The trick to Amalfi in August is to be nowhere near Amalfi in August. Or, more precisely: to be just far enough offshore that the town becomes a painting rather than a place.
We took a small sloop from Positano and pointed it south with no particular ambition. Lunch was langoustines and a bottle of Fiano so cold the glass fogged. The captain, who had been at this for thirty-eight seasons, offered only one piece of advice: Non correre. Il mare non corre mai.
The itinerary of no itinerary
By evening we had drifted into a cove known to three families and a handful of very fortunate strangers. Someone produced a gramophone. Someone else, a bottle of limoncello older than the youngest guest. The sea, as promised, did not hurry.