Category: Italy 2017

As “green as they come” novices, embarking on our first short UK trip, we just “went for it” so to speak. With a confidence and trust based around complete naivety.

We learned lots within a short space of time. Like cramming last minute for an ill-prepared exam, we just hoped it would be OK on the day. With every little escapade, our tight-knit team of four managed and overcame all obstacles strewn before us. So confidence grew. By the time we returned back home, after eight weeks on the road in France, we were fearless “know-it-alls”. But somehow, we’re not so fearless anymore. Our cavalier attitude has gone walk-about. When preparing for this trip we slipped into “what-if?” mode. What-if we forget the passports? What-if we forget the tunnel tickets, or even, God forbid, what-if we forget something even more important, like the ironing board!!

With our wipers in full use on our run down to Ypres, I recalled a question posed by Nejme a Turkish student, who stayed with us for three months in the late 80s. “Brian” he asked, “what are those two things called, those things like two big bath towels”. Oh how the Turkish car industry has flourished since then.

We’re currently pitched up just 10 minutes walk from the Menin Gate. We take the walk to witness the daily 8pm playing of the Last Post by three buglers from the local fire brigade.  Like so many WW1 tributes it leaves you solemn and silent as your heart, mind and soul try to make some sense of what seems utter senselessness.

A little earlier, our noses lead us directly into a chocolate shop – with a difference. Piles of perfectly replicated tools, perfectly arranged, plied our olfactory senses. Like an insect drawn into the clutches of a Venus Fly Trap, we ventured further in, until there was no escape – without a purchase!  Pliers, wrenches, hammers, spanners, nuts and bolts all aiding and adding to our anticipated bliss. We are in Belgium after all!!

We’re not in Italy and it’s not like any other old day in town. We’re in the heart of heartbreak land. Ypres, Ieper, Wipers – whichever way you say it, it leads you to one thing only. That’s death. On a massive scale.

Unwittingly, as if surrounded by marauding “sturmtruppen”, we get ambushed. We should have known better. After all it’s why we’re here. We’re inside the “In Flanders Fields” museum. The superb “presentations” showcase the horror, the misery, the suffering.

There’s no escape. Our minds can’t fathom it. We try to read the “history” to make sense of it. Impossible. We watch, listen and read of individual acts of bravery and kindness. All for the cause.  All given for us.

Five hours later we emerge. Exhausted. Bewildered. But fully understand why not one these heroes must ever be forgotten.

So, how long does a man live, finally?
And how much does he live while he lives?
We fret, and ask so many questions –
Then when it comes to us
The answer is so simple.

We’re aiming for warmer climes, but they’ll have to wait. We still have unfinished business over here.

Each day, we’re trying to kill two birds with one stone – or it could be three? We hope to maximise each day’s mileage, without jeopardising the journey itself. We need to allow ourselves time for a stop or two. Of course that means an early start. 10.15am our record so far.

So it’s an early goodbye to Ypres, without discovering just exactly how many guest bedrooms this place could possibly house – unless they’re a leftover from the astonishing pigeon post that operated so successfully during WW1. I’d hate to be the one tidying up after that lot checked out!

We intend Tyne Cot to be our last WW1 post, but as it happens it wasn’t. Again, words will never do justice. That’s long gone.

The Royal British Legion have planted a field of Passchendaele poppies at Tyne Cot. Messages from all over in remembrance.

We wander silently through the expanse of 12,000 graves.

Then it’s onwards and upwards. Or in our case downwards.

We’ve enhanced our team. There’s now five of us. Pat has an assistant. We’ve brought her on board as extra security. Thanks to the top people in Fiat Ducato’s think tank, Pat thinks we’re driving a Fiat 500 – all 3.5metres. Consequently on our previous trip she constantly tried to “boldly go where no one has gone before.” At times she behaved a little bit like me. Her confident cultured tones disguising the fact she was ignorant of the height, width and weight of Beastie. We think she may have thought she was traveling with a different Mr S.

With an Alps crossing coming up and time spent navigating the Italian Lakes, we’ve invested in Co-Pilot. Residing in tablet form, it houses a “Sheila”. An Oz with an attitude. Whereas Pat politely proffers her instructions, “Little Missy” brashly barks them. A woman at work. She comes from the land down under. She knows about big things.

Low tunnels. Weak bridges. Narrow lanes. Dirt tracks. Farmer’s fields – even Hyper-Marche height restricting barriers – all a thing of the past!

We’ll see.

A literal case of deja vue brings us back to another genius painter’s abode, but not before we get side-tracked.

Early starts are becoming a habit as we steam our way south to Essoyes, home and workplace of Renoir. Leaving Belgium behind we’re back in familiar France. An impressive privately maintained memorial, to the ten thousand French soldiers who gave their lives at the battle of the Marne, employs us to halt.

Today, the once a year ceremony, at the “Ferme de Navarin”, is just about to take place. The young soldiers parade their well practiced drills. Some get presented awards. The whole thing  brought to a fitting finale with a rousing tribute. It joins their force with those long gone.

We tried our luck in Essoyes a few months ago. Got there five minutes before the “must have” ninety minute lunch break. Moved on, couldn’t then afford the time. So we’re back again and more organised. Tiny, tiny village lanes try to torment us. Beastie’s having none of it. We know exactly where we are and where we’re going to park. No problem. Getting cocky methinks, but it’s a good feeling.

The visual presentation of his family and work life open our eyes to his brilliance and his tenacious character when riddled with rheumatoid arthritis in his later years, yet still painting – even on the morning of his death.

The guided route takes us to a quiet river spot, where he’d sit and paint local women as they came down with their laundry.

With ears popping like a shaken Corona bottle stopper, we go up, up and UP. The rain however, decides to meet us half way, how thoughtful, and comes down, down, down.

With twenty four hours or more of rain forecast we aim to travel as far east as we can today. Easier said than done. The climbs and steep downhills hinder.

We’re going nowhere fast. That’s because Beastie has another useful on-board gizmo. A bit like a 747s reverse thrust. Press the DOWN button and hey presto the engine adopts a new approach as it assists and resists Newton’s basic law and prevents Beastie’s brakes burning up as it re-enters the lower atmosphere. Parachute employment not necessary.

Suisse hier kommen wir

Then we’re up and over and skirting the northern shoreline of Lake Lausanne. It’s really beautiful. We can’t see much of it.

Aiming to stop at Brig. Our A.C.S.I. book indicates German spoken. We usually phone ahead. i.e. “I” usually phone ahead. No fear of making a fool of myself. Second nature. Done it many times before. Prep brain for fifth form vocab. Hmm, asking them where the Bahnhof is won’t help us. Nor letting them know that das Buch is on the table. In any event, don’t want to impress too much.

Clears throat as phone the other end is picked up.

“Hello?” Ah, guten Morgen “Ja?” Wir haben ein campingwagon “Ja?” Wir . . . . (frantically searches brain cells for the German word “Need” – perhaps an off the cuff call wasn’t such a good idea) Wir . . . . er, er . . . “Ja?” – “Parlez-vous francais?” Oh – yes, I mean Oui. Nous voudrions une . . . . Or would you prefer to speak in English?  . . . Can I get back to you on that?

For better, for worse; in good times and bad times; through the ups and downs; round the many, many roundabouts; in blazing sunshine; in torrential rain; around every route baree; across summits; through shady valleys; I promise to get you there . . . .via roads designated only as roads; to the exclusion of all others; including off the beaten tracks; blind five foot wide alleys; no through roads; height restricted tunnels; weight restricted bridges; farmers fields; single lane mountain passes; toll motorways; especially toll motorways . . . .

Today we head out and upwards from the Alpine town of Brig at 2,500 feet altitude. Only 4,000 feet to go before we’re up, over and through the Simplon Pass. Clouds and mist clear as we reach a view point. Too good an opportunity.

It’s all downhill now. In more ways than one. I over-ride Mary-Ann’s first choice, so we head to a site north of Verbania on the shore of Lago Maggiore. It’s supposed to be “off-season”. The lake side road is heaving. It takes us nearly an hour to get virtually nowhere. When we do, there’s only one pitch left for one night only. Oops. We want three to recuperate. We’ve seen good weather’s on its way. Mary-Ann bites her tongue. I make a very quick phone call.

We “engage” Pat to guide us back along the same road, but now south. We can’t wait, so I key in co-ordinates and select “Fastest Route”. Big, big mistake. Little did I realise part of the A26 motorway, skirts and runs parallel to the lakeside route, but much higher up. You’d have thought I’d have learned this lesson by now.  Before we know it there’s no turning back and we’re on it. You may think “what’s the big deal?” Well. For one, in Italy (like some other EU countries) you need to buy and display a “vignette” ticket on your windscreen. (we don’t have one) For two, without it you not only have to pay the motorway toll, but a hefty fine too. Just before we enter on to the motorway, we flash past two red outlined circular signs housing motorbike symbols with the words “FINO 249” “FINO 149”. Blymey, what must the “FINO” be for a huge MOHO? Ronnie Corbett’s famous words from Sorry, “Language Timothy”, would have been quite appropriate at this point.

We dodge off at the first opportunity. Down into no-mans land. We now rue the passing of the Rues as we become hemmed in via the Vias. Pat & Missy are sent to Coventry. We just need to get back down “there”. The tiny hillside villages are fed by even tinier lanes. We enter nothing more than a hamlet of a dozen buildings. And into its “Piazza”. All sides about as long as Beastie!  There are two exits. To the right a five foot wide option. That would suit Scoot. Ahead and governed by a traffic light on red, a one way through only, signed “Authorised Use for Buses Only” [Autorizzato solo per bus]. In for a penny in for a pound. We edge down cautiously closer and can almost smell the lake. We’re now using the kind lady on our phone’s Maps app. Her linguistic skills are sadly lacking as her crazy pronunciation leads us towards a tunnel. It’s two metres high . . . (!$%**!!) “Sorry”.

We reverse 100 metres or so and by chance find somewhere to park and cool down. I engage Google Earth and zoom in. Not wanting to remain in the wilderness for too long I jump down from the cab and adopt a faster version of an Aboriginal Walkabout and go “Run-About.”Find a Via out. Smiles all round? Not quite yet.

We arrive much later (would you believe?) at Castelletto Ticino. The tiny site has a small, excellent restaurant. Everything on the menu available as a take away. The perfectly cooked sea bass, king prawns, downed with our favourite Turckheim Pinot Gris encourages us to laugh – just a little . . . .

If we were actually sardines we probably wouldn’t mind, but so far the Italian sites cram us in like wrapped Geisha toes.

French sites allow minimum 80m2; here we’re lucky to get 40m2. Enough for Beastie plus the awning. Not quite a township. Still a couple of metres between yawning awnings.

At least the Italian sites allow us the luxury of hot water for showers and dish washing. Many French chaud are faux. Luke warm at a push. Some just froid. Leave us cold.

No chance of that today. We’re warming nicely on the site’s own beach. Toasting in fact. We’re right down at the southern end of Lago Maggiore and its waters are warm. We make the most of it. Miss the opportunity to do a bit of synchronised swimming with an unlikely partner.

Make the most of both days here while the weather remains dry and warm. We suspect this is merely the filling.

Last in means first out – that’s just as well for us, almost. What will tomorrow bring? A smiley face? Not at first that’s for sure.

Another tiny pitch and the most expensive so far. It’s a one nighter, so we don’t grin, but bear it. It’s a short trip today. Arrive early and take a lake-side stroll. We’re at “that” time of life.

The Iseo town church looks as if it’s in need of some renovation . . .

But it’s tardis-like interior proves us wrong,

Its carillon bell tower rings out a short burst announcing 5pm. Its ancient incoherent score, scores nil punti.

The Own Goal: Quite how the Italian MOHO just off to our right and down hill, intended to maneuver off site, was going to be worth watching. A tree stood on each corner of his tiny pitch, plus a concrete enclosed flower bed randomly positioned for good measure. Something had to give. Little did I realise it was us. The Iti’s missus was scampering this way then the other. Shouting instructions to hubbyo. Letting him know how many centimetres room he had at each point turn. All eyes were glued. Waiting for the inevitable. It seemed Beastie might hinder his swing out, so without thinking, I reverse four or five feet. My good turn for the day. She  scampers our way and picks up Beastie’s electrical cable which has been snapped out of his side. (Oh dear, oh dear, I tut.) Although we have a 25 metre length, his front wheel snags it and yanks it out. Bringing with it the now broken connection. “It’s OK? Si?” she questions. Aagh!!!

Two of the three pins have come away too. Twenty minutes later I’ve codged a temporary fix that will last until we’re home. (I hope). The irony is, even with my kind gesture, he can’t get out our way. He reverses back into his pitch and trundles the other way, and out!

It seems MOHO pitches are hard to come by. Our next one is situated right on Lake Garda. I email the site we’ve chosen (don’t usually do this), the evening before. Get confirmation of a three night lake side spot. 4K north of Peschiera del Garda.

The Thirty Yard Screamer: On arrival we get allocated our pitch. The last available today apparently. Unusually, we walk down the 100 metres to check it out. We want to make sure there’s enough room to get Scoot off board. It’s perfect. Large enough and with a grandstand view across the lake to the mountains. A German couple are chatting and see us eyeing up the spot. “This is ours” he says. “That’s weird” I reply, “it’s just been given to us”. Both couples immediately turn back and head towards reception. The atmosphere does not feel friendly. To lighten it I jokingly say “Tell you what. If you can out run me back up the hill to reception, then you can have it” He says nothing, but lengthens his stride. Leaves his wife to walk silently along with us. As we enter, we hear him being told that indeed that spot was already booked. “I don’t believe you” he insists. “You want me to show you the emails?” He didn’t see it coming. Top left hand corner. Nearly bursts the net. A Geoff Hurst screamer. He’s picking the ball out of the back of the net before he has time to say “Stinkstiefel”. He thinks it’s all over. It is now!

The Last Minute Loser: I mis-judge the amount of room needed to get Scoot off. Taking her out tomorrow for her first spin.We need to reverse Beastie four feet. What a pain. I’ve already set-up our Al-Fresco awning covered Beastie-side dining area. Fifteen minutes later Scoots off and Beastie’s back in place. Out across the lake, dark clouds are gathering. If they head our way, we could be in for a spot of rain me-thinks. Better put the awning up quickly. Must keep stuff and Scoot dry. A sharp breeze picks up. Sixty seconds later and by the time I’ve got two of the four awning pegs in place, it feels like a mini Irma is pounding us into submission. So this is a squall then. I’m already drenched and fearful the awning is going to get ripped off. I should have attached the new safety straps (bought for just such an occasion), but they’re still in the box. Shout for my waterproof. Hammer the last two long pegs in place. Awning’s flapping away madly, like some demented bird of prey, that’s been caught in a snare. I join it. Hold on to the cross bar to keep it as steady as possible. The gusts pick up a tad more. It feels as if me and Beastie will be lifting off for a tandem para-glide at any moment. We both hang on for dear life until it abates slightly. I let go. Time to get dry.

Mary-Ann’s birthday today! As I said to her earlier “I never imagined I’d ever fancy a sixty-seven year old, but I do!!”

Intentions of a day out in Verona, about 30K east. We dry off Scoot. Nip down to the local train station. Get there in good time. Only one very patient multi-lingual lady on duty. Auto-machine doesn’t cater for the trip we need. We wait in line. Patience is a virtue. Especially when it seems every other traveler is making unnecessary small talk with her. We miss our train. Next one due in two hours. We book, but for tomorrow. Decide to explore Peschiera del Garda instead. First impressions can sometimes be misleading. We leave the touristy shops to do what they do best. Slope off along the old town wall to get a taste of the real town. Quay-side is full with gastronomiquers.

Early afternoon clouds over, so we take Scoot out up the coast and into the hills. Let Scoot lead. Not a good idea. Most back roads are dead ends. Make it back to base camp just before more winds and rain set in.

Following morning we Scoot back down to the station. Verona weather promises to stay dry. It’s about due. Knowing a little more of the local lingo would be a help. They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Never more so apt as when the garbled announcement gets drowned out.  Whoever is on the other end of the microphone is doing a very good impersonation of an Italian Professor Stanley Unwin. The displayed departure times don’t marry up either. Nothing’s on time. We go for it. It seems to be pointing in the right direction. It is!

Verona is bustling. It’s Saturday. Lots to see though. We bypass the Arena. There’s a show on this evening. Head up towards Miss Capulet’s “supposed” balcony. We’re in luck. She’s in.

The archway leading into the courtyard is an obliteration of love messages. It’s been transformed into a pilgrims’ passageway. A random English one reads “Thank you for your love Romeo & Juliet. My Dave is so dear to me” Que? Hopefully this one is not a poetic romance killer.

Nestling in Piazza delle Erbe is Lambertini Tower, Verona’s tallest. Its 290 steps give us something aerobic to do. The views are worth it.

The exercise has given us an appetite. We relax and watch.

There’s a joint enterprise going on in the city today promoting eastern European countries’ artistic and cultural stuff. It’s different. Various streets and piazzas make way for hay bale races, toboggan rides, poor childrens’ games, wrestling, live music, dance and much more. It’s a good atmosphere.

We round the day off by attending Mass in Verona’s majestic cathedral.

We’re being tested. Are we real “campers”, or just a couple of tourists driving around in a home on wheels?

Parco Guardio Sigurta happens to be on our route today.  A huge cultivated piece of landscape. So massive you can hire a buggy – they’re not quite retro Prisoner-esq, but with no sign of Number 2, or Rover, we’re left free to explore.

Our three hour stop over means we arrive later (7pm) at Lido degli Scacchi, near Comacchio. First ever stop at a “Holiday Village”. It’s got everything and the facilities are superb. We judge a site mainly by how good the wash-up and showering is. We like “hot” water. Generally in short supply in France. Italy is compensating. Just as well now it’s chillier. We decide on a two nighter, to make use of the laundry. While it’s on the go we manage a very brief recce to the beach and then an even briefer dip, before it clouds over and rain sets in for the next 18 hours.

Cooped up like a couple of pigeons, is not quite how we envisaged spending our days. Ironing (not me!), books, blogging and a film fill the rest of the day and evening. It’s been mixed weather to say the least, but we need to do what starlings do and stretch our wings more.

It’s all about location, location, location. Right? But hey, there are other factors that need consideration too. Aren’t there?

We leave Florenze site as we find it. Wet.

Pretty, is not the first word that springs to mind as we meander around this site to check the facilities. Some people have a certain “panache” in their style of dress. Others in the way they maintain their garden or decorate their home. It’s the same on the sites we stay at. The more gaudy the colours chosen for the sanitary blocks, usually indicates “yes, we know it’s basic, with only cold water for showers and wash-up, but hey, look how dazzlingly bright and cheerful the walls look” The previous “village” site had inset sinks and composite worktops, in muted colours, so obviously the bar has been raised somewhat.

A little further down the coast, here at Camping Adria, Riccione, they don’t have a bar, which is why it has a style all of its own. Not quite Beverly Hillbillies, but certainly edging towards it. A subtle blend of adequate, usable, antiquated and derelict, with a bit of cowboy thrown in for good measure. Possibly perfectly acceptable to Jed Clampett before he shot up some Texas T.

Let me continue by saying that Beastie has an inside that actively accentuates the sound of anything that lands on his roof. This is usually not an issue except at night. If a leaf lands on it we hear it. Beastie’s roof is three feet above our sleeping ears. It’s waterproof, but not soundproof.

At home, it’s good when it rains at night and is dry during the day. When it does that here, there are pros and cons. Ideally, we like it to rain in the evening, if it has to. Generally though, it prefers to wait until we’re tucked up. Last night being a typical example. Less than ten minutes after lights out (00.08) and drifting into la-la land. Someone throws a few tiny pieces of gravel onto the roof. Followed by a mumble “I think it’s starting to rain”. Turn over and try to ignore it. A few more get thrown. Followed by a grumble. “You’re not wrong”. Ears pick up. Is it just a passing shower? A cup full follows. “Don’t think so”. Then a bucket full. Followed by an exasperated “Oh hell!” Followed by a cart load full. Pull the duvet over head and stuff face into pillow making sure to wrap sides around ears. Followed by a continuous stream of lorry loads . . . “un-repeatable”

Seven hours and thirty nine minutes later it relents.

Followed by, good news . . . the sun is searching for his hat.

Hip, hip, hip hooray!

Flat, little wind and brightening skies makes a perfect excuse to break the bikes out for the first time. Madman Shazby doesn’t need asking twice. Time to blow some cob-webs away.

The seven mile beach side bike path into Rimini is sandwiched either side. To our left, hotel, after hotel, after hotel. Like a mini mountain range, they cast an earlier evening shadow across the beach. To our right, each hotel has its own allocated plot. Large size gardens’ worth that hardly eat into the massively huge flat beach. This side is bustling with armies of workers. Hotels closed for the season. They are busy cleaning, washing and tidying. Mini swimming pools, kinder-gardens, beach huts, play and sports areas, bars, sun-loungers, pergolas – all under attack. Winter is coming.

It warms up as we take in Rimini’s old Roman town (no surprise there then). We are fast becoming connoisseurs of Italian ice-creams. This “boutique” parlour offers up an unbelievable choice. They pile it on. We don’t mind.

It’s very posh. But not the prices.

A Disney Style, picture postcard sort of place with great views all round.

According to Google maps the “short” trip across country to San Marino should have taken thirty two minutes. Eighty minutes later and Scoot is parked up at the foot of the town wall. Can’t blame Scoot. Italian road signing the cause. Or rather lack of it. Plus the fact that the route in is rather higgledy-piggledy.  Stopping every few minutes to establish our location doesn’t help. We could see this high rise from every view point along the way, without seemingly getting much closer. At times we wondered how on earth we were going to get up there. As many hair-pin bends outside as inside.

It’s so quirky here, you almost half expect a real life cartoon character to pop up around the next corner. A rich place in its own right. It rakes in the tourist euros. Half ancient alley-ways bustle with shops and shoppers.

We give our quads a good work out for an hour or two before settling on this little spot for a spot of lunch. Can you spot Mrs S?

Yes, you may ask. Where are our shorts? Still a bit too nippy on Scoot for them. Sunny, but not hot, hot, hot.

Then fifty five minutes later we’re back on the flat. Coast-side.

With a few more days of culture lined up in humpy Umbria, we could have done with packing a mule as well as Scoot.

We’re on our way to Green Village, a few K west of Assisi, lying in its morning shadow. First port of call however, is Urbino. It houses the Palazzo Ducale high up inside. The street to reach it is steep. Really steep. Not quite cable-car territory. A funicular railway would do a roaring trade. As the brow comes into view the build up of lactic acid kicks in. We expect to be greeted by locals touting All Black thighs and Haka faces.

Italy has more UNESCO World Heritage Sites than any other country and this is one of them. The huge Palazzo is home to many famous works of art. Raphael’s “La Muta” stands out, Mona Lisa-like, but not quite.

As ever, today’s trip is motorway free. That has it’s downside. In France, you could say one in a hundred roads is not fit for purpose. In Italy, so far, eighty in a hundred would be a fair guesstimate. To the right of the crown and to the left of the (invisible) kerb, ie. the very place where you want your wheels, is a conglomeration of ruts, cracks, holes, undulations and bumps. The roads feel and look like the after effects of one series of mini earthquakes after another. (perhaps they are)  After a few more weeks of this we’ll probably start to tremor too!

Today we’re up bright and early (relatively speaking) to catch the 9.30am free shuttle up to Assisi. It nestles a couple of miles away over Beastie’s shoulder. Nobody told us we needed a ticket. So we miss it. The kind young receptionist takes us instead.

The entrance into the main Piazza is security controlled. A couple of young whippersnappers on duty. Automatic weapons at the ready? Religiously search old ladies’ bags, who’ve done well just to get this far up the steep inclines. It’s all out of breath smiles and anti-climax. No sign of any semtex, even if they do appear well padded around their midriffs.

Once inside the Basilica, a different type of security is in order. The entrance sign indicates, no dogs, no photos, no hats . . . no bathing costumes? The mind boggles. Perhaps that’s what the soldiers were really searching for. [“Phew, that was close. Thought they’d got us there for a minute.” – “Me too. Good job we put them on underneath”]

Teams of mafioso silently scan and sneak up sneakily to remind anyone who they think is even thinking of taking a photo. They have their hands full. Fingers wagging like puppy dogs’ tails. This gets me mad. I ready my camera and start randomly shooting from the hip, just to make John Wayne proud. “Silenzio” signs are everywhere. How dumb? There are hundreds and hundreds of visitors flocking around and chattering, almost as loudly as the swirling swifts outside. As it reaches a seemingly unacceptable crescendo, a big-brother voice bursts out over the loud speaker system “SILENCE, SILENCE . . . SHUSH!” Momentarily the chatter is replaced with ironic whispers.

We’ve come to the conclusion that the ancient Italians constructed their towns whenever they came across a high hill or small mountain. They’d flatten the top. Build a high thick perimeter wall around it to make them feel cosy and secure inside. Well, until marauders came marauding.

Then, they had to add another level of security. So they built a series of mazy zig-zag roads, all seemingly heading upwards and into the “Centro”.  At every zig and every zag they added a confusing multitude of mis-leading signs. By the time the marauding garrison of charioteers had manically marched up and down a few times, like bit players in the Duke of York’s nursery rhyme, they’d have enough of this nonsense, give up and go and drown their frustrations in pots of posca.

By the time we’d circumnavigated the block a few times, our necks were starting to resemble pasta twirls. However, we are made of sterner stuff. Plus we have Scoot.

This Etruscan university city houses the Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria and we head there first. Exquisite iconic icons fill most of the forty galleries. They typify the extraordinary religious renaissance that still breathes heart into this country’s faith.

As in France, they’re not afraid to fly the flag for their country. Every town hall and many public buildings follow suit. Protective of who they are and what they’ve got. The supermarket fresh produce just one small example. If it’s not grown in Italy they don’t sell it. It makes you wonder if it’s us or them who have been better and fairer player members of the EU?

Lunch is followed by a spot of sight seeing around the back streets. We lose ourselves. It’s good to go off the beaten tracks.

As each day passes we’re getting to like Italy the more we see of it. Today’s journey is why. It’s not about where we get to. It’s about where we go, to get to.

Beastie’s panoramic windscreen, coupled with raised sitting positions, perfectly position us as we pass view after view after view. We head south from Assisi towards our one nighter in the Parco Nazionale d’Abruzzo. Spaghetti inclines and declines on the menu for today. All very tasty. Leave us wanting seconds.

Beastie’s doing his best, but on one of the steeper sections, gets outpaced by a two seater mini pocket-rocket. Steve Zodiac storms past in Fireball Junior. AKA “XL8”. Can’t tell if that’s Robert at his side. They’re probably on their way home. Beastie’s blushes get saved on the downhills as gravity grabs him by the horns.

The site is how we like it. Out in the wild with more than the bare essentials.

In fact, from just the other side of the perimeter fence we hear the continual barks from the local brown bear community. We’re striking porridge off the menu.

If the weather hadn’t turned again we might have stayed a few days to explore. So instead of turning East to the rain, we head West to the sun in Sorrento.

As comparisons go, we couldn’t have moved further from the sublime Abruzzo region. Not quite ridiculous, but certainly crazy.

We came with no pre-conceived ideas. No knowledge of “Italy”, as such. Just the usual fragments of art, history, culture, food and football. It’s like that feeling you get when you open that really special and unexpected birthday or Christmas present. Not on your “must have” list, but now received, you’ll cherish it. Today’s journey’s presents were just like that and kept on flowing.

A few years ago, just north of Birmingham, about a long throw-in from Villa Park, Spaghetti Junction used to confuse and scare the hell out of many a driver. A series of multi-layered Yankee style clover leaf inter-sections.

Imagine quadrupling its current day traffic. Then placing all of those intersections on one horizontal plane, removing all road markings and signing, including traffic lights. Now add pedestrians and a whole bunch (I mean a really big bunch) of maniacal scooter drivers. Then, make everybody on the road really late for an appointment, or very impatient. Finally and just for good measure, take a larger than life Beastie, that obeys every command from Missy, and throw him into the mix. Then re-name it Napoli!

We had previously thought of Nice as “Scoot City”. Not any more. Beastie was having the time of his life. Cut up from all angles. Hooted at from every which way. The likes of him haven’t come this way since the first pizza bake off. Mary-Ann, too tense to capture the hilarious scenes unfolding as we rumbled through. I thought I’d been filming, but hadn’t. Only managing a few seconds, before I was relieved of further duties.

The section above was probably the tamest. Allowing me just one hand on the steering wheel. Did I mention the road surface?

Mary-Ann was last seen in Sorrento when she was a young teenager, visiting on a summer holiday with her parents. She wonders if it will have changed much.

Little did we know that when we arrived on spec at this coastal site, that we’d be parked high up staring across the Bay of Naples at Mount Vesuvius. This huge and complex terraced site is carved into the cliff side. It’s also awash with olive trees. We’re pitched between two. On the terrace below, a netted grove hosts a flying circus of pipistrelles. A gang of silent assasins out for the kill.

There’s also a pool and we’re in luck. It’s not yet closed for this evening or the season (like many of the others). I’m desperate to swim off the day’s drive. Just before making a dash for it I pick up two olives that have dropped down. I hand them to Mary-Ann. “It’ll be interesting to see what ‘fresh’ ones taste like, won’t it?”. Then I’m off. On my return Mary-Ann hands me one. “Was yours really nice?” I ask. She doesn’t reply.  I pop it straight in and chew down on it. I hadn’t been privy to the TV programme she saw a few weeks ago. Showing how olives get “processed” and made fit for consumption. I was all trust. How foolish. It’s unlike the now beaming Mary-Ann to prank. She got me. Good and proper. The taste is hard to describe. It’s like biting into a really bitter chilli. Its juicy hot flavour quickly ingrains itself into the roof of your mouth. Water, fruit juice and milk eventually do the trick. I owe her one!

Following morning we shuttle down into town. It’s heaving. Unfamiliar sites unable to spark a memory for Mary-Ann. This lot wasn’t here last time.

We take in a brilliant black and white photo exhibition by Raffaele Celentano and stumble across the fascinating tiny Music Box Museum. Mary-Ann can’t resist doing a turn . . . or two!

The local Circumvesuvian line, connects Sorrento to Napoli, via Pompei, and Herculaneum, where we intend to visit today. Another day of strikes throws the time-tables into turmoil with no guarantees.

We arrive at the station in good time and then decide to come back tomorrow. So it’s back to the site. Unload Scoot. A perfectly warm, sunny day. The Amalfi coastal road beckons.

We’ve heard about it from other campers. We know we shouldn’t let Beastie loose on it. We’re intrigued to see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t take us long. Scoots hips swivel this way, then the other. We follow suit a la the late great Mike Hailwood. For centuries this old Roman road has hugged the rugged cliffs tightly, for fear of dropping into the Tyrrhenian Sea far below. The views are stunning.

It’s just over two hours before we’re standing in the central piazza in Amalfi. It gets so busy they control the pedestrian flow with traffic lights. Today is no exception.

The Romans seemed to have got town dwelling down to a T here at Herculaneum. Running water, under road waste sewage, pavements, shops, pubs, theatre, gymnaseum, sports field and posh villas with mosaic floors and elaborate wall frescoes. The residents must have thought they’d got it made. Until . . .

Twenty-four stops and eighty minutes later we step down from the Circumvesuvian line. Like a rush hour crush on the London Underground, but with more to view. Everyone drawn to that fateful place like Eloi.

Seems the Roman psyche hasn’t changed much over a couple of millenia. Herculaneum folk were not fond of eating lunch at home. They set up special food and bar-like establishments around the various town districts. Trend setters for twenty-first century Italians. Their legacy lingers. One street feels familiar. A row of shops with flats above.

This, one of the posher places. The main living area with matching columns and decorated walls. Dulux matchmaker system not an option. Lavish living at its best.

An eleven hour day with one or two frustrating moments to test our patience and endurance.

We want to make the most of our last day in this area. We’ve always moved on after three nights. We thought five here would have allowed us a little breathing space. But there’s so much to see. We’re starting to develop sight-seeing sickness.

We pay extra and catch the “Express”. With only six stops instead of the usual thirty four, we save thirty minutes and our sanity. From Garibaldi Station we’re navigating the streets with the help of that kind Mr Google and his Maps app. A couple Gary’s biscuits wouldn’t have gone amiss. I’ve “pinned” Napoli Sotterranea.  We arrive just in time for the next English guided tour – so we think. Discover that this is not “the” Napoli Sotterranea we expected. There are three of them apparently. All offer a different experience. The one we want is a forty-two minute walk into the Spanish Quarter. Surprising sights spring up unexpectedly to stir our senses along with our sense of the real Napoli. Inner city living as it’s meant to be.

Luciano eat your heart out . . .

The ingenious Greeks created Neapolis. Homes built from the volcanic rock below. The Romans utilised the underground cavities left, creating an aquaduct water system. Every household with access to fresh water. Huge water reserves only a rope and bucket-pull away. The whole system drained in the late nineteenth century due to contamination, resulting in a huge cholera outbreak. It’s where we’re heading. Luca, our guide, leads us down forty metres into a tiny part of the Napoli Sotterranea. He’s full of jaunty jokes and anecdotes to help us remember the facts and ease the tensions of a couple of claustrophobic women.

The emptied system housed and saved many Neapolitans as they scurried underground when the American B17s bombarded their city above in 1943. Luca, in boisterous Richard O’Brien mode, leads us through the not so Crystal Maze. It’s obvious he loves his work for the Underground Association. An hour later and we re-surface. Eyes squint as if exiting the Saturday morning matinee. But not before squeezing through one or two crevices.

The easy journey back does not round the day off nicely. My fault entirely. A few stops from home and I jump up and out of our carriage. I’ve seen the word Sorrento. Mary-Ann quizzically follows. The doors close. The train moves off. It takes a second to register. The station looks different from when we left. That’s because it is. The full sign reads Piano di Sorrento. Our stop is a few K down line. The next train is an hour away. The conversation develops an edge to it. Signs of verbal frustration being kept on a leash – just. The Taxi-less stand doesn’t help. All forgotten and forgiven by the time we’re enjoying supper in the main square in Sorrento, ninety minutes later.

Many museums, archeological sites, galleries and gardens are free to enter on the first Sunday of every month. This means that the roads in the vicinity of any participating in this freebie can get busy. Very, very busy.

We didn’t know this. So couldn’t consider the consequences. When you have a couple of bright sparks on board who know their way around this planet’s roads like the back of their hands, you get lazy. You don’t get a real map out. You tend to do that after you reach your destination. So trust is key. Sort of.

We had a long journey south planned. In search of some more sun. The terrain hinders. We’ve hardly seen a straight road over here. The Ancient Romans must have been frustrated. Their town layouts always adhering to an American Style grid system. They couldn’t do that with the roads. Too many mountains. That’s probably one of the reasons why they invaded us. Just so that they could lay down a few Icknield Streets and Fosse Ways. Get it out of their system.

Missy knows we don’t like motorways. In her wisdom, we head north to go south. We obey. End up passing (very slowly) the Pompeii ruins. Two hours after leaving Sorrento we’d gone about 20K. Time to review our plans. As it happens I hadn’t spotted that the site we were heading for was closed for the season. We change course for Paestum, via Salerno. Bad move. Salerno is a very large container port/old town. How the container lorries get down there will remain a mystery. We couldn’t. Virtually all streets are narrow and one way. The type that get me on edge. We edge down a particularly steep lane. End up nose to nose with a local Bobbie on point duty. Eye brows raise in tandem. I didn’t want to see him. He certainly didn’t want to see me. I discern a miniscule shake of the head. I read his mind. “Here come another idiot”. He quickly realises his first few sentences are falling on stupid ears. He can’t speak English. “Parlez-vous Francais?” Then it’s all a confusion of tout droit, à gauche, à droit, head nodding and thumbs up. He gets us onto a motorway heading the wrong way. We end up paying a toll for the very first time. Life is sad. But doesn’t stay sad. We eventually pitch up in the pines of Paestum. Beach side. A sixty second walk works wonders. Flat sands, Calm sea. Calming souls. We take a long walk.

We bump into an ex-US marine who’s served in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’s re-tracing his granddad’s footsteps. Seems Paestum was one of the WW2 landing sites used for the Allied Invasion of Italy.

With the knowledge that in less than four weeks we’ll be doing an Arnie, we decide to stay put. Blue skies. Warm sea. Soft sand. All too tempting.

We awake to discover an invasion force is preparing to march. A Roman army of a micro scale. Scouts appear from within minuscule crevices, laying down their odour trails. One, then another, then another, then another . . .  Excited, one millimetre long. A regiment of tiny soldiers following invisible lines. Looking to plunder and loot. Silently scouring for hidden treasures. They’ve done this before. Trained and honed. Precise and orderly. The scouts occasionally falling back to pass on valuable information. Their intentions are in vain. One by one the on-board giant gains the upper hand. Squashing them as easily as Gulliver squashing Lilliputians. There is no escape. They don’t have a plan B. One hour later the few remaining stragglers get picked off. The sniper’s thumb is relentless.

Later we go back in time – 2,500 years. Visit the ancient Greek ruins at Paestum. A twenty minute walk. Three massive temples majestically lording it over the Roman city ruins that lie scattered around their feet.

Following day we play dead. Lifelessly lying. Like browning burgers. Turning occasionally. Not quite well done. The warm waters help to cool and soothe, before more of the same. A wave-side walk brings us to a small sandbank. Thumbnail sized sand crabs, oblivious to our birds-eye view, tantilise and mesmerise us with their interactions. Chin-wagging wonders, before their sideways scurries see them nose dive out of sight. The evening sky brings on a different type of wonder.

Or does it? . . . .

Wednesday 4th and we’re Scooting high up into the hills. A couple of thousand wiggly feet up at Trentinara. It’s well known Cilento’s Terrace gives us fabulous hazy views before we tumble down to explore Agropoli and then back to base before sundown.

We abandon the notion of heading further south to Sicily. Too far and too little time left. One more beach day and then we’re heading east to Mantera.

A sensible decision nearly backfired. Thankfully, Beastie drew breath, pulled his waist in and didn’t scrape us through.

What is it about past things and people that fascinate us? Why do we feel compelled or even obliged to photograph everything that lies before us? Like huge Blue Whales, we bask around, mouths open. Gawping and gaping. Phones ready. Pods with iPods. Snapping up anything and everything that takes our fancy. Bellies never full. Feeding off trillions of images that get swallowed whole like krill. Hi-tec hiatus not an option.

So we’re off to Sassi di Matera, to do much of the same. On board memory banks to fill. Along with in pocket ones too. We’re a couple of GBs with GBs to spare. We aim to take a look at the ancient cave dwellings that housed the very first Italian inhabitants. It’s an unusual start to the day. We’re organised. We leave before 10am feeling pleased with ourselves. (Other campers can often be heard leaving by 7am.) We do a big shop and restock. Then we head for a mainly toll-free motorway route that Missy has planned for us. The terrain is very hilly. Almost mountainous. No other direct-ish routes open to us. Many sections take us through tunnels. Others across high elevations. Precariously perched atop concrete fingers that span the gorges. Elongated and harp-like as they take in the valleys’ forms. We’re making good time. Not much traffic in either direction. A number of contra-flows start to spring up where the surface is deemed unsafe and needs repair.

Suddenly and with little warning, we are diverted off the motorway. Directed down. Over one roundabout. Then another. (more about their roundabouts another time).  The third roundabout has only one exit. Is one-way and heading back up to get us back onto the motorway. A warning sign indicates ahead, maximum width 2.3metres! (you may recall on another occasion in France a height issue) Beastie is 2.3 metres wide. Snap!! Go our brains. “What the  . . . .” Go our mouths. As is want on the continent, we have a car hooked on to Beastie’s tail. Stopping and reversing impossible. The logic defies all logic known to humankind. Around the bend we see them. Two Beastie ball bangers. Concrete castraters. So this is where they train their sopranists.

Mary-Ann is having kittens. She knows how important these “special” moments are in the life of our blog. “Get your phone out. Quick! Take a photo” She obeys. Beastie does too. We edge uncertainly past the point of no return. One mile per hour. Oddly, the trailing car does not sound his horn. (an Italian pass-time). No doubt he’s acutely aware that if we get stuck, so does he. He doesn’t want to interrupt Beastie’s concentration. Slowly, slowly, edgy forward. No more than a centimetre or two to spare. Then we’re through and still feeling confused, but mightily relieved.

Missy must have been having a bit of a fit too. She stayed a little confused for the rest of the journey. Couldn’t get over what had happened. Like us, she’s not programmed for the insane. By the time she’d got us to within a couple of K of our real destination, she’d had enough. Run out of road and decided to dump us here . . .

Kind Mr Google did the rest.

Beastie was feeling pleased too, as he pulled in. Unharmed. That is, until I clunked his backside on a concrete post backing in to our pitch. Ouch! “Sorry Beastie.”

The Italians have had a few millenia to practise living in high vantage places. Starting with these amazing cave-like dwellings. It’s no wonder they’ve continued in the same vein.

Matera town, is like so many others, but isn’t. Balanced like shuffled playing cards.  Constructed piecemeal houses form a pretty mono mishmash of rubik’s cubes. Attracts worldwide visitors, including us.

We walked up the forty minute one in six zig-zag yesterday evening, so not wanting to get too fit we caught this morning’s free shuttle bus service. It takes us into the heart of the “modern day” Sassi. A regenerated “Bijou” town, since Hollywood and the Italian government decided to invest.  Modern divided from the ancient by a huge ravine. The ancient considered by many Holywood filmaker to be a perfect “Jerusalem” location. Both considered perfect for the tourism “buck” by the local administration.

It’s easy to appreciate the other side’s beauty from both sides of  “la Gravina”.  We take a walk on the wild side. Follow a rocky track not taken by many. Stumble across this church, literally hewn into the rock face.

Meanwhile on the other side of town we come across another church. This strange looking fella greets us as we enter.

Like a “brilliant” cut gem, Italy is a country of many facets.  Not all brilliant however. Our very limited time here may be clouding our possibly unjustified opinions.

Undoubtedly Italy would receive many more likes than dislikes. But you get the feeling that the people don’t care about certain things.  The country has so much going for it. Touring eyes (like ours) find it difficult to ignore the unfamiliar. When the non Autostrade roads that you drive on daily are beaten down to a piece of battered and not so flat pile of rubble, then perhaps you’re bound to just accept that this is the norm. We’ve driven on better roads in Iceland. It’s a wonder that half the population don’t drive an SUV. Perhaps the logic is why bother to repair if it’s only going to be destroyed in the next earthquake.

So, we’re bouncing along nicely on our way to Roma. Up the east coast to Bisceglie. We can almost see Dubrovnik on the other side.  We turn west, like a couple of pigeons, in two foul swoops. Stopping midway. High up (again) in the Abruzzo National Parc at Opi. Temperature drops to 6C. No signs of any bears this time. Goose pimples competing with the summits. Today we dive down and down and down. Hit Roma’s equivalent of the M25. Just in time for tea-time rush hour. Joy O Joy it’s 25C. The slip roads over here are like static whirling dervishes. They spin you around and around like gymnastic ribbons. You start to wonder if you’ll ever actually join another road. Then suddenly they dump you with a forty metre “run up” (if you’re lucky), to slip into the main stream. Beastie, who is not capable of doing nought to sixty in less than a couple of hours, is not amused. He does his best. Puts his mass to good use. Rolls out like a bull elephant. Daring the zip-mongers to try him on for size.

On our travels we constantly come across another blemish on Italy’s complex complexion. It’s rubbish. They don’t care where it’s left. No pride. A lack of standard sees them “park” it where they fancy. Streams of litter run wild. Mingling with roadside verges, gutters, pavements, even shorelines.

Scenes like these a great pity. Tinge our sensibilities.

The size of Rome centre is such that it’s all do-able on foot. Problem is, is that there’s so much to do.

A short twenty minute “Urbano” train ride from Prima Porta into Rome’s Flaminia station drops us into pole position for the prime sites.

First port of call, the massive Victor Emmanuel II memorial building – dedicated to the first king of the united Italy.  We are keeping in touch with Rudi & Bille, some lovely friends we met in Sorrento. They recommended a trip to the very top. The reward, a spectacular 360 view of the whole city. We’re not disappointed.

Lunchtime finds us eating our sarnies parked up on two round cannonballs in front of the Pontifical Gregorian University. It’s lunchtime too for a young “trainee” priest. He’s wearing traditional black. Black hair, black collar, black shoes, black rucksack plus an invisible “L” plate. Coming down the entrance steps he’s approached by a beggar. Few words are exchanged. He walks on, but then beckons the beggar over. Opens his rucksack, takes out his rolls. Shares them. They stand facing. Eating and chatting for twenty minutes. He’s now wearing a visible “L”ove plate.

If it’s a must have photo, then Trevi Fountain is where you go. The masses are being kept under strict control. One lone ranger. No silver bullet. Just a silver whistle. His shrill spills over most heads. Lost in translation. We’re cracking up. Watching from above. It’s like watching an old black and white comedy, but in colour. Pianoforte replaced by Harpo’s whistle. Calamitous crowd control ensues. One section is “out of bounds”. An EU safety guideline is under threat and needs enforcing. At all costs. As soon as one photofanatic is whistled off, another steps in from the wings. An endless supply of auditioning bit part actors. No one on cue. He may as well have been whistling down the wind for all the good he achieves.  Everyone is having fun though. Even him.

It had to happen sometime. And with a view like this, this is as good a time as any.

After a very brief phone conversation (conversation isn’t strictly true – although brief is) between a non Italian speaking  Englishman and a non English speaking Italian, I wrongly assume a voice on the other end must mean the campsite we’re heading for is open. It isn’t.

Beastie takes us up to the small town of Montefiascone. It’s viewpoint, one thousand feet above the volcanic Lake Bolsena, is magnificent. No other word for it. Takes our breath away. Impossible for a camera image to capture what the eyes see and feel. Here goes.

We zig-zag down. Skirt along the shoreline. We’re in heaven. A couple of K further we’ll be there. It’s a dusty track. A dead end with a locked double gate. Beastie likes it here. So do we. It’s very quiet and secluded. We’re fully loaded. Food, water and gas all on board. We decide to go “wild”. No one will even know we’re here.

We break out Scoot and decide to explore lakeside.

End up in Capodimonte. Expect to find a factory with lots of shops selling the stuff. Turns out this is a different Capodimonte.

Back at base camp, we find a small tabby anxiously waiting to greet us. He’s seen us coming. Our turn to share lunch. The evening bids the day farewell with a spectacular sunset.

“I wonder if the tabby is still around”. My first coherent thought,  as I step down and out following morning. At first I thought I was seeing double. Then realised I was. Two little heads popped out from under Beastie’s stomach. He’d only gone and told his mate. Mary-Ann went into mumsy wumsy mode. Cooked them up fresh salmon for breakfast.

After last night’s freebie and being pleasantly surprised by the reasonable tourist costs in Rome, we are jolted back down by our purse strings in Siena.

Caught off guard you might say. We’re touring in “Low Season”. Didn’t expect to be charged almost double per night to what we’re used to. It didn’t stop there.  Almost every “site” that nestles around the exquisite Piazza del Campo is “No Fee? then No See!”

Short trip today. We arrive early enough to book in, get set up and walk into town. Decided to stretch our legs. A very hilly and windy (as in wine+d) 2.5K. Could have taken Scoot. Maybe it’s just as well we didn’t. Looks like parking places may be at a premium.

Coffee and cake time. We duly treat ourselves. As we do, the street-alleys erupt and echo. Multi-coloured Renaissance dressed drummer boys, drumming. Snares rat-a-tatting.  Masses of hypnotised children being Pied Pipered behind. No dues due though.  Piazza del Campo, host to the famous Palio, is filling up. Families, friends and us eagerly await the grand entrance. It’s the children’s Flag Throwing Competition. Seventeen competing Contrade. All very serious. But a wonderful atmosphere.

Following morning it’s another very hilly and windy (as in wine+d) 2.5K. We’re back in town. Cough up our Euros. Keep coughing. We’re only going to be here once. Aren’t we?

We go high and get a “God’s Eye” view of Siena. Unlike Him, we climb more than four hundred steep steps up the Torre del Mangia . The human fascination with seeing from above propels us.

Moving on from Lazio into Tuscany we expected rolling greens of typical Tuscan scenes with dotted cypress trees. Surprised with this.

Nearest to our mind’s eye was this.

We’re just about hanging on by the skin of our teeth. Trying hard not to ignore the must see sights. It’s why we came here. Will Florence give us a boost?

Another early arrival gives us an afternoon to explore. We Scoot straight up to Piazzale Michelangelo (his name gets everywhere for some strange reason). It’s an iconic scene. Familiar worldwide. Another one can be ticked off. But well worth it.

Camping Firenza, a ten minute drive away from the centre is one of the most organised sites we’ve ever stayed on. It’s big. Got it’s own restaurant and supermarket. A fabulous pool – closed for the season. No life guard working now. “I’ll be your life guard” I say jokingly. Quick words are exchanged and I get the thumbs up. We return from the view above. The pool is as blue and still as the stillest blue lagoon. A few sunbathers around the edge catching the late afternoon’s fading rays. The pool’s empty. I can’t wait to get in. It feels a little cool on entry. I’m half way up my first length. Hmm, this is COLD. Correction. This is FREEZING! I’m finding it difficult to catch my breath. Heading for the deep end. I’m caught unawares. It wouldn’t look “cool” for the would be life guard to drown now, would it? Last time I swam in anything this cold was in a small Scottish mountain tarn – in the 70’s. I’m a little older now. No wiser though. Start taking in water faster than the Titanic. Just about hang on and reach safety. Peruse the sensible dry ones. Has anyone noticed the idiot spluttering for dear life? Apparently not. Seems I could have drowned and none would have been the wiser. Undeterred, I venture forth again. “Come on” I tell myself “be a man”.

This site is very popular, so the showers are generally pretty busy. This makes for interesting listening. When invisibly cubicled men reveal an unknown side of their character. They just don’t care who’s listening.

They can generally be classified as such:-

• The Groaner – He sounds as if he’s been left to rot. Imprisoned with chained wrists and ankles to a dark, damp and dingy dungeon floor. All hope gone.
• The Moaner – He’s turned on the shower to discover he’s lost his soap and his shampoo bottle is empty.
• The Huffer & Puffer – Sounds like he’s just reached the top of the highest staircase in the world and misplaced his oxygen tank.
• The Heavy Breather – Warming his vocal chords and getting in some early morning practise for heavier things to come.
  
• The Tut-Tutter – He just can’t get the shower temperature right.
• The Tuneless Whistler – Only know the first six notes of a few popular 70s hits. Repeats them over, while trying to think of what comes next. Then moves on to the next derangement.
• The Whistling Warbler – Repeats the opening four bars of The Good The Bad and The Ugly. Over and over and over again.
• The Frank Sinatras – With every conceivable arrangement of My Way.
• The Gutterels – Last night’s inner fermentations are spewed out no matter what. Coughing up eruptions that haven’t been heard in these parts since AD79.
• The Throat Clearers – Sounding as if they’re constantly trying to attract your attention.
• The Hummers & DumDeeDummers –  Probably doing a bit of cubicle dusting too.

Of course this is all pure fiction. Isn’t it?

When the days, then the weeks, start to blur into one and it becomes more and more difficult to recount when and where you’ve been, you start to wonder whether just one more “trip” or “visit” will send your wheels flying off the merry-go-round.

Thankfully, a four hour visit to the Uffizi Gallery is just the tonic. Laura, our effervescent guide, bubbles over with glassful after glassful of interesting tidbits. Brings the painters and their stills to life. Our ears glued to her stories. Eyes to the images. Caravaggio top of our favourites.

Earlier, the day starts frustratingly. Big Shuttle has a flat tyre. Little shuttle ferrying the 10am crowds to and fro as quickly as traffic allows. Later, with Florence well and truly “done”, we make our way back to the pick-up point. We’re twenty five minutes early and first. Driver’s already there waiting. Having a ciggy. We order from the roadside cafe and he joins us. He knows a little English and a little French. We have a fun conversation. He also knows we’re first in the queue. Mary-Ann reminds him (and me) a couple of times. Then a couple of couples climb on board. Before we have time to realise, the shuttle is full. All waiting for the driver! Yes, we should have put something on a couple of the seats. Another wait. A frustrating end.

Thinking all frustrations are a thing of the past, we’re aiming for Pisa today. We’ve a train to catch from Florence Central. Shuttle driver (a different one) engages in a long Italian conversation. (short ones don’t exist) Then a couple turn up without tickets. We leave at 10.12am. 12 minutes late. We have a 2K walk from the drop off point. Miss our train by 2 minutes. Next one due in 53 minutes. We don’t think much of Pisa. 18 euros to go up the tower seems steep. Leaning towards extortion. Bus loads being bused in. All with one aim in mind. Millions of Facebook people holding, cuddling, leaning or pushing the tower back into a perpendicular state. Seems pretty straight to me. Mary-Ann tries it on for size. Doesn’t quite fit.

One’s own little spinning world, calmly going about its usual daily business, can easily and brutally be blown off course and into alien orbit. All it takes is the slightest oversight.

With the aim of reaching the coastal area around Cinque Terre we set off early. Planning to call in on route to visit that clever Mr da Vinci’s home town and museum. An hour should do it. We are fascinated by the display of working models and screen visuals. His genius helps us to lose all track of time. No chance of reaching port before dark.

The town of Vinci, set deep in the heart of Tuscany, in more ways than one, delights us with typically Tuscan views.

We decide to “wild” camp again. Doubting if we’ll find a spot quite as perfect as Lake Bolsena. Our route up the west coast is a mass of towns. All lined up like hindering hurdles. Our progress is slow. We don’t mind – it’s interesting. Italian way of life is much different to ours. Families come out to play at 5pm. Roads, streets, piazzas teaming. Shopping, eating, drinking and generally socialising the order of every evening. There are no pubs to go and hide in. They don’t need them. All making the most of what’s left of the day’s warmth. Creating their own warmth.

We pick up some pre-cooked goodies to warm up for dinner later. Moving on we stay alert. Hoping for a spot to park up. A “camper” sign leads us to a car park. One other camping-car there already. It’s a bit of a strange place. Opposite what turns out to be the biggest supermarket we’ve been inside in Italy. However, it’s flat, safe and probably as good as we’re going to find at 7.30pm.

Mary-Ann starts to prepare supper and I pop outside to check for somewhere to let Beastie have a pee. (Hmm – better rephrase that) To discharge the accumulated grey water from our MOHO. As I turn around. the central door crashes open. A fiery Hale Bopp-like ball hurtles out of Mary-Ann’s hands and down towards earth. Ejected as firmly as a drunken gatecrasher. On impact this mini meteorite splatters into flames. My confused and shocked brain can’t quite reconcile the scene. A few seconds later, the ashes reveal one of the aluminium cartons containing part of our dinner.

Our three paper packets of pre-packed goodies were in the unlit oven while we looked for a place to stay. Transpires that Mary-Ann lit the oven thinking she’d removed all three. The oven has a faulty ignition, so she looked in to check it was lit. Indeed it was. Along with the packet! Her superhero speed of thought and action saved Beastie’s bacon. Along with ours. (Although it was actually chicken)

Levanto, hidden deep down within its picture perfect cove, is our base for the next few days. Then it will be “so long” Italy, GB, here we come.

More and more sites are closed for the season. We need to stay fully loaded. Keep enough water on board with enough room in the grey water catch tank too. And more importantly, room in Beastie’s chemical WC. Don’t want to be caught with our pants down.

On leaving our “wild” pitch this morning we discover the “real” camper park was just around the corner. It’s got everything we need. Water tap, grey water drain, plus a WC disposal point. Other campers are inside the barrier controlled area. Sign above indicates entrance is free. We enter. Take the biglietto from the machine. Unsure why a ticket is issued if it’s all “free”. However, we know the Italians have a thing about tickets. Rule of thumb here is that you purchase a ticket from a ticket office. Then show it to the “ticket control” person, standing just a few yards from the issuing office. They put a little pen mark on the back to prove something. Not quite sure what that is yet. Luckily, there is no one on duty here. We and Beastie do what is necessary. Move on up 100 metres to the far exit barrier. Present it with the ticket. Fails to open. Seems that entrance is indeed free, but exiting isn’t. We need to take the ticket to another machine, disguised as a ticket control person, cleverly disguised as a log cabin. We get it validated and pay our due. Beastie’s “dump” costs us eight Euros.

Seems we needn’t have worried. This site at Levanto is open all year and has full MOHO services. We’re 100 metres from the centre, 200 metres from the beach.

Beastie’s wiggle down the narrow winding hairpins shows off Levanto’s stunning location.

When it comes down to it, we are not “town tourists”. We don’t mind the odd intersperse of a museum, religious relic or shop pop here or there. What gives us a buzz is nature.

Human humdrum day and evening activities blot out familiar sounds from our senses. Concentrated on our immediate doings dulls our ears. Spotify “Freshly Ground” playlist drones and drowns. It’s not until the camp quietens that we hear them. 11pm. Eleven “dongs”. Ha! The nearby nocturnal church, has a job to do. Keep everyone awake for as long as possible. Night stillness ably actively amplifying. 11.15pm. Eleven dongs, plus one for good measure. 11.30pm. Eleven dongs plus two for good measure. No prizes for 11.45pm. Has Quasimodo forgotten to take his sleeping pills? Then 12 at twelve etc., etc., etc. . . . at least by 1.15am it’s just 1 plus one!! He must be getting tired. That is until 7am. Camp site is silently sleeping. So is the sun. It’s still and dark. Seven dongs, just to gently rouse us. Then, it seems Quasi has woken the wrong side of the bed with a splitting headache. He has a violent urge to share it with all and sundry. He’s only gone and found his long lost hammer. Needs to make up for lost time. He decides to compete with Thor. He’s in a frenetic frenzy. He suddenly hates bells, with a vengeance. Smashes and smashes. Forty-five smashes, against what sounds like the biggest bell in the world, until it’s out of his system. He’s drained, so are we. Can’t wait for tonight. Or tomorrow morning.

Our afternoon gives us a fix of the beautiful kind. Injections of scenery infuse around every hairpin. Senses swirling and delighting. We’re out for an adventure with the “Famous Five”. From Levanto all five coastal towns (Corniglia; Manarola; Monterosso; Riomaggiore; Vernazza) are accessible by train, foot, or in our case, via the long scenic way round on Scoot. To reach each town we must go up into the mountain mist, then down into the seaside sun.

The steep terraced hillsides incapable of preventing the locals from earning their keep with either olives or vines.

The forecast is for rain later, so we’ve been keeping the other eye on the skies. Our trip back to base is treated to a spectacular light show as the fading sun does it’s best to ward off the thickening clouds.

With so much mountain scenery around us, we’re spoiled for choice. We’re near some tunnely flat bits, so decide to go riding in the dark.

The weather’s changed today. A blustery south westerly sets in for the day. The shoreline is taking a battering. It seems Levanto is also famous for its surfing. By the time we break the bikes out, hundreds of youngsters are already riding the breakers. Word’s got around. An online community of surfing surfers.

We head off north. Along an old, but newly ultra smooth metalled disused 19th century railway line. There are two more hidden villages to explore – Bonassola and Famura.

There are not many options for these mountainous coastal villagers when it comes to getting around. You either put on a wiggle or morph into a mole. The mainly tunnelled route ends with a dead-end at Famura. Flats run out. We’re greeted by a quay-side lady who points us to the only way back.

Turino Region. Penultimate Italian night camped up in Asti. Home to the famous “Spumanti”. Twenty-one local family grape-growers give us nothing to celebrate after today’s frustrating journey.

A sluggishly slow start to our day leaving Levanto. Our general direction finds us creeping and crawling our way up, over and around mountain after mountain. I’m sure a Swiss man came up with the Toblerone shape after a vacation in this area. Each mountain peak huddled and hemmed in by a throng of mini peaks. It’s strange how your mind-set can easily influence the joys or not of a journey. We try not to feel like we’re late for an important meeting. The morning sees us average 30Km per hour and we have just over 200Km to clock. So it’s not easy to relax. No time to stop and enjoy a moment’s view. There are so many. Haven’t we seen enough already? Hopefully the afternoon will bring some respite. It does – sort of.

Missy, our Co-Pilot, has had few mini meltdowns. She’s done well overall. We think the Italian roads are starting to get the better of her though. (For us it’s the Italian drivers) Caused we think by tunnel vision. That’s when she loses contact with her space-born controlling constellation. She gets discombobulated on exiting tunnels. Arms sent spinning as if in a game of blind man’s bluff. Blindly searching for silent signals. Frantically feeling her way forward, or backwards, or sideways. Sending us likewise until it’s too late. Today is not one of her best. Another wrong turn sends us down a blind alley of sorts. Faced with a 2.5metre high bridge leaves Beastie no option but to halt and somehow U-turn.

30K further and she’s gone and undone us again. This time put us onto a wrong main road. I move too soon. Worried about the traffic. Don’t get Beastie in just the right position to reverse into a narrow side track that looks as if it hasn’t had a vehicle pass its way for a decade or so. Think I’m OK. As I pull away a car (of all things) just happens to want to turn in. Can you B-believe it. I rush the manoeuvre and Beastie’s backside thwacks the banking. Taking with it a pile of dirt and grit that’s now embedded into a cracked bumper!

Are we glad to reach our base for tonight. Half an hour of evening sun is left on our side of the valley. Just enough time to release our pent-up selves from the day’s aggravations. The local landlords’ plots please.

Tuesday 24th and we’re currently one of only two “Brit” campers parked up at Camping Gran Bosco. Not where we intended. Apart from maddening road detours, we earlier discovered our planned over-nighter doesn’t re-open until 19th December. (we’re close to ski territory)

The scenery is stunning (we think). The air is thick with misty smoke that’s drifted this way. After effects from severe mountain fires 28K down the road at Bussoleno. Still smoking as we passed. Some households lost to the blaze.

But first we had to get here. Without doubt our journey today, over to Lake Annecy, has been the most scenic so far.

On leaving the area around Susa our winding path gives us good height to see the layers of dusty smoke filled air hovering above the town. Some mountain top fires still smouldering away. They want wind. Lots of it. But they’re in the doldrums.

It’s not until we reach Mont Cenis pass does the air start to clear and crispen. Time to stretch our legs. Take in the glorious views and snap away.

Previously, we’d stocked up with some provisions. Bread, juice, water, cheese, pate, biscuits, chocolate and sixteen bottles of wine. Bill came to 64 euro! Wine much cheaper here than in France. Hopefully there will be some left by the time Angleterre comes into view.

We’re parked up for two nights in a car park, twenty yards from the lakeside. Dry, bright and sunny. 20+ late afternoon. (A very chilly 6C come breakfast time.) Old town Annecy, a mix of quaint alley-ways and canals, a ten minute walk. We walk. It feels good to be back in familiar France.

Today we take the western shore’s cycle path. Even though it’s low season many take advantage of the glorious weather too. Mostly local French. Our 26K round trip probably the last outing for the bikes.

Well, obviously four in our case . . . and the song continues (if you can remember that far back) . . . “but I’m singing a happy song”.

A six hour amazingly uneventful journey yesterday (although we did get rained on for the first time in six weeks), sees us parked up with seven other campers. The site is next to a main road and the new tram line into Besancon centre. Leaving Annecy’s twenty three degrees to the thirteen we were greeted with over here reminds us that home is beckoning. Mind you, with Beastie, home is wherever we can find a lac!

We wake to a further reminder. Four degrees and it’s a typically damp, dark, grey misty November feel to start the day. We like a good hot shower. Especially on an October morning such as this.

[You do tend to lose all track of time when you’re away for this long. It really doesn’t matter what the day, week or even month is. In my case an occasional personal reminder is enough.]

So, we walk the ten paces to the shower block. Run the water for five minutes. Temperature refuses to budge above luke cold. Mary-Ann chickens out. She is not singing a happy song. Unfortunately, I have to pretend I’m made of sterner stuff. I become a “huffer and puffer”. Whistling out of the question. Can’t catch my breath. When your goose pimples start resembling nipples you know the water is seriously cold. I can hear Mary-Ann having a Franglais conversation with the janitor. He tweaks some levers and “voila!”. Still icy cold. Oh la la. Now he’s not singing a happy song. By the time we’re leaving the site he is still scratching his head.

That’s one big difference we’ve noticed between the Italian and French sites. The French tend to give you warm water under a push button control. Thirty seconds of water per frustrating push. The Italian’s give you hot water and as much as you can take.

Beastie is currently shielding us from the elements above Reservoir de Bouzey, about 7K west of Épinal. Our bitter lake-side walk rewarded with a hot coffee and  “doggy-bag” left overs from lunchtime’s stop off at Plombières-les-Bains. A thermal town first established by the Romans, then made famous and fashionable by the likes of Napoleon Bonaparte and Voltaire. From the state of many of the old beautiful buildings, it’s clear that it’s just managing to keep its head above the thermal waters. A perfectly french Salon de Thé gives us an opportunity to practise some spoken French. No English is exchanged for once. All rounded off nicely with a speciality thé and a selection of deserts.

As we leave, it’s clear that Napoleon az left eez at!

Although Scoot’s 114cc puts him in “baby” class in terms of bike power, my  beginner’s basic training was exactly the same as if I’d been riding a 500cc super-bike.

The best thing I learned from my bike training? Whatever speed you’re traveling at, keep to the “two second rule”. i.e. leave a minimum of two seconds between you and the vehicle in front. (no, today’s blog is not going to be a road safety advert on behalf of moaning MOHOmers)

French drivers (and Italian’s to a degree) like to tailgate. Really close. (Have seen four in a row doing over 60, each one no more than four feet apart) Today’s drive over to Châlons-en-Champagne, south west of Reims being absolutely typical. Beastie motoring along. Minding his own business. 50mph. Cruise control “on”. We’ve got 35K of beautifully smooth dual carriageway ahead. Traffic’s light. Nothing in front. I’ve got my feet up. Mary-Ann taking time out for a quick nap. I see him behind us, in the distance. The only other car for miles. Silver grey Peugeot 208. He’s doing 55ish. He closes us down. I give a customary wave to a fellow passing MOHOman on the opposite carriageway. Check my mirrors. He’s disappeared! I think. (If it’s sunny, then at this point I can at least detect a shadow) But there’s been no turn-off, Aire or roundabout. My head starts to swivel like an umpire watching a long rally between David Ferrer and Raffa. Checking left, then right. Where is he? I daren’t blink. Just catch a fleeting glimpse. Ha. I know he’s there. He’s decided to lasso himself to the bike rack. Slip streaming F1 style. No intention of pulling past though. Getting a tow, as if Beastie is a horned cow. I accelerate up to sixty to create space. So does he. I decelerate down to forty-five. So does he. I try to ignore him. Impossible. I get Beastie to practise slaloming. Just so I can keep him in vision. Can he take another subtle hint. No chance. A few cars overtake the two of us. I wave to another passing MOHO and hey presto. He’s gone. I miss the trick.

Today has been a most unextraordinary day. So much so, that for the first time, neither of has taken a photo to share. However, I blogged on our French trip that Mary-Ann intended to invest in a MOHO hoover. Luckily, we managed to pick up this bargain at a MOHO boot sale.

Peronne – last time we were here was in May. We took a canal side bike ride. Visited the WW1 Museum. A couple of newbies starting to get the feel of this MOHOing lark.

Reviewing that day’s blog reminded me just how far my fashion dress sense has moved on since I bought my first pair of Croques, especially for that trip. Ably abetted no doubt by our time in Italy, where I took careful note of what every best dressed man was wearing. And the result? Simply jaw dropping. Don’t you think?

This trip has been like an Italian filled Croque Monsieur. French cheesy bread outers filled with spicy Italian delights  – fantastic scenery – rubbish roads – excitable, loud and sometimes rude people – gorgeous weather – impatient tooting car drivers – incredible ancient sites – all guzzled down with fabulous regional wines.

We’re doing no more than biding our time before tomorrow’s crossing. Edging bit by bit further north.

Currently “cramped” up with a multitude of other MOHOmers, all itching to get through that chunnel tomorrow morning. Site bursting at its seams like an overfed Worzel Gummidge. We’re in spitting distance of the beach. But tonight is not the night to try that. A northerner is howling outside.

A relatively easy journey planned for today. Escalles our target. It’s got its own equivalent of the White Cliffs of Dover, but without Vera. We can even see those from here. Obviously joined at the hip long before the channel came along and separated the spuds from the caulifleurs.

This morning, after two “Route Barees”, we were on a hat trick. Would we be disappointed? “Non”. Whereas on our last trip we’d get all wound up and agitated, like the washing in a 1960s twin-tub, today we reveled in it. Even though they added considerably to our journey time. We really felt the “welcome home”. If that wasn’t enough, Little Missy, our Ozzie Co-Pilot, forgot to do what we employ her to do. A brand new super route through oceans of farmland ignored. She didn’t know it was there. Seems the GPS road numbers she was adhering to hadn’t yet been updated. Previously, if we’d have been taken down this track, the air would have been less than rosy. But today, it was one long hoot. We couldn’t wait to see what was on the other side of the horizon.

That’s about as much Italian I’ve acquired. Courtesy of sharing too many showers standing next to, (not literally of course) many Frankie S woulda bea’s.

While we’ve been roaming, we’ve picked up many forgettable words. A few others will stay with us a little longer. Top of the list has to be “prego” (no, nothing to do with a knocked up woman – that has two “g”s). It seems you can use this word in multiple situations. A bit like the French n’est-ce-pas?, but much more fluid. Add “skooozy”, “grassy” (pronounced with a northern accent and a long “a”), “chinkwantachinkay” (this is a really confusing number – we never worked out what it was, but everything we ever bought seemed to contain this number, so we would just hand over the biggest note we had). The Italians seemed to use it loads in their everyday conversations too. They also use “si” a lot. It can mean more than just yes. They throw “si”around like confetti. (quite appropriate, eh?) And finally a word you see signed all over the place – “uscita”, but difficult to find one when you really need to. We discovered late on that the “sc” created the “sh” sound, so we became quite reticent to use it, even though asking “doe-vay uscita?” can be quite useful. With these few words the Italians start and end their gi-normously long conversations.

“Skoozy” – “Prego” – “Prego”  – “Si?” – “Prego” – “uscita?” – “Si” – “grassy” – “Si” – “Prego” – “chinkwantachinkay” – “Si prego” – “Prego” – “chinkwantachinkay si prego?” – “si, chinkwantachinkay” – “si, grassy” – “si prego, si grassy! “ – “Prego si, chinkwantachinkay!!” – “Prego?” – “Prego grassy” – ” “Skoozy?” – “Si  skoozy?”  – “Si prego” – ” Grassy – prego?“ – “Prego” – “Grassy. Chow” – “Chow”

Did I forget to mention “Chow”. Saying that word, makes you feel sooooo Italian! You just have to remember not to add “baby”.

They add flavour too, to all of their conversations as a matter of course, with customary gesticulations. My favourite, the head bowing  hands together praying motion. Like a Hindu subservient namaste. Yes, they really do do that. I think it means something like “Yea, so you gotta my little sister preggo, So youra granny ain’t gonna make ita through to tomorrowa”

“Grassy meelay” for joining with us on our travels again. And until the next time . . .

Chow Baby!!