It’s amazing what you can actually sleep through. The phrase ‘dead to the world’ wasn’t coined for no good reason. Babies do it all the time. It would come in handy for us too while on tour. Early am thunderstorms, fireworks, motorbikes, trains, church bells, barking dogs, screeching cats, loud campers, bin lorries, thumping parties, P.A. testing , snoring . . . these are not a few of our favourite things.
Our favourite place is history. Now spinning out of reach. We’re turning Beastie’s head northwestwards. Time and back management takes our priority. With a little under 2,000 kilometres to Calais we need to do some simple maths. Divide our time and days. Come up with the right answer. Make sure we don’t leave a remainder. Ensure our remaining plans are not Pi in the sky. Don’t want to be going round in circles.
Today’s Adriatic accompaniment would have benefitted from having a chauffeur on board Beastie. Non stop head-turning stuff. I have to ‘keep my mind on the drive, keep my hands on the wheel and keep my snoopy eyes on the road ahead’. Wait for a perfect stopping place. They’re few and far between.
This one, one of the best . . .
The D8 coast road is definitely a favourite. We’re heading back to Camping Selce. Unbeknown to us we stayed there for one night on the way down. Let me clarify that sentence. We knew we were there, when we were there. It was only when we entered reception for the second time, to be greeted by the lady with the ‘pug nose’, (not sure if that’s very un-PC?) did we realise it wasn’t a case of deja vu.
From Selce we move out of craggy Croatia, back into silky Slovenia, then on towards tiresome Trieste, Italy. Our few weeks in each barely scratching the surface. Scratching has become a bit of a habit these last few days too. It seems we’ve been unknowing accomplices. Subjected to a nightly clandestine ‘ménage à trois’. And not just from one extra female bed partner, but three! Silent savagery the nature of their game. We, like innocent sacrificial lambs stretched out on an altar, provide an endless supply of blood. Our comatose collaborating with their desires. They have their way with us. Know our weak and tender spots. Each female’s skills honed to perfection, as is their ultra sharp stiletto. We remain oblivious to the attack. We can do nothing. That is, until morning . . . scratching time is over! It’s pay-back time.
Mrs S is on a hat-trick – two down one to go . . . SMACK
And we didn’t even get offered a cup of tea and a biscuit . . .
Entering Trieste is traumatic. It seems we have arrived on the final day of the annual Barcolana Regatta. We’ve never heard of it. Unlike the quarter of a million spectators who are here, there and everywhere. The bay is awash with white sails. Over two thousand racing the fifteen mile course. The sight a marvelous manic menagerie. They have perfect weather. We are unable to park up anywhere sensible to even get a decent photo 🙁
The only camp site in Trieste is full. Surprise, surprise. We move on. Another site thirty minutes outside of town is willing to allow us a two night stop. Although they will officially close tomorrow. How kind is that?