Van Marino
Extremely old country, awful football team, perennially last in Eurovision, no not the United Kingdom but our next micronation: San Marino. Nestled in north-eastern Italy, ten kilometres west of the Italian coastal city of Rimini, San Marino can lay claim to having been an independent republic since Saint Marinus formed a monastic community there in 301 AD, thus making it the oldest sovereign state in the world as well as the oldest constitutional republic. Uniquely, she also elects two heads of state every six months who share power equally until a new pair of ‘captains regent’ is elected, which means they’re only outnumbered by the UK who prefer to change their leaders after every Eastenders omnibus.
These facts, courtesy of every single San Marino history podcast we could find on Spotify, all two of them, were pretty much the sum total of our knowledge before reaching its historic border for the first and, if we’re being honest, probably only time. Unsure if we were entering one bustling city, a single colossal conurbation, or something quite different, our first obvious discovery was that the country actually consists of a number of small towns. Although perhaps less obvious given it is the fifth smallest nation on earth. However, towns it does have and through them we went, passing several I knew very well from my many years of building world-class football youth camps there on FIFA Manager. Unfortunately, and unacceptably, none of which exist in real life.
We were making our way towards the capital, some twenty minutes from the border, with curious eyes darting from one side of the road to the other, attempting to spot anything remotely dissimilar to their Italian neighbours. Number plates aside, there was strikingly little. As we ticked off the minutes, we began to climb higher and higher until a distinctive, towering, rocky outcrop appeared quite dramatically in front of us. Atop this, we had learnt, was where the country’s founding father built his community and where the capital has existed ever since. Unable to take Vishnu any higher, we pulled into a nearby van stop and considered the best, well leisureliest, means of getting to the summit.
Known as Monte Titano, or Mount Tit according to my guidebook (thanks to some stray strawberry jam obscuring the word: Titan), it dominates the skyline and was settled specifically because of its severely sloping sides which makes its peak almost completely inaccessible. Thankfully, the kind Sammarinese have built a cable car. Upon hearing this information, we abandoned our climbing shoes and carabiners and quickly purchased two tickets to the top. Following a rather juddery journey in which I briefly thought my final moments on this earth would be descending through an attic in San Marino, we arrived at the zenith and were fairly awestruck by what greeted us: a view that made it absolutely clear why Saint Marinus chose this isolated spot.
About a thirty-second walk from cable car exit lies San Marino’s Palazzo Pubblico, or the seat of the government, which we would be granted entry to the following day. In fact, almost everything lies a thirty-second walk from the cable car exit which suited us perfectly. Given our late arrival, we decided to save much of the exploring for the following day and so instead decided to frequent the fanciest corner shop this side of Kensington and sourced the cheapest hoppy beverage we could find. Wandering the salubrious streets of the fifteenth richest country per capita with two cheap tinnies in hand did garner several unsavoury gazes, possibly from a captain regent themself, and so we quickly found a quiet neoclassical white Carrara marble statue to hide behind and consume our drinks in peace.
With sunlight fading, and dreading a terrifying aerial return trip, we opted to get back to Vishnu on foot which, rather regrettably, opened up its own box of horrors. As we reached the foot of the Monte Titano footpath, I spotted a lone, sad clown carrying a small, red drum. Upon noticing us a few metres up the hill, he proceeded to start banging his instrument in an aggressive, purposeful manner. Just as Lowri was about to unleash all hell upon his torso, the unmistakable chug of the San Marino Halloween Express could be heard pulling around the corner. Within seconds, all manner of gruesome ghouls and wicked witches surrounded the little train, much like the free bar at the Tory Party Conference, and commenced petrifying its youthful passengers. Given that it was Halloween Eve, and not some satanic Sammarinese sacrificial ritual, we also joined in with the vigorous scaring which, given I was several Peronis deep by this point, must have been an absolutely terrifying sight.
J
