New kid on the block

Above: the North Eastern part of the large stretch of water that contains the city of Venice is part lagoon and part swamp, which makes it a fascinating place to explore ... this is the Lio Piccolo (small beach or hamlet) with its campanile  with a dark sky behind and the sun on our backs. It was also the final destination of the first leg of this travel blog/
​
The Alps were always going to be a major feature of our journey to the periphery of Venice, but first we needed to get there. No need to recall getting from Faringdon to Dover every time we go on one of these trips but the holiday always seems to commence once we're safely ensconced on LeShuttle, whether it be in Campy or our car.

​Having disembarked in France our first stop was planned for a place in Belgium where the cycling infrastructure was a bit of a legend. We had Campy, Campy had a garage that could accommodate at least 3 bicycles. East Belgium had hundreds of kilometres of dedicated cycle routes. One of them, the attractively named RAVeL S45A, intersected with a splendid lakeside campsite on the edge of Bütgenbach on the Eastern edge of the Eastern region of Wallonia.

What could possibly go wrong? Actually nothing. The 3rd picture below shows off the state of the cycle route. Not a track, not a trail but a pukka route, just for cycles, that goes for miles and miles and miles. At one point it passes the town which has many of the facilities not included in the already well-stocked campsite.

Sadly we only had a late afternoon and morning before moving on to our next destination on the Mosel River. Such are the ways of perhaps trying to do too much in two months.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Campy installed in the tunnel train; our coast to coast route #1; Belgian bike route (RAVeL S45A) at Butgenbach with a little early morning frost in April; a view of Malberg having entered Germany; Campy finally at rest on the Mosel; time for a glass of Riesling; and to watch the barges in the sunset,

A brief aside before picking up our main journey again ...

Sometime in the Southern Hemisphere winter ​of 1977 I won a competition with Mercedes Benz to see who could get the furthest distance out of a new diesel car they were launching. The prize was a visit to the Frankfurt Motor Show in September of that year. Coincidentally Mercedes took first and second place in the London to Sydney on the 27th of September at the same time. It had been obvious that this was about to happen and, with the motor show finishing on the 25th, the second half of my trip (to the Merc Stuttgart facility and the local Oktoberfest) had to be postponed until the end of the month.
​
"If we flew you to the UK for a week while we handle the PR could you occupy yourself?" the Head of Daimler Benz PR asked me. What a question?

So I had some free time to spend with an old buddy, Phil Duff, who was living near Frankfurt and some days in the UK revisiting old journo mates scattered around England and Wales. Phil had recently abandoned his job as a photographer at a local regional newspaper in Greater London and was selling Kirby vacuum cleaners in Germany, working his fingers to the bone, but managed to free up some weekend time at the end of that month.

Accompanied by his then girlfriend, we launched his decrepit Opel Rekord diesel from somewhere near Frankfurt towards Koblenz and the confluence of the Mosel and the Rhine. A loop of more than 200 miles (some 5 hours in the car). If we left early and aimed to get back late we'd have maybe 7 hours for sightseeing and drinking wine in various Mosel-side towns. One of these was Bernkastel-Kues.

We were young then.

​Above (l-r, top-bottom, first 4 from 1977, thereafter 2016): the Mosel from the castle; across the river to the town; c'est moi in the castle; Phil Duff and friend. Across the river from another, more recent angle; Shan spots a boutique; there have to be wine shops in the Mosel towns; city space was limited beside the Mosel; love-ly vines on the outskirts; resting the legs with a beer; where next; Bernkastel-Kues has flooded a few times in the past 4 centuries.

Bernkastel-Kues is a fine example of Mosel towns that squeeze onto a narrow ledge of land between the river and the top-notch vineyards that tumble down the steep slopes defining the river's course. 

​During my first visit to the area in 1977, launches of that year's wines in many of the towns lining the river had whetted a nascent appetite. Quite a festival of mostly fine Riesling[1].

Now Shan and I were returning 40 years later and had safely parked Campy beside the river. There was beer and wine to be had and it seemed a short bike ride to the closest tavern. That is, until the heavens opened without much warning, leaving a bedraggled but merry couple to wait out the rain, that stopped as suddenly as it had started, before successfully attempting the return journey.

After a relaxing few days sucking up the ambience on the banks this wonderful river at Erden, which is served by a typically efficient German bus service, we had to move on South ... to Alsace.

To the banks of a tributary of the Rhine, the Ill, which flows past Colmar, a city whose architecture is not dissimilar to the Mosel towns in its charming architecture.

We'd visited Alsace 6 years earlier, on the way back from a birthday party in Piemonte and majored on the smaller towns.​

​Colmar was pretty, with its own charms, but if I had to choose again, I think I'd stick to the smaller towns. Possibly because they seemed more wine centric. Of course the larger city had shopping opportunities that we explored and every place has its photographic attractions.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): a typical shopping street in Colmar; one of my favourites, a woman, her phone and her cat; colourful ice cream and sweet shop; a charcuterie in the tradition of such things.

I suspect we topped up with essential exotic victuals at the charcuterie and carted them off to Campy to resume our journey South-Eastwards with what we thought would be a relaxed, scenic three-hour drive across Switzerland to our next campsite on the Eastern edge of the Brienzersee.

Well we did choose the most scenic route but the last section was far from relaxed. Terrifying might be a more accurate description. We had been beguiled by avoiding Lucerne, wafting through the Unesco biosphere at Entlebuch and the thrill of the penultimate stretch named Panoramastrasse before it emerged, eventually, on to a "sensible" stretch of road at Giswil, leaving us a fairly sensible half-hour drive to our campsite close to Brienz.

When you see something named Panoramastrasse in Switzerland, they do really mean it. OK, it would be fine if you were equipped with Mont Ventoux defying calf muscles and a pushbike with great brakes but if your transport is a 7.2 metre motor home that is 2.3 metres wide and 2.9 metres high ... 

We should have had fair warning when the earlier part of our "short cut" took us through a vast steeply sloping meadow that went on for kilometres. The road surface was in perfect nick and looked idyllic until it became obvious the extensive bits of it were roughly 2.3 metres wide and the passenger in our left-hand-drive vehicle was sitting perched over an abyss looking down over the tops of tall pine trees some distance below.

Eventually we had to descend and that was when we encountered the Panoramastrasse winding its way down to Giswil.

Each bend all but doubles back on itself and the road can accommodate ONLY one vehicle ... with very occasional passing places, seemingly designed for a Renault 2CV ... I'll leave it to your imagination! The passenger doesn't really have a much easier time of it, either, already terrified and having to mop the driver's proverbial brow. Suffice to say that neither of us enjoyed the full benefits of the view.
 
We WERE able to wallow in the spectacular outlook, though, when we had parked our van with vistas of Brienzersee and the mountains in all directions. We were there for three days, which enabled us to relax for a day or so and me to take my bike for a hilly little 40 km trip around the perimeter of the lake via Interlaken..

The rest of the time was spent lolling around on a little beach in the sunshine. A slight peacefulness caveat were certain times of the day when jets were taking off from the local military base. This was fairly annoying but we got over it.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): early evening views over Brienzersee (x2); Shan able to relax with a few rays after our descent; Campy enjoying the view over the lake; mountains and waterfalls above Brienz; someone else relaxing after a bike ride; sun sinking behind one of the many pollarded trees on the Brienz waterfront; after the sun drops, them hobbits emerge; my Long Haul Trucker enjoying the view after a steep kilometre climb up the South side of the lake; lights come on in the early Brienz evening.

Apart from the bike ride, the only real exercise for Shan and me was a 5 km walk along the lakeside from the campsite into Brienz and back. Sadly, it seemed mid-April was a trifle early in the season to enjoy an al fresco supper on the waterside promenade.

E cosí in Italia ...

I suppose Italy was always our ultimate destination for this two-month long trip. Venice without actually visiting that city was our Easternmost extremity. We'd visited the great city and its canals in 2007 and been there for Palm Sunday. We'd flown with Kate to Milan and while she'd gone off with her school to Southern Italy we'd travelled by train to Venice, On our return journey to Milan we had a lot of time to ponder what lay between the two legendary cities while the train was stationary for several hours because of some fault on the railway network.

We promised ourselves we'd return to do justice to the Po Valley and its pocket cities. But work and other commitments intervened and it was a decade later when, now armed with Campy, we were back to complete that commitment. More of that in #2 of this saga coming shortly. In the mean time, in #1, we still have to get to the North Eastern part of the lagoon that has Venice at its centre ...

Left: Campy's new spot 3.5 hours down the road from our Swiss temporary home.

​We were moving inexorably toward the Adriatic, and were now perched on the banks of the River Mera. This river is slightly weird in that it flows from the Alps into Lago di Mezzola and then out again before joining Lago di Como, Italy's third largest.  Our new temporary home was between the two lakes near Sorico.

We spent a few relaxing days exploring this lesser-known area of Northern Italy and made good use of our bicycles to get a feeling of the place.

Being a lesser known area, and because I'm writing this 10 years after the fact, my capabilities of identifying a few of our landmarks are shrouded in the mists of various illnesses and just general ignorance around the more esoteric extremes of the internet. So I'll stick some pictures below of highlights of a bike ride along the banks of the Mera and the upper reaches of Lake Como and be amazed if one of my friends demonstrates finer knowledge than I am able to ...

Our trip beyond Sorico will take Campy into some of the scarier territory for two lovebirds of (then 35 years of harmony) and any voluntary information around the gaps I have missed will be gratefully received in the blog comment section provided..

Above (top-bottom, l-r): view from La Punta on the left bank of the Mera across the top of Lake Como; La Punta beach looking across to Sorico; Shan on the deluxe bike highway along the right bank of the Mera; looking back along the coast with the old and the new - spot the grand old lakeside villa in the lower right hand corner; the same villa from close, showing off its view; a very splendid church complex (names on a postcard {comment} if you recognise it); a glorious bike ride deserved a gorgeous risotto lunch with a glorious view of the lake.

​We left Lake Como and headed almost due East. Except there was no road due East so we scooted along a pretty dreary valley going ENE wishing we could wander over the impenetrable snow-capped mountains to the South of us, suddenly swinging due South where the Fiume Sarca gathered its strength en route to Lake Garda. We parted company with the river at Sarche to climb the next escarpment to Vason and our next overnight stop in the carpark of the Monte Bondone Snowpark overlooking the spectacular view of the Pasubio Massif.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): stopped for the night in a Parco Naturale between Sorico and Vason; mountains everywhere with the high Alps in the background; brave cyclists approaching the zenith; Vason achieved.

I don't really take photos to sell them but I occasionally stick one on the Adobe marketplace with very little payback. I suppose that if I have one that has earned more than others, it was taken from said car park.

Above (top-bottom): Campy nestles in the car park overlooking the Monte Bondone Snowpark (what snow? ed) with what appears to be the Pasubio Massif and the 2,230m Cima Palon somewhere in there; this pic earned me a few bob.

​Are the Dolomites officially part of the Alps[2]? It can be quite confusing and we were about to enter the former and possibly remain in the latter on our trek down to "not Venice". Our first "obstacle", one of great beauty, lay in the way.

With (there is some debate about the exact number) 29 hairpin bends to get to the top of the pass, it is a feat however the count is conducted. Our total was greater than that but we probably included a few corners that would challenge our 7.2m Campy and might have been loose change for a nippy Alfa.

As you can see below, we made it and and continued down the other side, stopping just short of Cortina where there was allegedly a camper van parking site ...

Above (top-bottom, l-r): we made it; so did some other bloke. years ago; Shan and Campy resting; the descent wasn't much less daunting as you can see from the Dolomites disappearing into the background.

There was a bit of a story about the bicycle, now being used, inter alia, as a wind vane. Apparently this bloke cycled to the top (2236m/7336ft) whereupon he cast his steed to the ground and vowed never to get on another bike ever again. The machine was rescued by the local restaurant and converted to its current glorious state (in 2016). How our bloke completed the rest of his journey remained a mystery to us. Nowadays the Passo Giau is frequently included in the annual Giro d'Italia.

​Back to our camping site for the night, it appeared to be part of a small aerodrome just to the west of Cortina but there was no human activity to be found, just some deserted building and a long straight piece of tarmac that appeared to be a runway. It was late and we decided to chance it. As it turned out our decision seemed safe when we woke early the next morning to the splendour of the Dolomites.

There was a sweaty moment when a helicopter arrived at the far end of the runway and we thought we'd be in trouble but they ignored us even though we had to pass close by to exit the "park". Viva Italia!

Above (l-r): Campy on its chocks on the runway; I can't help feeling this imposing Dolomite on the outskirts of Cortina must have a name (comments welcome).

​We had a brief tour of Cortina but couldn't really see anything that tempted us to find parking for a 7.2m camper to explore it further. We were also keen to head almost due South for three hours to the coast and discover what the Lido di Jesolo had to offer.

We only spent a couple of nights there and weren't that interested in what the Lido beaches had to offer us to be honest but.we did want to explore the North Western end of the Venice lagoon, an endeavour turned out to be a little more eventful than we had bargained for. Before we even started, Shan was looking at the Herculean effort of a 42 km bike ride taking in the entrance to the Venice Lagoon and the a side journey into the marshy midst of the "lagoon" North of Murano (renowned for its glass) and even Burano (famous for rhyming with Murano[3] and also its colourful house and lace production). 

All went well on our outward journey to check out Venice in the distance and on the picturesque ride out to Lio Piccolo, incorporating a scenic loop teeming with bird life, including flamingos, a bird we'll never tire of looking at.

The waterside path was sound all the way around to the much photographed Casa Rossa.

At some point in our journey we'd escaped a complete downpour by ducking into a stranger's shed in the middle of nowhere. As the path became narrower, neglected and slippery beyond Casa Rossa cycling became a bit tricky.

​I was pedalling in front until I was stopped in my tracks by a stream of expletive invective just as I was about to re-enter the main Lio Piccolo courtyard[4], completing our rural route. The air had turned blue.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Shan looking fresh with hints of Venice behind her across the lagoon; heading out to Lio Piccolo; gorgeous birds abounded in the shallow waters; there were flocks of flamingos but this caught my fancy; the clouds threatened all day but at least one of us remained dry; I'm not sure about this photo; but I am about this one of the much photographed Casa Rossa, in sepia here for a different perspective; the scene of the crime, the path and "canal" approaching Lio Piccolo; smoke break (yes that also carried on working after submersion) from the speed record attempt).

​I spun around and at first there was no Shan in view but the stream of cursing remained in earshot. I reluctantly turned my eyes to the slimy water about two metres below the slippery path and there, flailing around in the water, lay the right half of my beloved who had skidded off the path and plunged into the black/green morass. I ditched my bike and ran back. The scenario wasn't good. I suppose it was a blessing that the water wasn't that deep and only half of Shan was soaked. But her bike was submerged and, perhaps worse, her handlebar bag had been open and had cast its contents into the slimy, silty murky water.

Evidently she had somersaulted going down the bank, and was lying on her side covered in black silt and long strands of green algae. After a renewed &*%$£@ she set about feeling about in the mire for the contents of her handlebar bag. The first item she located was her phone and she threw it up the bank for me to catch. No sooner had I caught it than it started to ring. I didn't answer, more concerned with extracting my wife and the rest of her possessions from the debacle. Miraculously her wallet and vape accoutrements were soon located and I was able to drag first her bike and then herself up the slippery bank.

"Don't you dare put this is your blog and don't even think about taking any photos of me in this state!" 

I dared not ignore these words although the sight of a person with one half relatively pristine and the other black with green tassels and mounted on a similarly clad pushbike was horribly tempting.

​Being essentially a person with a great sense of humour, Shan came to regret this command and is now, ten years on, helping me with the details, and regaling friends with how she broke the land speed record for a Boardman, spurred on by what had become freezing cold, on the return journey to our campsite.

That wasn't the end of it though! She had dreamed of a hot shower on the last record-breaking stretch and immediately took herself off to the shower block to soak herself fully clothed to get all the muck off before a second phase cleansing only to find that the proprietors had neglected to rekindle the hot water system early enough for the first guests of the season (us).

​Coming next ...

Above: the scene from our train window as we sat stationary at the foot of Lake Garda in 2007 for more than an hour en route from Venice to Milan ... we had to return but it took 10 years.

​Epic "Campy" trip from Oxfordshire to Venice and back #2 ... heading back up to Po Valley with its "pocket cities".

[Endnotes]:

1. Excellent summary of current Mosel and Riesling from Jancis Robinson MW: https://www.jancisrobinson.com/learn/wine-regions/germany/mosel​
2. Yes.
3. Bob Mortimer and Vic Reeves a.k.a. Vic and Bob and "Eranu" and "Uvavu".
4. See opening pic in this blog.

Looking back at part of an unreported adventure, out of Italy via the Apennines and the Ligurian Sea before climbing up through Piemonte to Claviere on Italy's border with France in the Western Alps ...

A few things have changed over the past decade but almost all of the culture and historic backdrop remains...

Above: who parked that bloody Ford amongst the aristocracy at the Ristorante La Baia d'Oro?

​We set off from Parma, heading for the Eastern tip of Liguria, taking a pretty spectacular route along the Torrente Enza. The compelling name for the river hinted at the amount of water that charged along its course when snow started melting in the Northern Apennines. It was mostly sand when we were heading West but one could visualise the raging torrent that, for certain parts of the year, would form a formidable tributary of the Po to the North East. The riverside road turned into the mountains, eventually becoming the Via Groppo before popping its head above the foothills at 1000m at the exotically named
Parcheggio Via Sparavella (roughly translates to "Shoot It Road Parking Lot").

And guess what? Seemingly half the Italian aristocracy of Milan was parked in it.

I need to explain. My Dad's first new car ever was an Alfa Romeo Giuletta ti dated somewhere around 1964. He loved that car (so, of course, did I) and went on to have a series of Giulias, culminating somewhere around 1975 when South African tariffs made it uneconomical to sell imported cars in the country. The result was that Alfa ended up building lesser quality cars locally that ended up becoming rust buckets not long after being housed and driven in Durban.

So here are Shelley-ann (Shan) and I confronted by 10 concours ready Alfa Spiders in a Parcheggio in the middle of nowhere in the Apennines. Ranging in age, I suspected from late '50s to early '90s. The restaurant alongside the parcheggio appeared to be being well-patronised and, of course, I was tempted to stick my head in the door with a chirpy, "Eh mate, is that your Alfa outside?"

Or perhaps, "Ehi amico, è la tua Alfa quella là fuori?" 

​The combination of our campervan-ready garb and, perhaps Campy itself, mitigated against such forward frippery and we retired with Alfa-love unrequited.

Cervarazza

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Peace reigns in the foothills of the Apennines outside Parma; Tranquil views from our campsite at Cervarezza (2); I think it's a ground orchid?; strange sights in "permanent" part of the campsite (2); La Lanterna del Fortino Restaurant Pizza? local map in the Carvarezza car park; snow capped peak in 

​We motored on along the short winding journey to Cervarezza nestled in the mountains and valleys that separate the Po Plain from the Ligurian Coast. Our campsite was eclectic to say the least and hopefully the pictures above will give some feeling of that and for our need to pause in the path of Eric Newby and Gino Barthali.

The former headed into this region after escaping in September 1943 from a POW camp in Fontanellato near Parma and travelling in much the same direction as we did. His book, Love and War in the Apennines is a splendid account of his attempts at avoiding recapture in the latter years of  WWII. Also meeting his wife, Wanda.[Eric Newby].
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1938 Tour de France (TdF) winner Bartali spent much of his time during the war years "training" in the Apennines. What he was actually doing was smuggling forged documents in his bike tubes between Florence and Assisi (amongst other destinations) in his efforts to save the lives of hundreds of Jews who were stuck in Fascist held Italy. His fame as a TdF and twice Giro d'Italia winner helped with his alibi when he was charging past Italian and Nazi posts in his competition regalia but he was eventually taken to Villa Triste in Florence where he was questioned and his life was threatened. But, in spite of these threats our hero remained shtum, He also went on the win the 1948 TdF, making him the holder of the biggest gap between victories in the event. He was foiled in the 1949 event by Fausto Coppi, coming second.

Even after the war he never boasted his merits and used to say: "Some medals are made to hang on the soul, not the jacket" My thanks to my friend,Simon Read, always the giver of great prezzies, who gave me Road to Valour[Gino Barthali], a most engaging book.

There remained a substantial amount of Apennine to traverse between Carvarezza and our next destination on the west coast. The SS63 snakes through a valley containing the Secchia, another torrent feeding the Po, and then turns its attention to descending between the 2,000 metre heights of the mountains forming a gateway to the coastal plain. All terribly spectacular but also requiring intense concentration when at the wheel of a 7.3 metre "lorry".

​Portovenere

In fact, the twists and turns never really let up and probably even intensified on the last 6 km to our Campy parking spot on the outskirts of Porto Venere. From whence it was another 1.7 km walk via some (steep) steps to the central hub of the town.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): a better class of boat frequents the old port (2); at the tip of Liguria; some posh buildings; and a typical haphazard colourful jumble; edible curtains?; our kind of trattoria; Shan looking content; there always has to be a seagull staring at you unafraid; part of the ramparts of the 15th century Doria Castle; churches and cemeteries crowd the point jutting out into the bottom of the Ligurian Sea; the 12th Century Church of St Peter in all its glory on the edge of the ocean; centuries like this are all over Italy but this was a portion of a particularly splendid one.

What if Portovenere doesn't quite make it into what might be a Sei Terre (suppose it doesn't quite have the same ring as Cinque Terre, anyway)! It is at the very tip of Liguria and only 13 km along the cliff path from Riomaggiore. It also has a castle, spectacular tombs and the Church of St Peter that was built over a pre-existing 5th-century Palaeo-Christian church, which had rectangular plan and semicircular apse - the new part in the pictures above is marked externally by white and black stripes[wikiP].

Together with some authentic places to eat and an alfresco waterfront in the sun in which to misbehave with Aperol. We were quite sad to leave Portovenere but looking forward to visiting our great friends, the Tibones, north of Turin in a few days' time.

Torriglia
​
In between, we had identified several stops of interest along the way. I'm not 100% sure how we chose Torriglia as out first but it turned out to be quite a pretty, small hillside town. It also had a Campy parking area and, evidently, was known in concentric circles as being the UFO capital of Italy, having had numerous "contacts" in the 1970s. We only spent an evening there and didn't witness any out of body experiences, apart from a stream of sewage that ran its course over a corner the concrete campsite.

It turned out that the town owed some of its existence to an aristocratic Genoese[sauce] family named Fieschi ...

Above (l-r, top-bottom): a pretty lane leading out of Torriglia; a slightly spooky Fieschi castle ruin on the outskirts; a Fieschi restaurant/tavern at the top of the incline Torriglia is built on; I doubt the Fieschis did their own washing here but Europe is littered with old central washing facilities such as this one.

​Novi Ligure, Casale Monferrato

This was not a particularly auspicious part of our journey. 

Firstly, going to Novi Ligure was a supposed to be a bit of a homage to Italian cycling and to Fausto Coppi in particular. There was a magnificent Museo del Campionissimi and a Monumento a Fausto Coppi e Constanto Giardengo. 

The museum was closed and the monument was an anticlimax, to say the least, especially as it was set in one of the dullest street in Italy. Maybe this was just sour grapes on my part being more disposed to Gino Barthali as my Italian cycling hero and my feeling that the latter had been deprived of more Tour de France victories (they both won two) by Italians not being welcome in France in 1939 and by the event having not been run in 1940-46. Barthali won in '48 and was second to Coppi in '49.

I suppose the answer would be that Coppi and Giardengo both seem to have been based in Piedmont whereas Barthali was based a mere day's bike ride away[distance] in Tuscany.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): monuments to legends in cycling  in Novi Ligure (2); the outer wall of the Castello del Monferatto as seen from our spot in Campy; the Po looking a bit brown.

I think we'd gone to Casale Monferrato because it seemed an interesting place to cross the Po, the river that had been at the centre of things throughout our adventures in the "pocket cities" of the valley/plain that bears its name. 

Some places just don't really gel when one's travelling. It's probably down to us. Maybe getting tired, insufficiently briefed? Our stopover on the Po was one of these. probably for a multitude of reasons: we hadn't researched, sufficiently, hadn't allowed enough time, had a mini-disaster or two?
​
We managed to find somewhere convenient to dump Campy while we explored the town but, having not done our research, we didn't find much to explore. As often happens in situations like these, they escalate ...

We wandered around and found nothing too enticing so Shan, spotting a hairdresser's decided to have hers cut. I agreed to do some grocery shopping and meet her back at the van. This was in the days before the first thing one did was to reach for one's iPhone. I'd done the shopping and was back "home". She didn't arrive and didn't arrive and I began to panic. As did my dear wife. Maybe she can remember how she eventually worked it out but it transpired that she'd exited the central part of Monferrato in the opposite direction from which we'd entered it. I was so happy to see her I couldn't be angry ... maybe she will give her version in the comments to this blog?

And then I reversed our beloved camper into a lamppost. Smashed a taillight. I was gutted. Self-flagellation reached new heights. 

Shan took control. She does jigsaw puzzles in a fraction of the time normal people do and managed to gather enough pieces and the sticky tape to restore the lens was almost back to its original. All of this in about 15 minutes and I believe only one border-post official and/or police officer, between nether-Piemonte and home in Oxfordshire a few weeks later, noticed.

So much so that we sold our mobile home four years later with sticky tape in evidence for anyone who cared to look!

​Rocca Canavese

The remainder of our journey was relatively uneventful apart from a few stops to see if we could procure a new rear light lens, after all we were circumnavigating Turin, the home of Fiat, the maker of our basic "lorry".

"Mi dispiace, signori, il vostro telaio sarà anche Fiat, ma la casa in alto è una Burstner, prodotta in Germania. I fari posteriori fanno parte della casa!" was a common refrain.

Fair enough. We were deeply happy to arrive at Casa Tibone.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): ​we've arrived, note the cows heading on up the road; two views of the complex (2); the "party barn", host of Fiona's 50th birthday bash that involved an entire weekend of meticulously organised chaos; at our mystery destination in the mountains somewhere near Rocca; a cat warily regards Fed and Shan inspecting the stone roof typical in that area; perhaps a more rustic barn than the one at Casa Tibone; suddenly some cows with bells clanging appeared outside our lunch restaurant; and then trudged past up the hill.

​Please do note the meticulous log stacking outside the house and barn. On one of our visits to Rocca Canavese, Signor Tibone impressed us with his skills as a woodsman; harvesting, drying and stacking. Visits also involved going somewhere different and exciting and I have had to ask Fed where it was that we encountered the second herd of cows and their bells 10 years ago. 

Claviere and out of Italy

It was a well-trodden path from Rocca to Claviere on the French border. We were sad to be leaving Italy but imagined there would be many more excursions to follow ...

Coming next

A slow journey home following the Loire with a "short" cut along the Vienne and the confluence of the two.

[Endnotes]:

1. Eric Newby Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_and_War_in_the_Apennines
2. Gino Barthali: Road to Valour by Aili McConnon & Andrew McConnon, Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 2012
3. Mario Bozzone: I knew that all along and of all the people to inadvertently ask the question! I'd known Mario (a.k.a. Boz) for more than 60 years and held have thought before opening my gob.
4. Portovenere Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Porto_Venere
5. Torriglia Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torriglia​​
6. Not to be confused with the famous Neapolitan sauce (Genovese).
7. A typical length of one of the longer day's stages in the Giro d'Italia or Tour de France.

Looking back at part of an unreported adventure, skirting around the Venice Lagoon to take in the "pocket" cities up the Po Valley between the Alps and the Apennines and beloved by Shakespeare and others.

A few things have changed over the past decade but most of the culture and historic backdrop remains..

Above; Shan dominates the battlements in Cittadella.

​Our shortest day's journey in Campy on this trip so far took us in a westward arc from Cavallino-Treporti to Camping Serenissima in just under an hour, both being in the wider Metropolitan City of Venice. Set back amongst the trees from the Via Padana and a few steps from a bus stop we were well pleased.

We'd arrived in the area of pocket cities without much of a plan other than to use our bicycles and buses as much as feasible. We'd hoped to do some research locally and it turned out that this worked in our favour. There was a substantial reception building at the site, manned by local people with some knowledge. We were staying for 4 full days and asked the question.

Cittadella

"If there was one place to visit using public transport from here, where would it be?"
"Cittadella!" was the response, followed by some justifications, such as it being completely walled.

​We were then advised on how to get there, i.e. on the bus via Padua. The bus stop was almost at the gate to the campsite. Having to change at Padua turned out to be a good thing on the way back because we could be there by mid-afternoon. The bus back from Padua to Serenissima would be just less than an hour giving us 4-5 hours to explore the home of The Taming of the Shrew and some shenanigans involving Dante Alighieri and Giotto more than 700 years previously (C1303-06).

​The first bus arrived promptly at 7am and after a short stop at the Padova (Padua) Autostazione we were on our way to Cittadella. What a marvellous way to view the countryside and arrive fresh at one's destination, in our case before 9 am.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Madame strides out from Camping Serenissima, pre- 07;00, to get the bus; Jose wouldn't have gone there, neither did we!; the space inside the wall is absolutely crammed but there's still room within the wall for spare/redundant chair storage [1]... any bets on whether these would ever be used again?; we've walked the inner parts and now it's time for a relaxed lunch in a garden outside the wall; the town/city, all crammed in - no space inside the wall for anything more; c'est moi, almost ready to complete the walk around the fortifications; a road runs through it with typical Italian shops, cafes, bars and restaurants; a rather dainty home just outside the wall and the town's moat. 
​
​Cittadella was founded in the 13th century as a military outpost to defend Padua against neighbouring cities and must be one of the most unspoiled/in tact, medieval "cities[2]" anywhere. So much of its outer perimeter remains in tact and the small section that has had to be "restored" means that the trip is worth it on its own. It is also remarkable to view the town from above with most of the old buildings standing proud.

It was pretty sinful arriving back in Padua at 15:15. For several reasons. Two of them being the lightning stampede around Cittadella itself and the combined bus journeys to and from the walled town. Although it could be argued that we'd seen a lot on our whirlwind visit.

Padua/Padova

The main reason, however, was that we'd completely underestimated the importance of Padua. A city that had been home to Dante and Giotto in the dawn of the 14th Century and was the backdrop for Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew almost three centuries later. 

Suffice to say that Padua could've benefitted from at least 3 nights in the town. Preferably staying in the town but, given our mode of transport, it would've been an acceptable hour's commute by bus from Camping Serenissima. A little time to plan the day on the way in and time for reflection on the homeward journey, perhaps.

We did, however, manage to squeeze in a sniff of the city's evening passeggiata[3], so all was not lost. Perhaps if we'd stayed in the city for the three nights we might've acquired the odd nodding acquaintance.

There is a lot to be drawn from the plaque located in Piazza Antenore, opposite the ancient tomb of Antenor, the mythical founder of Padua, depicted below. I have no idea when the plaque was erected but translating it is a bit of a challenge without the level of punctuation we've become accustomed to.

I'll have to have a go and happily welcome any corrections from readers: "FACTIONS AND REVENGES DREW DANTE HERE IN 1306. GIOTTO HAD A LESS HARSH EXILE". I feel that the plaque in the picture below has more subtleties that my basic Italian fails to comprehend. There is an article[4] that sheds some light but no direct translation. No wonder my fellow lovers of Italy turn their wiles to scholarship.

All contributions from Italian scholars (especially Signor Tibone) gratefully received, either directly or as comments on this blog.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): The plaque on the Palazzo Romanin Jacur mentioned in the main text; a grand medieval building housing an al fresco bar opposite Padua cathedral; typical Italian transport in confines of its ancient cities; the outdoor market is winding down in the Piazza delle Erbe outside the Ragione Palace; but the food market within continues to deliver exotic meats and cheeses (2); sharing a smoke by the Tomb of Antenor; transport and architecture of many shapes and sizes; Shan leading the Padua passeggiata; back side of Basilica St Anthony; return to the Piazza delle Erbe and the Bar Degli Osei for a final drink and snack before getting the bus back to our campsite; we caught sight of Loggia Cornaro while we whizzed past to the bus stop.

​And then we turn to the setting of the Taming of the Shrew and the question as to whether Will ever waggled his dagger in Padua? It seems he might have spent time in Verona (with two gentlemen or perhaps stalking Romeo and/or Juliet) or Venice (with a merchant)? If, like me, one is always drawn off on tangents ... [5]/[14]

An observant reader will notice that just about everything we saw in Padua was from the exterior. The danger of dedicating too little time to each pocket city on our Odyssey. This one was crass in the extreme, having given over the morning to Cittadella. We consoled ourselves with the promise to each other that we'd return ... not going to happen for me now in my condition but I do hope Shan will get a chance some time in the future, perhaps with Kinks (her wonderful sister, Kerry)?
​​
The Brenta Canal

​Legend has it that the construction of Villa Foscari in the mid-16th century started a craze for people who could afford it to build ostentatious villas of their own along the Naviglio (Canal) del Brenta in the general direction of Padova/Padua.

Having been out on our bikes to the edge of the Venice Lagoon, a mere 25 minutes from Camping Serenissima, we stumbled on the first villa in our set at a place creepily-named Malcontenta. We are talking about the Villa Foscari. It turns out to have been designed by Andrea Palladio (more of him later) and legends have it that "Malcontenta" refers to the spouse of one of the Foscaris who was locked up in the house because she allegedly did not live up to her conjugal duty[6].

If that's true, it seems a little harsh that the name Malcontenta has been conferred on the local village, perhaps for the past 5 centuries?

We were intrigued enough to plan our next day around cycling in the opposite direction from our campsite (i.e. West towards Padua) and drool over the villas that inhabited the canal-side. The Foscari and a few others are in the pictures below.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Villa Foscari, also known as La Malcontenta; Villa Moscheni a Mira; Villa Widmann; access to canal from the Villa (perhaps sometimes an alternative to a bus stop); 17th century Villa Valmarana; the local trattoria in central Mira in 2016 (my steed parked outside in this pic).
​
The Villa Foscari, as mentioned above, appears to have been the trend-setting first aristocratic homestead built alongside the Naviglio. The following are a couple of headlines about the place, which is covered more comprehensively in Wikipedia[7]:

• It's a 16th-century patrician villa 

• It is located in Malcontenta, near Mira in the province of Venice, Italy. 
• The villa was designed by the renowned Renaissance architect Andrea Palladio. 
• Constructed in the mid-1550s, it served as a suburban mansion for the Foscari family. 
• It is a UNESCO World Heritage site known for its Roman temple-style facade. 

Sadly the charming traditional trattoria in central Mira appears, in recent Google pics, to have become derelict.

Many of the villas in the Veneto, including some of those along the Brenta canal, were also designed by Palladio. In fact too many to itemise them here before moving on to Signor Andrea's home town in Vicenza that is awash with them. We won't even attempt to catalogue designs attributed to our visionary hero during the intervening four centuries and beyond[8]..

​Vicenza

We had been able to use the excellent bus network to visit Cittadella and Padua but Vicenza was also high on our list for convenience with a car park on the outskirts sporting a free bus into the centre. Campy rested for a couple of nights while we investigated the home of Palladian architecture and enjoyed the pride of the local passengers including the big smiles directing us when to disembark for the "Centro Storico[9]".

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Centro​ Storico - Piazza del Signori - with some bits of Palladian architecture scattered around; it would be incomplete not to include a hallmark of Northern Italy, the vaulted ceiling; covered sidewalks are also a frequently welcome feature with the sudden rain showers; exterior courtyard of the Teatro Olimpico; typical street in Vicenza; not sure why it deserved a statue but the great man did visit Vicenza (maybe just for a day) in August 1887; Palladio, however, had a great influence on the city's and, eventually, the world's architecture; the Loggia Valmarana located within the Giardini Salvi (Salvi Gardens) in Vicenza; medieval Torre del Girone (Tower of the Girone)  Basilica Palladiana beneath darkening skies; close up of the Loggia Valmarana; la Meneghina Vicenza (cafe and restaurant);

What appears to be Vicenza's city centre is a handsome square with a lot of Palladian architecture and, as with many worldwide historical cities, the interesting bits tend to radiate out from there. And so it was that we spent a busy day in the back lanes before returning to one of the Piazza del Signori's arteries, Contra Delle Gazzolle, home of La Meneghina Vicenza. This was one of the finest bars we'd visited in a lifetime of la dolce vita, treating ourselves to the niceties of the places to which we'd travelled - even the downpour that had been threatening failed to dampen our spirits with the sturdy umbrella and welcoming staff.

Mantua/Mantova

Mantua occurs on a bend on the River Mincio on its route from Lake Garda to the River Po[10]. It is on the border of Lombardy and Veneto and, in the 12th century, the elbow was widened into three lakes (Maggiore, Mezzo and Inferiore) to form part of its defence system. A 4th lake, Pajolo, incorporated a swamp and at one stage completed the defence system, but dried up in the 18th century.

In 2016 when Shan and I were there, the city was designated as the "Italian Capital of Culture". In more recent years it has received many accolades for aspects such as gastronomy.

We can only attest to it being an engaging city. We had too little time to enjoy the gastronomy partially because, just about wherever one goes in Italy and orders a drink, it is accompanied by pretty sumptuous snacks gratis. These also often become more sumptuous the longer one lingers to continue drinking.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the campervan park was close to the centre of the city with a great view of a little boat harbour on the edge of  Lago Inferiore; this view spans Piazza delle Erbe[11], featuring the Palazzo della Ragione and its attached Torre dell'Orologio (Clock Tower); the Basilica of Sant'Andrea [12] whose construction, designed by the renowned architect Leon Battista Alberti, began in 1472 and needed many pics to show some of its size and aspects (4); Shan in a doorway in the basilica; forget Giro conquering bikes of the likes of carbon-framed Bianchis, this typified the everyday cycles we came across, across the Po Plain; it seemed that the Lago Mezzo didn't quite provide the defence required for the Castello di San Giorgio the moated castle located in Mantua (2); order a beer and it comes with sumptuous free snacks.

We concluded our day in Mantua with beer, wine and hearty snacks and pondered the sheer mass of the Basilica of Sant'Andrea, which is pictured broken up into sections above. It is a Roman Catholic co-cathedral and minor basilica in Mantua. It is one of the major works of 15th-century Renaissance architecture in Northern Italy and would've taken a couple of days viewing to do it justice on its own.

Over our evening victuals we concluded that we'd probably bitten off more than we could chew for our short perambulation East of Milan. These places are pocket CITIES rather than POCKET cities and each one could have done with at least 2-3 days to get a proper feeling for the area.

Parma

We still had Parma on our agenda and any complacence we might have had about the place was almost definitely biased. We arrived ithere to a fairly sterile campsite out on the ring road. To be frank we had tourist flu. We felt we had to do it so we cycled the 4.6km into the city ...

Maybe another time ... we'd had such a sped-up urban tour so far and really just needed a bit of peace and quiet. Sorry Parma!

Above (l-r): The Parma Baptistery, for example, is considered to be among the most important Medieval monuments[13] in Europe; this image shows a narrow, cobblestone street in Parma, specifically highlighting the area near the Palazzo Dalla Rosa Prati; this photograph depicts a street scene in the historic centre of Parma, featuring the iconic bell tower of the Parma Cathedral. 

Other colourful parts of the city were beguiling but we were pining for the open countryside again. We didn't even consume any Parma Ham or Parmesan, we were that pocket city'd out ...

Coming next

Mountains (not Alps), sea and more mountains (Alps): Epic "Campy" trip from Oxfordshire to Venice and back #3 ...
​
[Endnotes]:

1. Cheeky AI bullshit (along with approximately 50% of attempts at AI searches:-  "This photograph by Mark Harrison capture
   1.  a warehouse filled with a massive quantity of stacked, wooden crates or pallets.
   2. The structure is a rustic, weathered building with distressed orange and white stucco walls.
   3. The large opening reveals rows upon rows of stacked wooden items, likely used for storage or transport.
   4. The scene emphasizes contrast between the decaying architecture and the industrial items within."
2. It is not really a city in population terms
3. Passeggiata is an institution wherever one goes in Italy. In Rome we had learned that restaurants were empty at 19:55 and chock-a-block by 20:05 when the locals sat down from the compulsory evening stroll.
4. One of the more intriguing articles I read on the Dante - Giotto connection can be found at: https://www.palladianroutes.com/post/dante-alighieri-and-his-stay-in-padua. My thanks to palladianroutes.com
5. ​Ibid
6. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Villa_Foscari
7. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_of_Vicenza_and_the_Palladian_Villas_of_the_Veneto
8. OK, if you really want to look at how up to date our Andrea is please refer to Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quinlan_Terry and elsewhere at https://www.lapitec.com/en/projects/ca-gioia-villa.
9. "Centro Storico" = historical centre of a town or city.
10. ​Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mantua 
11. Seems like a common name for vegetable markets in Northern Italy
12. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mantua_Cathedral
13. Parma Baptistery in Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parma_Baptistery.
14. With thanks to: https://www.guildford-shakespeare-company.co.uk/shakespeares-little-known-trip-to-italy/ by Matt Pinches, a man after my own heart.

Above: a (relatively) local Christmas light show celebrates the local labour.

So we packed up our car and headed for the Eurotunnel early in the morning a few days before the 25th. Eight and a bit hours later we arrived in Le Teilleul and put in an emergency call to John. Minutes later his car appeared up the road and we were able to follow him down the final leg to the their house.

Shan had been a trouper, having recently had an operation and still had the staples in her tummy, making long distance car travel not much short of excruciating. 

It was soon apparent that we were in for a series of feasts over the festive days, starting with a Michelin level restaurant at the Auberge de la Source in the nearby village of St Cyr du Bailleul ...

Above l-r, top to bottom: Cath and John; William and Shan, Kate and William. one of the Auberge's confections

The next feast was going to be confected by the family Davis/Wijnberg. In preparation for this we made a sortie to the nearby market town of Saint-Hilaire-du-Harcouët where there was a splendid array necessary ingredients. But first we had to fuel ourselves of sept croque-monsieurs for petit déjeuner. Following that repast I didn't stray very far from the vast array of cheeses in the market and the Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the town's marchand de vin. 

Lade with ingredients from Saint-Hilaire we repaired to Chateau Davis where our festive dinner war being prepared by the entire family. Alex was on starters and Will on mains. I seem to remember Cath and John were also involved; in what was probably a sous rôle. The food was outstanding and was so plentiful we required a country walk to get our bodies moving again.
So off we went in the late afternoon's last vestiges of December rays and were presented with the only evidence that Alex had been present. Camera-shy in extremis, he dodged the lens pretty successfully but couldn't quite get out of the way when I snuck up on him in an upside down position. The weather by that time was freezing so we ended off with a vigorous stroll and Alex and Kate clambering over some rocky outcrops as the sun went down. By this stage Shan was suffering more than somewhat from the staples and we retired with a light show promised for later.
​Above: Will puting the finishing touches
​ on the mains.

Above l-r: Kate and Shan strolling in the gloaming; Kate watching Alex hanging about. 

Our final treat of our stay in Le Teilleul was an after dark visit to Saint-Mars-d'Égrenne where the locals put on a breathtaking Christmas light show.

Above: Fulfilling the promise in the palatial Parador in Hondarribia[1], two-and-a-half years after our nuptials.

The banner above continues to display the love that cemented our decision to spend our lives together. We had had an initial hiccough over an agreement between two Shelley-anns (actually one was Shelley-Anne) to spend a year or two travelling post tertiary education.
 
So I really had to don some kid gloves to do this thing but there were complications. Europe, including Greece, was a bottom line. For me to fulfil my side of the bargain I had a lot to do. Despite being older I was also putting in some post-school studies, having misbehaved during my first attempt a decade earlier. I was also working to make ends meet and was theoretically restricted to three weeks annual leave. I therefore had to persuade my employers to allow me to go without holidays during 1982 and concatenate it with the time allocated to 1983. They weren't keen (it probably wasn't even legal) but I  needed 6 weeks (more actually) to cover our European aspirations.

Eventually a plan emerged involving both 1983 and 1984 in which the 1984 holiday would focus on Greece and be the subject of another blog. 

So the UK, France, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Italy, Andorra and Spain were getting visits from us. A friendly travel agent helped with our itinerary and strategic bookings but left most days free for us to follow our noses.

​Our basic plan was to spend two weeks touring the UK in a hire car after a quick sojourn in the great capital City. London never disappoints but we were on a mission to see as much of Europe as possible.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): London mews as they were in the early 80s; Shan at the Tower of London; Kings Road, Chelsea x2.

We charged around the sites taking in the architecture and places of historic interest but the King's Road grabbed our attention in the early post-punk era. Boutique/cafe combos were pretty alluring then and casual posters for blues, heavy rock and new wave bands that we'd coveted back in Durbs, but were omnipresent in London, were mouthwatering. But we were on a mission ...

Our compass was set for the South West of England to start with. Shan was caught up in Arthurian legend and she had absorbed everything Mary Stewart had to say on the subject, especially the Merlin Trilogy. Then I was (and still remain) a bit sceptical about swords being extracted from rocks and stuff like that but Shan's enthusiasm was contagious. Also, there was evidence of ancient earthworks at Cadbury Castle in Somerset and rumours of Arthur being fathered at Tintagel in Cornwall.

In between Cadbury and Tintagel was another place of immense literary interest, i.e. Lyme Regis, in the writings of, inter alia, Jane Austen (Persuasion) and John Fowles (The French Lieutenant's Woman). Sadly no photograph by Shan nor me of the Cobb has survived so the colourful harbourside houses had to suffice to recall Louisa Musgrove and Sarah Woodruff.

Above l-r, top-bottom: Arthurian quest; Lyme Regis; Dartmoor ponies; railway bridge at Calstock on the Tamar in Cornwall; Calstock street from our hotel; visiting the castle in Tintagel; health and safety a bit less of an issue in the early 80s as you plunge into a ravine to access the main part of the castle; ruins are spread over a wide area of the headland overlooking the Atlantic; tunnel down to the sea; Clovelly's picturesque path down to the seafront; a view of the seafront and launching pad for fishing boats; South African friend Barbi had moved to near Exeter in Devon.
 
​So Somerset, Dorset, Devon and Cornwall were on our map for South West England and our chosen stops took us over Dartmoor, another attraction we wanted to see, with its bleakness in the midst of seas and lush greenery. Turning Eastwards again we were able to visit Clovelly and spend a night with Barbi, an old friend from South Africa, then living near Exeter.

Then we were headed to attend the wedding of another friend from South Africa, Phil Duff, to Ali Allan. Beforehand, we would be spending a couple of nights in Solihull with friends of my parents, Reg and Angela Bedding. We arrived to a warm welcome from Angela, who warned us that Reg was driving down from Yorkshire and didn't speak to anyone until he had read his evening newspaper and downed two G&Ts. After that he would be sociable.

And sociable he was, inquiring about our journey the following day to Shropshire for the wedding. 

Now Shan and I had navigated our way through a significant chunk of England without any hiccoughs ...

"I'll just ring Trevor, he has maps and should be able to give you directions," Reg announced. Trevor was Angela's stepson. I responded that there was no need but Trevor arrived the next morning, anyway, thankfully aware that Reg didn't speak to anyone in the mornings until he'd read his morning paper. We got to the wedding, as the following photographs testify but not before Angela took a photo of Shan's brassiere and my bowtie. Seems the fabric in my wife's posh outfit was less than impervious to the camera's flash that also created massive beehive shadows on the wall behind, necessitating some pretty vicious cropping.

Above (l-r): n early experience of the tranquil lanes of the Cotswolds; off to a wedding in Ryton in Shropshire; groom and bride depart the church on horseback; Menai Bridge over the Menai Strait; Wrynose and Hardknott Passes; lone farmhouse in the Lake District of England; 

Heading North

​"Where are you headed next?" Reg inquired the next morning after downing his paper.
"Inverness," Shan replied, "stopping overnight in the Lake District."
Reg responded with some references to insanity and exited the room to phone Trevor. We suspect that Trevor provided some sound advice and we were soon on our way with instructions as to how to get to the M6.
 
​Angela just grinned. She had a wonderfully wry sense of humour, was an awesome businesswoman and knew when to speak up and when not to. We forgot to mention to Reg that we were taking a detour through Wales up to Anglesey[2].

Above (l-r, top-bottom): if you close your eyes and use your imagination this could be a picture of Ben Nevis; a random shot of Loch Ness; some random Scottish ruins overlook the Loch; lonely farm road just South of Inverness; well-stocked bar in the Richmond Arms hotel in Tomintoul; hello m'deer. 

​In Reg's defence, we had descended upon the UK in what was probably the wettest weather for ever. He was a racehorse owner and unable to race his horses because just about every course in the country was waterlogged.

And so it was as we climbed and descended the Wrynose and Hardknott passes in the Lake District with the roar of every mountain spring adding up to a deafening thunder that became a little scary and, at the same time, a bit exciting.

We had to make an early start the following morning to fulfil our promise to Reg; to cover the more than 300 miles to Inverness. We managed it with a brief pause to say hello to Ben Nevis. Once we reached the North Eastern city and I had double-parked outside a local newsagent Shan rushed in, bought a card and a stamp (after a confusing conversation in what seemed to my wife to be Gaelic but was, in fact, heavily accented English) and quickly posted it back to Solihull.

Heading South

Only then could we set about finding a place to lay our heads for the night. We struck out in a Southerly direction and found more or less what we wanted 50 miles down the road in Tomintoul. Unreliably reputed to be the highest village in the Scottish Highlands at more than 1,100 ft, it sported a couple of hotels and more than its fair share of whisky shops. We chose the Richmond Arms hotel that was offering rooms (bed only) at that stage of the evening for a reasonable rate despite its apparent luxury.

​We managed to grab a sandwich in the well-stocked bar, which was empty as all other residents were in the dining room eating the catch of the day. Evidently someone had caught a decent sized salmon in the River Avon or Spey. Residents fishing from beats provided by the hotel (at some cost) didn't get to keep their catch ... it was shared with other residents who'd paid for dinner in their packages.

I sampled some of the local whisky while Shan sipped whatever white wine they had. The other guests filtered in after their meals and a bit of a party began to develop so an easy night was a bit out of the question despite our intinerary taking in Edinburgh and culminating in York the next day. Another 350 miles. Before we set off I had to buy my Dad a splendid bottle of single malt in one of the local shops!

And then we hit dense fog, slowing us down to a walking pace across the Cairngorms. We eventually emerged into a spectacular valley at Balmoral that followed the River Dee and then followed what must surely have been a glacier millennia previously. We must have found some sustenance during a brief sojourn in Edinburgh otherwise we would surely have starved.

Above: (l-r, top-bottom): views of Edinburgh Castle looking formidable (x2); me on Hadrian's Wall; was this the first time Shan and I had witnessed spectacular rape crops?

I doubt we had more depressing accommodation in the entire six weeks than the B&B we were booked into in York. We doubted the windows had been opened for decades causing a rancid, musty smell. The room was minuscule and a bed with pretensions to being a small double and had those ribbed nylon sheets that were fairly common at the time and set off electric sparks the moment one climbed between them. The landlord and landlady appeared to have grudges against anyone who was not York born and bred.

It was left to the Ouse and the Shambles to raise our spirits a little before hitting the M1 the next day ...

hipAbove (l-r, top-bottom): Ouse River, York; Shambles, York; Magdalen College, Oxford; West Kennet long barrow featuring Shan; our cute lodgings for the night, Henley-on-Thames; Thames at Henley; Eton boy in traditional uniform, Eton; Windsor Castle; deer in Richmond Park.

Believe it or not, I managed to get the little grey Fiesta hire car up to a ton[3] on the M1. Songs had been written about this but, if I remember correctly were more about doing it on a Vincent Black Shadow than in a humble saloon with a similar sized engine.

Anyway, it helped us make it down to Oxford for a bite of lunch so that Shan could be delivered to West Kennet Long Barrow, Avebury, with a smile and allow us some time to get back to our hotel in Henley-on-Thames in time to see a bit of the famous town and its riverside in daylight.

The following day we paid a quick visit to Windsor/Eton and Richmond Park before returning our hire car and catching a train to Dover for the Hovercraft to France.
​
At the time there was a slogan that went something like "It's less bovver on the hover ". That was NOT the case on our inaugural journey to Calais in high seas! There were even screams from the more timid on the "flight" as the craft attacked the waves that the Channel was notorious for. It was a double whammy as the craft was unable to reach anything like its cruising speed and was substantially  delayed reaching the destination. Nonetheless we got there in daylight, caught a train to Paris and set about finding our arranged accommodation on the Île Saint-Louis.

Paris

​But first we had to get there on the Metro. Shan was walking a little ahead of me when she heard a commotion and turned to see me shouting at a cute little girl. The truth of the matter was this child had approached me purporting to show me a picture she had painted. As she pushed it into my abdomen I felt a tiny motion pressing my hip. I jumped back smacking the "painting" out of the way. It had been a ruse to get her hand into my pocket and remove my wallet. She and her small gang disappeared into the metro crowd in a thrice leaving my wife believing I'd taken to accosting children.

We reached the hotel where we had a booking. I pulled out the booking confirmation and greeted the concierge handing the paper over ...

"Non," he retorted. When pressed he refused to be engaged or respond to my admittedly gauche attempts at pidgin French.
"Pas de réservation!" was his only refrain.
There didn't seem to be much point in pursuing the conversation so, making a mental note to chastise the travel agent on our return, we left the building wondering what to do now.

We had been lugging our luggage for some time by then and I ended up carrying both lots up what I half remember to be the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. How we had established there was accommodation up there and what it was like I can't remember. It was any port in a storm. A fair way up the rue we found our destination and, phew, we had somewhere to lay our weary heads, but ... everything you heard about Paris in the early 80s was turning out to be true.

Above (l-r): Montmartre with pictures for sale; Au Lapin Agile where food and cabaret meet, famed for it's 19th century rogues but sadly closed for refurbishment when we were there; discrete view of the Eiffel Tower; rowing the bride across the lake in the Bois de Boulogne; impromptu musicians in the Quartier Pigalle; Shan lighting up the Seine.

Our hotel was high-rise for that part of Paris and we had been allocated a room on the sixth floor. There were no lifts and the lights were controlled by that type of switch prevalent in France at the time ... i.e. spring loaded so that, unless you were really quick, the lights would go out between landings. If I'd thought the luggage was heavy while striding up the Rue Cardinal Lemoine, it had now become a challenge for a weightlifter.

No sooner had we reached the room and Shan decided she needed a shower. En suite was a bit beyond our budget in those days and we didn't know where the shower was. My beloved went down to the ground floor again and was given a key to a bathroom on the 7th floor. The facilities had no towels so another trip down to reception ensued. I think they apologised, saying there should have been towels in our room. Equipped now with towel, Shan made a further assault on the staircase, gained entrance to a large room with shower but which was unable to be locked from the inside. She took her speediest shower ever and we eventually launched ourselves into the Latin Quarter where we were able to eat VERY tasty food for almost nothing.

Having had an extraordinarily tiring day we retired to our bed fairly late only to be awoken by jackhammers in the Rue down below ...

Actually it didn't get any worse and we explored the obvious places in the pictures above and even got to go to the Moulin Rouge where our faith was completely restored.

We couldn't afford the posh tickets but we had been equipped (by my Mum I seem to remember) with information about sitting at the bar. For a much smaller sum we were able to sit behind the balustrade in a slightly raised bar area at the rear of the theatre. The ​gérant de bar was most solicitous, even treating Shan's now pretty grubby cream jacket with the same reverence he would have used on a fur coat.

We then had two glasses of champagne each which our host was determined we'd spread over our evening and brought the first immediately and the second at half time. Posh snacks were included. Not all French people were rude, after all, and Shan left at the end of the evening feeling like a celebrity.

Heading for Southern Europe

But first we had to go a little North to pick up our hire car, another Fiesta, for the month ahead. We caught the train to Luxembourg and checked into another fairly grim hotel with a fairly sinister proprietor who sat in the reception/lounge with a friend or two, making remarks in German that we couldn't understand but were pretty confident were not polite.

We got out of there as soon as we could the next morning, picked up our car, visited a supermarket as Luxembourg's duty arrangements allowed everything to be significantly cheaper than elsewhere in Europe. We bought a case of litres of Coke and some bread rolls and a block of butter.

​We set off for Lucerne, a distance of 500 km, which was about the same as the 300+ miles we'd been used to while whizzing around the UK. We stopped along the route for a picnic and found that the Coke was already warm and the butter was almost runny. We had failed to engage in what my Dad often referred to as the 7 Ps: Proper Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Another day in the car with the heating on and the butter had become a splurge on the carpet.

We spent the night in a big airy Swiss hotel in Lucerne that had a capacious dining hall which, at breakfast, was stacked with everything one could imagine from a continental breakfast. The serving tables were groaning with pastries, every fruit you could imagine, different Swiss cheeses, yogurts galore and beverages including tea, coffee and fruit juices. B&B was very reasonable for Switzerland and we could eat as much as we liked.

Sated, we relaxed with coffee and gradually became aware of a fracas developing. A staff member was trying to placate a loud American woman at a table halfway across the room. A younger woman was also sitting at the table and was obviously cringing.

​"I want a reg'ella breakfist," the older person shouted. The younger woman, now obviously her daughter, was explaining that the feast on sideboards was a "regular breakfast" in Europe. As were the waiting staff who were politely pointing out that there were even hard-boiled eggs and toast on offer.

"I don't want boiled eggs; I want two fried eggs over easy, grits, hash browns, fried sausages, bacon and waffles with syrup. My daughter wants those too 'cos she's going off backpacking." At no point was there a please or a softening of tone and the daughter was now reduced to tears of embarrassment.

I think at that stage a waiter was suggesting some "American" establishment in Lucerne that might be able provide this and apologising for the fact that this wasn't possible in our hotel. At this point, as we recall, an escalation of hostilities was imminent and felt desperate for the daughter.

​We were driving to Lake Como along the back roads over the Alps to avoid Swiss tolls so left before the denouement, hoping that the daughter's holiday hadn't been completely ruined and that the rude woman took an immediate return flight to wherever in the USA she came from. What we saw of Switzerland was lovely by the way!

Above: Switzerland - Lake Lucerne and Brunnen, Gotthard Pass 1 avec bride and snowball, Gotthard Pass 2 (closing in); Belaggio (Italy) courtesy of a postcard purchased in situ.

​Italia

The journey was lake to lake between two of the grand stretches of water in Europe, Lakes Lucerne and Como. We had accommodation booked in a pensione on the outskirts of Belaggio that turned out to  have a view over Lake Como. It was a time for strolling around and relaxing between bouts of persistent rain that seemed to have followed us from the UK.

Returning from an excursion, our landlady met us in the entrance of our pensione and tried to explain to us that there was a wedding being held in the dining area that evening but that she had made up a table for us in the middle of the wedding party. We were a little nonplussed at the idea of gatecrashing a wedding and I tried to explain this to our hostess and tell her we were happy to eat out. Unfortunately, in the circumstances, my "fluent" Italian came out in Zulu and wouldn't revert to any language a self-respecting Italian would grasp. After trying to reassure us, I think she gave us the name of a restaurant and we freshened up and headed out.
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Our experience at the restaurant was our first encounter with the rip-off Italy that was prevalent at that time[4]. We encountered a cover charge for the first time and then service charge on top of the meal AND cover charge.

Feeling a bit disgruntled we returned to our hotel after coughing up a small fortune and found that the wedding was still in full flight and everyone was dancing. We kinda wished we'd stayed put for the evening at our little table for two. Everyone was so friendly.

Above (l-r): steep rainy street in Belaggio; caduta massi on lakeside road while attempting to get from Belaggio to Florence. 

​Not long after we had set off in our trusty Fiesta from our pensione in Belaggio than, some kilometres down the coastal road of Lago di Lecco (a branch of Lago di Como) we encountered a massive rockfall, almost certainly the result of the continuing wet Winter and Spring and blocking our progress. We weren't going anywhere along that road and had to retrace our steps and track inland via Valbrona. In those days there was no satnav and a flurry of paper maps ensued to work out the significant detour needed.

​Florence

Above: Ponte Vecchio over the river Arno.

Florence had been one of our most desired destinations on our European epic and turned out to be one of our biggest disappointments. The primary reason for going there was to see the Michelangelo artefacts in the original. I have always felt I let Shan down on this occasion! A combination of poor planning and the seedy state of the city in the early 80s contrived to spoil our visit. The place was filthy with litter and it seemed as if there must have been a rubbish strike over that period. A dead kitten thrown into one of the bins outside the entrance to our pensione left a bitter taste on top of the detritus shoved into every nook and hedge. It was a time when Italy in general also contrived to rip tourists off at every turn so that the total bill at every cafe or eating place was also significantly in excess of the menu prices[4]. While sitting at a café in the process of being ripped off for lunch beside the Cathedral of Santa Maria del (Duomo) partially visible above     ​Fiore​ a tour bus pitched up and disgorged one very angry American fellow who punched the side mirror, shattering the glass. He then stormed off pursued by the driver on foot. The latter retreated quickly to his vehicle when his ex passenger turned to face the music.
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The final disappointment was finding, when we attempted to visit the Galleria dell'Accadamia di Firenze, that it was closed on Mondays. We returned early the next day on the rainy morning of our departure, particularly to see the Michelangelo statue of David, and found that there were already huge queues around the block. The lack of prior planning was up to me and I've regretted it ever since. We agreed to leave Florence and head for the French Riviera, our next destination.

Côte d'Azur

We had booked a hotel for a few nights in Nice that would give us access in our little red Fiesta to the stretch of the Côte d'Azur from Monaco to Cannes. Much of our appreciation of this area was what one would expect: access to the Med and its beaches. It was a little chilly in late May for beach bunnies from Durbs but we enjoyed the sightseeing. It was also sunny at last but that didn't prevent my wife from continuing to wear her signature red tank top wherever we went.

Evidently I was a little more enthusiatic in my sightseeing than Shan, who expresses embarrassment to this day of the fact that I walked along the edge of the promenade in Nice hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous topless bathers. White females in Durban would have been arrested immediately for taking such a liberty in our Calvinistic Afrikaner police state. If I remember correctly, topless bathing was one of the few Apartheid freedoms accorded to black females so long as it took place at a beach displaying "Swartes alleenlik[5]" signs. I can attest that topless female bathers on the beaches in Nice and Cannes were also few and far between. Shan retained her red tank top for warmth the entire time we were on the Côte d'Azur and we probably need to introduce a version of "Where's Wally" to see if you can spot her in the crowd shots.

Above (top-bottom, l-r): Nice borrowed from a postcard and toned down a little; The view from our window in the rather pleasant hotel we had for a few nights; the colourful market in Nice; Monaco already had its fair share of super yachts; plebs' free beach in Cannes; toffs' (almost definitely not free) beach in St Jean; Shan surveying the scene in Cap Ferrat.
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​During our short stay on the Riviera we wandered over to Cannes and flitted about the edge of St Jean Cap-Ferrat. The atmosphere in the latter was a tad intimidating with large locked gates preventing access to the amenities enjoyed by the super rich of the day so our experience of the pretty little cape remained confined to the writings of the likes of Somerset Maugham, David Niven, Picasso and Nietzsche. We won't mention the Knights of Malta.

Southern France and a tale of deux ponts

Who hasn't sung the song Sur le Pont d'Avignon at some stage in their lives? We were looking forward to an in situ performance following our ramblings around the beaches of the Côte d'Azur, which, as can be seen from the photo above, were fine for the locals but a tad chilly for those of us from sultry Durban.

We made a brief stop in Saint-Tropez but were not impressed. It seemed to have lost its sparkle in the intervening 8 years since I'd been there before. Maybe it was a bit early in the season and would recover its lustre in a month or so but we didn't have time on our side.

For the first time on our journey we got lost in a city. Avignon seemed to have more one-way streets than most and we went through a number of circuits before finding our accommodation for the night. Remember, no satnav, and paper maps were a little unwieldy in a car.

Not sure how many friends still remember it but in both Shan's and my childhoods the song/ditty Sur le Pont d'Avignon was ubiquitous. From Cape Town to Skarsvåg via Paris and Avignon (obviously). Our plan had been to take an evening's stroll over the Pont Saint-Bénézet (a.k.a. Pont d'Avignon) to the opposite bank of the Rhone. Only, one look from the central "square" above demonstrated that "Sur" in this case meant "on top of" rather than "over" (see pic below). Evidently the authors of the song were suggesting dancing on the remains. The two of us did have a short debate about whether it was supposed to be Sous le Pont d'Avignon, which might have been a lot more clandestine, but we decided that the wine and beer sur le place was fine enough.

​Our next day took us to an arguably complete bridge, i.e. le Pont du Gard

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the pont at Avignon; the charm of the main square in Avignon x3 (see if you can spot Shan in a crowd somewhere); Pont du Gard from down there; Pont du Gard 40 years later in a picture grabbed from Unesco[6]; River Gardon from up there; farewell to a remarkable edifice.
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The Pont du Gard is a Roman aqueduct built in the 1st century AD to carry water as part of a channel from Uzès to Nîmes. It is 160 ft high and when we visited it there was very little restriction, if any, to walking across. Shan, as yet not a mother, was completely unafraid of heights and merrily strolled along the water retaining walls on the edge. I was happy to walk down the middle of the bits where the roof was still in tact (seen in the modern day picture above) but vertigo prevented me straying as close to the edge as my beloved. She wanted to traverse the whole edifice but I drew the line at clambering from the water channel on to a bit of roof, where there was one, all the way across and then having to do it again in reverse. We eventually went half way and back!

Apart from its self-evident grandeur and the bridge being a phenomenal piece of engineering, the channel from Uzés to Nîmes needed to be gravity fed for something like 37 km; another stupendous bit of design and execution from the Romans 2000 years ago.

Spain - Andorra - France - Spain i.e. along the Pyrenees 

Before we could get to Spain, we had to urge our little red Fiesta another 300 km to Cerbére on the Mediterranean coast. The stretch of road from Collioure to Platja Grifeu crosses the border into Spain on one of the most spectacular coastal roads we'd ever seen; where the Pyrénées meet the Mediterranean.

A little way along that road we stopped at Banyuls-sur-Mer for a late afternoon beverage and sat on the waterfront looking at the sea. While we were gazing out at the empty beach and the Med beyond, a young woman strolled out in front of us, casually crouched down also facing the sea, lifted her skirt and proceeded to wee on the sand. After a minute or two she stood up and wandered off. Maybe as naīve young South Africans we were unduly surprised by this.

Above (l-r): a short interlude in Tossa Del Mar; finally some pukka sangria on the waterfront - Shan still wearing her tank top to ward off the cool air. .

We swung inland where it continued to be cloudy and raining. Heading for Andorra we encountered flooded rivers and then a fair bit of snow still lying around in June. Exiting Spain at la Seo Urgel we followed the raging La Valira river to Andorra la Vella where we stayed the night in relative luxury and Shan enjoyed her first paella and remembers it to this day. We were also encouraged to ask the barman for "uno bano bino blanco secco por favor". Miraculously my wife received and enjoyed what she'd asked for even though the sentence doesn't really mean anything in the local language, Catalan, or any other we can come up with. Translated, we'd asked for a whole bath of dry sherry. 

​Our next sleep in a truck stop in France was a whole different affair. Possibly our worst accommodation and we'd already had one or two horrors ...

Above (l-r, top-bottom): massive floods in Northern Spain; also in Andorra x 2; then snow in the bleak mountains; a bit more now entering France; Foix overhanging the L'Ariege river and backed by its castle and church; back into Northern Spain to Olite and its splendid parador backed by the Spanish plains. 

So much so that neither of us can remember where it was. Our mission was to explore the Pyrénées as much as possible and follow the roads least travelled. I recall bypassing Lourdes, so probably somewhere between there and Mifaget we needed fuel and came across a truck stop. We'd had a longish stop in Foix to enjoy the old city and travelled more than 300 km on lesser roads and the sign offering accommodation AND FOOD was appealing. It was probably the cheapest dinner, bed and breakfast we had during our six weeks. There were no ensuite facilities but we'd endured that before, notably in Paris, amongst other places, and we were hungry so repaired to the dining room. It was very basic, long trestle tables with unprinted newspaper and occupied by ... truckers. The food was delicious, though, as was often the way in French artisan facilities. We also ended up sitting with a French couple of our parents' age. They were friendly but spoke no English whatsoever and our French soon ran out after exchanging pleasantries. 

But all was not lost. We were able to draw on the newspaper and managed to establish that he'd been in the French army during WWII and then seconded to Bloemfontein in South Africa for a few years. In recent years ​he'd been employed as a mechanic and it had been impossible to remove the blackened lines from his hardworking hands. Carafes of country wine kept coming and we had a jolly evening scribbling away on our "tablecloth".

Sadly we eventually had to do battle with our sleeping and toilet facilities. Not much sleep was had but we did manage to splash our faces when the loo cupboard became available.

Two days after leaving Spain we reentered at Col du Pourtalet, now more than two thirds of our way through our six-week expedition. Forty years ago (before extensive skiing in the Pyrénées) the border post was a basic hut with officers who were unable to speak a word of English. Probably a little suspicious of two young people pitching up at this remote location, our passports were scrutinised in the finest detail. They seemed particularly bothered by a detail in Shan's passport and the one guy disappeared with it for at least half an hour and eventually returned still baffled.

He pointed to an item in the opened document and gesticulated to Shan to explain this detail. She was able to point at her eyes and emphasise the word "blue". There was great relief on both sides and we resumed our journey across the arid, windswept plain of Sallent de Gállego.

Something like 3 hours later we were happy to arrive in Olite and discover our magnificent parador (picture above). In a period of three days we'd traversed the Pyrénées twice and taken in a significant tract of the Northern plains of Spain (and taken in a fair bit of the rain of May Fair Lady legends).

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the formidable facade of the 10th Century fortress guarding the entrance to the Bidasoa river, now a luxurious Parador; the hotel retains the features of its heritage; Shan and me appreciating the space; Shan sitting in the window showing off the thickness of the walls.

Another day another Parador. After a relatively leisurely drive of around two hours we were parked outside the formidable edifice that was our accommodation in Fuenterrabia/Hondarribia[7] - in those days they were incredible value. The accommodation was sumptuous but the kitchen of the parador was being refitted and we were farmed out to a restaurant on the waterside where Shan had her second paella, this time in appropriate surroundings.

I'm not sure we were aware how vast and sparse, and sometimes featureless, parts of France can be. We set off from Hondaribbia after a latish gosaria[8] and were almost immediately in France at Hendaye and aiming for Oléron. Why Oléron? With zero knowledge of that bit of France it seemed like a fun/romantic idea to visit a French island and this one had a long bridge from the mainland. Our island was approximately 5 hours away via Bordeaux, which we bypassed 3 hours later. It would be safe to say that Oléron was not a high point in our 1983 tour of Europe. It was dingy and stank of oyster beds (in fairness some of the best in the world) and the people were unimpressed by our halting Franglais. We found a bed for the night, grabbed some food and headed off for Bretagne (Brittany).

A long drive with a destination featuring many places of interest including parts of the German WW2 sea "wall" of defences.

​We'd hoped to be able to stop for lunch in some town or village along the way. The "way" we'd chosen was the A83, which bypassed towns. About three hours up the road and Shan was beginning to feel a tad peckish. I tried to reassure her that there'd be somewhere to stop soon but the peckishness was increasing exponentially every 10 minutes.

Eventually we saw signs for Nantes. This was a city of a decent size and I had visions of a cornucopia of French cafes and restaurants. How foolish can one be? Especially as it was a Sunday. Eventually we came to what was probably the city centre and what appeared to be a large food market. The relief was tangible ... until what was rather a large market turned out to be only open for fish on that day. Raw fish. My dear (newish) wife threw a hissy fit. We'd discovered a fundamental difference between us. 

Whereas I could go for hours staving off hunger, Shan would have a chemical reaction. We needed to exit Dodge. We eventually found a small shop alongside the road that sold bread. As far as food went, only bread. A big round loaf with an all but impenetrable crust. Thankfully we did have a rather blunt knife purchased in Luxembourg for picnics that never really happened. Desperation prevailed and Shan's hunger was staved off for a while. We only had another 3-4 hours to travel to our hotel with a splendid sea view in Crozon/Morgat.

And then we were off to the gun emplacements on the Brittany coast.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the monochrome pictures of the emplacements themselves (x3) seemed appropriate as a counter to the emerald sea in the cove below; Morgat beach from our hotel window; Saint-Malo and Grand Bé from Dinard Plage and from St Malo itself. 

After the rather macabre experience of the German WW2 bunkers and gun emplacements we resolved to push the boat out a little and stay in a comfy hotel in St Malo Intra Muros (inner city) after traversing most of Brittany East to West and then West to East.

We ate out at a buzzing little restaurant in the city wall, starting out with bigorneaux (periwinkles) in their shells and in a huge bowl. We'd probably have still been sitting there in the morning had we determined to finish off the bowl with the fiddly process of removing the mollusc with a barbed pin. It was one of the very few times we failed to finish a dish. We were then introduced to coquilles Saint-Jacques like we'd never had before. We'd been used to our cockles being smothered in cheese and served in a large shell but these had a far more subtle sauce and were finished off with breadcrumbs soaked in wine and then toasted into a crisp crust. Exquisite.

Apparently Mademoiselle, our server, was rather attractive and I had welcomed her visits to our table with excessive alacrity. I might debate this but it was too long ago and Madame's memory is better than mine. What is not up for debate is that Madame (having finished her coquilles) stormed off around the very real battlements of the city with yours truly a little way behind, having had to settle l'addition before setting off. It was raining and I was minded of Emily Brontë. It would have been a bedraggled pair that finally kissed and made up.​                     

Above (l-r, top-bottom): approaching Mont Saint-Michel x3; Versailles (x2).

A short journey took us out of Brittany and into Normandy to take a took at Mont Saint-Michel, which is pretty remarkable and does raise questions about its possible relationship with St Michael's Mount in Cornwall, separated by just 200 miles as the crow flies.

The comparison is a little complicated but intriguing. Both appear to have entertained religious activity since the 8th Century. Major construction on the French site took place between the 11th and 15th centuries whereas the major Cornish edifices appear to have been constructed between the 12th and 15th. By the time of the Norman Conquest in 1066, the St Michael's Mount island had come into the possession of the Benedictine abbey of Mont St Michel in Normandy. So, there is quite a parallel path ...

Our last "must do" on mainland Europe was to visit the Palace of Versailles and the Baroque-style Hall of Mirrors and sweeping gardens, after which we had to hotfoot it to central Paris to return our trusty red Fiesta. We hadn't bargained on a death defying stretch on the notorious Peripherique but we managed. We never did manage to clean the molten butter off the footwell carpet. Happily the rental company didn't seem concerned.

The next morning it was the train to Calais to catch the return hover. After the hair-raising outward journey this one was as smooth as a board and took around about half the time. Definitely less bovver on the hover.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Outside Phil and Ali Duff's cottage in Boar's Hill, Oxford; a couple of views of Oxford and its surroundings from the tower of University Church of St Mary the Virgin; Shan's cousin Charles Murland.

​A couple more trains later and we were at Oxford Station where we stayed briefly with the newlyweds from Shropshire, now ensconced in their pretty cottage in Boars Hill. Phil spent a day taking us around the city and its surroundings which started a love affair with Oxfordshire that has persisted for 43 years.

Our last bit of excitement was finally meeting Shan's legendary cousin, Charles Murland. Charles treated us to a splendid lunch near his home in Knightsbridge. She had not met him before and we enthused about returning to see him before too long. And then it was the tube to Heathrow with all our luggage but we were young and strong unlike Charles who died not long afterwards. 

RIP Charles Murland.

Coming Soon:
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The Greek sojourn we'd had to lop off the end of the more Western parts of Europe.