After a leisurely breakfast, Don and I took the car and drove to Porto Venere for the day.  This town is way at the south end of the peninsula, again very remote.  The drive is pleasant and we find a parking place with little problem.  We stroll along the promenade by the sea, and Don takes picture after picture.

This town is where Lord Byron lived and wrote many of his poems.  We saw the house on top of a rock where he lived and also the famous grotto of his poem.  We stroll through the town and enjoy the sights and sounds and people.

Now we are the elite ones, with our secret pass to get through the special gate and into our parking garage.  The tourists are still getting stuck at the gate, and they are still having to back up and park way up the hill, and they still stagger through the town looking for the beach with a dazed and uncomprehending gaze washing their faces.  The beach is not at the end of the town—there is just water lapping up onto the pavement where the roadway disappears into the ocean.  There is a “beach” up a path, down some hidden stairs, along a catwalk, behind a boulder.  It is very rocky, with big rocks that roll around in the surf and hit your shins, and very uncomfortable to lay or sit on, even when you spread out a towel.  But, people go there and spread out their towels on the rocks and lay in the foggy sun.  A few brave souls try to swim, only to come out quickly, rubbing their shins.