When the Mediterranean makes its first appearance, it’s through chilly sheets of rain. I spot the not-very-blue waters between the buildings of Marseille as my train from Paris pulls in. By the time we reach Nice the skies are still grey and I’m starting to wonder how far south I’ll have to go before I get some late-in-the-year sun. Of course, I’m not the first Briton to flee damp, cold drizzle.
Back in the autumn of 1820 a sickly John Keats took the same decision. In his case, however, the situation was more critical. His heartfelt line in Ode to a Nightingale, “O for a beaker full of the warm South”, written the previous year, had an edge of desperation. My own goal is Pompeii. That should be far enough, I reckon, to guarantee a warm sun. Not only that, but I have been drawn by recent stories of new discoveries at the ancient site. How much, I wonder, is that stalwart of the tourist circuit changing? An out-of-season visit seems like a good opportunity to see one of the world’s tourist honey pots without the crowds, and feel the sun on my face.
