We managed a bit of a chat, muddling through as best we could with our non-existent German and his no English whatsoever. He's off to Sardinia apparently. We explained we were going to Elba. Now I feel a bit mean about taking the piss out of him in the previous post. However, I was very annoyed that his crass behaviour had almost decapitated my nearest and dearest. Anyway, apologies accepted, time to move on.
Now it's the weekend the site has filled up somewhat. A more eclectic mix, not just grey hairs like us, but cute couples in small VW campers, some with pooches others with toddlers. It's nice to see.
Most are Swiss, I suspect hopping over the Alps into the milder Italian speaking Cantons is a bit of a regular getaway for the northern Swiss. I can see the attraction of the lakeside setting here, but with a soundtrack reminiscent of the M25 on the Friday before Whit Monday, it's not really conducive to creating the romantic ambiance that you might associate with such winsome lacustrine surroundings.
Today we're heading for Italy, a site near Deiva Marina on the Ligurian coast a little to the north of the Cinque Terre. We've stayed here before, emails have been exchanged with both Claudia and Virginia, they are expecting us around 4pm and looking forward to meeting us. After a week of clipped Germanic exchanges a bit of Italian blarney comes as a relief. In fact I'll be glad to exit Switzerland altogether. It's expensive, we've paid over £70 for our two night stay, that's more than double the usual ACSI low season rate.
Last night the place excelled itself and definitely topped the the poll as Europe's most noise polluted campsite. Some monster machine worked on the railway track next to us into the small hours, I suppose the line is so busy essential repairs have to be carried out overnight. The thing sounded like a gigantic high pressure washer, goodness knows what it was for, perhaps Swiss railways feel spotless sleepers and gleaming signal gantries as well as punctuality are critical to maintain their reputation for meticulous efficiency.
Now the only thing that lies between us and the relief of Italy's more random, haphazard culture is the ritual hazing of the Milan 'tangenziale', it's a kind of immersion therapy designed to introduce rooky northerners to the importance of expecting the unexpected. Germanic order, Italian spontaneity, of course both are imperfect generalisations, inaccurate as all stereotypes are, until you try driving on the motorway around Milan at rush hour, when you find out the latter is all true.
Thankfully it was Sunday lunchtime when we reached Milan, the autostrada was relatively benign. Then south towards Genoa across the plains of Lombardy, a heat haze making the road ahead shimmer. Alessandra, Pavia, over the Po, all sandbanks and gravel at this time of year. Suddenly through the mist the steep green hills of Liguria loomed ahead. The motorway twists and turns through narrow valleys, an old road in need of improvement. In fact autostradas across Liguria are like this, we passed a sign that read 'lavori a 102km. The rest of the journey was characterized by constant contraflows and bewildering speed restrictions all of which were treated as opportunities to display advanced chicanery by the locals.
Somewhere south of Genoa we caught sight of the sea. "Yay! The Med!" we exclaimed in unison. Even though it was shimmering grey rather than sparkling blue, it's always a moment to celebrate -that first glimpse.
The road from the autostrada down to Deiva Marina is winding and vertiginous. Accessing it proved unexpectedly tricky. When Gill tried to slide our ticket into the machine at the exit barrier it simply spat it out. At the third attempt we were hailed by a voice from on high at a volume you would usually associate with a Papal blessing booming across St Peter's Square. 'What is your problem?' she demanded, proving at one fell swoop that God is actually a woman and she is omniscient, speaking English to us just because she knew - it was truly a miracle worthy of Pentecost. Of course it might have been the result of number plate recognition, but do we really want to live in a mundane world entirely devoid of the miraculous?
Ms. God soon sorted our ticket glitch. A few minutes later we arrived at the campsite. I had it wrong, it wasn't the one we had stayed in before, that was across the road. No matter, they are both ACSI and the same price. The place is packed, we took the last pitch, agreeing we'd been wise to book ahead. It's full of German and Dutch vans mainly I sensed that we were graced with a somewhat stony welcome; everyone stared, no-one smiled. I don't expect hail- fellow-well-met friendliness, but being affable costs nothing.
We settled in and did a bit of planning - establishing that the world famous gelateria that featured in a Gino d' Campo piece about the Cinque Terre is located in the neaby town of Vernazza, the place also seems to have a well regarded takeaway specialising focaccia with pesto. That's tomorrow's lunch sorted.
The campsite runs an hourly minibus to the local station. You have to book a place on the first three, popular no doubt with people wishing to tick-off all five of the famous villages in one day, or aiming to stride healthily from one to another along the famous hiking trail that connects them. We'll wait for the first ad-hoc minibus at 11.20am. It means we can have a relaxed morning, limiting our aim for the day to eating something inexpensive, but delicious with a stunning view of the sea. In truth, the older I get the more I appreciate the delicious rather than the sublime or the beautiful. Perhaps it's Gill's influence, but these days when I'm in Italy l'd rather spend time lingering over a well cooked pasta Norma than seeking out some Piero della Francesco masterpiece. I've changed, but surely that is a good thing, life is too short to stay the same or have your outlook defined by the out-moded attitudes of some half remembered former self.
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