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.”