Early May whisked us (well, more like puttered us) from the eerie, mist-shrouded docks of San Remo - where we spent a night feeling like extras in a ghost movie - across the border into Italy. Our reward? Twelve whole miles of glamorous motoring (sails? Who needs ’em!) before arriving in Imperia, Sawasdeekat’s sun-drenched home for the next month. Proof that adventure doesn’t always come with wind… sometimes it comes with a stubborn (and still slightly smoking) motor."

La Dolce Vita: Italy’s Timeless Charm

Italy, a country of sophisticated men, stunning women and fantastic cars.. or so we thought. Pookie and I love cars and with brands like Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, Alfa Romeo and Fiat (vintage 500 only) Italy must be home to them. So we were hoping for some eye candy.

Expecting Michelangelo, Got Stick Figures

Picture this: You’re strolling through Imperia, Italy—land of olive groves, sea breezes, and automotive art. You half-expect every parked car to be a rolling Bernini sculpture, a symphony of curves penned by car design gods. Cars here should look like they’re voicing opera just idling at traffic lights. 

Then… you see IT. 

A tiny, blue hatchback, crouched like an retro toaster by the side of the road. Turns out, it was an Italian…. A Lancia Ypsilon—the automotive equivalent of a poet who really wanted to be a forklift driver. Penned by Giorgetto Giugiaro (the same man who designed the Delorean, proving even geniuses have off days), it’s a car that prioritizes function over flair, like a espresso machine built by the Italian post office. With a tailgate seemingly eating its own rear lights in shame, it was so hideous that sadly I had to take not one but 3 photos of it.  

Thankfully, a visit to the marina office quickly made up for this Italian faux pas, but ironically with a fabulous old British make!! We organised a local engineer (who just happened to work on superyachts in Monaco) to get a new turbo put on our engine and the water cooler thingy sorted out. He also said he would change our engine mounting as it was worn. So, we booked a flight back to the UK as it was my youngest daughter’s birthday and we simply had to take her out for a fun filled night at Lulu Wild. It was then that he dropped a bombshell….

The Superyacht That Got Away (Or: How F1 Taught Us the Meaning of "Yacht Regret")

Just when we thought our Riviera misadventures had peaked, Italy delivered the ultimate cosmic joke: The engineer we had met in Imperia had a golden ticket. 

Not just any ticket - two spare tickets to on a Monaco Grand Prix superyacht. Not just any superyacht - one parked front row at the hairpin turn, where billionaires sip Krug and carbon fibre goes to die. The kind of access that would’ve made our Instagrams look like we’d accidentally joined the oligarchy. 

There was just one catch: 

1. We’d just flown to the UK (because timing is our nemesis). 

2. We’d need to: 

   - Party like there’s no tomorrow with my daughter, then

   - Fly back to Nice (€€€), 

   - Rent a car (€€€€), 

   - Find a Monaco hotel on F1 weekend (mortgage-level €€€€€), 

   - Jump on another flight back to the UK for my Mum’s birthday.

The math was brutal: One afternoon of champagne-soaked glamour = roughly the cost of our boat’s entire rigging system. We stared at each other. Pookie sighed. “Next life, the one where we’re born with trust funds.”

Epilogue: We watched the race on a pub TV. The yacht crowd? Probably spilled Petrus on their deck shoes. We win. 

(Lesson: The universe dangles superyachts only to remind you—you’re still the idiots who bought a catamaran.) 🏎️💨

Our decision not to go to watch the F1 from a superyacht was probably a smart decision. The repair bill actually came in more than we’d anticipated (Yes Yes Yes, I know BOAT stands for Bung On Another Thousand but hey we’re trying to live the dream here…..) The repair bill arrived like a punchline to a joke we didn't remember telling: not just the expected fixes, but a bathroom bilge crying for help, LED lights that would NOT stop flashing like a demented disco, and two €800 "smart starters" because apparently “air conditioning” is now a privilege not a right. The total bill £thousands. ☹

Back in the UK, we celebrated my daughter's and mother's birthdays with considerably less financial trauma. My daughter’s affair was great fun with drinks and a meal at Lulu Wild. After my mum’s experience with me in Barcelona, I had considered getting her a pickpocket-proof handbag… This one would have to have built-in GPS, a decoy wallet filled with Monopoly money, and an optional leash - because the last one she had felt obliged to donate itself to the Barcelona Thieves’ Retirement fund.

Anyway, before I chose what to buy my mum for her birthday, Pookie had some bad news. Her Dad would have to go into hospital very soon and have major heart surgery. Without a moment’s hesitation she was on a plane to Bangkok in Thailand to see him.

You’ll be pleased to know he recovered really quickly – bouncing back like a Thai Tigger (read it again.. Tigger not Tiger – You’ll get it).

Meanwhile, I flew back to Nice to play nurse to our other high-maintenance dependent “Sawasdeekat”. There's nothing quite like the romance of reuniting with your boat in a sun-drenched Mediterranean marina, only to immediately start arguing about winches and bilge pumps in a language you know nothing about.

Once satisfied her Dad was on the mend, Pookie flew directly back from Bangkok to Nice where I met her and escorted her back to Sawasdeekat in the marina in Imperia. After some fond farewells to the engineer and his family we set off to explore Italy.

Reunited, we sailed into Noli, a postcard-perfect Italian village where the sea sparkled like prosecco. We dropped anchor 100m from the beach, as smug as cats in a sunbeam. 

Enter: The Polizia Locale, Italy’s answer to the fun police. 

Them: "You must raise your anchor and move back!”

Me: “Why? The app and guidebook’s anchor symbol is RIGHT HERE!" (Flailing at a tiny icon like on my phone like it’s a digital Magna Carta.)

Them: “MOVE or we will fine you 300 euros!”

OK that got my attention and I reluctantly moved Sawasdeekat further away.. and away and away. Until we were so far away it was 19m deep and our anchor chain looked at us like we'd lost our minds. I was really annoyed as the book clearly had an anchor symbol. The officer, who'd even more clearly dealt with clueless sailors before, patiently pointed to footnote 47-B on page 312 (or somewhere similar) that said that in Italy NO anchoring within 200m of beaches or 100m or rocks. I was tempted to ask about rocky beaches but happy we were far enough away they left… and so did we as I didn’t like the look of my anchor bobbing around somewhere in the abyss beneath us.

Camogli offered redemption - a hidden gem of pastel houses tumbling down to the sea, where we carefully anchored inches beyond the 200m buoys (take that, maritime law) only to discover our winch button had developed performance anxiety. The views were to die for - especially with our plucky little boat in the foreground, stubbornly refusing to be upstaged by the dramatic Ligurian coastline. We had a lovely meal and a short look around as it was as hilly as a mountainside retreat.

Then came Portofino, the Mediterranean's answer to a jewellery box - all sparkling water, bobbing yachts, and prices that make your eyes water. We parked Sawasdeekat round the corner from the gleaming superyachts (well we didn’t want to make them feel bad), then spent a golden afternoon drinking wine that tasted like sunshine and eating ham sliced so thin you could read through it.

Tourists swarmed the piazzas, cameras aloft, while we smugly pretended we belonged to the yacht crowd (if you ignore the occasional winch-related cursing). Portofino doesn’t just look like a painting; it charges like one too.

Our final stop was Monterosso, a UNESCO-listed fishing village that charges you for the privilege of anchoring - because nothing says "world heritage site" like a mooring fee. We wandered narrow streets that smelled of fried seafood and lemon, eventually finding a tiny trattoria serving their famous fish soup in enormous clay pots.

As we ate, watching the sun dip below the horizon, even Sawasdeekat's various grumbles and groans couldn't dampen the magic of the fun we’d had over the last few days. 

Looking back, perhaps we should have just taken a few package holidays. But then we'd have missed the real adventure - the police encounters, the malfunctioning equipment, the sheer joy of nursing a temperamental boat along one of the world's most beautiful coastlines.

That's the thing about sailing - like love, it's equal parts sublime and ridiculous; and just when you think you've had enough, it shows you a sunset over Portofino and you're ready to forgive everything. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go check on how much new winch buttons are going to cost me -  Just out of curiosity.