Author: brian.sheasby@outlook.com

We live in a western world of surplus, don’t we? The economics of scale have taken over. Our homes, garages and lofts operating as unwitting extensions to the mammoth warehouse monsters that lie in wait. Ever eager to respond to the billions of constant cuckoo clicks. 

Gone are the days (almost) when buying just one of an item was the norm and not the rarity. I have a garage that is stocked with an excess of virtually every sort of screw, nail and washer – to name but a few. The result of the likes of B&Q and Homebase pre-packaging all and sundry in 5s, or 10s or 50s. Plastic tubs, glass jars and packets overflow cupboard shelves, making it practically impossible to either know what’s actually there, or even find it. (that usually happens after purchasing a duplicate!) I’m unable to rid myself of any of this clutter for fear that one day, one might just ‘come in handy’!

Two days before blast off, Castles in Christchurch, one of the last ironmongery bastions to sell by ‘each’, were destined to come to my rescue. A replacement spring washer of a certain thickness and diameter was required to enable correct fitting of one of Scoot’s wing mirrors. Not on the chez moi holdings list. I decided not to add to my massive melange. They’ve never failed mankind – yet. Their stock of thingamajigs estimated by all and sundry to outnumber all of the known stars in the milky way. But alas. Their almost infinite number of spring washers came up one short! My jaw hit the ground. So, less than twenty fours hours later, I took delivery of one hundred of the same, courtesy of Mr Amazon. The jaw of the man, who served me at Castles, also dropped, when later that day, I dropped off a freebie of 99 spring washers.

On the subject of surplus, I must have turned into a right prima donna since our last trip. The plastic bracket that holds the hanging bar in my 15″ wide bedside cupboard, split, under the sheer weight it was supporting apparently. Luckily, Mrs S spotted all my nicely ironed shirts and T-shirts piled in a mess, the day before  setting off. “Why on earth are you taking so many tops? Half of them are ancient. You’re taking n+1(to save a red face) too many” . . . “Well, you never know, they might come in handy”.

Brexit has turned us into a couple of crooked crooks. Smugglers no less. Not unwitting, I might add.  Intent on breaking the law. Prepared to pay the fine. Or do the time. Well, not quite. 

Rules, regulations and even laws are best applied to others, aren’t they? The idea of crossing over (under in our case) into France and not being allowed to stock up Beastie’s Belly with pre-cooked meals, meat and dairy products, didn’t align itself. So we made a plan.

Just before entering the train we transferred lock, stock and two smoking barrels into Scoot’s top-box and under seat storage area. If we were going to get caught, then they’d have to strip-search Beastie’s garage. Fumble around in his nether regions. And the way I load that up for each trip does not present a particularly pleasant sight. The aim, to create a feeling of ‘it’s more than my job’s worth” nod and a knowing wink, and a wave-on by.

As it turned out, our clandestine cavorting came to no avail. No red or green channel to choose. We weren’t even asked the prerequisite “Anything to declare?”

All clear in . . .

All clear out . . .

We all travel life’s journey in unique ways. Approaching and dealing with day to day existence in a multitude of various situations, we are, or become, pragmatic, idealistic, unrealistic, neurotic, erratic, hysteric, misguided, imaginative, philosophical, fickle, unreasonable, illogical, impractical, unpredictable . . . the list is endless.

Every campsite we have ever stayed on has been unique too. Set up, organised and run by their unique owners. Some with a vision. Others with a passion. Some eager to take care of the roaming flock that daily enters through their gates. Nothing being too much trouble. Others with a laissez-faire attitude. “Just get on with it, will you?” Cold or hot, lukewarm or indifferent, as MOHOmers you have to quickly adjust to these idiosyncratic site’s systems, put in place, more often than not, by owners of good intention. Pragmatism is key.

It’s a glorious sunny Friday evening that finds us pitched up on a Huttopia site, within a 2K walk from Strasbourg. A previously, aimed for, and missed destination. Another uneventful drive, that has given ample opportunity to remember the increasing number of items we usually pack, but haven’t! Doh!! At our age, being philosophical with a touch of self-forgiveness is key.

Druivenland Camping, just south of Brussels, where our one euro purchase of a freezing cold shower, taught us it sometimes pays to gently complain and avoid any signs of hysteria. The very sympathetic owner, keen to make things right for us, discovered the problem lay with a blown fuse, and was grateful to be told.

Siersburg Camping, a beautifully located site in Germany, provided an all time first. A fully computerised sign in and payment system. ‘It’ failed to point out (or did we fail to realise?) that not only our electric MOHO plug in, but also our showers, were controlled by the single contactless card, that the on-wall console coughed out. So when we both went for a shower after dinner, cutting the card in half was not an option. Later, the cold response by the owner to our conundrum, implied a touch of neurosis on our part. Fully justified at 11pm, when our allocated 40KW of MOHO power dissipated into the night’s ether.

Camping Siersburg – one of Beastie’s favourite riverside spots . . .

Provides a picture postcard view . . .

‘We are stardust, we are golden, we are billion-year-old carbon’ – part of the lyrics of Joni Mitchel’s Woodstock, made famously popular by messrs Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young in 1970.

Could that explain why our human characteristics can often seem to be a reflection of ‘what’s out there’? Moon-like night owls; all day sun worshippers; needy binary stars revolving around one another; argumentative asteroids, colliding with anything that comes their way; Jupiter-like charismatics having a strong gravitational pull; timid plutonians that prefer to stay hidden for as long as possible; is that why twins are carbon copies?

Since retirement kicked in we’ve been behaving like a couple of comets, our elliptical orbits enabling us to see what’s out there, destined to do the rounds.

Today’s round, Strasbourg, is much larger than we realise. 18,740 steps worth. Even though we venture no further than the historic tanner’s centre of La Petite France. We gate crash Gabriel’s ‘free’ English speaking walking tour. He doesn’t mind. He earns from tips. His comic spiel aids our failing memory banks. Talks us through the siege of Louis XIV, when Strasbourg became French; the healthier than water properties of  beer; Strasbourg in it’s day, being the European centre for a certain type of highly transmissible STD; the fact that Sauerkraut did not originate in Germany, but during the building of the Great China Wall – much to the horror of the Germans in the group.

An after lunch walk through, what we thought was its famous cathedral of Notre-Dame, turned out to be a non-event. Then on exit we spied the real spire and its indulgent facade.

Many street performers enhanced the holiday vibes. This particular two-stringed Kokyu player, the pick of the bunch.

I should have recorded more . . .

We all have our off days, don’t we? Feeling under the weather. We trip over. Bump our head. Cut a finger . . . Beastie’s no different to us in that sense. He needs the occasional TLC too, just like us.

On day two, Beastie had a tummy ache and was running a temperature. Or to be more precise, the garage where Beastie’s heating system is housed was going into melt down. If you’ve ever stepped out of a plane into the searing heat of an equatorial country and experienced that terrific blast of hot air, then you’ll know what hit me when I went to check on the problem. Seemed he’d only gone and spilled out some of his heating guts.

Day four saw him suffer a cauliflower ear. The bruising’s turning a little orange now.

Day 6 and we’re pitched up 100 metres from the shore of Lake Constance. Any ideas of this being a romantic setting are blown out of the water by the dull greyness of the day, the grey gravel Beastie is resting on, the grey shoreline and the grey paddle-man as he paddles across the grey water.

Checking out the lie of the land when it comes to every pitch location is not always possible. So in Strasbourg, we had the delights of a church clock that struck the hour relentlessly throughout the night. Your brain gets sucked into its timing. Being reminded on the hour of how few hours there are left before it’s time to get up, not the most conducive, or refreshing way to prepare for another day’s journeying.

So here at Lake Constance, we have the lake to our right. And fifty metres to our left we have what must be the most efficiently run train service in the world. Trains whizz by incessantly 24/7 (even if we are here only for the 24 bit).

Have you ever had a premonition? Or realised, as an event occurs, you knew ‘something’ was due to happen? Intuition, or foreboding? 

There’s always plenty of thinking time on each day’s journey. Today is no exception. In between crosswords (the clue and answer kind), thinking of family and friends back home, discussing the latest on Ukraine and enjoying the glorious Austrian scenery . . .

‘So, . . . What would happen if Beastie got really sick? Would our EU breakdown cover come up trumps? Would it curtail our trip? How would we cope? . . .’

It’s mid afternoon. A quiet spot for a rest break needed. The Tyrol and Fern pass via the non-toll 179 an easy, but still tiring drive. A BP-Spar looms. Beastie’s on a quarter full. Just the job. Kill two birds with one stone.

Climb back up. Turn the key. Nothing. Beastie’s having a nervous breakdown. The display reads “Transmission Failure”. What!? Turn again. “Power steering failure” Oh no!! Third time lucky? “Diesel filter failure” What the hell!

Beastie is no more. Demised. Nailed to the spot. Not even restin . . . dead as a parrot. What a place to call it a day! We’re miles from Bolton.

Fumbling fingers fumble through the manual. Search for an answer that’s not there. The young woman at the till has as much English as I German. The word kaput, understood. She follows me back to Beastie and I give him another chance to spring back into life. Nothing. She writes down a number of a breakdown service. Instead, I call Comfort Insurance. Our policy includes EU breakdown. Ten minutes pass before an answer. Full details given. She can’t work out exactly where we are. I remember the app WhatThreeWords. She knows it too. The inventers have broken the whole world into three metre squares and allocated a unique three word combination to each square; so as I’m typing this I can see I am precisely located at //eldest.recommit.subtleties//

Two hours pass. We sit out a torrential thunderstorm.

A man pops over from the shop. To check on the situation. He speaks English. Luckily it’s a big station and there are lots of other pumps. I phone again. Another hour has passed. It seems the Austrian breakdown service say it should be dealt with by their German counterparts, but neither have a tow truck, or mechanic to hand!

I relay this back to the man. He says something to the young woman, who phones her boyfriend. It just so happens he works at the Austrian Motor Club – the equivalent of our RAC & AA. He says he’ll get someone with us in less than thirty minutes. Twenty minutes later the fault is diagnosed as a dead battery. Beastie needs a transplant. It just so happens he has on board a perfect match!

By now there’s no chance to reach our planned site. However, it just so happens this BP Spar offers free overnight parking and hotel spa-like facilities. And for one euro a twenty-two minute hot shower. (compared to last night’s camping of one euro per four minutes)

Then it’s Dolomites here we come . . .

Precious moments slip through our fingers, often hardly noticed. Fall to the ground behind us, like autumn leaves, never to be relived. Yet, recognising and savouring those instances, conjures a special kind of spiritual nourishment.

Photos and videos help to remind us. Never really recapture the experienced feeling. Today’s glorious journey takes us on to Valle Verde camp site, Predazzo, AKA the ‘Geological garden of the Alps’. Stunning views on all sides along our way, create the visionary equivalent of surround-sound.

Valle Verde camping is set in a wonderful valley location – with facilities to equal last night’s Spar, spa. We waste no time in walking off the day’s journey. Follow one of the many tracks directly from the site. A riverside walk takes us past a huge porphyry rock face – Imperial Rome’s most prestigious stone for columns, vases, altars, and the like.

Each day’s journey does not always represent a means to an end. Sicily may be our goal, but on a day such as this, we can hardly call it a hardship.

They say you can have too much of a good thing, but when you’re confronted by the enormity and beauty of creation, enough is never enough.

These immovable marvelous monoliths exude an inert strength and power.

We can only wonder in awe at the sight of these massive fractals.

With our morning’s entertainment done and dusted for another time, it’s time for lunch. Our roadside pull-in, brightened by these cheerful recycling huts.

I have long suspected, that in order to bring the whole world’s economy to an instant standstill, then you’d simply need to suspend every women’s credit card account.

High street ‘shopping’, as we know it, revolves around what women want and today’s to and from Sottomarina, of 22,000 steps, takes us into the heart of Little Venice (Chioggia) on market day. Corso del Popolo is awash with stalls. One or two fruit and veggies attract some attention. Another with piles of men’s underpants is already packing away. Another has bicycle bells and lights on display. Just how many would they need to sell to cover their time and costs before turning in a profit? Of course, the savvy ones, sell women’s ‘stuff’. Like fields of colourful wild flowers blowing in the breeze, they tempt the passing lady butterflies, to stop, taste, try, then buy. And they do. Mrs S, no exception. I do my favourite Eeyore impression.

Back in September 2010 Big Venice disappointed. Maybe if the weather then, was as good as today’s, then we’d have not come away vowing never again.

Historic Chioggia is also awash with churches. A visitor walking trail testifies. We manage one. The rest are only open until 12.45. It’s lunchtime, we’ve missed the boat. So, we seek out a place serving a local favourite – platters of five, fish bruschettas. I order. The first four, crab, prawn, squid- bits, sardine go down a treat. I can’t make out what’s on the fifth. It’s disguised. Smothered in a delicious rich tomato sauce. I can’t chew through it easily. Decide to remove the sauce. Six arms revealed. I must be chewing the other two. A tiny baby octopus lies forlorn. I let him rest in peace. Suddenly I feel full.

In the heat of the return 4.7K, we kind of regret not giving Scoot his first run out.

If you can call it a joy, the ‘not knowing’ of what to expect from one camp site to another is all part of the delight of MOHOing. Or, then again . . .

Today’s very rural Poppi site would be better suited as a winter shelter for the local goat herd. A series of terraces, interlinked by one in three inclines, test the strongest of thighs. We’ve left our grappling hooks at home. To add insult to injury, we haven’t experienced facilities such as these since being in Morocco.

On arrival we are informed (although hardly any English is spoken, exchanged, or understood), that the site is closed, yet get allocated a top tier terrace pitch. If this was a theatre setting, then you could say we were up in the Gods. The family are busy getting ready for the season. According to the book, that started today. Ancient mother with daughter, on hands and knees, scrape weedy growth out from between the poolside slabs. The wizened father is on patrol duty. Uses his mini mini-moke to do the donkey work. Finds no sign of number 6.

On leaving , the offer “12 euro? OK?” is fair. Mrs S gives 15€. She obviously gave them a high score for effort.

The Italians just love slopes. It’s in their blood. Given the choice between living on top of a hill or on the flat, they go for the former every time. Our route through Italy’s central Apennines is pitted with hill-top and hill-side communities, that often seem precariously perched. Stuck limpet-like. Huddles of beautiful barnacles on the landscape. Left out in the sun drying. Waiting for the tide to turn.

Castles, high in situ, are not in short supply, either, so before leaving this area, we go take a look at its impressive Castello di Poppi.

Our steep cobbled walk, with the advantage of our super spongy Skecher soles, a cinch. How did the medievals cope? – we soon find out . . .

We stop off at this impressive monument. Built to honour the fallen in WWII.

Then it’s onwards and downwards . . .

Are we on holiday? Or, are we on a trip? What’s the difference?

We’re eeking out the very few sites down the middle. With a mountainous spine that’s lumpy and bumpy it’s hardly surprising they are few and far between. Over ninety-five per cent of Italy’s sites are coastal.

On our Italian travels, the middle road into Il Collaccio is quite different to any we’ve encountered to date. Today’s uneventful journey, brought to a perfect end.

Clouds build. Thunder warns, but you can never know for certain where lightning might strike. And, you never expect it to strike the same place twice. Yet in 2016, this central part of Italy, experienced four severe earthquakes in just a few months.

Our two night stopover, Il Collaccio, was fortunately unaffected. Though many nearby towns and villages were devastated. We unload Scoot. Time for his first outing. Intentions of taking a local look-see. See what’s left standing.

Since our last trip, we’ve gone all hi-tec. Invested in some on-board communication. Recommended by Lloyd & Jackie – recently retired and now fellow MOHOmers, also carrying a Scoot in their boot. With Bluetooth connectivity to MAPS, there’s no good excuse for us to get lost now. But will this be an opportunity for Mrs S to become a proverbial back seat driver?

We Scoot 17K into Norcia. Closest town to one epicentre of magnitude 6.6. Its medieval basilica of St Benedict, among many buildings destroyed. Five years on and they still have a lot to accomplish.

Our journey back to base, gets abruptly interrupted. After only a few hundred metres Mrs S screeches “Stop, stop. It feels like I’ve got two horns digging into my head”. Further investigation reveals that one of the hi-tec ear-phones has travelled from its mounting and wedged itself in a central forehead location. Quite how she managed to get her helmet on will remain a mystery.

We (I) round the day off with a swim and we enjoy an evening meal on the restaurant terrace that overlooks the fabulous pool.

Like a couple of crows, we are not heading straight as an arrow. We are often to be found circling around the Italian terrain, like whirligigs. Destination south, but being taken north east. As a consequence, we can regularly be seen going nowhere fast – or should that be slow?

Day 14 came to its winding end at Camping Sabbia d’Oro. A beachside one night stop-over that was the site’s only saving grace. And ours. Beastie’s pitch, a thirty second walk onto it’s quiet and quite perfect place to forget about travel for an hour or two.

Day 15 finds us hugging the coastal road and on into the Parco Nazionale del Grande – a fat protuberance that sticks out like a sore thumb into the extreme blue of the Adriatic. Italy’s dewclaw, with Vieste at its tip, points towards Dubrovnik – a mere 111 miles away – as the crow flies . . .

Out of season travelling, has its benefits. Cheaper site prices; more pitch availability; less crowds in the must see places of interest.

So far this trip has been more about viewing than doing. Having previously ticked off Italy’s A-list in 2017, it seems we are now working through its B-list, as we move south. Perhaps that will revert once we cross into Sicily.

We meander the ancient walled towns, wherever we can find them. Cross paths with other ancients. All walking the same walk. Doting in their dotage, as we all seek out the ‘pretty’ old. We find them romantic, yet push given shove, would not swap our reality, given half the chance.

Our fifteen minute walk into old town Vieste, takes just under thirteen minutes. The buildings down south, clearly start to reflect their neighbours from across the Med. Flat tops. White-wash from top to bottom. No doubt sunnies required, even on a cloudy day.

From the end of this Vieste finger-tip we get glorious views to left and right . . .

Most eateries crowd the narrow lanes. Eager owners, with too few customers, wait patiently. Tables and chairs laid out like spiders’ webs. Hoping a silky “buongiorno” will reel in a catch. Stick a bottom on a seat. The season is not yet under way.

This deserted cafe in a cave, typical. Its novel enticers entice a look inside – only.

Recently, for the first time since childhood days, we got to play a game of Monopoly. Of course, after only allocating a couple of hours, it’s left in abeyance. Waiting to be set up again, on our return. Right where we left it.

Sue & Dave’s (of across the road), Christchurch version, adding interest. Its longevity (in more ways than one) is one of those games that succinctly emulates some aspects of life. Illustrates and differentiates. Between the have’s and the have not’s. Property is king. Money rules. OK?

We’re pitched up at Camping Atlantide, 5K from the centre of Monopoli. That ongoing game, reminds us that our property will still be there waiting for our return. But for now, Beastie, our property on wheels, reminds us we’re one of the “have’s”.

Earlier, we leave Beastie in a side road. Give him chance to cool down in the late afternoon heat. We go navigate the narrow channels of old town. Tack this way, then that. Allow ourselves to be blown wherever they lead. A definite ‘Lenor’ fragrance fills the air. Many apartments’ washing, left out to dry.

As is typical, the locals’ inventive decorations add to the delight.

We turn into a small piazza. A large film crew is busy setting up. Most, seemingly doing nothing much. Chatting. Smoking. Coffee-ing. Just hanging about. We become a couple of hangers on. Superfluous. Happy to become extras should the opportunity present. It doesn’t. We wait. And wait. It’s down to the cameraman getting his act together. Nobody makes a scene. Patience is prudence. With the number of bodies milling around, it goes someway to explain the enormous credit roll at the end of modern made films.

With one eye on the road and the other constantly scanning news of Ukraine, our sense of freedom seems to have taken on a new meaning. Yet it raises the question – “What is freedom?”

Are you more, or less free, if you uphold the law? Is a lawbreaker, paying no heed to the consequences, either on themselves, or others, more free, when they choose to oppress or subjugate another? Can true freedom only be tied to the ideology propagated by democracy? We were free to choose to make this trip. Yet we are not free from the guilt that every mile we travel, may be filling the coffers of Russia and fueling the war on Ukraine. Is our freedom at the cost of those in Ukraine?

Our choice to visit two places of interest in one day, seems like a good idea. A further 40K down the road and we’re at stop number one. Alberobello. Home of the Trulli. Its heaving. Coach loads bussed in. Guided tour parties criss-cross like chequers. We head up to the top of town. Away from the masses.

With no car park suitable for Beastie closer than 2K of the centre, we end our day with a hike into and out of Gallipoli old town – almost. In the heat it feels double. We get as far as the castle. Pay for an audio tour. Then run out of steam.

Decide to head back to Beastie. Make one final stop at this unusual looking church.

What seemed like a good idea (mine), backfired. It was a long walk simply for a castle tour. Made the day too long. We agree not to visit more than one place on any one day.

So far we’ve been treating Italy like a donkey. Sticking random pins in, here and there. Blindly creating a tale as we follow their trail. Hoping to hit the spot.

We take each day as it comes. Never knowing from one turn to the next what lies behind each corner. It’s evident that sun, sand & sea are paramount the further south we venture. And in abundance. Most camp sites cling closely to the coastal roads. Ever eager for that nice Mr Google to reveal their whereabouts with pin-point accuracy.

We’re not quite heel, not quite toe and so day 19 finds us pitched up practically beach side at Pineta di Sibari Camping. A couple of hours toasting, like a couple of hot chestnuts, a near perfect end to our journey.

The fuel stations down here can be a little confusing. On the same station, one section of pumps can be self-serve; another ‘attended’ – at an extra cost. At today’s fuel pull in on the way to Tropea, we are serviced by a different type of attendant. He spots us as we edge in. Runs too closely alongside. I stop Beastie. Not wanting to squash him. He plonks himself down right in front. Barks out something. “Card or cash?” most likely. Mrs S steps down. Gingerly tries to coax him away. She likes her fingers. He’s stubborn. He’s in charge. He knows it. He’s made his point. Another car moves off. Looks like more fun. He chases it madly, like a demented greyhound, that’s lost sight of the rabbit. Prepared to chase anything that moves. Frantically follows it out and up onto the slip road. Barking wildly. Gets out-accelerated. Pulls himself up ten metres short of the dual-carriageway. Ambles back as if this is all completely normal. Makes himself comfortable between two pumps – “Next please . . . “

We arrive in good time at Tropea. Prepare thighs for a work out. The town is up top. Camping Marina dell’ Isola, our one-nighter, is not. Tropea has a great vibe. A sea-side town with a difference. From below the buildings seem as if they can’t decide whether to jump or not. “I will if you will” . . . “You go first then.” . . . “No, YOU go first” . . .

Yet once on top, everything feels as safe as houses . . . for now?

We round the day off nicely, with . . . some sun, sand and sea.

History can hide your past, with its cloak of forgetfulness. Allow you respite from any previous misdemeanour. Then, when you least expect, it can suddenly get pulled away. Like a rug from under your feet. Reveal a truth that would have been better left well alone. And then it’s time to pay the consequence.

News from home, via Sue & Dave. An International packet needs picking up from Christchurch sorting office. ID needed. Passport and driving licence photos WhatsApp’d. They are accepted. A little later we discover it’s from Bulgaria. We’re on their wanted list. Apparently Beastie was a very naughty boy on the 21st April 2019 . . . think we might wait for the reminder . . .

Finding the Caronte & Tourist ferry ticket booth in Villa san Giovanni port is straight forward. €89 return is not a bad price. It allows us 90 days on Sicily. We don’t need that long. Or maybe we do! We get completely disorientated in the Disney style queueing system. End up alongside a line of artics. All waiting to board the BlueLine Ferry. “Go into town one kilometre” we’re told. Something we’d already done, but turned left instead of right. This time we get it right.

Twenty minutes later we dock into Messina. Twenty days and two thousand miles behind us. Plans to park up and spend an hour or two messing around Messina get abandoned. We haven’t experienced road mayhem like this since Morocco. A wicked one way system with no chance of parking Beastie, causes an in-cab meltdown, so we decide to go straight to Camping Marmora. A short coast to coast excursion.

The section of camp allocated to MOHOs and the like is stark. Concrete walls topped with bars and concrete pitches. Best behave for fear of being selected for the line up. We’re twenty metres from the rocky and stony beach. We break out. Stretch out for a couple of hours. Return before dark, unnoticed. Incarcerated behind bars weirdly enhances the evening’s sunset.

A catastrophe of twists and turns is one way of describing Italian town and city road systems. To a degree, especially in Sicily’s more mountainous areas, there is no other option. But the Italians have taken the notion of a bend and turned it up a notch or two. Then thought it a good idea (obviously not practice) to sprinkle important waypoints into the same melee, so that they all meet at the same location. The word carnage springs to mind.

On board we carry:- four actual cameras; two phones; one laptop; one tablet; one Bluetooth speaker; two Bluetooth helmet gizmos; two LED torches; one FitBit; one shaver; one ELEMNT Roam. All vie for power. If several need to be recharged at any one time, then Beastie’s inside can quickly start to resemble a typical Italian town road system. A mini confusion of spilled spaghetti. Untidy, ugly but necessary tools of today’s lifestyle.

We’re currently pitched up at Camping Costa Pomenta for two nights. A massive camping village, with a massive swimming pool. At reception, Nina greets us with good news. A poolside pitch is available due to a cancellation. “You are lucky people”.

On route we stop off at Tindari. It’s claim to fame being the massive Sanctuary of the Madonna di Tindari. Its 300 metre high position a perfect lookout post for Castle Tindari; the ruins on which the church now stands. It’s 30C, so we pay the two euro. Leave Beastie to bake. We take the short 1K shuttle ride.

Ancient Tindaris used to sit on this prominent hill. It’s a little lower. A barrage of gaudy clutter litters the lane down to the archaeological site. Stalls of Chinese junk diminish the experience.

It’s clear that parts of the ancient settlement are still being discovered. Remains of old buildings scatter a wide area, including an amphitheatre. This building our favourite.

There comes a point in each trip, when being away from UK home becomes the ‘norm’. The nomadic existence kicks in. Days of idleness or busyness or journeying blend seamlessly. Our ancient second nature takes over.

Today is that day. We leave Beastie on site. He gets to do what all great Beasties do. A bit of wallowing near a waterhole and a bask in the sun.

Meanwhile we go Scootabout. Cefalù, an easy 20K skip along the SS113. Our preferred scooting gear – shorts and T-shirt the order of the day. No better way to cool off when the temperature’s touching 30C. With one road in and out, navigation aids not required. We’re free to enjoy the freedom of the road. If you can call it that! The busier the road, the more Scoot’s skippy-ness pays dividends. He hops in and out between the slow moving traffic, like the good little roo he is. Daddy Kanga, on the other hand has to develop chameleon eyes. Capable of independent 360 vision.

The older we get, the less we need, or want. So it seems. This rings true for many ancients like us. As John Mayer’s old man said to him in his Stop This Train lyrics, “Turn 68, you renegotiate”. You take a different view. Change perspective. With more of the track in hindsight, eyes tend to peer backwards rather than forwards. The only thing we crave for is more time.

And more time is what we could have done with this afternoon. We have a plan. Pitch up early at Camping Olimpo, Santa Flavia. Have lunch. Scoot out. Palermo centro a very reachable 19K. Route plotted on MAPS. On head gizmos synced. Should be a cinch. 32 minutes ETA. Palermo is a massive urban sprawl of over 675,000. This afternoon most of them are out taking a spin, either in their car, or on a scooter. We go in a spin. MAPS goes into a huff. Decides to act mute. Does a Harpo. After seventy-five minutes we eventually dismount. Bottoms not quite numb. Legs barely attached. A couple of bandy’s. Looking like John Wayne look-alikes.

We head straight for the really impressive Cathedral. That is not a literal ‘straight’. Once on Italian soil, that word becomes obsolete. MAPS decides to talk again. Quick marches us through the lefts and rights.

By the time we move on and reach the second of our three planned touristy ‘must do’s’, Palatine Chapel, it’s 16.04. Last entry 16.00! Our third, The Catacombs, are temporary closed.

BThen, when we head back to base, it’s rush hour. Two, three and four lanes chock-a-block with slow moving stationary traffic. That is, apart from Scoot and the other zillion and one other scooter divas. He holds his own. Follows their lead. Sometimes takes it too. Weaves in and out. Creating mini chicanes. A super exhilarating ride gets us back into camp in no time . . .

Luckily for us, the sun rises every day. We take it for granted. Like a multitude of things. We put our faith in the aerodynamics of a jumbo jet’s ability to lift off fully laden from the runway. We put our faith in Tesco having in stock what’s on our shopping list. In Italy and especially Sicily, we put our faith in the engineers and constructors of the myriad of seriously elevated sections of highway. Balanced on long legs of concrete, that span across valleys, hundreds of feet high – from one mountain to another.

This morning’s sunrise, at Camping Lido Valderice, Cortigliolo, is scheduled for 5.45am. At precisely 5.33am, the thick bush next to Beastie springs into action. Or rather, what sounds like hundreds of tuneless birds. The chirpy chirpy cheep cheep type. They have lots to say. But only one way to say it. They are a buzz of excitement. Like a mass of punters surrounding a bookie, before a big race. All shouting out their bet, demanding the best odds. . . . “Hey, put me £20, at 4 to 1, 5.43, on the nose”; another – “Make mine a monkey for 5.47 at 7 to 4”. . . The nearer to 5.45am the more agitated the chatter gets. All want to ensure their bet gets placed. At precisely 5.44, the chatter stops. Not one sound. The morning’s sunrise honoured and greeted in complete silence . . . as do I . . . zzz

Yesterday’s trip over to camp, highlighted a couple familiar sights . . . since our first Italian trip in 2017 (doesn’t seem five years ago!), we’ve been surprised at the general improvement in the surface of the roads. Also the ridding of many of the roadside rubbish ‘tips’. However, this latter, has been sadly prevalent in Sicily . . . .

Of course, Italy, and nowadays Sicily is Italy, are famous for their driving habits and the acceptance that anything goes . . . this is just one of many examples . . . and one of the endearing things we love about Italy.

Known as the City of a Hundred Churches, Erice is our today’s go-to. It’s an uphill wiggly Scoot of 11K. Many cyclists are out for a morning challenge. A long slog with gradients ranging between 5% & 10%. I almost envied them . . .

Erice epitomises high level living and sits at just over 750metres. About the same height as San Marino. For the Scoot-less, bike-less and car-less, a one kilometre cable car ride drops you just outside the city gate. Although it has never housed one hundred churches, that’s all there is to see once on top. A ticket gets us entry into the best four. It seems the architects over the years were very competitive. Each wanting to outdo the other. These two favourites illustrate.

All life is dependent upon the right balance. A fine dividing line. Too much of one thing, or not enough of the other, can quickly bring change. Have an effect. Make or break. Like a high-wire act. One misplaced movement and the salt cellar tumbles.

This morning we tumble along nicely to the Saline flats just short of Marsala. Previously unaware that it was famous for anything other than fortified wine. We get to learn about the whole salt making operation. A working process that’s been harvesting one of life’s essentials for eons. A delicate balance between sea, wind and sun ensures an endless supply. The control of water levels using sluice gates and Archimedean screws, gradually increases the salt concentration until it precipitates and shimmers. Then it’s time to get the shovels out.

We recently promised ourselves that we would never. As in never. Do more than one ‘thing’ in a day. Being so close to the town of Marsala and the fact that it’s on the way to our next site, blows that out of the window. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Of course, with Beastie we always need suitable parking. Not always straight forward with these old towns and narrow streets. But ever the optimist and with a little too much confidence, we venture forth. Guided by Missy, today’s nomination for twat of the year. My most used onboard catch phrase is “Are you sure this is right?” The second and rhetorical one is “This can’t possibly be right”

This twelve second clip has been severely edited. Other favorite catch phrases not deemed appropriate. At this point the gate ahead gives a clear indication that we are not where we should be. Again!

Like a servant bowing down as he backs away from his lord and master, Beastie slowly reverses for fear of more consequence.

Our walk into old town becomes a slog too far. We throw in the towel. After all, tomorrow is another day.

How quickly we forget the pain of an injury, or a sickness. The agony, or severe discomfort that’s felt, is quickly forgotten, once the cause has been eliminated.

Yesterday’s ‘plane crash’ is history. Forgotten as quickly as it happened. That’s how it is. On an extended trip like this, we know to expect an unsatisfying day or two. A quirk here or there. We get over the frustrations. Behave like adults. Don’t get in a huff or sulk. Laugh them off. It’s the best medicine.

Camping Lilybeo Village provides an easy 9K Scoot into Marsala. Our trusty steed drops us right in front of the old town wall portal.

It’s narrow streets, hemmed in from above, house an array of chic independent stores. The even narrower off shoots, set up with inviting table & chairs, do their best, but we’ve had a late breakfast. Remain steadfast. Not tempted. Head for the massive indoor and outdoor portside archaeological museum. But before we do, a stop at a cool fountain presents a pretty photo opportunity.

Back at base, we are not the only ones with rumbling tums. The local cat community senses that Mrs S is a soft touch. On the way back to camp, we’ve stopped off. How do they know? Maybe it’s the sound of a tuna tin being opened.

After dinner, Mrs S adopts her atypical profile. Despite it being late. There’s ironing to be done. As one does . . . outside and in the dark.

A pleasant experience can be quickly soured. All it needs is a misplaced action or word. An unexpected downer that can spoil ‘everything’, if you’re not careful.

Today’s route to Camping Valle Dei Templi, takes us right past one of Sicily’s must see tourist attractions at Agrigento. Covering 1,300 hectares and positioned on a high cliff face, it can hardly be missed. In both senses. So we do an about spin. A simple turn is not part of the Italian language, or road system. The large car park alongside the entrance is a converted olive grove. Low growing branches prevent an entry for Beastie. Plus the sign ‘No Campers’. As in vans.

We do what all good Italians do. Park up roadside. A wide enough piece of dirt, a perfect fit. We’re behind three other campervans. Then go walkabout, as you do when it’s 30+C. The site is so massive that they operate a shuttle from one end to the other. At 3 euro each one way, we find our legs a much more competitive option.

Modern day Agrigento up on the hill (of course) in the distance.

Back at Beastie, a piece of tally roll paper, wedged underneath a wiper blade, attempts to slap us in the face. Spoil our day. All campers likewise. Three cars left unpunished. In our absence, local police have been out collecting funds for their retirement pension. A daily ‘got-ya’ spot no doubt. They’re going to have to sing for their supper. Our ticket got mysteriously blown away.

Most of us, north of the Channel, crave a bit of warmth. Some sun on our backs. Creates a bit of feel good factor. Helps us forget those long, cold winter nights. Makes us feel glad to be alive.

Sicily set a new highest temperature record last year. The way the daily temperatures are soaring, perhaps that record will be challenged this year.

With that in mind, we head inland. Seek out higher ground. Cooler winds. Make high up Paparanza Camping, our home for three nights. An enterprising hobby, started seven years ago by Filippo. It’s now his full time occupation. His life as a biologist, forsaken. Our pitch perfectly placed. Mount Etna can be seen rising mysteriously through the heat haze. With a pool on tap too, it feels good. We need it. The winds up here are hot. We factor 50 into any thoughts of being in the burning sun for too long.

Today’s Scooting excursion, a 58K round trip to Villa Romana del Casale, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It ‘houses’ (not quite the most accurate term, as its footprint of 38,000 square feet, could easily accommodate twenty times the size of our house), one of the richest, largest, and varied collections of Roman mosaics in the world. Every internal and external room exquisitely and uniquely decorated.

Our return Scoot plans to include a stop off at Piazza Armerina. A hillside labyrinth looking too pretty to pass by. Once on top and inside, it’s not so pretty. An almost run down melancholy fills the air. Compensated occasionally by small gems of it’s former glory.

Our table top of the town lunch of sardine pasta and vegetable flan with cheese fondue, offers up a couple of its better views.

They say that mad dogs and Englishmen, go out in the mid-day sun. With temperatures like these to trip out to, we must be the mad ones.

This small Paparanza site is a work in progress. A labour of love for Filippo. Huge potential. But with the odd flaw. The biggest, his dogs. They live in a caged pen, less than fifty metres from our pitch. We would have moved on after sleepless night one, but plans overrule. We get serenaded every two to three hours each night. On top of this, they have a metal water bowl that they use to play keepie-uppies.

We rise, but don’t shine. Earlier than usual. Why stay in bed if you can’t sleep. It’s not just the dogs. The heat too. Unbearable springs to mind. But we do bear it. It pays to Scoot out early anyway. Everything closes between 1pm and 4pm.

Today’s forty minute Scoot, lands us almost to the exact centre of Sicily, at the hill top city of Enna. The highest provincial capitol in Italy at 931 metres. We have three targets; the duomo (naturally); Castello di Lombardia ; Rocca di Cerere – all within a stone’s throw of each other.

The 1076AD castle is a ruin, with one large tower still intact. The strategically placed information boards do their WIKI best to keep a visitor interested. We do our best too. Don’t quite loose the will to live by the time the last one comes into view. Then it’s time to climb the tower. Take a selfie before we do.

Then we go take refuge in the duomo. Chill for twenty minutes. A sanctuary of cool air. A short respite. Inside, a mystery solved. I’d always wondered how those high-up stained glass windows always look so clean.

Have you ever had a dull moment? When in hindsight, if you’d only paid more attention to what you were doing, an accident or catastrophe could have been avoided?

One of my endearing traits, is the ability to ignore something that needs to be done now. Let it remain on that ‘to do’ list, until it absolutely must get done. Without fail. It’s a sort of innate survival tactic. One I probably inherited from a long gone former rellie.

In preparation for this trip, Beastie had a service and MOT. So, a couple of weeks ago, when a warning flashed up on the display ‘Low Brake Fluid’, I calculated that it couldn’t mean low, as in really low, just that it had merely dipped a little into low, from its previously high state. That made sense to me, since it had just been serviced.

However, on leaving Paparanza this morning, the same warning popped up. Twice within two minutes. I bit the bullet. We’re still in hilly country. Pulled in to a nearby gas station (gee, I’ve been watching too many American movies – I mean films). Pulled out Beastie’s technical manual. Established the exact type (DOT 4) required and hoped they had some in stock. They did. Based on my theory that it had just dipped into low, I poured in only a third of the container. Thus, if the warning appeared again, I’d still have plenty in reserve. Sound logic IMHO.

Tricky bit over (not very tricky to be honest), I suddenly suffered from a seriously dull moment. I should have paid more attention to what I was doing. I didn’t. Why should I? I’ve probably replaced millions in my life. All types, shapes and sizes. With screw tops, it’s always important to start them off gently and in a perfect parallel position to whatever it is you’re attaching them to. I didn’t. In my defence, the opening of the brake reservoir, was part under an overhang, so I couldn’t get absolutely clear access. Before I knew it the cap jumped out from between my fingers, as if I’d given it a fright. Disappeared down into the black hole of the engine and not onto the ground underneath. A few expletives later, I realise that going against one of my endearing traits may have resulted in dire consequences. Just how safe would it be to drive without the cap on? “You’ll have to call out the AA” , Mrs S advises.

At this point, another of my endearing traits comes to the fore – the love of a challenge. I climb (a weird word to use in this context) under the engine. Have a look-see. A bit of a feel around. Beastie’s guts are a mish-mash of a hundred and one pipes, wires, clip and tubes. Plus some very hot and solid metal bits. Nothing doing. Back up top and on tip toes I discover the cap is caught resting on its edge on a small lip, about two feet down. Aforesaid tubes, wires and pipes prevent arm access. Think! I know. “Maise, can you get me a metal coat hanger, please” (See how polite I can be, even when under stress) I twist the hook off, straighten it as best as possible, and turn the one end under to create a smaller hook. Used this technique on more than one occasion to get into a car when I’d locked the keys inside. The idea to balance the top and lift it clear – as if in a London Palladium Brucie “Good game, good game” show. Several failed efforts and 40 minutes blacken thoughts. Fear of the inevitable grows. What to do?

A light-bulb moment!! Gorilla tape might be the answer! Wrap just enough around so that I can manouvre the wire down into Beastie’s guts. Mrs S becomes my torch-holding assistant. Tickle the cap into position. And attach. Then it’s a question of playing another one of Brucie’s favourites, the Buzz Wire game, with a new variation. Et voila!

We’re heading to the cooler coastal south and the day of not so dull moments continues.

I read books. But not a lot. I like a break between each read. Give time to reflect. Mull over the story. Others, (like Mrs S) no sooner having finished a book, go straight on to the next. If I did that, I’d quickly forget what I’d just been reading.

Out on our travels, visiting so many places, one after the other, has the same effect. It becomes increasingly difficult to remember one town or city from another. Places and people become a blur as we focus on the next ‘go to’. Minds occupy a forty-eight hour impenetrable time zone.

Sicily hasn’t helped, with its high rise look-alike hilltop towns. Its mass of competing cathedrals and churches. When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Right?

From our beachside campsite at Baia dei Coralli, Ragusa, is today’s 32K Scoot. Like so many Italian & Sicilian towns there is something romantic about the view that draws you in. Captures your imagination. Conjures conjectures.

On exiting the Duomo, a young man holds the door for us. An English “Thanks” pricks his ears. He hasn’t had a proper conversation for weeks. Possibly months. Ian is touring Sicily and anywhere else that takes his fancy. By bike. Working and biking his way around. We agree to meet for lunch. Regretfully we didn’t agree a time. Just a place. Gardens Iblei. It’s a long and windy one in five trek. All downhill. He doesn’t show. Probably didn’t fancy the upward re-trek. Can’t say I blame him. He’s carrying 80Kilo of luggage.

Day 35 and yes, you’ve guessed it. Another pretty amazing looking town. Modica.

It has a Duomo to compare with the best. And one that gives you a work out to, one hundred and seventy-five steps to the door.

Modica is famous for its specially made chocolate. So we pop into their chocolate museum. A hand made, low temperature process that uses no added ingredients other than sugar. It’s a grainy/gritty chocolate. Different to any other. Interesting to note that the very first Aztec makers would often add chili into the make.

The Scoot back to camp takes us a different route. We pass under one of Sicily’s incredible sky-ways. Must be two hundred feet high. Let’s hope earthquakes in the area are not prevalent.

Life’s full of tiny little joyful, not to be missed, moments. Just as long as we keep our eyes open. They are all around us. Waiting. We just have to be aware. Blink and they’re missed. Like a shooting star, gone forever. Turn your back, or even fail to turn around at the right moment and you could never know what you’ve missed.

Our short bunny hop up to Syracuse, gives us ample time to go explore. An on the way stop off at Noto. Once described as ‘The Stone Garden’. In fact, that statement was made in relation to the fifty churches and religious institutes, fifteen noble palaces, plus a multitude of ancient residences of ancient aristocrats that were the flowers of this ‘garden’.

Like every tourist, we are drawn to the aesthetic. Our mind’s eye, is irresistibly delighted by the intrinsic beauty of these old buildings. The Italian legacy will pay dividends for centuries to come. The local’s probably take them for granted. Maybe even consider them as a means to an end (of week pay packet).

Fortunately, today I decide to break the mould. Usually keep Beastie well clear of these old towns and city streets. This time we sneak in around the back. Take the number 11 route. A bit of waste scrub, looking down on the city, perfect. A 1K saunter. Saunter is all we can muster in today’s heat of 34C. At one turn, our downhill slalom gets interrupted. A series of six banks of steps appear. We probably won’t look forward to a thighs work out on the return leg. After a couple of sections and for no reason, we turn and look back. Are taken aback. Every vertical surface of each step has been ‘prettied’. Creating an extraordinary composite mural. Invisible going down.

With just about a week left before we complete our lap of Sicily we want more. So we try to make each day count. Like that last portion of cake. We want to have it and eat it.

Today’s 9.30 start gives Mrs S a front seat view of what it’s like to experience riding alongside a typical Italian driver. A bumpy, frantic no holds barred 7K into Syracuse, via the back door. Claud is a man on a mission. An action man. His work ethic seems relentless. His driving style reflects that. Eyes focus ahead. Early decision making key. He is clearly the boss man. The swarm of other vehicles relinquish any rights of way, even though they have the same plan. How new drivers ever get to learn any road ethics will remain a complete mystery.

Apart from his paying guests – 17 MOHO couples, he also houses on site, six beautiful horses. His office wall is plastered with photos from his prize winning show-jumping days.

He speaks no English, Dutch, French or German. Simply and effectively utilises a phone translation app to communicate seamlessly and speedily with all and sundry. Claud kindly drops us off at the Neapolis Archaeological Park, where once the ancient Siracusa was founded in 734BC.

After lunch, a bridge crossing finds us on the small island of Ortygia – the historical centre of Syracuse. It’s dreamland for visiting tourists. We’re on the lookout for the Temple of Apollo – a young girl is on the lookout for her next customer. Her funky peddle-car piques our interest and we agree to cough up €40 for a thirty minute tour.

It turns out she does no peddling. Within five seconds we wonder if we are her first paying customers, or, if this is the first time she’s driven this contraption, as an abrupt emergency stop prevents a head on collision with an electric scooter. “Mamma-mia” she expletes. This becomes her mantra for the duration. We wonder if the trike is a little too unwieldy for her slight frame. It feels as if it has the ability to topple at any moment, even without Mr Bean’s assistance. Her on board Bluetooth speaker is playing up too and she has little English. She is tense and apologetic. At each ‘tourist’ stopping point of interest, we feel fortunate if we receive the correct info, or any. It doesn’t matter. We’re having fun. Of course, use of the horn is paramount. My echo “parp-parp” – in Noddy style emulation, makes her chuckle and relieves her tension.

Visiting new places with fresh eyes, is the reason why tourism will never die. We constantly search for the new, or the different. Our travel rewards. We go here, or there. Like modern day explorers. Discovering the already discovered. In reality we go hither and thither – a couple of butterflies with no real plan – other than to enjoy what comes our way.

We’re on our way to Camping Mokambo for a three nighter. North of Catania, south of Taormina. Our last stop in Sicily. Not yet full circle. Today’s journey, like so many have, takes us through an endless parade of towns and narrow high streets. By now, the familiar. But always different.

Our food-shop stop off is different too. Conad food store is integral to a massive complex. Barely parked, a security car approaches. The Italian for “Don’t park MOHO here – come, follow me” is understood. We obey. Given a special, bar blues and twos, escort to the other side.

Food shop completed, we go browse Decathlon. I spot some bathers I like. Starkers and inside the cubicle an alarm sounds. The call to “Evacuate, evacuate” goes out. My door handle gets rattled. As do I. Decide against doing a streak and causing more alarm. It’s not on my bucket list. Instead quickly, but calmly, redress. Maintain my Englishman’s poise – as one does, don’t you know, especially when abroad and mingling with the natives. Now that’s novel.

It’s hard to believe that fifty-eight years have passed since my last appearance in Taormina. As a second year schoolboy, newly introduced to Greek history and the Roman Empire, the two week £40 trip was probably intended to add some meat to the bare bones of learning, that have remained bare ever since!

The archaeological site with it’s hugely impressive Teatro Antico at the heart, was then, and still is, the main attraction. Although during Easter 1964 it wasn’t being prepped for its annual FilmFest. With a combined backdrop of Mount Etna and blue coastal bays, it surely remains one of the world’s most spectacular locations.

Today, is big Scoot day. We head Scoot up higher than he’s been before. Hope to catch a better view. See what Mount Etna is up to, near to hand. Us, and the hordes of other bikers (not that we can be called bikers), all with the same idea.

Our 69K Etna loop, doesn’t end without a bit of fun. We come down to size, like a couple of extras in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.

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.

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 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!!

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!

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!!

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.

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.

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!

We complete our 180, with a waterside walk through Piediluco.

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.

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.

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.

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!!

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.

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!

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 . . .

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.

Wonder what the forecast is for tomorrow ?. . .

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.

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 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.

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

We’re having a good day, but this little fella looks as if he’s having a bad hair day . . .

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.

Our touch and turn and the real point of our walkabout is lunch. We join the throng.

The day ends as it starts – in the pool . . .

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.

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’.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

However, our cross over into France from Belgium brings a welcome return to big vistas.

Our road-side sarnie stop pops up another view too good to overlook. Harvest time 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 . . .
• Beastie’s nearside wing mirror thwacked and broken (tut tut Mr S)
• 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

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?!!