Last updated on 21/10/2024

Epilogue.

Part of my novel The Road to Ancona.

Go to the home page for The Road to Ancona.

July 2015. Michael clicked off his browser and sat back in his chair. For two hours he had been on the Internet, searching, researching, looking … it was clear that there still was a town near Rimini called Cattolica, but modern photos of it confirmed to him that the little tourist resort of 1966 had disappeared forever. It had been replaced by a bigger, brasher, much more highly developed town from which all the features of the sixties had disappeared. He had searched on Google, Facebook, websites, looked at maps, street views on Google Earth … but found nothing of the world he visited when he was sixteen. He was not surprised. Sad maybe that nothing had appeared on his monitor to remind of that place; but then he had walked through the doors of the Britannia for the last time fifty years ago. Even his home town in the Midlands had changed, beyond all recognition, over that period of time.

He did however find a building (using Google Earth) in the Via Marconi that matched the image on the postcard he still had of the Britannia Hotel – the same four storeys, the same number and shapes of windows, the position of the balconies. He was sure that the building he stayed in was still there, but he could see tale-tale signs suggesting it had been converted for use as an apartment block.

All he had now were some postcards and a few small black and white photos — and of course his notes. He had not lost his notes; the story of the holiday (from its beginning right through to its very last day) was still there in the little notepads, in his scrawly juvenile handwriting. The world changes so rapidly, he thought, but some things never change even though most of the little day-to-day world, in which we live, changes all the time. He glanced through the pages of his notes and felt pleased he had taken the time to write all this down, fifty years ago. In his mind, he had stored images, scenes, sounds, smells, the faces of friends and the places he had visited and they were still clear. He did not remember everything that had happened on the holiday but enough of it was still there, stored in the deep recesses of his brain; enough to relive moments of it, in his memory and imagination. The notes and the photographs brought those memories back, even after all that time.

The door to the study opened and Michael’s wife walked in with a cup of hot chocolate. ‘You’ve been up late then,’ she said, ‘still searching for stuff about Italy for your book?’

‘Yes and, as I feared, most of it has now disappeared. I did find that the building used as the Britannia was still there. That was the best find of the evening, that was.’

‘Well, you had better finish up now and come to bed. You have a long day at the office tomorrow.’

Michael switched off his computer and sipped his drink. As his wife waited for him he said, ‘I think I will enjoy writing this book. It will bring back all those memories of that holiday the things we did and the people we met. Thanks for thinking about me – as you always have done,’ he said, draining the last of his mug.

He smiled at his wife and said, ‘Thanks for everything, Carol.’

The end.