Today we start our journey home. We have planned a route that will get us back to Buxton in six days, using mainly motorways and aires, avoiding human contact as much as possible. Covid is increasing exponentially everywhere, especially so in France. Even so, though we avoided France to get here, that was more to do with it being an invalid destination so far as our health insurance cover was concerned rather than the prevalence of the virus. Given that Italy was removed as an approved destination last week and Germany could be the next to go, then getting home by the most direct route, through France, seems the best bet, especially as no matter which route we take we are going to have to quarantine for two weeks when we get back.
It has been a strange trip, but given we are in the midst of a resurgent global pandemic it was never going to be anything else. I can't be doing with attempts to rebadge our peculiar existence as a 'new normal'. There is nothing normal about humans attempting to live a socially distanced life. Solitude may be a welcome break when the world becomes 'too much with us', but when enforced, spending weeks and months in isolation is a form of low level torture for most people that soon depresses the spirits and eventually damages mental health.
One thing is certain about travel and part of its charm is its unpredictability. So even though we knew in advance that our trip was going to be odd, it turned out to be odd in a way that we had not forseen. Our planned route was the outcome of a series of compromises. It was obvious that our original idea of driving to Greece through Croatia, Montenegro and Albania was impracticable this year. We booked the ferry to Santander. Brittany Ferries cancelled the sailing when it mothballed some of its fleet. In fact, that seemed like a blessing in disguise as Covid reasserted itself in September in Spain. Italy! we decided, dusting off an old plan to go to Sardinia, then scaling it back to Elba on the basis it was simpler to make a dash back home from there if new travel restrictions were suddenly imposed.
We expected Italy to be quieter than usual. Italians were, Italy wasn't. Mask wearing was the norm outside, certainly on streets if not on beaches, when we arrived. Then as Covid cases began to increase the PM made it mandatory everywhere. It's fair to say that Italians are not the quietest humans on the planet. The more excited they become, usually the louder and more animated they tend to get. You would think that having to wear a mask would result in them speaking louder and gesticulating even more. In fact it resulted in a more subdued social atmosphere. Quiet italians, it's not right!
However, our assumption that Italian campsites would be half empty and quiet proved completely wrong. They were full of Germans. Between mid September and the end of October the regions of Germany, in a well ordered rota, take a two week autumn school break, as do the German Swiss cantons. So on the rare occasion that one of our fellow campers decided to be affable we were greeted by a staccato Morgen! and not a singsong Buongiorno! I suppose the reason why we had not come across Germitaly previously on our trip in October 2014 was that we reached the coast much further south, near the Gargagno, well beyond an easy two day drive from Germany, whereas Tuscany and Veneto provide Bavaria and Baden Württemberg's handiest Mediterranean beaches.
There is something disconcerting about being in a place where visitors outnumber the locals, it becomes even more odd when one foreign nationality predominates, like Germans here, the British on the Costa Blanca or French in the free aires in the eastern Algarve. It's uncomfortable to sense you are part of an invasive swarm. When you are one of a handful of foreigners it's easier to pretend that you are experiencing foreign climes authentically, you might even fall under the misapprehension that you are a welcome guest. Occasionally, in Greece that even may have been true.
I claimed a few posts ago that we were the only Brits abroad. Clearly, that couldn't be the case, but it felt that way, and almost still does. In the forty odd days since we headed off we have seen one Eddie Stobart Stobart truck near Charlesroi heading for Calais as we sped the other way. As we left the campsite near Vernazza a venerable Talbot camper pulled away in front of us with a GB sticker on the back and three young men squeezed into the front with identical hipster beards. A white Ford Transit van with British plates parked next to us in the Modena sosta, but left before we got up, and in Lazlse a British family was having a minor crisis because their six year old was about to wet himself and Italy does not do public toilets (been there!). So we occasionally observed ourfellow countrymen, but never actually met any. Indeed, the only conversation with anyone we have had aside from virtual ones with our kids was with a Dutch couple parked next to us in Castiglione della Pescaia. So, though we may need to self isolate for two weeks when we get home, in reality it won't be that different from the past four, apart from the fact the view from the window won't change.
So we arrived in our final destination in Italy with the sense that although we had been in the country for a month we had not really encountered that many Italians. We felt short changed. What it showed was beyond the country's dramatic landscapes, architecturally rich cities and picture postcard villages it is the place's vivacious social life and engaging, demonstrative people that make it so special. The land and people come together in its cooking, simple, delicious and rooted in place and family tradition. Nervous of crowded places such as cities, markets and indoor restaurants we have missed these pleasure, at least up until the last few days when 'Bella Italia' managed to put in a late appearance.
It isn't the case that the site we are on is lacking German tourists, there are lots, but the place is so big, designed for a mass influx in July and August, that it still feels half empty. Similarly, Peschiera di Garda, a twenty minute stroll down the lakeside promenade is a big enough town in itself to absorb visitors and maintain an Italian pizzazz, especially at the weekend when lots of locals from Verona descend on the on it for a day trip out.
Venetian ramparts
Vibrant streets
Though we have missed a lot of Italy's charms due to Covid restrictions we have made one new discovery - gelato! Because it's a tourist town Peschiera has many gelateria, but we think this one established in 1947 is the best.
We went once a day for four days, working our way through its delights. Little things brighten dark days, a sentiment I think shared by the masked locals who queued dutifully 1.5m apart - a serious business - to share a small pleasure among three generations walking out together, a commonplace civilised ritual you felt blessed to be part of.
We arrived at Garda as a storm raged. It cleared momentarily; we glimpsed the mountains, then they were gone. Ever since a windless autumn mist has descended upon the lake. We lamented the loss of the sublime vista, but an uncanny tranquility haunted the quiet waters which shone, mirror-like, a silky silver blue.
Then at evening, a dusty pink; people gathered to simply stare .
For days it was profoundly peaceful. We didn't do much at all. Caught up with laundry, took a stroll into town, had a gelato, came back, chatted about this and that, walked by the lake some more and felt strengthened by it.
On our final day we stirred ourselves, caught a boat to the nearby village of Lazlse then walked a few kilometres north towards Bardolino.
We got about half way there but decided to return and find somewhere to eat in Lazlse.
We have a rule of thumb - never eat pizza in a place that sells a 'Hawaiian'. The problem we faced was every pizzeria in the place did. Lake Garda is a mass tourism destination, authenticity gets overshadowed by market demand.
In the end we chose well, the pizzas other customers were eating looked good and ours also proved to be, my Romana as luscious and salty as the one I had in Travestere. Still, the place was hedging its bets. German tourists pining for Heimat, could always opt for the Pizza Otto Von Bismarck.
We live in an age of cultural hybridity, perhaps seeking authenticity in itself is a sign of the inauthentic. Perhaps it is time to for me to acknowledge the lure of the post-modern and embrace the delights of the Hawaiian pizza... or maybe not.
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