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.