I hadn’t heard of Pesaro before my ex-flatmate sent me there in summer 2018. I was writing a book at the time, and Giulia reckoned the best place for me to do such work was in her grandad’s old flat, a modest unit in a block put up in 1946, during the short reign of Umberto II. It had lain empty since her nonno – Dottor Spinicci – died of liver failure, having failed to take his own medicine.
The flat’s balcony looked on to a hot and dusty courtyard shared with the local police station. When, on my first morning in the flat, I discovered a faded handwritten recipe for ragù alla bolognese that didn’t involve tomatoes, I was tempted to head down to the cop shop and report it as a thoughtcrime.
In the event, I let the idea slip and headed to the beach instead. Ambling seaward, I soon clocked that the Rossini opera festival was in full swing, and by the time I’d flip-flopped through the town’s Renaissance core and reached the Adriatic, I was familiar with all the tunes from The Barber of Seville.
Arriving at the sea, I was reminded how Italy’s beach scene can often leave a fair amount to be desired: ranks of pay-as-you-go bedding dominated the landscape, with each privatised hectare officiously marshalled. Beside the ranks and columns, however, I was relieved to discover a scattering of public patches. Called spiagge libere, these priceless parcels are where thrifty local people put down chairs and towels, pull out books and turn deeper shades of chestnut. From this moment, my trip followed a pattern. I’d work on the balcony until noon, head to Café Journal for a flatbread (piadina), then pick a deregulated square metre of sand.
I’d slap on some latte solare, swim nervously for a stretch (I’m afraid of frutti di mare), then lie on one of Nonno Spinicci’s old beach towels, which shouted a faded Ciao! on a tricolour background. I’d thank Sol for the weather, Fortuna for my luck, and then Bacchus for aperitivo, which I’d take around 7pm at any of the beach bars that punctuate the boardwalk all the way to Fano, an ancient Roman settlement that can be reached by bike in less than an hour.
Aperitivo would typically be a pair of ice-cold lagers, a certain number of complimentary nibbles, and a period trying to reckon with the fact that Pesaro is twinned with Watford. I’d sit facing east, towards Split and Zadar, and watch the sea fade to a deep briny blue. A touch pickled by now, I’d require some ballast, and make a beeline for pizza at C’era Una Volta (Once Upon a Time), which struck me then, and strikes me yet, as a fitting place to finish. (For the record, I’ve not put tomatoes in my bolognese since.)
