Last updated 09:46, Friday, 15 February 2008

I’m fancying another little trip to Verona. Spring’s in the air, a rare treat of warm February sunshine has activated my inspiration glands... and I want to be in Italy.

I love Italy – wholeheartedly and unconditionally – but have a particularly soft spot for Verona, a small walled northern city with the huge heart of a proud, closely knit ancient Roman town – actually, not unlike Carlisle.

Ancient and architecturally attractive, Verona owes her captivating character to the river running through her centre, her close proximity to lovely lakes and mountains, beautiful churches, a red brick castle with richly colourful history, lovingly tended public parks, people with a sense of fun and adventure... and an airport. Very like Carlisle, in fact. But nobody promised identical.

Verona Airport isn’t the biggest nor the most glamorous in the world. But it works. Serving the business and tourism interests of the city and nearby Italian lakes, it does very well in terms of being fit for purpose and has brought added prosperity to the Veneto region.

In its previous life-form as a nondescript airstrip and a couple of grubby hangars, useful only to the odd freight carrier and beautifully kitted out Italian military on occasional exercise – all rakishly smoking Nazionale cigarettes as they drilled – it was only a slight improvement on neither use nor ornament... a lot like Carlisle’s, to tell the truth.

Even so, whisper of exciting improvement prompted angry misgivings among the Veronese chattering classes. They sipped their chilled aperitivi in the pavement bars of the Piazza Bra, nibbled their olives and scowled.

There might be planes, they gasped in horror. If an airport were allowed to function on the outskirts of their city, there might be traffic driving to and fro. There might be noise other than that of opera belting out of The Arena and Caribinieri chasing fake handbag sellers. There might be life.

Reluctance to accept change into their comfortable existences, you might say... but hasn’t that always been the way with the chattering classes? Hasn’t middle class comfort and good fortune too often numbed some to the promise of opportunity other, less fortunate, people might need for the progression of their own lives?

Casting disapproving glances towards that nondescript airstrip, squinting through their Versace shades, the chattering Prosecco sippers concluded a modern, fully functioning air terminal, offering improved communication, ease of travel, more efficient movement of goods and produce for profitable regional and international trade, enhanced business opportunity and additional employment, would never be at the top of their wish-lists. They’d do all they could to prevent it, in fact.

“Because only they didn’t need it?”

“Si.”

“How selfish!” I remarked to the taxi driver recounting the history of his city’s airport during my last little trip to Verona.

“Si. Egoista! Only in Italia.” He shrugged and scoffed at the narrow-mindedness of his countrymen and his fellow Veronese. Only...? Obviously this chap had never been to Cumbria. There are plenty none too keen on airports here too. Good old fashioned nimbyism had driven the grumbling of the opera crowd in those early airport planning days in Verona.

There had been no disguising it as anything other than an I’m-alright-Giovanni position – which is common still in many areas of well heeled Italian life. Why would those already enjoying la dolce vita give two hoots about lesser mortals who’d like to experience something similar – but without a well paid job and a stroke of luck, daren’t even dream about it?

These days the not-in-my-backyard form of protest is decidedly unfashionable almost everywhere. Few people take it seriously. Most find it distasteful and self-serving. These days, green is the thing. For protest to be heard it must carry the hallmark of environmental protectionism, an impossibly grand promise to rescue the world from wet rot and warning of the spectre of hovering carbon footprint – poised with menace to stamp heavily and directly in my backyard. It also helps to dress up in a silly hat and carry a banner.

My chatty driver knows the form as well as anyone. Most Italians relish a spot of drama. They like theatrics, enjoy dressing up but – unlike our own eco-warriors – prefer a Nazionale cigarette or two, when performing a public protest production.

The last time he picked me up at Verona Airport, my now familiar chatty taxi man wanted to know if I’d finally flown in from my home city.

“Not yet,” I told him.

“No airport?”

“No airport.”

“It will happen soon. Like in my city.” he said.

“I hope so,” I replied. “But we’re not Verona.”

“No, of course not yet,” he agreed. “Neither were we.”