The cab taking us to Naples airport hasn’t arrived. It’s one o’clock and in spite of better than adequate air-con, the hotel lobby is leaving me hot under where a collar would have been had I not chosen to wear a now sweat sodden t-shirt. John says to call the holiday helpline number again.
The car is on its way, I’m assured. Another ten minutes and I call the tour operator for the second time. Same story. The car is on its way. “Yes, but where is it now? When will it arrive?” We’ll find out from the contractor Mr Vickery is the reply, and the call quickly ends. A few more minutes and the hotel telephone rings. I can see the receptionist alter his stance, conversing in low tones with the caller whilst intermittently looking over at us.
John says “The tour operator has forgotten to book, they’re having to do it now locally.“
He’s right. Seconds later a Mercedes Bus for eight draws up and we’re being bundled inside. “What time is your flight?” asks the Apple air-podded driver. “No problem. But excuse me if I drive mad.”
Mad? We’ve never been more terrified for our lives. And probably neither has every other driver sharing the same road space. Literally the same space. If there’s an art to the tailgate – this guy proved to be the Caravaggio, though thankfully, in this instance, no death resulted from bad temper.
And the price for a one hour drive, across 40 or so miles of hot baked, cliff sided tarmac?
A mind boggling €270. Which reminds me, the tour operator has yet to refund!
