Split to Ancona overnight, bathed in starshine

We booked two overnight ferry tickets from Split to Ancona assuming that deck, the cheapest fare available, did not literally mean deck. But it did. And the seating provided for those with deck tickets by Jadrolinja, the prominent ferry company of the Adriatic, was a few benches securely bolted to the decking of the stern. God forbid a storm should roll in.

There was a group of us who had bought deck tickets, and we had all assumed the same thing. For a while we were all in denial as we traipsed back down a maze of stairs, getting lost on all levels, in search of some magical deck that was inside, sheltered, eluding us. But we followed the signs and were led each time through corridor after corridor passing cabin after cabin, open plan lounges, a restaurant, always arriving back where we started.

You get what you pay for, and we paid for the cheapest ticket, but as the ferry was not full a stewardess took pity on us stragglers and allowed us to mingle with the rest of the ship, below deck, in the warmth. Briefly the peaceful ambience of inside was disturbed as our diminutive horde of windswept travellers began to mark off territory with luggage, commandeering rows of seats so that when it was time to get some sleep on this 12 hour trip we could sprawl out in luxury.

Once settled into seats or cabins, a majority of passengers congregated in the main bar and ordered whatever drink took their fancy; beers, whiskeys, wines, brandies, cocktails, and soft drinks for the children. Clinking glasses, classical music, and high-spirited conversations in a crimson carpeted bar evoked a sense of bygone times of elegant travel. Slowly the room filled with a haze of tobacco smoke, it was as though we had checked in through a time warp.

After a 2 hour delay that perturbed no-one, we set sail towards a setting sun. Behind us, the marble buildings of Split and Diocletian’s Palace radiated in the dying light until the city eventually disappeared over the horizon and into the darkness. From that point on, the only light outside in our little corner of the world was the light of a million twinkling stars. The only sound was that of the sea moving for the moon.

A serene tranquillity was shared by all who ventured outside from the electrical miasma within, (sheltered from the stars, the moon, and the sea). The lulling of the waves was our eternal lullaby, the stars; our eternal dreams. The lights were out in the Captain’s Bridge; him and his crew were sharing this same experience, you could sense it. The ship’s controls glowed faintly casting blue-tinted silhouettes reflecting the peace of the sea. These seafarers were home again. The stars, and gps, were guiding us all to safety.

Mila and I drank a bottle of cheap Croatian wine, keeping warm in the cold Adriatic night. After a while we slept, shivering in the draught of the air-conditioning.

Dawn broke, and the shapes of oil rigs looking old, industrial, rusty and haggard, appeared in the distance. Italy’s East coast spread out vast before us.

The great bombed port of Ancona began to loom, the signs of Industry - a countryside scarred by the wealth that oil brought. The crude stench. The crashing waves calmed by boulders 100 metres out from the coast so that holidaymakers could swim in calm waters. It’s all the same: sun, sand, and sea, and oil and gasworks. The water was green with pollution, the air was toxic, but this is the cost for our human achievement, this is our means of getting from A to B conveniently.

Under the pure night sky we felt timeless, a diesel-powered ship riding the waves of eternity. As we neared land our eyes reaped the destruction of bombs and technological advancement.

Most of medieval Ancona was levelled during the second world war. The largest port of the Adriatic, it was strategically bombarded by the allies for the sake of military advancement and, of course, freedom from the Axis of Evil. But does that freedom still hold strong in these fledgling years of the twenty-first century?

Laden with baggage we strolled a good few kilometres to Ancona train station, catching the train onward to Florence, via Bologna through countryside that welcomed my heart as if it were my home, in the heart of the Tuscan hills where it is all Chianti, Chianti, Chianti, where good wine comes cheap and flavoursome. Where I drink content, full bellied, wishing I could speak the language of my grandfather.