Piadina, beach umbrellas and punk music. A holiday on the East Coast of Italy

“It’s certainly not Miami,” says our neighbour under the parasol, a talkative retired banker who, relentlessly, has struck up a conversation with us too. Yet the night before, one of the many American punk bands that took to the stage at Bayfest was talking about the ‘East Coast of Italy’. We are, in case it wasn’t clear, on the Adriatic coast and, more precisely, in Igea Marina, a charming town in Romagna founded by a socialist doctor 120 years ago. This Vittorio Belli was a real eccentric, a naturalist who lived in the woods with a monkey for company, and who had taken it into his head to design the perfect holiday resort, affordable for all budgets. Does the working class go to paradise? No, at most to Igea Marina. The writer Alfredo Panzini used to go there too; he even cycled all the way from Milan to this ‘fishing village on the Adriatic, where I was expected in a little house by the sea’. Today, that little red cottage has been turned into a small museum open every summer evening, and you can read the account of that cycling trip in the reissue of "La lanterna di Diogene" (Elliot). The man under the neighbouring parasol, however, is in a talkative mood and, as we’re hanging on his every word, he launches into a lecture: “Igea takes its name from the goddess of health and hygiene. It began as a utopia: a town dedicated to cultural tourism and wellbeing, with a library and an art collection. It’s no coincidence that the streets are all named after Greek and Latin poets. Then some councillor who hadn’t studied the classics got half the place names wrong; for example, Via Silio Italico became Via Silvio Italico.” It’s a story that seems to continue uninterrupted: Igea remains a healthy and affordable destination, ideal for families, the elderly and punks.

Yes, because for the past eleven years, with a stage right on the beach – as if we were in California – Bayfest has been taking place in Igea Marina. Among this year’s headline acts are Dropkick Murphys, Less Than Jake and Rise Against, but the poolside after-party is not to be missed either. That takes place at the Mapo Club, a venue where all the greats have performed, from Celentano to PFM, via Enrico Beruschi, Cicciolina and Romano Mussolini. Photos of these illustrious artists are displayed outside the club, in a narrow street where the evening stroll is a bizarre mix of gentlemen with their polo shirt collars turned up, mohawks, Vans and pushchairs. Alongside the usual necklaces, swimwear and bracelets, the small shops also sell T-shirts that have not been seen for some years: "Armani-comio" or "Versace n'altro litro". At the concert, on the other hand, we spotted a beautiful, reference-laden “Batacchi – parcel office” T-shirt (red and featuring a Bartolini-style logo) and a more light-hearted “Legalise Marinara” T-shirt, complete with a pizza to dispel any possible misunderstanding. In short, the old pairing of punk and fashion is back, though perhaps not quite as Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren intended when they opened their seminal shop at 430 King’s Road.

But in the meantime, it’s lunchtime and the holidaymakers are being called back to their respective hotels. The beach empties in the blink of an eye and even our neighbour says goodbye. Life here follows an unchanging rhythm: early in the morning, the azdore gather on the shore for their morning exercises, then it’s time for the children’s entertainment programme and it’s up to the little ones to run riot on the shore, but the highlight of the morning is heralded by the loudspeakers of the motor vessel Super Tayfun with the indescribable catchphrase “Hello, Rudy Ghema Ghema!”. The range of excursions announced over the megaphone from the vessel flying the Romagna flag ranges from a trip to the ‘ultra-modern oil rigs with possible dolphin sightings’ to an Adriatic cruise bound for Gabicce Mare. Mixed fried seafood and unlimited wine on board. However, if you are fortunate, you can also enjoy the Super Energy Music dance afternoon right on the shore – a Ladino-American alternative to Salvini’s Papeete. In the evening, you can stroll with the sunset behind you and tuck into cocktails of scampi and banana splits, ice-cream spaghetti and strawberries with cream. Above all, you’ll try to avoid the only dangers of the Riviera: the blaring rickshaws and the fearsome little train that rattles along the seafront like a madman. Finally, for the more adventurous and those not worn out by a day at the beach, there’s even the chance to mosh in front of the stage. Talk about a ride by the sea!

We head to the beach club bar, where people are playing Scala 40 and discussing bypass surgery, blissfully unaware of the controversy over beach concessions. There, we flick through a newspaper featuring local news and read about Igea Marina, the last bastion against the high cost of beach umbrellas. Dr Belli would be pleased. There are no complaints about overtourism; on the contrary, people are worried about a downturn. Mind you, it’s no Miami, but as we’re leaving, at the till they give us a packet of piadinas so that ‘even at home, you’ll think of Romagna’. And of punk, too.