We left home in Ilford at 5pm, and headed out along the A13 towards the Dartford river crossing and Dover.

We stopped at Tesco just outside Dover, and despite having received the latest Harry Potter in the morning from Amazon for our resident 18 yr old, Annie lusted for her own holiday copy which was tantalisingly just inside the entrance. If only we could get our purchases up to £50, we could have the book for a fiver. Do you think we’d manage it?

It needed a couple of pairs of shorts in the sale, and some nice stuff for dinner and meals on Sunday, but we made it, and the book was ours. An additional bonus was that we could get 5p off a litre of diesel, which was useful as we were just about empty. We could have waited until France, but once we’re off the ferry, we prefer to be on our way.

When we got to Marine Parade, there were some motorhomes around, as usual, and we found a spot about half way along.

After dinner and a stroll along the prom, we were approached by a nice couple from a Lunar Roadstar. “Is it alright to stay here overnight? Only we’re a bit concerned about being asked to move on.” Obviously, not members of Motorhomefacts, as I think everyone on the forum knows about Marine Parade.

We were terribly early for the ferry, as we always are, which allowed us to be first on. We parked right behind the doors, ready to be first off at the other side. We had a sort of perfunctory search of the back of the van by customs and then we were off.

The ferry crossing was uneventful, which is to say, pleasant. We ran into our Marine Parade ‘friends’ again, and we chatted for a bit, talking about families and holidays.

We weren’t actually first off the ferry, but I didn’t mind that, because it gave us someone to follow in the notoriously sign-deficient Calais ferry area. We hit the Franch roads at around 11am UK time.

We stopped at an Aire de Service for lunch, we stopped at an Aire de Service for a cup of tea and a half-hour’s kip, and we stopped at an Aire de Service to fill up with diesel. Although we had planned to stop in Reims, Annie suggested that we carry on, so we did. She’d found a Camping Municipale in Metz, and we headed for that (14.50).

We’d encountered a few road works en route, which were no real problem, and there were no hold-ups. About 8km from Metz, we came across some more, but missed the sign which said “If you’re heading for Metz, keep to this nearside lane, because when you get to the next junction, where your satnav is going nuts telling you to get off the motorway, you’re going to be on the other side of the road in a contraflow, and won’t be able to get there.” Which is a pretty big sign.

No problem – Hilda (who is our satnav voice, because we haven’t changed her to a French voice yet) told us to get off at the next junction, just a couple of km away, and she routed us back onto the motorway, coming in the opposite direction for another go.

Got the junction, followed the roads, came off at the right point, and saw the Camping Municipale as we crossed the river, looking for signs. To cut the account of a frustrating 30 minute journey short, we got to the campsite, after being rerouted all around it. We suffered the French system of having signs that showed you the way you should have gone, just after you’ve taken the road you shouldn’t. Hilda was going nuts, ‘cos she had no idea what was going on, so we put her out of her misery.

We got to the campsite at around 7.30pm, and we got the last pitch with a hookup . A quick bit of shuffling, and a rather nice bit of ramp positioning (if I might say so myself), and we were in.

The GPS location of the site is: E 6˚10’19” N 49˚7’34”, and we paid €18 for a 1 night stay with hookup.

The campsite is superb. Lovely position, next to the river, very quiet even though it was busy, and the little bar / café does wine and beer, and some cooked food. The speciality was steak and chips and salad, which was excellent (€12.50), minus the steak for vegetarian Annie. We had two lovely meals, with half a bottle of wine and several beers, all for €27.50.

We passed into Switzerland at Basle, and Annie’s first introduction to this beautiful country was tunnels, roadworks, and the back end of Basle’s industrial district. Not impressive. We invested our €30 in a vignette, to proudly display on the windscreen.

We started to head for a campsite near Lucern, but Annie found a nice one from the Caravan Club book at Altdorf, so we punched on through the gathering gloom and rainclouds around the side of Lake Luzern. It was a shame the weather was so rubbish, because it can be beautiful. The mountains were striking, and it was a shame that we spent so much time in the tunnels, and thereby missing a lot of the stunning views.

We arrived at the campsite in Altdorf, to find the wind howling through the power lines above, making a high-pitched screaming noise. Fortunately, the campsite was full. The very helpful man at reception told us that “all of Switzerland is full”. After a few seconds thought, we decided to ditch Switzerland, and head off to Italy. It was just after 6pm.

The Gotthard tunnel was its usual disgusting self, the lack of proper ventilation causing a smog of exhaust fumes that were clearly visible. However, we were grateful for getting through, as the queues on the other side (travelling north into Switzerland) were horrendous, and stretched for several miles (and even more kilometres).

We admired the scenery some more, but sped on nonetheless. Suddenly, Italy sounded much more pleasant than Switzerland. The TomTom was prodded and cajoled many times, plotting routes to different places, but we decided that Lake Maggiore sounded nice, and we wound our way around the little roads and alongside the lake. The campsite was full. We tried a couple more. They were full too.

At one rather grotty place (any port in a storm), whilst Annie was getting the “full” treatment, I engaged in a strange conversation with a couple of men who were standing by the side of the road. Although we had officially traversed into Italy (past some very bored looking border guards who paid no attention to anything or anyone passing by), our conversation was a truly European mix of English, French, German, and something I didn’t recognise. They suggested we try Verbania, where there were “many, many campings”. Off we drove.

Annie began to phone up the sites from the Caravan Club book trying a lively mixture of French, Italian and English, getting the ‘full’ response each time. One phone call was more successful, and there was one place if we got there in 5 minutes. 20km – 5 minutes? Along a winding, slightly treacherous, lakeside road? No. But we went there anyway, got to the site around half an hour later, drove the shaky half a mile along a very badly-made road, to be told … yes, you guessed it, they were full. It was now 9pm.

We had passed a small car park, with about eight motorhomes parked, which was our fallback position. We headed back in that direction, towards the centre of Verbania, and Annie spotted two motorhomes parked just off the road, down a little lane and right next to the lake. We turned around, and turned around again, and drove onto what was obviously a car park for the restaurant next door, which had closed for the night.

Annie and I aren’t reasoned wild campers. Our nearest form of wild camping is a Caravan Club CL or a Camping and Caravanning Club CS. We prefer to sleep peacefully, with some feeling of security. We had a very quiet night, with some road noise, and a heavy downpour, which had me scurrying for the roof vents. But on the whole, I slept pretty well. Annie took her worrying duties seriously and didn’t sleep at all well, and we were awake and on the road by 7.15am.

We were on the road to Torre del Lago, which is where Puccini’s summer place is, and where they have an annual Puccini summer festival, for which we had tickets.

More tunnels, more high bridges, and more lovely scenery. And a flat tyre.

Yes, the Hornsby penchant for driving on only 3 round tyres struck again. I was actually unaware of it, and would have been for some time had an Italian couple not driven past us, waving their arms frantically.

Actually, this happened twice – the first time, we assumed they were informing us that we should have our dipped headlights on, a rule we were unaware of until this moment. The second time, we were 200m from a service area, so we stopped, and surveyed the wreckage. I tried pumping it up, which was working, but the valve had worked loose, and air escaped every time you moved the valve stem.

After last year’s episode, I now felt more confident of changing the wheel myself, and used the time-honoured method of jumping on the wheel nut spanner to undo the nuts. I changed the wheel while Annie had a lie down to contemplate what might have happened had we not been able to negotiate one of the tight bends on the narrow and winding mountain roads. Actually she had woken with a sore throat and headache this morning and had been having trouble staying upright in the passenger seat so she bravely slept through my heavy breathing and muttered expletives whilst doing the dirty, awkward and hot changeover.

Somewhat gingerly, we started off again, and covered the remaining 30km a little more sedately. We found a campsite, with spaces (arriving there at 3pm probably helped a little), and we parked up. I managed to get Annie to swallow two paracetamol (she hates taking any kind of meds) and she was almost fighting fit in half an hour. We went for a tiny explore and found a bar (across the road) and had a celebratory pizza and I had a couple of beers. Annie managed one small glass of wine and it was back to the van for an official night’s sleep. The pitches are small and the campsite is amazingly crowded, with a good mixture of French, Dutch, Italians and Brits but everyone seems very friendly.

Annie is amazed at Italian drivers. She sits beside me saying, ‘goodness me, look at him’ or words to that effect. She’s a nervous passenger anyway but Italian drivers embody everything she constantly dreads. We left the table and chairs and our ‘this is our pitch’ sign and drove to Lucca. After a few abortive attempts at finding a parking space we found one where the helpful manager gave Annie a map of where motorhomes can park (only two sites in Lucca). I got our bikes off the back and we braved the Italian traffic.

It was only a short ride before we entered the medieval part of the town and rode up onto the old wall which surrounds it. We had a really pleasant ride around, passing many other cyclists, walkers, joggers and roller bladers. We then left our bikes locked to the railings surrounding a statue and strolled through the town half-heartedly looking for shoes for Annie. We didn’t find any that were suitable so had a gelati each and strolled some more. We found a chemist to get throat lozenges for Annie and then it was back to the bikes and off to the van again, speeded on by my sudden realisation that I’d forgotten to switch the fridge over to gas (doh!).

We found that the parking place had a water point and waste disposal so we made use of the facilities after helping a Belgian motorhomer who didn’t have the right connector for his hose. Then it was off to our campsite again where Annie put lunch in the oven before having another lie down assisted by two white tablets.

After lunch, I had a long doze and Annie finished off Harry Potter (he doesn’t die!).

Later in the afternoon, we got the bikes out again, and we cycled along the track just outside the campsite, and followed it to the beach. There was a huge array of regimented beach umbrellas and sun loungers, and the beach was separated into sections, each owned by a concessionaire, and you can hire the loungers and umbrellas, as well as fixed, wooden gazebos, by the day, month or season. This is the seaside as a business.

Here we could see Italian man in his element. Nearly all of the beach visitors we saw had the flowing locks and the bronzed and worked-out bodies that they considered essential. Not that I was jealous – oh no. Not much, anyway.

After walking in the surf for a while, we collected the bikes and cycled up the sea access road towards the town, past pizza restaurant after pizza restaurant, and occasionally an empty space where something used to be. It seemed a strange mixture of wealthy success and sad desolation.

Torre Del Lago wasn’t too far away (about 25 minutes by bike), but then it was a bit of a stretch to the lake. We didn’t think that walking or cycling from our present campsite for the opera and back was a viable idea, so we need to rethink.

The lake was beautiful, and from what we could see of the theatre, it was very impressive. Since it was mid-morning, the area was quiet, and free from sight-seers. After taking a few photographs, we cycled off, to find the orchestra and choir rehearsing for the night’s performance in a huge marquee. It was a beautiful sound, and made us wish we had tickets.

On the way in, we had seen a sign for a campsite, which was only around a mile or so from the theatre. We investigated, and turned round as soon as we found it. The campsite was right next to (like 20 metres from) the main motorway. We decided not to book.

A little further out of town, we followed the signs for another campsite, and we cycled round it. Apart from the regimented green-covered permanent tents and caravans (every one had a military-looking green plastic cover over the whole pitch), the site seemed okay, and had the requisite facilities and shop.

We followed the signs out the back of the campsite, and found a track which looked like the one which went past our campsite, which indeed it was. We had a much more pleasant ride ‘home’, avoiding the cars and lorries of the main road.

Italian driving is a cliché. I’d seen some before, and had experienced a white-knuckle ride as passenger from a factory in Turin to the airport a few years ago. Maybe I had preconceptions about the driving styles, due to the fact that I was going to miss my flight. I didn’t miss the flight.

Driving in Italy takes a bit of getting used to. France, Germany, Switzerland, the Benelux countries – all fine (if you call driving on the wrong side of the road fine). In Italy, the rules of the road get thrown out of the window at the first opportunity after they have passed their tests (they do take driving tests, don’t they?). The only law seems to be – every person for themselves (women and men drive the same way). Right of way? Forget it. Don’t assume that because you’re on the main road, and that person on the side road has painting on the road and signs on sticks to say “STOP” – that they will. If you’re cycling, the vehicles seem to give you a wide berth, but that’s only because they’re going to pull in front of you to turn right as if you weren’t there. Your side of the road is only your side of the road until someone coming the other way wants to use it. And they will.

Pedestrians have right of way everywhere, whether they’re on a zebra crossing or jaywalking in between. They are allowed (seemingly) to stand in the road, talking to their mates, and you have to drive around them.

Driving along the seafront, a car was backing out of a parking space into the road. I stopped, and waited, dutifully. Not so the bloke behind me, who sounded his horn, overtook me, narrowly avoiding the car backing out and a van coming the other way. The car behind him did the same, only without the horn.

Mopeds and scooters are everywhere, and are a law unto themselves. The least said about them, the better.

Annie insisted we go to the bar at lunchtime, so we could get our fix of email and gossip. Annie was very good, and emailed friends and family, and then browsed the Tour de France and Big Brother sites – essential stuff for any traveller. I cruised my email, Facebook and forums, and we sat outside, planning our next few days.

After the requisite post-lunchtime siesta, I cycled off to find the tyre shop, ready for the annual purchase of a new tyre. I met a very friendly man, who checked that he had a Pirelli Citynet (or the newer version thereof) in stock, of the right size, and even gave me a price from the catalogue, without having to resort to the usual computer antics (see last year’s blog). We made a date for the next morning, and I cycled off happily.

I cycled back to the beach, and took many photos of it and the mountains behind, and then it was back to the van.

As Annie’s birthday was approaching, I treated her to a very special Italian
broom (€3.90 – nothing is too expensive for my Annie), and she enjoyed herself sweeping out the van ready for leaving the campsite in the morning. Well, she must have enjoyed it as she didn’t swear – much. We had quiche and salad for dinner and I had a glass or two of Beaune (Annie’s still on lemonade due to her virus) and we chilled and read and watched the family on the next pitch who had pot noodles and coke for dinner – better than the telly.

A cheery chappie fitted the new spare and seemed well chuffed with his 5 euro tip and we found a nearby Lidl and bought a few essentials. We found a campsite only 3km away from the opera venue and were pleased to find that the pitches are twice as large as the last site and the owners twenty times friendlier. E 10˚ 16’ 26” N 43˚ 49’ 16”
It was a bit more expensive at €33 a night. A purchase of a huge peg hanging thingy (apparently deemed much better than the one we had already) from the site shop and a lunch of fruit and yogurt preceded a chill out and a nap for me before cycling into Torre del Lago for a looksee.

If you thought that the French had long lunch breaks, try shopping in Tuscany from 1pm to 4.30pm. We arrived in town at around 3.15, and found everything (apart from the bars and a thriving scooter business) shut. We ambled back and forth a bit, and then headed back to the campsite. I ventured out again a bit later, when the shops deemed to open to buy some fish. Zut alors! (or whatever the Italians say) – the fish shop, for one day only, wasn’t opening in the afternoon. However, I found a nice mini-market, and bought some lovely-looking vegetables. When I got back to camp, we broke out the little gas-powered barbecue Annie had bought me for a present last year, and we had a lovely Hibachi-style barbecue with plenty of bird-feeding as they scurried back and forth. We think we have two gay guys opposite with a cute little dog. Two Italian girls appear as if by magic every time they open their door to play with (torment?) the little scrap of a thing.

We were entertained in the night by some disco / club thing going on somewhere near to the campsite, but it didn’t disturb us too much.

We cycled into town, mooched around the small market, and bought some fish from a fishmonger’s for tonight’s barbecue.

We decided to try the beach out, so we cycled the mile or so, with the sun starting to get very hot. My cheapo sunglasses had broken the day before, so we stopped off at a beach shop to replace them. Where, of course, Annie needed to buy a beach bag. It was a very nice beach bag, and my replacement sunglasses were fine too.

Walking across the sand, our bare feet were starting to burn, softie English people that we are. We found the walkway, which was more suited to our delicate plates. The beach area is beautiful, with clean, soft, white sand, and sun loungers and umbrellas already set out with the names of the hotels that they belonged to written on them.

This is something, being somewhat naive that we are, we didn’t understand. The best of the beach is reserved solely for use by certain hotels. We walked in the cool surf, past “Reserved” sign after “Reserved” sign, and Annie eventually asked a lifeguard, who indicated the next space along the beach, which was crowded, dirty, and thoroughly unpleasant. We thought about it for several seconds, and then turned round. This wasn’t our idea of fun.

Back to the campsite, and maybe a lounge by the pool? Nope. All loungers occupied or reserved with a towel. So it was back to the motorhome.

We had lunch, and a siesta, before trying the pool again when it reopened after lunch at 3.30. We arrived there at 3.32, and everything in the sun was taken. There were free spaces in the shade of the trees, but that wasn’t the point. So it was back to the motorhome. Again.

I took off on an exploratory bike ride through the town. I found a Co-op supermarket that we didn’t know existed, and then I tried to head for the next town. I got up the hill, and found the road was a very busy main road, so I turned back, and then road to the lake by Puccini’s house. It was lovely, and I noticed that they did boat trips around the lake. It was a most serene, pleasant environment, and the view across the lake would make an impressive stitched-together landscape photo. Except I didn’t have my camera with me. Story of my life.

Back at the motorhome, we barbecued the fish and some veggies, although the fish was almost too much trouble. It was lovely, and although the fishmonger had interpreted by ‘finger drawn across the throat’ gesture as “we’d like them headed and gutted please”, there were still some bones and scales on them. I think we’re spoilt by Walton-on-the-Naze cod in batter with chips ‘nd mushy peas.

We spent a pleasant evening discussing motorhomes – what we liked about ours, what we’d want change, what compromises we’d have to make to get the motorhome of our dreams.

We like to immerse ourselves in the culture and society of foreign countries we visit. Not for us the ‘home-from-home’ “Belly Buster Breakfast” of Majorca, or the British enclaves of Southern Spain. I think that with rustic Italy, we’ve found our limit. I think we were the only British people on the site – in the ‘touring’ section, we had a few Italians, a couple of Germans, an Austrian family, and us.

This campsite has a very high number of static or permanent sites, but the whole feeling of that area is of a very poor neighbourhood (or Soweto-on-Sea, as Annie called it). Nearly all of the caravans are very old tourers that have found retirement, and the campsite people have erected green plastic covers over each pitch. The pitch dwellers then seem to erect little sheds, which serve as their kitchens, and the space outside the caravan is their daytime living area. The caravan is used solely for sleeping.

The facilities are geared towards these people – for instance, most of the ladies’ toilets are the old style, ‘squat’ type. The man running the ‘bits and pieces’ shop shuffled around, talking just like an aged Marlon Brando in “The Godfather”. A lady was brushing her teeth, wearing a dress some 20 years too young for her and wedge-heeled sandals, wearing her oversized sunglasses.

We love the art, culture and architecture of Italy. We like pasta, too. But we have to admit, this style of living is not for us. We’re moving on to Garda in a day or so, and we’ll see how that is, but at the moment, we’re looking forward to returning to France.

Most of the day was spent sitting around the motorhome, reading, and people watching. At one point, getting a little anxious about our fresh water situation, we tried to fill the tank without upping sticks and driving to the water point (all of 25 metres away). We had Annie’s new, all-singing, multi-purpose bucket (I know, I know, I just spoil her), and the funnel I’d mimed to Don Corleone earlier in the day, and some roll-flat hose. It was a bit like filling a kettle with a spoon but entertainment comes in all sorts of forms.

The funnel would only go into the filler horizontally, so we cut off a bit of hose, but then it stayed flat – the pressure of water trying to flow through it wasn’t enough to open it up and actually allow the flow. Eventually, we fixed it by using 3 pegs to squash the hose open. By small amounts, and many repeated trials, we got what I estimated was enough water to keep us going to a day.

At around tea time, we cycled up through the town, heading for the Puccini theatre by the lake. On the way, we thought we’d get some cash from the machine. Annie tried her card. “Refer to your bank”. Strange. I tried my card. “Refer to your bank”. Even more strange. We were now a bit worried. The traffic was a busy in the centre of town, so we cycled to the lake, and Annie phoned the bank.

Isn’t modern communication wonderful? After keying in the account numbers, the man greeted her by name. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Are you currently abroad?” the man asked.

“Yes – why, is it a problem?”

“Well, you didn’t tell us you were going out of the country.”

Now, I’m not a ‘nanny state-ist’ – I don’t worry that certain people know almost everything about me, how much I earn, how much tax I pay, where I work. I like the fact that you can renew your vehicle tax online, and it checks that you’ve got insurance for the thing. If you want these conveniences, there are certain liberties that need to be taken.

However, even I draw the line at having to inform your bank when you go abroad. Yes, I understand that they’re doing it for good, security reasons, but it’s a bit too easy for them to stop transactions on an account, rather than phone us up and ask us what’s happening. If Annie hadn’t had the number in her phone memory etc., we could have been in trouble. What if we had no mobile phone, and our cards had been rejected when we were buying a new tyre?

I know, none of these problems would have been insurmountable, but it could have been a huge inconvenience to us. As it was, I had to cycle back from the lake to the town centre, draw some money out, and cycled back.

Anyway, we were very lucky to get a table at a small café, where we bought beer and Presucco, and we had some nice pasta al freddo (cold) which was actually quite pleasant (a bit spoiled by the plastic plates and forks, but it was a festival, after all. Not quite in the Glastonbury mud pit league – there were too many posh frocks around (and some strange male garb too) for it to be similar. A sort of Glastonbury for the middle classes. I felt out of place with my singlet and shorts, but never mind.

The opera was wonderful. The singer who played Madame Butterfly was superb, and the final scene brought Annie to tears (like it always does).

The cycle back to the van wasn’t too fraught, as there were many cyclists on the road, making better progress through the gridlock of cars and coaches.

The journey was fairly uneventful, apart from a bit around Brescia where the TomTom lady had a fit, and refused to talk to us, as well as locking her map so it didn’t know where we were. My guess is that it was all a bit too hot for her, so I stopped in a layby, turned her off for a while so she could get her breath back, and turned her on, whereupon she was as right as rain again.

Garda came upon us quite quickly, and we followed her guidance to take us to the campsite.

The only slight pimple on the bum of this plan was that we were booked in for tomorrow, and we were taking a risk by trying to get in a day early. No luck. The only space available was very small, “only for a tent-a” the lady said. No matter. We’ll try one of the other sites.

It was now around 1.30, very hot, and with some very tight and twisty roads to navigate. We went to another campsite nearby. Full.

The poor engine was getting a bit hot and bothered, and the fan kept coming on as we negotiated some nasty little roads. In the centre of one village, the TomTom lady had us going into the cobbled street centre, and then out again, down a road that had very thick, very nasty stone walls on either side. We passed through with only a couple of centimetres on each side.

At another (unnamed) location, we ended up following the twisty road down to the seafront, where we passed some startled lunchtime café dwellers, brushing one of their fancy umbrellas with our roof as we drove by a metre from their table. Half a metre further away, and our nearside wheels would have been cooling themselves off in the lake. ‘Well done G’, said Annie, yet again.

Just as we’d decided to move away from the lake, to find an inland campsite, we tried one last place, and lo and behold, they had one place left. Annie reckons that if you fib a little and say that you’re staying more than one night they’ll find a place for you. I’m not convinced but it worked this time. Admittedly, it was next to one of the toilet / shower blocks, but motorhome beggars can’t be choosers, and we took it, gratefully.

This campsite is Camping Zocco (sounds like a circus, doesn’t it?), and is at:
E 10˚ 33’ 26” N 45˚ 32’ 21”
It’s a well-tended site, with excellent showers and toilets, pool, bar, restaurant, shop, and probably some other stuff, for €28 a night (including hookup).

We had a well-earned drink at the bar (overlooking the lake), bought a few bits from the campsite shop, verified the opening times of the campsite restaurant, and retired to the van for our siesta.

I was greeted at one point by an English voice, which belonged to the lady of the partnership that were the couriers for the Eurocamp pitches on site. She was very helpful, and gave us all sorts of information about the local area, and the campsite.

We had a nice meal at the restaurant – a primo platte of gnocchi in gorgonzola sauce for Annie, and a simple spaghetti with oil, garlic, herbs and paprika dressing, for me. After Annie tasted my spaghetti, we agreed to swap. What a hero I am.

Main courses were pork fillets for me, and calamari for Annie, which were both delicious.