figs cast generous shade. Marco bought an ice-cold bottle of water from a kiosk, complaining about the heat. We walked on flat ground, for once.
Our itinerario wrapped up in the only possible way: at Gelateria Cesare. There was a bit of a queue, but it moved quickly. A warm brioche col tuppo, sliced in half and filled with bergamot gelato. The tart citrus cut through the sweetness of the dough. We sat on a bench, looking out at the Sicilian coast across the water, getting sugar all over our fingers and trying to work out what time we had to return the car to the airport.