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.

Urbino to Sirolo

11/06, Wednesday

Time to head off on a recon mission to prepare the ground, so to speak, for Christine's arrival. She flies into Ancona on Friday and we want to have enough time to check out suitable campsites around Sirolo; a small medieval town at the foot of Monte Conero, 20kms south of Ancona.

The guide mentions 2 sites, one of which we try out first: Camping Green Garden. After a quick look around we actually check in, because I insist although Bre is sensible and wants to see the other site first. If only I listened to her:

• The guide book states 'al mare'. At the reception we find out you can get a bus to the beach.
• The guide book says the site has a little supermarket. There is an empty concrete shell signed Minimarket.
• The guide book mentions washing machines. There are none.
• The guide book lists internet access. The only thing remotely new media is the @ sign in the bar's name. The bar is closed in the evenings.
• There are two showerblocks. One of them is closed. The other one is occupied by workmen from 7.30 in the morning.
• We're backing onto the 'second' swimming pool, we think. It's actually the pool and bar of the adjoining smaller campsite which advertises itself as music venue.

We meet an older English couple though who had just been in Greece where they sold their 33 foot yacht and bought a caravan instead which is of course completely overloaded because all the stuff from the yacht is in there and they thought they wouldn't make some of the steeper hills and at their last campsite she had to rescue a jackdaw baby that kept falling out of its nest and she tried to put it back but it kept falling so she wrapped it in some kitchen roll and killed flies with the fly swat and fed them to the poor little thing but the next day it was dead such as shame but he stayed overnight in Greece in the car park of the ferry terminal and all those nifty Albanians rolled under the vans and caravans and stole everything even when it was screwed on and he isn't saying all Albanians were bad but he wouldn't go there only if they'd build a motorway up to Croatia maybe because you'd save the time spent on the ferry but then they had been up and down the Italian adriatic coast and everywhere is the same all sold out really and you just can't trust these Italians, can you.

When we check out the next day the guys at reception don't even ask why we don't stay the whole week. I guess they know.

Pesaro/Fano to Urbino

09 - 10/06, Monday and Tuesday
After a few very agreeable days between Pesaro and Fano at Camp Norina; which looks as it sounds, like a 1950's labour camp, we set off again. Our stay was in fact so nice that I sound Vera's horn for the second time in good humour (The first time involved a rare patriotic surge as we crossed the German border). We're off inland to Urbino for some culture.

Urbino is advertised as one of the nicest medieval/renaissance hilltop towns in Le Marche. We drive past the outskirts on our way to the campsite which lies 3km away on a neighbouring hill. The site is basic but expensive (€34), clearly benefitting from its monopolic status. As the landlord sternly explains the rules, a glimpse of humour: we needn't be worried about the speedlimit. We're early as the drive only covered 30 miles or so, and we decide to walk into town. Only the last few hundred meters are uphill but negotiate the same height altitude difference as the previous 2.5k. Beautiful little streets and alleyways, but these are the steepest we've ever encountered. Everything is cobbled with red brick, and every couple of feet they've raised a row slightly to provide some foothold. Not many people on bikes here we notice. Drenched in sweat (only me; Bre is far fitter than I am) we cool down outside a little bar in the Piazza della Repubblica.

Urbino was the seat of the Montefeltro family in the 15th century, and owes its main attraction, the Palazzo Ducale, to Federico da Montefeltro. Federico came to power in 1442 and had keen interest in the arts, especially architecture. He employed Luciano Laurana - a then relative unknown architect - to build for him the ideal palace. The result is the Palazzo Ducale, one of the finest early Renaissance buildings in Italy. Urbino today is kept lively by the many students of its university; the main focus incidentally being on art and architecture. (Thank you, Rough Guide..).

The Palazzo houses Le Marche's National Gallery with a large and very impressive collection of monumental Renaissance paintings by, among others, Raphael (who is the town's most famous son) and Piero della Francesca. The most striking for me though are the later works by Federico Barocci, which possess a striking simplicity in form and stroke, and beat the usual life-like, almost photographic, precision of other painters of that period.

One of the more eccentric attractions of the palace is a small study panelled with inlayed wood, forming somewhat of a trompe l'oeuil, and depicting in dazzling detail things like a squirrel, half open drawers with maps, cupboard doors ajar revealing astronomical instruments, and more of the like.

We also descent into the bowels of the building unearthing a freshwater system fuelled by numerous cisterns and grid of clay pipes that feed water into taps in the kitchen and even the Duke's bathroom. At its time it must have been absolutely state of the art.
Our last discovery (we almost walked past the bland entrance), and a very lucky one too, is the exhibit of some of the folios of Federico's extensive library, which had been pilfered by the Holy See as north-east Italy fell under papal rule in the 17th century. The some 20 books which are on temporary loan from the Vatican's vast vaults (ed: discovered the joy of alliterations, just ignore them) display exquisite craftmanship with stunning illuminations in amazingly vivid colours (ed: also the heavy-handed use of adjectives, in case you hadn't noticed).

Back in the sunshine, we're both experiencing that delightedly smug and exhausted feeling that you get after a couple of hours of culture, and after feigning entrance to a nearby church we sit down outside a small restaurant to have some lunch. For once we are living in synch with everyone else. The rest of the day is filled with strolling around, shopping and sipping coffees. I had lost my £80 Oakleys which allows me to replace them with a pair of chic €8 Noname. Bre thinks they look much better on me anyway.

Inspired by a dish we had for lunch we buy wine, tomatoes, tuna, rocket and big white beans called fagioli spagna and take the bus back to the site. We sit outside the van eating and sipping a nice local red, overlooking the valley towards Urbino, and watch a spectacular sunset as glow worms swarm around us. The €34 a night all of a sudden seem a bargain.

Venice to Pesaro and Fano

It was Polenta, Jon's dish that he couldn't remember the name of but which conjured up fond memories of Sainsbury's....

In Venice, the campsite is the most touristy place we've stayed. Club Waikiki 18 to 35 buses very much in evidence. They're beginning their drinking contests and mass frisbee just as we're heading off to brush our teeth and turn in for the night. Urbanites that we are, we doze off during the yard-of-ale whoops but are kept awake by the regular hoot of solitary owl amongst the trees. It's on-the-second toots sound to us like a vehicle-reversing warning and we're convinced it's coming from the huge cargo ferries that loom past the caravans parked on the shore. It takes us 2 days to work out it's a natural phenomenon, though we decide against throwing a stone at it and eventually sleep through.
The next day, we're up and at 'em for the 10am vaporetta to the city, 20 mins away. We're arriving, as Marco Polo would've intended, by sea. We got bitten a bit last night as the mozzies are out in force here, with the water and a good deal of heat. (Hallelujah!)

The sight of Venice across the water gives me a tingle of excitement, a bit like seeing a cartoon place come to life. Got the same feeling when I first claped eyes on Big Ben... The city is predicatably stunning. Gondaliers take the well-heeled around the waterways, ducking their heads under the minute bridges. We stop for an espresso at Piazza San Marco, avoiding the place that charges and extra E6 each for the musical accompaniment of a makeshift quartet. There are people hanging around the vast porticoes escaping the heat that is seeping from the paving stones. The queues for the Basilica are only half-an-hour long, and we manage to get a butchers at the gold, mosaics, emeralds, rubies etc before the main throng descends. St Mark's body was thieved by the founders of Vencie from Alexandria in 828 in order to secure status for the city and get the pilgrim's dosh. Sorry for scanty history...it is very beautiful and worth a look.
The rest of the day we wander the streets, escaping the noise and crowds down some shady backstreet only to backtrack and be out in the light and noise of another busy small campo. It is endlessly surprising. We escape the heat of the Rialto Bridge by gorging on a couple of mammoth ice-creams and espressi. Make our way back to the boat and the Cyberbus at the campsite, an old Routemaster, hot with PCs. It's been quite hard to find internet caffs so and the little laptop we've brought has been so tempremental, we've debated throwing it in the sea so we've not managed to upload our photos since Prague. We decide to avoid the Wakiki lot and eat at the restaurant. Get quite excited at the appearance of a small rat, beaten out of the restaurant with a broom. Rats are aplenty in Venice apparently.

Another moving on day and we are slightly alarmed to find our cashpoint cards are no longer working; mine yesterday and Jon's today. Panic starts to set in when J's Visa is also kaput and we can't get through to Int Directory Enqs to get the bank's number. My thoughts of pleading for help at the British Consul are temporarily dampened by J reminding me he is German. We work out it's some kind of security measure by Natwest as we've been out of the UK exactly a month and a quick call home later, thanks Christine, we are able to get the cards unlocked. Temporarily having no money, if only for a couple of hours, makes us realise how useless at the real back-packery thing we'd be.
Pitched up in Ferrara, an old broad sweeping university city, a 100miles or so from Venice. Two wheels rule here, and we make our way across the cobbly expanses on bikes. The city is totally surrounded by 14km of v. intact city wall,. It has a pretty medieval quarter and a few likely looking bars. The city run campsite is virtually empty. 1 night stoppers on way to Venice or Bologna, rarely look at the town. Ferrara was built by the Este Family, an eccentric powerful renaissance dynasty, renowned for supporting local artists and poisoning their enemies. In the 15th Century, the city was handed over to the papacy when no Este heirs were available to take over and it was found deserted, with mosquito clogged canals, remaining a ghost town right up until the 19th C . It's got its act together now and feels really young and vibranty, a real city, oblivious to tourists and what we've been looking for. We get chatting to 2 Dutch cyclists who are touring the country marginally faster than we are on their bikes, heading to Florence and staying in youth hostels, all the while carrying only 6kg apiece. The food is good here too, though we've never been able to eat the full 3 courses and stick to the antipasti and primo. We have a nightcap in the small piazza bar before cycling home in the dark. The drivers are generously giving us a wideberth. Back at base we're a bit dismayed as the humidity of the day turns into a massive thunderstorm, clattering on the roof like never before.
The next day dawns dull and grey and wet and we bicicilette it into town but it's siesta and many of the shops are closed. We've missed the lunch sitting meaning a wait until 6 or 7 before the restaurants open again. We've still not quite got into the rhythm of lunching at 12 to 2 then eating late in the eavening. We are usually full from breakfast then ravenous by 5. There are free snacks aplenty at all the bars though so you don't go nil-by-mouth for long. Though these can range from a plate of stale crisps to a splendid platter of hams, mozzerella and smoked fish.
That night we manage to eat a meal in an Osteria that has a groaning library full of wine. 3 are thrown in on the tasting menu, where we eat Pasticcies, a sort of big pastie with sweet pastry and filled with macaroni, more to my taste then Jon's. We then have salty local sausage n mash and a strange heavy chocolatey-nut bread for afters. We cycle home quickly while there's a temporary break in the clouds but it starts storming again overnight, which at last breeches Vera's defences and water starts dripping around our heads. This is quickly rectified by Jon, a few pegs and a binliner but we have a fitful sleep and are gloomy at the prospect of another Soyen week, now a by-phrase for chucking it down endlessly.
Up early next day for the 30min train journey to Bologna, a very big beautiful busy city with porticoes designed to be big enough to do your shopping on horseback, though this is less popular these days. I am constantly stunned by the scale of cities in Italy with their vast squares, endless streets, giant churches. We wander for miles into the seedy quarter where we find ourselves stopping to look on a map on what seems to be a bit of a hoody corner. Make our way back to more populated area, eating barsnacks all the while. (We've missed the luncthime and are too early for the evening meals, damn our timings...) Salivate at the food stalls, selling fish, joints of ham, squeaky veg. Back at Ferrara and the evening's brightened up but it's strangely quiet coz of the bank holiday student exodus. Or so we think. It's hard to get to grips with the rhythm of cities sometimes.

Decamp and head 70 miles out to the Adriatic coast, where we are camping at the holiday resort called Lido Degli Scacchi, just outside fishing town of Commachio. Still very much in the flat marshlands of the Po Delta so the scenery is non-existent. The main draw here is the beach and we are right beside it. We've perfected our setup time to about 10 minutes. The main tasks of Windows, Awning, Roof, and Table now go under the name of Operation WART. Such is our military precision, we joke that it's only a matter of time before we start wearing army camouflage and blackening our faces.

WART completed, we find the campsite is vv crowded; we are cheek-by-jowl with our neighbours and it feels a bit like a shanty-town. We do a few days of lazing at the beach, eating at the lovely beachside restaurant and having our first barbecue. We buy 2 new directors chairs and Jon has comandeered one of the old broken chairs as a footrest, having got a alien-like blister on his foot from trudging round Bologna. Go for a night stroll and see the onsite entertainment, which ranges from enmasse Macarena to a late-night accordian polka. This not being our particular bag, we resort to playing quite a lot of Triv and Jack Change It. Despite feeling quite content and used to having little space and few belongings, we're agreed that campsites aren't exactly the most stimulating of places. I feel like I've gone deaf because I can't understand what people are saying, and I think that I rely on a bit of stimuli to spark off ideas thoughts and actions. Jon says that little dramas are happening all around you and you only have to look. By night 3 of the Babydance and beach volleyball announcements, the local Rotary Club have packed out the restaurant and we decide we need another beach but with a town in close proximity. We go 100miles or so through the rain and stop between 2 coastal-but-historic towns Fano and Pesaro, the latter twinned with Watford. Both are sprawling, walled, built in the Roman The site has a bit of feel of an ex-Soviet holiday camp, stretching so long and grassless from end to end that we take to cycling down to the reception and back to save our legs. We soon settle in to the area, making good use of the cycle route that leads into twin-of-Watford (they were so similar...)
One night we discover a little courtyard where a Jazz band are playing. We stay out a bit later than normal and miss the last bus, fail to find a taxi, and end up walking 4 miles or so along a creepy beach, most of it in a huff with each other after an argument about international directory enquires. Climb over the fence at the camp, which has been locked and collapse into bed exhausted.
The weekend sees the sight fill up a little and a couple with a small fox-like orange dog pitch up opposite. Their little pet, at first cute and friendly, seems to be hellbent on cocking his leg everywhere, against the van, the bikes. He even manages to kill off Charlie our pet chives who had travelled with us from Bavaria, who we had placed outside at every stop and who we'd seen begin to flower. Charlie had become our constant in a changing world, but we didn't feel we could use him after the leg-cocking incident. We move the laundry inside to ensure it doesn't suffer the same fate. I buy a hair dye here and touch up my roots. It comes out a vibrant orange, the same colour as that dog.