BONEY’S ISLAND
There are worse fates than being banished to this Italian island that Napoleon fled, writes André Rose
A reader visits Elba, the beautiful place where Napoleon was in exile
CARS, trucks, motorcycles, scooters and pedestrians stood waiting to be engulfed like Jonah by the ferry.
I’ve never liked boats but the almost hour-long trip to the Italian Isle of Elba in the Tuscan Archipelago was pleasant.
The only reminder that I was charting the Tyrrhenian Sea was the salty breeze off the cobalt-blue waters.
The little village of Rio Marina lay pasted against the granite hills. The ferry carefully docked in the harbour, where tiny boats bobbed unperturbed.
Spewed from the belly of the ship, I trekked through the village looking for the Mini Hotel Easy Time.
With paltry Italian and copious hand gestures, I eventually headed in the right direction.
The trek to the top of the hill where my hotel was proved exhausting on that sweltering afternoon.
My reward was great, though: the view from the tiny hotel sported the terracotta village at the foot of the hills, the cerulean sea and sky and the Italian mainland on the distant horizon. After a refreshing shower, I wandered in the dusk down to the village for dinner.
My supper was an epicurean delight, a medley of flavours, textures and colours. The fish and veg dishes perfectly accompanied the local wine. I ended with a mountain of gelato.
The next morning I ambled down to Rio Mario, weaving my way through the narrow passages between the homes.
Colourful laundry flapped lazily in the wind. Gangs of old men sat on the square shooting the breeze as they puffed on cigarettes and women babbled with exaggerated gesticulations outside the grocer’s.
The local museum features an exhibition on minerals and mining on the island. The little train to an abandoned mine is interesting and worth the excursion.
I caught the bus into the largest town on the island, Portoferraio, where I wandered around, getting blissfully lost in the trinket stores.
The myriad restaurants offered a feast but I settled for a sandwich lunch at a beachfront bar and watched the bronzed bodies soaking up the sun. The obligatory gelato rounded off the meal.
The town boasts the Villa San Martino, the summer residence of Napoleon Bonaparte. He was exiled to Elba after his forced abdication in 1814, though he stayed only 300 days before escaping.
Public transport on the island is very infrequent and trips are tedious between towns.
In retrospect, hiring a car or scooter would have opened up more possibilities for exploring.
I wanted to visit Cavo, on Elba’s northeast coast, to hike in the Arcipelago Toscano National Park. The bus timetable said 8.50am so I left the hotel at 8.40am one day and as I came down the hill, I saw the bus drive off. The next bus was at 10.15am. I left the hotel at 10am and at 10.10am the bus passed me. I saw it stop and drive off. I walked into Rio Marina irritated that the next bus was at 12:15pm.
When my eye fell on the road sign that said Cavo was only 8km away, I thought, ‘Why not?’ So off I trekked with the mountains and forests on my left and the sea on my right.
The waves crashed against the jagged coast, the fragrance from the pine forests drifted on the breeze. I enjoyed the sun on my shirtless back.
I arrived in Cavo and had some water and a snack before tackling the hike through the national park.
It was merciless. The unwavering Mediterranean sun reflected off the limestone path and deep erosion furrows created a treacherous terrain.
The walk was, however, beautiful. Occasionally the trees folded their boughs overhead like ballerinas, offering some respite from the heat.
I eventually reached the Tonietti Mausoleum where I tarried for a while and then trekked back to the beach and headed straight for the refreshing waters. The swim provided a much needed cool-down after my walk.
Then I gathered my bag and raced for the bus — 24 minutes early, but I was taking no chances.
On the ride back, I spotted some landmarks I’d noticed on the walk there and I thought about how grateful I am for the privilege of seeing the beauty of this worlds.
That evening I sat at a bar by the harbour, sipping my neon orange Aperol Spritz and thought, “There are worse places to which one could be exiled.” — © André Rose
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