POLISHING THE OLD FAMILY PEARLS

Riviera, which was badly hit by an algae invasion in 1989 but is now

making a

welcome comeback

AT seven o'clock in the morning, the sun is still low on the horizon

and the light falls soft on the honey-coloured sands and the pond-still,

shallow waters which have made the Adriatic Riviera Italy's oldest and

most popular seaside resort.

Sipping my first espresso of the day on the tiny wooden pier jutting

out into the sea in the centre of Cattolica bay, I could not but feel a

little smug. In Scotland, the leaves are already on the turn. At this

hour the ground is probably coated with a sprinkling of frost and here I

am, still in the land of summer, enjoying the splendid view which will

probably be shrouded in a heat haze in just a couple of hours' time: to

the south, the wooded hump of Mount Gabicce, marking the boundary

between the two Italian regions of Emilia Romagna and the Marche; to the

north, the endless vista of hotels and bathing establishments marching

up the coast in uninterrupted file through Misano, Riccione, Rimini, and

Cesenatico.

Before breakfast and before the late holiday crowds start pouring like

ants on to the beach to take possession of the deck chairs arrayed under

rows upon rows of brightly striped umbrellas, fishermen in waders and

robust local ladies with their skirts hitched up can be seen wading like

marsh birds in the shallows, stooping to dig out cockles where the

tell-tale air bubbles pop up from under the sand. This is the hour when

mothers bring their babies down to play on the sands and resolute groups

of German senior citizens stride back and forth through the water, in

obeisance to the dictates of the Cold Water Circulation Cure.

The bagnini have been hard at work since dawn, sweeping the concrete

pathways between the bathing establishments and watering the hollyhocks

and geraniums that sprout out of the sand in front of the recreational

areas. Down at the seafront, they have already diligently raked the

seaweed brought in by the previous night's tide into little piles, ready

to be removed by the council pick-up truck. I saw only good, green,

healthy, honest kelp, but the local people are still possessed with a

lingering touch of algaphobia and prefer to make all traces of it

disappear.

In 1989 the Adriatic tourism industry was practically brought to its

knees by the unexpected invasion of great floating banks of repulsive,

slimy, decomposing algae, caused by the discharge of too many industrial

and domestic chemicals into the sea. Round about the same time, the

Mafia began to shed its traditionally low-tone image and blaze its way

into front-page news. A particularly cruel expose on Italian current

affairs, published by the leading German magazine, Der Spiegel, complete

with front-cover illustration depicting a gun lying in the middle of a

plate of spaghetti, dealt the coup de grace. German tourism --

traditionally the Riviera's bread and butter -- dropped to an all-time

low.

The people of Emilia Romagna, however, have never subscribed to the

typically Mediterranean philosophy of dolce far niente. Within a few

short years they successfully tackled the pollution problem and banished

the rotting algae from their waters. Meanwhile, they upgraded their

hotels, kept their prices down, gritted their teeth, and crossed their

fingers.

Five years later, their efforts are finally paying off. Tourism

figures released at the beginning of the season indicate that the good

times are here again. On the hot weekends of the summer, car queues

stretched all the way to the coast from Milan and Bologna. German and

British package-tour holidaymakers (+130% and +14.75% respectively) are

once more installed under the beach umbrellas, alongside the newest

arrivals on the Riviera scene -- nouveaux riches Russians, who have

arrived en masse.

Romagnoli hoteliers may well heave a sigh of relief. The hospitality

business is the coast's raison d'etre. It's what they've been doing for

many generations. Cattolica claims that its first illustrious tourist

was Napoleon's brother, Luciano Bonaparte, who came here for the sea air

in 1823. Last year, the town's bathing establishments officially

celebrated their 150th anniversary.

Rimini, which Fellini immortalised in Amarcord, is a veritable giant

of the hospitality business, with the 10 kilometres of golden beach and

267 bathing establishments, 17,559 hotels, boarding-houses, and

self-catering units, as well as 920 restaurants, bars, and pizzerias.

Chic Riccione, known as ''the green pearl of the Adriatic'', was

Mussolini's favourite resort in the thirties and is still ''in'' with

the Italian bourgeoisie, who can be observed sipping their aperitivos at

the famous pavement cafes of Viale Ceccarini, Riccione's elegant

alfresco drawing-room.

For more than 100 years, the Angelini family have been running the

same group of bathing establishments at Riccione. With luck, you can

visit 93-year-old Jolanda Angelini, sitting in the shade at No 57. A

lively old lady, she happily recalls the old days when her grandfather

and his brother owned most of the beach for miles around.

''I was practically born on the beach,'' she says, with a chuckle. ''I

had 11 brothers and sisters and my mother used to put us down to sleep

under the upturned boats.''

Her love of the sea has never left her. ''When I die,'' she asserts,

''I'll be sorry, of course, to leave my family. But my greatest regret

will be to leave 'my' sea -- even if I've had to give up swimming these

last few years!''

Another member of the Angelini family, Werther, owns the bathing

establishment next door. He tells me proudly that he has seen his

clients grow up. ''Some of them started coming here as children. Now

they are coming with their grandchildren.''

Inside most of the bagninis' offices, in fact, are boards covered with

photographs of groups of ''regulars'', many of whom return year after

year, not only to the same hotel, but also to the same beach and the

very same deck chair and umbrella.

The bathing establishments themselves tend to be passed down from

father to son and bagnini take pride in contributing to their clients'

enjoyment. Many of them organise beach games and card tournaments and

run creches for children, and they all get together once a month with

the local fishermen to throw the traditional rustida -- a great

grilled-fish feast on the beach.

Sometimes, something warmer than friendship develops between bagnino

and client. The No 84 establishment on Rimini beach is run by Graziano

Santucci, with the help of Grethe, his Norwegian wife, whom he met,

right here, when she came with her family on holiday.

Just a couple of doors along from the Santuccis reigns a fine-looking

young bachelor called Alessandro, but nicknamed ''Terminator'' by his

buddies, because (they told me) of his success with le turiste.

Alessandro himself, however, derides the suggestion that he could become

another Zanza. The famous Zanza, greatest of Rimini's legendary Latin

lovers, retired from the beach last year, after a glorious career

spanning some 20 summers, when he brightened up the holidays of lonely

North European women. Apparently giving full satisfaction.

On the whole, it's all good clean fun. The Adriatic Riviera is

primarily for families. You won't see many topless or tangas here, let

alone painted posteriors (the latest rage on the Liguria Riviera,

towards the French border). Loud protests were raised this summer when

the organisers of Erotica '94 proposed publicising the event by sending

a plane from Bologna over the Adriatic beaches to shower them with

100,000 multicoloured condoms, and the wrath of the local clergy was

aroused when Caccadisco, the very first discotheque for tiny tots,

opened within the children's theme park, Fiabilandia.

Famished East European prostitutes may line the pavements of the

seafront promenades in the darker hours of the night (so claims a local

paper), and in the more louche nightspots, those with drag queens in

their floorshows, drugs just may circulate amongst the revellers (so

mutter the locals). But, frankly, if you want to see the seamier side of

life, you will really have to hunt for it.

Living it up in Cattolica means old-time dancing (called liscio,

literally ''smooth'') at the Esedra ballroom, with a glass of wine and

slice of pizza thrown in with the entrance ticket, or a homely folklore

evening at what is described as a tanz lokal.

Daytime entertainment, too, is centred round family fun. There are

theme parks, like ''Italy in Miniature'', the ''Acquafan'' water park

and ''Fiabilandia'' (Fairy-tale Land). Two baby dolphins, named Golia

and Tabor, born within weeks of each other at Cattolica's dolphin

nursery, celebrated their first birthday in June. A film of the births

can be seen at the Aquarium.

The most enjoyable little trip I had was an afternoon boat ride to

Rimini, which left the Aquarium pier. The free time we had in Rimini

before we sailed back again was barely enough to allow me to sprint up

the road to get a glimpse of the queenly Grand Hotel, where Fellini used

to stay, but the actual fun was the sail itself.

We sat relaxing on deck as we bounced over the sea and watched our

skipper -- a husky fisherman with a grey woolly covering of hairs on his

chest and a gold chain in the style of a mayor's chain of office

dangling from his neck -- gut the boxful of silvery sardines which were

to become our supper. Delicious they were, too, freshly grilled. We ate

them with our fingers, and washed it all down with a bottle of

Trebbiano, while an escort of screaming seagulls flew in our wake,

consuming the leftovers.

Being Italy, culture and history are never very far away. For those

who weary of the beach, there are plenty of other things to do. There

are annual events of international standing, such as Mystfest, the

International Mystery Film Festival, which this year presented a tribute

to Lon Chaney and, as a special treat, the long-lost Hilton Edwards

classic, Return to Glennascaul, with Orson Welles.

There are Roman ruins in the centre of Rimini, and works by Giotto and

Piero della Francesca in the splendid Renaissance Malatesta Temple.

Urbino, birthplace of Raphael, with the house where the artist was born

and the magnificent Ducal Palace (built so they say, by divine and not

human hand), is only a short journey away. The Rubicon River (yes, the

one Julius Caesar crossed!) flows into the sea at the beach resort of

Gatteo a Mare next to Cesenatico, whose picturesque port was built by

Caesar Borgia to a plan of Leonardo da Vinci's. A few miles up the coast

is Ravenna, with its glittering mosaics and the tomb of Dante.

One excursion, however, which you simply shouldn't miss is a visit to

the world's smallest independent state -- a fairytale realm of a mere 61

sq km perched high on the slopes of Mount Titano. Any notions you may

have about the little Republic of San Marino being some kind of

Disneyland are quite mistaken. The Sammarinesi -- all 24,076 of them --

take themselves very seriously. This is the ''ancient land of liberty'',

never conquered or dominated in its entire history, ever since it was

founded by a group of early Christians on the run from the persecutions

of Diocletian.

So don't be taken in by the steep streets lined with shops offering

all kinds of delectable duty-free goods, the quaintly garbed guards

toting dress swords and crossbows, or the crenellated towers and walls

climbing all over the mountain-top. It is all quite genuine. Only this

summer, a diplomatic incident was created when Italian carabinieri

inadvertently chased a suspect character over the border into San Marino

territory. The Italian Government apologised.

Back again in Cattolica, night falls. Nobody goes to bed before

midnight, including the children, who bounce for hours on the

trampolines and send balls ricocheting off the Leaning Tower of Pisa on

the crazy-golf courses. Everybody is out on the brightly lit streets for

the after-dinner ''passeggiata'' and there are more bicycles on the

roads than in Peking. Crammed public buses take the nightly crowd up the

coast to where the action is -- the lively and usually chaotic

discotheques of Riccione and Rimini, like the Cocorico and the Biblos,

created in the villa which once belonged to the Arab multimillionaire,

Kashoggi.

The bagnini have closed all the umbrellas, tidied up and gone home.

They will all be back at dawn tomorrow. There won't be much time for

rest until winter starts -- in a month or so . . .

The beach is now deserted and silent. In the darkness, the only thing

to be seen are the pleasure boats which effect romantic moonlight

cruises along the coast, shimmering like fireflies far out over the

water.