Aups

Friday 5 Sept -Tues 16 Sept

Aups is the centre of Europe, or at least the local abbot thought so back in the 18th century when he tiled his house with a map of the continent to demonstrate his mathematical theory. It wasn't far (44 miles from our overnight base at Frejus) to here. We pick up the keys to James's in the Grand Café, my feeble French retreating further in a rally of automatic 'si's' and 'grazie's' after 3.5 months in Italy. Feeling like a startled fawn, I stumble over my request for 'Les cles de Pierre' and get offered a Kronenberg by the barman but eventually we have the keys and are exploring the lovely town, full of fountains and sun dials, a shady square edged by plane trees. At bistro corner, where 3 roads and their cafes converge on the fountain, I satisfy my craving for omelette. James has emailed a list of instructions about the house, ranging from how to pump water up from the well to rebooting the solar powered battery unit. The power generated by wind and sun is not quite enough to keep things running at night so we have told people not expect electricity after sundown. Also, because of the septic tank, we have warned them not to move their bowels in the house if they can possibly help it... Head up to the house via the steepest incline you ever saw, (we'd plonked Vera halfway up at some caves). The treelined rock-edged road opens out onto a clearing at the top and the house sits, high in the heavens.

The house is built into the side of the hill so you go down the steps to the front door. There is a huge expanse of sky and the light is blue-filtered. We are not sure where the garden ends, divided into dry stone walled terraces and a planted mass of herbs, lavender, aloe, and olive trees. Two trees on either side of the house are each called peace and prosperity. (James jokes that prosperity died as soon as he moved in, but at least peace is thriving.) It is a beautiful, sunny, windy day and the wind generator whirrs forlornly into the hills. Call James and go through the business of switching everything on.

Inside the house is all stone and tiles, colourful cushions, curved hearths. A wooden staircase leads up to an attic bedroom, that opens out onto a sun room, and another huge terrace level with the higher back of the house. From here you walk across to the other outbuildings. To the front of the house you are in the circular chapel, marked on maps from Napoleonic times.

Before dusk, we bring stuff up from the van in a couple of trips using a handy wheelbarrow and make supper and light some candles. The wind keeps up so we are able to use an electric lamp and laptop, although when I turn on the kitchen light everything else shuts down.

Collect the hire car on Sat, a diesel, delivery-van of a Berlingo. Jon is aghast, we'd been hoping for something nippy after life in the crawler-lane. We stock up on go to the roast chicken, fresh from the spit, pate, bread and salad in the market and get some beer in the Intermarche. We are ready with the wheelbarrow but the Berlingo is high enough off the ground to make it up the hill without cracking the underworkings. It is a windless night, so there is no any electricity at all. J plays his guitar by oil lamp.

On Sunday we pick up Mum, Dad and Christine. It is great to see them again and does not feel at all strange or very long since I saw them at all. We slip easily into conversation, me sandwiched between M & C while Dad sits up front with Jon. Drop them to their gite, a km or so just out of town and later all have dinner at the Auberge de la Tour. Sit outside - it turns jumper cool and Dad, who is jumper-less puts a couple of napkins round his shoulders for warmth. They give us a little newsflash: Mum's purchase in Matalan where the shop assistant was a 'lovely girl', Dad's ingrown toenail. I am filled with love and warmth for my family as never before.

Drop them back to the gite and Jon tries to coax the car up the hill but with the cold tires it fails to grip on the road and there is a horrible crunching and it feels like it is stuck on the ledge at the roadside and it doesn't want to go any further and I suggest we leave it there overnight but the handbreak won't hold and t is impossible to reverse too, with even less purchase on the back tires and we are panicking a bit. I am out of the car J gives it another whirl and it is burning rubber like you wouldn't believe but going up. I chase up after it - I am scared in the trees with only a puny torch. J makes it to the top, relieved, but won't be doing that again in the dark.

In the morning we proudly examine the tiremarks on the path, then, after a mosey round Aups with MDC they come up to the house while it is still light. J gives mum a lift while D and I puff our way up and C practically runs it. Have spag bol and a singsong until the sun sets. M&D are wearing white blankets to keep the chill off. It is a bit like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. They bed down in the chapel.

On Tuesday we drive to the Gorge Du Verdun, Europe's widest and deepest gorge, 21km long of limestone piles divided by the river Verdon. It is breathtaking, at some points a sheer 800m drop down to the strip of acquamarine water at its base. The landscape enroute is beautiful, variously agricultural fields, to wild meadowland, to rocky cliffs. A Belgian couple in town advised that Moustiers-Ste-Marie was good place to start the gorge drive so we go there first and have drinks and orange icecreams (which were accidentally ordered in a lost-in-translation kind of way but which turn out to be very good). M-S-M is lovely, cafes and little squares sit huddled in the cliffs. J spots a humming bird in the geranium pots. It is only an inch or so long, looking more like a big wasp with a beak. Drive over a bridge where people are pedallo-ing and kayaking in the unearthly turquoise water. It is quite beautiful. Have a late lunch at Aguines. There are 4 dishes left on the menu so we order everything they have left and share the tarts and pasta between us. Later, Diane & John arrive, via a train from Paris where they'd been for a couple of days. They are attempting the hill in the dark in a Picasso but then decide against it. We go down with the wheelbarrow and have sausage and mash and a catchup on the terrace.

On Wed we all meet in the Grand Café on the edge of the marketplace. It has become such a great meeting point, loadsa tables outside, faded art deco inside. James arrives and we talk about his plans for the place, his neighbour who owns all the nearby land and who has him surrounded. Arthur, Rachel, and Kate have been on the same flight as Helen and all arrive about 8.30. Much drinking of wine into the small hours and eating D&J's delicious chicken-fennel stew. Everyone crashes - A&R&K in cabin and Helen and Christine a sofa each in the main house. M&D bed down on the chapel floor while J&D are in the mezzanine level. We are in the tent, erected just to the side.

Thursday
I am 40 I'm getting married! J brings me a tent breakfast of tea with 4 jaffa cakes, complete with candle and card, in which is a suggestion that we get hitched. I'd been thinking about the same thing myself. The months away had brought us closer together and convinced us that if we could spend 24-7 in each other's company then we could probably make a go of it. So I said yes! We all go up the gorge, 5 in James's car with John in the roofless boot to hold down the lilos. He gets a refreshing shower when it rains. And a drink of some wiper fluid. Have a bit of a swim first in the chilly depths of the lake and watch a fighter jet breaking through the air out of the gorge in a mountain training exercise. Amazingly the lake is manmade, with the valley being flooded in the 70s in order to provide hydro-electricity. Hilltop towns have been made coastal. We all go kayaking, which is stunning in such beautiful surroundings. The wind picks up and we are in the wake of many a pedalo so steering is difficult. J&C have paired up, with much swapping of places, careering into others and yelling of instructions echoeing throughout the canyon. A&R have Kate in the middle. D&J are going like professionals. We go out to the De La Tour again that night and I get given my presents and have a feast of l'escargot, steak and chips, then birthday cake with sparklers. Give a mini speech and make our engagement announcement. Everyone seems so pleased, much kissing and cheering. It all seems surreal, like one of those fantastic dreams where you are disappointed to wake up. It is, I think, the best day of my life. James has downloaded some music so we have a bit of dance back at the house. We are dosey-do-ing on the terrace until about 3. Much drink is taken, buckets are offered (just in case) but declined. My last memory is of James helping Helen take her contact lenses out, before I stagger off to the tent, Oates in reverse.


On Friday Helen has done the double, waking up to find both contact lenses have gone (ended up in the septic tank we assume). Unusual even on the drunkest of evenings to lose 2. H also hasn't seen her camera since day 1 so it is turning into an expensive weekend for her. The weather is turning positively autumnal. We go to a nearby town for lunch but don't swim as planned. Have a delicious barbecue round at the gite in the evening. Despite relative sobriety, we manage in the first hour, to break several glasses, smash a bottle, and throw a snail into the satellite dish, all in front of the gite owners who called in for a drink but whom James is thankfully diverting in conversation. We sign James's visitors book, each outdoing each other in the plaudits in case he wants to use us for an advert... Vowed to take it easy tonight but back at the house we are up until about 4, telling ghost stories that freak James out so he locks the door to the house before going to bed.

Sat dawns cold and windy after a night of the same. We all wake up perished under thin sheets while duvets lay piled up in the chapel. Unable to get into the house, we make our way down to the village to defrost and congregate at the Grand amongst the market crowds. D&J leave to go back to Watford. It is our last day and we pack the van, say goodbye to James. Have a pastis and a g&t in town before picking up some takeaway pizzas to take round to the gite. We have an early last night and crash on the floor. Aups has been absolutely brilliant, a real laugh. Thanks so much to everyone for coming over and making it great and to James for being the most fantastic, welcoming host.

Up early on Sunday and do drop-offs to the train station and airport for H, M, D and C. A, R & K leave a little bit later from Marseilles. Down poles at the campsite only 500m from Aups. Free internet and a swimming pool, although we'll hardly use the latter. There is a grey cat on a lead which the owners take for walks when it is not tethered to the van. It is perhaps common in France to raise cats as dogs? I am reminded of Di telling me of the rabbit she saw being walked in Lille. The town is quiet now and we sit and reminisce about the week. Last week's tourists have morphed into the hunting lot, all rednecky checked shirts and baseball caps. Wild boar are the main catch here, and the shooting goes on around the edges of James's place making evening strolls a bit hazardous. We have the remaining things on the menu during our 3rd meal of the week at the Auberge, thanks to MDC who treated us. Truly freezing at night now.

On Monday, after dropping off the hire car in Draguinan and catching up on laundry we hear from tenants that they are leaving on 5 October. It seems very close now until we will be home. We debate whether to go the coastal route but in the end we just want to get home and decide to go inland, up the east side through the Rhone valley. First though we are making a short detour south to Aix en provence.

Roggio to Frejus

Roggio - Firenze 18/08
Before leaving the house in Roggio we had debated what to do afterwards. The options were a) staying at the house for another week; b) moving to a campsite further up the valley, which we had visited, or c) go to Florence; mainly because it had the best and fastest train link to Rome. Staying in the house was tempting but lacking outside space we began to feel sort of trapped and longed to be outdoors again. The campsite up the road was the chosen option until we realised that we wanted a change of scenery altogether and we finally decided on Florence.
After saying our good-byes to Andrea, his family and our little house in Roggio, we set off once again in a fully packed Vera (which we had mostly done the day before). This was the first time we got the old lady over 50mph since we arrived 3 weeks earlier and it felt good to be on the road again.
The campsite in Florence, Michelangelo, sits on a hill just underneath the Piazzale with the same name, and overlooks the town. The site's name isn't advertised on the outside so we drove past at first and were pointed to by a backpacker who had seen us drive past tentatively earlier.
The only pitch available in the shade is an odd triangular shape with a serious slope. Vera has to stay in first gear as the handbrake can't cope alone. We're in an area mainly occupied by tents: Spanish, French, Dutch and British number plates all round. We're bit rusty on the old WART routine but we're glad that we can at last sit outside again, albeit having to hold on to our chairs as any movement sends us skidding further down the incline.
There is a bar serving snacks and pizza, internet points and even a pinball machine tucked away in the corner. From the terrace a fantastic view of the skyline and beer on tap. The pizzas were quite awful though. The pinball machine was a bit too easy; at least that's what Bre said after I manage to get to number three on the highscore list.

Firenze 19/08
The next day we venture into Florence for a bit of sightseeing. From the Piazzale Michelangelo a long set of steps leads down to the banks of the river Arno, and once over the bridge we find ourselves right in the middle of the old town.
We decided to wait just before closing time to see the famous duomo because we'd seen the queues easily stretching two hours worth of waiting in the heat, and stroll around aimlessly, stopping to have coffees every now and then. At about half past five, when we join the diminished queue, it slowly dawns on us that we misread the guide book: the duomo (cathedral) closed at half past four; what is still open is access to the domo (dome) and involves 640-odd steps up through a maze of evermore claustrophobic staircases. About midway we come out onto a gallery circumventing the dome just below its impressive fresco, The Last Judgement. Halfway around there are more steps and the ceilings become so low that we have to stoop most of the time. Minutes are spent waiting for other visitors to come down and pass wherever possible, and at last we see the ladder that leads onto the final outdoor platform. The views over the city are stunning and we're having out photo taken by a friendly Irish woman. My legs are positively shaking after we spill out onto the pavement outside the cathedral. We decide to walk back to the site and pick up some food on the way. Together with the steps down and back up to the Piazzale Michelangelo we reckon we have negotiated well over a 1000 steps today.

Rome 20/08
Early start today as we're catching a fast train to Rome.
Everything seems to have heightened quality - the good, bad and ugly - and the graffiti lining the walls and houses as we approach the central station are exquisite and very elaborate. It is said the Romans don't stop what they are doing for anyone, least for the masses of tourists, and we feel the truth of that as we fight our way across rudely wide streets and ferocious traffic. The most striking thing about Rome is how close the ancient and modern are. You might round an office block just to stumble upon a few rows of temple columns rising from an old excavation whilst next to it a wide road without markings displays the usual automotive chaos. There is so much to see and precious little time so we decide on a quick, selective whistle stop tour-de-force.
First stop, the Pantheon. A vast, round dome, originally a temple to the gods, and now since the 7th century a church. Inside are about 1,000 people but still enough space to move around easily. Outside are scores of badly dressed legionnaires with plastic swords beckoning to tourists to have their photos taken with them. We refrain.
Next stop: Fontana di Trevi. It's massive and seems to grow out of the side of a palace. We quickly take some photos and skim a few coins. Some people are being moved on by the tourist police because they were foolish enough to sit down. Amateurs.
We cut out a lesser known attraction to go straight to the Vatican. Walking past the intimidating Castel Degli Angeli we're on the main parade leading to the Piazza San Pietro. The piazza is massive but somewhat smaller than I imagined after seeing it filled with hundreds of thousands of believers on the telly. We take a few quick shots (not at the pope - he seems to be out) and go into the little post office-cum-gift shop to buy some real pope stamps. Pictures and postcards still feature the old and new pope equally.
As we are ahead of schedule we jump into the metro and head to the collosseum, our last stop for the day. You come out of the tube station and there it is: just over the road. Amazing. We don't go in as there is a two hour wait and are simply happy to gaze at it from the outside. We have a 14 Euro two coffees and Fantas break - the most expensive yet - and head back on the Underground to the train station.
Back in Florence we round the day up with a meal in a restaurant close to the campsite and get 10% off.

Sasso Marconi 21/08 - 25/08
We had enough of all this youthful backpackery nonsense and drive up towards Bologna and a little place called Sasso Marconi; not called that because Marconi did one of his many first transmissions in the town, but simply because here he lies entombed.
The campsite is about 2 km out of town, in the middle of a forest, absolutely massive and almost completely empty. In fact, half of it cordoned off as it is now getting into low season. The proprietor had just taken over the place a few months ago but there had been no need to pity him over our first cappuccinos because as it transpires he offers a full programme of courses like Spinning, Yoga, Dancing, etc over autumn and winter.
The town itself feels very much like a suburb of Bologna, being only 20 minutes away on the train, so we decide to visit the capital of food a second time. We again read the guide book and visit the mentioned streets and alleyways but all we can find are a few butchers and some fruit&veg stalls. The only market we find is a massive affair just off Via dell'Indipendenza selling cheap junk. Again we are hungry at the wrong time and quite embarrassed to admit that we went into a McD - the only place serving food in the afternoon.
The remaining time in Sasso Marconi we spend washing our clothes and sitting by - or rather in - the shallow river that flows in the valley just 5 minutes walk from the site which is already full of sunbeds and umbrellas.

Salsamaggiore Terme 25/08 - 26/08
One day to go before we can claim our pitch in Levanto, Cinque Terre, and we thought of staying in Parma tonight. Described as a delightful site in the grounds of an old mansion it sounds fantastic but as we find out is closed down for good. The alternative is Salsamaggiore Terme, a spa town with hot springs, about 20km south of Parma. The satnav, as usual, leads us on the scenic route, ie tiny little one track roads, but we manage to find it in the end. The site mirrors the spa theme with an impressive 3 pools and a couple of Jacuzzis.
After some time in and by one of the pools a guy on a motorcycle had pitched up next to us. He is Dutch, in his sixties, very skinny and tanned and had just been through Italy and Croatia on his own. While setting up his tent he kept constantly talking to himself and later, as he squatted down to crawl in, let out a monstrous fart. When we composed ourselves again we went for some beers and take-away pizzas. A Swiss couple had just arrived in an immaculate classic Fiat delivery van - red with white bumpers - that looked like it came straight out of the factory. The guy came over puffing on a pipe to have a chat. He had the van since he bought it new in 1970 (same age as Vera). From him we heard for the first time about Camping decks on ferries where you can sleep in your van and don't need to book a cabin. Really nice bloke but after a while we got to these awkward pauses when people sigh 'Yeah' and 'So…'. He though seemed to content to puff away at his pipe and look at us both in turn with a benevolent twinkle. He finally said good night and they were off the next morning to Ancona and then via ferry to Greece.

Cinque Terre 26/08 - 02/09
We're off to our long pre-booked pitch in Levanto. The area is called the Cinque Terre - five fishing villages wedged between Levanto and Porto Venere just east of La Spezia in Liguria.
The site is basically in the middle of town; five minutes from the umbrella and sunbed covered beach. The sanitary facilities (sorry, but after so long on the road you become sort of obsessed with toilet blocks) are of the best we've seen; there are plenty of washing machines and, as we find out, free wireless by the restaurant. Regular cheap trains connect all towns and we buy a 3 day special ticket that includes fees into the park.
The five towns/villages, which we subsequently visit all, are an amazing sight both from the land and from the sea. Dozens to hundreds of different coloured houses tumble along folds and rocks towards calm bays in which pretty fishing boats are moored. There are many walking routes that crisscross the park and we walk the coastal path between Corniglia and Vernazza on our second day.
Levanto itself is a pleasant seaside resort with a good mix of locals and tourists. Plenty of places to have a drink and a few good restaurants. When we are able to order Tabouleh in a café one day we can hardly contain ourselves. There is a bookshop with more or less trashy selection of English books and we stuff our pockets. The only good thing is the discovery of Colin Bateman's Murphy novels. The rest we smuggle in between the Michelin guides in the restaurant, and the worst, The Abortionist's Daughter we leave on the train. Apologies to whoever picked that nonsense up (although, who am I kidding? I'm reading the last Harry Potter instalment at the mo…).
The other campeggiori are a heady mix of few Italians, Dutch and mainly Germans, but it's a long cry from Lake Garda and we manage to conduct most of our conversations in Pidgin Italian. A Dutch couple comes up one day that had seen Vera in Florence and had taken a photograph then - small world.
Although we really enjoy our time here we can't hide the fact that we're actually want nothing more than seeing everyone in France. So we take it easy, make the best of it and plan our route to Aups.
If you ever think about spending a week in Italy there is hardly a better place to visit than the Cinque Terre. A good base is Monterosso, or also Porto Venere.

Imperia 02/09 - 04/09
Our next stop (and last in Italy) is Imperia. We three point turn round as quickly as we can after seeing the first campsite (think League of Gentlemen meets an industrial estate in Slough - although that sounds almost too intriguing) but the second choice is nice , set in the botanic gardens of an old manor house.
We discover a musical instrument shop and I buy a small travel guitar. Bre comes up with the great idea of a skills exchange back at home. After listing what we would like to learn our enthusiasm dampens a bit when we realise what we can offer in return. Room, tea and biscuits?

Frejus, France 04/09 - 05/09
Today is the big day: we're leaving Italy for the first time in three and a half months. Italy is a fantastic country and we had a brilliant time here but every place starts to fade a little after more than 14 weeks of holiday. We're also very excited to be in Aups tomorrow. We've made a little film when we crossed the border to France: "And here we are, in our last tunnel in Italy!".
We make our first stop at a service station and feel like children in front of the tree on Christmas morning: sandwiches, baguettes, quiches and lots of room.
The campsite in Frejus is an end of season graveyard and hopelessly overpriced. After a meal of hearty French fare and a couple of games on the pinball machine we don't care much though. Tomorrow we'll be in Aups.

Roggio

Late July - Mid August

We spent 3 weeks in Roggio, the village in the hills. After a long drive up to the north of Tuscany, we hook up with Alberto who was born in the house that he now leads us to. V splutters up the hills above the twin valleys while Alberto's Panda stops frequently to let us catch up and allow us to take in the scenery: Paramount Picture mountains and a forested valley dotted with peach bricked old villages. A gouged out lake with bulky hydroelectric dam adds some manmade wow factor to the natural beauty. The roads get smaller and steeper before levelling into open orchards and small-holdings, and we heave a sigh of relief as the church tower signals that we have made it to Roggio. The house is a modern refurbishment of an old village house, tough and roughcast, tall and narrow, built to stand the elements of the mountain's harder climate. The gold shuttered windows open out onto tiny balconies up and down, allowed us a view the village life going on below. The small lane, criss-crossed with washing lines that tether the telegraph poles, snakes down to the shop and up to the church. Bordering it are old barns and houses, with small gardens full of chickens, vines, tomatoes and zucchini. In the lower lands are the flashier new builds of the post-retirement returnees from the UK. Alberto himself has worked in the catering industry in London for 23 years, some of it in his own café in Leather Lane. Like many here he sold up and returned to enjoy his later years in the close community here. We have a drink with him in the bar next door. He is, by his own admission, a permanent fixture in the place, drinking from noon, playing cards. We meet Andrea, who runs the bar with his mother and father. He has built up a regular clientele through groups of Danish tourists who visit for walking holidays, staying in the nearby apartments he has developed. In the summer, the population swells from 170 to 500 with the tourists, which is pretty much what is was before everyone left for London. It is a great experience feeling part of the community here and a marked contrast from the artificial atmosphere of the campsite. We are able to cook up meals on a proper stoves. We enjoy washing up in a normal kitchen. We have a sofa each. We overhear many families, a mix of Italian-English of 3 or 4 generations as they sit down to eat, drink, talk with neighbours in and around our house. The lady at the back sits daily and weaves shawls, the dark material weighted down with heavy books to stretch it. There is no washing machine so we wash by hand, hanging it over the road on one of those pulley line systems. I've always wanted to use one of those.


We are able to clear the van, making it easier to get around. For the first time in ages, touring round, we feel like we are on holiday. We stop off in Castelnuovo di Garfanagna, which the website had described as a little industrial. We are imagining arriving as local curiosities in a remote town but it is a smart tourist-filled place with a pretty medieval centre, remanants of a wall and a lot of blonde bobs with small children. These are instantly recognizable as English Tourist Mums. CdiG becomes part of regular routine. There is a Conad supermarket and a DVD store that we join. Movies had been our one means of escape and we had devoured any that Christine had brought from home. We exhaust the supply of English speaking films in the shop, watching every second of film, even the special features. By the end of it we are even looking for the subtext of the Bee Movie. There is an internet café that lets us upload some pictures. We have haircuts. We dye our hair! Normal life resumes somehow. We are regulars in the bar. It is nice to be recognized and asked what you did that day. I hum the Cheers tune.

We go for one of those accidental-small-walks-that-turns-into-a-big-walk one day into a neighbouring valley. At Campocatino, a small cluster of pastoral huts with a visitors centre and caff gives us a bit of a rest and a fanta. We don't bother with food, should only be another hour or so…. Here the path turns into a mule track where some parts of the path are blocked by falling trees. Increasingly scrambling, hot and tired, and troubled by swarms of flies, we cut back out onto the main road which after about a 14 mile circular loop are lead back to the house where J, practically fainting from the exertion, devours several spoonfuls from a bag of sugar.

We later meet two of the Danes in the restaurant. They have walked in Tibet unassisted which means they are pretty serious hikers. They had also done our walk, beating us by only an hour, although I suspect they were a little more composed. Andrea's mother cooks and his father works in the bar. It is a small well preserved homely place with 1970s décor where there is no menu. We are given fabulous starters of aubergine, bruschetta with mushrooms and frittata. Then farro (barley) soup with the farro being added to your taste, along with garlic drenched crispy bread and a swigged over with olive oil. A selection of beef, turkey and chicken meat roasted with rosemary roast potatoes is the secondi. Wash this down with small coffees and large limoncellos. We are stuffed. We were expecting to return from our trip fit and lithe disappointedly we have put on a few pounds what with the large portions and all the drinking.

We visit the Grotto de Vente, the Wind Cave whose properties as refrigeration system hid the stalatic wonders within. These were not realised until a young girl was locked in by bullies in the late 1800s and revealed what she had seen. It is quite stunning and we wish we had done the longer tour. We also see Barga, a beautiful terraced town with small piazzas on each level and a panorama view of the surrounding countryside from the Duomo, a shimmering climb in dry heat. The town seems to have some Scots connection with John Bellany an artist having a gallery here and a few flags of St Andrews flying, a bagpipe celebration and a group of Scottish students moseying around.

Get the train from our nearest station (conveniently named Poggio) to Lucca, a lovely university town with perfectly preserved wall, an air of genteel and a reputation for the best olive oil in Tuscany. There is a lovely Antifeatro, a curved piazza, as well as a tower with, rather bafflingly, trees growing out top which we climb up to see. On Saturday the town is taken over by a flea market, great for a browse but it is a bit expensive. There is a doorknob for E150, something you'd pick up in Greenwich for a tenth of the price.

We've been talking about where to go next, the Cinque Terre, a crop of rocky towns on the NW coast in Liguria. Jon isn't fussed on seeing it and I get the feeling that he would happily stay in Roggio till Sept when we go to France for my birthday. Roggio is great but I feel claustrophobic in the atmosphere without any outside space save a balcony. It is also dark in the way that these village houses are - built to keep cool with small windows. I go out a couple of walks on my own but there is no communal space to read/sunbathe. One day I am sitting reading on a patch of grass near the church and by the look from one of the locals you would have thought I was in a bikini in the cemetery. Really you need to drive to get anywhere to get around here and I am cursing my dependence on J. Because I have not driven for 15 years, there never seemed to be the right moment to jump in the driver's seat of an old bus on the right hand side of the road. I have a go around the carpark but I am barely able to get the clutch fully down and the gearstick needs a lot of strength. I resolve to have a couple of driving lessons when I get back to build up some confidence and get back in the saddle.

Hear from the campsite at Cinque Terre only have spaces from 26th August so we plan our re-entry to the beach. Decide that we will go a meandering route that allows us to see Rome. On the 8th, with the Olympics starting imminently, J has a fiddle with the TV aerial to try and get the opening ceremony. He manages to make safe the dodgy wiring but it is DVDs-only for us. We catch snatches of Team-GB news in the day-old Guardians, easily come by in Tuscany.


Visit Pisa, splendidly kitsch, I liked it very much. We did the obligatory holding up the leaning tower photos. J has a haggle on the stalls, buying a porkpie hat and glasses. There is a long journey home, changing at Lucca. We read about Boris Johnson in the paper. He seems to be inexplicably popular with the people despite having no policies or appointed anyone to do anything.

We go to Florence on train where we see the Uffizi Gallery and Botticelli's Venus. There is a lack of reverence towards paintings here - you can walk right up to them unlike in the UK although I do get told off for taking photos. The train back whizzes past the stop and we are in Camporgiano, a good hike away in the dark. Call Alberto to see if he knows a cab number that will take us to Poggio. A man overhearing and leaning over a gate (also from London though born in the area) advises us we could walk a short way (which turns out to be along the railway line) but also asks us if would like a lift. We decline as Alberto is on his way. We feel a bit guilty. We'd been slagging him off for ages because he hadn't brought us fresh towels (we'd paid £17 a week for 'linens'). Now, giving us a lift he is happy. "s'what friends are for innit?" he says.

Go for a walk but are caught in the rain so take shelter. Watch the storm from the balcony. Frighteningly close and it strikes a mountain with smoke bouncing off so we retreat inside. Days are cooling and we have even put jumpers on before dark. We look forward to autumn as it means September is closer which equals Family, Friends, France and Forty!

Last day in Roggio and we pack van. J gets talking to a couple of people from Croydon who's sister works in the shop and who know Charlton. We have the last supper in Roggio. We will be sad to leave this beautiful place where we felt truly at home but we are ready to move on now.

Leaving Italy

Check out this little video from us:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jonux/2835268439/


See you soon!
B&J

Oh, Siena!

25/07 Friday, Siena

We're on the way to a, we think anyway, well-earned luxury break. It was yesterday that an angel in the form of the proprietress announced that rooms with views (some had only skylights) were still available in an old palazzo just a stone's throw away from the Campo for a mere €100 per night.

At the moment we're negotiating the 75k from Lake Trasimeno past Florence. Near Siena we were instructed to take the exit Siena South which obviously doesn't come up. We find ourselves on the outskirts of Siena, traversing roundabout after roundabout, until we finally see a sign for Porta Romana, outside of which gate we were told we could park the van. The road climbs very steeply up one of the 3 hills that encircle Siena and we're willing Vera on by uttering soothing words of encouragement and gentle pats on the dashboard. What goes up usually has to come down again though and we're sailing the last kilometre or so only to discover that the gate had been closed for refurbishment. By the time we had got our stuff from the van to the B&B in two trips in sweltering heat we're absolutely exhausted.

The rooms are in an annex to a 18th century palazzo accessible through a big atrium and the back courtyard with a low wall overlooking vast gardens that fall away into a valley. Our room is small but light with two large windows looking out onto the courtyard and garden. There is a nice bathroom with shower, a TV, a tray with complementary tea and biscuits and even a shared kitchen down the hall. We're in heaven.

After a moment or two of regaining our composure we're venturing out. Il campo, the piazza for which Siena is famous for, is only a few hundreds yards away. All of a sudden it opens up in front of our eyes through a little alleyway. It is a vast sight. The piazza was completed in 1349 bang in the middle of the three 'terze' Siena is divided into designed by the 3 hills that squeeze the city's shape into what looks like an upside-down Y. The square has a semicircular shape divided into nine segments (honouring the original council of 9 that drew up the plans). The straight bit is a good 10 metres lower than the edge of the circle, lined by tall town houses with cafes and restaurants in their basements. The layout gives the impression of focus on the gigantic Palazzo Comunale with its massive tower, that stands along the diameter.

The cafes around the square charge premiums - two espressi and Fantas for the spritely sum of €12. Just yards away in one of the side alleys you get the same for a fiver. We soak up the atmosphere. Scattered across the square are clumps of tourists and locals sitting and having picnics, and there is a constant stream of newcomers snapping away, trying to get the whole piazza into the frame (impossible with anything other than a fisheye lense). Behind the first row of terraces that line the semicircle other buildings seem to be piling up on top of each other, scrambling up the hills.

Vera is parked just outside Porta Romana and we need to feed the meter. The sign mentions a parking card, some kind of pre-pay system we assume, so we try and get hold of one. In the second tourist office we find out that the system is only available for Siena residents and change notes in a bank.

We return for the B&B; just because we can, and to have showers and relax before we go out in the evening. At about 4 I return to Vera to get a fresh ticket for the meter, and realise too late that it just counts automatically into the next day. Early start tomorrow then to return for a new ticket at 8. At least Sunday is free.

Our street, leading from the Porta Romana into the centre, has three internet cafes, a pizza place, a dingy local bar, a launderette, and a Chinese(!) take-away - an absolute first for us, and we quickly decide to have Chinese tomorrow. Freshly scrubbed and relaxed we stop for a beer at the bar which means self-service from a large drinks fridge in the corner and standing outside with a few locals. This feeling of freedom, yes freedom, you can only appreciate when you've spent 3 months on campsites with the last bus, if any, returning long before evening opening times. We had a shower, wear shoes and long trousers, are not hot and bothered for once, haven't got our rucksacks, guidebooks or cameras, and looking forward to a meal in a proper restaurant. Further up the road we had spotted a nice looking Osteria earlier and decide not to look any further. We reminiscence on our journey so far and the upcoming halfway point on July 28th over a bottle of Chianti and a meat based three courses. Finding ourselves being the last customers as we pay we're invited to a couple of glasses of Limoncello, and the jovial landlord even pushes a bottle of local house wine into our hands as we leave.

The night is young though. We'd read about a bar in one of the terze that occasionally has live music on, and over 100 beers on tap and in bottles. When we arrive they are playing Barry White videos on the big screen and there are two other customers in a back room playing chess. Of the four beers on tap two had run out. We sip our pints on a little wall outside and chuck half of it into a plant pot. Back to square one, Il Campo, where we become somewhat of a spectacle when our Vodka Tonics are delivered with blue and red glowing 'ice-cubes'. Quite drunk we escape into a quieter bar in a side street for another couple of VTs before staggering home. It's two o'clock in the morning.

26/07 Saturday, Siena

The alarm echoes in my enlarged head and I will myself out of bed for the morning ritual of meter feeding.
We take it easy today; a bit of sight seeing and window shopping. We talked about how much we like being in a proper room with four walls, a bed and our own bathroom, and decide to have a look on the internet to see what's on the market for hire. The stuff we hit on first is clearly out of our price range but all of a sudden an ad for a 2 bedroom house in Garfagnana, an area in Northern Tuscany, pops up with a UK mobile number. Amazingly the house is only £200 per week. And even more astonishing it is available. We book it there and then, waiting for the owner's email with address and directions. Meanwhile we're looking up Castelnuovo Garfagnana, where the house is supposed to be. Information is scarce but one website claims Castelnuovo's historic centre had been completely destroyed during Second World War bombing campaigns and is now just one big industrial estate. First of all, after getting directions, the house is actually in a small mountain village called Roggio and secondly, the stuff about Castelnuovo is a lie - it has a small but very nice old town, and only some industry further down in the valley by the train station. It lies in the Serchio valley that slices through the Apuan Alpes on one side and the Tuscan Appennines on the other. It's well connected by trains between Aulla in the North and Lucca in the South, where one can change for Pisa and Florence.
The house is available all August apparently but we only book a tentative week. We decide to stay another night in our B&B to drive directly to Roggio on Monday.

The rest of the day we spend shopping and sightseeing. In the evening, after the main throng of tourists has left we have a look at the Duomo. The distinctive facade is clad in alternating rows of white and black marble. To one side is an unfinished attempt to build a new nave, a familiar sight with North Italian churches. Inside the cathedral the main nave is overlooked by heads of past popes, scowling down from about 20 metres. The floor is covered with marble intarsia, depicting battle and hunting scenes, and the famous of religion and science. The black and white exterior is reflected inside on walls and columns.

We head back to order a Chinese take-away. Dumplings are called ravioli on the menu but there's thankfully nothing Italian about the food. We tuck in to roast dumplings, sweet and sour chicken, roast pork with vegetables and rice, sitting on the bed and watching Mike Leigh's High Hopes.

27/07 Sunday, Siena

Wash day. After breakfast we take our combined laundry, including towels and sheets to the little launderette. The rest of the day is spent exploring other areas of Siena. We visit the church of San Domenico and buy ingredients for a Thai curry in a little Asian shop. We watch a procession of one of Siena's 17 'contrade' parading by. Siena's biannual highlight is the Palio, a crazy bare-back horse race 3 laps round the Campo. 7 horses and riders from the 17 'contrade' are chosen by draw. Apparently you are born into a contrada which represents one of Siena's 17 'boroughs'. Every contrada has its own colours and sign - we're staying in Torre that has the symbol of a tower on top of an elephant. All this is extremely important to the Sienese, and there is even a TV channel only showing videos from past Palios and all the festivities leading up to it. We later watch on TV footage from a 2005 initiation ceremony for new arrivals, babies and older folk alike. Everyone gets a scarf with the local contrada's colours.

In the evening we opt for another Chinese, call us crazy, and watch the daunting Don't Look Now. Siena has been a revelation in more than one way.
We pack up the next morning and set sail for our mountain retreat in Roggio.

Vasto, Peschici, Umbria

Tuesday 8 July
Getting to Vasto was a long drive for us, 180km. We take care to counter the overheating by stopping as often as we can, usually for an hour or longer at a time. (We are growing quite fond of motorway service stations, which have the best pastries.) Now we are on our own, as far as breakdown cover goes. Italy has a system which allows you to ring an emergency number if you are stuck at the side of the road and they will put you in touch with a local garage but it is apparently horrendously expensive. For once there are no unplanned stops and we arrive in Vasto at the Southern end of the Abruzzo region while everyone is still mid-siesta.
The twin areas of Abruzzo and Molise are said to be the point at which The North turns into The South. It was one region, the Abruzzi until 1963. Abruzzo has done a lot to develop tourism and resorts have sprung up all along the coast. Molise is poorer than Abruzzo and less developed, with some cities the victim of rushed rebuilding after the war. The areas have some bleak terrain; abandoned villages and wild plains. In some villages foreigners are rarely seen, women wear traditional costumes and spin lace using traditional cushions (tomboli). Unfortunately these fascinating remoter spots are beyond Vera's capabilities with a full load, and we are heading for more chartered waters. Vasto is the best of the seaside towns on the Abruzzi coast: built on the site of a Roman hilltop town, Histonium, the ancient rooftops overlook palms and olive groves that stretch down to the Vasto Marina resort below. The old town's piazza stretches out to a panoramic promenade with a few nice bars and restaurants at its vantage points. Overlooking the piazza is the church of San Pietro which since it was destroyed in a landslide in 1956 has been just a church door. We are staying 4km out of town at a campsite that looks a bit dishevelled and basic, (cool showers predominate) but it is spacious, with friendly staff and a short walk through grassy dunes to a stunning beach. Here the holiday strip of the Marina peters out somewhat and leaves the sand relatively free of the lettini-ombrelli grid.
The campsite is well sheltered with loads of trees that contain - I'm no David Attenborough but I think - cicadas. Over an inch long, these grey-flecked cricketty-type things live camouflaged on the barks and make a clicking-buzzing noise that is kind of a cross between a horde of angry ducks and the aliens in the Smash ad. It's so loud we have to raise our voices to have a conversation but does have the benefit of drowning out the neighbourly hub-bub.
It is seriously humid onsite and the beach is also searingly hot. The sea is like a shallow warm bath, and doesn't provide much relief. We buy our own ombrella to fend off the rays and have got a flowery table cloth hanging on the back of the van to protect our heads from the rising sun. I fancy it looks a bit Cath Kidson although it brings a few funny looks from the neighbours who are not used to so stylish a setup amidst the grey-green world of camping accessories. Also buy a bat and ball and have a great laugh diving for overhead lobs. Jon breaks the bat by crunching it into the sand following a particularly spectacular volley. Otherwise we are continuing to read a lot. I'm totally absorbed by the biography of Joe Strummer, even if the author is a lecherous creep. J is on Bob Dylan's autobiog, volume 1, which is his 15th read since we've been away. I've got through a dozen, offloading the ones we've finished at each campsite library. (Or if no library exists we've started them). At night we go into town as the campsite is well-served by local buses. Eat at the 'New-Old' pub overlooking the panoramic view. Play hangman on the tablemats and later, after a nightcap, a game of charades van-side. Jon has never seen Give Us a Clue so is unaware of the subtler symbols (tap on the head for a name, pointing with index finger while other finger is on the nose when the correct word is said.) I reminisce a bit about Una Stubbs and Lionel Blair. Bring that programme back! Some nights we stay by the van and get takeaway pizzas from the camp restaurant. There is a charming trio of matronly chefs, one of whom generously but completely needlessly is determined to translate every pizza we order into German for us. We have a drink at the bar and wait until they ring the bell to signal it's ready. Eat them watching DVDs on the laptop. Home was never like this. Christine brought about 15 films over and we have got through the Godfather Trilogy (although think we missed half of film 2 which was on another disk) as well as prison drama The Kiss of the Spiderwoman, and a bit of Pedro Almovodar. We have to have subtitles on, coz of the cicada chorus. We adopt a very thin, small wild tabby cat, who bears a resemblance to Hester, my cat that we've left with Christine. 'Hector', as he is (obviously) christened joins us each night, eating left over pizza and tins of tuna, sitting on our knees purring and sleeping under the van. We are sorry to leave him behind when we go. I toy with the idea of bringing him with us, as one or two people we had seen brought cats in their campers.
One night we eat at the camp restaurant which does a mean orchiette and clams in a garlicky buttery sauce. There is a local band advertised and about ten older men turn up looking the part with guitars and brass and double bass but they turn out to be appalling, the usual sentimental-swaying-cum-polka nonsense heavy with tambourine. Worse, they seem to have a bit of an attitude and simply go through the motions in a darkened corner. As a result nobody applauds and they pack up their stuff amidst indifference. We've been quite baffled about Italian music. There is a seeming universal love for comfortable sentimental ballads, or Eurovision-like audience-participation dance numbers. Even this old stuff that we had had high hopes for has no life or edge that you'd expect in folk music from a country with such a turbulent past. Where are all the minor chords? We consol ourselves by having a go on the grabby machine, something that all the kids (and adults) had been feeding with Euro, since we'd arrived. On the 3rd attempt Jon wins a lovely football.
On our last day in Vasto we get the bus into town to go to an internet cafe and round the shops. To our dismay everything is closed and unusually quiet for a Saturday and we think perhaps it's a public holiday. It dawns on Jon after a while that it is actually Sunday, and we'd actually missed a whole day. We weren't sure at what point we lost track - could've been out of synch for several weeks, a weird feeling. Our only vague fixed point is that we try not to arrive on a campsite on a weekend, which is the busiest time. We wander down to the tacky Marina for some lunch and manage to takeaway a very soggy pizza taglia (slice) which goes straight in the bin. Attempt 2 results in a plate of clams that J thinks are off, so we have two inedible meals in one day! It is overcast and disgustingly humid. In almost 40 degree heat as the buses are on Sunday service, we walk the 4km home. Time to leave Vasto.
Monday 14 July
Peschici
We are heading for the Gargano, Italy's ankle and Peschici, 140km down the coastal road. The landscape down in Puglia quickly turns from lush fields and rhododendron edged roads to parched rocky orange earth, dotted with olive trees, old machinery, abandoned barns. Gargano itself is a land of great contrasts, sandy beaches and lagoons while the interior is pine forest more akin to Bavaria. We are 14km away from the campsite and have just completed a long stretch of uphills on the autostrada with no real stopping places when V gives an enormous backfire that we both think is a tire-blowout and we grind to a halt at a junction just off the motorway. We roll her back to the side of the road, on functional bridge stretching across the valley. Jon puts the red emergency triangle behind us and dons the fluorescent (and rather fetching) waistcoat (both items scoffed at by me, but which are compulsory should you breakdown in Italy). We open the bonnet up to cool, get the camp chairs out and wait. We give it an hour, with J turning down several offers of help from passing motorists, explaining that it was simply 'calde'. The sweetest of these offers was a man in a little Vespa van, who we'd overtaken ten minutes before the stop. (These delivery vans are everywhere in Italy and have little more than a moped for an engine, hence our ability to overtake.) The man established it was 'kaput' and offered us water. We thanked him, miming that it was air-cooled. (Lucky we'd played all those charades). The best thing was, as we sat there sunbathing, taking bets on how long it would be before Vera would start, was that we were not waiting on the RAC, with all the stress that entails, but were at least in control of our own destiny. An hour later and she starts like a dream and takes most of the very hilly bendy bits in her stride with only a few stutters at the last. We can see the village of Peschici, a bit like whitewashed lego bricks stuck to the side of the cliff overlooking the dazzling sea, miles before we reach it down the snaky roads. Set up camp and it feels very different here, wilder, not a strip. Parched earth and rocks provide an almost Wild West backdrop down to the cliff-backed bay. It is gorgeous. There are people from everywhere, our neighbours are Swiss, Polish, Austrian, German and Italian. There are lots of cafes and restaurants and a pinball machine which is seriously addictive. A stiff breeze is blowing which makes the heat bearable and umbrellas are blowing all over the beach. I get hit on the head by a stray shade at the same time that J is running off to retrieve ours from almost impaling a small child. Eat at restaurant, where there is a promising looking band. (The guitarist looks a bit like Charlie Watts). It is better than we're used to but after a while the pre-programmed synth nonsense takes the edge off any proper jammin'. Retire to bar for a vodky and some pinball. J tots up 34 million while I get a paltry 14 (million). Spend hours over the next few days trying to better this. It is very windy in the night so get up to remove the flapping awning, towels and chairs which I fear might be blown into someone's van. It's cool enough to sleep, at least.
Tues 15 July
Still windy and we hire sun-loungers enjoying the pleasant temperature. J even shivers slightly under the shade. I forgo the factor 25 for once, figuring my established tan will be enough to prevent burning but manage to get legs roasted on the coolest day for a while. It is nothing more than blustery seaside weather as far as we're concerned (a record hot day in Portrush, Co Antrim would compare) but people are complaining about being cold. The Polish family behind us sit in jumpers and talk of leaving, advising us that the wind lasted for days this time last year and that we'd be better off in Vieste as it is more sheltered and not north facing. Off and on the beach does look a bit like a hurricane has hit it, knocking down the palm leafed umbrellas and whooshing the sea up to sunbed level. Doesn't bother us hardy souls though and we enjoy watching the windsurfers flying off their boards. Eat pasta at van; there's a really good fruit n veg stall and a fab looking internet caff here. Sadly this doesn’t work but the man lets us use the PC in reception and we check in to great newsy emails from home. People come in with a few enquiries and we have to tell them we don't work there although it momentarily feels like being back in the office. That night we rig up a more comfortable bed arrangement with sheets and a duvet cover instead of sleeping bags which have been superfluous for some time now. It's almost civilised. Sleep like a baby until phone, which I'd lost under the seat in the van, gives a low battery sound. Get up to see gorgeous sunrise.
Feeling a bit creative today and have a go at tailoring an old pair of shorts into a new shorter style, while retaining the style detail - the pockets. This basically involves cutting about 6 inches out of the middle and sewing them back together. It doesn’t quite work out and end up throwing them out but it filled a few hours and offloaded some stuff from the packed suitcase. Also chuck out an old dress, top and cardigan that I don't wear much. J bins a fleece and a few t-shirts. Trying to get rid of as much weight as possible to help counteract anything we've bought, (umbrella, bat and ball, football) but its gauling to have to carry a blazer, a leather jacket and a pair of boots which I thought I might want for going out in the cities. In this heat! Still on a creative bent, J and I then decide to write a short story, each starting with a first line that is the last line of a book that we've read. After a few minutes we compare efforts. Mine is an inferior Cormac McCarthy wannabe. J's is a gripping tale of psychological disturbance, a man who thinks he will die if the TV is switched off with the story being told through the eyes of the man's imaginary friend. Copyright J R Kraft, 2008.
Wed 16 July
Go up on the early bus to see the town which is pretty spectacular. Originally built in 970AD as a buffer against the Saracens, it has a labrynthine, Moroccan feel, little alleyways, white washed houses with domed roofs, people sitting outside. Pop in to see a living museum, a 15th C house, its one room acting as bed-living-kitchen room. It is packed full of stuff, trinkets, photos, lace. Go up the winding lanes to the castle, which is hosting a torture exhibition. Feel a bit sick as we look at 50 or so frighteningly imaginative implements. One of the more benign ones was the Noise-Maker's Fyfe, a metal flute-like implement that went round the neck and confined the hands of a loud neighbourhood pest. A olden day ASBO if you like.
Friday 18 July
Buy a couple of snorkels today and have a look at the crabs and whelks amongst the small crop of rocks edging the bay. There is large wooden scaffold which we think is a diving board although it turns out to be a trebuccho - a fishing platform from which nets are lowered. Go up town in the evening and have food, then watch the passeggiata crowd around the square. Everything is lit up like the Blackpool illuminations in honour of some saint or other. There have been fireworks going off every day from 8.30 in the morning until 1 at night. It is all a bit baffling. Have a nightcap and a pinball back at base.
Sat 19 July
There is some really bad entertainment at this site. A particularly aggressive identikit team of Animazione girls drag kids out of their seats to take part in the hokey-cokey. Some are terrified and cower in their mum's lap. Adults are similarly compelled to participate, should they be foolish enough to cross the dancefloor to go to the loo. We're spoken to a lot in German, which is strange as the site seemed to be fairly international, though there are no English people that we can discern. J asks for salt in perfect Italian and the red-eyed waiter barks 'Salz!' at the top of his voice. J's mixed grill is delivered with a shout of 'Fleisch!'. Despite being a German speaker, Jon gets really cross at this and makes a point of looking blank until they speak to him in Italian. I genuinely look blank as I don't speak a word of German, and next to no Italian either. I can look blank in many languages. I guess because we've been here so long we feel a little bit like people should appreciate our by-now-ok efforts at the language. We can feel things getting busier here and it feels like it will be very hard to find a site at all soon as they are mostly filled by people pre-booking. We are not looking forward to the August influx, when 40 percent of Italians go on holiday, with city shops, cinemas and the like frequently closing down for the month. We are tired and Jon in particular is holidayed out, finding it quite hard to be enthusiastic about anything and finding the campsites a real chore. We miss home comforts of course but in general we've got used to the van, it's the campsites themselves that are monotonous, after you've spent so much time on them. We really miss the culture, news, music, films and of course people at home. We feel quite isolated with only each other for company and seem to spend quite a lot of time in a bad mood, not really directed at each other but we have done a bit of bickering. We definitely feel like 6 months away is too long but we have let the house out to tenants until the end of October so there is no question of going home any time soon. We are also being joined by my family for my birthday on Sept 11 (my 40th) and staying at my ex-boss James's house in France so need to be in Aups for then. In summary, it seems like this is not the time to venture further south when our hearts are not in it and we wouldn't appreciate anything we see. We decide that we will head back up, seeing a few things enroute but with a vague idea to get to France earlier than planned, bumming around the south until we go to Aups.
Sunday 20 July
Go up town, see a brass band.
Monday 21 July
Rock bottom mood. J had been tetchy during pack up, as he had been a lot recently. We stop by the road for a V-cooldown moment. We have a good talk and I have a cry. I tell him I'm tired of his negativity towards everything. We resolve to be a bit nicer to each other and approach things positively with a fresh eye. Part of the reason for my feeling down was that the only way out of the Gargano that we could easily make was along the east coast again, an Adriatic strip well trodden by us in our various forays up and down. Several months ago we'd bought an ashtray with a map of the Le Marche region on it embracing Urbino in the North and San Benendetto in the South. We joke that it is cursed, that anyone who owns it is doomed never to leave the Marche. Arrive San Benendetto del Tronto, near the town of Ascoli Piceno which is a convenient stopover on our route out. V has a little siesta at a petrol station. She doesn't conk out, but simply doesn't start after we took a pitstop, which must be progress. Hold our nerve and she goes great guns after our 3rd round of Espressi. Shortly after our arrival at Seaside (basic campsite and our number 21), a big storm kicks up, and the hurricane-like conditions batter the endless seafront, famed for its 5000 palm trees. It is the first rain in weeks and very cool. We are glad we didn’t throw out all our jumpers. Celebrate our 21st with a burger in a German style inn followed by coffee in a seafront bar playing old Simple Minds and U2 videos with the sound down and something else on top. We are remaining very enthusiastic.
Tuesday 22nd July
There are a lot of WI-FI connections along the seafront but none of them actually work when J comes down with the laptop. In some cases you need to register with an Italian mobile number or in other cases there was no connection at all. No matter. It has been hard to find internet when we've wanted it. Most web access has been a solitary Internet Point in these Western Union, International phonecalls, fax, photocopy type places. Hot with computers and on a time limit, these are not exactly conducive to writing long emails or blogging. Internet is perhaps not that important to Italians, a nation of talkers. We go to Ascoli Piceno on the train, a lovely city that I'd wanted to see 1st time round. Look out onto lovely farmland. Apart from wheat, sweetcorn, tomatoes, sunflowers etc, there are millions of palm tree plantations. No stretch of coastline promenade will go unshaded. A.P. is named after the Piceni tribe, a highly strung lot who wrote curses on their missiles and gauged emotion by measuring the volume of tears. At one time they lost a battle against the Romans when they interpreted an earthquake as a sign of divine wrath and abandoned the fight. The Ascoli today seem to be quite reserved by comparison. There is a lovely central piazza lined with porticoes with a beautiful though snooty art deco coffee shop, a Duomo with groovy chandeliers, and an internet caff. We have trouble finding anything to eat as we are hungry at the wrong time again (between 3 and 7). We fall upon what is literally the last hotdog in town, dividing it in 2. I get mistaken for 'Margaret' a couple of times in the station on the way back. After the 2nd time of being approached the lady explains that they are staff from the language school and looking for a German student who failed to come off the train. Back home we eat at nice restaurant on strip. Treat ourselves with oysters and some fish, like a swordfish but called something different. Waiter shows us a picture on his mobile of what he looked like earlier (the fish, that is). Cocktails at the 80s video bar again. It is still cool and blustery. We are not expecting anything from this town and now that we feel that the pressure to enjoy ourselves is off, we are enjoying ourselves again. Funny innit?
Wed 23 July
Leave S B T to head inland and west to Lago Trasimeno, a lake 30km outside Perugia. It is a big journey, 232 km (I'd been noting the mileage after each journey but of late had forgotten so recalculated them using the SatNav, which is set to kilometres, hence the change in currency.) After the thunderstorm it is reasonably cool, and we are relieved because it is our longest journey for some time. The bus has done 4000 miles since the new engine was put in just before we came away. We travel through the lovely Umbrian countryside, passing more familiar sights like Assisi, Spoleto, pointing out the various places where we'd broken down. In Spello we pass Manni's garage, the high-fiving mechanic from a few weeks back and imagine how funny it would be if we broke down outside again. The first time we came here I felt that Umbria was unlucky for us but now it feels like coming home.
We thought being inland might be less popular than the coast but because it's a lake, (albeit one dried up to an inch high puddle in the heat) but the first campsite in Castiglione Del Lago is chocca, with the only pitch offered being beside a 5-tented group of lads, not something we fancied. Motor back out of town and get the last spot in a great Dutch-run campsite where everyone but us was from the Netherlands and very friendly. Because of soft marshy land, no campers are allowed here as they will sink. It's full of tents, the odd caravan and trailer tents and has the best showers since Home. The man at the desk loved Vera, so made space for us after checking we weren't one of the big beasts. Without humungous identical people wagons, it's like camping used to be and reminds me of my holidays in Morecambe, Ayr and, Donegal in our groovy seventies trailer tent, resplendent in orange and brown. It's a lovely setting here but I abandon thoughts of swimming when I clap eyes on the ankle deep lake, although it is pleasant for a paddle. It's the biggest inland stretch of water in the country but is never deeper than 7m at the best of times. It's very clean - any large banks of weed that drift in during the summer are dumped by the council on the shore. Have a top notch dinner at the site and then see a band that are - no-word-of-a-lie, really really good. They are jazzy mixed with old favourites, Dean Martin numbers but with a great real guitar and sax and a singer who looks like one of the Hairy Bikers. The one with the glasses. They do loads of gypsy type stuff, edgier than anything we've heard, brilliant. We discover the pinball machine here too but it's a bit late and the staff won't let us have any tokens. Spoilsports.
Thursday 24 July
Cycle the 5km or so through the sunflower laden fields along a handy cycle path to Castiglione del Lago on the east of the lake. Its walled promontory juts out into the water and it is said to be the most appealing town on the water. As we have our usual Espressi n Aranciata combo and get our breath back, (it's hard work on those wee wheels), we are very surprised to hear every other accent is English. Well they do say Umbria is the new Tuscany. After a bit of sight seeing, we eat some local specials for lunch, omelette with zucchini flowers and rabbit pasta for me. J has a pea and zucchini soup and pici, short thick hand rolled pasta bits. Fantastic to be inland where the fare is more rustic. J finds Wi-Fi back at base and we are able to surf on the internet at leisure and upload some photos for the first time since Prague. (You can't use USB sticks in web cafes). J starts looking up hotels. As we've always been camped a few miles outside town with hit and miss bus links, we've missed going out at night so feel a city break somewhere central is sorely needed. Find a 100E per night bargain in an old palazzo, a grand house, just down from the Campo and begin to look forward to Siena.

Porto Sant Elphidio

Friday 4 July
Up early, checked out and on the road by 9, driving with the engine flap open as part of our attempt to forestall the bus stalling when the mercury rises. We travel a beautiful scenic, hilly windy route, directed by the SatNav and inevitably involving some massive climbs. As usual, these are always a bit of a wing n a prayer and arrive, palms sweating and nails bitten, at the top. Have a big rest at the summit to cool the bus down. Discover we couldve gone a flat route...bloomin satnav...Anyway, arrive, after a good few rests and flaps to the wind, 4 hours later in Porto Sant Elphidio, a distance of 98 miles(!). PSE is an unremarkable strip in Le Marche, an area that we have been before but it is the only way out of Umbria towards the south. What passes for a beach has eroded so much they have had to top it up with gravel and half the number of sun loungers. Pitch up at the site, another babydancemonster though it is all tucked away out of earshot. We are soon hemmed in by other vans, in particular an annoying group of 4 families altogether who see us as a through road and regularly appear through our washing line while we are having breakfast. Chipper and friendly, they greet us but we are northern Europeans who dont like our personal space invaded so. The whole idea of battling to find spaces during August is beginning to get us down. Every stretch of Italian coast is seemingly developed, private beaches and sun loungered beyond recognition. And there dont seem to be campsites inland further south. We are always camping a few miles outside of town and so we do spend a lot of time onsite, and are both totally overdosed on beachside campsite living, the people, the food, and what passes for entertainment. Hiring a cottage seems totally out of our budget. We think we would perk up if we went somewhere else entirely. Decide to enjoy a few days on the beach here and then head to France.

Tuesday 8 July
After a few nights recharging on the disappearing beach, we both feel a bit more philosophical about things. If we turned back now without seeing the whole country it would be with heavy heart, a bit like going to the UK and seeing Kent and Essex but missing Cornwall and the Lake District. I have a sense that the best is yet to come and Jon is feeling much more positive about it too. We turn Vera to face Abruzzo Molise and drive to Vasto, a fine old city.

Into Umbria

Saturday 21 June
Another scorcha and we unload the stuff from the van to stand a chance of making it up the hill to drop C to the airport. The van fails to start, this time she's showing a full battery so J thinks it is the starter motor or something electrical. We quickly ask reception to call C a cab. We aint goin nowhere for the moment. The RAC can't come out until Monday and J spends ages on the phone trying to persuade them not to tow it away, although I am relishing the thought of a nippy courtesy car. In the event we pay for 2 pitches and leave up the tent that C has been in (& that we'd been cursing and threatening to send home as it weighed a ton) over the weekend in case we have to switch. We head up town to get pissed on vodka based cocktails, (caprinha, caprioska, cosmopolitan) and watch Holland get beaten by Russia.

Sunday 22 June
Day at the beach, reading No Country for Old Men. I notice that each time we've had van trouble, I've been reading Cormac McCarthy. Today we are allowed to put brollies up but the bar is shut and all the boats from Portonovo are docked in the bay. Something to do with conservation works (and the sea police no doubt). We get a compensatory bottle of water for our trouble. Starting to fret that van won't start tomorrow and getting cross, retrospectively, with the RAC's service, who I feel should've come out straight away. J tries to call them but only has office hrs number. There's nothing we can do except bicker and watch Italy-Spain at the site. It's a good atmosphere and a tense no-goaler after 90 mins. In the penalty shoot out, the campsite kids, all face-painted with Italian tricolours, are watching each kick with a chant of 'woooooooooooaaaah' led by the wigged up entertainment team. The place errupts when Buffon saves but is rapidly muted with the second save by the Spanish goalie. Suddenly Italy are out of the European Championships and the crowd disperse, chairs folded, big screen off, over and out.

Monday 23 June
Up early to wait for RAC man who turns up on foot as he's unable to get his tow truck down the steep serpentine. J valiantly fields and asks questions, managing to ascertain that the fuse that should recharge the battery from the mains has blown meaning the battery was sucked completely dry by the light and radio. The man comes back within the hour with new battery and a selection of fuses and within 5 mins the thing is working and that'll be 140E thank you very much. J is told not to pay as the RAC will cover it but the man wants payin'. J gets the RAC to find an Italian speaker to tell the man this and it is soon sorted. Phew. At 12 days, this has been our longest stay anywhere and it feels quite sad to leave Sirolo. Donate some books to the library to supplement their weenie, poor English language selection. Jackie Collins, Dan Brown, et al v. much in evidence.

Tuesday 24 June
Hooray we're mobile again and no probs getting up the hill with a full load despite our worries - 1st gear, head down, a few startled pedestrians, stop for no-one, even the wall, which I thought we were careering into on a few occasions. Quite exhilarating. Umbria beckons, the green heart of Italy. It's ? Km to Gubbio, the best looking of the medieval towns, ack Rough Guide. An informed gent at the commune campsite (no-frills, run by council), gives us a potted history as we check in. There's a women's Francisican Monastery here but it failed to attract enough nuns so they'd imported loads from South America, and it became known as the Sisters of Guadalope. Once settled, we bike it the 3 or 4 km into town, a gentle incline through fields of wheat, maize and sunflowers until the hill turns steeper and we have to push it through the city boundary. It's good timing, as the biggest market of the year is on, selling everything from clothes, food to diy accessories and puppy dogs. Tempted by the dogs, I plump instead for a pair of shorts, the heat being unbearable in all my current pairs which virtually skim the ankles. The sizes are a bit confusing and I have to take them back later, learning the phrase for 'may I try this on' (Posso provarlo) and 'do you have a size L' (Avete una taglia grande). Add these to my 'useful phrases' collection, which I try to supplement each day, recent additions have been 'Come fuziona per favore' Can you tell me how it works (when struggling with a tap in public lav), 'C'e un bar con musica' (is there a bar with music, we'd not found anywhere that jumpin and were keen to hear some local tunes), plus 'Avete quale gusto di milkshake' (what flavours do you have, it was always nutella, so this phrase was shortlived), and, the most useful, the word for Shandy, 'Birra con Gassosa'. After the market we see the bleak and desolately beautiful Piazza Grande, the Doors of Death (doors which were used only to carry the deceased out of the house and which were blocked up again immediately) and the Fountain of the Mad (if you dare to circuit it 3 times, you go gaga as pic of J will testify, when we eventually get them up on flickr). Cycle back, downhill all the way.

Wednesday 25 June
Take a trip up to the Rocca on the hilltop, via an old 'cable car'. This was an waist high open metal frame, which you stood in and dangled your way up creakily into the sky, essentially a glorified hanging basket. They looked quite small and we thought it would be a solo effort and I got my sky-legs and jumped on the moving cage only for the vendor to indicate J get on too. He sprinted on and the cage was closed as we ascended into the (thankfully cloudless) clouds, our 1st cable trip on a clear day. Until that point we'd admired the clouds over Innsbruck & Malcesine. Mosey round a church and have lunch in the bar at the summit. In mid-May these hills are the site of the Ceri, a race between local people carrying numerous large barrels which weigh a ton on their shoulders. It's a tradition that's been adopted by the church, although it's thought to be pre-Christian in origin. Tradition dictates that the same team always wins. We walk down and look in the Palazzo Ducale before peddling to the local Co-op to stock up and satisfy my craving for Cornflakes. Back at base we watch Germany beat Turkey 3-1 in the campsite bar. We are joined by a German couple, and the wife hoots like an owl any time a goal is threatened. The exciting match is made even more tense by the satelite link going down on 2 occasions for about ten minutes, followed by some really bad, panicked filling by the pundits, one of whom cracks us up with his constant moustachioed mugs to camera and his kindly Gepetio-like face. The staff have all gone so we lock up the bar and switch off the lights like responsible citizens.

Thursday 26 June
It is hot - 34C so we spend a day by the campsite pool. Watch Spain and Russia, this time a Dutch pair join us. Lock up bar again.

Friday 27 June
Decamp to Spoleto, further down south amidst Umbria's rolling hills, which remind me of Kent. It is a beautiful drive. Spoleto is another rose-coloured medieval hilltop jumble. It has an amazing approach, the Ponte delle Torri, a 240 metre acqueduct with ten 80 metre arches that stretch across a sprawling grassy gorge. It was designed by Gubbian architect Gattapone, initially as a means of bringing down water from Monteluco and then used as an escape from the Rocca, the old fort. We are staying in the hills above the San Pietro church, a shady terraced site, though a little run down. We walk down the country lane and cross the Ponte, stopping for photos and Fanta at a convenient wee bar on the town-side. Spoleto is warming up for the jazz festival, an annual event since 1958, known as the Festival del Due Mondi (Fest of 2 worlds), which encompasses Edinburgh style fringe theatre, dance, buskers and sounds really great. We are a bit too early for this, it doesn't really get going until mid-July but we catch glimpses of the pre-festival, more highbrow theatre and opera-based gigs, not really our cup of tea but there's a nice sense of anticipation in the air with well-heeled opera looking types milling around the place. After an explore, we eat at the site restaurant where jazz on the radio is accompanied by the sound of crackling flies improvising against the neon lights.

Saturday 28 June
Another day in Spoleto. Go to Rocca, a steep climb up in intense heat. It was designed to re-establish church domination in Italy, during the papacy's 14th C banishment to France. Until the 80s it was used as a high security prison and John-Paul II's would-be assassin was banged up there, as were leading members of the Red Brigade. There isn't much sign of the prison layout. Although they did knock a few ancient walls down to make a bit more space for Guards Rooms etc, these have mostly been filled in as part of the restoration. Spoleto's real heyday was from the 6th C when it was capital of one of the 3 Italian dukedoms. By 890 it enjoyed a spell as capital of the entire Holy Roman Empire, after which it was flattened, rebuilt, was run by Lucretia Borgia, and for the last 500 years it went into decline again, seemingly until 1958 and the jazz festival. It was chosen coz of its scenery, small venues and good vibes. We find a local battle of the bands event among rival brass troupes, playing in each of the city's many squares before congregating for the grand finale at the Piazza del Duomo, a truly lovely square, gently sloping, vast with a backdrop of countryside and blue sky. We follow the brasses for a bit (I've always like the Salvation Army at Xmas) until we tire of the Beatles numbers and James Bond soundalikes in the heat and wander down the seemingly endless hilly street until the road morphs into the newer part of town. This place just goes on and on. There's an interesting looking bar dishing out free food if you have any contribution to make, a story to tell, a song to sign, a poem. 'Tonight Matteo, I'm gonna be Petula Clark...' We hang around new-ville, alive with stores and kids hanging out. We have a drink and watch the immaculately coiffed youngsters being dropped off by their parents to hang about with friends for ice cream etc. Feeling old, we head home for a big pizza at the campsite. There is a big crowd of blokes camped up top who are there on an Emmaus charity trip and they are really dominating the place. It's hard to get to the toilet without walking through a football team's worth of Italian men. There are only 2 gents toilets and 4 showers so the 'cleaning staff' (one man also acts as proprietor and pizza chef) is having a hard time keeping up. The men's are pretty filthy and we take off early the next day to head for a better touring base with which to see the rest of Umbria, the home of St Francis himself, Assisi.


Sunday 29 June
We'd had a little bit of backfiring and stalling trouble when we arrived in Spoleto. A really tight hairpin up to the pitch had J burning rubber and spraying hot gravel onto my shins as I stood trying to direct him. V is backwheel drive so doesn't pull you up like a normal car would so these high gradients are always a bit of a gamble. We'd put the coughing and stalling out of our minds as it was hot and she'd done a bit of hill-crawling on the way up. The 40km or so to Assisi was v hot too but relatively flat so we weren't expecting any trouble. As we were taking a sharp corner on a last-minute sign a mile from our destination she backfired again and simply stopped at a junction on a quiet side street. Straight on the phone to the RAC, Jon relays the news that our policy which covers us for 6 months only allows one call out. And we'd had it. We manage to persuade them that it's a continuation of the same problem last week and they despatch a recovery vehicle to us but we spend an anxious 2 hours under the dawning realisation that we have no cover for the next half of our trip. This is not something that is mentioned in any of the phone calls (or literature when we later on start scanning the small print in the terms and conds). This is totally different to the limitless cover you'd get in the UK. J resolves to withdraw his membership as soon as he's home and jokes that what we need now is nervous breakdown cover. During the wait I walk up the road in the shimmering heat, while Assisi stares solemly down over the sunflower fields. The campsite is within walking distance if worst comes to and the van is towed, without us in it. Two hours later in the dry heat of the afternoon, the breakdown man rocks up, joking and high-fiving and 'mi amore questi in Italia'-ing, he says, as he goes to hop in the wrong side, finding it hilarious, as do we. He turns the key and, sods-law-but-thank-god, she starts first time. However we agree there is still a problem and in between stroking the dashboard-Buddah and dancing to the radio he's given us the address of his garage, Manni's where we should bring it on Monday morning. We pitch up on the flat characterless but spacious site, 3 hours later than planned. Thankfully it has a cappucino bar, swimming pool and internet point. Should we be stranded we are at least in civilisation. Call home to wish Charis, who is 10, a happy birthday and hear she has got 2 new hamsters. Everyone is playing in Greenwich Park. Feel a little bit homesick. Watch the Euro final in our new bar with fellow campers. Germany are outplayed by Spain and soundly trounced.

Monday 30 June
Drive to garage which is in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Spello, a town 10km south of Assisi. Manni is not in quite such a buoyant mood today, seeming to wonder why we are here if the bus is starting an' all but J persuades him there is still a problem and he says he'll take a look that day. We fear that V might be away overnight so earlier we'd shoved our essential stuff like clothes and toiletries into temp storage one of the staff tents (a stifling dark cave containing 4 camp beds, glad we're not staff), with thoughts of hiring one of the nice wooden cabins if we needed to. I hit my head on the door of the tent and frustration and stress get to me and I start to cry, cursing our stupidity at going away in such an old` wreck, wishing we could just have a nice new van with more comfort, speed, a heater that goes off and more windows that open. We've started to look at other people and think 'they're on holiday', envying them that all they have to think about is where to put their beach towel that day. The garage`woman drops us into Spello, another pretty, rambling rose coloured ribbon of a town, verging on twee. There are tubs of flowers everywhere and signs saying not to touch them. It reminds me of the Lake District. We have breakfast in a shady garden and make our way up the main drag, medieval and pink stoned, popping our heads into a church or two. I say a little prayer for V. The day goes on a bit, punctuated with phonecalls to the RAC who we are trying to get to do as much of the legwork as possible through their Italian correspondents, essentially keeping them in the loop so they will pay. There is no real draw here - we are a bit overdosed on ancient hill towns by this point - so we retire to caff for a pint and sit in shady square until mechanics open at a post-siesta 3pm. J manages to glean RAC assurance that they will report back to us by 5.30, and they call us a cab. Neither call nor cab materialise and we get home under our own steam by train and back to cabin. We spend our first night in about 6 weeks in a real bed with ensuite. It is luxury not to have to get fully dressed to go outside to spend a cent and even better, the RAC have said they'll pick up the tab for any accommodation. There is a tv showing South Park (dubbed, hilarious) and a newsnight type programme reporting on the price of pane. J unpacks his stuff into wardrobe just for the hell of it. He hasn't seen the bottom of his rucksack for 2 months and has forgotten why he brought 4 jumpers and heavy work boots. I remain superstitiously suitcase-bound.

Tuesday 1 July
Emerge from bungalow and have coffee and croissants as part of our all-inclusive cabin package. A call to the RAC reveals that the van is ready and J wants to get a diagnosis to fully understand what they've done before pickup. They promise to ring us with the info. No calls come and it is no time until the afternoon and we get a cab, picking up V in midst of a blazing row. J had wanted to continue to wait until RAC call us, I was baffled by this and lost it a bit. J accuses me of being negative, I get hurt by this, as I'd remained pretty philosophical throughout the last 24hours of frankly crap service and in any case wasn't I entitled to be negative anyway? We don't really speak for about 3 hours. To top it all we have had to pay the E200 the garage cost (to fit a new starter motor, probably unrelated to the problem but what can you do?) as the RAC only pay on-road fees, not for any work done in a garage. Super. Drive back to site and decide to spend a 2nd evening in cabin, leaving the van parked up. Have a few beers on the terrace, while most around are serving up their tea. The couple next door take pity on us and deliver a couple of chunks of juicy water melon along with plates and napkins. We eat them, along with a 500g packet of crips (that's big), dinner for the evening. Watch the Godfather on the laptop.

Wednesday 2 July
Move back to site and spend a day cleaning out wiffy fridge, throwing out all the dairy products that had defrosted during the garage-days. Do some laundry. Get shuttlebus to Assisi at 4 - we've been here 3 days and haven't managed to see the place yet. View the Basilica di San Francesco, peaceful and tranquil in the middle of a thunderstorm. It is full of frescoes, an overwhelming collection that rival any art gallery. Began in 1228, a few year's after SF's death, it feels simpler that the ostentacious basilica in Venice. A very peaceful place to be, full of pilgrims praying and staffed by Francisican brown-robed monks. Art works cover every single space spanning a millennium of Italian art. The early Byzantine influenced works by anonymous artists are sided with innovative Roman painters such as Cavallini who began to paint in a more natural style and who pioneered the medium of fresco. You can't help but be affected by older lower church, dark and tomb-like, with it's crypt of SF. It's movingly surrounded by photos of the ill or the dead, put their by grieving relatives in the hope that they will get well or some good will come of their soul. Upper church is light and airy, but equally stunning. Every wall has frescoes, many of which play with perspective, and every pillar has a fresh intricate design. Outside in the bar we talk about religion and the notion of sainthood. Taxi back to site and good to have Vera back. I dream that Coronation Street's Jack Duckworth has the ability to hide in another man's body and it's my job to track him down. One of those men was Terry Wogan. Profound.

Thursday 3 July
Another day in Assisi, a car has overturned in a ditch, skidding of the road in yesterday's storm. Visit St Chiara, the church of the Poor Clare's a female order equivalent to the Franciscans, and one that St Francis helped to set up. We see the blackened body of Chiara, who is also patron saint of television, apropos of nothing, and read about her sister Agnes who made herself really heavy so she could stay with Chiara rather than be taken by her parents. Some churches have v. few frescoes remaining, partly decimated by the 97 earthquake though some faded much earlier due to inadequate pigments used. Later, in the bar, J talks about feeling fatigued and needing a break from travelling, a natural feeling now that we are entering our 3rd month on the road. We think we might look into hiring a cottage or somewhere we can stay stationary for a while, a holiday from the holiday if you like. J looks on web and thinks he's diagnosed the fault with the bus. The 'unhappy feature', as it's described, is an electric-magnetic cut off valve which cuts out petrol when it gets too hot. It's good to know it's not a fault but something we can anticipate and work around. We need to beat the heat.

Sirolo

11 June. Depart Urbino, the Ideal City, for the 120 miles back to the Adriatic coast. Had read about Sirolo, a small town filled with neat terraces branching out to a picturesque piazza, all pinned on top of a cliff with views down green slopes to the beach below. Thought it sounded beachy-yet-with-enough-of-a-town and a good place to spend a week as Christine is coming out from home to stay in the guest annexe. We pitch up in campsite number 13. It turns out to be the worst one yet with swathes of area cordoned off, including the supermarket, grubby loos and overspilling bins. The next day we up poles and are checked out by 9 to head off down the coast in search of something better. Jon even mows down a small sapling in our rush to get out, though the bus comes off worse in the scuffle with a big dent down her drivers side. The cliffs at Sirolo turn out to be the prettiest part of the coast as further down towards Numana, they flatten out again and form an over commercialised strip, colonised by sunbeds, umbrellas and kids play areas (in my day we just made do with building sandcastles..) in most places you can barely see the sea...
The look of the strip is not helped by the worst rain for a couple of weeks. So, we head back to Sirolo and spy a great site half way downhill where the staff show us adjoining spots big enough for pod and van and just next door to little bar where we get our morning cappucinos, and restaurant, where they do a top crustacean nosebag.
We feel happier with the site but the rain turns even heavier....a shower like this might last 5 mins in the UK, but we watch in cappucino-fuelled gloom as a river beats its way to the tent and van for a good half'hour. Jon nips out to rig up the binliner and peg setup to cover the most vulnerable area at the seal of the boot where we lie our heads. Its rained a little on the matresses which we mop up the worst of. We eat a bellyfull of zuppa cozze and a plate of fritta mixta, tomatoey mussel soup and squid and prawns in batter and look forward to tomorrow.

On Friday 13, we collect C from the airport and its a fine day. It soons turns to rain however and we spend a good few hours sitting under the awning of the bar catching up and drinking beers. C has brought newspapers from home and we are discussing the odd bits of gossip, David Davis resigning, Big Brother limping on. It doesnt sound like we are missing much even though I have felt starved of news. C has also brought over lots of DVDs and Jons laptop, our small one being now officially declared dead. We look forward to a few nights of watching the Godfather...
Eat local again and C is exposed to the baby'dance phenomenon ' a kids disco and games run by modern day redcoats. It starts at times when most kids in the UK would be tucked up dreaming of Hogwarts...
C has easily got into the swing of camping, having recently bought popup (but seemingly not popdown) tent for a weekend festival in Sussex. The standalone awning is actually ideal for a guest staying being big enough to stand up in but not too cavernous once the inner bedroom is zipped in. It still weighs a ton though. And we talk about possibly sending it home on a slow cheap freight lorry once we are done with it in order to lose some weight and save some petrol.

C & I head down to beach but it immediately clouds over. Spend the rest of Saturday demonstrating the waterproof qualities of our clip on awning. This is seemingly the wettest summer Europe has seen for decades. From our brief look at the weather forecast only Portugal has been spared the torrential conditions and we glumly reflect that we havenàt enjoyed a settled spell since Bavaria back in week 3. Don our jeans and jumpers to head up town. We decide to drown our dampened spirits when C suggests cocktails. Having her here is a great antidote, getting us back into holiday mode. We sip our strong concoctions watching the sunset through the waterproof perspex sheet of a gelataria before hitting the warmth of an Osteria for fishfood.

A call home on Fathers Day and Dad remarks that N. Ireland hasnt seen any rain for 6 weeks....
The next day we had vowed to get out from under the awning, whatever the weather, and it looks better so we hire some camp mountain bikes. Adjusting myself in the high saddle on a steep hill that runs out of the campsite to the town results in me falling flat under the wheels. I have mostly bruised dignity and a grazed shin. I hadnt even been moving at the time.. The ride up to Portonovo is too steep and too long so we double back and go down to Numana. It is hot too and we wish we had left our kagools behind. Numana is downhill, bikewise, all the way, otherwise it actually reveals a nice old town behind the umbrella colony. It has an old arch and a good harbour from which you can get boat trips round the cliffs to inaccessible beaches. We mosey down to the pay beach and cough up for a sunbed and brolly and have a quick dip. Who would have thought it?

Have lunch at one of the restaurants and C and I feel it is fitting to order the Due Sorelle, (Two Sisters), a seafood pastafest named after the twin rock stacks out at sea near Portonovo. We end up getting served the wrong dish but the thought was there...
Back home on the bikes is a big struggle uphill all the way. Overall though, I loved having the big wheels again and vow to hire proper bikes at every opportunity, those foldups are only marginally better than walking.

Spend all next day on the beach with C. J potters about the van managing to get laundry dry in the bursts of sun. The sea is turquoise and calm. The air feels warmer tonight. Even the discovery of flooding underneath the tent doesnt worry us. It is coming from the campervan awning rather than through the roof and is easily rectified by J redigging the small moat around the tent which should drain off the worst of it. Eat that night in little alleyway restaurant, another plate of vongole, mussels and prawns. The food is excellent but I have overdosed on molluscs and have run out of shapes, pasta wise. And sometimes there are textures that you just dont find here. We talk about the stuff we miss. If I were to order what my cravings told me Id have jacket potato with chicken tikka masala followed by bacon rolls smothered in ketchup. I am not proud of that fact. Still, at least C brought over some strong teabags and we have managed to score some salted butter. Brits abroad or what...
Back at camp, we get told to shut up by the campguard who polices the silences post 11pm. There is also a quiet time during siesta 1.30 til 4 when you cant drive in, start engines or play loud music. C joked on checkin whether she had to take a vow of silence...
Another lazy beach day and the weather is starting to settle. Tan is getting there. Stomach now an attractive magnolia rather than stark white. We wander to a little cafe in the rocks which reheats homemade lasagne. It has little blue tablecloths and plastic plates and is very pretty. We nearly get caught by waves coming right up the beach, swishing around the long deserted umbrellas. These are freaky conditions (yesterday was dead calm) and I imagine the lifeguard looks worried. He keeps his whistle in his lips, removing it only to puff on a cigarette. Tues promises to be a good evening campside as Italy are beating France 2, 1 and we get a ringside seat behind a couple of patriotic Italian blokes and a crowd ranging from enthusiastic locals, bemused neutrals and nervous dutch supporters who are also waiting to qualify at the same time. C snaps away, capturing the atmosphere and the flag waving. It is a tense 1 all and I go to the toilet, predicting another goal. Sure enough a huge cheer goes up as everyone else is up out of their seats just as I sit down on mine. Italia go on to meet Spain on Sunday and news of Hollands victory is relayed prompting a bit of restrained orange clapping and banter from both sides. We go up to the roof of the bar to survey the scene over a sambuca, g&t and baileys (respectively).

Another day roasting at the beach for me and C, whereas J goes off to get a haircut. We head up to the lasagne restaurant again. Today the beach is much calmer and there is no lifeguard anxiety. Tonight we have a night in, just a takeaway pizza at the van.

The van is full of ants! A bit of an broken nights sleep as I find 3 or 4 on my pillow and shoulders. I also realise we have been using the damp matresses from last week without drying them out properly and it all feels a bit yuck....so we get on the case Thursday morning, clearing out, spraying and drying stuff. Am still searchin for the Ant invasion...

Post clearout, we bus it to Loreto, a nearby mediaeval town which is a huge place of pilgrimage, who come to see the house of Mary. As legend has it, in 1292 a band of angels flew the place from Nazareth to Dalmatia and then a few years later to Loreto. Madonna of Loreto is held as the patron saint of aviators, with Charles Lindbergh bringing a pic of her on his flight across the atlantic in 1927, as did the crew of Apollo 9, a bit later. The town has a palatial pizza and a few cafes and touristy shops with a lot of religious paraphenalia. I get some pressies to send home. And we wait a half hour for a bus lying in the sun where J gets a bit of sunstroke. We eat at a nice balcony restaurant in town and catch the 2nd half of the Germany Portugal match. Germans win 3, 1 and there is a very restrained response all round. Italians seem only interested in football when it is Italy playing and even then are very focused on the action itself. The crowd will always gets up on the blow of the whistle, the bunting swiftly removed, whether they win or lose. There is no interest in pundits comments or chewing the fat afterwards.

Friday is Cs last day and we go up town for a bit of breakfast and to get some pills for J who is feeling queasy and headachey after yesterdays roasting. The last few hours on the beach are a bit bizarre. We are not allowed to put our umbrella up as there are problems with the seapolice. It is the hottest day of the year and people are crowding into the only v small area of dappled shade, umbrellas solemly folded. Only pregnant women and those with babies are exempt. We never quite got to the bottom of why this was but it reminded me a bit of the scene in Jaws where everybody is told to get out of the water...
It is around 28 degrees and we are sizzling even through factor 40 so donàt stay long. Have the final fish feast at camp restaurant. Vow to cut down to half portions. Had a great time with C and will miss her a lot.