To the Adriatic coast we went — to Grado, a timeless seaside and thermal town built on an island. Its lagoon offers calm waters and the soothing scent of salt and pine. We used to go every summer with my parents. Forty years later, not much has changed. Except that, as a child, I had ice cream there — and this time, I tasted wine.
The Beach and the Pine Forest
When we stayed at my aunt’s in Giavons, we’d drive almost daily to the coast. After about an hour on the road, we’d arrive at Grado. A historic resort town, famous for its beaches and thalassotherapy.
My father would park his Ford Taunus under the shade of the pines, just next to the walkway leading to the beach. It was a private beach — entrance required a ticket. Same for the parking.
A man would rush over as soon as a car pulled in, wearing a pouch and carrying a small mechanical punch — a sort of Mediterranean metro conductor, stamping our place in the sun.
We’d unload our beach gear and set up camp for the day, often interrupted by a small seafood lunch nearby. I’d play safely in the shallow water or dedicate myself to the construction of a sandcastle — equipped with my brand-new bucket and spade.
Buying the tools of my trade was a ritual. Each year, I’d return to the same shop to buy a new set: spade, bucket, inflatable ring, plastic sandals, and a dozen little treasures, depending on what my pocket money would allow.
Camping and Caravanning
Staying with my aunt didn’t last forever. My parents soon craved independence — camping and caravanning gave them freedom.
The caravan, however, was a whole saga. And not one I particularly enjoyed. Endless highways through Germany, the grim silhouette of our towed caravan behind us — like a travelling funeral procession.
To top it off: setting up the awning, watching my father swear at the poles and tension straps, and furnishing the interior. It was all a bit much.
But once it was all done, and we’d settled in for three long weeks, it was forgotten — almost.
La Dolce Vita, Beach Edition
Spending a day in Grado is la dolce vita with sand between your toes. Bars and restaurants spill across the promenade — each one more tempting than the last.
As a child, I remember the same small restaurant where I always ordered soup — a comforting brodo con des ‘pètitè pâtes’, the waiter spoke a few words of French.
This time, I went for spaghetti alle vongole — perfectly cooked — on a terrace overlooking the old harbour.
All that was missing was the watermelon vendor, dragging his cart across the sand, to complete the picture.
To Be Continued…
On the drive back to San Daniele, I took a short detour. There was one thing I absolutely had to see.
But that… is a story for another time.
