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.

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.

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.