None of my companions were interested in joining me on my walk so I set off alone confident that I could find my way around this small Italian island. I immediately got on the wrong bus and was heading towards Maronti Beach, reputedly the best beach on Ischia. I decided to stay on the bus and see if the beach lived up to its reputation.

After leaving the main road at Testaccio the bus wound its way through a series of oleander-lined hairpin bends. I clutched the metal pole as the bus swung and straightened alternately. There was no chance of a seat as everyone was going to the beach. Every space was filled with the paraphernalia of a day by the sea. Despite lurching backwards and forwards I still managed to enjoy the fabulous views of the coast and St Angelo below us. The blue of the sky was reflected in the calm sea that glimmered under a bright sun. 

It is a lovely beach and I strolled along trying to be creative with the different colours of the many small restaurants that offered a patch of beach and sun beds shaded by umbrellas of different colours. 

Going back towards Ischia we had to work our way through a stampede of scooters piled high with beach gear but all passengers and drivers wearing helmets. The gardens by the road were full of lemon trees bursting with fruit. There were traffic lights to control the traffic on the sections where it was too narrow for two vehicles to pass. An angry exchange erupted between our bus driver and a scooter rider when the scooter came abreast of a car and blocked our way. This was swiftly followed by another exchange with a second scooter driver and his passenger following some imprudent overtaking. In theory there was air conditioning on the buses but in practice all the passengers ignored the sign to keep the windows closed so the interior became hot and stuffy. I was lucky and had found a seat near an open window. A bus inspector got on at the front and a youth at the back, who only got on the stop before, immediately leapt off. The inspector had a chat with the driver, made a note on his clipboard then got off at the next stop. I was quite disappointed as I had been sitting there smug in the knowledge that I had a valid ticket in my back pocket – that was not always the case. When in Rome ... 

I jumped off the bus when I saw the aqueduct, “Pilastri” on the outskirts of the town. We had driven past this structure several times but this was my first opportunity to have a proper look at it. Construction of this aqueduct began during the sixteenth century to carry water from the Buceto spring on Monte Epomeo to the people of Ischia Ponte. It was finally completed towards the end of the seventeenth century. It was an impressive structure towering above the main road but then my bus came into view and I had to hurry back to the stop. Soon I was on my way to my original destination, Fiaiano. 

As we came into the town we passed a modern church. After getting off the bus I walked back to have a look. It was a very modern church, just one year old and stunning in its simplicity. Muted colours from contemporary stained glass windows splashed the wooden chairs. I stayed inside in the cool for a while then walked up the main road to the tiny village square. Here I consulted a map of the paths up to and around the volcano ahead of me. It looked very simple on the map, just two main routes over the top and down the other side. 

I took the left fork out of the square and headed up the hill. This road was so narrow that when a vehicle came by I had to leap into a doorway or jump onto the low stone brick wall that lined the road. The local dustcart came by and I notice that it, like the buses, was about a third of the normal size in order to negotiate the narrow winding roads. Small Lorries that looked liked refugees from a Postman Pat set regularly puttered up the steep slope. I turned off the road and followed some steps that went straight up the side of the mountain. But, after climbing for a while they brought me back on to the main road. I had passed a cave with steam belching out from behind the closed door that guarded a cave in the tufa, the volcanic rock of the island. I assumed this was a fumerole and the path just led there and nowhere else. Fumeroles are common on this volcanic island as the steam in the bowels of the earth escapes through holes in its surface.

I followed this road for a while and then turned off onto some more steps. These steps took me further and further away from the road. They became a track and then degenerated into a muddy path. In places I had to scramble up steps fashioned in the mud and edged with logs. Some of these were sometimes so high I could not step from one to the next one and had to find an alternative route round them. The path became more and more overgrown and sometimes brambles clutched at my bare legs and arms. I had only seen one person since I left the road, a local making his way down the steps balancing some long branches on his shoulder. It was eerily quiet in the dense, mixed deciduous wood of chestnut, oak and beech trees. 

When I came to a crossroads I took the path that led up towards the summit. It was very overgrown and I considered turning back but then I came to some more crossroads and a sign that pointed me in the direction of Piano San Paolo and Casamicciola. As the latter was my ultimate destination I followed the path indicated. It was really hot so I stopped occasionally and sat on one of the shaded wooden benches that lined my route to sip some water. My way was strewn with old chestnuts and their prickly coats. Above me the sun filtered through a canopy of leaves in places but I was mostly in the shade. At the next crossroads I had two options Buceto or Canoni. 

I chose Buceto but the path became so overgrown I had to re-trace my steps go towards Canoni. This way led me into a large glade with some crude wooden tables and stools and a statue of Christ on the cross fashioned from twigs and branches. There were also some wooden railings. I sat on one of the stools around a circular table and emptied my trainers of the sand and twigs that had accumulated inside. It felt as though I had strayed into a sacred place. I subsequently discovered that this was Piano san Paolo where the inhabitants of Fiaiano celebrated Saint Paolo’s day every June. Some would ride there and tether their horses to the wooden railings.

A sign tacked to a tree informed me that Casamicciola was back the way I had come. As I already knew that the only other option was an impenetrable path I took another path out of the other side of the glade. After a while I was pushing my way through shoulder high ferns and I could feel the brambles nipping at my ankles and snagging on my shoulders. There were frequent scuttlings in the undergrowth around me and I assumed they were over-active lizards but on one occasion I did see what looked like a small fox flash across the path in front of me. Birds would often flutter up from the bushes as I passed by. I did reach the summit of the volcano but was thwarted by the luxuriant vegetation that rendered the path impassable. I had to re-trace my steps.

Back at the crossroads the only option was to go back the way I had come. There was no one to ask and no map to consult. Two dogs crashed through the undergrowth, gave me a quick glance and then disappeared down a path but there was no sign of an owner.  I followed them assuming the path they were on must go somewhere. In places I found myself in an old snow trench bounded by low grey stone walls and filled with luxuriant ferns as high as my shoulders. Before the advent of refrigerators these trenches were packed with snow in the winter and it would then be used to preserve food during the hot summer months.

There were several options along this route and I tried some of them. Most of these petered out to nothing, obviously tracks used by hunters as they were littered with spent cartridges. Finally I found some stone steps that led me back down the mountain. These emerged into a clearing occupied by a solitary house and a parched small holding but there was no sign of the owners. After passing this small habitation the path petered out to nothing again so I turned about face and walked back along the narrow mud track that wound its way round the edge of the crater. Luxuriant vegetation concealed the steep drops below me although bare slashes in the vegetation created by the occasional mud slide made me realise just how deep the crater was. Another turning and this time a better path. There was more scuttling in the thick undergrowth and a large rat raced across the path ahead. A little further on and another one appeared but this one sat on the bank long enough for me to get a good look at him. I greeted him and asked if he knew the way to Casamicciola – I had not spoken to anyone for several hours now. He just looked me up and down but did not respond.

Just as I thought I was completely lost and would never find my way out of this tangle of trees, brambles and giant ferns I began descending in earnest. I passed evidence of the old aqueduct that had carried the water from the Buceto spring but I did not find the spring itself.  Before the aqueduct was built the local people had walked up to this spring to collect fresh water. No doubt they had a better sense of direction than I did.

Suddenly through the trees I caught sight of the sea. I scrambled up a bank and made my way to the edge from where I could see Ischia below me. This was the first time a break in the vegetation had allowed me to experience the fabulous views I had been promised by our local guide when he had taken us on a tour of the island. Cobwebs attached themselves to my face, bare legs and arms – horrible feeling. Signposts, the few there were, had faded and at every junction there was a signpost to the same trattoria – someone had helpfully put up a sign saying this trattoria was at the end of the path. But, like gold at the end of the rainbow, despite following the signs I never found it. 

Eventually I emerged from the woods onto a road but I had no idea where this road led to. Some surveyors were taking measurements on the road a short distance away so asked them where I was. I decided to walk 3.5 km downhill to Casamicciola rather than 1.5 km uphill to Barano. 

At the first crossroads I found a hill covered in pine trees in front of me so tried one of the paths to see if it would take me down to the town. It was a strange contrast, pine forest on the slope in front and deciduous forest on the slopes behind. The path was a dead end so had to resign myself to taking the road all the way. I passed some properties with vegetable gardens full of produce such as maize, tall and erect reaching for the sky and lemon trees with branches laden with fruit. As I walked down the road I got occasional glimpses of Casamicciola below. I tried a few possible short cuts but they all seemed to be blocked by building works and I had to walk back up to the main road.

It was a relief when I finally entered the town. I strolled along the sea front and round the harbour where small fishing boats bobbed idly on the limpid water.   The local women were picking over the catch of the day displayed in the back of a van. They were queuing up to buy octopus, two and three at a time. The seller was holding them up for inspection and then dropping them into plastic carrier bags before weighing the contents on old fashioned scales. I turned back towards the main road. Monte Epomeo rose in front of me.   I looked back at the mountain I had climbed and realised that I had done everything I would have advised my guests not to do. I had set off without a map, no clear idea of where I was going so I had informed no one. I was carrying just half a bottle of water – but I did have my mobile phone so if I had encountered any problems I could have called someone, even though I probably would not have known exactly where I was.

Despite all this I had never felt worried in any way. It had been a great experience. I felt as though I had been transported to the past and had trodden along the same paths the villagers had walked many times collecting water from the spring and snow from the trenches. The donkeys that had assisted them were now used to carry tourists to the top of the volcano. I had seen the crater, a massive hole that once spewed out lava and now slept under a thick cover of trees and plants.

As I approached the ferry terminal a bus stopped beside me so I joined the scramble on board. The bus terminated at Ischia Porto where I got another bus back to the hotel and the present.