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.
