A writing exercise in response to Condé Nast Traveller’s Future Travel 2023 competition (which I only came across after the submission deadline), which asked respondents to answer the question ‘what place has deeply affected you and why?’.

There were many contenders for my answer: Colombia – too vast and no specific location; Krakow and Auschwitz – of which I’ve recently written; Berlin – ditto; the Peak District – a lifelong connection but somewhere I haven’t visited for years; Luang Prabang – too distant a memory; Iguazu – too personal to share. It’s the memory of Pompeii that rises up and comes to life.

I have no photos, no souvenirs, so why Pompeii, that city of ghosts ominously overlooked by its 4,000ft andesite assassin, itself just waiting to come back to life?

It was over a decade ago that I’d travelled solo to Naples, pulled by dreams of cucina napoletana and propelled by the need for escape from a crumbling relationship. Nearby Pompeii and Herculaneum were on my itinerary from the outset, once I could tear myself away from the world capital of pizza.

Naples receives wildly mixed reviews from friends and fellow travels. For some, its litter-strewn streets and endemic Camorra-plagued violence and corruption ruin its cocktail of contrasts that appeal to the rest of us: two parts stunning setting, one part faded grandeur, a shot of vibrancy, a liberal splash of sunshine, all accompanied by some of the best food on the planet and shared with an overtly charismatic populace. I can see why it was El Diego’s favourite tipple.

Despite Pompeii’s fame, many visitors to both will tell you that it is Herculaneum that is the better preserved of these two Roman cities, both destroyed by the Vesuvian eruption of 79CE. Pompeii is yet to be completely excavated and so keeps many of its secrets hidden. Yet, despite that fame and despite it not yet revealing its full self, it was Pompeii where I found solitude and uncovered something in myself.

Taking the Circumvesuviana train from Napoli Cantrale Garibaldi to Pompei Scavi on a crisp morning sometime around the Ides of March, rattling through the suburbs of southeastern Naples and squeezing along the corridor between Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples, my excitement at spending the day at a site I’d long wanted to visit was tempered by an expectation of swarms of selfie sticks and queues a Roman mile in length. How pleasantly surprised was I? So quiet was it as I approached the ticket office that I feared I’d mistakenly coincided my visit with Pompeii being closed, but no. Through the entrance gates and into the ancient city at the Porta Marina, I was thrilled to find the place to myself. Just the ghosts and I then.

And Mary Beard. My fascination with ancient Rome had been triggered by Tom Holland’s gripping ‘Rubicon’, but it was Professor Beard’s ‘Pompeii’ that had really inspired this choice of destination and which turned into my de facto travel guide. Prof Beard made for the perfect time travelling companion, her voice rising up from the page as my copy of her book on our title character became more battered each time I stepped into another derelict building, leafing through to find the accompanying passage. The House of the Faun, House of the Tragic Poet (aren’t they all tragic, poets and Pompeii’s houses?), the forum, the amphitheatre, all brought to life by my personal guide.

Perhaps the most enigmatically named property to play voyeur to is the House of the Chaste Lovers, so called due to the apparently ‘chaste’ kiss between two lovers in one of the home’s frescoes. Since my visit the remains of two further bodies have been pulled from the rubble, apparently having been crushed by the roof falling in from the earthquake that followed the volcano.

In fact, archaeologists have found evidence that some buildings were still being repaired following an earthquake in the years predating the infamous 79CE eruption. Pompeii was no stranger to disaster, which leaves me incredulous to think that thousands of modern Campanians have made the area within Vesuvius’ Red Zone their home – apparently many buildings in the area were constructed by the Camorra.

Vesuvius continues to threaten an inevitable volcanic apocalypse, but I only experienced tranquility. That azzurro sky only streaked by ‘chemtrails’ rather than Plinian clouds of hot ash. A coachload of Japanese tourists arrived and (perplexingly) quickly departed. Occasionally I might see a stray tourist at the far end of a street, traversing the stepping stones laid by ancient Pompeiani enabling them to cross streets during floods. Then, only the faces peering back from mosaics and the casts of the victims of Vesuvius. So I wasn’t alone, and yet I was.

I often reflect on my solo travels and sense a self-indulgence in my need for solitude. In the case of my Pompeii experience I was greedy to have the place to myself, but I needed that headspace, that escape from domestic strife, and it was what I had made the trip for. But, that me, me, me-time was the genesis for something else, a connection to a place frozen in time, a window into the lives of a people 2,000 years dead, and a sense of empathy for the unimaginable horror of their demise.

Years later I discovered another connection to the region, reading in my Grandad’s war diaries that he had been in and around Naples recuperating from jaundice during the Italian campaign of WW2, even witnessing the still smoldering Vesuvius after the spectacular eruption of 1944.

Returning to Naples, the hustle of labyrinthine Quartieri Spagnoli a stark contrast to the peace of Pompeii – where the fallen walls and low-level remains afford a physical space as well as a mental one – reminded me that I’m equally able to find that solitude in a living, breathing metropolis. Perhaps, however, that Big City solitude is one of a deliberate anonymity rather than one that fosters connection.