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.
Britain’s best politics newsletters
You get two free articles each week when you sign up to The Spectator’s emails.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in