Advert and receipt in Pescara

No links from this page.

Pescara - Bari

So, yes, two hours. Time enough to scout Centrale’s car park and forecourt, have a few more coffees and a gander round the station’s discount bookshop, and its tiny English section of inevitable dog eared copies of budget print classics. Two hours wasn’t enough to take in the Adriatic or Apennines, although it was plenty of time for me to think about the rest of the journey - which I hadn’t even properly started - would soon be over. I wrote postcards and pondered the proliferation of tiny shopping malls and car showrooms I’d seen on my walk down Via Amendola, before getting ready for the train.

My Bari train was InterCity; and, as such, a notch down from whatever long nose Pendolino does the same trip minutes faster. I shared a comfortable apartment as far as somewhere near Foggia with a bloke who intermittently dozed as we dived in and emerged out of tunnels after leaving Pescara and running along the Adriatic shoreline. This fellow woke up a little later and enhanced his ‘very good travelling companion’ credentials by chatting to a mother carrying a baby with a huge surgical scar running lengthways from its forehead to crown and round the back of its head to the nape of its neck. The mother was chatty, the scarred baby perfectly happy, and my travelling companion convivial.

Other link:

Piaggio P.166 DL3, Italian Coast Guard

Arriving in Pescara

A doddle. Nice small airport. I made a half hearted attempt to locate the bus, but a ‘to scale’ map indicated town as being only a couple of runways’ length away. I decided to take my chances with the sun, lizards and swifts. In the event, and despite the considerable weight of my very solidly built army surplus rucksack, I enjoyed strolling past samey, well-stocked bars equipped with garden furniture, unattended packets of cigarettes and Bic lighters pushed up to the front of the premises.

Soon, however, I realised that while Pescara has one airport it has two railway stations. Maybe more. And while I needed Centrale station, the wonderfully direct route straight down Via Amendola turned out to be a wonderfully direct route somewhere else. Porta Nuova station, where I ended up, was only one stop from Centrale and there was, accordingly, little inconvenience, but this navigational mishap was only one of a number of logistic faux pas (or passes) which came to characterise my journey.

At Centrale, I put my bag down in one of the coffee concessions tucked among the shops built into the station’s concourse under the platforms. I queued behind a far-too timid English lady who took an age to get served, before I swept up to the counter and confidently ordered “uno cappuccino”. This, and a sneaky look after the cash register was rung enabled me to cruise through my first Italian encounter. I immediately texted Anj to tell her. And then realised I had about two hours before the train.

So, yes, two hours. Time enough to scout Centrale’s car park and forecourt, have a few more coffees and a gander round the station’s discount bookshop, and its tiny English section of inevitable dog eared copies of budget print classics. Two hours wasn’t enough to take in the Adriatic or Apennines, although it was plenty of time for me to think about the rest of the journey - which I hadn’t even properly started - would soon be over. I wrote postcards and pondered the proliferation of tiny shopping malls and car showrooms I’d seen on my walk down Via Amendola, before getting ready for the train.