The Grimaldi Experience
Ferry Food, Fine Wine and a Night in Orvieto
For anyone who hasn’t travelled with Grimaldi Lines, I can highly recommend it in certain respects.
The ships are heavy and tired-looking.
That need not be bad. It might describe me!
Life Aboard the Grimaldi
The cabin is minimalist, with grey being the colour of the couch and stool, both covered in a sort of sixties faux leatherette.
The linen looks new and the pillows are fine.
I discover that my cabin doesn’t have any towels. Thankfully, I haven’t discovered this halfway through a shower, as is often the case.
I guess I will have to remain a bit unclean until I’ve had some breakfast.
Breakfast is at 8.00 am, and you queue up in line for the usual offerings. When you buy the ferry tickets, you are encouraged to buy the breakfast and business-lunch options.
The breakfast is very liquid-focused.
A coffee, a neon, nuclear sort of orange drink, a bottle of water and, last but not least, the crushed croissant.
The lady in her white jacket with epaulettes takes your ticket and scans it.
I didn’t get the marmalade or butter.
It is unclear whether these are extras. A weird sort of billing goes on this ferry.
A lady requests fried eggs and bacon, which rest in a sort of yellow olive-oil grave.
Definitely, anything cooked on this boat looks very dodgy.
I guess it can’t be helped.
It’s mass cafeteria style.
Lunch: A Culinary Experience
I will now wade into the lunch experience.
There is sallow-yellow chicken, ashen-grey souvlaki and a sort of risotto that looks stronger than Araldite, because the server cannot get it off his spoon.
Such is his effort that I am sure there is spit added to the stodgy mess, which finally accretes to the plate.
The server could have worked perfectly well in a prison, serving up slop. I mean the Bastille, not Wormwood Scrubs.
Nevertheless, it was tasty, if rather unpalatable to look at.
You also get a large slop of yoghurt in a plastic domed cup. I rather prodded this with the sealed spoon I had broken into.
Why the spoon is given pride of place for cleanliness is beyond me.
All the cutlery is available in trays, some of which had run out of forks when I rocked up.
A grizzled truck driver looked at me, raising his arms and eyebrows in resigned despair.
An enterprising lady told one of the crumpled, white-coated staff, and the situation was corrected.
Civilisation, just about, restored.
Alice Loxton and Eleanor of Castile
I read Alice Loxton’s book about her 200-mile journey in search of Eleanor of Castile.
I have to say it was cheery, and you did detect that Alice had either recently fallen out of love or was appreciating it. Love was definitely the backdrop.
The Eleanor crosses, now reduced to only three remaining, are rather like the Taj Mahal, built in India by the Mughals out of love.
I visited the Taj with Ross and Anil years ago. Like the pyramids, the usual filth is airbrushed out of the glossy brochure shots.
Of course, Eleanor of Castile is less well known than Eleanor of Aquitaine.
It occurred to me that the personal approach displayed in Alice Loxton’s travel narrative is not dissimilar to my own.
Alice pads her foot-slogging with interesting facts about the places she visits. She steers clear of saying that some of the places she visits are godforsaken.
I guess this is skilful editing, not wishing to offend the residents.
Ancona: A Port with Personality
As we approach Ancona, I am impressed that this Italian port has some personality and charm.
The heavy dockside area has two Viking ships—the cruise line—being repaired. There is also a splendid-looking brig that appears to date from the late eighteenth century. Maybe it’s a splendid replica.
Ancona itself is a sand-coloured mix of grand buildings and warehouses.
Being on the top deck of the grim ferry, I am required to negotiate the 45-degree slope of the top ramp with the car.
As you come down, you join the HGVs leaving in a stream.
I had put the hotel into the tracking.
It was dark, and the harbour halogens sent glare all over the place. Getting off at big ports like this is always a bit of a nightmare, because the tracking sends you theoretically to places that seem miles from your destination.
Somewhat fraught, I arrived at the former palace on a road only 400 metres from the ship I had just left.
By some quirk, a car had just moved off to reveal a parking spot.
Some god was smiling on me. Probably pagan rather than Christian.
The Former Palace: A Welcome Change
Walking into the hotel in my shorts, long hair and jumper with a moth hole, I am surprised they let me in.
The receptionist, phone in hand, sorted my check-in with my passport.
While talking to somebody somewhere, she advised me to get a dinner reservation if I was dining.
She nodded towards the room opposite reception.
I said yes and pointed.
Thirty minutes later, I was sitting down with a spritz.
I discovered that the hotel owner is really a wine magnate. His brand is WINE NOT.
It was all over the place.
Massimo, the maître d’, let me try one.
I looked up quizzically.
He understood.
He then served up the better stuff.
I have to say it was a splendid Vermentino white.
So good that I ordered a small case of six to pick up the next morning.
They also did a decent sweet wine made from Sauvignon Blanc. It had a Tokaji feel to it—that Hungarian golden, sweet nectar.
Anyhow, the whole meal and wine came to €85, including a complimentary cheese platter.
Considering the quality, it was a steal.
Dinner Guests and Parking Worries
The dinner guests were a mixed bunch.
Two couples, an older set of well-attired women, a few singles. Everything from me in shorts to a statuesque model type and a wealthy, patrician-looking, grey-haired businessman.
A nice mix.
I enquired about the parking outside.
I had until 8.00 am, after which the Italian traffic guys would, in theory, be booking me.
It therefore meant an early start and a very good breakfast.
I had hardly eaten anything on the grimmer ferry, so this catch-up on food seemed appropriate.
On the Road to Orvieto
I set the tracking for Orvieto via central Umbria.
Ominously, the accommodation had warned me that I would be charged €20 if I turned up early.
Also, the advent of technology in the hands of the owners meant that an email asking me to pay was not working.
In fact, I had HSBC telling me
David Jackson
16.10.2026