Getting to Genoa is quite a schlep and, unforgivably, like a spoiled child, I got grumpy. The only direct flight is from Stansted and who the heck wants to travel from Stansted? Nobody. Especially those of us who live in Brighton. So, Mrs Ray and I flew from Gatwick to Milan Malpensa, took a train to Milano Centrale, kicked our heels for 90 minutes and then took another damn train to Genova Brignole. We were delayed every step of the way, and it took bloody ages: 13 hours. We were knackered and I was shirty – we should have gone from Stansted. Idiots.
By the time we’d had a brace of Very Old Fashioneds (a toothsome mix of Rum Matusalem 23, Frangelico and chocolate bitters) we were happy as larks
But, and here’s the magic, by the time we had staggered out of the station onto the still sun-dappled Via XX Settembre and into the Hotel Bristol Palace, saw its extraordinary elliptical Art Nouveau staircase (said to be the inspiration for Hitchcock’s Vertigo) and, well, had a restorative Negroni in the bar, we had taken quite a shine to Genoa. Charles Dickens wrote that the city was ‘a place that grows upon you every day’. We’d hardly arrived and yet it was growing upon us every minute.
A quick shower, another swift Negroni and we were off for supper deep in the caruggi (maze of alleys) of Genoa’s medieval old town, the largest in Europe in terms of population density, where, as Dickens put it, ‘You can lose your way… twenty times a day, if you like.’ We lost our way in 20 minutes and, yes, we did like.
By the time we’d had a brace of Very Old Fashioneds (a toothsome mix of Rum Matusalem 23, Frangelico and chocolate bitters) we were happy as larks and planning our permanent move to Genoa. We were drinking at Les Rouges, an exquisite bar on the first floor of an ancient palazzo in Piazza Campetto with faded 16th-century frescoes and stucco ceiling. Oh, we do love a pipe dream!
Over the next two days we walked, walked and walked and got lost far more often than a mere 20 times a day. At one stage, despairing of our maps and our phones which couldn’t keep up with the twists of the alleys, we took the Ascensore di Castelletto Levante, an Art Nouveau lift that links Piazza Portello and Spianato Castelletto, to enjoy remarkable views of the city and to try to get some sense of where everything was. We still got lost.
It didn’t help that some streets seemed to have two names. Via Giuseppe Garibaldi, for example, the main drag and home to the main galleries such as Palazzo Rosso, Palazzo Bianco and Palazzo Doria-Tursi, is still sometimes known by its previous name of Strada Nouva. We saw some glorious treasures including paintings by Caravaggio, van Dyck and Leonardo; rather too many religious paintings contrasted, strangely, with a bawdy, booze-sodden, bum-baring Dutch tavern scenes.
The highlight for me, though, was the room dedicated to Genoa’s most famous son – Niccolò Paganini – with two of his treasured violins, letters and other personal effects. We visited Palazzo Reale, with its mini Versailles-like Gallery of Mirrors, and more churches than I thought possible, including that of S. Matteo, with its tomb (and sword) of the great 16th-century admiral and statesman Andrea Doria; S. Donato, where Paganini was baptised in 1782, with its Joos van Cleve Adoration of the Magi; the Jesuit church with its Rubens Circumcision; S. Luca with its Grechetto Nativity and wooden (but looks marble) sculpture of Christ; and, finally, the Cathedral with its Lego-like black, white and pink exterior and tiny marble dog that was carved in a column by the entrance 800 or so years ago.
There was a superb lunch of ginger and cream soup with cognac-sautéed prawns in Zupp and some pasta dishes at Il Genovese, whose fabulous pesto has been voted best in all Italy an impressive three years in a row.
Genoa is a wonderful place – my new favourite Italian city – surprisingly unscathed by tourists. We didn’t hear an English or American voice the whole weekend. We were all but alone in most of the galleries and churches we visited. After a gentle train ride along the Mediterranean coast and dinner en France, we flew home from Nice, our suitcase crammed with bottles of Amaro Camatti, my new digestif.
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