There’s something about travel with my sister that always nostalgic, this time, though, we met not in New Zealand but in London before flying to southern Italy, with four days on a yacht waiting for us. I don’t think either of us quite knew what to expect as we stood on the ferry from Naples, the sea breeze tangling our hair, watching Procida appear on the horizon like a pastel daydream.
Procida was our starting point, a tiny island painted in soft pinks, yellows, and blues, each house stacked haphazardly along the curve of the port. It’s no wonder it was crowned Italy’s Capital of Culture in 2022 -it feels like a place where time stands still. We wandered the harbour, watched fishing boats clink against the docks, and ordered our first of many pasta dishes: spaghetti alle vongole, perfectly salty, flecked with parsley, tasting of the sea. It set the tone for the entire trip, simple, local food enjoyed right where it belongs.
That evening we met out sail buddies joining us via Intrepid Travel and sailed to Ischia, anchoring just outside the marina, our yacht bobbing gently in the moonlight. The next morning, we took the dinghy ashore for gelato and a slow wander through the island’s old town. Ischia had a quieter charm compared to Procida, its cobbled streets lined with shops and faded villas, the kind of place where you want to linger without doing much of anything at all.
By afternoon we were back on the water, sails up, heading toward Sorrento. The arrival was unforgettable. As the sun dipped behind the cliffs, the whole bay glowed golden, and the marina itself was alive with music from what seemed to be a local ceremony. Between the sound of voices carrying over the water and the light shimmering across the sea, I felt suspended in a moment that didn’t need words.
We stayed in Sorrento for two nights, using it as a base to explore. One day we boarded the train to Pompeii, where we’d booked a private tour of the ruins. Walking those ancient streets, with their worn stones and haunting frescoes, felt like stepping into another world—one that ended so suddenly with the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. Afterward, we took a bus up the volcano itself and hiked to the top. From the crater’s rim, the view stretched across the Bay of Naples, the sea sparkling as if nothing catastrophic had ever happened here. It was humbling, and beautiful.
Our final sail carried us to Amalfi, where our yacht journey ended. The town unfolded in a tangle of narrow lanes and piazzas, sunlit laundry flapping between windows, and the scent of lemon drifting through the air. We treated ourselves yet more pasta for lunch and a long afternoon of wandering. When it was time to leave, we boarded a ferry back to Sorrento—our favourite town on the Amalfi Coast—where we stayed for a few extra nights.
From Sorrento, we took a day trip to Capri. The island was dazzling, with its sheer cliffs and impossibly blue water, but it felt a little too polished, too glamorous, for our taste. We preferred Sorrento’s warmth: its bustling piazza, its family-run trattorias, its views of Vesuvius rising like a sentinel across the bay.
This part of our trip was pure magic – sunshine on our faces, salt in the air, the horizon shifting with every tack of the boat. Sharing it with my sister made it all the more special. Travel has a way of binding moments together, and it’s a memory for the books: the light in Sorrento, the taste of clams in Procida, the quiet streets of Ischia, the ruins of Pompeii, and that endless, glittering sea.