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.