It is windy, but sunny today, in Ischia, Italy.

Yesterday, we went to Prochida, a small island about 20 minutes by ferry from the main port in Ischia. I went there three years ago, and I wanted to show Geoff.

Three years ago, Geoff and I were meant to have a holiday in Ischia, to mark the 25th anniversary of our engagement. Again, disaster struck. He was unable to make it last minute. He had to bale out due to work reasaons. It wasn’t that he was under pressure at work. It was crucial for him to stay; our future depended on it.

What should I do? Go or stay? The children were both elsewhere at Uni and school, so I decided to brave it and go it alone. I couldn’t pass up ten days of swimming in the sea.

The hotel was at the other end of Ischia from where we presently are, in Lacco Ameno, on a hill top, with giraffe like pine trees. It was full of couples. The receptionist asked at check-in, “Will Signor Wilmot be joining you?” I replied that he couldn’t make it due to work commitments. One of his eyebrows shot up. He was thinking, “He’s left her!”

The hotel had excellent wifi, so I downloaded book after book after book. I read by the pool and at the local beach. I swam in the emerald water and used the thermal pools, Ischia’s speciality, at the hotel.

And every other day, I took myself off on an excursion: to a classical concert at famous gardens, La Mortella, in Forio; to Prochida to see an authentic, non-touristy community; to thermal springs and to the Castle Aragon, which is a stone’s throw from our current location.

The days were doable, albeit lonely, but I have always liked my own company. Well, most of the time. I was sick of myself after ten days if the truth be told.

It were the evenings that were torture. One of the main attractions in Italy is the food. It takes centre stage. If you are on a diet, forget coming to Italy. You will crack under the pressure of the pasta, pastries, seafood, salami, tomatoes on toasted bruschetta. You may have resolved, before travelling, to only occasioanlly partake in the carbs. Forget it; you will crack on the first day and eat all that is on offer. I am dreading to think what the scales will say when I arrive home!

Each evening, I would head to my table. My table was in the middle of the room, and I was surrounded by couples who faced into the room; yes, directly towards me. I took a book with me each evening, which I read without glancing up from my lap, even when shoving spaghetti into my mouth.

It was bearable until the Saturday night. It was the ‘romantic night’. I was greeted with a red rose from a waiter at the door. I exclaimed “No, grazie” and showed him the face of my hand in rejection. He looked hurt. What could he expect?

Then the serenading began during the meal. A quartet went from table to table strumming and singing love songs. Surely they wouldn’t come to me, alone. Yes they did. Of course they did. I couldn’t keep reading whilst they were beside me, bellowing out “That’s Amore.” I went puce with embarrassment.

So  yesterday, Geoff and I set off for Prochida, and we walked the same trail I took three years ago, exactly.

Along the way, we saw pretty villas, locals buying veg and fruit from tiny fiat lorries and small cars, as the roads are so narrow.

Today, we are going to catch the local bus around the island.

The reason we didn’t stay at my hotel in Lacco Ameno, is that is is closed for the season for renovations. What a shame. I would have liked to turn up with Signor Wilmot.