Like a mystery waiting to be uncovered

The steps beckon like a mystery waiting to be unravelled. They are half hidden by the leafy shade of a thick wood off the main Strada Statale. Only a discreet wooden sign gives a hint where the steps will take you—Portofino.
This is the start of the footpath that links the tiny beach of Paraggi—the only one graced by sand on this stretch of the Ligurian Riviera—to the yatch-studded Portofino bay.
The steps climb halfway up the hill, then turn into an easy paved path suspended between water and sky.
On the left side, the leaf-laden branches of huge holm oaks frame fragments of coastline. The sea is a vast expanse of infinite shades of blue—turquoise near the shore, emerald where the trees reach down to caress the seaweeds, dark sapphire where the seabed drops into rocky, lobster-peppered depths. A blob of phtalo green, brilliant yellow and rich brown resolves into a mallard bobbing gently in the breeze. And looming large above the waters stands the square, crenellated golden tower of Paraggi’s castle, once a bulwark against pirate raids and today one of the most luxurious villas on a notoriously opulent Riviera—it has long been rented by none other than Italy’s prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi.
On the other side, the hill soars steep and immense towards a leaf-obscured sky. Ferns, ivy and fleshy navelwort overlook an undergrowth green with moss and damp with a trickling brook. The air is filled with a faint aroma of garlic—the ground is carpeted with the white, fragile blossoms of Allium triquetrum, only broken up by the odd daisy.
Suddenly, a stone wall appears and the sweetly penetrating scent of jasmine replaces the garlicky one. After the path bends, the wall becomes a grand turn-of-the-century villa with a frescoed tower and lush gardens planted with jasmine and Mediterranean shrubs.
From there, the path is lined with reed-screened fences, and silvery olive trees and graceful turrets peek coyly between one panel and the next. The sea—so transparent that you can make out each rock down below—becomes an azure interlude that fills the gap between the houses.
Then the path bends again, for the last time, and blue becomes white as hundreds of sailing boats, motorboats and gigantic, obscenely ostentatious yachts vie for space and paparazzi attention in the narrow bay of Portofino. Gaps in the walls afford tantalising glimpses of castles, villas and narrow fishermen’s homes, before the walk ends at the sober church of the Divo Martino and the sunny, sea-lapped Piazzetta below.