The next morning I wound my way to the top of the Guasco hill to visit the cathedral. San Cirico – the saint’s body is in the crypt apparently – an impressive and fairly squat building decorated in marble. Very beautiful. I was instantly reminded of St Pauls in London, which although large always appears at a low and human level.
Parked the car and took in the views over the harbour. There was Trajan’s gateway and to the left the Lazaretto, a pentagonal low building on it’s own artificial island, which had acted as a customs shed and quarantine holding. Quarantine – which comes from the Italian word for forty – was a vital restriction to keep out the plague. New arrivals were held for forty days in the lazaretto to ensure they were clean to enter.
It was overcast and humid with rain in the strong breeze so I entered the church which was holding a service. The priest was giving a sermon so I had to tiptoe around. A shame because I had read there was a Bellini and a Piero della Francesca amongst its wonders. 
The dome was not large by modern standards but predated many of the famous medieval ones. A twelve sided drum which had been a wonder in its day before the likes of Bruneleschi created the shock and awe of the Duomo of Florence.
Feeling a bit of an interloper amongst the  congregation I left and walked out into the grounds. There was a very fine bronze statue of Pope Paul II which I took a snap of.
Down at the port the boat was in. A big one. Pedro went down and down below the waterline. I went up and up to deck 10 and my cabin. Like being in a floating block of flats.
I walked around and got myself a beer from the open air bar. The decks were painted a lurid turquoise which contrasted with the view. A grey  sky with a darker grey sea put me in mind of Anselm Kiefer. I climbed a staircase and came across the pool. It was empty and covered by an orange safety net, which two kids were bouncing on.
As we set off I met Rudi and Susan from Munich who had introduced themselves while we waited in the queue at the dock. They were in an ancient camper van that had just had its 400 thousand kilometre service. Off to the Peloponese, they were getting off before me at Igoumenetsia. She was originally from Manchester, her German father had met her mother in Austria in the early 50s and had moved to Britain which I thought must have been awkward so soon after the war. But by the time she was four they were back in Munich. They were off to the self-service restaurant. Would I join them? I said I had to consider La Bella Figura. Rudi said ‘In Germany we have an expression ‘’I don’t worry about a bikini body. Because I always sunbathe naked’’
I stayed on the rail but it started to rain so crossed through doors to the port side where I could be in the lee. Directly below me was the pilot boat which was very closely alongside. Looking down as it neared the side of the ferry I saw the pilot step deftly  onto the deck from a door many decks below. He gave a wave to the  officer on the bridge wing. I gave him a wave too and he threw back a thumbs up. He was nimble, bearded and with an impressive head of long curly hair. He looked like a poet and not for the first time in Italy I envied the kind of job that entailed. From bus drivers in Venice to ferry captains in the Bay of Naples, the repetition and prestige that goes with that open air life was one to covet.
The pilot boat peeled away and went to meet a slowing cargo ship. An elegant design that could only be of Italian origin with containers stacked on deck. Then it really started to come down so I rethought the offer of the self-service restaurant.