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The Amalfi coast

Ravello is a town of name-droppers. The bigger the names and the louder they’re dropped the better. It’s practically a civic duty. In the Viale Richard Wagner (clang!), aside from the street sign itself, there are two plaques. One commemorates a film that was shot here in 1953, John Huston (ding!), Humphrey Bogart (dong!), Gina Lollobrigida (plink!), Peter Lorre (plonk!), Truman Capote (tinkle!) and Robert Capa (crash!) were all here. On the opposite side of the street, another plaque confirms the Dutch optical illusion artist MC Escher (boing!) was also here. Celebrity validates Ravello.

The stars of the 20th century rained down on this small town clinging to a ridge overlooking the Gulf of Salerno. The shower was particularly dense in the 1950s and 1960s. They came for the weather, the lifestyle and, above all, the views.

You would be hard pressed to find a square inch of Ravello’s seaward flank that does not make the poetic heart soar. The super-luxe Hotel Caruso occupies one of the most breathtaking positions. The infinity pool at the apex of the ridge gives the delirious sensation of flight, inviting swimmers to follow the swallows that swoop and skim the surface of the water over the edge into the void between tumbling mountains, sea and sky.

Lunch at the poolside is a caress of the senses.

The maître d’ cannot contain his excitement. They have a famous Englishman here today, a footballer he thinks, and nods to a figure jabbing urgently at his iPhone on the other side of the pool. I see Gary Lineker (kerrang!). I struggle to explain to the maître d’ that Mr Lineker is so much more than a mere footballer – I try, and fail.

Villa Rufolo’s gardens are famously said to have inspired Wagner while writing Parsifal and it is one of the venues to host the Ravello Festival. I’m a few weeks too late for this year’s events, but misty-eyed locals recall the Dawn Concert that began at 5am in August in the open-air auditorium.

Britain's Andy Murray beat Alex Bogomolov Jr. of the United States.

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Villa Cimbrone on the western spur of the town is even more romantic. The architecture can be described as eclectic if you want to be kind, or a jumble of nonsense if you don’t. It is the gardens, though, that demand respect. Designed with input from Vita Sackville-West and influenced by Gertrude Jekyll, this is a playground for faeries and poets.

The Bloomsbury Set frolicked here. The long and stately “Avenue of Immensity” leads, with metaphysical inevitability, to the “Terrace of Infinity”. The view here is, if anything, bigger and more panoramic than any other. Lovers and newlyweds line up on the balcony projecting from the cliffface to be photographed. Unbeknown to most, they are standing above La Rondinaia, the Swallow’s Nest, the former home of Gore Vidal. Here he played host to Rudolf Nureyev, Tennessee Williams, the Jaggers and Princess Margaret. Why fight the impulse? Name-dropping is contagious.

There is a simpler side to Ravello – which requires only a pair of decent trainers and sturdy knees. The mountains are cross-hatched with stepped trails that were, for centuries, the only means of access between the mountain villages and the fishing ports on the coast. From the terraces of the Hotel Caruso, the Monastero di San Nicola is clearly visible, standing on top of the hill across the Minori valley. Getting there involves turning your back on tourist Ravello and heading uphill through the sections of the town that the residents have reserved for themselves – the houses are less manicured; there are grocery shops and little churches.

It takes about half an hour to reach Sambuco at the top of the valley. Though picturesque enough, it has the purposeful feel of a working community – the steep mountainsides are laboriously carved into lemon groves and vineyards. The trail passes through chestnut and oak forests, gradually ascending to a saddle, where the views back to Ravello are spectacular.

Five hundred metres below, from the boat of Captain Flavio Paladino, the Amalfi Drive – the coastal road running along the side of the cliff between Amalfi and Sorrento – looks like an MC Escher illusion. The road is carved from the sheer cliff in some stretches; it pierces the wall in others and is cantilevered out from the rock face in others.

As we make our way up to Positano the captain launches into his spiel. Over there is the house and helipad of Sophia Loren (splat!); here is the discotheque frequented by Frank Sinatra (thud!), and we are just passing the beach favoured by Jacqueline Kennedy (ker-pow!).

– The Independent

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