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.