Life’s hard choices - posh Positano or simple San Pietro Crappolla?

Impossibly pretty Positano is a sight to behold and not to be missed. But we’re favouring quieter spots on anchor, smaller towns with working harbours, and honest-to-goodness locals.

No question, Positano is bucket-list-beautiful.

It’s been a week since we farewelled dear friends, Nick and Zora, from Isola di Ischia and headed south from The Bay of Naples, breezing past Capri, towards the Amalfi coast. Sorrento, Capri, Positano and Amalfi are some of Italy’s most famous destinations and, judging by the stampede of high-speed ferries and local boaters, they’re also among the most popular.

Especially as of now. 

Late June/early July means much of Europe is already on holidays although, we’re told, it only peaks mid-August. Plus the cruise ships are fronting up left and right. Wowsers! It’s gonna be bumper-boats by then.

Capri looked spectacular rising up from the see with trademark muscularity. We had to make a few tough calls and prioritise our stops in order to make all our miles south to the Aeolian Islands in time to meet our next guests, Kate and Ava, and to get our engines serviced en route. So we’d decided not to call in on Capri. We dodged the ferries and waved both bon giorni and arrivederci as we steered for the southern side of the Sorrento peninsula. 

Looking over the anchorage from the chapel of San Pietro Crappolla.

Natural harbours and protected anchorages are rare along this stretch of coast and anything that looks like a half a haven is teaming with local boats and day cruises jostling and jousting for position. At the risk of stereotyping, the locals drive boats like they drive cars, all accelerator and no brakes, as if they’re a stunt driver in the climactic car chase from The Italian Job - the original from 1969 with Michael Caine. There are only two speeds for boaters here, anchored and flat chat, turning even the calmer spots into upright washing machines until sunset. 

Not that we’re complaining, it’s all part of the entertainment. È così che va - that’s the way it is!

As dusk settles and the last of the day boats hit the gas to get home, we’re often left with the bay to ourselves as we did in San Pietro Crappolla, a tiny nook etched into the rock a few miles shy of Positano, complete with hidden beach, the remnants of a not quite abandoned fisherman’s gaff, and a spectacular climb around the cliffs to the chapel of San Pietro. If ever a name was pure misdirection Crappolla (“crapola” in English, meaning rubbish) takes the cake - it is stunning! 

Of course, someone could have thought to change the name. The aforementioned Michael Caine was once Maurice Micklewhite. Anna Mae Bullock changed her name to Tina Turner, and Sofia Costanza Brigida Villani Scicolone shortened hers to Sophia Loren. Italian place names change too. Mussolinia changed to Arborea in 1947 for obvious reasons. Monteleone, where we are right now, changed to Vibo Valentia in 1927.  

Still, if Crappolla was renamed to something more seductive, it would likely be besieged, ticketed and spoiled completely. We, and the relative few others lucky enough to stumble across it, are thankful for the ‘crappy’ name. 

 

Three miles along the coast lay Positano, the fairytale town favoured by American cruise-goers in their thousands, that will surely inspire Disney Corporation to build a better one in Anaheim, or a Las Vegas casino syndicate to build ‘The Positano’ alongside Caesar’s Palace, The Venetian, and the Luxor. 

We anchored between five super yachts, their crews kitted out in crisp custom uniforms from the sketch books of Prada or Valentino, half a click to the south of the ferry wharf. Not 200 metres away lay Hotel Treville, the AU$5,000 a night crib where George and Amal Clooney like to chill. 

The temptation was too much. 

In the midst of this rarified company we donned our matching navy ‘SUNDAY Sailing’ tees from squeegees of Sweeney Bros screen printing in Waverley and, quite literally, aired our dirty laundry in public, festooning the lifelines with a week’s worth of sensible underpants. Sensible being a snug proxy for surface area, we wondered if we’d get complaints from the neighbours, or suggestions on purveyors of fine lingerie, but they were too polite to notice. 

Hotel Treville, where the rich and famous like to hang out (and look at our undies).

Positano at night from the anchorage, with some of the fancy neighbours.

Positano town is bucket list beautiful. The streets meander up the mountainside with local cafes, bars, restaurants and linen boutiques everywhere, with the odd alimentari (purveyor of food) and enoteca (purveyor of wine) thrown in. Like a lesson in Italian values - what to wear, what to eat and what to drink (plus family, of course). 

Jo succumbed to the temptations of Vanilla, a small boutique high on the hill overlooking the harbour, started by a husband and wife who weave their own linens from scratch, design and make their own womenswear, and play local radio on a crackly transistor because that’s the way they like it. With two coffees, one frock and one top in the bag, I think we escaped Positano lightly.

Time to head south. 

We paused overnight near, but not too near, Amalfi. The bumper-boat thing was getting stuck in my head and we’d had a couple of close calls in the past week. 

The first involved a 50’ Lagoon catamaran which anchored just ahead of us in a gusty southerly. As soon as the hook was down a party of eight Italian males started playing poker while the professional skipper dove into his bunk to sleep. We watched as their boat got closer and closer with every gust until it blew past us. I alerted the gamblers to the situation with my advanced charades technique and fumbling Italian. 

A combined 30,000kgs of boats coming together, even at low speeds, is not a good idea. They seemed reluctant to leave their game - È così che va all over again - but, with some further idiotic performance art, they woke the skipper with thumping on his hatch. He popped up like a meerkat, muttered, “WTF?” and  soon moved the game and the boat to another locale.   

Close call number two - another professional skipper sleeping on the job. This time a 35’ Fjord sports boat loosely anchored. It also dragged past us into deeper water and, twenty minutes later, was perilously close to rocks across the bay. No sign of the skipper on deck. 

We lowered the dinghy into the water, fired up the outboard and blasted half a mile to the boat, airhorn at the ready to wake the dead, although shouting did the trick. One bed-headed skipper stumbled from below decks, looked suitably embarrassed, and roared off. Maybe there are three speeds of boating - anchored, loosely anchored, and flat chat.  

Back to Amalfi. 

In the early light a cruise ship nudged into the bay off Amalfi town. Five thousand passengers baying for a shore trip and coffee. We did the maths and decided to set sail for less densely populated waters. 

Baia del Buon Dormire is another gem a long day’s sail south from Amalfi. A wide sandy bay guarded by a rocky islet to the west, and lined with beaches, caves and cliffs. Fifteen boats were anchored as we arrived around 6pm, with only five staying the night. Acres of room. 

An easy paddle around the cliffs and caves of Baia del Buon Dormire.

Up early for a stand up paddle, then south again the next day, another 50 nautical miles (92 kms) to Cetraro. Not a pretty stop, but highly practical with some threatening weather looming and protected anchorages in short supply. 

We woke very early as the wind hit the anchorage and stayed up on anchor alert for a couple of hours under things died down. Next stop, Vibo Valentia, one more 50 mile hop, here we come.

Vibo Valentia, southern Italy, 12 nautical miles straight ahead.

And that’s where we are right now. To help you with a mental map think of it like this. If the boot of Italy were more like a leg and foot wearing sneakers (cut off the heal in the same way that stylised maps of Australia often ignore the existence of Tasmania) and we’re about where you’d be tying your laces in a bow. 

The further south we’ve come, the simpler, less crowded, friendlier and cheaper Italy has become.

Vibo Valentia is a small township and jumping off point from the Italian mainland to the Aeolian Islands some 40-70 miles west, the distance depending on which of the islands you’re heading for. It’s also a good place to provision and get boat work done. 

The usual stuff like deep cleaning and minor rigging fixes we can do ourselves but our engines were due a serious service at 400 hours and there’s an excellent certified mechanic here, Andrea Pisani, who spent a solid four hours replacing fuel and oil filters, doing oil changes, and fitting new belts and impellers. And giving us a reassuring second opinion on a small, persistent oil leak. All with a hilarious dependence on Google Translate.

Let’s hope nothing of importance was lost in a coding error, or human translation.

Not sure where we’ll be when we pen the next post. There are many miles ahead of us in the next 10 days - to the islands, then around the toe, arch and heal of Italy (thinking of you Tasmania) and up the other side to Brindisi. About 400 nautical miles all up. 

There are friends to meet up with in the islands, and friends to pick up in Brindisi. Even more than the places we see, it’s the people we get to share our adventures with that makes the experience such an incredible privilege.  

Until next time,

Craig and Jo xxx