Gulf of Poets: Lerici and a nose full of sand 🐾

My name is Otto.

Otto, like the ones who insist on counting the kibble in the bowl – spoiler: it’s never enough. I’m a mutt, golden fur, steady stride, and I live with Chiara, my human. She’s got this habit: she loves slow travel. So slow that once we sat under an olive tree for two hours because she wanted to “listen to the scent of the wind.” Me? I sniffed all of it. The wind. The tree. The whole scene.

This time she told me: “We’re off to the Gulf of Poets, Otto.”

“Poets?” I worried. I pictured people standing still, reciting verses at the horizon, forgetting to hand out biscuits. But Lerici turned out to be a whole different story.

We arrived early in the morning, when the sea still looked half asleep. First to greet me was a seagull. Not exactly friendly, but very vocal. I barked back. Curtain raised.

Chiara wanted to walk up to the Castle. I had already spotted a café with cream-filled brioche, but apparently castles take priority. Luckily, the climb was full of scents worth noting: flowers, salt air, and that faint trace of focaccia that makes you believe in absolute happiness.

The view from up there puts the world at peace. Personally, though, I get more emotional when Chiara’s plate arrives at the table—fried anchovies, if you’re asking.

The poets may weep for the waves. I prefer lunch.

In the afternoon we reached the beach of Venere Azzurra. Big name, honest sand. I rolled in it with such dedication I nearly turned into a monument: “Otto, the dog who merged with the shoreline.” Chiara shook her head and said: “You look like breadcrumbs.”

Then, while trying to wipe the sand off my nose with a damp tissue, I sneezed it all over her.

That’s when we really laughed.

And then came the magic moment: ice cream. Yes, because she found a gelateria with natural flavors and let me lick a spoonful of yogurt and honey.

That, my friends, is poetry.

We ended the day on the pier, where I befriended a French dachshund on holiday. He told me he was doing the Cinque Terre the next day.

I looked at Chiara. She smiled. I understood.

That kind of laugh that seeps into your fur and stays there.

Tasting of salt, focaccia, and useless tissues.

Later, we sat on a bench facing the sea. She had her pistachio gelato; I had my travel bowl filled with water—not a cone, but charming in its own way.

Then came a dachshund in sandals.

Yes. Sandals. With buckles.

He gave me that serious look only dachshunds can pull off and said:

“Tomorrow Cinque Terre. Monterosso, Vernazza, pee break in Corniglia.”

I wagged my tail in agreement.

Chiara looked at me. She had that familiar look: half love, half Booking.com.

I rested my head on her leg and thought, yes, poetry does exist.

It’s made of sand, anchovies, dogs in sandals, and humans who take you where the wind smells like stories.

And tomorrow, new pawprints.

New scents.

New kids shouting: “Mom, look, a lion!”

No, little one.

I’m Otto.

And this is my sniffing route.