Soyen to Venice (updated)

18/05, Soyen
Today it is raining and has done so since some time in the night. We sit in the bus, Bre reading, splayed across the back seat, and me on my very own box seat, writing.
The lake is maybe half a mile long and a quarter mile across. We see the same woman everyday cycling to some steps leading into the water, jumping off her bike, ripping her clothes off and running into the lake to swim a few lengths. Maybe some local nutter, or a very short lunch break. The landlord is out on his boat every day trailing two lines to catch that elusive pike which had been prematurely advertised the night before, to the great disappointment of a very camp guy who is (apparently) secretly meeting a local business woman. He bores her (or so it seems, as she disappears one time to have a swim) with dreadful football stories - I'm simultaneously translating for B - and especially his once-in-a-lifetime meeting of Oliver Kahn (year-long German national goal keeper for those who didn't know), where he claims to have gained notoriety for asking the only football related question among gossip columnists who were there to grill Kahn on his recent split from his wife (I'm probably losing you already...). The goalkeeper, according to the camp guy, stood up and thanked him publicly.
In the far corner of the terrace sits a clearly disturbed woman with her equally psychotic poodle. We'd seen her the previous day mumbling to herself, or no one in particular, on a bench near the level crossing. She seems to be following us as we encounter her hound tied up in front of the supermarket later.
A massive Hanomag ex-army vehicle has just parket up opposite us. We're experiencing the same old apprehension towards newcomers. just this morning this very spot was cleared by three motorhomes, the contents of which a family celebrating their son's 30th. The army types seem to be a family from Fuerth, near Nuernberg, not far from where my mum lives. We watch them as they obscure our main view of the lake. The van has what looks like a hatch or a small turret on the cab roof - presumably to ward off invaders. A solar panel is propped up at an angle against the main hull, and a complimentary spade fixed to the side completes the impression of the independent traveller. They seem more the type of long suffering family following the whims of their car proud husband and father though. I fear he might think of me as a kindred spirit because of Vera and try to ignore their enquiring glances. At the moment the moron wife feeds the whole duck population of the lake, intonating their individual gender as she throws breadcrumbs at them. "Male! Female!". She obviously wants to be fair. After running out of bread she menacingly shushes them away. Stick and carrot, I suppose. The daughters follow their mother's example by telling the still hopeful ducks to eff off. Charming brood.
Now they sit outside gawping. I feel trapped in the van because if I go out and have a cigarette I'll have to say hello and I know he'll try to engage me in a conversation about cars. I could pretend to desparately have to go to the loo; waving apologetically and hopping off, hiding behind the tool shed for my fag. The little respect we might have had for them wanes rapidly as the bloke relieves himself into the lake.
The rain is incessant and dulls our spirits. At seven we squelch to the restaurant which is utterly void of customers and the landlady comes out of the kitchen to investigate the dripping noises. She seems amazed to see customers and reluctantly serves us some food - apparently she was about to shut up shop soon. By 7.30 we think it only polite to leave and hear the doors locked behind us as we stand in the downpour. The saving grace of the whole soggy affair is the neighbours' (caravan) wife coming round and offering some hand baked strawberry cake.
19/05
Next day we pack up and as dry as we can and drive down the 40 or so miles to the Chiemsee, a large expanse of water near Rosenheim. It has been flat up until now but we can see the Alps rising ahead not more than a few miles away.
We choose a site at the shore with plans to visit Schloss Herrenchiemsee, a never completed folly with more than 70 bedrooms and a massive hall of mirrors. Even the weather plays ball and we congratulate ourselves sitting right by the lake under our brand new and shiny sun awning, purchased in a massive sailing and camping shop just outside Prien for the spritely sum of 199 Euros. Half of the mounting brackets we chuck away as Vera's roof is too curved to fix the suction pads, and only Bre, who suggested to make use of parts of our other four stone monster pod, prevents me from throwing the thing into the See.
They even have wireless internet here, albeit not at the pitch, but we can use it on the terrace of the little Gasthaus cum kiosk cum shower block. People actually say hello and smile here, and a waiter is so intrigued by our little laptop that he strikes up a conversation. It could have been so nice. At 10.30 we discover that the shower block has closed for the night; not to open again until the morning, and as I brush my teeth at the only sink in the men's toilet the rain starts again with renewed vigour.
20/05
When I wake up the next day I shake Bre and shout over the rain: That's it. I've had it. Get up. We pack up and go. By now everthing is either damp or wet and we're almost constantly cold. The forecast is bad until Thursday here, and as the good weather is approaching from the North it seems utter madness to head South but we're past caring and just want to escape. Innsbruck beckons. The drive is much shorter than anticipated as you travel from Rosenheim along the river Inn, and no steep climbs slow us down.
Of course it rains but when we arrive at the right site in Innsbruck (the first was called Camping Pizzeria, and was indeed in the back garden of an Italian restaurant) we actually set up in the relative dry.
FINALLY - a working internet cafe! Back to Innsbruck:
We opt for 2 nights here because we want to see Innsbruck itself the next day. The site restaurant serves the usual stodge but we're too tired and wet to care much. By now it is all a bit much for me and I hit rock bottom depression. I hate Germans, Austrians, their respective countries; and I just want to be home on the sofa watching The Apprentice. B is great though, and talks the black dog away.
Because we have a relatively short power lead (here in Europe several pitches share a few centrally located powerpoints, so you'll easily have to stretch to 50 feet) we'd parked up right in front of an available powerpoint. Coming back from the restaurant we discover that a powerful 500 watt light shines right through our back window. The next night I cover it with a dense cloth bag which works a treat. In general I think we both become more inventive when it comes to problems - Bre is mending the cheap folding chairs that started to come apart after a few weeks, and I find more and more ingenious ways to keep the water out of the van. Anyway.
21/05, Innsbruck
Bre has developed a bladder infection so first stop is the local hospital, which is clean, nice, calm, inviting and friendly. We wait while watching fish in a nice, calm and friendly tank. B gets a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers without fuss. The doctor (sic!) apparently stands up and shakes her hand as she leaves. Nice. Innsbruck, though, is what we really needed. At last civilisation, at least in the form of proper shops with proper people. We stroll through the mainly pedestrianised old city, see the Golden Dachl (an alcove with a 24 karat gold roof), drink real coffee and eat some real food; an interesting mix of Austrian-Hungarian traditional stodge and light and fresh Italian cookery. Chinese groups, laden with purchase, mix with troups of baseball-capped Americans; and some heavily wrapped Indian tourists. We buy tickets for a succession of cable cars riding up to the Nordkette, a chain of mountains towering over the town to a height of about 2,300 metres. We hit the clouds at 1,500 mtrs and can't see a thing but as we arrive at the top we enjoy being completely on our own (bar the ticket clerk) above the clouds.
The first of the Bahns is the driverless Hungerburgbahn, a kind of DLR on stereoids, which is a marvel of modern technology. For those who had the term 'DLR on steroids' on their respective postcards: I coined that ;)
Back in town by the Goldenes Dachl a high and long jump show is in full swing; interspersed by Dirndl fashion shows and a performance by a local looking dancetroup dressed in traditional costume. A tight-rope artist traverses the road at a height of 70 feet. Except for the traditional dance everything is underlined by this heavy mix of Tina Turner and other 80's pulp of which they are so fond of in these parts.
For dinner we sample one of the blandest Thai curries we've ever eaten and at 11pm we catch the bus back to the campsite.
22/05, Brenner Pass to Lake Garda
Today is the big day. Italy beckons. First of all we have to master the Brenner Pass, and I have no idea how steep it's going to be. Right out of Innsbruck sees us crawling up the mountains at a steady 25mph. Vera always draws admiring glances except for when we are trying to get up a hill. We pay our dues (tolls) at a service station near the pass and as we set off for the final climb Vera passes the 84,000 mile mark. The arrival at the border is somewhat of an unexpected affair - we're almost past it before we realise we're now in Italia. After it the road is all downhill to Lake Garda; the weather perks up and we reach dizzying speeds of 70mph! Wheyhey!
The heating in the old dubs is controlled by a cable that runs to the heat exchangers at both sides of the engine. Warm air is channelled through pipes into the fromt cabin. The cables should be attached to levers that in turn shut or open flaps to control the flow of air. In Vera these levers are non-existent, and in their default state the flaps seem to be open all the time. In short, we're slowly boiling our legs. No chance of finding the missing parts soon I think, so for the moment we have to live with it. At the north side of Lake Garda we turn off the autostrada onto the eastern shore road that runs all along the lake, and will lead us to Malcesine, our destination (courtesy of Christine's many a tale). Camping Claudia is directly by the lake about 3km north of the town.
Malcesine lies at the foot of Monte Baldo and is a maze of little cobbled streets and alleyways flanked by pretty 3 and 4 storey houses. Every nook and cranny has been filled with tourist traps, bars and restaurants. We're trying desperately to order in Italian, scraping together the little we remember, but are immediately cut short in German. My teutonic looks I presume. Our first triumph comes on our third night out when we manage a whole sitting of three pints entirely in Italian, and are waved off with a convivial 'Ciao, ragazzi'.
I'll wrap up our stay here bullet list style:

• Boat trip to Limone, a soulless place. If Dante had stayed here, his Inferno would have been unbearable to read.
• Cable car ride up Monte Baldo. The usual clouds, so nothing to see. Bland lunch of cheese, mushrooms and, I can't remember what it's called - a kind of porridge made from corn meal. You can buy it in pre cooked yellowish slabs in Sainsburys. Tastes good griddled with butter and chilli.
• More trips into town where we sit in cafes, smoke a lot and try hard to look Italian. Sunglasses mandatory.

26/05, I think, Lake Garda to Venice
B will correct the dates in her next post. After an overall very enjoyable stay in Malcesine we're off to see what you just have to see in Italy: Venezia. B will tell you all about it; just to say as we drive the last few kilometres to our campeggio of choice, which lies in a postnuclear war industrial area but is only 20 mins to Venice by boat, we somewhat are reminded of home - the bleak plains of the Greenwich Peninsula.

Bavarian National Forest

Friday 16 May

Yesterday we arrive in a small, pretty campsite by a (we think) artificial lake in a small village called Soyen, S.E Germany. For the last week we camped in the Bayern Nationaler Wald, (Bavarian National Forest).

We were setting off from Peter and Katharina's when we encountered our first serious problem with the bus. We had said goodbyes and were pulling out of the garden on to the street when Jon discovered he couldn't turn right. Peter said that the front left wheel was pointing the opposite way to all the others and a quick look under the van revealed that the steering box thing (Jon will add the technical footnote) had completely come come away, welding-wise. The upshot was that Peter spent a day under the van with some serious looking welding equipment, cleaning it up, sticking it back together and reinforcing it, making it stronger than ever before. While Peter welds and Jon helps, I enjoy another day in the sunny garden, reading Cormac McCarthy's bleak and brilliant The Road, about a father and son's journey through an apocalyptic America, burned from global warming.

We are so, so lucky that our first serious problem happened here, where we have the backup of a Peter's mechanical expertise.

After the steering is fixed and we're full of Peter's Wiener Schnitzel, (fabulous pork escalopes coated in spicy breadcrumbs and fried), we leave early the next day heading 177 miles south with newly flexible steering and a few other things that Peter had done to give us a bit more oomph on the acceleration. We reach a campsite at Klingenbrunn, (which means swords and water) just south of the larger town of Zwiesel and not far from the Czech border. The site is on level terraces and we choose one right on the trees-edge. The weather is glorious and we decide to stay for 5 nights, pitching the awning for the first time. Two-hours, rubbish instructions, some very rocky ground and a bit of cursing later, we have what looks like a huge green blistery-pod on the side of the van, empty except for the groundsheet, and, we decide, a bit excessive for our needs. We probably won't put it up much unless we have people coming over to stay or are really basing ourselves somewhere for a week or more.

After our lazy time as the-guests-that-would-never-leave we are glad of a bit of activity and get out on the forest paths the next day on our bikes for the short ride to the nearest village of Frauenau, (lady-garden ...no sniggering please). The whole area is famous for glass blowing and even the smallest hamlet seems to have a museum to the art of Glasblasen. We have a vague memory of it being about 6k to Frauenau by road but this morphs into a 14km off-road schlep, pushing the bikes over rocky tree-rooted terrain half the time. Most village shops are closed, it being Pentecost holiday weekend. (There are dozens of religious holidays here, all of which are quite strictly observed with no shops opening and many activities related to the church. Sunday opening in general is strictly illegal.) In the village we find a hotel for Brotzeit (the meal between lunch and dinner, perfect for us as we always eat late and miss the 2pm deadline in most restaurants). We can't contemplate the forest-hike back and the next train on the small local line is 2 hours wait so we go on the road. Cycling is never my strong point and on the small-wheeled fold-up effort I was struggling at the slightest hill. We mostly pushed them up the (actually 10k) worth of sweeping bends, lapped all the way by the Klingenbrunn chapter of the Hells Angels and a vintage Triumph car rally which seemed to be taking place. It took 2 hours, enhanced at one point by Jon having a nosebleed, (altitude related?). Make it back to the blister-pod for some beer and homemade pasta.

On Monday we find a rare wireless hotspot in nearby Spiegelau (mirror meadow) and are able to pay E8 to read emails, containing important news of the double-firing from The Apprentice as well as updates from family. Decide to leave the bikes as we ache so much and walk through the forest aiming for Great Rachel, one of the 3 peaks in the area. After 4 hours, and a third of the way up, the terrain turns steeper and we turn back. We are glad of the exercise after our weeks of lazing around, but the novelty of the many, cryptically signed forest trails is beginning to wane. The whole area is stunningly beautiful. I keep fighting back the urge to sing the Hills are Alive...as I gaze out at dandelion clad meadows bordered by natural forest. The houses are all built in keeping, chocolate box cute with wooden balconies and immaculate gardens. The fact that they were possibly constructed in 1980 doesn't matter. Back at pod-central, we stir ourselves out again for a Lumberjack pork feast in a village restaurant, a huge cartwheel concoction of over-spiced meat, pan-fried spuds and a ladle of sauerkraut, all served on a chopping board. A couple of beers finish us off and we're making our way to bed by 9.30.

Tues we visit Zwiesel, the biggest of the towns in the area. It's a relatively relaxing day today and we only walk the hour to the station. A swish modern one carriage train goes half-an hour through the forest. We are pleased to find some shops and buy 3 pairs of shoes, a flyswat and some fairy liquid. Have a couple of Radlers (shandies) in a shabby pizza place and wait for the train home. This trip has confirmed us very much as city dwellers happy to see a few shops and a bit of cultural diversity. Not that Zwiesel is exactly Manhattan, but we did see one Goth, a welcome respite amongst the otherwise fairly style-less moustachieod lot at the campsite.

On our last day at the 'Brunn we take the van to the animal park. See a handful of bears and wolves but the lynx, wild boar and bison are hiding somewhere in their large reserves and are a no-show. The wolves were great, a pack circling a gang of children (!) who had been let loose in the pen to pick up the well-chewed bones. It's all character forming, I guess. As J turns the ignition to leave the carpark, we are dismayed to hear the battery is completely flat. We'd left the fridge plugged in, to what we thought was the leisure battery, but turns out to have been the main engine one and it's been sucked of all its juice during our long wait for the lynx, bisen and alll the other no-shows. A orange 1977 bus had parked alongside us earlier and we'd exchanged pleasantaries about the vans with the young German guy. He turns out to be our saviour, as he is able to get hold of jump leads, reverse up and cough us into life. The fog of the van electrics is slowly clearing in my head, what to plug in where, what switches to flick when you're onsite, touring etc. Jump leads go on our list of things to buy, along with a new set of chairs as our bargain foldups are disintegrating already.

Our final night at KB is spent in the campsite restaurant. The whole site has the feel Fawlty Towers, with an abrupt, slightly shambolic owner, a long suffering wife and a small moustachieod, chainsmoking man in too-short trousers who appears to do everything from restaurant-waiting, cleaning the toilets, and chopping down the trees at the back of us in a big JCB. We wonder at this deforestation. Perhaps they are trying to increase the size of the campsite to the 5Hectares it says in the AA book (but which it clearly isn't). Maybe the inspectors are coming round. The campsite 'shop' turns out to be nothing more than a door with a sign saying 'I'm in the bar' which is where 'Basil' seems to spend all of his time, along with most of the staff. Strange man – he has odd flashes of friendliness when he is tired and emotional at about 10pm each night. The next day he'll be barking 'passport' or throwing your cutlery at you as though he's never seen you before in his life. We wonder if we are outcasts because of the English-reg bus but even Jon's ability to converse in Deutsch cuts no-ice. The sites seems to be a motley crew of locals who might return year-on-year. One day we are looking at the leaflet stand when a large disshevelled lady shouts cheerfullly that she can't read them anymore as they are in black font. (???) Another couple opposite go out for a walk on day 2, leaving, van, awning, table, towels on the line and bikes at the back and are never seen again. We think they've probably died on Great Rachel and christen them the Dead Couple. Make mental note to report them missing to Basil but we never do. As the days go on we get used to being scowled at as we walk into the diner, and look on it as all part of the national reserve....And wife of Basil, from Thailand turns out the best Thai curry I've ever eaten. It makes all the lunatics, scowls and dead people easier to bear. However, it is, we think, time to leave Germany and head soon towards somewhere less weird...more latin....

So now on we're having another break from our crawl towards the border with Austria. After 120 miles driving rain makes us detour to our gorgeous lakeside view with friendly locals, affable ducks, a campsite shop that opens and no deforestation going on around us. A big thunderstorm last night shook the van. Jon reassures me that lightning will hit the lake first and that we are perfectly safe in the bus...something about Faraday's Cage. Fitful sleep, but warm. Are able to forgo the bedsocks that we needed in the mountains. Today the sun is shining again and we've done our laundry. All is one with the world. We think we'll stay in Germany a few days more after all.

Germany to the Czech Republic

Friday 02/05
Today we are on a quest for a pair of these foldable camping chairs – the ones with netted holes in the armrests for drinks – and fresh trout, which creates itself far more difficult than we could have imagined. First stop though is a local garage that came recommended by Martin and my mum to get Vera's oil changed. The head mechanic, an old guy who seems to know his stuff, just says, “Leave it here, come back at 5 and it's done.”, whilst talking to five other people simultaneously. We set off with my mum to 'Bauhaus', a DIY market where we don't find the chairs we want but buy cigar lighter clip-on lights, cable for the planned interior lights and some other assorted bits and bobs. Since doing work on the van I'm in love with DIY places and this one is an absolute gem. Well stocked, clean, and a helpful assistant directs us to a nearby pound shop where they sell these camping chairs. We jump in the car and race over there. After the initial euphoria subsides we disregard the pink fluffy chairs and settle for colour coordination in the form of tasteful stripy shades of green.
The day before we'd decided to cook trout and asparagus for dinner. Mum knows a place that sells smoked fish, so we drive over to give it a try. Three places later and we finally hunt down fresh trout in a small village called Altendettelsau. I see them being hit over the head and gutted. Fresh indeed, and they tasted lovely later.
At 5 o'clock we pick up Vera and a random woman who had her own car serviced wandered over to have a chat about where we were from and what our plans were. The old mechanic sees us off with tales of him staying in Hampstead in 1966.

Saturday 03/05
Saturday we set off to Bamberg via local trains. After a quick breakfast in Nuernberg Hauptbahnhof we mount a doppeldecker carriage on a Regional Express. The weather is absolutely glorious. Duvets and pillows hanging out of people's windows as we rush past. Everywhere is very clean; even the graffiti is nice and looks very professional.
Bamberg is a medieval town about 60 miles north of Nuernberg. Miraculously it survived the Second World War bombings with little more than a blemish and most buildings in the old town are extremely well preserved. The place is full of tourists trundling along behind guides holding up umbrellas or signs – one group even wears matching baseball caps and trainers; no doubt Americans. The magnificent cathedral is closed for an organ concert. We decide not to wait and instead explore the medieval alleyways. Crooked Tudor-style houses stand shoulder to shoulder with Regency grandeur. We follow a sign to 'Little Venice' which turns out to be little else than a terrace of Tudor houses backing on to the river Regnitz. A number of them have boats moored off their picturesque back gardens. Wandering aimlessly we hit upon a flea market within the meandering maze that is the Old Town. Items on offer range from an life-size edifice with the face of an old woman to some Wedgwood pottery and generic knick-knack (this is one of these words that you've always hear as a non native speaker but have never seen written down, so apologies for any typos). We wash down lunch in a little courtyard with two Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbiere – a local speciality beer the taste of which can easily be recreated by tipping a packet of smoky bacon crisps into a pint of Guinness. Enjoy.
Content to buy nothing in the illustrious boot sale we stroll back to the station. As we settle on the upper deck there is commotion down below. Sounds like some mildly rowdy teenagers who had one to many Rauchbiere but emerge do eventually three young maidens trying to sell Schnaps, biscuits and 'Schleifen' (ribbons) to fellow passengers to complement a wedding budget. The bride-to-be laughs the loudest. As they approach us I pretend I'm English and say “No, but thanks.”. Turns out the future Mrs So-and-so is American and learned all the German phrases by heart. We still don't buy anything.
In the evening we cook the trout and asparagus for our last supper in Heilsbronn. Martin doesn't turn up because he helps out in one of the Gasthauses here. After a couple of glasses of wine my Mum as usual wants to put the world to rights. Tomorrow we'll move on to Prague, or Brandys nad Labem, to visit my uncle Peter and his partner Katharina. They moved there permanently last Christmas after 10 years of sacrificed holidays to build their house. I have great admiration for their perseverance. Katharina fled (then) Czechoslovakia with her mum and sister in the 70s. Their properties were confiscated by the communist state. After the wall came down in 1989 Katharina succeeded in receiving compensation in form of a piece of land. They sold it and purchased a ramshackle building in 1996. I haven't seen Peter in over 20 years and wondered if he has changed at all.

Sunday 04/05
We check out of our 70s dream after a yummy continental breakfast with coffee, rolls, meats and boiled egg and are back on the road at 9.30 to the sounds of Manfred Mann. It is shorts weather and as it is Sunday the roads are void of lorries and generally empty. We're happy to be on the go again. At the former border we stop to be ripped off, err, change some Euros into Kroner and buy one of those motorway toll vignettes. We think of my mum claiming that the road is flat all the way to Prague as we battle yet another hill at 30 mph. About every 2 hours we stop to give Vera and our bums a well earned rest. Katharina had sent instructions which prove to be excellent as we circumnavigate Prague on its patchwork of ring roads. After overall 6 hours we arrive spot on in front of their house. The welcome is warm and we sit down for a chat after I've shoehorned the van into the back garden. Except some grey hairs Peter hasn't changed one bit. Later we have delicious Coq au vin with baguette and salad and talk about cars, politics (I refuse), food and holidays.
Katharina's mum has Alzheimers and P and K share caring for her with K's sister. Apart from the roof structure they have done everything in the house themselves, including handling 6.5 tonnes of roof tiles, 600 metres of underfloor heating tubes, 8 cubic metres of concrete (some of which hardened to a little mound in the garden, now planted upon with kitchen herbs). Peter talks about his plans of setting up his own business building proper bread ovens for the garden (think Jamie Oliver). I promise to help him set up a website once we're back.

Monday 05/05
Waking up in yet another house with the strange noises. K's mum already came out of her self-contained flat at about 6 and was ushered back in by K. The house isn't completely finished yet and on the first floor where we sleep the ceilings haven't been put in entirely so we are all just separated by high stud walls. 50 centimetres too high in fact because the builders misread the measurements. Swallows are nesting underneath the eaves and dogs bark at early risers.
My command of the English language is rapidly deteriorating. I presume this is because of all the German I speak and also caused by my having to translate a lot. Words constantly fail me in both languages and trying to pick up some Czech just adds to the confusion. I think that memories are linked to the language you speak, because I now remember things I haven't thought about in years, and I believe they are triggered by the use of German. Not just any memories, but also words and knowing how things work – in German I have a better understanding of how an engine works than in English (if that makes sense), because I don't know all the words for the parts.
Today we are going to have a look at Brandys nad Labem and I also want to fix some things on Vera – the dipped headlights aren't working, and I want to finally install the interior lighting.
Peter has a dab hand at baking and we're having homemade rye bread for breakfast. Mum, Bre and I venture into Brandys nad Labem. All houses have two numbers here; one from the old communist days which is an ever increasing number in the order the houses were built, and the new 'western' style denoting the number of the house in the street. We thought Brandys to be very rural and quiet until we hit the main road which is teeming with cars and pedestrians. It is lined with a mixture of German brand and local shops. The palace (an old Habsburg hunting place) is unfortunately closed for the day but we have a stroll through the neglected park and shortly afterwards decide to go back and relax – although in my case it's out with the toolbox.
Peter used to be a car mechanic and has every tool I could wish for. After faffing (another of these never seen written down words) around for a bit I figure out the problem with the lights is simply a missing fuse. Never occurred to me that the empty slot in the fusebox could have anything to do with it. The guy from Holloway Electrics must have knocked it out when they were installing the stereo. With Peter's good-humoured advice, a riveting gun and and a hot glue pistol I manage to install the interior lights which work a treat.
Dinner is usually at 6 as K's mum likes to follow a strict routine. K serves up lovely pasta; farfalle with mixed vegetables and tomatoes; and dessert comes in the form of Linzer Torte, a dark concoction of spices, cocoa and homemade redcurrant jam, courtesy of P's very commendable baking skills.

Tuesday 06/05
M, B and I are off to Prague today. K drives us to the next Metro station and we don't even get that much lost before we find the ticket office and the right platform. A 24 hour ticket for all public transport within the Prague network costs 100 Kronar; approx. £4. From Mustek stanice we walk towards the Republican Square, have a coffee in a kavarna in an Art Deco building, Obecni Dum and then to the Old Town Square. A sudden thunderstorm causes us to seek refuge under some trees. While admiring the metal grilles we're standing on we decide that we might be safer under some big umbrellas at a nearby bar. After crossing Charles Bridge we choose one of the tourist traps to have our lunch in. A fantastic career as an actor had been lost on the waiter. The range of expression from delight to sheer contempt, and the speed with which the change is executed, as we decline both aperitif and starter would have put a Laurence Olivier to shame. He even points out (literally with his finger) that tips are not included in the final bill. The cheek.
K and P told us about a few attractions on Petrin, a hill next to Prague Castle, near the Hunger Wall. This was the site of the Prague exposition in 1891, and there remain among others a viewing platform in the shape of the Eiffel tower (62 metres) and the Bludiste with a hall of mirrors and maze which, according to the Lonely Planet, is good for a laugh. Our ticket is valid on the funicular railway that brings us up near the People's Observatory. My mum gets lost in the maze as we amuse ourselves in the hall of mirrors next to a bus load of German school children. We walk down the hill back into town to find K and P a little something, which we do, and details of which we can't disclose at this moment in time because they might actually read the blog before we go.
In the evening more food, drink and merriment, and also a sometimes little heated political debate between the 'adults'. Bre and I remain shtum (another of these pesky little words).

Wednesday 07/05
Mum is sulking a bit today and we all decide it's time for a rest. Bre's just about finishing her first book, I'm writing this and everyone else is just lazing around, interrupted only to down some more coffee and original Czech sweets that are very colourful, and incredibly sweet and sticky.
Bre's just asked me whether I want the Lonely Planet Guide to add some real facts about Prague, rather than making it up as I go along, but it's time for some more coffee and sweet things now, and I suddenly feel quite sleepy in the sun.

Two Clots in a Camper

Belgium to Germany
28 April.
Well here we are at the start of our journey. Made it without too much trouble to our first stop just outside Ghent. The site was carefully constructed to look like a woodland idyll, but was actually just off the Belgium equivalent of the Blackwall Tunnel southern approach. We felt quite at home being lulled off to sleep by the gentle roar of cars. The site was fairly soggy underfoot and Vera was tested by a further downpour overnight. Our first night ever in the bus was luckily watertight, though we were a bit chilly with just the sleeping bags. Woke up in the morning with rigor-mortis from the slowly-stiffening cold. Will add a blanklet tomorrow.

To Germany
29 April
Lovely and sunny today and we set off not too early. Crossed into Germany near Aachen by about 2.30pm, Jon tooting his horn in a rare burst of patriotism as he reached the land of his birth. A large part of Vera’s speed is reliant on momentum, fine on the flatter lands but which slowly gets lost on the long climbs on the German motorways. Begin to feel self-conscious as we are down to about 35mph, overtaken by lorries, caravans, kids on tricycles... life in the crawler lane indeed...

The bus is attracting quite a bit of attention as old VWs are rarer sights here than back home. 50% of the traffic overtaking us has had a good gawp. We have got a couple of horns tooted in approval. V has never looked better gleaming in the sunlight with the retro roof rack and a polished chrome against a backdrop of meadows and rape fields.

Decided to stop and enjoy the nice evening...we’re on our ‘olidees after all.... Hooked up in the romantic Rhine Valley. Altenahr, a mediaeval village, is surrounded on all sides by craggy peaks. Did some feasting at the local inn (non-meat eating status put on hold for the moment), with some great local splatzburger rotwein (virtually all the red wine produced stays within the locale as yield is low). Meandered back to do the crossword from the Daily Thanet (picked up at Ramsgate) and listen to the radio. Electric hookup is working well with a fridge that has turned milk to ice in less than than an hour. We’ve been able to charge cameras, mein handy etc. Still to get some decent overhead lights. Deckchairs also a priority.


30 April
Gorgeous day again and Jon dons his shorts for the drive south and east towards Nuremberg. If nothing else he’ll get a van tan, scorched ankles from the under dash heating that blows air hotter than the sun at our feet. Stop at a windy services and scoop out some milk for lunch, along with the crusty rolls n jam J had got from the bakery that morning. We’re making good progress. Vera is cruising up the hills with narry a complaint now so we decide we will reach Jon’s mum in Helisbronn that night rather than search for another one-nighter. For the last 3 hours however we hit murderous traffic and are stuck behind a queue of lorries and families trying to get away for the bank holiday. It is May Day tomorrow. We have done 700km, realise belatedly that our back left indicator hasn’t been working for half of it. I will have to use the hand method til we get a mechanic. Everything shuts down here properly, on bank hols, unlike back in Blighty.

Reach Ute and Martin (Jon’s brother) by 8. Check our bags in to a nearby Gasthof. Homemade Pizza and wine and chat until midnight. We are discussing our plans for the trip when Ute warns us we can’t buy petrol in Afghanistan. We realise she is thinks we are going there rather than Albania.

Back to room, just down the road in the village. The joy of being able to spread out in a proper bed is not wasted on us... and it is only day 3.