Italy

Italy

20 July 2011

Chalk and Cheese (Switzerland to Italy)

The drive from Thunersee in Switzerland over (or rather through) the Alps is for a change for us uneventful but still interesting. We decide to chicken out of going the short but very high route over the Susten Pass as our brakes have never been great but this may also be down to the fact that we carry a motorbike, a wardrobe of ladies clothes which will never be warn, water in case the alps dry up on route and most of the world’s supply of Lemon Tea which Michelle appears to live on. Thus making steep downward descents a little hairy.

We turf up just over the Swiss border finally in Italy at Ponte Tresa on Lake Lugano at a campsite that’s still in the ACSI discount season just. This shows just how cheapskate we are as the decision to visit there is decided upon purely on the fact that there is a cheap campsite next to a lake. To be honest I want to do some rowing for my fitness campaign which I will need to adhere to more once I’m in the realms of temptation of all that lovely Italian food and wine (no problem in Switzerland as all they serve is Muesli, water and WD40)

The campsite to say the least is shambolic. The paths around it are designed for noddys little red car not a huge big white brick of a van. No matter, having levelled a few of their trees we eventually settle in our spot amongst yet more trees. It’s like being in the Everglades, it’s dark and dingy and the onset of thunderous weather doesn’t help.The site is littered with shanty town like sheds and what used to be road going caravans perhaps in the 60’s that amazingly are still occupied and being used. Worryingly both the entrance to the site and the rear entrance to the lake are guarded by huge fences controlled by an electronic card that we have been given. At night time the huge gate at the back of the site is then closed behind by yet another huge iron gate which reminds me of the gates in Jurassic Park or King Kong. What or who are they trying to keep out? Or in?

In its favour I manage quite easily to launch Yellow Belly in a gap between severe storms and row for miles. It is quiet and I have the lake to myself. The sun even threatens to come out at one stage! Where are all the boats and people? I decide to row to Switzerland and wonder if I need a Vignette (Toll) sticker for the boat. Half the lake is in Italy and half in Switzerland and I seriously start to wonder when eventually landing on Swiss soil if I will indeed be dragged away by the Swiss Secret Police for illegally landing on Swiss Soil. I have no ID, money or anything. I would spend the rest of my days rotting in some Swiss Jail (Which I imagine will be underground for some reason) which will be full of hapless boaters and the odd Pillock who fell asleep on a Lillo and drifted over the border. Strange how the imagination wanders when you’re rowing!

The lake is like glass but it’s the calm before the storm. Purely by luck I row back to the campsite and into Italy triumphant after my epic voyage of about 5 miles just before the sky darkens, the thunder rumbles, the wind picks up to frenzy and the rain doesn’t so much pour as just fall out of the sky like it was stored is some massive cloud balloon that has suddenly burst. I ponder what would have happened if I had stayed out longer in the boat.

Later we discover that the reason we have seen water leaking out of the bottom of the fire for about a week every time there is severe weather is down to the fact that the chimney top Cowl has blown off on the roof. Amazingly after a trip through two countries, across the Alps and up a huge mountain in Switzerland it’s still up there rolling around the roof. I send Michelle up on the roof with some super glue. Job sorted.

Meeting El Presidento (well his Spooks anyway)

We decide to head off to Lake Como despite the gloomy weather. The need to get out of Stalagluft Italia is too much. The people running it and the guests are nice though and Mama Campsite owner rabbits away to me in Italian clasping my hands as we leave like she’s losing a long lost son. I immediately forget how grotty the campsite was as this is a real person showing me emotion who has a heart and who’s soul is not made by Intel. Sorry Switzerland but despite Grotsville Italia I like Italy. Italy has soul and passion.

It takes two hours to drive 24 miles to Lake Como, much of the time is taken getting stuck in traffic in the Swiss town of Lugano followed by a ten mile stretch of not so wide road which clings to the mountain side and is just big enough for a twenty five foot motorhome until you meet something coming the other way. Then typically as we near our destination we accidently join the Presidential Motorcade at Menaggio on the shores of Lake Como. Only we could pick at random the day to visit a particular town in Northern Italy where at exactly the same time the Italian Republican President Giorgio Napolitano (no I haven’t heard of him either) and the acting German President Christian Wulff are having a meeting.

The Police are everywhere, traffic is being diverted all over and there are (and I kid you not) gun boats all along the lake, military helicopters in the air and then all of a sudden as we pull out of a side road in yet another attempt to get to Camping Europo the presidential motorcade which we have no choice but to join. If I was a terrorist in a big white van I would have foiled the Italian security services as I’m sure we shouldn’t be here. Picture this. A huge black Limo, a line of blacked out security service Mercedes and in the middle a big white motorhome with two rather gormless and frankly concerned and bewildered Brits beaming through the window. The roads are lined with locals waving flags at the motorcade. I smile and sheepishly start to wave until Michelle gives me a stare that says “get us out of here NOW you dimwit”

Our new found fame doesn’t last long and sure enough the big line of blacked out Mercedes pull over on each side of the already narrow road to see us past. Giorgio’s spooks step out and with smiles and directions and automatic weapons guide us through ahead (and away) from their convoy and finally on the right road to the campsite.

The site makes the last one look like a pristine Caravan Club site back home (well how I imagine one as I’ve never stayed on one before) but again its lakeside, cheap and as far as I’m aware the only one here anyway and I’m not about to start looking for somewhere else in case Giorgio’s spooks lose patience and call in an air strike.

Once out on the scooter we can blend in and get around much easier. The presidential visit seems to have left and we enjoy some great boat trips to the neighbouring towns, have a fantastic lunch at the lovely village of Bellagio where apparently George Clooney has a Villa. After running into El Presidento we are almost convinced he will turn up and buy us a beer.

We don’t meet George but instead meet “Benny” the little fat ferry boat controller. I call him Benny as his voice and physique remind me of little Benny in the Top Cat cartoons. There are ferries criss-crossing all over the place and the time table in my opinion is probably harder to understand than Quantum Physics. Clearly it’s not just us that think so as every traveller including the Italians keeps questioning Benny as to which ferry goes where. At one point he is controlling two gang planks onto different boats and a car ferry. Its chaos and Benny is getting irate, his voice goes up an octave and the last straw is when a boat load of mean looking bikers in Hells Angels Regalia pile off the boat on Harley Davidson’s making the ground shake and promptly park all over the car park.

Benny finally blows his lid. He is only four foot seven with his hands in the air but he storms over to the Black Widows, arms waving all over the place and proceeds to vent his spleen to the bikers who are sat around on their bikes looking cool and smoking roll ups. Their cool facade is short lived and as one they quietly and orderly wheel their bikes away to the bike park where Benny is pointing. I laugh so much it hurts. My laughter is curtailed as a wasp decided to land on the back of my neck and sting me.

Lugano and Como are lovely but we think we preferred Maggiore two years ago. The plan is to head that way next and revisit Cannobio which we fell in love with on our first trip. I don’t like to revisit too many places but this one is worth it.The weather apparently is causing landslides along the side of the lake where a tourist bus was completely trapped so fingers crossed. What could possibly go wrong?

It’s Holiday Season in Italy

Oh yes ,the Italians are on holiday. I thought they didn’t arrive in droves until mid to late July but Maggiore is full of them. Cannobio though is made for holidays. The few lidos by the lake get full of people all wanting to top up their tans and cool off in the lake as the mercury hits a balmy thirty two degrees. (That’s 90 Fahrenheit in old money).

Despite the bustle we love this area as it just has a magical atmosphere. Everyone is here for one reason and one reason alone, to have fun. The motorhome only Sosta (motorhome parking area) here is lovely and after having to park in the hippy gumbo shanty town on Lake Como and a swamp at Lugano it is an added bonus.

Michelle for some reason thinks we are entitled to be on the same spot we were on when we were here two years ago. It was the same time of year and we were lucky enough to get the best spot on the site with loads of grassy space around us. I try to point out to her that it’s busy and it’s a Saturday which is the busiest day as many Italian’s will be out for the weekend. “Why would they just come here for the weekend?” she asks, seems a lot of hassle. I laugh but can’t be bothered to explain that Milan is only 70 miles away. Actually she might have a point. 70 miles around here will probably take you two days.

Her face is crestfallen as we pull in to the Sosta and there is a Dutch van in “our” spot. We are forced to park on the opposite side in a row sandwiched between a German and Italian van.The Dutch seem to get everywhere. Every place you go there is always a Dutch van. Is Holland a bit crap I wonder which is why they keep travelling? I didn’t even think there were that many Dutch people in the world anyway.

I bet if you travel to the far ends of the earth to Jakarta or some remote island in the south Pacific, you will just get settled in the peace and quiet under your banana tree and the familiar sound of the chugging diesel engine will be heard shortly followed by the arrival of a Dutch Motorhome. They are very friendly though the Dutch and nearly all of them have done the decent thing and learnt to speak English but woe betides you if you get stuck behind one on a road.They are never in a hurry and I suspect strongly that that they are the reason that everywhere seems to take an age to get to in Italy.

We spend a night on the other side of the Sosta but I can tell Michelle is keeping an eye on the Dutch van opposite on her spot. On Sunday afternoon we just happen to be back at the van when the alarm goes up. Michelle starts jumping about and I suspect she has been stung by a wasp or something. “They are leaving, they are leaving!!” It does indeed appear that they are slowly packing up, so slowly in fact that I suspect we are the only ones alerted to the fact that the Sosta Penthouse suite is about to be vacated. By the time they move we are poised and ready to reverse across and claim our prize.

There can be no messing here. After watching and falling about laughing at the Germans on the Rhine all toying for a river side position and filling any gap that appeared in an instant we know that we may well have stiff competition. There are quite a few German vans here and they will no doubt have observed the imminent departure of our Dutch friends. The Italians will have missed it as they will be too busy waving their arms around, making lots of noise and gathering up their flock of children. Other Dutch vans may have noticed but both they and we know that they will be far too slow to take advantage and the French will be too busy eating or Making Lurve to care.

The Dutch van leaves, my engine starts and the van does a perfectly planned and thought out manoeuvre as we quickly pirouette across the Sosta and straight into “Michelle’s spot”. She is easily pleased my wife (Sometimes) and I think it quite amusing and it brings me great pleasure to watch her spread all our stuff out across the grassy space we now own. She even starts skipping about the place as the far too slow Germans look on envious from the other side where we used to belong. I feel we have won a victory for Britain. For every poor soul who has looked for a sun bed on their package holiday to the Algarve or the Costas only to find Fritz got there the night before and put his towel down this is for you. This is our finest hour! As Michelle dances around our garden I will her to start gesticulating and shouting Looser! Looooooser! At the Germans but I fear once again I would wet myself with laughter.

For the second time in a week I get stung on the neck by a wasp this time as I’m turning right in busy traffic on the scooter. Right in the throat.Clearly Italian wasps do not like me.

Paradise Found!

We have been tipped off by an Italian member on www.motorhomefacts.com of a lesser known smaller lake called Lake Orta only an hour’s drive from Maggiore. “The most beautiful place in Northern Italy!” he claims. Reluctantly we leave Maggiore and the penthouse parking spot and for once the journey is as specified and an hour later we arrive at Orta. Sadly the weather has changed but we have worked something out. It always seems to rain on a Wednesday which coincidentally always seems to be the day we travel to somewhere new.

Not only is Orta fabulous it boasts a free Sosta (motorhome only parking) near the top of Orta Di Sacre Monte which is a UNESCO World Heritage site of 21 chapels dedicated to the life of St Francis of Assisi. To find somewhere so beautiful, interesting and free to stay in the Italian Lakes in July is indeed a rare treat. As we pull in and park there is one solitary German van on the Sosta.The two elderly owners come out to talk to me. In broken English (which is considerably better than my German where I can only order beer) they start asking me about the weather. They seem thoroughly fed up and for some reason think I may have all the answers. “What is the weather like in Switzerland?” “Well two weeks ago it was thirty degrees and sunny” I say encouragingly but rather pointlessly. “What about tomorrow?”, “Errr, I’m not sure” and then for some reason I say “oh I think it will be good!” “Right then” they say “We are off to François!” and so they pack up and leave. To François presumably.

The weather does indeed improve and once again we are bathed in wonderful warm sunshine.We manage to hike around every one of the 21 chapels and Michelle insists on seeing them in the exact order they were built and also so her photos are in order (flipping Capricorns Eh!).Each one has sculptures in it depicting scenes from Francis of Assist’s life. The views from the top of the Sacre Monte out to the lake are stunning and there is a real sense of history and a true authentic taste of ancient Italy here.

During our hike around the Chapels a wedding takes place. Well I say takes place. What actually happens is the guests spend hours arriving and parking their cars all over the place to the frustration of yet another down trodden and stressed out car park controller. Horns blare and voices are raised. When the groom arrives his procession can be heard in Milan. More horns blare and by the time he steps out of the frankly disappointing and not very macho white convertible Beetle the whole lake knows there is a wedding on. Then the fighting starts. As we continue to Chapel number 18 on the homeward stretch I hear further shouting and the word Bastardo! Is mentioned a lot. It seems the poor car park controller has run out of places to put the guest’s cars and it’s a good job we are not leaving as somewhere at the back of it all is our van.

Finally we finish the trek (sorry visit) at Chapel 21 and sit on the church wall to watch the rest of the guests and hopefully at some point the bride arrive. Instead the fight starts again as the car park controller comes back over to consult with the Italian chaps who were so upset with him earlier. It all kicks off but now that we can actually witness the action rather than just hear it, it all seems so much less menacing. Arms wave and insults are hurled but there is no real threat of it breaking out into violence. It’s funny and I want to laugh but fear it might not be a good idea.Perhaps this is the Italian way. Blow up at every opportunity and let it all out. It just seems accepted and everyone else just walks past laughing and enjoying the day. We never get to see the bride though.

On our return to the van it seems a school trip has arrived although where they have parked I have no idea. We are thankful that they start their tour of the chapels just as we finish ours. An hour or so later however they descend upon the grassy play area just above us for their lunch. Those of you who have witnessed a space shuttle launch or a volcano erupt or perhaps have been close to a 747 with its engines on full chat will perhaps think you have heard the loudest noises on earth.I can assure you that none of these come close to the racket fifty Italian ten year olds can make.Even the ever present bells and tooting of the now leaving wedding party are drowned out completely by the little darlings. Italy is lovely but quiet it is not.

Orta San Giulio which is the lake side village under the Sacre Monte is stunning and very old.Its touristy but without being tatty. Little boats ferry people to the lovely picture postcard island in the middle of the lake (I have my own plans for getting there) and people mill around eating or strolling in what perhaps really is “The most beautiful place in Northern Italy!”

The bike gets a good outing and we clock up 50 miles in an afternoon going right around the lake which includes an excursion to the top of the mountain on the opposite side up to a church high up on a granite outcrop overlooking the lake. The road up scares the pants off Michelle but I of course have gone into Isle of Man TT mode and am having the time of my life on the hair pin bends to the top.

I decide it’s time to get Yellow Belly out and get some serious exercise as well as see the lake. It’s a two stage exercise as I have to get Michelle, boat, pump, oars and all our stuff down off the Sacre Monte (which is very steep) and to the beach which involves dropping Michelle off on the scooter first then coming back with the whole lot strapped onto the bike which attracts much interest from the other motorhomers on the Sosta.

I manage to get both boat and wife in the water without incident and it is well worth the effort. We spend most of the day rowing around the lake.We manage to visit the Island under our own steam and dock at a private villa which isn’t being used (well it looked shut up to me) and use their steps and jetty for some swimming to cool off. I cover miles in the little yellow Dinghy and it’s fabulous. For ages we just lay there in the middle of the lake looking at the mountains and the island, enjoying the peace and the perfect beauty that is Lake Orta. It really is Paradise.

Nothing great lasts forever!

On a touring holiday you are often in a quandary, especially when you find somewhere as idyllic as Lake Orta. Should we stay here forever or see what’s around the next corner. Inevitably you want to see what’s around the next corner and really that’s what it’s all about. As we reluctantly leave the Italian Lakes we spend a couple of days being disappointed by what we find and the fact that the weather all over Europe seems to have thrown the towel in and it’s like a wet weekend in Keswick again. We spend hours driving on toll free roads in Italy which again is a quandary. Do you pick a place, pay for the motorway and drive there as fast as possible or do you meander on the normal roads and see a bit of Italy. We nearly always choose the later but this time it’s dull, slow and the weather is not great.

Eventually we end up in the Aosta Valley which is back in the Alps and runs for about 70 miles all the way up to Mont Blanc and the Italian border with France. It is stunning and the sun has started to shine as we find a lovely little Sosta in the small town of Hone. The little town has provided lovely spaced out hard standing pitches overlooking a fast flowing river, each one with its own water tap and electric hook up for once so we can use the big telly and all for 8 euros a night which you have to pay for at the local bar.

Hone is a bit of a one horse town and certainly not touristy and as I wander into the little bar to the great interest and surprise of the handful of locals that are gathered there I start to wonder if we are the first paying guests (well the first that actually bothered to pay). Two of the locals speak English and immediately want to talk to me. It’s like twenty questions. “Where are you from?Where are you going? Are you alone? Where is your wife? How long are you here for? Where does the motorcycle go? Do you have any tips for the 4:20 at Chepstow? Etc etc etc.

Now normally this would have been my cue to grab a bar stool, a large beer and with elbow on the bar and pint in hand settle into an hour or three of telling stories of our adventures but this being the new me and having made promises to myself, Michelle and my Aunty Shirley back home I answer the questions as politely as possible purchase a mouldy looking Croissant and a bottle of Lemonade and leave!

The next day it just rains and rains and rains, the river swells and roars down the valley and there is nothing we can do but read and watch the flipping Walton’s again which is a shame as we have the big telly but it’s the only channel that seems to work in this weather, well that and Sky news and some movie channel that plays low budget B movies all day.

The following day it’s sunny again but looking at the weather forecast it’s the only sunny day we are likely to get all week. We head up the valley all the way up to the mighty Mont Blanc in the hope of doing the cable car trip to the top. When we arrive the cable car station and the huge car park that was to be our stop for the night is one massive building site and sadly the top of the mountain is shrouded in cloud. We take a few pictures, have a walk around the town and promptly leave for France via the Mont Blanc Tunnel.

Aosta Valley