Ah, Rome. The Eternal City. The place where history lurks around every corner, occasionally tripping you up with a stray cobblestone or the weight of two thousand years of empire.

We arrived fresh from the rocky embrace of Elba (which, let’s be honest, had more in common with a washing machine on spin cycle than a tranquil anchorage). Rome, of course, is the glittering jewel in Italy’s rather extravagant crown—a city so stuffed with tourists that the Colosseum probably groans under the weight of selfie sticks. 

Now, Pookie and I are not what you’d call “queue enthusiasts.” Standing in line for hours to gawp at an ancient wall (even one with alleged lion bite-marks) ranks somewhere between “watching paint dry” and “listening to a timeshare presentation” on our list of preferred activities. So, we admired the Colosseum from afar, like two people who’d just remembered they’d left the oven on. The original floor of the Colosseum (now exposed) was a labyrinth of trapdoors and lifts—ancient Roman stagecraft at its finest. They’d hoist up lions, gladiators, and probably the occasional disgruntled stagehand to keep the crowds (a bit like the lions) roaring.

So instead of queueing for half a day, we wandered to the Circus Maximus (above pic), where Charlton Heston once pretended to be Ben Hur (No actual chariots were harmed in the making of that film and disappointingly, no chariots were racing that day either). Fun fact: this ancient arena could hold 250,000 spectators—more than Wembley Stadium. And yet, somehow, there still wouldn’t have been enough toilets. 

Next stop for us: the Trevi Fountain, where lovers toss coins over their shoulders in the hope of securing a return trip to Rome. We joined the fray, elbowing our way through a sea of tourists like two determined salmon swimming upstream. The fountain, a Baroque masterpiece, pumping out 80,000 litres of water a day—most of which probably ends up in the pockets of the city’s coin-collecting authorities. Another fun fact, €1.2 million is fished out annually and donated to charity—so technically, we’re philanthropists! Anyway, we gaped at the Pantheon’s unsupported dome (still the world’s largest, 2,000 years on), and chucked in our euros with gusto. Pookie’s aim was better than mine. I think mine hit another tourist. 

Our marina was near Ostia, a beach where the bikinis were so minuscule they could’ve doubled as milk bottle tops.

Pookie, ever the professional, and unlike me, ignored the distractions and filmed a fantastic and original carbonara tutorial aboard Sawasdeekat— No cream, no peas, just eggs, pecorino, guanciale, and a stern Italian grandmother’s approval (metaphorically speaking) because nothing says authentic Italian cooking like a swaying galley and a chef who may or may not have been seasick. She was tempted to make use of the rugby ball sized lemons in this part of Italy but decided it was better in a cocktail! Meanwhile, I wrestled with our anchor windlass button, which had decided that lifting anchors was “so last season”. A local tradesman fixed it with the kind of effortless skill that made me question my entire existence.

So here it is - Italy’s Best Kept Secret 

If Rome is the boisterous, wine-slugging uncle at a family party, Palmarola is the mysterious, effortlessly cool cousin who shows up wearing sunglasses and a knowing smile. This tiny island, along with its slightly larger neighbour Ponza, is the Mediterranean’s best-kept secret—a sailor’s paradise where the water is so blue it makes the sky look like it’s trying too hard. 

We navigated our dinghy through rock crevices so narrow we half-expected a troll to demand payment. Italians lounged like sunbathing seals on hidden beaches; and we swam under natural stone arches that looked like they’d been carved by Poseidon himself (on a good day). The caves? Oh, they glowed neon blue, as if someone had installed underwater disco lights. If Atlantis had a nightclub, this would be it. 

Palmarola’s only restaurant was so remote that card machines were about as useful as a chocolate teapot. We snorkelled. We ate like kings. Drank like idiots and having finished our meal and, under questionable influence of white wine, we chatted about the people on the beach. We then realised we had no cash. Cue panic. Pookie stayed behind as collateral (I like to think they would’ve put her to work in the kitchen, given her MasterChef credentials), while I raced back to Sawasdeekat to raid her secret stash of emergency euros (in a sock marked “Pasta Stash” under her pillow). Crisis averted, though I’m fairly sure had Pookie not helped herself to the white wine she would have been mentally drafting a divorce petition. 

Capri: Glamour, Chaos, and a Near-Miss with a Drifting Day Boat 

Leaving the islands of Ponza and Palmarola  felt like saying goodbye to a lover—if that lover was a sun-drenched, turquoise-watered slice of heaven. Our next stop: Capri, the island where the rich, the famous, and the hopelessly lost (us) converge in a glittering mess of yachts and overpriced Aperol spritzes. 

I have some deep memories of Capri. I’d last visited Capri as a child in our family’s Commer Wanderer - a gloriously eccentric 1970s masterpiece with an elevating roof that unfolded like a magic trick to reveal bunk beds for us kids. It was the kind of vehicle that turned heads, sparked conversations at petrol stations, and is now rarer than rocking horse droppings. I remember Capri distinctly as my parents were driving in the pouring rain over a mountain to get to it and decided to give a lift to a probably very grateful hitch hiker. I recall sitting in the back staring at him, waiting for him to make his dastardly move so i could pounce and thwart his efforts (my 10yr old mind wandering again..). We dropped him off and eventually slept in a lay by at the top of another mountain where the aforementioned rain washed half the track road away leaving us perilously close to the edge. Anyway, we adored that rolling slice of nostalgia—part motorhome, part spaceship, all personality.

Returning in Sawasdeekat felt like an upgrade, though the anchorage was so packed we might as well have been in a supermarket car park on Christmas Eve. One particularly determined day boat skipper spent 20 minutes playing anchor roulette, drifting closer each time like a bad date with no sense of personal space.

It was so busy in fact that it spoilt it for us. We wanted to visit the Blue Grotto which is said to be magical (although the 19th-century tourists who discovered its ethereal glow had to strip completely naked to enter) no such joy here - just way too many people.

Having just left Rome, it’s an interesting fact that Emperor Tiberius, that notorious party animal of ancient Rome, ruled the empire from Capri for a decade, allegedly throwing enemies off the cliffs at Villa Jovis when they bored him. But his real legacy? The world’s first recorded fish influencer. He had a favourite mackerel named Simonides that he adorned with jewellery and whispered state secrets to. (The fish’s political advice? Presumably glub glub, more wine.)

Talking of nice wine, we visited Da Luigi Ai Faraglioni, Capri’s legendary seafood spot. We arrived by dinghy and accidentally bypassed the queue and sat down like minor royalty. (In my defence, I was simply following Pookie who, distracted by the scent of garlic, also claimed she couldn’t read the "wait to be seated" sign as it was in Italian). The bill at a busy high season? Let’s just say we could’ve bought a small vineyard for the same price. But the view of the Faraglioni rocks—and Pookie’s blissful "I’ve died and gone to food heaven" face made it priceless.  So Pro tip: if you’re going to dine like a billionaire in Capri, check your bank balance first. 

Sorrento, Amalfi, and the Great Dolphin Island Mystery 

Sorrento—famous for limoncello, lemons the size of small dogs, and being the gateway to the Amalfi Coast—welcomed us with calm seas and exhaustion. We arrived at 8pm, too shattered to explore, only then to be rocked to sleep by waves that clearly hadn’t read the memo about “gentle Mediterranean cruising.” By morning, and really quite bored of the feeling that Neptune was messing with our boat, we’d decided Sorrento’s lemons could wait and we set sail for Amalfi, passing Li Galli, a dolphin-shaped island once owned by Rudolf Nureyev (because of course every legendary ballet dancer should own a private island shouldn’t he..). 

Amalfi was chaos—ferries, tour boats, and enough selfie sticks to build a small bridge to Naples. We fled to the quieter Cilento Coast, where Agropoli offered sandy beaches and the Elephant Cave (which, sadly, contained no actual elephants). But the real gem was Baia del Dormire, a bay so stunning we stayed for three days, swimming in water so clear we could see our life choices reflected in it. 

Engine Woes and the Unexpected Joy of Tropea 

Alas, all was not well in Sawasdeekat’s engine room. Despite two recent services, our engines were drinking water like frat boys at happy hour. The inverter overheated, the calorifier staged a mutiny, and we limped into Tropea—only to discover this cliffside town was absolutely worth the drama. White sandy beaches, a historic old town, and gelato so good it almost made us forget our mechanical woes. Almost. 

Next stop: Sicily, where Mount Etna smoulders, the cannoli are crisp, the volcanoes are active, and we smugly avoid the €1,000-a-night hotels and their gold-plated espresso machines.  No doubt we have another adventure (or engine failure) lurking just around the corner.

Stay tuned.