Parma

Of the multitude of excursions proposed by Leo, the only one to which I'd unconditionally agreed was Parma, the eponymous cheese and ham being an irresistible temptation. So it was that on the final day of the holiday, when the weather took pity on us and the temperature finally dropped below 30C, we set off.

The ticket machines at Bologna railway station greet passengers with a loud warning about pickpockets, an injunction calculated to make you pat your pockets nervously, thus giving any nearby thieves the precise location of your valuables. Once Leo gave up wrestling with the Italian instructions we secured four first class tickets, each the size of an airline boarding pass. These needed to be validated at a different machine which we eventually found on the platform; failure to comply would incur a hefty fine, Leo informed us. I observed sourly that this is not required on UK trains and must be unnecessary, a kind of railway skeuomorph indicative of the backwardness of Italian public transport. The sole first class carriage was located at the end of the train and indistinguishable from standard class except that the air conditioning was not working.

The countryside between Bologna and Parma is unremarkable except for mountains visible in the distance which looked appealingly refreshing after a week in persistent heat.  The route from Parma station to the town centre was parallel to the river so I suggested a short detour, hoping proximity to running water would have a revitalising effect.  There were a number of elegant bridges but the river was missing.  Well-established bushes colonised the edges and a small park was visible where the river should be. Only a gravelly scar on the dry bed suggested water had once flowed. It was a dispiriting sight.  Sally wondered whether local estate agents still advertised properties as having a river view.

A single cafe was open by the dusty central piazza and we decided on an early lunch.  Leo and Sally ordered risotto, which despite Parma's reputation for culinary excellence, they declared inedible. The waitress seemed resigned when Leo bravely explained we weren't paying for them. Clearly complaints weren't unusual and they compensated for their loss by overcharging us for lukewarm coffee. Glenda composed an excoriating review for TripAdvisor.

Sunday afternoon in Parma proved a quiet affair. The shops were closed and we'd missed the city museum by half an hour.  In desperation we visited the archeological museum, an airless trove of exhibits mainly looted from other countries, an honourable tradition, remarked Glenda.

By mid afternoon, in the absence of any other diversion, we resorted to the cathedral but, having done its weekly duty to the faithful, even that was closed.  We trudged back towards the station, on the lookout for a cafe which would meet Leo's exacting standards. Nowhere that was open passed the test and we found ourselves contemplating the flyblown station cafe. At least this wouldn't disappoint, I comforted Leo, our expectations of a such an establishment being so low. Nevertheless, it succeeded: they didn't even serve coffee and we were redirected to an equally unappetising adjacent alternative.

We opted for standard class tickets for the return journey and I dozed, surprising myself by looking forward to getting back to Bologna.

The gloomy entrance to the archeology museum

© David Thompson 2015