The capital of nowhere

‘Welcome to the free territory of Trieste,’ reads the sign in the shop window. ‘US and UK come back!’ For me, this is the sort of thing that makes Trieste such a beguiling place. Sixty-four years since those British and American troops departed and handed this disputed seaport back to Italy, it still feels like a no-man’s-land, stranded between the Slav and Latin worlds.

Jan Morris, the queen of travel writers, called Trieste the capital of nowhere, and I needed to read only the first few pages of her bewitching book Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere to know I’d love it here. ‘The last breath of civilisation expires on this coast where barbarism starts,’ wrote Chateaubriand, in 1806. Of course it’s considered rather rude to call people barbarians nowadays, but I know exactly what he means. Despite its elegant architecture there’s something untamed about Trieste — the limestone cliffs that tower over it, the fierce wind which lashes the promenade.