Hotel Pupetto


On the day we arrive in Italy it is overcast. The Italians remark over and again, with uncertainty, on how unusual the weather is for the time of year.

Milan was hotter than Naples and when we got to the hotel there were storm clouds gathering. Fabio, our driver, was disturbed. He said it was very bad for the tourists. Positano is a small town carved into the rocks along the Amalfi coast. It consists of three and a half thousand people, and much more besides. Everything you gaze upon is art. There is, it seems, an agreement between the inhabitants and mother nature to provide as much beauty as possible for the towns inhabitants, and the tourists who flock to Positano, year on year for a drink of nectar from this ancient place. The town flourishes upon the tourist trade, visitors amount to ten times the local population each month.

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Many of these arrive at the end of July, so that by August the narrow, roughly paved lanes are choked with humanity, but nobody seems to mind the invasion.

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