If only our days came with a forecast. Like the weather. To give us a chance to decide whether to get up. Or not. Choose which side of the bed to get out from. A warning that all lights were going to be on amber or red, or every door was going to get slammed in your face, could save immense frustration.
Our two-nighter at the poshest campsite this side of Jupiter, has a reason to it. If Camping Village Pappasole was based in the UK, it would have probably been included in the recent list of new cities – it’s that huge. Though the larger the site, the more intense the regulations and check in procedure. Fluorescent wrist bands one delight we have learned to detest. This site comes with a novelty. It’s a little before 3pm. On being issued a pitch number we trundle Beastie to the far reaches of the known universe. Past avenue after avenue of layered MOHOs, caravans and cabins. Each blocked by a barrier. Including ours. Thinking it’s a one way system, we continue our search for an ‘in’. At a barriered point of no return, heads are well past the stage of being scratched. We’re wasting valuable pool time. It’s 35C. We need to cool off. Not get hot and bothered. Mr S does some of his own trundling. To an outsider probably looks like rumbling and grumbling. “Oh, sorry” I’m told at reception, “I forgot to say. Between the hours of 2pm and 4pm it’s ‘Quiet Time’. No vehicle movements. All the barriers will lift at 4pm”. Our eventual pool-side position helps to negate any negative frustrations.
We’re a short 10K Scoot from Piombino. Regular ferries operate to Elba. So, on this new day, we’re interested to see where Bonaparte spent his days in exile. It’s 10.35am. We’re in good time for the 11.15am crossing. At the ticket office we’re presented with two pieces of unwelcome information. €112 euro to include tiny Scoot is steep. (Sicily return with Beastie was only €89.) Also, next crossing to include a vehicle is 12noon! It seems the 11.15 ferry has broken down. We put on our sour grumpy Robert de Niro looks to show what we think about this. They do nothing to influence the ‘take it, or leave it’ look on the equally sour ticket-issuing face, facing us across the counter. We weigh up the pros and cons. Bite the bullet.
At just before 1.30pm we dock at Elba’s main city of Portoferraio. It’s picturesque. Our spirits rise. Once we’ve parked Scoot, we kick off proceedings with an uphill hike to Villa Mulini – Nap’s old place of residence. It’s Tuesday. Monday is the traditional closure day for Italian museums. But not on Elba!!
Further up top, the massive Medici Fortress towers over the town like an eternal sentinel. For centuries the guardian of the port and environs. Fabulous views, probably not part of the original architect’s intentions.
Time flies when you’re having fun. It flies by. So quickly, that by the time our port-side lunch concludes, we’ve metaphorically missed the boat. Plans to visit and enter a mineral mine on the opposite coast, scuppered. Last entry, on this Tuesday, 3pm. It’s 3.27pm!
While we’ve been having fun, Scoot’s shady spot gets spotted by a shady character with no heart. The type that walks around worldwide, anxiously searching out misdemeanours. An invisible ticket-toter has left a €42 request in Scoot’s side pocket. Luckily for us it must have got blown away . . .
We don’t remain downhearted. A coastline Scoot to Procchio, an excuse for a gander and ice-cream completes our trimmed down itinerary. By 7pm we dock at Piombino. Pick up dinner from a local Eurospin supermarket and head back to base.
2K short, without warning, an amber engine warning light, lights up. Scoot has a coughing fit. Decides to take total control of the throttle. One second he accelerates to max; then slows. Repeats and repeats. I resemble a bunny hoping learner with no clutch control. We enter camp like a couple of bucking broncos.
Wonder what the forecast is for tomorrow ?. . .
Shame about the museum, but Elba looks fabulous.
You’ve been to so many fantastic places 😀
Elba was a lot of travel for little time spent there. We’d plan it better another time . . . c’est la vie