Today the sun is making diamonds on the water. We are on the Amalfi coast in Positano. It is almost heaven here. Mountains, previously of a volcanic nature, plunge directly into the sea from a great, perilous height. There is no fertile plain in between. The beaches are almost black, but the crystal clear water is a deep sapphire blue.

It is in stark contrast to Naples, where we have been since Friday. People denigrate Naples, saying that the city is filthy, noisy, unruly and chaotic: that there is corruption, violence and crime amongst the Neopolitans. All these things are true, but its heart beats furiously; the people are volatile, just like Vesuvius, but they love with great emotion. There is nothing tepid and measured about them.

This was demonstrated from the moment we stepped off the plane and caught a taxi. A taxi driver claimed us, and then another taxi driver took offence that he had jumped the queue. They started shouting and gesticulating at each other; death looked probable. Fury seems to simmer just under the surface of most hearts along with amore.

We spent the weekend touring the city, and eating pizza and pasta. Who can adhere to the no-carbs rule in the birthplace of Hugo’s favourite food: pizza? We headed east from our hotel, opposite the Castel Dell’Ovo. To the east is the Old City and extreme poverty; to the west is where the posh people live, especially up on the hill in Vomera, with its panoramic views of the Bay of Naples.

The main route to the Old City from the castle is the Via Toledo, which is like Oxford Street. But to the north of this main thoroughfare is the Spanish Quarter, which consists of piles of tenements lining steep, narrow cobbled streets; there is laundry hanging from windows or just plonked on the street. The din of vespas is ear shattering, like heavy gun fire, and they come haring around corners, almost bowling you over like ten pins. To my astonishment, one of the fastest riders was a boy of about eight with a two year old strapped to his back. He expertly came to an abrupt holt; she clambered off, wiggled her hips and yelled “Ciao.” They were old beyond their years.

We then headed to the cloisters of Santa Chiara, with its 14th century frescoed walkways along the perimeter, and 18th century painted Majorcan tiles adorning a myriad of pillars (64 in total) and adjacent seats in the garden.

I was thrilled to find an Italian greyhound, like Domino, our beloved dog, in a number of the scenes.

It was a peaceful haven after the urban jungle we’d walked through.

We then spied a very old church in Gesu Nuovo. The exterior was ugly and plain. Inside, we were agog to find opulence beyond imagination: marble, gold, ornate frescoes adorned every inch of the floor, walls, ceiling and dome.

The next day it was raining. I wanted to go to Vomera, to see the Chelsea of Naples. What would the equivalent of a pheasant or stag look like I wondered? There was a line of taxis waiting around the corner from our hotel with no customers; everyone was at home or at church. The thing about Italians, is that they love to talk. They gesticulate, prod each others’ chests, wave their hands around, stick out their chins to make a point; they move from laughter to an argument with alacrity. The taxi drivers were making the most of dead time; they were communicating the Italian way.

Before we knew it we were bundled into the first taxi. “Where do you want to go?”, the taxi driver asked. I said, “Vomera.” He turned with a look of disgust on his face. “Why would you want to go to Vomera. I was born in Naples. I will take you to better places.” Geoff looked worried. What was the price tag? He read his mind. “Don’t worry Signor. I turn off the meter. You need to trust me.” His English was excellent. So off we whizzed. First stop Vomera. “You see. I tell you. The architecture is the same as down near your hotel. Why you want to come here?” Next stop Castel Sant’Elmo with heavenly views to the eastern mountains, like ocean liners drifting on the plains, flanked by Vesuvius on the bay. “You see that little red balcony there. I was born there,” he explained. “Now I take you to another view towards Capri.” Another spectacle. “You see. I know best.” We agreed.

From the outset, I could tell that the taxi driver was clever; he had nous. His children were professionals. Education had lifted them from the tenements. Every Sunday, the whole extended family got together. Grandparents, parents, children, aunts, uncles, the whole shebang. And they ate from 3-9pm. Antipasta, then pasta, fish, meat and then Sfogliatella, delicate pastries, with sweet ricotta wrapped in crunchy layers. My favourite!

As he dropped us back to the hotel, he kissed my hand and hugged Geoffrey. We had a bella time, and it was not too expensive. We had seen stunning, panoramic views, but we had also been handed a looking glass into the life of a Neopolitan man.