Aups

Friday 5 Sept -Tues 16 Sept

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Roggio to Frejus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roggio

Late July - Mid August

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Leaving Italy

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


See you soon!
B&J