Along the Tiber

"When I was your age I didn't have a mobile phone. They didn't exist. There were no computers. There was no internet." The children stare at me, wide-eyed, aghast. I'm describing a world that is inconceivable.

So, in a bid to get away from the madness that has engulfed our world, I leave my phone at home. I head down to the Tiber.

The Tiber, the large and windy river that runs through Rome, has its source up in the Appenines, on Monte Fumaiolo, and spills out 405kms down the line in a great mass of polluted water at Fiumicino.

I join up with the river at the height of Ponte Marconi. Here, the banks are just high reeds and scrubland, inaccessible to pedestrians. I stroll alongside the bike lane.The river is a dull brown mass to my right. Some gulls swoop up and down drawing large arcs in the sky above the river. I walk past a plush sports club offering both tennis and football lessons.

At the height of Via Enrico Fermi, just before Lungotevere di Pietro Papa becomes Lungotevere  Vittorio Gassman, I gain access to the banks. The bike lane dives down and in the distance I can spy the gasometro, a large metal construction part of the disused gasworks in the Ostiense area of the city. A young cyclist whizzes past shouting excitedly as his bike speeds up on the slope.

The banks of the river are littered with all manner of rubbish: plastic bottles, shreds of plastic wrapping, plastic and paper bags, metal cans, pieces of fabric, lone shoes....  On the opposite side of the river I can see the ramshakle constructions in which gypsy families choose to live. Every now and again they get moved on and the dwellings are destroyed only to be replaced at some later date.

 I pass under the Ponte della Scienza Rita Levi-Montalcini, a steel and cement construction which was inaugurated in 2014. It was dedicated to the Italian Nobel laureate, Rita Levi-Montalcini, who passed away in 2012 after a lifetime devoted to the study of neurobiology.

Il gasometro

A woman on a bike comes to a stop close by and shouts back, "Non sei un figlio, sei un fastidio." ("You're not a son, you're a nuisance.") "E pure tu," (" And so are you"), answers her son coming to a halt beside her. His nose is itching, his hands hurt. He has a litany of complaints. His mother is fed up with his whining. They resume their troubled excursion, rapidly disappearing into the distance.

The next bridge is the Ponte dell'industria, a 19th century iron structure built by a Belgian company in England and then transported in pieces to Italy. It used to deal with the flow of train traffic from Ostiense. 



Nestled in a corner where the bridge forms an angle with the land is a makeshift home, pieces of cardboard with covers draped over them hide the occupant from the people who pass by daily. 

Just a few paces further is the railway bridge, Ponte San Paolo, it was built at the beginning of the 20th century. As I walk under it a train rattles over from the station of Ostiense to the next stop at Trastevere. My dog is scared and crouches down. 

Ponte dell'industria

Once away from the bridge she perks up again. There are more people about now joggers and cyclists as well as others walkers with their dogs. A man with a large dog pauses by as our dogs greet each other. 

"Is it a woman?" he asks in English (he must have overheard me talking to my dog). "A female," I answer. He nods and repeats the word. All is safe as his dog is a 'man.'
 

Under Ponte San Paolo

 High above the path, I can detect the bustle of Rome's largest flea market at Porta Portese. Every Sunday morning people flock to the market looking for bargains: cheap, vintage clothes, old LPs, old-fashioned phones, antiques, paintings...

On the river I see a small island with gulls sunning themselves. On a nearby rock a large black sea bird is standing wings open as if it is trying to dry them in the breeze. 

On the opposite side I can see the large apartment blocks characteristic of the Testaccio district of the city.

My gaze drops downwards to the slow-flowing water of the river. Yellow crime/accident scene tape is floating in it. It reminds me that not so long ago a young American student was found in the river, dead, after a presumed-mugging gone wrong. Would it have been at this point? Every year someone perishes in this murky morass.

Ponte Sublicio

Then suddenly there is an obstruction. The way is closed. A metal barrier stops all people from continuing on and under the Ponte Sublicio. People inspect the obstruction. Cyclists get off their bikes and push them onto a narrow strip of muddy ground alongside this barrier. If they slip it's a straight fall down onto some rocks and into the Tiber. I follow them onto the uneven path. Fortunately its a short distance, and it's with relief that I get back onto the bike lane. 

Walking on I overhear the converations. "Che disgrazia!" (What a disgrace!)  "Why hasn't the comune done anything about it?"  Six months or was it four months that the bike lane had been barred because of a mud slide following some heavy autumnal rain or was it after a summer storm? I hear varying versions but the gist of it is that nothing has been done about it for months.

 I'm now in Trastevere, the sun is shining and it's hot. I rest on a metal construction, possible once used for mooring boats. My dog is transfixed by the sight of gulls and gannets on the opposite bank. They are noisy. 

There are ornate lamp posts curving high above the cycle lane. The wall rises sheer and ominous up to the road. Affixed in it are strong metal hoops. Above on Lungotevere Ripa for the first time since I began my walk I can hear the sound of traffic. 

I head on for the final stretch of the walk to Rome's only Island, a small wedge in the heart of the city. It lies just beyond the Ponte Palatino (aka Ponte Inglese, English bridge). The bridge was built in the place of the 2,200-year-old  Ponte Rotto (broken bridge). All that remains of the original ancient Roman structure is an arch, adjacent to the 19th century masonry and metal construction. 

Ponte Palatino

At the Isola Tiberina, I climb up a steep, beer-bottle-glass-strewn staircase onto the Ponte Cestio. The Tiber Island is a mere 67 metres across and 270 metres long. 

I cross it passing a hospital, a chemist's and a church and link up with the other side of the Tiber via the only remaining ancient bridge in Rome, the Ponte Fabricius.






Today, on the bridge, some street vendors try to interest passers-by in their fake designer bags while a busker entertains, strumming his guitar and singing out-of-tune.

L'isola Tiberina and Ponte Cestio

 

On the bus ride home, I'm about 8 kilometres away, the bus driver is having a conversation on his phone with his girlfriend or his wife, while behind me a man is discussing work loudly, even though it is Sunday. Another phone is ringing but its owner is not answering. It's impossible to get away from phones for long in our world. Indeed, one might ask: what did we do before mobile phones?