It’s hard to keep your eye on the ball all the time. Staying focused takes practice. Demands attention. Distractions are many.
We’re on our way to the port of Messina. Sicily is now history. Confined to the memory banks, hopefully. At least short term. Our open ticket allows re-entry to mainland Italy at any time. Caronte & Touriste crossings every twenty minutes. No pressure.
We’re ahead of schedule. Eleven kilometres west of the port the required exit from our elevated highway is barred. Major roadworks are underway. There is more than one elevated section. Different levels converge and confuse. Like an upmarket spaghetti junction, but with the air of a majestic Scalextric track.
Our only option is straight on. So that’s where we go. There are no diversion signs. We expect none. The road bears left and we anticipate a reroute back into Messina. Our onboard Missy is saying nothing. That implies we are still on track. Or, she doesn’t want to take any blame!
Time passes and that gut feeling gets reflected in my wrinkled forehead and questioning eyebrows. “How far to our destination now?” – “23K” replies Mrs S. By the time the distance to Messina increases to 43K and our altitude approaches 300 metres my forehead resembles a prune. I feel a bit like one too. Today’s short journey has just doubled. A 360 and a double back solves the problem we weren’t aware of.
Who goes there? Obviously, it’s not us!
On arrival at our planned stop, Camping La Quiete is more quiet than we’d hoped. Opposite its closed gates is a silky white sandy beach. Website declares it’s open for business. We declare it’s not. Does us a favour. 12K further up the coast we find a gem of a site.
Our two-nighter at Camping Mimosa combines chores and rest. Each morning starts early for me. Fifty paces to the beach from our pitch. A no brainer. Sea as calm as a limp piece of lettuce. Sand, sky and sea all to myself. What could be more perfect?
We end the day here too. Once the washing and ironing have been seen to by Mrs S.
The ‘eyes’ on my left have it . . . Or, then again so do my ‘eyes’ to the right . . .
The magical likes of Dynamo can cleverly construct an elaborate illusion that can astound. Make you think this is happening, when in fact, it’s that. And that’s the trick. Even more astounding when the trick is performed really close up. Your phone ends up inside a beer bottle. Then, the art of misdirection becomes paramount. Almost genius-like.
With co-ordinates carefully input, today’s trip is analysed and dissected. Considered flawless. Destination, Praia a Mare. Another beachside stop. Inland sites few and far between down here. A short 235K paddle north. I’ll be back in that mare, well before sunset.
Under normal circumstances, being aware of the sun’s position can be used as a good indicator of which direction you’re moving. We’re in the northern hemisphere, so it’s always somewhere south. Then it’s simply a question of knowing your left from your right. East from your west. Impossible to get it wrong really. It’s a bit more tricky in Italy. With more twists and turns than the average murder mystery ten-parter, it becomes second nature to become discombobulated. Put your faith totally in Missy – our Ozzie navigator with an attitude.
The phrase “This can’t be right, can it?” Echoes from the captain’s chair (as Mrs S prefers to call it), “we’re heading south west!” Missy is skulking around in solid state ether, pretending she hasn’t heard. When GPS signal gets lost her default is to pick and aim for some distant point. Re-co-ordinate. Perfect her skills of misdirection. The two stooges (AKA Cheeses) get suckered – again. Today’s journey has just become 285K! Argh!!
As on many days, our lengthened journey gets compensated with view, after view, after view.
On site, it’s time to give Mrs S a break from cooking. A rave review gives Praia a Mare’s restaurant a must visit. We do just that. It’s large. Maybe 80 covers. We’re first to arrive. It’s a little after 7pm. After feeling ignored for over ten minutes and starting to feel a little tetchy about that, our waiter decides to spring into action.
His gait is most extraordinary. We mustn’t laugh. But it’s difficult not to. (Obviously not to his face.) With chest puffed out like a Red Robin and both arms bent and angled back, he slowly glides towards our table, Christopher Dean-like. As if he’s re-running that Olympic gold winning performance of Bolero. All that’s missing is Jane being dragged across the restaurant floor behind him. At any moment he’s going to send her spinning. Once table side he morphs into Basil Faulty. It appears Polly has given him some bad news that he needs to impart. He doesn’t quite know how to tell us. (because he’s Italian and we’re English).
“Zee cook iz . . . “ – his head lollops to one side, eyes roll upwards dramatically and one hand motions a throat slitting action. Quite what significance this information holds is unclear. Either zee cook is dead, having a nap, or has succumbed to food poisoning. In any event, he indicates the show must go on and we ask to see the menu. “There-a isn’t one” he says. Taps his temple knowingly, as if it’s the side of his nose. “Its all-a in here”. We go with his suggestions!
An almost perfect spot for my early morning swim – the beach no more than builders aggregate.
Like a couple of twins on birthday eve, we are constantly in a state of high expectation. Italy and its people, a land full of surprises around every hairpin bend. On a rare day, however, we just want it to end. Or even end it all.
A tiring eight and a half hours on the road ends at Camping Village Baia Domizia. The most expensive site we’ve ever encountered. We hand over a surprised €51 for the night. A little more than the €22 we’re used to. No other option. 50K further south we’d booked in, then booked out, of today’s first choice – Pineta Varco d’Oro. The so called on-pitch private washroom stank and was dirty. A delaminated plywood portacabin that needed burning. A quick Google reveals a couple more sites are less than a 20K drive. On arrival one is shut up. Looks as if it’s been closed for years. Despite its website showing it as being open. A no phone reply from the next, left us with Baia Domizia. Despite its private golden beach. Its wonderfully kept grounds. Our massive secluded pitch. We cut in half our two-nighter. No hot water. Showers, Basins. Wash-up. Block B, straight out of Colditz, not deserving of its inflated price.
Friday. An early start. We move onwards and upwards. Like a couple of itsy-bitsy spiders. Spinning our silky web ahead of us. Hoping to capture another juicy tit-bit. Sometimes though, we feel as if it’s us being ensnared.
Caserta, with its Royal Palace, entices. Draws us in unwittingly into its sticky labyrinth of ancient streets. All constructed when MOHOs were still being pulled along by a couple of mules. The ridiculous notion of using MAPS to get us close backfires. It’s not often I don’t power up the onboard camera to ‘catch the moment’, but with just millimetres to spare either side, Beastie’s resilience is being tested to the limit. Along with my nerves. Plus, I consider that this is not the right moment to be making a blue movie! We think we’re passed the worse, when a couple of oncoming drivers start wagging fingers and shaking heads. Seems we’re pointing the wrong way on a one-way street! Oops Apocalypse!!
Language Timothy! . . . At this point we thought we were well out of the woods. This is the easy bit . . . apologies to (nearly) all women drivers . . .It has massive grounds . . . . . . because it’s a massive palaceSpectacular doesn’t really describe how incredible this entrance is.After our earlier escapades, I know exactly how he feelsSome of the less beautiful rooms, for some unknown reason, are used to display modern artworks.Weird or what?“Yes, I can confirm – he’s not wearing any underpants”
Our long day ends not quite lakeside, back in the Abruzzo National Park at Castel San Vincenzo. They’ve had a downpour. We are pushed onto our muddy pitch.
With all the major must-sees tucked under our belts from 2017, we wonder just how many more interesting surprises there could be left in the cupboard. We don’t have to wait too long.
Lago di Piediluco is our home for two nights. Another lakeside location. Beastie is pitched nowhere near the lake. Neither are we. We need a code to open the gated entrance. All very cloak and dagger.
He’s happy enough . . .
Today’s first stop is a 7K Scoot out to Cascata della Marmore. It just happens to be the second tallest man-made waterfall in the world. Made by whom? Who else, but the ancient Romans. The falls thunder the Velino river 165 feet down and into the Nera.
It transpires that this is a controlled fall. Lago di Piediluco above, houses much more in wait. This show more than satisfies the hordes of selfie-taking visitors.
We continue our Sunday jaunt. Go visit the city of Terni. It’s got a ten thousand seater Amphitheatre. Or rather the remains of one. Still be worth a look though. A Sunday can sometimes mean free entrance too. Providing it’s open. It’s not!
Who goes there? Not us . . . Piazza Duomo houses the also closed Cathedral. It’s only open from 9.30am to 12.30pm three days each week – Sunday is not one of them! Where do the church-goers go?
We complete our 180, with a waterside walk through Piediluco.
Lake and town – a picture postcard view.
Mrs S spots that the plain looking church of San Francesco is open. We’re tempted – just one more time. Get rewarded. Built in memory of St Francis who used to visit regularly.
Looks can be deceptiveAll walls awash with five hundred year old paintings.How the high risers deal with everyday living a mystery.
We round the day off by giving the master chef a day off. Enjoy a lakeside meal in the nearby restaurant. The local cats, one very patient, in particular, soften’s Mary-Ann’s heart (doesn’t take much of a plaintive cry.) I’ve saved a best piece of lamb until last – the way you do. Suddenly, Mrs S snaffles it from under my nose and mouth. Cuts it into cat size bites. Drops it to the floor.
Yes! Very funny!!!!Yum, yum, big tum . . . now you see it, now I don’t
If only our days came with a forecast. Like the weather. To give us a chance to decide whether to get up. Or not. Choose which side of the bed to get out from. A warning that all lights were going to be on amber or red, or every door was going to get slammed in your face, could save immense frustration.
Our two-nighter at the poshest campsite this side of Jupiter, has a reason to it. If Camping Village Pappasole was based in the UK, it would have probably been included in the recent list of new cities – it’s that huge. Though the larger the site, the more intense the regulations and check in procedure. Fluorescent wrist bands one delight we have learned to detest. This site comes with a novelty. It’s a little before 3pm. On being issued a pitch number we trundle Beastie to the far reaches of the known universe. Past avenue after avenue of layered MOHOs, caravans and cabins. Each blocked by a barrier. Including ours. Thinking it’s a one way system, we continue our search for an ‘in’. At a barriered point of no return, heads are well past the stage of being scratched. We’re wasting valuable pool time. It’s 35C. We need to cool off. Not get hot and bothered. Mr S does some of his own trundling. To an outsider probably looks like rumbling and grumbling. “Oh, sorry” I’m told at reception, “I forgot to say. Between the hours of 2pm and 4pm it’s ‘Quiet Time’. No vehicle movements. All the barriers will lift at 4pm”. Our eventual pool-side position helps to negate any negative frustrations.
We’re a short 10K Scoot from Piombino. Regular ferries operate to Elba. So, on this new day, we’re interested to see where Bonaparte spent his days in exile. It’s 10.35am. We’re in good time for the 11.15am crossing. At the ticket office we’re presented with two pieces of unwelcome information. €112 euro to include tiny Scoot is steep. (Sicily return with Beastie was only €89.) Also, next crossing to include a vehicle is 12noon! It seems the 11.15 ferry has broken down. We put on our sour grumpy Robert de Niro looks to show what we think about this. They do nothing to influence the ‘take it, or leave it’ look on the equally sour ticket-issuing face, facing us across the counter. We weigh up the pros and cons. Bite the bullet.
Mrs S just loves steps – NOT!
At just before 1.30pm we dock at Elba’s main city of Portoferraio. It’s picturesque. Our spirits rise. Once we’ve parked Scoot, we kick off proceedings with an uphill hike to Villa Mulini – Nap’s old place of residence. It’s Tuesday. Monday is the traditional closure day for Italian museums. But not on Elba!!
Argh!!! Why else did we come to Elba . . . ? Others equally frustrated.Mr S is not amused . . .
Further up top, the massive Medici Fortress towers over the town like an eternal sentinel. For centuries the guardian of the port and environs. Fabulous views, probably not part of the original architect’s intentions.
Hardly a hardship for old Nap.
Time flies when you’re having fun. It flies by. So quickly, that by the time our port-side lunch concludes, we’ve metaphorically missed the boat. Plans to visit and enter a mineral mine on the opposite coast, scuppered. Last entry, on this Tuesday, 3pm. It’s 3.27pm!
Perfect location for lunch.
While we’ve been having fun, Scoot’s shady spot gets spotted by a shady character with no heart. The type that walks around worldwide, anxiously searching out misdemeanours. An invisible ticket-toter has left a €42 request in Scoot’s side pocket. Luckily for us it must have got blown away . . .
It feels like a pathetic joke coming within a country where there are no rules of the road being adhered to.
We don’t remain downhearted. A coastline Scoot to Procchio, an excuse for a gander and ice-cream completes our trimmed down itinerary. By 7pm we dock at Piombino. Pick up dinner from a local Eurospin supermarket and head back to base.
2K short, without warning, an amber engine warning light, lights up. Scoot has a coughing fit. Decides to take total control of the throttle. One second he accelerates to max; then slows. Repeats and repeats. I resemble a bunny hoping learner with no clutch control. We enter camp like a couple of bucking broncos.
At the end of the day, none of us are indispensable. Life goes on. Work continues. Projects get completed. With or without us. The world keeps on spinning. Regardless.
More than on any other trip we have come to rely on Scoot as our main man to ferry us wherever we’ve needed. No bikes; no taxis; no buses; no trains. A two night stop at River Camping is unplanned. Scoot is sick. Hope lies with Carol Nash Insurance and our scooter EU breakdown cover. They came up trumps once before in Spain. The best they offer is to get Scoot towed in. With no promises. The local Yamaha garage unable to perform a quick fix. Three to four days quoted as earliest. We decline. With two weeks to go, time management is of the essence. So Scoot is destined to stay cooped up, like a clipped chicken. His work accomplished. For now. He’s earned a rest. It’s onwards and upwards for us. A new and different modus operandi required.
As it turns out, River Camping is a treat. Camping as it should be. Real grass. Two fabulous swimming pools. Table tennis table. Clean and proper facilities. Plenty of hot water. No barking dogs. No weird neighbours yacking after midnight. Lots of fun for the kids. Joy-o-joy.
Day 53. It’s 6pm. We’re currently sitting out a thunderstorm. A stone’s throw from Lake Garda at Camping Ca. Our earlier blowy walk, lakeside, a portent of things to come. Back at camp, Mr S gets foiled at the last minute. The pool clears as thunder rolls. Dip time. Two lengths down and it’s a thumbs down. Another main man has come to turf me out. He’s not willing for me to take the risk. Impersonates the effects of a lightening strike on the water. An elaborate mime of what Albert Einstein’s hair would look like after being plugged into the mains. Quite what difference that would make to me a mystery.
Clear blue, quickly replaced with thickening clouds.Our small tiered dusty pitch is not one of the best.
On route to Garda, our lunchtime stop throws up an all time first. A thirty minute work-out is in place. We reckon this lorry driver could earn a mint of followers, if he created a YouTube channel.
He starts with a number of typical yoga poses.Holds the plank for thirty seconds. The outside temperature is 33C.
He is relentless. Rest periods of a few seconds only. Combines many non-yoga strength building exercises – press-ups; sit-ups; squats; et al. All muscle groups tested to the max. We look on – impressed.
Like a couple of sofa spuds, each day’s journey finds us glued to our seats. Our travelling picture show presents itself anew through Beastie’s cinematic widescreen. Without a viewing guide we never know ‘what’s on’. Sometimes it can be a blockbuster. On other days a duffer.
Our two-nighter at Camping Ca gives us chance to change channel. See what’s on the other side. Go walk-about instead of rumble-about. Hide the remote. It’s a blue day. But we’re not. We have it all to ourselves.
No better place to start the day
Direct from our site, we step out onto the lakeside prom. Almost home from home. Not quite. For one the air temperature is +15C. And two, the water temperature is +10C
Blue and yellow and all is mellow
We’re having a good day, but this little fella looks as if he’s having a bad hair day . . .
“I know, no need to tell me – I asked for a Rod Stewart perm – should’ve gone for an Elton comb-over”Nothing blue about our day – except the sky
At one point we come across a mother duck and four little ducklings. They’re scrounging out tit-bits at the water’s edge. Following mum’s example. A couple of crow like birds are feeling peckish. They eye up lunch. A shared platter on their menu. Mother duck does her best to protect and warn her brood. Mrs S not willing to let nature take its course. Steps in and forwards. Claps hands and shouts. Saves the day.
A little further and someone else is eking out his lunchtime favourites.
A Little Egret – has no regrets – lunch is crawling all around his feet.
Our touch and turn and the real point of our walkabout is lunch. We join the throng.
Marketing blurb is designed to entice. Create a sense of more. Bring added value. Convince a buyer to make that purchase. Dip their hand into the proverbial deep pocket.
It’s not always easy choosing the next stop. We have to learn to decipher. Break the code. See what’s really behind the candy floss. Separate the wheat from the chaff. Understand fully what’s on offer. Even more difficult when a site’s web page relies on Google to translate. Brings a laugh sometimes. Being told they have ‘suggestive’ wash up facilities can be a real deal clincher.
Our non-motorway ‘up’ through the Brenner Pass takes us under the highest road-duct we’ve come across.
Today we say arrivederci to Italy. Even though this part of the Tyrol is technically Italy – it’s obviously not. Camping Chiusa-Klausen, in the Isarco Valley, entices us. The clue is in the word Klausen. Its web page informs us that it’s in walking distance of ‘one of the most beautiful old towns in Italy’.
The Tyrol is one of the most picturesque places we travel through.
We cross the Isarco River. Check out the Italian town. It’s pretty. But not one of the ‘most’. This part of the Tyrol annexed from Austria to Italy at the end of WW1. All signage in both languages. All shops and eateries not Italian. The whole place has a typical middle-europe feel to it.
Mrs S always in favour of pretty and clean.The use of flower arrangements around the village, a brightening feature.
Back at base, dusk wealds a surprise. Suddenly, every top of every surrounding hill is ablaze. Campsite confusion quickly spreads, like wildfire. Cameras click. Then a war-time-like siren sounds. What’s it all about? Are we under attack?
A summer solstice tradition of lighting bonfires dates back to the middle ages.
Being out on the road for so long can make it easy to turn your back. Ignore. Forget. And just be. Seek out a daily helping of pleasure. Why care? Who cares?
Our first daily helping comes at us from a distance. Approaches. Dishes out seconds, thirds and fourths. Stuffs us silly. Yet, still we want more.
Scenic pleasure at its best.
We cross over into Bavaria. The land of pretty scenes. Where fairy tale castles abound. Rumour has it there are no fairy tale stories to tell of today. The main protagonists are meeting just around the corner. Discussing the plot. Hoping to be able to agree on a happy ending.
Security is at its highest level. Every road and access lane we pass is sentried. Polizei swarm around like wasps. Ready to sting should the need arise. We are stopped. “How long is your duration?” His accent confuses. Why does he want to know our registration? It’s on the front of Beastie. We get waved on. There are several pinch-points we negociate.
If only Beastie had a bit more umph . . .
Near Oberammergau we are subject to our first umleitung. All part of the keeping safe distance policy. Get diverted off track. Annoyance turns to thanks. We would have missed Ettal and its incredible Abbey.
Inside the grounds a couple of polizei are taking selfies. “Would you like me to take one of you together?” They are surprised and delighted. One is German, the other French. It becomes apparent that the huge on the ground presence is international.
The French officer reciprocates – he has no choice in the matter!Inside it’s stunning too
With just a certain number of days left and a certain number of kilometres to cover, we do some maths. Some simple calculations. Division and addition. Or even better, divide and multiply. Still time left to leave a remainder. Create an unbalanced equation. Add some meat to the skeletal. Get more from less.
On arrival, today’s first choice is full. We must, from now on, pre-book. Luckily Insel camping at the other end of Niedersonthofener See (try saying that while chewing on a wurst), has room. Our hopes of a lakeside stretch get reined in and on. The heavens open up.
Today, we head north. Decide on our last two-nighter at Durlach. North-west of Stuttgart. We’ve broken our golden rule a few times on this trip – to not venture onto any motorway. Today, we go for broke again. Needs must and all that. Come the afternoon we regret it. Major road works around Stuttgart exasperate. Exacerbated by a broken down lorry in the middle carriageway. He gets the short end of the stick, mind you. We just lose an hour or so.
75 minutes at this snail’s pace is mind and bum numbingA nifty space saver – Bosche multi-story carpark suspended above both carriageways.
Kurlsruhe Palace is a short train journey from Durlach Camping. With no Scoot to fall back on, we get to see first-hand how a train system should operate. Organised, efficient, clean and value for money our verdict. On board, we receive a couple of tut-tutting looks. It seems it’s compulsory to wear face masks on all public transport. The Planet of the Apes look is still deemed fashionable. We haven’t brought any. We run the gauntlet on the return.
The palace is pristine – inside and outA tourist train operates throughout its massive gardens
On entrance we’re surprised. The palace has been converted. It’s now a museum. Holding thousands of ancient artifacts. As is par for the course, many snaffled from occupied territories. The palace looks so good because it was totally rebuilt in 1955, after the original was flattened by allied bombing during WWII.
Back at Durlach we head into the old town. Visit its central park. The sound of competition draws us near. Six teams of three are having fun. We know this game. Played once before at The Kingdom, when our Icelandic family introduced us to the Swedish game Kubb.
A combination of skill and sometimes luck, decides each game’s outcome.
We round the day off nicely with a double dose of what has become our daily addiction. A customary Italian style gelato. We walk it off with a round of the old back streets.
With a move up into northern parts we quickly forget those long balmy evenings. Where overnight the heat never falls but a degree or two. The more than pleasantly warm morning starts. Gone are the days of Beastie’s inside feeling roasty.
Our clear night is greeted with a dew soaked morning. Cold wet toes flip flop through the grass to the shower block. Goose pimples on their tip-toes stretch up in search of that morning glow. We (I) refuse to swap shorts and t-shirt for jeans and pully. It’s July!
Camping Colline de Rabais near Virton, Wallonia, our home for our nearly last night compensates. It has a heated outside pool. The day’s aches and pains get stretched off on each length. Master Chefette Mrs S is given the night off. She deserves it. Her stretch at the hob replaced with a meal in the camp restaurant.
Today’s hoped for après lunchtime walk around a typical petite French town is given a nil-points verdict. Hirson is not typical. A mish-mash of houses and buildings huddle the through roads that criss-cross its centre. The town planners must know it. Do their best to brighten this junction.
Art and unusual water feature, feature
However, our cross over into France from Belgium brings a welcome return to big vistas.
Aided and abetted by an almost surrealistic Dali sky
Our road-side sarnie stop pops up another view too good to overlook. Harvest time in the making.
Bread in the making
Currently we’re pitched up at Au Moulin de Frasnoy. Our penultimate night. With a welcome rise in the temperature a poolside end is anticipated. Sacre Bleu. It’s about as long as three bath towels end to end. If I dived in, my head wouldn’t hit the bottom, but the other end’s side wall! It’s full of kids having a great time though. I leave them to it.
We get treated to an evening of sun. Is there a better way to end a day?
Sicily. We got there. Eventually. Like a couple of ducks to water we picked up where we left off. On occasion, felt we were sinking, but always managed to pop back up to the surface. Take a deep breath. Leave the problem to run off our shoulders, down our backs and float away.
It’s inevitable on a long journey like this, to encounter the odd hic-cup or two. This trip we’ve experienced more than our fair share. Having to deal with and manouvre around each one is paramount. Adaptability to ease frustration being key. We seemed to have needed a lot of keys.
Scoot wing mirror spring washer missing – three cheers to Mr Amazon
My cupboard hanger broken – three cheers for Castles
Beasties heating system pipes detached – Gorilla tape to the rescue
Flat battery in Fern Pass petrol station – fantastic ÖAMTC with a perfect replacement
My phone not recognised as being in Italy – EE data gifting facility saved the blog
Boiler/window switch faulty – could only heat water using electric when plugged in
Brake fluid needed topping (despite a service just before leaving) – causing Mr S to lose control of his fingers, but not his ability to get out of a sticky situation . . .
Mrs S’s cupboard hanger breaks too. One week from home – stays that way
Scoot breaks down – Carol Nash Insurance unable to come up trumps
Hoover loses complete sucking power – a disaster for Mrs S
Fridge handle breaks – door swings wildly open every time Mr S enters a chicane
The surface of my driving seat in particular, delaminates – skin & clothes stick
Tablet, housing Missy our navigator with an attitude, loosing charge too quickly
Small cupboard attached to underside of front bed comes loose – Gorilla tape to the rescue again
Scoot’s home for the last two weeksNot a pretty site – the Captain’s seat
Beastie can look forward to a rest. Perhaps another long one. Plans for an autumn escapade on hold. Pending news on receiving a Ukranian family. So a few shorter breaks may become the norm for the near distant future. We’ll see. This little saunter a mere 5,149 miles – like water off a duck’s back for the mighty Beastie.
Thanks to one and all for being with us on this trip. Your comments always an encouragement to keep banging away at the keys. If one of our days has brightened just one of your days, then it’s been worth it.
And there’s only one way to end this final day. And that’s with a couple of these – after all, a French stopover is never complete without deux petites patisseries – is it Wesley?!!
Five senses clearly not enough. When the totally unexpected occurs and leaves you unable to make no sense, you hanker after that elusive sixth sense. Hindsight never compensates with its ‘if only’ finger pointing attitude. Like the fortune cookie, foresight can never reveal future’s full futility.
Preparations for today’s off complete. We make our exit on time. Like a couple of trapped greyhounds bursting to fly out after that rabbit. So no excuse and none necessary. Beastie’s bursting too. He’s loaded to the hilt. A full quota of supplies along with every ‘weather’ option on board. We’re leaving in silly season. Don’t want to be caught without snow-shoes and mittens close to hand.
At one point, it seems we might need them sooner, rather than later, as we’re bombarded from above. A cloudburst of hail, hails down on us. White musket shot pounds Beastie on all sides. He’s under attack. In seconds the lanes are transformed into a winter wonderland. We don’t put our skates on.
Our first three-nighter at Graffham, just south of Petworth, offers a good excuse to catch up with Kevin & Jacqui. They live 30K from the site. Beastie’s onboard LPG cylinder supplies gas for the fridge/freezer when we’re not plugged in. Three hours flash by. As we climb aboard to leave, we’re hit by an overpowering smell of gas. Despite our soapy water efforts and plenty of other suggestions from Andy, the local MOHO fixer, we’re unable to get the leak to blow any bubbles our way. Fortunately all pre-booked pitches have electric hook-up on tap, so until we can get to a dealer, we’re silently slipping into Tesla mode.
There are 141 paces to the dishwash sinks. And 297 to the shower block. And they say it takes 21 days to make or break a habit – providing you have the will in the first place of course. But what about those habits we aren’t aware of? Or worse, the ones we are aware of, but are controlled by our subconscious? We’re doing them before we realise and then of course it’s too late. I have one. (I can hear Mrs S thinking “Ha! Only one?” ) Guessed what mine is? Walking out anywhere I suddenly find I’m counting my paces. Yet, rather than stop counting, I knowingly continue. Weird or not? An internal variation I play is to estimate, then count. Mrs S has long suspected I’m gradually becoming autistic. Is this an early sign? Will I eventually morph into Rain Man? Become the dirge of the local bridge club? Take up smoking, just so I can ask complete strangers if they have a light boy? In the vain hope they’ll spill their box of matches . . .
Our forty-two day trip intends to take in as many National Trust properties as possible. As members, it’s sort of free entertainment. Completely drenched is how we enter number one on our hit-list – Petworth House. Courtesy of a dry 8.4K Scoot. The short 231 step walk from where we park up, sufficiently long enough to ensure the heavens are emptied. A face-masked ninety minutes later we’re back in town for lunch. Decide to give the grounds a miss. Head back to base during a dry interlude. Confine ourselves to barracks. Better to sit the afternoon out.
But before we do, we don’t walk the streets for money . . .
It seems Petworth Village is king when it comes to WisteriaThey don’t come any chunkier than this. Many buildings around the village similarly adornedWhat does this poet know that we don’t? . . .
We always carry a one burner portable cooking ring with us. Only ever used when yours truly takes charge of some fillet. So until Friday, when we have an appointment to get the leak fixed, Mrs S is going to have to demonstrate not only her cooking skills, but her juggling ones too.
They say that being in nature can bring many emotional and physical benefits. This Graffham site, set within a beautiful wood, itself set within the South Downs National Park, does just that.It’s up there as one of the prettiest sites we’ve visited.
Beastie & Scoot unwinding on our near perfect pitch. The first morning’s warm and sunny al fresco breakfast gives no indication of the changing weather that’s on its way.
Sometimes it pays to pay no heed to the weather forecast. A labyrinth of tracks lead us directly from the site. The quickening wind keeps the rain at bay. We don’t need an excuse to step out. Internal calculator gets turned off. A different type of concentration envelopes our psyches. Our unplanned route a delight of sights.
This beautiful blue bluebell bank brings benefitsWe thought the Zebrum was extinct . . . One cold one plus one hot one . . . We get distracted, follow the signs, but then realise neither is carrying a penny . . . Who needs a drink anyway, when you can get drunk on scenes like this oneSay cheese, Cheese . . . Mrs S being a right gorgonzola . . .Duncton Post Office – where once you needed an Act of Parliament to go dancingA frisky fawn, just before he springs into action and legs it
24,371 steps later sees us back on site – no, I wasn’t counting, Mrs S’s fit-bit was – now there’s a thought . . .
One of the many delights of being out on the road touring, is exploring new places. Of course, you never quite know what to expect. It’s like giving yourself a surprise present every day. Sometimes it puts a smile on your face and a warm feeling inside, as you unwrap it. At others, it can feel like you’ve just shot yourself in the foot, wishing you’d left the safety catch on.
No safety worries today. We leave the beauty of Graffham behind and head towards our two-nighter at Brighton. But not before backtracking to Midhurst and our second NT visit – Woolbeding (pronounced . . . beeding) Gardens. We’re treated. Doubly. The rain holds off and the gardens unwrap themselves to reveal a wonderful combination of formal and informal landscapes. The elegant house once leased to and occupied by Simon Sainsbury.
Grand designsThis four metre high ‘William Pye’ water fountain was inspired by a former cedar tree that used to stand in the same position.Two Cheeses never stand in the same positionThe view from above the waterfall in the previous photo.
Being retired and officially classed as OAPs, or seniors, or holders of concessionary rights, comes with benefits. But we can’t remember what they are. Like many words, in general conversation that torment us. They teeter on the edge of our tongue. Tantalise as they refuse to be spat out. No amount of A to Z-ing brings about the slightest hint. We learn to improvise. Beat about the bush. Or if that fails then nod knowingly to one another, hoping and assuming the other is thinking the same illusive word. A short while later we develop a mild case of tourettes. Tickled tongues tormented by our brainlessness issue forth a salvo of possibilities. All in vain – accept we’re going qwackers.
This morning arrives with a surprise. Beastie is still holding firmly onto Brighton Rock. Despite last night’s continuous spiteful gusts that bullied and tormented his 3.5+ ton. On board it felt as if we were riding the seven seas. With his slightly higher suspension, Beastie rocked and rolled as if at an all night rave. His Elvis hips swivelling this way then that – uh huh, uh huh!
No rave for him – he’s lost his Horlicks . . .
Our timed entry to Brighton Pavillion is preceded with a drop off at Sussex Leisure Vehicles. Very fortunately just 1K from our site. We leave Beastie to get examined. Hoping that the cause of the gas leak can be determined and rectified.
We are now several years into retirement and the unproud owners of the regulatory bus pass. Unused. Until today. The strong cold wind deters Scoot from poking his nose out from his cosy perch, so we take the plunge. The bus driver offers us a patient smiley instruction as we fathom out exactly what to do with the pass. Then we pass. Just about.
Eyes of misery
It’s some years since our only previous visit to the Royal Pavilion. As we approach, the outer skin clearly shows its age. Yet once inside, the bygone days of opulence reflect mirror-like from within each room.
Not quite how we remember it . . . The sumptuous interior an example of George IVs wild extravaganceSeems the Royals still have a soft spot for BrightonAs do many from the world of pop
We round off our visit around the ‘Lanes’. A souk-like linkage of predominately jewelry shops.
Our day ends on a high when we pick up a totally repaired Beastie. The old ‘should last at least ten years regulator valve’ the culprit.
Brand spanking new. Built to last a lifetime? Well, until it leaks . . .
We have an unprecedented four days ahead of us. Four castles on the shopping list (as opposed to fork handles) Giddy plans such as this not achieved since the Summer of ’67. An in between ‘O’ and ‘A’ levels must do project, turned into a good excuse for a cycling trip with life-long friend Paul Shelton, visiting the castles of North Wales.
We’re currently parked up just outside Seaford, on a very openly exposed Buckle Holiday Park. Family run, with no intentions of updating the facilities since they were first erected circa 1952. The referred to toilet ‘block’, a misnomer. No more than a wooden, run down, longer than average garden shed. The word ‘hut’ springs to mind. At £30 a pot, ‘Value for money’ does not.
Inside the Hilton Hut
On arrival we get a pleasant surprise. We’re allocated a pitch next to Beastie’s identical twin. Our returning neighbours get a surprise too. Our central door is wide open. As they approach they look worried. They think Beastie is theirs, until the penny drops. It’s clear their Beastie suffers from the same ‘driveway anxiety’ attacks as ours. The rear bumper currently held on with lashings of Gaffa tape.
Will the real Beastie take one step forward . . .
Earlier, we ignore the rain and go with its flow. Enjoy a delightful diversion. Call on the pretty town of Lewes and its cobbled high street. As did Mick Jagger for a short time in 1967. Courtesy of HMPS for possession of cannabis. With nothing to declare, we seek out castle number one. Fill time and space between our ears with its history. A plentiful supply of info boards, compensate for the lack of audio guide.
On entry the heavens openCamera’s artistic interpretation from the top of the taller tower
With Beastie’s burners back on tap Mrs S shows off her culinary talent again to round the day off nicely . . .
It’s interesting how hope of better things to come, generally creates a feeling of well being in the here and now. Yet, oddly, that can sometimes be true of pessimism, with its grounded reality check. The acceptance that the here and now is as good as it gets and no fear of being disappointed.
Packed alongside Scoot, in Beastie’s underbelly, we have included a number of items that may or not be destined to be put to use on this trip. Table tennis bats (the wind would have to drop considerably before use) Snorkeling gear (the sea temperature would have to rise considerably before use). Sponge beach loungers. (the air temperature will have to rise exponentially before use). Bonus balls waiting to be pulled out of the bag.
Tanner Farm Park, just south of Marden, Kent, is home for the next three nights. We have no phone signal. No wifi. Hence this ‘eventual’ posting.
We arrive via castle number two, residing at Bodiam. A once prettily plastered residence for Sir Edward Dalyngrigge. Its drainable lake enhances and conjures a romantic aesthetic appeal. On entry we’re treated to an almost expert display of swordsmanship. The first day back on duty in over a year for the three protagonists causes much amusement as they stumble and fumble through their barely remembered choreographed routines, Despite this, they impart a lot of interesting variations on how best to dispatch, or be dispatched, by an attacker.
Real people in front of a real castle . . . It’s pretty from all sides
Bodiam Castle has far fewer tidbits of information scattered throughout. Head scratching the norm. However, before leaving we’re fully compensated by David, an historian and story teller extraordinaire. He gracefully relates the history of the castle in a way that assumes our knowledgebase and acute interest in all matters past, matches his. He creates mini time warps. Grasps what’s gone and places it before us. A stream of little tittle-tattle-like stories tipple from his tongue, just as if we’re gossiping neighbours across a shared back fence.
With hindsight, there would be no need to face a dilemma. Future knowledge would remove all doubt. Erase all uncertainty. How boring would that be!
After a night of torrential rain, the morning starts with bright promise. It gets blown away as quickly as the ever darkening clouds skimming overhead. Showers the order of today. Our timed midday entry at Sissinghurst Castle Gardens creates a dilemma. We don’t want to get wet. Should we go by Scoot, or by Beastie. It’s less than 13K. Twenty minutes max. We (I) put our money on Scoot. All we have to do is wait for a dry window of opportunity. We take it. But don’t make it. Get completely lost. At one point we are closer to Sissinghurst as the crow flies, yet ridiculously, further, as the labyrinth of lanes fly. Thankful help from a couple of cyclists and then a postman saves our bacon. But by then it’s too late. We’ve doubled our journey time and been pelted by rain and cheek-stinging hail into the bargain. To add insult to injury Scoot’s petrol gauge is now pointing to less than empty. Eeek!
The little stop bar prevents the tank entering minus mode . . .
Of the 450 acres estate, 5 acres are laid out in a series of beautifully kept garden rooms. We spend a couple of hours dodging showers and drooling . . .
Sissinghurst referred to as a castle by the 3,000 French prisoners held here during the Seven Years War and has stuckBeautifully manicured lawns . . . . . . abound . . . and bordersWe enjoy a shared lunch
I read recently that everything in the universe has always been and still is, heading towards greater complexity. We can certainly recognise an inkling of that, simply by reflecting on what has changed during our own short worldly existence on planet earth. Is this why many of us have an inner hankering for the simple life?
It’s day four of the Great British Castle Off. To Scoot or not to Scoot. That is today’s big question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to travel in style and arrive dry and warm, or to suffer the slings and arrows of hail and rain and arrive wet and freezing? Oh sweet dilemma, where is your sting?
There is no sting. On arrival Mrs S removes her helmet with relief and states “Sometimes I feel so sorry for myself” – perhaps Scoot’s days are numbered?
Scotney Castle (AKA Scootny), turns out to be another castle that’s not. We blame the French and their 100 years war. It seems the local gentry at that time, instead of simply barring up their windows and doors against the marauding French, decided to fortify their country estate houses a la castle-style. Put on a pretend show. Simply added a turret here, or a tower there, with the odd crenellation thrown in for good measure – et voila! So providing any of these elements remain, it seems it can justifiably still be called a castle.
In any event, it’s another peach set within nature’s stunning beauty.
The deliberately ruined old ‘castle’. A piece of foresight folly from a previous ownerPretending to ignore the camera & look au natural Out on our circular walk of the massive estateStunning position for the main house
Time creates mini illusions. From one second to the next. It places the next in front of us. Knowing we can never go back. Knowing we can only free-fall forwards. And if we try to hold onto the past, the future becomes nowhere to be.
Three nights on this immaculate and well organised CCC site provides no excuses. The beating heart of the ancient Anglican Community and its heaped history waits for us. A downhill 1800 second saunter sees us wandering and wondering within its ancient city walls – what’s left of them. Like all ancient cities, Canterbury is a mix of old and not so old. Of new and not so new. Of things lost then uncovered. Some remembered. Some forgotten. Of fortunes made and squandered. Where sin and sorrow run hand in hand with love and joy throughout the backstreets of time.
We allow ourselves our first meander down town. Go get lost . . .
Catching Lives book shop – still leaning, despite unsuccessful efforts to straighten itWestgate Gardens, this Oriental Plane is more than twice Mary-Ann’s ageFantastic Face – outside the Marlowe Theatre
Day two and we return. Turn the clock back again. Go visit another’s past. On our list, a punt down memory lane, or in our case, the River Stour – one of five UK Stours. Andrew’s well practised homework echoes off the ancient walls and tunnels. His entertaining inventions conjure a reality we never knew. But in some strange sense we’re able to grasp the gist. He enables our imaginations to do what they do best, imagine.
Time to duck . . .
Today’s main event takes second place to a ninety minute walking tour. Colin is on form, along with the weather. We’re on a roll. By the time I’m typing this up 95% of his spiel has been . . . . what was I saying?
Orlando Bloom has been secretly carved into this statue’s plinth.From inside the precinct the view is mightily impressive
Still eager to make the most of our time we book an inner visit. It’s largely underwhelming, due to an ongoing five year plan of repairs. Very little internal info. No audio guide. And the £8 pre-ordered printed guide no more than a history book. A Covid one way system doesn’t help. However, we do fall across one or two aesthetic gems.
A hanging nail-manAtop Bell Harry tower Looking down through the QuireStacked chairs create their own piece of art
We round off our Canterbury Trails at the Azouma Moroccan restaurant. Share a couple of chicken and lamb tagines. Allow our minds the liberty to revisit. Imagine a connection. Join our now to our past – a starlit evening out in the middle of nowhere. Just short of the Sahara.
When it comes to dress sense someone once said “Blue and green, should never be seen”. That person may, or may not, have been a nature lover. But those are the two of the three colours we crave the most when out on our travels. The third? Yellow of course!
Shortly after arrival we get bathed by that big yellow ball. We have our own acre to spread out on, on this family owned site in Upchurch, so we do just that.
My turn next . . .
When a site sends you specific instructions on where to find them, it always pays to read that information carefully. Even more important, to remember it. Our arrival to 5 Acres Camping illustrates this point beautifully.
We always get there – one way or another . . .
Today’s day of rest gives us the opportunity to follow up on a lead. While wondering around the local cemetery (as one does) at Upchurch yesterday we bump into Jan Lacey. A friendly late eighties lady. We interrupt her watering duties. She doesn’t mind. Within ten minutes she’s related half a life-time’s story. And suggests we walk over to the next village, Lower Halstow. We do just that. It’s quaint.
Could almost be 1821. The 8th C Saxon church is hiding behind the trees
Until our arrival yesterday, this site had never been frequented by the local ice-cream man. We stopped him in his tracks as he was passing the gate. Seeing an opportunity too good to miss, he returns today. Realises he’s onto a winner. A captive customer base his easy pickings.
Are you a trombonist? Trumping a la Jimmy Edwards? Or a squeeky trumpeteer like Roy Castle? It’s one of those things we all do. Secretly or not. Controlled or uncontrolled. Sneakily or blatantly. With or without embarrassment. Loud or quiet. Long or short. Always bound to create a reaction; a titter; a raised eyebrow – depending on whose closest. Nearest & dearest, or stranger. If it happens to be an SBD, then it’s best to be alone, or vacate the place of your deed ASAP, or take on the look of an accuser!
If you type a question into Google and it has the answer, then someone must have asked that question before you. For example; Q: Are farts heavier or lighter than air? And of course the answer leads you onto another interesting question. If lighter, then once expunged does that mean you’ve immediately gained weight?
Of course, at our time of life we have to ensure they don’t become our nemesis.
Hall Place House & Gardens, Bexley. A beautiful spot. It’s another hot bluey. A no excuse day to Scoot over and take a looksee. A couple of phut-phuts, on our very own phut-phut. We do just that. Families galore making the most. Great to see.
Picnickers picnicking
The gardens are also home to the Queen’s ‘topiary’ Beasts. Planted at the time, to commemorate her coronation.
Quick! Run before they get you . . . Griffin – my favourite A couple of ex-BeastiesA delightful mix of formal and informal
Our three night stay at Abbey Wood in London, an oasis in itself. Scooting around we find many green areas. We choose Joyden’s Wood for today’s gambit. A planted ancient wood of stunning beauty.
A tribute to Ian James Muirhead, who survived being shot down in 1940. His Hawker Hurricane crashing into these woods. He was sadly killed in action two weeks later.
Two consequitive days out on Scoot without getting lost – a record. It’s thanks to my new AFTERSHOKZ bluetooth headphones. A tight fit under my helmet, but worth it when linked to MAPS.
You can never find a copper, when you want one. And the one that used to cover this patch is long gone. But before he left, he left a series of wonderful countryside images from the past. Beautiful snap shots. Illusionary images of coloured concoctions. Rose tinted tinctures suggesting a more peaceful existence.
Today, we break our journey. Visit his favourite haunting place. Another gem preserved by the National Trust. Idyllic is the only word to describe Flatford Mill. We go plod his beat. Blow our own whistles. Take our own snap shots. See how they compare.
Then . . .Now . . .A bit of history behind usThe riverside walk . . .. . . stunning in either direction
Today’s technology is inescapable. It’s at our figure tips. Constantly. It almost a greater necessity than food. We can go without food for a day or three. But no internet? Aargh . . .
We’re pitched up at Colchester Country Park. Two miles outside of Colchester. Can we get signal? Only when we don’t need it. Face turned the other way. A message or WhatsApp comes in. How does it do that? It’s showing no bars. We can’t even find out what day it is! I no longer believe the 99% coverage claims of any provider. We had better service in remote areas of Morocco!! Apparently, the moon has better internet signal than Colchester Country Park.
Colchester Castle is caught in our headlights today. Hardly surprising. It’s one of those dark miserable wet gloomy days that belongs to the depths of autumn. The type that makes you want to stay snug in doors, curled up like a tabby in front of a roaring fire. We resist the urge. Make the effort. Catch the bus instead. Away from the site, MAPS technology again at our fingertips. Glued to the progress of the blue dot, we sit and stare, like the eyeballs in the sky of two observing gods. Give ourselves the Nod when it’s time to go nomadic.
Built on the foundations of the huge Roman Temple of Claudius, the castle houses a masterful collection of predominately locally found objects. All give testament to the ingenuity of the master craftsmen of their day. Indications of a sophistication quite bewildering. Their technological know-how evident in all its forms. From the practical to the aesthetic. Their legacy the building blocks of current civilisations.
Of course we arrive in the rain – it sets in for the dayColchester CastleModel of the Roman Temple the castle now sits overInside the display is staggeringFantastic floor mosaic A beautiful fragmentEven more staggering is that virtually all display items were discovered in local streets
We’re not used to it. One of the joys of travelling “sur le continent”, is that feeling of vive la difference. Believe it or not, that includes supermarkets. Being able to discover new items to try, all part of the experience. Topping up onboard provisions while traipsing round the ‘local’ Tesco doesn’t cut it. On the plus side? Points do. And they make free crossings!
Today promises to dry itself off. And stay dry. It needs to. It does. We Scoot over to Paycocke’s House. Coggeshall. It’s one of many timber framed buildings in the village, dating from Tudor times. Along with three other couples we’re treated to the last guided tour of the day. Get to know the who’s, the why’s and the what’s thats. Like in the TV series A House Through Time, the house’s chequered history revealed. From brewery, clothmaking, shop, homes and now National Trust treasure. It’s not all gawp. Our guide keeps us on our toes. It’s an interactive tour of the house. We get asked questions she already knows the answers to, but we don’t. A guise in disguise. Like a trick of the light. You see things that may, or may not be there.
Its impressively oldThe ancient roadside frontage a perfect cover for the peaceful rearThe Woolpack, the local priest’s ex-abode
Letting go is not always easy. Whether it’s a person, a place, or “stuff”. Things never stay the same. Readjusting to a new set of circumstances can be challenging. Even when planned. More so when not.
When our laptop decided to lock me out of the perpetual sign in loop, I went loopy. A cartoon creative, would have concocted imaginary scenes above my steaming head. Multiple scenarios on how best to smash the living daylights out of this innate object would flicker. No Basil Fawlty branch at hand to let rip. Like a dog with a bone I wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not until every conceivable fix had been tried. Even a Windows 10 reinstall failed miserably. That left me miserable. Blogging via phone and tablet the new norm. A new set of slower procedures to endure to create the same end result.
On the plus side, Applefields Camping is a gem. Not just because we have a strong signal! Privately run. Sensibly organised. Lovely owners. Lovely location. In easy reach of our go to plans.
With plenty of afternoon to spare we amble through the local corn fields. Visit the Leiston Abbey, that was. A now ruin. Fifteen minutes north.
Told you . . . we get our money’s worth – free entryAn ancient in an ancient settingA local legend
It’s difficult to ask for your money back. You need to feel cheated somehow. Unexpectedly hoodwinked. Taken for a ride. Feel able to justify your demand. It’s especially difficult when the item, or service, is perceived as being free
We arrive at Sutton Hoo with high hopes. Unbeknown to us Netflix have recently released “The Dig”. Fortunately, we haven’t seen it. If we had, our hopes would possibly have been higher.
On entering the first exhibition building, our hopes start to get flattened. Like a couple of pancakes at the mercy of a steam roller. Part of the ‘you enter at your own peril’ blurb, advises visitors to engage their imaginations. Never a good sign. Around a couple of two parallel rounds, the exhibits are beautifully exhibited. They are all in brand spanking new condition. Shields, knives, utensils, jewells et al. All reconstructions. AKA fakes. Beautifully reproduced. But nevertheless, not the real McCoy. Ah well, mustn’t grumble. It is free.
We move on. Tranmer House houses info about Edith Petty & co, and the actual dig. We feel slightly less cheated. Though, it’s still disappointing. One room looping three simultaneous video/audio clips, discombobulates our ability to think straight, or take in and recall anything from the information boards. Ah well, mustn’t grumble. It is free afterall.
In any event. The ‘piece de resistence’ is yet to come. The house and land is set in wonderful countryside. We enjoy the walk over to the ‘Royal Burial Ground’. The grand finale to our visit. What remains of our high hopes gets shot down in flames. Our expections have conjured a vision that’s Mary Rose-esq. If only we could switch our minds into imagination mode. We can’t. The dig and all it’s glory long gone. On the plus side, the viewing tower is closed due to Covid!
The Royal Buriel Ground. Looking not so royal.The ship that never was. A reconstruction.
Daedalus, excluded, has anyone ever killed two birds with one stone?
We’ve already escaped. And in no need of extra feathers. Scoot too manly for a boa. So he never ventures that close to the sun. We take flight. Hightail it. Let him stretch his wings as he flies us down to Thorpeness. A bit further than a stone’s throw from Applefields.
Thorpeness is a delight. Picture book images around every corner. We’ve heard there’s even a house in the clouds, perched opposite a windmill. We ask a local for directions. Get chatting to Jane outside her front gate. A metallic blue, open top Fiat 124 Spider, cruises throatily down the lane towards us, pulls up. The cool looking driver is smartly dressed in black. He’s wearing his white collar, back to front. “Hi James. If you’ve got a minute, would you like to see around my garden?” “Sorry Jane, I’m on my way to do an interment. Next time?”
Hiding her disappointment we become James’s subs. Get ushered on to her field of play for a short tour. Jane’s self designed garden a really interesting mix of plantings. It’s not every day a stranger invites you in to view their garden. The last time we experienced that privilege was ten year’s ago, on Christmas Eve. In Cuba!
Jane directs us down a couple of short cut ginnels and across a small copse.
In its heyday it pumped water across the way to the house in the clouds.Now accommodation, its previous life as a water tower supplying the village, ended in 1977, when a mains system was installed. The idea to disguise the 70 foot high water tower as a house came about so that it would be in keeping with the mainly mock-Tudor and Jacobean style village houses.Pond or Lake? Which one better for a sarnie spot?
We choose. . . lakeOur viewThorpeness also has a massive beach. Shingle replacing sand. Courtesy of the North Sea tides.
We decide to kill the second bird. Take a short shingle side stroll to Aldeburgh. Get side tracked by a shell. It’s unusually large.
A 2003 tribute to Benjamin Britten, who lived in Aldeburgh for 10 years
We constantly compare. It’s our way of establishing whether one thing is better than the other. Look at the pertinent qualities. See if they hold up and meet our expectations. Assist our decision making. Critique our made choices.
On route to the Broads we make a stop. Take a park and ride into Norwich. £1.70 return. A Senior plus moment. Visit the Cathedral. It’s the hottest day so far. Beastie can confirm. He’s sweating cobs. And not the only one.
He’s still six degrees off his record
With no online booking procedure in place we roll up on spec, unsure if we’ll get in. Needn’t have worried. Unlike its Canterbury cousin, entry is free. As we step into the nave, David greets us. “Would you be interested in a free tour?” We thank our lucky stars. Emulate Janice, give it a “foive”.
Stunning
Diane, David’s understudy leads the way. Fills us in with all the facts and figures of the building’s history. Unlike Canterbury, it’s a joy. At times we almost feel we have the whole place to ourselves. The interior is remarkable.
No expense spared.The vault’s bosses run the length of the nave. Relate the Biblical story from creation to redemption.The quire. They don’t make them like they used toDavid shadows. He needn’t have worried. Diane does a sterling job.Diane’s last task.
The spire comes in handy each season. The peregrine screeches echo around the 44 acre inner village.
Norfolk, like Suffolk, has it’s own unique language for describing certain everyday things. A set of unusual and strange words that sound far more interesting and entertaining than the ‘common’.
Here are a few . . . umpty-tump; bishey-barney-bee; charlie-pig and of course, poĺly-wiggle. A different mind’s eye their norm. They like to stretch the norm a tad too when it comes to sign posts. It appears you can go somewhere, but nowhere in particular, by road.
We went zattaway . .
. . . and end up at Potter Heigham, the local waterway watering hole. Frequented by everyone holidaying in this area.
Mrs S looking happy. Might have something to do with the Two Scoops Wesley of rum n raisin she just downed.
Like many things that seem too big for any single one of us to handle, or bring about change, we can often find it easy to turn a blind eye. Pretend it’s not our problem. Pass the buck. Demand action from leaders and politicians. It’s their job. Isn’t it? Especially true when that “thing” impacts on our need for leisure and pleasure. Two modern day “rights”.
Ensconced within the myriad of waterways, we forget about stately homes, pretty gardens, castles and cathedrals. Focus our focus on two more days in nature. Saturate ourselves while it’s still dry and warm. Turn our efforts into some wheel spinning. Go ride-about. Discover how really flat this area is. It is. Even less than flat. At one point, we reach the top of How Hill. My bike computer shows our elevation above sea level to be -27 metres!!! I knew we should have packed our snorkels. No wonder they express huge concerns about global warming and the rise in sea levels over here. East Anglia’s days seem numbered. Yet “tourism” still rules and is encouraged everywhere. Quieter roads, countered by busier dieseled waterways.
Most of the land we cycle through sèems ex-beach – and loved by the thriving crops
On planning a stay in this region I’d imagined the best way to experience the broads would be by boat. I toyed with the notion. But to jeopardise the theory of evolution and discard our MOHO-Sapiens stature, to revert to MOBO-Restrictus, even if just for one day, was unthinkable. What would Beastie think of us? In any event, we didn’t get it. It seems that all you get to see is the unending waterway ahead and high banks of reeds on either side.
Unless . . .
Ah, now they’ve got the right idea. Obviously fans of Mr Bean.Not all ways are through ways . . . how nature intended
They tell us that being out in nature is good for your soul. Good for your physical health. Good for your mental health too. Perhaps it’s the nearest thing we have that connects us to the universe. To the divine – the close encounter catalyst.
Today we make our way over to the Sandringham Estate, via Horsey Gap. It’s not famous for its horses. But for its seals. We want a close encounter. A divine connection. We’ve heard that they lie around on the beach all day. Waiting for us. Don’t go for a swim until they’ve made a connection or two either. We cough up £5. Two hours parking. Ten minutes later we’re on our way. A few can be seen bobbing. Treading water. Fifty metres off shore. They seem to be smiling ‘Ha, ha, gotchya’ grins. The owner of the privately owned car park is grinning too. We cut our losses.
Now you don’t see us, now you don’t . . .
We move west, try Cromer. Further along the coast. Wish we hadn’t. It has one saving grace. A brilliant idea of putting art out into the community – Street Side. This favourite, one of many.
Painted 1555 – ‘The Librarian’
Sandringham Estate. Another piece for the non existent igsaw puzzle . . . It’s difficult to imagine a different life for oneself. In different times or circumstances we may sometimes wish we were someone else. It’s even more difficult to imagine another’s life. Virtually impossible. But that’s what we sometimes do. A society media fed and lead. We watch. Search out. Capture the essence. Our timed entry booked for Monday 3pm.
Our fairground frolics have scored a bull’s eye on most days. On others a close miss. No Teddy Bear to tell of yet. Like £5 all-dayers we hop from one attraction to another. Aiming to get our money’s worth.
Our CCC site is just a twenty minute walk from Liz’s Sandringham Estate, our main attraction. The weather gods are in a good mood. Like us, they’re enjoying this fine spell. Always a bonus when walking and cycling.
We each pay four times the all-day rate for a fifty minute glimpse into and through the ground floor rooms. My wrist gets slapped in room one. I take a photo. Naughty boy. “It’s in the T&Cs, sir, that form part of your ticket confirmation. Can you delete the photo.” – “Sorry, I can’t. No delete facility on my 360”. I do the right thing and don’t post it on this blog. Save my head. Keep it privately saved. Along with the others I took in each room!
‘Element’ frames a horse’s eye viewSome outer sections could do with a spring clean. Mrs S looks as regal as ever.The prettiest parts of the estate around the lake.
Our pitch is almost perfectly positioned. We’re so far out on a limb that we have no internet or mobile signal. We remain on the dark side of the moon for three nights.
A perfectly pitched lunar landing.
We get to hear that Wolverton Royal Railway station is close. Apparently the royals from Victoria onwards, hopped off and on here. Good excuse to get the bikes out.
The roads within the estate area look blooming lovely. Masses of rhododendrons.
The station and signal box building preserved, but not pickled. Still looking regal.
The last train to arrive on platform 1 occurred in 1966.Come on EnglandVirtually all villages in Suffolk and Norfolk show off their illuminated sign posts. We luvs em.
You can’t always be in the right place, at the right time. And when you’re not, you just have to accept it. Make the most of what’s on offer. Refuse to let it spoil the moment.
We’re cramming. Trawling ahead of every journey. On the lookout for any passing NT places. Spread our net wide. Wider than a Bowhead’s mouth. Eager to hook them in. Keen none escape. Today, Uxburgh House and garden gets swallowed up as we move over to Cambridge. Its temporary look, not to our taste.
The view from the visitor car park doesn’t thrill . . .The view from inside the perimeter wall looks even more disappointing Of all the paintings on display, only two are originals. Mrs S studies the finer pointsRandom copies with no family connection to existing or previous owners, present a look of authenticity that’s not real.
The phenomenon of attraction occurs everywhere. It has an effect on everything in the known cosmos. Its source not always fully understood. Gravitational pull and magnetism and other forms of energy fall within our grasp. Yet personal attractions seem less universal. More subjective. I’m attracted to this. You’re attracted to that. Why?
A relatively short Scoot of 20K rolls us over to Anglesey Abbey and Gardens. Our planned and booked trip for tomorrow, brought forward one day. Today says hot and blue. Tomorrow not so. We forego the house. It’s closed on Wednesday’s. We are more than compensated. Its 124 acres of gardens a masterpiece of design and intrigue. A wonderful blend of formal and natural landscaping.
Two buzzy bees get attracted . . .Exquisitely attractiveThis slow threesome subconsciously block our way past. Not so attractive elbows.Who says lightning never strikes twice? Was that tree more attractive?An attractive dream locationJapanese Cherry – we’d be barking mad not to be attracted to this
Thursday 17th June. Sometimes its good to remind oneself what day it is. If only briefly. Mary-Ann constantly asks me what planet I’m on and that saves me having to try and remember that. The weather changes. It’s one of those grey overcast days that hover low overhead. A constant threat that breathes down your neck. Like a couple of cool cobras tasting the air we repeatedly take a rain check. It holds off for the duration of our trip in and out from Cambridge. Courtesy of the number 7 and two bus passes.
That attraction thingy steps in again. We deliberately sidetrack. Hop off at the Botanical Gardens. 40 acres of oasis. Give the Fitzwilliam museum a miss. We don’t need to know. Just need to be.
Just need you to step back a yard or too . . .Without a blue sky, the reflection is still photo-worthyHappy as a buzzing baby bumblyCambridge has one or two architectural attractions
Spontaneity is often key when touring. A small detour here or there often brings reward. Although for those we visit today, there is little earthly reward.
Today’s on route stop off brings us to a halt at The American Cemetery and Memorial, Cambridge. A thirty odd acre site donated by the University of Cambridge in 1943. Another reminder of the tragic and ruthless result of war.
We have the place virtually to ourselves, so to speak. The grey windy, wet day, discourages many others. Takes on our sombre mood, as we reflect on the enormity of bravery we can never conceive. The most immaculate rows of white on green do their utmost to honour each individual sacrifice.
Enough is enough . . .
Open 363 days each year, the visitor centre graphically informs, illustrates and demonstrates on a global and individual basis how the Americans came to the aid of the allies war effort. We are touched deeply by some individual tragedies. The irony of surviving a desperate war-time situation, only then to be hit by a car, during blackout, for example.
Individual Biogs, honour some of the many heroes.The Wall of the Missing. 472 feet of Portland stone. 5,172 named.
The Chapel, a work of art and design. Its regular chime breaks the silence and welcomes the fallen home.
One of ‘man’s’ incredible gifts is the ability to figure things out. Not just any old thing. But really, really complex things. Solving and devising is what makes us king. Unique amongst all living creatures.
Today sees us park Beastie up at Bletchley Park. Home of the Code Kings. A privately bought stately home, given over in its entirety for the extraordinary WWII code breakers.
The house became too small, too soon. A mass of huts soon sprung up over the estate. Creating a village of 9,000.
Every form of ingenious thought process was employed in order to decipher the German codes. Ĺooking at their methodology, and technology (not) it was a real slog. But also a labour of love, with the highest of stakes at risk.
Typical hut roomThe visuals and interactive touch screens explain simply and fully, how each part of the whole process fitted together.
No one person knew what was going on in other huts. The big picture chopped up into lots of smaller ones. A miraculous and meticulous conveyer belt of codes and ciphers. Sniffing and snuffing the enemy out. All held their tongue under the threat of being shot for treason! It seemed to do the trick. For after the war, many went to their graves without ever divulging a single word of what they did.
We discover the incredible use of homing pigeons too. Not as pie ingredients. Parachuted in behind enemy lines, to fly back to base with valuable coded messages.
One pigeon received an award for bravery. Attacked and injured by a bird of prey shortly after being released, it then flew on for 200 miles and made it back home.Look at the cool, look at the cool . . . (repeat quickly)The Nazis hated all pigeon fanciers . . .
If you’ve read this far and are puzzled by the header, I’ll give you a clue. But only if you don’t shift to the left first.
If ever machines come to dominate the earth, then I imagine that their power will not be challenged by all. Populations will split. Half compliant. Half not. Infact it’s already started.
Today’s short site-hop over to Henley, seems straight forward. We plan a hop off at Grey’s Court. Another hidden away NT gem. Like a couple of Daleks our mantra is “We obey. We obey”. Missy our onboard Oz navigator and master controller, decides to test our obedience. Sends us where no Dalek has ever been before.
Yet another NT treasureThe walled garden a mass of beautiful sights . . . . . . obviously . . .
The garden is host to an extensive display of interesting sculptures. Some weird and zany. Some put old cutlery to ingenious work.
A rare teaspoonerA flowering souperonica-slurponiusIs it a bird, is it a plane?. . . It’s only me you sillies. I’m on a taller plinth than you three . . .
Everyone’s different, thankfully. And every camper, whether by tent, caravan, campervan or motorhome, has their own very different approach and take on what a camping break consists of.
UKers, on a whole, tend not to go too far from home. Not to be away for too long. This is the general theme we gleen from fellow washer-uppers. Many a retired MOHO couple have arrived on site in two vehicles. MOHO plus car, driven separately, not towed. Often eyebrows raise, when they discover we’re six weeks on the road.
With only a handful of days left, today’s intentions get washed away. No fun for the tenters, we imagine. We don’t go bananas cooped up inside. Play Bananagrams, unscramble our minds.
With Cliveden House & Gardens a little out of Scoot’s range, we unleash Beastie today. Let him stretch his legs off site. The decision almost backfires. The entrance gates look as if they’ve been in situ, since the Duke of Buckinghamshire first built the place in the 1660s, for his mistress. Very tall, black, ornate. Look as if the local blacksmith would have needed a year or two to construct. Not very wide. Wide enough for a horse and carriage. Marble Beastie ball-bangers hover either side. Ready to inflict maximum damage on any stray overwidth entrant. A series of deep gouges convincing evidence of previous conflicts. Beastie’s whiskers start to fidget. He pulls up short. Hesitates. I decide to give him a nudge forward. Supreme confidence in his ability to suck it up and suck himself in. At the last second Mrs S notices a sign. “Large vehicles – next gate” . . .
The “place”, or should that read palace. Is monstrously massive. He could have housed one hundred mistresses, and still had space over. A monstrously massive water feature, makes a monstrously massive statement upon entry. Poses the question “You sure you can afford this?” The house is now leased out as a hotel, so we give the interior a miss. Save our pennies. Head off into the 376 acres of gardens.
7 night stay in the ‘cottage’ £26,309 – gulp . . .They don’t do things by half here . . . this shows half . . . how many?The water garden equally impressiveWell, someone had to. At least Mr S resisted doing his David impression.
The Aston family, owners when WWI broke out, allowed hospital facilities to the Canadian Red Cross. Subsequently converted and consecrated the Italian garden. The unusual cemetery the last resting place for those who died in the hospital.
42 burials, including 2 Canadian nursing sisters.Now that’s what I call a back garden
Back at base, on this fabulous Swiss Farm camp site we’re treated. Bunnies feed and frolic close by. Closely watched by gangs of birds of prey. Several couples of Red Kite on constant duty. They glide and screech feedback to one another from on high.
Six weeks out on the road. Beastie doing the rounds. Scoot shooting out at a tangent. No National Trust stone left untouched as we eventually get back to where we started.
We break our penultimate journey at Avebury. Go visit another circle. One that’s been around a little longer. A 360 online view promises a suitable parking space. Not the case as we pull up. The Summer Solstice height barrier still in place. Limbo dancing not a Beastie talent.
Beastie’s not welcome 100 metres on, Beastie pulls into the only suitable roadside space his size. We leave him looking out over to Silbury Hill, an ancent pyramid look-alike.Half a lap to goMrs S demonstrates how the stones were originally pushed into place . . .
The 330 metre wide main circle is missing a number of stones, but the many that remain clearly show the enormous scale of achievement.
What came first? Stone Circle 3,000 BC. Sheep 9,000 BC.
We’re now pitched up at “Camping in the Forest”, Postern Hill, within the Savernake Forest. A two-nighter that gives us leave for an am forest walkabout, and a pm Marlborough walkabout. The beautiful former out-shining the traffic-bound town.
A cheery top brightens our Marlborough lap. Beastie, making hay on this pretty site.
So, our Covid conscripted circle reaches 360. It’s been different. Yet including fourteen National Trust sites has brought a certain similarity and feel to our journey. We’ve travelled through fantastic, typically English scenery. Walked through some picture postcard villages. Trekked through some amazing woodland. Revelled within some wonderfully constructed and beautiful gardens. Our Great British weather played its part too, but thankfully took a minor role, most of the time.
If there’s been anyone out there that’s done full circle with us, then the pleasure has probably been more ours than yours. If you’ve merely bitten off the odd segment here and there, then I can hardly blame you. In any event, thanks for being with us and see you in 2022, when we’ll be back across the water.
Home life is very rarely specifically spontaneous. Eyes in constant focus on the near or not so near future. Invisible tick-lists line up and loom. Each with its own reward, or lack of it. We strive, depending on the moment’s motivation. Weigh up the pros and cons. Consider the must-do’s against the easy-do’s. But the silent, often unconscious list making, never escapes us.
With more than the usual amount of planning planned, we have everything in place. First five Beastie night-overs – sorted! Ferry crossing from Nice to Corsica – booked! One outward flight from Stanstead to Bastia – booked. One inward flight from Ajaccio to Stanstead – booked!
Then, we’ll make it up as we go along . . . spontaneity key!
The flights? Laura is set to join us for a two week jaunt. Keen for a break from homework – not the school type, but the D.I.Y. type. Keen to re-visit Corsica. Keen to experience life on the road in Beastie. All of us keen to get rolling. Like us, she has made plans to coincide. Altered appointments. Re-jigged her tick-lists. Like us, has everything sorted. So it seems.
BUT and it’s a big BUT
None of us planned for the unexpected. Why should we? How could we? You can expect the unexpected. But you can’t actually plan for it.
So, out of the blue and with no previous history, Mr S suddenly falls foul of a severe bout of labrynthitis. Our immediate world stops spinning. Mine doesn’t. Takes on a new and sickly dimension.
Walls, floors, ceiling, furniture spin. Mimic a mini solar system. My head at the centre. Create a caustic constellation of consternation. Surely it’s not that big? Or dense? We all like to consider ourselves the centre of our own universe, but this takes it a step too far. My land-lubber stomach, unaccustomed to being tossed and turned, rides a raging open sea. Gagging with every roll. Happy days . . .
Hence, Day T-?
Therefore the plans of mice and men curtailed for the time being. Waiting on medication to fully function. Along with my brain, eyes, ears, legs and stomach . . .
Moods are mini dictators. Aren’t they? Prefer to be in full control. Or else! Decide when to take over. Call an unexpected coup. Set up their own headquarters. Make decisions – affect choices. Difficult to break free from. Often stubborn and immovable. A finger snap insufficient. How or where they come from not always evident.
Even with most of our preparations sorted, we weren’t really in the mood. Physically ready – yes. But not quite mentally. Maybe the delay played its part. Fast forwarding to eight days ‘on the road’ to make the Nice ferry, not quite filling the happy holiday synapses with feelings of joy.
Yesterday’s 270K precursor broken with a stop off at N.T.s Ightham Mote. A charming medieval Kent property, in a glorious setting. Not as small as its name suggests.
Mote with a moat – very confusing . . .Delightful & typically English images in every nook and cranny.
However, even the relaxed afternoon tea to round off our visit did little to shake off our forebodings.
Currently we’re safely tucked up a further 293K down the road. Camping au bord de l’Aisne, Guignicourt – our first French one-nighter.
We take a canal walk. The other side. We have the code. Beastie doesn’t.
With today’s trouble free journey safely tucked under our belts our mood has changed. It started to lift the moment we came up for air . . .
Daylight ahead – and with it, a mood swing
. . . on the other side of La Manche . . . and on the other side of the road . . .
Back home we like to do our best. We do a Jack Johnson. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Carefully sort everything. Do our bit for the planet. Got to – haven’t you? Well, with all that global warming and receding ice caps. You’d be daft not to.
Even this time of the year France is full. Full of MOHOs. As many of us heading south as there are north. Some going, some coming. Some starting, some ending. Some going this way, some the other. A scattered army of foraging soldier ants searching for sustenance. Confusing sight to the eyes in the sky. All polluting. Undoing any good bits previously done for the sake of mother earth. Do any of us look bovvered? None of us heading up to Greenland. We don’t mind a bit if it does heat up a tad. Especially at this time of the year. Bring it on. And, the only receding part of this planet that’s of any immediate concern happens to be perched several inches above my eyebrows.
We break today’s journey with an impromptu stop at Langres. A walled medieval town perched high up on a rather large hump. Like a huge flattened cherry on top of a rock cake. Passed it before. Couldn’t bear to ignore a second time.
Very rare to find a town over here where charges applyThe French will find anything colourful to brighten up some of their older town rues
Saturday’s over-nighter – finds us nicely nestling at Camping du Lac (luckily I noticed my typo and changed the v to a c). Itself nestling alongside the Reservoir Vingeanne. Created in the early 1900s. Dam hand built over four years by an Italian labour force.
The highlight of our ‘to the dam and back’ walk
Our day peaks at 28C and gets rounded down nicely to 24C just in time for our first Al Fresco dinner.
Somehow we get the feeling tomorrow’s going to be a delightful day – sheep or no sheep
Time waits for no man. Or woman. Today is Mary-Ann’s Birthday. She’s edging closer. Closing in on another decade.
We never really know where we’ll be in the future. Especially when it’s ten years hence. We look behind us and wonder. Then do a fast forward and wish it could be a slow forward. Far better to concentrate on the here and now. Sometimes the future is nowhere to be. Simply staying in the moment is key.
Mrs S is not too sad to be traveling on her Birthday. We have a nice stop off planned. We’re in the very heart of Burgundy. Traversing its so-called Champs-Elysées . The Grands Crus de Bourgogne route. Wall to wall lines of vines. Their sun drenched fruits patiently waiting. Pickers are in abundance.
The grapes are tiny. But very juicy, warm and sweet – hmm – how do we know?!
The family estates’ work forces evident on all sides. Young cheap labour fills – then empties any plastic container to hand. Containers of a slightly larger type get laden. Then taken.
A bottle or two’s worth. A bob or two too.
We break our journey at the walled town of Beaune. Discovered during our return from Croatia. Earmarked for a return. Didn’t really do it justice then. No time. This time we have plenty. Head for the 15thC Hôtel-Dieu de Beaune. In its time a state of the art hospital and hospice – offering care for the poor et al. Incredibly, remained in use as such for the next five centuries. Eventually super-ceded in the nineteen-seventies.
Hospitals don’t have to be boxes.Say ah! . . This won’t hurt a bit – just need to take your temperature . . . Beautiful Beaune Birthday girl
We celebrate Mary-Ann’s birthday on site. Our first ‘chateau’ – Castel Camping Château de l’Epervière – home for two nights – has it’s own restaurant.
Paradoxically, resting is not always restful. Does not always refresh the body. Or mind. Our first ‘day of rest’ away from rolling, plans to do just that.
With Tournus a short 11K riverside ride away, we unload the bikes for an airing. The baked tractor flattened and rutted track produces a saddle rhythm more suited to the likes of Bronco Layne. A number of tractors are still making the cycle route and threaten to flatten us too. So 2K in we do an about turn. Decide to take the longer country lane option.
The best section. At least Mrs S stays on for more than eight seconds . . .
Our more comfortable route takes us into the heart of Bill & Ben-land. Millions of sun scorched sad looking ‘Little Weeds’ blanket the now heartless landscape.
An elephant hawk moth caterpillar narrowly misses getting his trunk severely truncated. He crosses our path. He’s heading for some of ickle Weed’s leaf cover. The next part of his life journey beckons.
65mm we reckon
Tournus disappoints. Partly our fault. We arrive just after 1pm. Of course the town is shut! One sane patisserie provides lunch. Deux petites quiches later we do our own tournus. Head back.
Although it’s technically low season the site is heaving. With facilities and views to match it’s hardly surprising.
Our waterside pitch not only our home. Coffee break time catches a red squirrel as he flits along the bank. Carries a huge gob-stopper. Searches out a secret hiding place. There isn’t one. Spies us spying and flutters off. Randomly and elegantly butterflying from branch to branch. Teases my camera cover off. He’s quick. Too quick.
He isn’t though. His slow and deliberate deep in thought movements give ample time.
Our ‘day of rest’ continues. An energising hour’s table tennis and swim. Rounded off nicely with dinner in the dark – almost . . .
Almost all of our lives are spent in ordinary time. Nothing out of the ordinary passes from day day to day. Seemingly ordinary events stretch behind us. Stretch in front, like a linear Route 66. The ordinary sun rises. The ordinary earth does a 360. Encompassing all of creation in its ordinary way. Speeds us on our way. No wonder we often find ourselves going round in circles. Going nowhere fast.
That’s how our ordinary day 7 seems. Going nowhere. And not fast. An ordinary two-lorry convoy of one full and one empty car transporter do what they do best. The former tailgates. Leaves no gap. Beastie unable to overtake. His 360s made up of 180 after 180. Gripping hairpins incapable of keeping ‘one’s’ hair on. Even when there’s little left. Eventually we do find our Gap. And don’t mind if we do. The town – with tonight’s stop – Alpes Dauphine Camping.
Earlier Beastie needs a fill up. We don’t spot the not so wide exit. In days long gone this would have caused consternation. A mini melt-down. A tantrum maybe. A head to head even. But now Beastie secretly thinks ‘One more scar? More like a new notch. It’s me or that pillar! Right? Bring it on . . .’
It doesn’t take much to topple those loosely balanced lego blocks. What’s the French for ‘Timber . . .?’
Camping Le Daxia, south of Lyon at Saint Clair du Rhône hosts us for day 6. Mr S with his labrynthitis surprisingly unaffected by swimming – takes advantage of the still evening warmth with a dip. Mrs S does her own thing. Impersonates a poolside solar panel.
Thursday and Day 8 ends at Camping La Paoute. Courtesy of the Napoleon Road. We’re 2K south of Grasse – the heart of French perfume. Yet another site with table tennis and pool on tap. Both help relieve the day’s ordinary frustrations. A change of venue en route. Brought on by a sudden downpour or two of mountainous weather. The planned Gorges du Verdon given a miss this time.
Not the Gorges du Verdon – just an ordinary en route view.
The Alpes-de-Haute-Provence mountain passes never fail to amaze, delight and impress – here’s today’s highlight.
At times, during the last few weeks, the space between my ears has resembled an overbalanced scale. Weird and alarming punch-drunk sensations have momentarily disorientated. Like one of those ‘dippy-ducks’ incapable of preventing that dip into the beaker. I’ve dipped. Or like a tight-rope walker carrying a weighted balancing pole, suddenly finding both weights have shifted to the same end. I’ve wobbled. Stomach turning nausea the result.
So the thought of a five hour ferry crossing from Nice to Bastia, didn’t quite make it onto this trip’s bucket list.
As a ‘just-in-time’ couple, the request to get Beastie port-side three hours before embarkation doesn’t sit easy. Nevertheless, we obey. It pays dividends. We’re near the front of the queue. RO-RO means the same will apply at the other end. Many stay sitting in their vehicles waiting patiently. For three hours!? We go. Walk the back streets. Clock up some steps. Leave Beastie to hold our place – fourth in line.
There’s a good Beastie . . .
The Pasca Lota takes us by surprise. Silently slips in. Blind sides us. It’s size almost lineresque. Eight decks. Three for vehicles. A Eureka moment its anti-sinking property. Man managed manoeuvres massage MOHOs. Spaces settled into, deep below the waterline.
MOHOs brought down to size . . . We don’t stay up top for long.
Once under way an announcement displeases. Bad weather, in the shape of a very stiff head-on breeze, increases crossing time. Three hundred isn’t a particularly huge number. But attach it to a floating device’s time machine and it has the ability to conjure carrots and other goodies out of thin air – or rather from below decks.
A bit of extra privilege never goes amiss. Whether it comes with the job, bought as a perceived necessity, accepted as a freebee, or simply given as a right – being fast-tracked, upgraded or thrown an occasional bonus ball, make us feel just that little bit extra-special. That little bit more-superior – “. . . don’t you know . . .”
Our Friday evening apres-ferry scrabble, up the blacked-out picturesque (we presume) coast hugging narrow D80, sees us pitched up for three nights. We blindly budge Beastie onto the first available space in Camping La Pietra – 500 metres from Marine de Pietracorbara. Daylight finds us sitting pretty. Just in front of the pool.
A frustrating view . . .
By the time Laura arrives tomorrow afternoon, today’s weather hiccup should have long passed. In the meantime . . .
We kill some time before the rain sets in. Go check out the beach via this scenic tunnel.The return route gives Mrs S an opportunity to clear away some grey frustrations . . .
The on-line forecast and overhead sky-scape agree for once. A small weather window just enough time to go claim my rightful place . . .
Time for a tour – go ‘take’ the Tour de Castellare “Oh, it’s this way my Lord” . . . The last thirty feet or so offer a challenging ladder-less escaladeNow then – where are those pesky servants . . . A very privileged view from up top
Back at base the weather closes in dramatically. Beastie’s put under siege. We hole up. Batten down the hatches. Pull in our defences. Relentless high winds and torrential rain batters, pounds and buffets. Eases off by the time we rise (without the shine).
Imagine if we could have our lives laid out in graphical detail, then we’d very easily be able to identify what was going on at all the pointy bits. Whether they were pointing up or down.
Memories are constructed around all the pointy bits in our lives. Some pointy bits we shoulder alone. Others get intertwined. Get shared. Rounded off. Softened. Become more bearable. Even those pointing up far better shared.
On arrival at Bastia Airport, to meet Laura, we don’t expect an impromptu game of Oranges and Lemons to be waiting for us at the car park entrance. Not content with one barrier – a more sophisticated two parallel-bar system faces Beastie on entrance. His far from svelte physique more suitable for shot put. We roll him in. Pull up. The ticket machine alongside does a strop. Refuses to do what it’s there for.
No prizes for guessing the distance between the two barriers . . .
After an ultra brief instruction – “Avancez un peu” – we obey the voice on the other end of the help button. Beastie inches forward cm by cm, to almost touching point. Then realisation kicks in. The ticket will only be issued when the rear barrier has come back down. Suddenly, it does just that. Clunks down onto the bike rack. Beastie and his back pack one metre too long. The barrier tries again. Bounces off. Does a quarter 360, as if attempting an Axel Paulsen. Bounces down to the side. Parallel with Beastie. No longer parallel with its compatriot.
La Barriere Automatique is far from automatique!
The CCTV crew are probably creasing themselves. Thinking they’ve got some viral YouTube footage on the go. They send a man our way. He solves the problem. Now we’re in. Ninety minutes later, an identical exit system sees Beastie perform the very same routine. This time however, the rear barrier plunges down and wedges in the space between Beastie’s backside and the bike rack. Even if we were to be issued a ticket we’d be stuck anyway! Another man appears. Attempts to lift the barrier by hand. Gets it perpendicular against its will. It doesn’t like it. It too does a strop. Throws itself down at a right angle. Like a two year old having a tantrum. At least this enables our exit.
They say things come in threes. So for the next two weeks (not three), it’s gonna be “3 Cheeses Go Rolling”.
Of course that phrase is often used to bring an end to a string of bad occurrences. With yesterday’s fun at the barrier system, plus Laura’s missing suitcase, it stands to reason a third is in the offing. But when? We didn’t have long to find out.
Yesterday’s frustrating evening brings no joy. No system in place by Stansted Airport or AirFrance which allows person to person contact. FAQs and circular phone messages drive us crazy. Like our imaginations. Thoughts of Laura’s suitcase flying solo to far flung places keep us on edge.
Today, we decide to head back to Bastia airport. Laura wants to speak with someone, person to person. Her fluency in French helps. Plus, we (wrongly) assume they’ll have access to an online luggage tracking system. They’ll be able to tell us exactly where her case is – surely? It’s got a bar code attached to it after all.
After yesterday’s barrier fiasco I decide not to re-enter the the war-zone. Save three euros. Instead think it’s a good idea to wait on the entrance road while Laura and Mary-Ann go kick some back sides. Big mistake. Pull Beastie in as close to the kerb as possible without damaging the alloys. Don’t want to cause aggro to passing traffic. Didn’t pay enough attention. Beastie is slightly fatter below his belt. Not by much. But in this case just enough. Certain parts of his body trim, not so trim. Stick out a little. Like a slipped mid-riff bulge. Unbeknown to me I tightly wedge his sticky out bits against a long wooden kerbside barrier. This only comes to light on moving off. Beastie yelps. Can’t say I blame him . . .
Whose been a bad boy then . . .Now I know why, as a very last minute buy, the Homebase bought Ultra sticky black gaffa tape would be worth its weight in gold.
A non fruitful meeting with the AirFrance help-desk dampens our spirits further. Plunge our entwined pointy bits lower. We head over to Calvi and Les Castors campsite in sobre and sombre frames of mind. Silent prayers go up.
Calvi pool looks ‘cool’
On arrival our pointy bits get joyously and simultaneously inverted. Laura receives a phone call. Suitcase found. Bastia bound. Thursday guaranteed.
MOHO roaming is like life. Not always easy to stay on the straight and narrow. We do our best. Sometimes fall short. Sometimes get our just desserts. Today serves up a portion of each.
We could have stayed one more day at Porto. But don’t. We have a Friday ferry booked. Sardinia in waiting. Lots of miles to be eaten up – today’s meal. Calanques de Piana a supposedly must see. Bastia Airport a definite must do. (Laura’s suitcase expected at 16.10). Followed by an almost top to bottom have to leg, as we leg it to Bonafaccio. The last thing we need is not to keep on our straight and narrow meal plan. But that’s just what we do.
An unusual one way system on the camp site coughs us out further up the side of the mountain it’s perched on. No bad thing. It’s right on the route we need. But as it happens not the route we’re allowed to take – this comes to light a little later. We turn left. Yellow roads are OK for Beastie. Yellow with green dashes. i.e. scenic, usually OK too. This D124 is white with green dashes. Beastie’s alergeic to white and green. Nestled underneath Mont Capu d’Ota it’s in prime position and meanders through its namesake Ota village. Very soon it’s clear this road is not built for vehicles of Beastie proportions. He imitates an ocean liner dwarfing Venice as we enter the village. We draw breath. He draws in his waist. A random pedestrian blocks our way. A deliberate drunk? He’s not a happy chappy. Lets us know in no uncertain French that we are not welcome and not allowed. A wound down window ‘vraiment désolé’ insufficient to cool his rage. We have an option of one. Onwards. Or so it seems. But isn’t. We exit the village and this scenic section at a T-Junction. Over our shoulder his rage is justified . . .
Oops – the clue is in the centreThe tiny village of Ota
Fifty minutes later we find ourselves passing the entrance to our camp site. Wasted time? Yes and no. Not on the menu, but a welcome starter despite le bonhomme. At least we’re back on the D81 and heading through fantastic scenery . . .
They’re just good friends . . . The mountain road barely clings on in places . . .
The road up and into the Calanques de Piana is totally unsuitable for Beasties. Yet, coaches come this way. Driven by profit. They form a convoy in the same direction. Turn around at Piana. There is absolutely no way on this earth one could pass the other. Beastie experiences first hand le probleme – as do we. The videos say it all . . .
A boring blast sees us meet Laura’s suitcase. Big smiles and big relief all round. A three and a half hour jaunt southwards finds us checking in seven minutes before Camping des Iles closes its doors for the night at 8pm. All courses completed. Leaves us just enough time for coffees before bed.
A bitter taste left in the mouth can quickly sour the past, the present and the future. Best to spit it out as soon as possible. Spit it far. That’s what we do.
The country lane from Camping des Iles has Corsica written all over it. We leave as planned and on time. Need to get quay side. Check in for our noon Moby Lines crossing to Santa Teresa Gallura closes ninety minutes beforehand. An easy 4K. Typically, at the only section where two cars can’t pass Beastie’s confronted by a lorry. We both stop. He can’t reverse. Too many cars behind. Laura hops down. Explains to the three drivers behind Beastie. They need to reverse if they don’t want to feel the brunt of a Beastie backside. Beastie politely reverses just enough. Snucks in close to the rock face. The grateful lorry smiles through. As do all but one of the following cars. A frog-face individual pulls alongside. Winds his window down. From his contorted humanless features he vehemently utters “Restez en Angleterre!!!” Moves on. Stops. Replicates the same twisted mouthful to Laura.
We have an hour to kill in Bonifaccio and earmark it for a longer stay. The old town is precariously perched on the cliff tops. Hovers over the waves below. Like a suicidal no-hoper wondering if they’d be missed. To jump or not to jump?
Don’t do it! . . .
We land up at our first Sardinia site with a few hours of afternoon heat left to rise. Camping La Foce’s ferry, ferries us to the beach. A novelty.
The massive & mostly deserted sandy beach is over that dune . . .
We neatly arrange ourselves like an oiled trilogy of John West lookalikes. Always a good way to end the day . . .
We share many seemingly common traits with others of the animal kingdom. We go about daily chores like buzzy bees. Slouch on sofas like so slow sloths. Snore in bed like hibernating bears. Flit about randomly like butterflies. Swarm to the skies in summer like flying ants.
Early impressions of the Sardinian landscape is that it’s a little less mountainous than its northerly neighbour. Less rocky too. Though interiors of both sprawl with difficult terrain for Beastie and his ilk. Road networks, for want of a better name, more suitable for bikers of all sorts. Hence Beastie becomes our warren on wheels. We its fluffle of bunnies. The road-less dizzy heights squeeze us down. Push us south and out along its perimeter. Our first hop-off – Castelsardo.
We hop over to the highest point.
Not quite up top, the bill for Mary-Ann & Laura’s lunchtime nibble presents a surprise. Seven euros seems reasonable. That is until the bill arrives. Locally caught ‘fish of the day’ priced by weight. Something to remember. Mary-Ann fishes out thirty-five unhappy euros.
The lengths a man will go to prove his love – eh? Still, looks like it could be worth it . . .
Blue Lagoon Camping our end of day and two night stop over. Buzzy bee chores piling up. Cleanliness is next to MOHO-liness. Following morning they get sorted. No room for three on Scoot, so Beastie becomes our larger Scoot for an afternoon treat into Alghero.
It’s hot. 28C in the shade. Where we end up. Treats all round. Mine comes first. Sardinian born and bread Stephano overloads my cone. Returned to Sardinia three years ago. He and his wife worked in Selfridges food hall for three years. Still owns and rents out a house in London.
Three massive Scoops Wesley.
Stephano is a massive Harry Potter fan. “I don’ta believe-a you” his quick response when we reply “No?” to his “You know-a hairy porta?” Luckily Laura is a hairy porta fan. Quicker off the mark than us. Gets to wave a bit of magic over the ice-creams her reward.
If you’re a Hairy Porta fan you’ll know how this sentence ends . . .Cheers Stephano!
Alghero’s small quaint centre is another that pretties up the overhead view . . .
Perhaps the open bird cages signify that birds should be left to do what they do best . . .No escape from Papa-razzi for Momma-bunny with not so Baby-bunnyToday’s final port of call . . .
Ongoing dry and sunny weather dominates. We follow a pattern. Repeat it. Become sweaters.
Seeing how the other half lives, or has lived, always interests. Our town and turret a.m. (ish) routine continues. Closely followed by p.m.s sand and sun. Fine sandy Sardinian beaches splatter every nook and cranny around the edges of this beautiful island. Like a painter’s finishing touches. Embossing in white gold.
Bosa provides a healthy stop on our way to IS Arenas Camping. A vertical thirty minute workout later and we’re sitting not quite on top of the world. It’s tiny roof tops far below, repeat the pattern we’re so familiar with. Hundreds of narrow streets huddle together. Create summer shade. Winter warmth.
When Mrs S dons her hat, it’s not just a fashion statement – it’s hot!A lower local church entrance offers an alternative cooling method. Tongues put away. It’s an ancient townThe huge hike up to Serravalle’s Castle rewards us. A fabulous view – town & Temo riverBosa looks good from below too . . .
We leave just enough time and sun for Laura to work on her tan.
But where is she? . . .As always, Beastie prefers a bit of shade . . .
It’s not always easy to compromise. Human nature prefers its own way. Yet, compromise is something we learn along the way. Often, less is more – more or less.
With fewer days left of Laura’s time with us we make a decision. A complete lap of Sardinia now out of the question. We do a left turn. Head east. Aim to hit the far coastline. Do more of the same.
We didn’t plan on doing more of this though . . . taking Beastie into villages where he’s outlawed.
Again we see the sign too late. Fortunately no-one bats an eye. We sneak through.
Cigno Bianco Camping – Tortoli, just south of Arbatax houses us for a sunny stay. This huge site bounded on three sides by three completely different sections of coastline. A seaweed collecting bay. Here a JCB harvests the natural inflow into a ten metre tall pyramid. It wakes us from our slumbers at 7am sharp with its throaty roar. A silky sandy beach for sun worshipers and water lovers AKA ‘us’. These split by a ragged rocky peninsula resembling a gnarled arthritic thumbless hand. It stretches out towards the deep, looking for its missing member.
The rocky section a mass of cairns – this our favouriteSome like a bit of peace and quietOur peace and quiet’s over there on the sunning beach.
The down side to some of the large sites is their weird sense of security. Insist all happy campers turn into grumpy clampees. (Well, we three do) Insist on wrist bands. We’ve had enough. Turn renegade. Don them for this photo several days later.
King Solomon once wisely said “There is nothing new under the sun”. As he preempted the arrival of MOHO-Sapiens by a few millennia we can forgive him for getting this one completely wrong.
An earlier tan-topping stop off sees us pushed for time. We aim to pitch up close to Santa Teresa Gallura. Just as dusk arrives, so do we. Outside the closed gates of La Liccia Camping. Shut up for the season. Miss Whizz – AKA Laura, has us pointing to nearby AgriCamping within seconds. It’s five minutes away. She has misgivings about the road running into it. It’s a farm site. I phone to double check. Wolfgang gives us a thumbs up.
Our final approach is a new one. Never done this before. Definitely new under the sun for us. Becomes a frontier too far for Laura. She hops out. Can’t say I blame her. Misses recording Beastie’s first failed attempt. My fault. I steer a wrong line. He does well. Gets so far. Then his wheels lose all grip as they furiously spin us nowhere fast. Kick up as much dust as a KamAZ-53501 as it ploughs its way to Dakar. A slow reverse back down before engaging traction control (why didn’t I do that first time?) brings a result.
This Africa Sky – a false impression – doesn’t last long
We’re crossing back over to Corsica tomorrow. Ferry booked requires an early start. Early bedtime called for. We make it just before midnight – early for us. We prefer to squeeze every last drop out of each day. The weather caves in. Decides to squeeze its every last drop on us. Assisted by gale force gusts. Beastie is not happy. He’s facing the prevailing wind side on. Rocks and rolls like a drunken sailor searching for his land legs. A noisy night of torment follows with very little sleep.
We all undergo some sort of physical or mental change caused by fear. Whether it’s rational or not. We shiver. Shake. Come out in a cold sweat. Go a little gaga. Beastie’s not immune. Even he can suffer from the heebie-jeebies on occasion.
Early morning. Laura’s love of all living creatures finds her outside, snapping away at the cows. They’ve come to give Beastie the once over. Check him out. What’s he doing here on their patch? One horned specimen – perhaps a bull – puts himself between Laura and the safety of Beastie’s belly. She holds her arm out in front. Indicates she means no harm. Like you do with a dog. Inviting a sniff. Unaware that he’d have been aware of her scent from six miles away. Never mind six feet. His panoramic vision can’t really make out what she’s doing. Turns his head slowly sideways. Takes a better look. Then with one surprisingly swift neck jerk – designed to flash his horns – makes it clear that she’d better not tangle with him. She backs off out of harms way. Comes to quiz me – “Why didn’t you come and save me Dad?”
Dad was too busy snapping . . .
Beastie’s not sure about the attention he’s receiving in this farm setting. (Even though there’s not a cow to be seen in the 360 above) Wants to move on. But after the overnight lashing he’s feeling more than a little apprehensive about the downhill out. Fearful even. Wonders if all the rain has created a muddy slide. Waiting for him to slip up – and down . . .
It’s those we love and those who love us, that make us whole. Even though we’re back down to just two Cheeses Rolling, we’re still three.
The crossing via the Strait of Bonifaccio back over to Corsica is short. 11 kilometres. A fifty minute dash. Not today. The Moby Lines RO-RO is built like a brick. Unfortunately, it also has the water dynamic properties of a brick. Coupled with the aerodynamics of a brick wall. As we leave the calm harbour we see the white tops skitting. Rubbing their hands gleefully. Wave making. Big ones. Unpredictable ones. Dare Moby forward. Totally unsuitable for his likes. He’s obviously a Moby Dick-head. Doesn’t think twice. A few minutes in and the Tannoy suggests all passengers move below decks. We’re already there. Some don’t. End up getting drenched. I’ve never been good on water. It has the effect of turning my insides inside out. Moby crashes forward like a hash-high head banger at a rock concert. Each impact sends mighty shudders down the vessel. Sends shudders through Laura. Rocks from side to side. Not quite to the point of tipping over. How could it? Tries its best nevertheless. Through the port holes on either side there is either a view of total sky or total sea. Even a dog near to us looks queesy. At any minute he might provide his own version of a take-away. Wonders if his master has remembered his doggy bag. It’s a very long fifty minutes. We survive. We are surprised to find all vehicles exactly as left. And not splattered around the car deck in mangled heaps.
Our poolside end to the day at Camping U Prunelli brings balm.
Today is Sunday. Time for Laura to leave us . . . she’s added a certain je ne sais quoi to our journey.
We check out satellite images of Ajaccio’s airport car parks. Zoom in. All looks good. Beastie enters via the one barrier system. Sadly and fondly we take our leave of Laura.
It’s not goodbye – just Au Revoir . . .
Our exit holds a surprise. Two barriers. Beastie stands well clear. Limbo dancing not his forte. A short and to the point conversation with the lady on the other end of the ‘info/help’ button includes a repeated over abundance of “Camping Cars sont interdits”. Despite the fact that not a single sign indicates such. I decide not to point this out. No amount of “très désolé-s” appeases. She reluctantly obliges. Raises the rear barrier. Beastie ducks through.
We intend to check out Bonaparte’s birthplace. He’d get a shock now. From above it looks like a typical 20th/21st century metropolis. Down at street level it’s a mass of car infested streets. Barely enough room for Beastie to squeeze past. No room to park. Another typical Corsican town that despises Camping Cars.
Looks pretty dynamic from up here . . .
We move cross country to our one nighter – Camping U Sognu. Corte and its citadel. Napoleon’s elder brother Joseph born here. Its main square buildings in need of TLC.
The view from up top not too bad though . . .
Those clouds keep on rolling down. By daybreak they’re past saturation point. Pass on their contents. Saturate us for four hours.
We bite the bullet. We knew it was inevitable. Six weeks was never going to be long enough. Sicily gets amputated. Removed from this trip’s plans.
We end our time in Corsica with a two-nighter at A Steller Camping. Just around the corner from Marine de Farinole and its fabulous beach. First task – check the lie of the land. Take the rocky short cut. Check out where we’ll be lying tomorrow . . .
Mr S works on some choreographyObviously someone’s not done enough tan-topping . . .Come close of play and even Beastie gets to enjoy his waterside pitch
A whopping great mouth swallows car after car, coach after coach, MOHO after MOHO, camper after camper, caravan after caravan; plus bikes, scooters, motor bikes and a multitude of foot passengers; not to mention a two tier car transporter.
Any Bowhead Whales out there? Then eat your heart out! With its nine decks now filled to capacity, the Corsica-Sardinia Mega Express (should be renamed Mega-Mouth Express), swallows, then wallows across to Livorno at a surprising rate. Clear blue sky above. Calm blue sea below. No wind. No waves. No puking! Regurgitates all and sundry at Livorno. Just south of Pisa. Leaves us just enough time to navigate and pitch up at Agriturismo Lago Le Tamerici before nightfall.
Today sees Scoot get his second run out. Scoots us 17K into the centre of Livorno. We leave him closely corralled on one corner of Piazza della Repubblica. We go walk about.
Livorno’s historical buidings ‘took a beating’ during WW2. As a result it’s not a particularly ‘pretty’ city. Disjointed old and nearly new, don’t quite fit. Like muddled pieces from several mixed up jig-saw puzzles. One squeezed into the other. Creates an unrecognisable picture of its former glory.
Mrs S gets ready to blow me to smitherines
My lunch time ham and cheese toasty does its best to embarrass. Typical Italian cheese should never really come into contact with heat. It transforms. Morphs into a sticky piece of flubber. Takes on scientifically unfathomable properties. One small piece now capable of stretching to the moon and back. My arm not quite long enough. There’s a knack however – which is to ensure you fully bite through before that arm extention. Otherwise: 1. You sit there looking like a tuneless miming violinist, practising one handed pizzicatos, or 2. (much worse – and at first, my preferred method) you stretch your arm further than it has ever been before. This in itself results in two outcomes. 1. You dislocate your shoulder and 2. The cheese string has now received so much potential energy, that when it does eventually break, it snaps back with the speed of an elastic band. Smacks you on the nose. And, to add insult to injury it sticks there. Hangs and dangles. Does what it’s designed to do. Makes you look like some weird spaghetti snorting sociopath . . .
On foot there is no tourist route of note. We decide to indulge ourselves. Take to the small canal system. A rip-off ride of twelve euros each for a forty minute loop. Paulo, the on-board guide, provides little information of real interest. Far less than we glean from a quick glance at Livorno’s Wiki biop.
The reflections not a true reflection of what lies the other side . . .
Back at camp, we end the day lakeside, with a ninety minute read and snoozzzze . . .
With afternoon temperatures holding up in the mid-twenties, Lucca warms us up in other ways too.
It starts from the moment we halt at the information board in front of the old town portcullis entrance. A friendly middle aged man approaches on bike. Pulls up. “Where you from? – Ah, English. You are welcome in Lucca”. Lets us know where the tourist information is situated. Bikes off.
By any stretch of the imagination we don’t consider ourselves lovers of opera. A couple of his operas, via live broadcast at The Regent Centre, enough to pique our interest. So our first afternoon in Lucca finds us searching out the Puccini Museum. His former birthplace and home. Positioned on one corner of a typical piazza – San Lorenzo Piazza.
We wonder if this genius of a man ever afforded himself the time to do just this – between composing and philandering . . .Puccini – looking more like a crime-buster – at least we now know what he looked like!
A couple of caffe freddos and cream horns round our first afternoon off nicely. A young mum and toddler show up in front. They’ve come prepared. Well, mum has. Pockets laden with breadcrumbs. Her first scattering entices a half dozen pigeons. Mum’s forgotten to explain fully what’s going down. Before one beak gets to open, the two year old flies into action. Scatters the pigeons like a whirling dervish. Mum lets him have his fun. Doesn’t realise he’s hungry too. Too late. She blinks. Tiny hands cram tiny crumbs into a tiny mouth faster than she can say Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep.
“Cosa c’è per pranzo mamma?”
Saturday 12th. A fifteen minute stroll. We’re back in Lucca. Still fully in tact, its 17th century ramparts provide our starter for ten. All four kilometers of them. We’re not alone. The locals use it extensively too. A safe and easy way to quickly navigate around to different parts of town. We do the same. Hop down. Hop up.
First hop down – Cattedrale di San Martino . . . We cop sight of Torre Guinigi and its unusual topping. A mini copse of Holm Oak.
Hop two. We leg it to The Basilica of St Frediano. Dedicated to Fred a 6th century Irish Bishop, who instigated its first build. Improved and enlarged over the centuries it’s mighty impressive.
It houses another UK connection – the 8thC tomb of Wessex man ‘Richard the Pilgrim’
Hop three. Museo Nazionale di Palazzo Mansi. A sort of National Trust visit. Grand rooms and furniture with a bit of local art thrown in for good measure. All eyes on us. Follow our every move. All but one that is. Whose?
Hop four. Almost time to skip back to camp. But first. A twirl in the centre of what was once a huge Roman Amphitheatre – Piazza dell’Anfiteatro .
On leaving we spot two cars that epitomise Italian style . . .
Alfa Romeo Spider – world wide fame – courtesy of Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Fiat 850 Sport Coupé of lesser known fame. Courtesy of Mr S. My ‘H’ reg Series 2 version obtained on H.P. in 1973. Albeit in a striking Mediterranean Blue. Replaced my rusting C reg 850 mini.
Self inflicted frustrations are just about bearable. Those outside one’s control, often intolerable at the time. Best to look back, laugh. Remain content to be in the present.
Two days of traveling. A visit to La Spezia earmarked for day one. Mrs S’s ‘Googling’ has us eager. Looks a ‘must not miss’. Like a late arrival to one of the Cinque Terre quins. The nearest Beastie size parking space to be found is a 2.7K walk in. We thought La Spezia was small – judging from the on-line pic. One hundred thousand not small – at all. A lengthy sprawl of a container port leads us to the marina masses. Itself not small. A floating bobbing boat-park. Nothing remotely like the promise from Mr Google. We don’t get it . . .
Nothing Spezia-l here. We don’t want new. We want old, crumbly, colourful and pretty.
If it’s one thing that Mrs S hates, it’s walking ‘anywhere’. Much prefers to walk ‘somewhere’. We just can’t find that somewhere. It’s nowhere.
At the far end of the marina, and with only the military zone left to search, we turn around. Surprisingly, Mrs S is in remarkably good humour . . . [further research while writing up today’s blog reveals that Mr Google used an iStock image of Porto Venere as its main La Spezia photo – naughty]
We head out from La Spezia. Dust off its dust from our shoes. Turn our backs on it. Not quite in disgust. Just total frustration. With all sites’ GPS co-ordinates to hand, navigation rarely presents problems. We diligently follow to Garden Ameglia Camping. Missy’s instructions light our way. We’re drawn forward and towards. Can’t help ourselves. Like two blind moths following the light. Only today it’s dim. A bit like us. We arrive. But we don’t. Camp’s nowhere to be found. A walkabout boomerangs me back inside Beastie none the wiser. No surprise there. Another mystery. [this one doesn’t get solved]
Quickly search for another nearby site. It’ll be dark in less than an hour. Beastie hates the dark. Especially when it’s a full moon. I mistakenly think the word Agritourismo means it’s camping. It doesn’t. The extremely narrow and 25% incline, a further five kilometres inland, sees me jump down again. This time for a runabout. [but not the first 250 metres 🙂 ]. Twenty minutes later and just before Mrs S puts in a call to DCI Ryan, we’re back-tracking. Only one option now left. Find a safe haven. Somewhere to ‘wild park’.
We chance on Luni. Perfect spot. Quiet car park. Quite road. Fairly secluded. Flat. 100 metres from its Roman archaeological site. Great. We’ll visit tomorrow morning.
At 2am we’re both sound asleep. But not quite oblivious to sound. Especially when it emanates from twenty metres away. My sleeping brain becomes aware. Hears. Then listens. I’m in dreamland. My subconscious mind finds it impossible to ignore. Does what it’s good at. Attempts to weave the sound into its creation. Problem is it has no idea what the sound is. Becomes agitated. Discombobulated. Mentally tosses and turns. I follow suit. Wake. Synchronise with Mrs S. We harmonise groans. Break into a duet – “What the bloody hell’s going on!” I peer out of the small central window. Naked and groggy. Try to make sense – can you? . . .
A too large for the local town street refuse collector has parked up. His mate is driving the mini version. The mini zooms off somewhere. Picks up a bin. Brings it back. Reverses to the back. Offers the bin. It’s taken. Shaken. Returned. The mini zooms off again. Meantime the mean machine masticates the delivery. Swallows, then stands there expectantly. Engine running. Mouth open. Cuckoo like. Driving us cuckoo. Mini returns. Like a mithered mother. The whole process repeats and repeats until 3.45am.
This 360 image below taken from the lorry’s position.
It’s Monday morning – all too soon. It’s Monday. Museum’s in Italy don’t open on Monday! We don’t like Monday’s !!! But. At least we know why this place is called Luni . . .
The morning’s beautiful drive takes us up and over the Appenines. Our short stretch and stroll stop causes some local consternation. We park up opposite Castello Verrucola. It seems Beastie is contaminating the view. A couple of Brits are on a painting holiday. Their tranquil peace abruptly ends. Easels, paper and pencils downed. I considerately move Beastie over a tad. The tension and frustration linger. He’s obviously still disturbing their sight line. My suggestion that the addition of a MOHO into their masterpieces would add a modern touch of realism to the scene gets ignored. Plebs! They move shop. Aspect probably shot to pieces . . .
Much simpler just to click . . .
A height and width restriction – the first worrying signs that we’ve been led up the garden path yet again. To the wrong end of Camping International Modena. Our proposed end to the day. Mr S investigates on foot (both of them) [it’s becoming a habit] – before we pass the point of no return. Just as well. Around a blind bend, and, less then three hundred metres from the site, they hang. Black and white hassles – better not go there then.
Like a Juve defensive line up – some cut-up old shirts do the job . . .
Just to be sure I double check. It seems between us and the campsite entrance are two low hung elevated section of the A1 Autostrada. Even if Beasite crawled along on his side he couldn’t make it through.
We turn around. Between them, Missy and Pat Nav unable to figure out a way in. Just like us. Pat Nav does her best. Not good enough. Sends us skuttling in the wrong direction. Presumes we’ve got all day. Courses a re-route fifteen miles long. Onboard banter becomes less than platonic. The divide briefly widens. Gets chilly. A mini glacier about to materialise. Suddenly, the sun pops out. AKA Google Maps. We get rescued. Hooray! But only after we’d extended our travel day by sixty minutes.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty, in itself, exists regardless. It doesn’t need to be viewed. Unlike Enzo’s creations. They most definitely do. Rare beauties to behold.
The number nine brakes. Stops within revving distance of the Ferrari Museum. The busy thoroughfare we step out onto is dominated by modern high rise buildings. They scream Maserati from their high walls. Takes us by surprise. Shouldn’t have. We’re in Modena. Home of the two super-car giants.
Looking as autodynamic as those on display . . .
We step into drooldreamland. A fascinating history of the making of the man, his desires, his designs. Presented and displayed, so that three hours whizz by faster than a Portofino.
The interior as stylish as the exhibits.
Mrs S quite likes this 488 Pista. Mr S is thinking ‘House/car? ‘House/car? ‘House/car? . . .Irresistible. A pair of twin exhausts.
The separate engine display houses a phenomenal array. Complemented with a series of videos that clearly demonstrate the workings and innovations that beat under every bonnet.
Clearly their beauty is not just skin deep . . .
Sadly we leave – shirt, purse, wallet, credit cards, Beastie and home still in our possession. Go check out Modena. It’s a beautifully built and maintained city. Architectural delights hide around almost every corner.
This is probably more up Mrs S’s street . . .
Modena is famous for more than just cars. Home grown Balsamic Vinegar widely sold at prices usually associated with fine wines. Luciano born and died here too.
He’s obviously just taken delivery of his first Ferrari . . .
Been there, done that. A more than common phrase. Ironically, often repeated. Something we try not to do. Prefer the new. Even if it is old.
With around eight thousand cities, towns and villages to choose from, Italy leaves us plenty of scope. No excuse then – none offered.
With scopes set on Piacenza and Cremona we set ourselves up. Align our sights. Make sure we aim in the right direction. Don’t want to miss the target. Home. 28th October. [Read that before?]
We target a coffee and cake. An excuse for a walk and talk. Into and out of Piacenza. Hits the spot. Does just that. Then it’s onwards and upwards for a two-nighter.
Perfect place – just needs a bit of sun . . . ‘après’ – Mrs S already feels sunnier . . .
Parco al Po, on the outskirts of Cremona, is our first venture onto a supposedly fully automated camp site. Fenced and gated. Entrance only by use of a contact-less card. Machine issued at a push of a button in front of the gate. At one Euro per hour stay, it’s reasonable. It’s welcome too. All other local sites now closed for the season.
An elevated cycle route skirts camp. As does the River Po. Leaves us no option. A fine morning forecast. A good excuse to go pedal. We head east for forty five. Then return west. Go nowhere in particular. An opportunity to try something new. My 360’s video feature. It’s a bit weird. Like me. A weird old whacko riding one handed with his other arm aloft. Scary for onlookers. But quite cool – IMHO. Like a normal 360 you can drag the image anywhere while it plays – but best on a PC using a mouse.
If the heart of the super-car lies in Modena, then the heart of any orchestra can be found in its string section. More specifically in Cremona. Lombardia region. That started beating in 1644. As did Antonio Stradivari’s for 73 years.
Jaume Plensa’s fabulous The Soul of Music adorns the entrance courtyard
Our love and knowledge of string pieces starts and ends with The Lark Ascending and Adagio for Strings. Occasionally gets topped up by a score from an enigmatic or romantic film. Another Italian – Ennio Morricone’s composed some of our favourites. We decide to change all that. Go spend the afternoon in the Museo del Violino. Go learn a thing or two. See how they’re crafted. Hear how they’re played. It’s mind blowingly fascinating. Heart warming. Being made aware of another’s dedication and skill does that.
All four seasons in one. A day or two out on the road can be just like that. Changeable from one minute to the next. It’s what makes MOHOing so interesting. So much fun.
Our one nighter, Camping Valmilana – Valmadonna, just north of Allesandria, sits south west of Milan and south east of Turin. We’re greeted by a very cheerful ‘fellow’. A Sri Lanken. With an Italian mother. A Sri Lanken Wildlife expert for ten years to boot. On leaving, he suggests it’s a good place for a holiday. Hands over an info leaflet and his card. Seems he might have tourism connections. “What about the Tamil Tigers?” I ask. “Oh, they’re long gone and defeated.” “In fact they’ve just opened up Jaffna International Airport only yesterday. It’s in the Tamil region.” “Does that mean they’ll now be able to export their terrorism worldwide then?” He falls about laughing as my tongue in cheek obviously hits his tickle spot.
When away, Mary-Ann has a soft spot. Cats and dogs. Especially cats. So much so that she always packs a packet of cat biscuits! We’ve not long pitched up before we have company. A handful of biscuits, half a tin of tuna and a saucer of milk later and her new friend soon discovers Beastie’s cat flap . . .
Today we head towards Monte Bianco. A weather window of opportunity forecast for tomorrow. We don’t want to miss it. Hoping it’s third time lucky. Courmayeur’s Skyway the plan. Missed it on two other trips. Our day’s travel lengthens. Discover our planned site is closed permanently. Soon, it gets lengthened a little more. Mrs S does a Tigger. Bounces down and outside. Probably the next time she’ll see this lot is in LIDL . . .
Aosta valley is stunning. Our afternoon run into camp. The SS26 straddled on all sides by fantastic scenery. Crazy concrete pillars span the mountain terraces. Support a myriad of vines. A planted roundabout shows how.
Suddenly, Missy instructs a right turn. It seems two sections ahead have a height restriction. Too low for Beastie’s 2.9m. Seems strange. We comply. Of course. Wouldn’t you? It’s a minor road. A very, very minor road. We go up. And up. And up. But not straight up. It gets tricky. Very tricky. It’s madness at its maddest. In an instant the weather has changed. A different season blows our way. If you get the drift. A tiny hillside village beckons. The house walls on either side of the road a milimetre wider than us. Need both hands to steer. I don’t have the courage to film. Nor to ask Mrs S to film. In any event she’s busy. Eye popping. Her repetitious rendition of the chorus from the 50s Witch Doctor does nothing to boost my confidence . . . all I hear is “oo ee oo ah ah” as we [almost] scrape through. Joyfully without one walla walla bing bang. At our highest point Mrs S regains her composure and starts filming . . .
Relieved to be back down on the SS26 we approach the final turn. 700 metres more isn’t a lot to ask for. Is it? But the answer is no! We can’t go this way.
With two minutes of today’s trip left we get thwarted – again. Another venture into the hilly side required. In comparison it’s pipsqueek! Ten minutes later and we’re pitched up at La Salle Camping – International Mont Blanc.
A plan is just a plan. Nothing more. Like an idea that’s not developed. Not brought to fruition. It too amounts to nothing more. Without an outcome, neither serve a real purpose.
Science tells us that Monte Bianco has stood its ground for around fifteen million years. So there’s a more than good chance it’s going to remain stuck solid in situ a while longer. At least until we return.
We’re assured by the site staff that Monte Bianco is definitely there . . .
The weather turns. So do we. Halve our two nighter. Give Skyway a miss – again. We can see the cloud cover from down here just as well from up there. Decide to go under the mountain rather than over it. At 5.50€ per kilometre the T1’s 11.661K saves us time. Not money. Once inside it’s clear that’s not being spent on it’s potted road surface. It feels surprisingly dated too. Looking much as it did on opening day in 1965 we imagine.
Just before entering T1 MB teases
We exit into clearer French skies. Plus a 10C boost. Gives us a boost. Lifts our mood. It’d been feeling as low as the cloud cover.
A promising view . . .
Our camp site in Sallanches – a mouthful – Relais de la Vallee Blanche. A twenty minute walk from le centre-ville. We walk it. Enjoy some dry. A bit of sun.
No. I don’t remember 50. Sallanches centre sits pretty.Little Cheese stands pretty . . .
No smoke without fire. Can be a commonly voiced suspicion of another. Cynical thoughts without a covering hat. Sometimes justified. More often not.
Fortunately our northerly upwards route does not go much higher than the hills. They resemble a damp autumn bonfire. Gusting soggy look-alike smoke. Billows down in all directions. We hold our breath.
Flamin weather . . . It doesn’t get much smokier that this . . .
Or wetter than this. Our intended stop at Camping Le Lac – Port given a miss. All pitches under several inches from the lake overflow. We could stay. Simply pitch up on the car-park. We inspect the toilet block. It’s dismal. Open at both ends. Top and bottom. One up from a latrine. Showers with pull chains. Grotty and dirty. No one on duty for breaking regs. Looks like no one’s been on duty since WW2. Probably when they were first constructed. Need bombing. Raising to the ground.
A shame. The site sits in a glorious location.
However, our day’s entertainment isn’t over. It jump starts. We get held up entering Camping du Sevron at St Etienne du Bois. Les pompiers are in action. Dousing down a Renault hatchback. It’s been up in the hills.
This small campsite is surrounded on three sides by a loop. A river loop. All pitches edge the river bank. The river runs high. It’s still raining. All but a couple of the soggy, muddy pitches are vacant. Nobody wants to get stuck. Like us, everyone parks up on the hardcore ways. A late arrival, arrives. A Belgian towing a large caravan. He has no option. No way-space left. He backs on. Backs on too far. By then it’s too late. He should have kept his car’s wheels off the pitch. He didn’t. His caravan’s back-end is perched over the river bank. Luckily for him there’s no gold bullion to slide about inside. But, unlike Michael Caine at the end of the Italian Job, he doesn’t seem to have ” . . . a great idea”. His car can’t budge his caravan forwards to safety. He unhooks. Goes in search of the site manager. He returns with a winch. Attached to a quad bike. It struggles. It now becomes a game of tug o’ war. The caravan is winning. It’s played this game before. It’s a one man team. It digs its heels in. The winch has the opposite desired effect. The quad is inched in towards the waiting disaster area. But the site manager has played this game before too. He changes tack. Stops. Locks. Pulls. Stops. Locks. Pulls. Starts a rocking motion. The caravan rocks. Doesn’t get rocked back on its heels. Rocks forwards and out of its deep ruts. Relief, smiles and mud all around.
Later, a wartime sounding siren blasts the evening back into life. Disturbs dinner. Site manager and torch scan the river edge. We fear it’s burst its banks and an evacuation is called for. Mr S and torch hop outside. Double checks. A false alarm for us. We’re safe. But the massive warehouse, on fire the other side of town, isn’t.
Whatever happened to the Beaujolais run? A hyped up car chase? Dreamed up by the French? To create an awareness of French wine in England? A sly attempt to undermine the great British Pint? With further plans to replace pork scratchings with crispy cuisses de grenouilles?
Like Clement Freud and Joseph Berkman did in 1970, we’re running for home. As fast as we can. But unlike them we have no Nouveau Beaujolias on board. It’s still October. So, that’s not quite drinkable. In any event, we can’t stand the stuff.
On-route to Camping Ferme de la Croisee at Flagey, we make an important stop. Need a top up.
Beastie’s belly’s now bursting. Laden with over forty bottles of tried and tested plonk. [We do more than our fair share of testing on each trip] Average price? Just under £2 per bottle. Courtesy of LIDL and Eurospin. The saving pays for our food purchases. 🙂 Better than paying our UK government the £3.06 they take from us on every £5 bottle. And, with that sort of a saving, becoming an alci makes perfect financial sense . . . hic!
However. We always drink responsibly. Always use a glass.
It’s all over bar the shouting. A few days left. Then it’s puff! All gone. Just a bunch of memories. Shared ones. And shareable. Something to look back on. Bring a smile to a glum face on a rainy day.
Today we’re in Châlons-en-Champagne. It’s not a rainy day. It’s warm. Probably our last one until 2020. It has one of the prettiest Hotel de Ville we’ve come across.
We likes its hat.
On closer inspection we find they’ve prettied it up some . . .
Pumpkins and the like are in abundance, and on show, throughout Europe at this time of year. More so than skeletons, cobwebs and red dripping canine teeth.A reminder. We go that-away . . .
With no sites as such, we walk the streets. See the sights.
Thanks to a certain Mr Astley. Philip not Rick, France has enjoyed over two hundred years of circus. Châlons-en-Champagne the nation’s circus home. Its training centre based here. Behind these doors. Honest.
Imagination. The mind’s transportation portal. Able to fly. Take you away from the here and now. To the there, or then. Closely linked to experience. Part of the mind’s knowledgebase. Capable of conjuring emotions based on other’s experiences.
Our penultimate day’s break at St Quentin a disappointment. Towards the end of a trip we need more than a large square and an ancient cathedral to pique our interest. Make the walk worthwhile. Especially once the weather has turned. We make for its art museum. Hopes of viewing a fine pastel collection. The only thing we get to view is the notice outside the entrance. Closed for three weeks. Due to necessary alterations.
We leave our final camp site. Camping La Paille Haute. Just outside Arras. Like many towns and villages in this neck of the woods it’s not what it used to be. Eighty per cent in need of a total rebuild after WW1. Pay a visit to the nearby cemetery. Just one of the 23,000 world wide burial sites looked after by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
As always, immaculate is the word that springs to mind. Three workers on site. Their efforts giving total respect to the 10,000 heroes who lie here.
The Carrière Wellington museum in Arras takes us on an underground experience below ground. 70 feet down. Into the chalk layers. Miriam our Ozzie guide leads us through a small section of the twenty four kilometres of tunnels contructed in six months, by 500 miners from the New Zealand Tunnelling Company. Their job to create an eight day hideaway for 24,000 soldiers. Primed and eager to strike a surprise attack on the Germans.
The story unfolds. We imagine. Walk in the others’ shoes. An impossible ask. Always is. Always will be. We can only walk in ours. We can sometimes walk the same path. Try to imagine what it must have been like. But, always fail miserably. At least our walk is one small way to honour them. Lest we forget.
360 video . . .
The chalk walls ‘grafitee-d’ with drawings, poems, sculptures as the soldiers waited. Killing time. Waiting to be killed. Silent messages for those they’ll leave behind.
A poignant line from Owen Wilson’s ‘Strange Meeting’. A reminder of our mutual humanity.
They say the best things come in small packages. (Like Mrs S) That doesn’t apply to MOHOing. Well, not from where we’re coming from. Or going to.
A six week jaunt. Seems a long enough time. With two weeks getting there and back not really. There’s so much out there. Just waiting. While away we’re like a couple of nomadic Dysons. Searching and sucking up everything on our path. Although at times it seemed Beastie wanted to simply apply his favoured steam roller technique.
So we can tick Corsica and Sardinia off. Kick them off our must return to, too. Two we can say “Been there, done that”. As usual Beastie has provided the backbone to our trip. Even if I did try to break it a couple of times. Some winter TLC repairs on the cards. Care of Comfort Insurance!
So that’s it. Thanks for reading. If you’ve read every post then I offer you my sincere condolences . If you’ve dipped in and out, then I can’t say I blame you.
Oh. This trip provided two firsts for us. Beastie got a speeding ticket in Corsica. 83 in a 70. And for a time we were Three Cheeses Go Rolling . . .
But what time is it exactly? For sure there’s not much of it left – on all levels! Fortunately, we are both experts at operating in “lastminute.com” mode. Keeping our good friend Justin Time forever proud. Current preparations no exception.
Two full days to go and we’re feeling the effects of that Silent Assasin – Mr Time. He gets us all in the end – in one way or another. Like a giant anaconda he slithers in unnoticed. Squeezes the living daylights out from between our ears. Leaves us in a mental state.
And our mental “to-do” list is as long as an elephant’s trunk. We need Nellie to lend a hand before we slip our chains and say goodbye. Join our own traveling circus. Try to remember everything we need to pack. And where everything’s perfect place is. It’s like re-doing a jig-saw. Almost. The overall dimensions unchanged, but some pieces are missing and others are new. Don’t quite fit the same way. Creating a different déjà vu.
Anyway time beckons. Tunnel crossing calls. 10.20am Monday morning. Time for Beastie to leave one jungle in search of another.
We surprise ourselves. Leave on time. Exactly when we said we would. No need to reconsider any more options. Do we want to remain? Or leave? It’s a no brainer.
Being the man about the house (and garden), has its pros and its cons. Everyday tasks and chores shared – not necessarily equally – and that doesn’t imply unfairly. Mrs S prefers to be in charge of all “homely” stuff and the rest becomes part of “My domain”. i.e. the loft and garage.
On the rare occasions Mrs S needs to go up into the loft, she frequently comes back down in a state of anxious giddiness. Her eyes rolling around her head. Resembling a cartoon character, whose just been thwacked on the head with a mallet. There’s just something about “what’s up there” and how it’s all stored, that freaks her out. I have difficulty imagining why that causes such a response. She lives in hope that one day I’ll get it sorted.
It’s the same with the garage. There’s no real order. Everything is in there. A rough idea where seems good enough. It might take me a little longer to find a certain item, but eventually I do – even if it is after I’ve bought a replacement from Homebase!
Of course, inside our home I do have a couple of other “sacred” storage spaces too. One being my own wardrobe. Beastie reflects this home set-up. I’m in charge of the garage, my small wardrobe and my sock/underpant store.
My task of loading up Beastie with those items that fall into my domain is relatively straight forward. Sixty minutes of cramming for the garage. A little under a couple to fill Beastie’s sock store and wardrobe. Easy peasy. No decision making required. No angst. No problem to solve. No long term weather googling to indulge in. Home wardrobe and sock draw virtually emptied of their contents and squashed into their new abode for the next twelve weeks.
All gone . . . virtually
Of course, for Mrs S, this same conundrum takes on a different set of logistical and hypothetical problems of almost enormous magnitude. If only that kind Mr Google’s weatherman could forecast 12 weeks in advance . . . But it’s not only down to the weather. It’s also down to choice. There’s so much to choose from. I do sympathise – with your very own M&S, White Stuff and Fat Face in-house store to choose from, well, I mean, life can be difficult . . .
Beastie’ all loaded up and not even a dent’s been made . . .
Or in our case gear change. Not that I do many. Beastie’s primarily an automatic, just needs the occasional reminder of who’s in charge.
I was never very good at revising for exams. Optimism always my best friend. Confident that I’d be certain to know some answers. That everything would turn out for the best. And now, and perhaps as a consequence, route planning is not my strong point. A sort of mental vagueness takes over – like a mist covered path, winding its way through a dense forest. A notion only of which foot to put forward and in which direction. I know where the start and end points are, but not necessarily that elusive bit in between. So, it’s one step at a time for us. Commonly referred to as winging it.
The sum total of our control room on our day of Br-exit . . .
. . . on closer inspection you can clearly see how far advanced our planning had got in the five months we’d been at home . . .
Sometimes a good turn just isn’t appreciated in the way you want or expect. Sometimes it doesn’t even turn out the way you imagined it would. But that shouldn’t stop you from doing it anyway, or reduce your willingness to do another in the future.
Our first day back on the road again is always a long one. We fool ourselves into thinking many miles makes for happy miles. We’ve a long way to go. Better get on with it. Six o’clock sees us pitch up at Parc La Closure – in the heart of the Ardennes. We’re surprised. This part of Belgium is French speaking! Walloon country to you and me. At reception we’re handed a cleverly constructed guide of Grupont. It becomes our means to walk off the day’s frustrations. Allows us a better feel of the village in a more intimate way than usual.
We take a narrow track alongside a cottage. Brings us to a
fenced-in bit of scrub. We’re greeted by this friendly face. He’s eyeing up the
long luscious grass our side. All out of reach.
Mouth not quite drooling. Mrs S takes the hint. He’s ravenous. Can’t get
enough of it.
We haven’t had dinner yet. My stomach’s rumbling – it does look quite tasty . . .
Our greeter has a dishevelled friend that looks in some distress. Caught up and tangled in a huge bramble and thorn bush. Twists and turns one way, then the other. Seems there’s no way out. Only further in. He does just that. Gets more tangled. He seems trapped. Not quite a lost sheep. I decide to help him out. My good turn for the day. Find a suitable place to climb over. Ready my-self. My hands are going to get ripped and bloody. Still, it will be worth it. As I get closer, he mistakes me for a Welshman. Nostrils flare. Panics. Within half a nano-second and with terrifying brute force he pulls free. Leaves just one straggly piece of bramble hanging limply down from under his chin.
He turns and looks at me sheepishly – “You’re not my type boy-o”
We head diagonally down. Autobahning along the hypotenuse. Presents us with a new angle on our previously held beliefs. Cracks open a new vista. Eggspectations break.
Day 2 saw us in Otterberg at Camping Gänsedell. Day 3 at Camping Frankenhöhe, Schillingshurst and now we’re currently pitched up at Bavaria Camping Park – Eging am See. Evening four is bright, but cold. As per the previous evenings we’re in walking distance of the local town. We step out.
It’s plain to see Easter is fast approaching. A Bavarian Bunnyland in abundance.
A slice or two of Bunny . . . A row of Bunny peepers . . . It’s like Christmas, but isn’t . . .
We’re making good time. By Good Friday we should be exiting Bulgaria and entering Greece. Not that the German Autobahns have helped much. We choose speed over scenic. Not convinced it’s the better choice. But now it’s too late. We did it and now we’re here. All gone Autobahns. Contrary to our expectations they are not as smooth as silk. Certainly not free-flowing. And our chosen route mainly two lane, not three. Inside lane literally a huge convoy. Non stop nose to tail lorries – like a straightened daisy chain. Makes for slow progress. Interestingly, in four days we have not seen one GB number plate. Just where are we delivering all our GB goods to?
To a certain extent, Austria, like many ‘other’ world countries, remains a mystery for most of us. The opposite can be said for the UK and US. Their cultures and lifestyles advertised worldwide. Both views distorted of course. One, by too little knowledge – the other, by too much of the inaccurate kind.
We gather we must be passing through the flat industrial heartland of Austria. The city of Linz typical. Monstrous mountains of smoke spew skyward from ginormous factories below. Man-made cumulus clouds billow and blot out the blue. Out in the sticks we figure they must do the same. But on a smaller scale. Is the end result any different? Every house of every village we pass through surrounds itself with a barricade. Stored logs are not in short supply. All householders on standby. Ready to do battle against the winter elements. Many less wooded areas we pass give witness. Are these burners carbon neutral?
There’s only one business to be in over here . . .. . . and that’s wood!
Five hours out on the road finds us finally parked up at Camping Am Fluss, a thirty minute riverside hike away from the historic ‘zentrum’ of Steyr. The passing landscape to Steyr reveals no sign of lake, mountain or thigh-slapping lederhosen-clad yodeler. No sheep, no wonder. Just an enclosed pen of grass-eating baby bambis. Unknowingly fattening themselves up for local cuisine. A bit like veal. Cute, but tasty.
Pass the gravy . . . Not many about for an early Friday evening in the historic Steyr centre . . .Well, us and a few others . . . St. Michael’s 17thC Baroque Church
On our way into town we stop off at St Michael’s Church. A Mozart Requiem is going through its final rehearsal. A 7pm performance looms.
Nature has its own way today. A reminder that keeps us in our place. We ride parallel. Together yet apart. In opposite directions. We up. Our winding partner down. Our journey, with an end. Its, seemingly endless.
Steyr shares a similarity with our hometown of Christchurch. It’s the point where ‘2 Riversmeet’. Home, the Stour and Avon. Here, the Steyr and Enns. Today Beastie joins hips with the Enns. Like locked Siamese twins. Wherever it goes, Beastie must go. One compromised by the other.
81K along the B115 sees us slowly meander up, yet quickly down. From a tepid 10C to 4C. A cool calm clamber. Virtually traffic free. Leave the tropical lowlands. Wiggle up into the snowline. By the time we pass through our highest point at the ski resort of Präbichl we say goodbye. Our tie cut by nature’s own surgeon. At Steyr the river Enns a wide rushing, gushing flow. Here, high up, its tributary almost a trickle. In places you could almost step across. Even so, it restricts. As much as the snow capped mountains either side. Becomes a ‘route barrée’. Offering no points to short circuit. Then suddenly it disappears. Is no more. As is the time spent together. We blink.
Up there, it’s goodbye from us . . .‘Up there’ brings us a bird’s eye view of the tropical lowlands . . . This is one Inn we’ll give a miss . . . We can often be found parked up at lunchtime in a supermarket car park – this one’s outlook more stunning than most . . .
Our tumble down the other side a pre-amble. Until, Missy goes quiet. Like a sulking spoilt kid. Lips tightly shut. Wants her own way. It’s not our way. Always a bad sign. Discombobulation now the order of her day. She becomes disco-ordinated. Starts to develop an early version of Saturday Night Fever. Not quite frothing at the mouth. Leaves that to us. Now there’s three Beasties. Spins us around one way, then the other. There is something goin’ down We don’t panic – yet. We have a reliable back up – we think – Posh Pat-Nav. Seems she has other ideas too . . . must be on drugs, or something. Thinks she’s the Messiah. She’s certainly doing us no favours . . .
Posh Pat ignores our please and our pleas – thinks she can walk on water!
To top it all, when we do eventually arrive at our site, it’s closed. I didn’t read the small print. Opens Monday. Ooooooooops! Mrs S takes this surprise surprisingly calmly. Phew . . . .
A short time later Beastie can be seen relaxing. We join him.
“How long are we on this stretch for?” – “About 24K” – “Oh, OK, should be fun”.
Pretty, eh?
We thought we’d seen off the last of the snow. Turned our backs on it for at least another seven or eight months. Forward looking thoughts of warmer climes cloud our minds as we leave today’s site. We pass by a red circular warning circle. Beastie shouldn’t go this way. He’s too big and heavy. We’ve learned that signs like this one tend to err on the cautious. We reckon we’ve got at least half a ton to spare. Beastie’s been, and been seen, on many a worse road than this. Why – it’s even got tarmac on it. Should be a cinch. (providing it stays tarmac)
5K into the climb and we’re averaging 14.76mph and 9.84mpg (to be precise). It’s steep. It’s so steep I can feel the blood rushing to my brain. Realisation kicks in. Ah, so that’s why Beastie shouldn’t be here. Nothing to do with the road per se.
A little further on we’re going about as fast as a roller coaster when it’s being tugged mind-numbingly slowly upwards. Aims and labours to reach its very highest point. Deliberately so. To rack the tension a little higher, and, just before it kicks off at an almost unbelievable vertical angle downwards, it comes to the minutest of halts. A spec of time – suspended by it’s own minuteness. Nothing to prevent it staying exactly where it is – except for the distance that stands between it and the gravitational pull of the earth several hundred feet below. Then the law of Quantum Time takes over. The most minuscule becomes massive. Offers breathing space to consider “Was this the right decision?”or “Can I have my money back – please?” Its occupants with time to spare, even after saying ten Hail Mary’s and five Our Fathers. Then just as they’re trying to remember where they put their Will & Testam – WHOOSH . . . . . . !
Beastie stays in second gear. He knows what’s good for him. He’s got serious bends to contend with too. His speed drops down to less than walking pace. The outside temperature to -1C. Inside it’s warming up and gone unusually quiet. Not much conversation passes across the divide. No Beastie Bravado beckons forth. I’m gripping the steering wheel like Iron Man. Mrs S is being a good Catholic. A severe hairpin looms. One of those that comes right back on itself, not quite making a figure of eight. About twenty feet higher than the approach. Beastie does well. Swings wide. Gets around the twist as easy as a Gay Gordon. Thinks he’s going to make it, then throws a wobbly. That other law takes hold. The one Newton told us about. Beastie is 3.8+ ton of stuff (plus us). He starts to bottle it. I have serious choices to make. Do I leave him to sort it? Do I slam my foot to the floor and threaten a stall. Or do I change down into 1st? Pick the third option. Go into Nike mode and ‘Just Do It’.
Unexpectedly, Beastie decides to perform his own version of a double de-clutch. Creates a complete moment of madness. Goes bonkers. Can’t he feel what sort of an incline we’re on? The transition from 2nd to 1st passes through neutral. For that split second there is no power being transmitted to the wheels. Our life lines severed. He comes to a halt. Not what we wanted. I ready myself to slam on the hand and foot brakes. The unfathomable property of Quantum Time rears its ugly head. For what seems like an eternity we simultaneously share visions of slipping back in time, literally, not virtually. Everything is out of our hands. The whole world around is still and quiet. We all hold our breath.
Just as suddenly, Beastie splutters. Like a resuscitated drowned person he coughs life back into his-self – and us. He counters the backwards pull. Tentatively at first. Then with more confidence. Drags us back from the brink. Carries us into the future . . .
We all have at least one Hobby Horse, don’t we? That thing that switches that internal switch. That thing that makes you say “Now don’t you dare get me going!” You become a rider on a runaway. Accelerate to a gallop in a little under two seconds. Feel the wind in your hair and the adrenaline rush. Find it virtually impossible to rein in the reins. Sometimes at huge cost.
We’ve done well. Feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. Almost God-Like. Eight days away. Feels like forever. Well, eight thousand years anyway. Just over 1000 miles to the good. By and large it has been good. Now, it’s time to rest up. (Even if it is a day later than The Standard). Take a day off. So, we do just that. Order a two-nighter. Pitch up at Camping Kekec near the base of Pohorje Mountain. Serious MTB and skiing territory. A short bus ride from Maribor centre.
The men’s shower facilities here are not quite pukka. Open to the elements is how best to describe them. No roof. Door, short top and bottom. Not what you want when the night-time and early morning temperature is zero and threatening to turn you into a look-alike Eunoch. The other thing you don’t want is cigarette smoke wafting through your cubicle just when you’re trying to freshen up. That’s exactly what I got this morning. Can’t stand it. If a car in front on a motorway has a smoker at its wheel, then I can smell it. I can taste it even. So, when it’s close up it really does my head in. The best law passed in recent times has been the banning of smoking inside public places. Now they need to pass another. Create ‘Fag-Free’ zones around every entrance to every public place. Should we really have to pass through a tunnel of dirty smoke every time we exit Tesco? or a cinema, theatre, restaurant, blah, blah blah . . .? And what about Al Fresco dining? Just because there’s an abundance of air it’s assumed that it’s OK. It’s not. Yuk! All outside dining should be Fag-Free too. Period.
As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself. We take the bus into Maribor. There are one or two things we want to take a look at. The first is the oldest living vine in the world. Certified in the Guinness Book of Records as being at least 375 years old.
Standing next to this ancient twig Mrs S reckons that if I continue with my current intake of wine I too could become a wizened record holder one day . . .
About one hundred litres of red wine are produced from this one vine each year. None of it for sale. All packaged as special 100ml gifts. Resemble small flattened chemistry lab bottles. The type you expect to contain formaldehyde. The Mayor presents them to VIPs. Some from around the world. They include our Queen. We weren’t considered special enough. Maybe just not old enough. Maybe it’s time to increase consumption . . .
Second on our list is Maribor Castle. It’s closed. It’s Monday. It’s not a castle. Just a large building in the centre of town. Not even high up. Around the corner this impressive war memorial. [‘The Castle’ is behind this monument – see what I mean?]
Dedicated to WW1 & WW2 combattants who died so that we could live
Around the corner we come across a fifty metre display of then and now photographs. Then being early sixties. Each pair twinned at the same Maribor location. These two amongst our favourites.
We finish our day with a riverside walk and a coffee and cake. (no image of the cake available – it didn’t last that long)
Old town Maribor nestling alongside the Drava River
From Calais we’ve only seen one other GB MOHO. By chance we parked up alongside at an Austrian services. Since then zilch.Does that mean we’ve gone AWAL?
This trip we travel away from Dalmatia. Give the Adriatic the cold shoulder. Maybe give it a second chance – when we eventually head north. Give it time to warm up a little. So, we head east. Belgrade calling us. Should be there on Good Friday. My birthday. Unfortunately that’s not a moveable feast day. Strike one. No, strike sixty-eight!
With Belgrade a long way off we decide not to rush. What’s the rush anyway? Book another two-nighter. Zagreb Kamp just shy of 11K outside of the city. Surprisingly, our immediate neighbours on site are not German.
On this occasion we speak the same language . .
Scoot is staying tucked up and cosy. No chance of his first run out until the temperature creeps over 20C. Two return train tickets cost us less than a couple of Costa cappuccinos
The twenty-five minute walk to the station takes us twenty five minutes . . .They spend their money on the trains – not the stations
When you’ve done one city, you’ve done them all. Right? And when you’ve done a load more than one, well? What’s the point? Wrong! Zagreb is a treat we weren’t expecting. No prep prep’d as usual. So it’s a big bonus. Upper and lower old town sewn seamlessly together. Masses of huge elegant buildings on one hand; charming ancient houses and back streets on the other; acres of flowered green spaces keep the balance perfectly.
In its heyday it must have been a jewelMary-Ann in front of Zagreb Cathedral – Croatia’s tallest building Everywhere we travel in Croatia reminds us that Easter is just around the corner
Not the prettiest of botanical Gardens . . .
Perhaps a bit too early to show it’s full glory – some corners pretty pretty . . .
It’s a long shot. But
one we can make. Belgrade
gets locked in on our cross-sight. Pinned down by a red laser beam. A dead cert.
No escape. We can’t miss.
This eastern side of Croatia a mystery to us. We’re following Macca’s long and winding road, that leads to . . . well an almost deserted MOHO stop over. Halfway between Zagreb and Belgrade. Zlatini Lug, just short of Pozega. We seem to be the only Brits in this neck of the woods. In fact, feels like the only MOHOmers too. Not one other MOHO seen out on the road today. So it’s a big surprise to find another, already parked up. He’s German, with a Croat mother. He was born 40K away, but lives in Germany. He looks a bit of a loner. All beard and whiskers. Somebody you wouldn’t be surprised to come across panning for gold in the Klondike. Drinks his coffee from an ancient red metal mug with an extended handle. His three local grandchildren with him – his golden nuggets – for company.
Earlier, we steer clear of the A3 motorway. Our route maintains a healthy gap. We catch sight of it from time to time. Laden to the brink with lorries. Ours predominantly free wheeling with no such hindrances. The slightly slower B-road performs a more profound task. Its invisible adhesive properties keep the thousands of houses running either side of it permanently fixed. Stuck along its twisty, but relatively flat path. Mile after mile of houses, one deep either side. Linked only by what divides them. No visible sign of when one village ends and the next starts. A real mix. Some up together. Some, like many in Croatia, seem as if the owners are happy just to let them stay as they are. Unfinished, un-rendered and unpainted. Proudly flaunting their terracotta red basic building blocks.
We pass a church. It’s different. Half of its roof caved in.
One wall barely standing. All its windows blown out. The remains of the front
door hanging lopsidedly on its one hinge. Parts of the perimeter walls lie in sad
solemn heaps. Mourning the passing of better times.
We wonder if we’re seeing a remnant of the recent past. Our suspicions soon confirmed. Now, many of the houses, some occupied others clearly deserted, exhibit their tell tale scars. Bullet pot marks left exposed. Open to nature’s elements and time’s healing balm. Cruel reminders of a cruel time.
Sixty-eight years can seem like a lifetime. At sixty-eight you’re aware that that once comical city message proclaiming “The End Is Nigh” is starting to ring true. Not quite so funny anymore. The days seem to stack up quicker than ever. They fly by. Quicker than you prefer. However, occasionally, you have a day, like today, when you’d prefer to just blink and get it over with.
We arrive at Belgrade Camp Avala, much much later than planned. Or hoped. With no phone service for us to tag on to we can’t let the site know. It didn’t matter. We’re very warmly greeted by the proud owner. Probably because we’re the only ones here. We’re much further away from Belgrade than planned. Site’s name a misleading misnomer. We’re way out in the sticks. Far from a train station. No regular buses. It’s a new site. Opened before it’s ready. Incomplete. But lovingly being worked on. Even if parts look like a building site – see what I mean?
We’re (Mrs S) feeling too tired for cooking. Get let off the hook. Traditional Serbian BBQ is on offer. We order. The owner takes me over to his newly built terrace. Below ground he has a secret. It’s an immaculate cellar. He makes his own organic wines. Grows the grapes too. Recommends a white which would go well with dinner. Pours it straight from a huge storage cask. He makes the perfect choice.
Earlier, the day had started well. It’s Good Friday. How were we to know it would turn into Bad Friday?
Easter’s here, there and everywhere . . .
We’re hopping along nicely. Like a couple of happy bunnies. Decide to take the A3 toll road. Unaware that it would later take its toll on us. We have many miles to cover today. We cover them. But not as quickly as the answer to today’s puzzle. The answer whizzes by in the outside lane. Ist der Vaterland in Flammen?
A considerable distance from the Serbian Border we merge into two. One really. Thousands upon thousands of lorries line up on the inside lane. It seems they could lovingly reach to the moon and back. Each one waiting patiently before being subjected to the Serb Security Customs control.
With a nod and a wink we pass through the Croatian exit control booth. Then, Beastie gets pulled over by the Serbian Fat Controller. Beastie’s vehicle registration documents need to get checked against the Europol database. While that’s in progress, a couple of gynecologists approach. Disguised as Serb Security. They don’t fool us. The longer look yellow Marigolds a sure give away. They insist on giving Beastie an ‘internal’. Want his private and previously unseen parts (apart from moi [I am family after all] ) to open wide. He’s uncomfortable with this. I can understand why. He’s a boy. He doesn’t fancy two complete strangers rummaging around his nether regions. He’s certainly not in the mood for a ménage à trois. I can detect a headache coming on. They spot Scoot tucked inside and he’s given the same treatment. Twenty minutes later and Europol can find no black marks. Frowns turn to smiles. Leave the Fat Controller to do what he does best. We head on.
But not for long. We discover there’s pro and anti protest marches in Belgrade today and tomorrow. (We decide to give Belgrade a miss). The traffic quickly builds up. More and more coaches over-spill into the mass. We gradually come to a crawl. A very unconventional, (that’s putting it politely) roadworks filter system, leaves us gasping. Gasping to get to the site. We’re on our hands and knees now. In fact we’d go faster if we were. Ninety minutes for 1.2 kilometers. Adds up. Brings our total traffic delay time to 210 minutes – a record for us.
Then all too soon (I lie) we arrive. Time to blink.
In this part of the world English seems of little use. Road signs incorporate series of letters that make no sense. Include unfamiliar letters too. Impossible to read a map. We need Cyril back. Come, explain.
No need to fret about the warm Easter back home. It’s spread. We’re basking in the heady high teens. Almost shorty time. That can wait another few days. In the meantime we’re heading south. Jagodina our next over-nighter. Ruza Vetrova Camp is perched at the very top of a hill edging Gradski Parc. We take the nearest and highest pitch. Lends us extensive views.
A welcome surprise – dinner in the sun.
On arrival, we take the owner and his wife by surprise. He immediately issues an order. She scampers away. Rushes back with a flymo. Frantically skims the tops off the dandelion covered pitch. We (I) register over a shared glass of local rosé. He speaks no English. His ten years working for Cosmos as a coach driver to-ing and fro-ing between Calais and Santander leave him with an unusual French tongue. Obviously learnt by ear. My schoolboy French ear takes time to accustom itself to his Serbian Creole. His dinner-time “Bon a-pe-ta-pete” just misses the mark – but we get the gist and warm senti-ti-ment.
We learn that you can never trust a web-site view of its own amenities. Reviews are key. One shower. One wash-up sink. Gents pee to the left. Ladies to the right. Just how do they cope in pee-k season?
We had thought that he was a one off. However, this side of the border we stop off to stretch our legs – at a town with an unpronounceable name. And one I couldn’t spell with this keyboard anyway. Tucked away in a line of backstreet houses is a small church. A pristine seventy-seater at most. It’s open. We enter. Followed by the curator. He’s happy to see us. Seems not many are interested in “church” around here. We chat for five minutes. Not in English. Certainly not in Serbian. But in French!
Day 14 and we cross into Bulgaria. It’s signing even more confusing. Brings on a new meaning to “we have absolutely no idea where we are”. We have come to the conclusion that customs control is all about being nosey. The uniformed female Thin Controller looks as if she has just stepped down from a Bond movie set back in the sixties. Brisk and to the point. We don’t get too close. She just may click her heel. A random rummage in a couple of cupboards and one clothes case suffices. On exiting Beastie her only comment is “Very interesting” .
Vehicle vignette required for all main roads over here. Overhead cameras check and monitor on all routes.
Looks like Inn Madonna, at Falkovets, are surprised to receive unexpected guests too. It’s all locked up when we arrive. The main MOHO area being given a busy number one by one man and his strimmer. Finishing touches applied, he swings open the huge wooden gates. It’s like a mini menagerie. A cacophony fills the air. Peacocks ‘ow-ow-owing’, a cockerel struts and hassles his hareem, cockadoodling them into place; a putty cat purr, purr, purr-ing . . .
Mrs S gets in on the act, but quietly
We imagine this little fellow just wants to chase everything in sight Probably has done in the past. Hence the chain.
He knows how to give it some non-stop welly – “Hey, you lot, I’m over here!”
We’re the only campers on site – hoping for a quiet night . . .
Going walkabout is one of my favourite past-times. I’m an expert. Occupying space off piste either physically or mentally – I’m a born natural. My physical body in any one particular place no guarantee. Does not always translate into me actually being where I seem to be. Time and space of no consequence. Drives Mrs S bonkers.
The approaching view – taken after our “walking tour” – Beastie’s stuck out all alone.
11 K south of Sofia, the approach to Camper Stop Vrana sells us a dummy. Gives the impression of an almost full site. Turns out we’re today’s first customers. All other vehicles in winter storage. The term Camperstop does exactly what it says on the tin. Provides a place to park up for a night or two, max. No facilities except for a one man (or woman) integrated portable loo, sink and shower cabin.
We do our usual. Pitch up. Plug in. Check toilet/shower block (that doesn’t take long). We’re over the way from Parc Museum Vrana. Go stretch our legs for thirty minutes – or so. It’s about 5.15pm. Our secure ‘pen’ gets locked up at 7pm. Owner goes home then. Ample time. No chance of turning into a couple of pumpkins.
We’re surprised. Maps shows a ‘white way”. In fact, the dusty dirt track leads us dawdling through a real mix. 1950s look-alike industrial units. Type-cast images shout out on either side. Reflect a previous Soviet occupation. All lined up. Await the call for a different kind of revolution. All desperate for some serious TLC. Squeezed in between, there’s some sort of (we guess) milking facility. A herd of penned in cows. A couple moo at us pleadingly. The sodden thick muddy ground more suited for wallowing beasts. We feel sorry on their behalf. Not far away a wide expanse of unused greenbelt. A second dilapidated farm appears – we turn left. Cross the farm’s fields. Maps shows some blue stuff opposite. Could be a small lake. Let’s take a look. [that’s me thinking].
“What time is it?” – “Just coming up to ten past six” – “We should turn back” – “Well, we’re almost two sides around this park. I reckon we can just do a full lap, It’ll be the same difference. We still have fifty minutes to get back. Should be back by 7pm – easily.”
We are separated from the blue stuff by a small stream and another “white way”. We can’t get onto the white way. Too overgrown. The stream is no more. All dried up. Creates a perfect pathway. We take it.
This is the easy bitIt even has a broken waterfallNot in picture, a few obstacles cross our path. Hinder our progress. Climbing over fallen tree trunks, or limbo dancing under others, becomes the order of the day.
By the time we’re almost at the end of the stream I realise it doesn’t take us to the big white way. Zoom in. Veers to our left. Peters out – as fast as Mrs S’s energy levels and my optimism. It’s now 6.53pm. Mrs S now full of regrets for listening to me. Doesn’t quite bite her tongue. I am full of regrets for listening to me. I bite mine. We negotiate the overgrown bramble. Only a four foot deep pipeline trench now separates us from our way out. Secretly, I’m in my element. Not so secretely, Mrs S is making plans that may threaten her future freedom.
The problem with Maps is that you don’t see the real picture. We make it to the big white way just as we’re turning into a couple of pumpkins. The big white way is in fact a three lane highway. Luckily a thin stretch of grass gives us (me) an escape route.
The big white way
We arrive at camp just as the owner is locking up. “Sorry we’re late. Hope you haven’t been waiting on us?” “No, not at all. I was just curious to where you’ve been.”
Over the centuries Bulgaria has struggled against foreign occupying forces. And on occasions fiercely fired its own claims over neighbouring territories. Hopefully, now as an official member of the EU, those inglorious times are long gone. Nowadays they welcome a different type of invasion.
We join forces with an international exploratory group. It’s 6C. A grey day. Everyone wrapped up in layers. No camo in sight. No blue on show either. United nations all intent on accomplishing a peace keeping mission. A small platoon of 32. Representations from Israel, Italy, U.S., UK, Bulgaria, France, Germany, Switzerland, Japan. All armed with phone or camera at the ready. Together for a two hour guided march. Ably lead by homegrown Nikola.
Modern day Sofia stands on four layers of history. Construction of the new metro exposed many section of the ancient Roman civilisation. They decide to show and preserve.80% of the population is Orthodox Christian. Church of Saint Nicholas – the interior just as stunning.The Bulgarian Lion seen in many places
Nikola keeps us very well entertained. Info with humour. Almost a performance. One that’s repeated 365 days of the year. Regardless of whether it’s -20C or +40C.
Surprisingly the mineral water is around body temperatureThe National Theatre. Nikola informs us that all performances are in Bulgarian. We’ll give that a miss then.The Presidency Building – He’s not under lock and key. “Psst! – Wake up – we got visitors . . . ““Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”
We finish our cold stay in Sofia as started – with a hot Costa.
Beastie becomes our blinkered racehorse. Quickens his stride as the prize of Greece comes into view. 100% focused. He’s been bred and trained just for this moment. Trainer and jockey execute the perfect race plan.
But, and it’s a big but. It’s so easy to lose sight of the bigger picture.
That’s just what we did a couple of stops ago. Pitched up within 10K of a ‘must see’ natural phenomenon. Galloped on by. Over the sticks and out into the sticks. Our trusty steed let rein. Encouraged to get there sooner rather than later. Not for the first time we steel ourselves not to do that again. No excuses. We have that nice Mr Google on board.
So, today becomes a race of two halves. A four hour trot down to Kromidovo, broken with an extended lunchtime stop at Rila Monastery. It adds 80K. But it’s well worth it. Our eastern dog leg delays.
The collapsed mountain needs clearing. One of the benefits of traveling early in the season – not many other visitors.It’s in a stunning location
Photography is not permitted (or, a high fee is charged) in most of the religious buildings over here. We settle for the exterior again. No bad thing when the setting is as stunning as this.
Beats painting by numbers
The narrow and winding short cut back to the A3 take us past a small chapel. Seven feet square at a push. Seems it’s dedicated to Ivan of Rila. No charge applies here. We snap.
Facing wall on entranceThe domed ceiling
At the final part of any journey, it’s the ‘getting onto’ site that can sometimes prove testing. Even for a thoroughbred like Beastie. Today’s end, no exception. [No prizes for guessing who the sensible one is . . . ]
We end up coming in the back way. Nothing new there. We turn into a back garden. Two Brits decided on a life style change. Sarah and John bought this place six years ago. Three years later started Camping Kromidovo.
Greece – 2,143 miles – Average age n + 17.6 days – Average mpg 26.7 – Average speed 29.4mph – not quite Greased Lightnin . . .
Kromidovo may well have been a substantial village some years ago. Many signs of grander residencies forsaken. Remaining homeowners, like many in this southern region of Bulgaria, make their own wines. Utilise as much space as possible. Vine growing a common art. Majority of gardens given over to the grape. Veggies hardly get a look in. We leave via the front door. Or rather High Street. A sad indication of current times. We jokingly refer to it as CrummyDovo. Not very kind.
Fifteen minutes later a passing nod allows entry into Greece. We take time out for a stretch and coffee. First opportunity to get a handle on things over a new border. A roadside cafe with a large parking area ideal. However, it appears we’re a couple of captured clients. Our way in is no way out. Our way out is no way out. Our minds boggle briefly.
We came in this way . . . Our no way out is this way . . .
40K south of Thessaloniki and 5K south of Epanomi we pitch up on a beach side hotel and camping facility – Atki Retzika. Our options few. This is one of the few sites open in April. Again, Beastie’s the only MOHO on camp. Suits us. We like having facilities all to ourselves.
Like a couple of spent pennies, we decide to take time out from the journey. Forecast set fine for the next few days. Time to catch up with some necessary chores. Time to relax. Recharge batteries. Now we’re actually here, time to make some Grecian plans.
Many stray dogs in this neck of the woods. We go walkabout with a friendly canine. It’s like having a grandchild (we imagine) stay for the day. We reap the benefit. No downside.
He likes company too . . .Mary-Ann’s not so sure when he invites a couple of friends over to play . . .It’s a first pretty walk though . . .
Since man’s first slip [or was it woman’s?], the earth lost its heart. [but not its ‘h’] Lost its grip. Fell out of love with its inhabitants. Decided to get its own back. Make them work for a life worth living. Chores becoming the disorder of the days. Nothing cosher any more.
We go in search of a washing machine. Almost three weeks of socks and pants piling up – and the rest. Hot and sunny our order of the day. We (Mrs S) need to make the most of it. Load up and let technology do what it does. Lighten our load. I ready the lines. Then we let them hang.
It’s not what we want to do though. Hang about. So we edge out. Cross the boundary from camp and onto Potamos beach. A cricket ball’s throw away. Come June it’s going to be busy here. Thousands of loungers shipped in by the lorry load. Patient piles pepper the line of bars and eateries. Soon to get peppered themselves.
Competition for the best return is evident. Each establishment’s team of young men busy. They hammer, dig, re-arrange, push, create, paint, plant, water. A perfect holiday ambiance their goal. All create a slightly different twist on the same.
We take time out. Become a couple of loungers on loungers. Beach towels, cozzies & sun-cream given their first airing. Nothing to do but be. It’s heaven. We’re alone. Feel like that first couple. Before the first bite.
Not being able to see something that is literally right in front of your nose is frustrating. Especially if you know you had it seconds before. Your brain decides to close up that massive picture library, just when you need it most. Locks covers. Snaps shut a synapse here and there, just to make sure. Prevents you from double checking time and place last seen. If it’s a tiny item, you forgive yourself. However, if it’s large, you start questioning your sanity. Just what Zeus would want.
Our previous day’s walk and bike ride sees us keep our eyes firmly fixed on more earthy terrain. Noses straining downwards. Like a couple of bloodhounds with bunged up noses. We fail to sniff out what’s staring us in the face.
And it doesn’t get much bigger than this – Mount OlympusBy Zeus, we swear it wasn’t there yesterday . . . .
It’s not often you get to see where you’ll be pitched up a day from now. In fact never. But today’s the exception. Our 150K condensed down to less than fifty across the Thermaic Gulf. If only we’d packed Beastie’s rubber ring.
A couple of posing pantomime puppets – “Look, it’s behind you” Huh? Now you tells us . .
Irresistibly, we head out west, towards the far end of Patamos Beach. The new view our compass. Unveils another surprise.
Shipwrecked Epanomi 1. Less than 100 metres from shoreline.
Clockwise we’re one hour ahead of the UK – yet yesterday found us one week behind! The reason? Ide blame Julius Caesar. Seems the Eastern Orthodox Church over here still uses his Julian calendar. As a consequence Easter Saturday was yesterday.
We’ve heard the Greek Orthodox Church celebrates the Resurrection of Jesus big-time. We’re interested to see for ourselves. Wake Beastie from his slumbers. It’s coming up to 11pm. By the time we’re parked up in Epanomi, it’s 11.15pm. The church is chocobloc. Virtually impossible to fit another Mars bar in. Outside more than a hundred gather. Candles at the ready. We squeeze past. Imitate chocolate sticks. Not prepared to miss what we’ve come here for. Melt in with the mass. Stand behind the back row . On the men’s side. Can’t really see. Interior walls and ceiling compensate. Gloriously ornate. Biblical scenes look down as we look up. A couple of booming baritones continuously echo a series of Responsorial Psalms across the divide. A few minutes before mid-night the priest makes an appearance. Performs a perfunctory lap with his bells and incence. Then we all move out. Down to the bottom of the entrance steps. The priest reads solemnly from a lectern. Everyone filled with expectation. Very suddenly an explosion of fireworks briefly interrupts proceedings. Did someone miss their cue? No. The ‘other’ orthodox church in town, set their clock a little earlier. Sneaky ones. The priest and elders quickly gather composure. Draw proceedings to a speedier close than rehearsed. Seems they’ve been out-maneuvered. But now it’s ‘our’ turn. It’s like Bonfire Night and New Year rolled into one. Ably abbeted by the tower’s bells. We leave at 12.45am. We can’t stay. Way past our bedtime. The service continues inside. Now broadcast outside too. The baritones’ dulcet tones bounce around the local houses. It’s due to finish at 2am. No peace for the wicked then.
Not the best image or video – missed the best bits + it was dark!
For us, daily routine comes naturally. The little things we do first thing. The little things we do last thing. And, I’m not talking about ‘you know what’. Nothing to do with numbers.
We all have different ways of getting into the day, don’t we? Some, immediately immerse, like fizzy Alka-Seltzer – quickly and noisily. Not always in harmony with another’s version of the perfect start to a day. In close quarters, ‘one’ quickly learns new habits. Allows the other to melt into the day gradually. Allows them time to dissolve at their pace. No prizes for guessing who’s who!
On the road our evening routine a miniature mirrored image of back home. Dinner + wash-up + free-time + coffee with TV time + shower-time + read (blog) time + bed time.
Morning and evening slices get filled with an endless variety. We’re spoilt for choice. We pick and choose. Sometimes don’t always make the best choice. Even after carefully reading the ingredients. Strangely, they all seem to come with cheese.
Very occasionally, like today, only two types of cheese are on offer.
Yesterday’s site at Poseidon Camping not our cup of tea. No sign of Earl Grey anywhere. With Beastie a five second walk onto the huge sandy beach it still didn’t cut it. Despite carrying out a pre-park foot patrol. Should have turned our noses up at it. Like the couple of upper crusts we’re turning into.
On entry into the shady shanty town, the statics shouted ‘Turn around’. We didn’t listen. Did a Maggie. A skaffolding of gun metal frameworks leaden our hopes. Covered with mould ridden green and blue tarpaulins. All hemmed in. Just like us. Picket fences designate borders. Imploring ‘Cross at your peril’. Many owners busy with high power hoses. Watering away the worst of winter.
Cold showers and poor toilet facilities convince us to move on after just one night. We’re not willing to ‘make do’. It’s beneath us – don’t you know. Zeus and his other gods will just have to do without our company up on Mount Olympus.
With Missy’s co-ordinates set to guide us inland to Meteora’s Monasteries we make an early exit. Intend to make a couple of AM stops on the way. Platamon Castle is well within range – just around the corner in fact.
Actually, it’s just across the bay. That spec on top of the hill.Looks better close upAnd even better on top with Mt Olympus too
Much of the huge site subject to archeological digs over the years. One of those places that sets your mind running as you imagine life as it was.
Our second stop of the morning? Lidl! They’re everywhere – thankfully. Not seen a ‘proper supermarket’ yet. Not that Lidl is. Need to re-stock though. We never shop at Lidl back home. Not sure what the till protocol is there. Here, Sur le Continent, it seems speed rules – OK? Checkout girls hired based on being the best clock watcher. A novel idea. A German T&M initiative no doubt. Their bulldozer hands flailing. Think they’re playing shove-h’penny. Impossible to keep up. Matters made worse because ‘the packing area’ is no wider than a radiator shelf. Our trolley load quickly piles up into a jumbled mess. Resembles a train wreck. Carriages spewn everywhere. We need the Fat Controller to come blow his whistle.
We can’t imagine we’ll ever pitch up alongside such an amazing backdrop as this Meteora rock-scape. It’s quite frankly jaw-dropping.
With thirty-eight films downloaded plus the first two series of the Marvelous Mrs Maisel already under our belts, you’d be forgiven for thinking that we’ve more than enough entertainment primed at the ready. But you can’t beat the real thing.
Camping Kastraki is perfectly positioned for tomorrow’s itinerary. Scoot’s getting excited too. His first run out. The town of Kalambaka features one of the world’s most incredible skylines. What makes these columns all the more crazy? Six monasteries (from a previous 24) sit perched atop. Over the centuries nuns and monks have sought a Godly existence. Peered down from their godly height.
There’s enough good light and blue sky around. Encourages us to break a leg and walk off our drive. We try hard to stop catching flies. Keep our jaws closed. It’s not easy. This ancient rock formation the culprit. Our uphill trek provides unexpected drama. Binoculars clearly pick out a couple of climbers half way up this edge. A young man leads the way. Fifty feet or so of rope separate him from his female climber. He’s dug in. Waits patiently for her to catch up. She digs her heels in. A shouted conversation exchanged. Our ears pick up the tone. She’s clearly in distress. Having doubts. Unwilling to move an inch. Feels too young to die. If she goes, he goes. He’s all encouragement. Does she trust his words? No! She smacks the rock face and cries out. Then silence. She regains inner strength and composure. Slowly edges up. No real alternative. Twenty minutes later they’re side by side. He comforts her. We move on. Frustrated that we can’t tune in to next week’s episode. Prayers go up.
You can just see them. Right edge. Blue and red pin pricks.Tentatively she edges closer.
It’s not long before another drama unfolds. A patient puss has outsmarted a local lizard. Sees us. Gets found out. Stops dead in her tracks. Reverts to playing the typecast guilty one. Am I allowed to do what comes naturally or not? It’s not fair. A second ago I had the upper hand. All was clear. I was in the clear. And now look.
A split second it’s all change again. She miscalculates. Attempts to readjust her grip. Fatal. But not for the green one. He takes his chance. Becomes a mini green version of Clark Kent. Flies through the air. With one almighty leap bounds back into the undergrowth. Closely followed by the frantic puss. [if only I’d been in video mode]. We miss the repeat. Time to head back to camp.
Views are quite often best left to themselves. Seen from afar they stir the soul. Create wonder. Strike a romantic light. Once immersed within however, the reality can tell a different story.
A planned and permanent place of quiet spirituality – long gone
Each perching monastery linked by narrow up and down grey slalem-like runs. But no–one’s in the green today. No-one able to challenge the race leader. Apart from Scoot. He’s in his element. Leaves the queues queueing. No parking worries either. Gets us up close. Squeezes in. It’s May Day. It’s as busy as a disturbed ant’s nest. Armies swarm in from near and far. Topped up with coachloads who’ve bought into the tourist propaganda. “You haven’t done Greece, if you haven’t done the Meteora Monasteries”. That’s why we’re here too. Of course.
Our before visit briefing implies these ancient holy places deserve the utmost respect. No shorts on men. No long pants on women – dresses or skirts only. Skirts supplied on entry for skirt-less females. Mrs S has no skirt. Takes a wide scarf to act as a sarong. Isn’t necessary. Impossible for the religious to supply every entering ‘modern’ female. First stop, St Stephans, has thirty skirts available. Only two are off the peg. A blind eye turned – the order of the day. Goes against the Order. Too many visitors. Too many euros. We wonder what the original founders would make of all this.
No photos too. But who’s looking? The [mis]-guided throngs fed tid-bits of forgettable info. Occasional signs of reverence by those in the know. Venerations and candles lit. Gentle reminders on show.
14th century onwards saw twenty five years of rope and pulley lifting of materials the norm. A further twenty five years to build. Awesome doesn’t come close. Good things come to those who wait. And more so if they “Wait on the Lord”? Perhaps they do deserve these 21stC just deserts.
Their religion – solid as a rock.Beastie’s somewhere down there
We aim to visit three of the six. Entrance to Varlaam blocked by a massive static line. We stick on two. Move on. Finish with a 360.
Mrs S is given the evening off. The local Taverna’s moussaka and home grown wine a perfect end to our day.
Like a couple of hunting eagles we take to the skies – above our map – or tablet. Scour the landscape below. Hunger sees us soar. Need to fill those empty grey cells. Satisfy our souls. Only the best pickings suffice.
Day 25 sees us touchdown a wingspan or so from the town of Delphi. The once Greek centre of the world. Camping Appolon now the centre of our world for the next two nights. Perfectly positioned. In comfortable walking distance from the museum and famous archeological site. Tomorrow’s excursion.
Looks can be deceptive. Icebergs not long melted. Toes and torsos not warmed up sufficiently yet to do a Titanic.
Unusually, we don’t walk off today’s drive. Instead, indulge ourselves. An hour’s table-tennis obliges nicely. Our rallies longer than usual. Then we realise the table is longer too!
The small village of current day Delphi an equal mix of shops, cafes and high street hotels. The season hasn’t really got going. Lots of preparations in progress in all quarters. Opening night looms and all props and players have to be ready and word perfect.
The opening scene welcomed with rapturous applause from the UK contingent
The museum and what’s left of the ancient sanctuary don’t disappoint. Although our entrance price does. We become bitter and twisted like a couple of gnarled wooden-tops. Miss out on half price tickets. No ID with us. Can’t prove we’re as old as the hills we’re standing in. Mrs Jobs-worth rules OK? Grrrrrr-eece!
We don’t let ourselves stay in Grrrr mood for long.
The museum’s immaculate display of fascinating artifacts leads us through the ancients’ timeline. English translations appreciated. Their craftsmanship at its best. From miniature . . .
10cm left to right
. . . to lifesize . . .
This bronze aristocratic charioteer preserved, thanks to the 373BC earthquake.
Through delicately painted earthenware . . .
The god Apollo showing off his multi-tasking skills
to stunning use of goldleaf
We round the day off going our separate ways. Mrs S to lap up the remaining day’s rays, poolside. Mr S has had his eyes set on a top-side cave since arrival. He wants to go feral.
Mary-Ann reckons I’ll come back as a mountain goat.
The sixty-five minute climb not straight forward. Underfoot mainly loose scree. Creates a roller-skate effect. The spiky gorse and kin don’t help. From the knees downwards I’m being severely exfoliated. They’re starting to look like they’ve been open fire roasted. Sections split like a baked potato. Wisely (for a change) I’m wearing tough gloves.
Almost there . . .
The climb is worth it. Spectacular view the reward. Take five to cool off. Call Mrs S with a hopeful question. “Can you see me?” . . . silly question!
Not a bad view for a sixty-five minute climb. You can see our site’s pool. Centred just above the bend in the road.
The down is tricky. Decide to utilise my knowledge of sailing skills. Tac this way then the other. Try to lessen the slope and it’s pull. Zig and zag. Think I’ve mastered it. Become over confident. Don’t take care. In an instant I’ve switched disciplines. Become an unwitting competitor in a World Cup downhill. Seriously lose control. Didn’t anticipate entering the ski-jump competition too. As a last gasp adopt the snow plough technique. Guaranteed to slow. Learned and used only once before – when I was thirteen. Almost does the trick. Feet fly. Luckily I don’t. Come back to earth. Backside takes the brunt. Should be painful. It isn’t. Check my back pocket. Ouch! That’s gonna hurt my other pocket soon enough.
Noise irritations rear their heads in many guises. Some easier to live with than others. The trick is to try and focus on anything else, other than that which is sending you barking. Typically they occur last thing at night and first thing. Sleep time gets reduced. Gets squeezed at both ends. Turns you into a psycho. All you can think about is squeezing the living daylights. On a multitude of sites we suffer from rooster insomniacs, church bells, coo-cooing pigeons, noisy neighbours, party goers, early football matches, hedge strimmers, calls to prayer, car alarms, sirens, barking dogs – did I mention the dogs?
Surprisingly, our two-nighter at Tsoli’s Camping near Lampiri, is bark-less. A first for this trip. Come midnight all is quiet.
Our journey over wasn’t quite without its own irritation however. Beastie decided to get in on the act. For mile after mile he decided to allow some invisible guest to ride with us. Some moronic morse code operator. Suffering from a combination of acute dyslexia and dyspraxia. Unable to string one intelligible word together. Intent on doing his own impression of a drunken Woody the Woodpecker. We search high and low. Investigate every possible cause. All without success.
Our end of drive 2K walk into Lampiri is not without event either. It takes us past this roadside tipping area . . .
In Greece, this sight IS the norm. Just today we scooted past at least ten. Main roads, side streets, business and residential areas. Even several random piles left alongside orchards and olive groves.
Across the road from this tip, a couple of dogs clock us. We’re passing through their territory. They let us know. Aggressively track our every move.
Mr Big – the main aggressor.
We have to return this way of course. And do so. I decide to do a bit of my own barking. (see how it gets you?) Throw in a few snarls and growls. Show my teeth. Mr Big is not impressed. Thinks he can take me. (He’s probably right). Does his own version of Lenny the Lion. Hmmn? – not surprisingly he’s better at it than me. Thinks I’ll back down. He partly ignores the passing traffic and edges into the middle of the road to cut us off. He’s now giving it some serious welly. Mrs S is not happy with the way I’m handling proceedings. Would prefer some sort of arbitration. We’re way past that stage. I take my camera from my shoulder and wrap the strap around my fist. Allow it to hang ready, just in case. He sees me prepare and has second thoughts. Moves back to his side. His bravado not yet fully diminished. Mrs S suggests throwing a stone at him. The second I bend down, he backs completely off. He’s seen this film before. Knows what comes next. Doesn’t fancy a repeat. We walk on.
Humans are all different. In many ways. That’s equally true of MOHOs and MOHOmers. But sometimes we wish we could occasionally be the same.
On site, Beastie proudly stands out from the crowd. He’s by no means the longest, or the highest. Certainly not the shortest. Definitely not the brightest. And that’s it really. He’s a bit of a mucky pup. Unlike his peers, he attracts dirt and grime ten fold. He takes delight in treading through the deepest, muckiest puddles. Bouncing along the dustiest of dirt tracks. Wants to be considered a real adventurer. Wants the looks to go with it too. I mean, if we’d have known what he was going to be like we’d have probably named him . . .well, er . . . simply, just William – I spose.
Camping Ionion is right on the beach. Today’s short hop sees us land at 1pm. It’s a superb camping resort. Like a small upmarket village. Facilities are spot on. At only 20 euros per night, a snip.
A bleak and windy pool with no brave takers – a frustrating sight.
Two problems face us. Nothing going on locally. Nothing in the way of decent weather. The cold wind torpedoes in off the sea. Rips through the site like a cannonball. An après lunch stroll leaves us kicking our heels. Other MOHOmers, even during periods of inclement weather, simply wrap up and continue to partake of their meals or drinks outside of their warm MOHO. It seems they find it easy to spend day after day, just doing this. We can’t. For us, sitting down time is in the evening. Sometimes we wish we could. We find it difficult. When we’re away we’re ‘doers’.
So with nothing much to do we get bucket and sponge out. While away the rest of the afternoon. Come over all eastern European. Give Beastie the wash of his life. Dry him off nicely. All white and sparkly. He’s not happy though. Feels too posh. As if ready for church. Cheers up twenty minutes later. It’s raining!
