Category: Corsica & Sardinia 2019

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 . . .

Two weeks max should do it.

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.

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.

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 . . .

. . . 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.

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.

Our day peaks at 28C and gets rounded down nicely to 24C just in time for our first Al Fresco dinner.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 . . .’

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ah. Only two hundred and ninety-nine more to go. Seriously? You watched this video to the end?

Fortunately, I don’t get to see, or taste, what I ate earlier. This ship’s massive mass saves my bacon.

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.

By the time Laura arrives tomorrow afternoon, today’s weather hiccup should have long passed. In the meantime . . .

The on-line forecast and overhead sky-scape agree for once. A small weather window just enough time to go claim my rightful place . . .

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.

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.

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.

The reason we’re exiting ninety minutes later?

Laura arrives. Her suitcase doesn’t . . .

. . . it’s still at Stansted! 🙁 🙁 🙁

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

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 . . .

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Alghero’s small quaint centre is another that pretties up the overhead view . . .

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.

We leave just enough time and sun for Laura to work on her tan.

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.

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 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.

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?”

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 . . .

Mrs S prepares his exit . . .

He taxies towards the slip road . . . holds his breath . . .

None of us can quite believe how easy that was . . .

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.

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 . . .

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

On closer inspection we find they’ve prettied it up some . . .

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.

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 . . .