January 10 2013
Day1
My final day of work with my employer of the previous 23 years was followed by my setting off down to Folkestone to board "LeShuttle" for the continent. Probably not surprisingly, I didn't sleep very well that night because of the obvious trepidation for the journey, but also because I was unable to get comfortable in a strange bed.
My plan wasn't for a max-effort blast, so at least there was no urgency to get up early and cram in as many miles as possible, no, I wanted this to be a relaxed jaunt down South, so had planned for an early afternoon departure. The best-laid plans of mice and men, eh? The first panic prior to leaving was as I thought I'd packed everything, passport, checked tickets, made sure all the gadgets, sat-nav, cameras, 'phones, etc. were charged and working, the route was loaded, all the waypoints set, busy, busy, busy.
Then, late that morning, I go to set up the TomTom in the car and can I find the windscreen mount? I can't have it in my lap for nearly 2,000 miles, so I decide to rush to the big Halfords in Luton to buy one. Which they don't have. The website says they do, but the guy there says they don't. Try Argos; nope, they don't have one either, but they do have a "universal beanbag mount". Pay way too much for genuine TomTom accessory -- £25!! -- and stand there tapping foot waiting for the item to appear from behind the magic doors... Get back to the car, rip open packaging... And... it's no use. Completely different mounting system. So "universal" is a relative term to the stupid bloody makers of TomTom; it's only "universal" if you've got one of their current models. If, like me, your TomTom is nearly 5 years old, it's got a totally different mount! Throw the mount in the back of the car -- no time to go and get a refund, I've got a train to catch and have just used up all my journey buffer time fannying around in shops in Luton...
The usual drag round the M25 and down the M20 -- God, isn't the latter boring?! It's only 50 miles or thereabouts, but it just seems to go on and on. Last time I did this trip it was *slightly* less boring in so far as it was pissing with rain and I was wearing entirely the wrong kit on a motorcycle with next to no weather protection. The word then was not so much boring but "excruciating", the rain seeping through my leathers and running in cold, little rivulets down my legs to pool in my boots. Always good fun. Anyway, this time I was kind of hoping to maybe see a Eurostar or something to see if I could pace it for a bit to liven things up a little, but no. Nothing for the whole 50 miles.
After this uneventful first leg, I arrive at the Channel Tunnel terminus, well, uneventful if you ignore the sat-nav sliding about on the passenger seat and threatening to dive for cover under the glovebox each time we slow down or attempt to hide in the gap between seat and door-pocket every time we go round a roundabout or right-hand bend... I arrive, with about 15 minutes to spare, but running low on petrol. Never mind, I'll fill up in France. Decide to change some sterling into "foreign" so go and find the Bureau De Change and swap the small wadge of twenties my Dad gave me as a going away present for some Monopoly money. Done. A few minutes left. Hungry. Spy Burger King. Grab Whopper with cheese to go and buy a couple of bottles of water from newsagent. Time to leave.
Get to the car, affix camera mount (for filming my epic adventure) and head for the departure area. Aaand... The train's gone. Wtf?! Check time on watch, car clock, 'phone. Yep, I'm right on time. What they failed to make clear is that when they say "be there at least 30 minutes beforehand" they mean be there and be ready to go because that's when the train loads, the departure time is almost irrelevant in that respect. Stupid thing is, I've used this service before and never had a problem. Of course, today, I've lost a good hour through sat-nav mount shenanigans and then feeding my face, so it was entirely my fault. Hey-ho.
Next train is in half an hour, so just wait for that one. Board train, say goodbye to England and away to France. Whilst sat in the car on the train, decide to have a bit of a rubbish round-up. Discover one sat-nav windscreen mount in stowage drawer under passenger seat...
Arrive in France at about 1600 their time and head for nearest petrol station and fill with Super Unleaded -- €1.78 per litre?! Jesus! That made quite a dent in the cash; robbing bloody bastards... My itinerary is such that I have five days to do the trip in which averages out at 350-ish miles per day, discounting the first 100-odd miles getting to Folkestone.
350 miles is, unfortunately, a little short of the car's range on a full tank of juice. When it comes to motorway driving, if I drive as nun-like as possible, I average about 22mpg which means I'll run the car to "0 miles range" on the trip-computer doo-dad at about 330 miles. The warning indicator comes on at near as damn it 35 miles each and every time. From experience, driving "normally", I get about 18mpg which is about 285 miles range to zero, knock 35 miles from that and the effective safe distance for a full tank is 250 miles. Thing is, even though I've heard that the B6 platform A4s have quite considerable "reserve" capacity, in the region of 12 litres, and I've personally run it to zero miles range on two occasions and gotten away with it to the tune of 15 miles before now, I don't want to repeat that in the deepest, darkest depths of France if I can help it. I've got a jerry-can in the boot, but apparently (and probably quite sensibly), it's against the law to scoot about with 5 litres of 98RON in the boot...
I digress. I don't know whether you've driven in France, but their motorways, certainly in the North, are fast and efficient. But boring. I'd divided up the journey into what I felt were manageable chunks, taking into consideration what I know the roads to be like in each area through which I'm travelling. It's not the distance so much as the time over distance that's important, so much more than 5 hours is very draining, even with a couple of half-hour breaks.
As such, the first leg is Calais to Dijon, a distance of almost exactly 350 miles. 350 miles doesn't seem like a big number (mathematicians, shush ;p) -- I have this internal mental yardstick of London to Glasgow being ~400 miles and know that's about all I can do in a day without flogging myself to death, so I'm reckoning on 350 on French motorway as being quite achievable and to take about 5 hours at sensible speeds.
I set off in glorious sunshine and set my sounds up from playlists on my 'phone into the car stereo via a cheapo (10 quid) tape-deck adapter from Argos. I have snacky food -- couple of store-bought sammiches, a big bag of Doritos, a couple of choccy bars, water, a flask of tea and a full tank of expensive French go-juice. Within an hour it's started to rain. Within two hours, it's got dark. Three hours in and it's cold, it's dark, it's raining and surprisingly, there's very little else on the road. This is actually quite dangerous, because there's so little to focus on to keep the mind active and alert. I'm feeling quite noddy. I stop at the next services as I feel my eyelids getting heavy and my attention has started to wander. I set my alarm for 15 minutes and close my eyes. I awaken to my bleeping 'phone and wander into the service station to get one of their industrial-strength coffees. It costs one euro. Bargain. I have another. Whoa! Nelly! Caffeine buzz! I decide that I should probably eat, too as it's a good few hours since BK back in the UK.
Now, another thing that I've learned over the years is never eat at French motorway services. They're just like British motorway services, i.e. expensive and staffed by surly ingrates who probably couldn't say "food hygiene" let alone comprehend it, but germs aside, the food is often a complete lottery due to the language barrier. Steak and chocolate custard sir? Of course. Pork medallions served with a sprinkling of scouring powder? A fine choice. Hedgehog smeared in marmalade served in a broken washing machine? C'est tres bien!
Even stuff as simple as a sandwich can leave you surprised -- I'm not kidding. I had a cheese sandwich once that must have been assembled by Harland & Wolff it was so massive and solid. I could have chocked the wheels of the car with it. So, some weeks hence, I'd polled some of my seasoned-traveller chums and asked what options I had, aside from carting a ton of food from England... Surprisingly, the majority said that I'd just been unlucky and that French m-way services, with the exception of "Autogrill" {shudder}, were actually rather good and were I afforded the luxury of being able to choose a destination to dine at, then I should seek out those branded "L'Arche" as they were really excellent.
So, here I was, stood in an Autogrill facility instead when those words came back to me. I studied the menu and eyed-up the dishes on display to try and match them up (and to figure out as best possible what was in them) before settling on the "plat du jour" (dish of the day). This was "poulet de campagne aux champignons", (country chicken and mushrooms) as I recall. I spied it, it looked ok. At least, it looked cooked. At least, as far as I could ascertain, it didn't also spy me. Then the woman caught me out with the inevitable (and largely unintelligible to my schoolboy-French-trained ear) follow-up question:
Her: "Que voulez-vous?" (What else would you like?)
Me: "Er..."
Her: "{list of unrecognized words rattled off in French}"
Me: "Er...moment...{pause}"
Her: "Vous avez choisi?" (You have made a choice?)
Me: {panics} "Frites".
Her: {looks at me like I have two heads} "Frites?"
Me: "Er, oui".
Her: "Autre chose?" (Anything else?)
Me: "Er, non."
So, that's how I ended up with a plate of casserole and chips... And food-poisoning; more of which later.
The last two hours to Dijon were a lot more tiring than I'd anticipated. I arrived about 2230 and used a combination of Trip Advisor app on my tablet and sat-nav to find a hotel, the Ibis Dijon Arquebuse, next to the railway station. I called Sue and internetted a little before turning in, pooped. It was the middle of the night when I woke feeling decidedly unwell, but managed to keep it together after some water and a bathroom break.
January 11 2013 - Day2
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| View from my room at Hotel Ibis Dijon Arquebuse |
I breakfasted ("continental breakfast" is not proper breakfast...) and packed my stuff back in the car -- if I'd have been just on a vacation, I'd have had less stuff, but as this was all part of my relocation to Malta, the car was pretty damned packed and that meant each night I had three bags worth of junk to cart into the hotel as it wasn't possible to leave everything in the car, at least not safely -- and then it was back out to motorway-land. I got back into my cruising rhythm, but was feeling a bit rough due to having not slept very well, on top of which, I was coming down with something, though I wasn't sure what.
I plodded on -- bit bloody late to think about turning back -- with the weather alternating between grey and drizzly and torrential rain, interspersed with occasional outbreaks of sun, just to lull one into a false sense that the weather was improving. Bloody weather... Anyway, I stopped quite soon after departing Dijon to get petrol and stretch my legs and try to get a decent meal at a "L'Arche". *Bzzzt!* No decent meal for you, sunshine! I had some sort of toasted baguette thing with slivers of cooked "beef" and some sort of weird, herby/cheesy sauce. There was some suggestion on the display behind the counter that it was somehow "New York" style, but I can only ascertain that whoever had dreamt it up had not had a pleasant trip to The Big Apple as this thing was pretty nasty, but I was also pretty hungry having had only my stale croissant and coffee for breakfast. At least the coffee here was ok. I've come to the conclusion that in addition to the well known advertising practice of taking everyday stuff and tarting it up to look better than it actually is, there's also a counter-practice amongst fast-food franchise staff of taking stuff that looks actually quite ok and then making it look unappealing and utterly inedible. If not actually inedible.
My delicious repast a fresh scar to my long-suffering palate, I filled up the car with dead dinosaur again, cheaper this time, away from the holiday-maker trap that is Calais, and this time I wanted to get really stuck into the miles. After another hour of drizzle, it started to snow. A little at first and then more and more and more. I had anticipated this -- I was heading into the Alps in winter after all, and whilst it slowed me down a little (not others, amazingly...), it was the additional concentration required that had the biggest toll on me, mentally at least.
I arrived at the Mont Blanc tunnel in the middle of a blizzard. I had to wait for about fifteen minutes for a slot in the traffic -- they're very particular about how many lorries and cars are in the tunnel at any one time and there are strict rules for speed and separation distances, particularly since the fire in 1999 -- and then in we went;
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| Chamonix - Mont Blanc tunnel portal |
Italy
The motorway from the Italian portal down the mountains to near enough sea-level is a proper switchback-style affair with tunnel after tunnel and bridge after bridge, twisting and turning through the land with occasional glimpses of picture-postcard valleys below and snow-capped mountains above. There's a near enough blanket speed restriction from the tunnel for the first ten miles or so, but nobody seemed to take much notice of it, unlike in France. I stopped again during this descent to fill the car with petrol and me with coffee. Petrol was a little more costly than the other side of the border, but still cheaper than the UK.
The sun was on its way down now and still being in the mountains and heading South, it soon got dark, the scenery casting huge shadows across the valley from West to East. By the time the rice-growing plains of Northern Lombardy were reached, it was properly dark and I still had over two hundred miles to go before I reached my planned destination, Imola. More coffee was sourced and on I went, stopping on the outskirts of Modena, home of the Ferrari factory and finding pizza to eat at a motorway services. You'd expect this to have been the best pizza in existence, being in the birthplace of the damned things, but it was quite the opposite; overdone and with some random cheese that almost certainly wasn't mozzarella on top. Yeuch.
I consumed my meal, bought more bottled water, then quizzed Trip Advisor about somewhere to stay in Imola. I booked this, filled the car's tank again and resumed the trek. I finally arrived in Imola at around 2100, the sat-nav guiding me to the hotel door although failing to tell me that there was a proper underground car-park around the side, thus causing me to lug my gear up about three flights of stone steps (the disabled access was laughable...) and near enough collapse in reception. The night porter spoke reasonable English (thank God!) and soon confirmed my reservation. I was checked-in quickly and then established how to get into the car park. I left my stuff at reception and went to park the car. If I'd known before, I could have saved myself a near coronary!
My room here was quite astonishing; on the top floor, the design was quite modern and as is often the case in Italian hotels, very "designer"; contrasting bright orange with chocolate brown. All the fixtures and fittings looked like they were straight out of some trendy fashion magazine. There was a singular reason for stopping in Imola; the race circuit and the hotel's owners were quite clearly motorcycle racing fans as all the corridors and lobby area were decorated with photos and paintings of past heroes of the sport. I went through my routine of calling Sue on Viber and checking email, my sat-nav, etc. and then settled down for the night.
January 12 2013 -- Day 3
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| View from the balcony of my room at Hotel Donatello, Imola. |
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| Imola circuit entrance |
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| Misano Circuit Marco Simoncelli |
As such, I got only the one pic I was happy with before setting off for my next pitstop, Tavullia, home town to my favourite motorcycle racer of all time, 9-time world champion, Valentino Rossi, "il Dottore".
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| Nuff said :) |
Onwards! Next stop, Potenza, nearly 350 miles away and only notable as far as this trip was concerned because it was there; due to my detour for motor-racing circuits, etc., I was on the North/East side of the country, but where I was needing to get to was in the South/West. Potenza is probably quite an interesting place to visit; a medieval town in the Basilicata region of Southern Italy for which Bridgestone named a brand of tyre that I used to have on my Audi S3 :) However, I was never going to get to see much of it, at least not up close or indeed in daylight.
Now, I'm uncertain as to whether this leg was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak, or simply coincidence, but this 7.5hr leg was a killer; sure, there was motorway for much of it, but a lot of that motorway was in a very poor state of repair and because of this, they'd dug quite a lot of it up to fix it. This very much hampered progress and cost me a good hour from my schedule. I stopped just before Foggia for fuel and a few supplies, but I wasn't feeling that great at all and frankly, the general state of the place with its peeling paint, filthy and broken toilets, dissuaded me from eating there. Consequently, armed only with a treble espresso, a bottle or two of water, a can of Pringles and a couple of bags of Haribo, I set off into the rapidly setting afternoon sun.
Shortly after this (and a brief interlude of playing silly buggers with a guy in an Alfa Romeo), I followed my TomTom's directions to leave the motorway. Had I looked more closely when planning the route, I'd have realised that I now had another 70-ish miles to go, but on regular roads, not motorway. In the dark. In the hills. In the rain. Who arranged this shit?! Accordingly, my time-over-distance calculations went to crap and I found myself on more than a couple of occasions stuck behind lorries on winding roads with no opportunity to overtake -- not funny when solo in a r/h-drive car on a l/h-drive road even in daylight. This totally killed my schedule and I eventually arrived at my hotel at almost 2200. Fortunately, the owner was still about and there wasn't a problem with my late arrival, despite not having called ahead to warn him of this.
Now, I know I said I was heading for Potenza, but as it turned out, I couldn't find anywhere to stay in the town itself, so I ended up in a village not far from it. This may have been a blessing in disguise.
"La Locanda de Buon Formaggio"; a strange hotel this; strange, but in a good way :) It was only a dozen or so rooms, but it adjoined a cheese factory. The owner was a cheese-maker firstly with a sideline as a hotelier. The room was superb; ultra-modern style and very slick. Amazing considering it was only about €45 for the night. However, there was no restaurant in the hotel and my spoken Italian was worse still than my French and the owner's English was about as good as my Italian, so attempting to locate an eatery proved, er, challenging. I established that there was a pizzeria down the road a way, but to be honest, with the previous night's pizza making me feel nauseous at the very thought, I decided to give it a miss and instead dined on Pringles and Haribo that night.
This may also have been a mistake because having consumed a whole tube of paprika-flavoured Pringles and a handful of Haribo Tangfastics, I attempted sleep, only to be revisiting my repast a couple of hours later at about 0200...
January 13 2013 -- Day 4
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| At "La Locanda del Buon Formaggio". Don't like the look of those clouds... |
Accordingly, and now with a proper fever going on as well as needing the bathroom every few minutes, I set off again; destination: Villa San Giovanni and the ferry over to Sicily. This leg was "only" 250 miles, but the first 35 or so would be on the twistier stuff, through the Calabrian hills and down to pick up the Autostrada headed for the ferry port. This wasn't too bad, but almost as soon as I reached the motorway, the heavens opened and a monsoon-like deluge descended. Holy crap! It was the kind of rain that would make one wetter than an otter's pocket in no time at all and all the spray that was coming up from other vehicles made things pretty dicey in places.
Somewhere near Mormanno, things got even more interesting when a heavy fog closed in. Great! All the while it was still drizzling and you couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. Then, more roadworks, including a highly entertaining contra-flow around a series of tunnels. I'd only been driving for about 90 minutes, but the sheer concentration of the task was beating me. I stopped at an Esso service station and parked away from the shop building. As the rain drummed out its rhythm on the body of the car, I read the football graffiti from a half dozen or so opposing teams writ large on the walls, before the rain and the mist of my own breath on the windscreen obscured the view and I fell into a deep sleep.
I awoke nearly an hour later when a car-load of Italians parked up next to me and noisily exited their vehicle, gesticulating and presumably complaining about the weather. It had eased up, but was still drizzling, so I decided to make a quick personal pitstop and press on. An hour or so of focused driving later, the fog had lifted, the rain had gone and the sun was starting to peek between the clouds. I also needed another stop and also more water as I'd almost finished the previous day's couple of litres.
I stopped at a surprisingly busy services near Cosenza where a good number of people were present. I found the facilities and availed myself of them, then purchased another couple of bottles of water and went for a brief wander around the car park to stretch my legs. I stood in the weak sun resting against a post, watching the world come and go and sipping from one of my water bottles. Having whiled away a few minutes in this manner, it was time to press on once more. I got back into the car, buckled up, took another slug of water and... realised I was going to vomit. There was a brief panic as I felt the bile rising...
Now, the seats in my car are of the sports "bucket" variety with wide side wings, deep bolsters and quite close to the floor. There was nothing parked to my left, but there was no way I would have been able to lunge over to the passenger side, fling open the door and wretch onto the pavement. Worse still, there was a car parked to my right which, had I thrown my door open I'd have solidly connected with. I gauged that even carefully opening the door would not leave my much room to hurl out of. There definitely wasn't time to get out of the car either. What happened next I need not go into any further detail of, suffice to say, the leather needed a good wipe-down and I've never been more grateful for having an empty Thermos flask in the car... As it was, I've no doubt at all that the guy in the car to my right twigged what had happened as he looked quite shocked, but I guess he was also grateful I didn't barf all over his car... Nice.
Returning to the open road, the weather got progressively better the further I pressed South until it was actually quite a nice, albeit breezy evening by the time I arrived at the port of Villa San Giovanni. My research into the trip had included extensive use of Google maps and streetview to recon the area and also to check out just how the ferry worked as I wanted to ensure I didn't have to pre-book. I didn't and it was as simple as wandering up to the kiosk (which itself wasn't particularly obvious) and buying a ticket. I didn't bank on there being a translator provided for this, but there was this homeless guy loitering by the kiosk who greeted me warmly and asked where I was from and to where I was going. Without my asking he translated my request for a one-way ticket to Messina, some two miles or so distant. I probably could have managed on my own, but the guy was clearly down on his luck and wasn't pushy, so once I'd got my passage I thanked him, gave him a couple of euro and set off to find the boat.
Some years ago, at a MotoGP race at Mugello, Italy, a bunch of us were caught up in the most almighty traffic jam of motorcycles all trying to funnel into one narrow entrance (apparently, they've rebuilt things since then with a redesigned entrance and things are a lot more slick and efficient). We're talking thousands of bikes, all jostling for position, a hot (June) day and tempers starting to fray. It was at this point that a good friend of mine turned and remarked "You do realise that 'fiasco' is an Italian word?". The subsequent "queue" for the ferry reminded me of this occasion. All the more poignant when I spy an articulated lorry also in the mêlée with a giant Valentino Rossi/Jorge Lorenzo image emblazoned on the side of the trailer.
Add to this mix, various wandering hawkers going from vehicle to vehicle flogging various tat, everything from flowers to sunglasses to illuminated deely-boppers. Some of them were quite persistent, even when you say a straight "No!" and wind the window up... This done with, we start to edge forward and finally onto the ferry. There are signs all over the car deck saying "do not stay in your vehicle" and "no smoking". I see plenty of people doing both, some simultaneously. Hey, it's Italy, where "rules" are more of a suggestion than obligation.
We push off and within a few minutes have made the short hop across the water to the island of Sicily, home of fine wine, volcanoes and la Cosa Nostra. Allegedly.
Getting off the boat was just as entertaining as getting on and the first quarter of a mile out of the terminal is fairly scrappy with no notion at all of lane-control from anyone. Generally, navigating the streets of Messina was, er, fun. Nobody wanted to give an inch and I genuinely doubted that my poor car would escape without at least losing a door mirror, most of the time accompanied by a chorus of car horns. Not my doing, just the local manner of driving; someone in your way? Lean on the horn. Someone has right of way and cuts off your illegal manoeuvre? Lean on your horn. Someone does anything at all? Lean on your horn. Miraculously, I made it through this and managed to find my way to the A18 autostrada only for it to start chucking it down again. Every Fiat Punto and Cinquecento in Sicily is equipped with a small-block Chevy V8, or so it seems. I was doing 75mph (120km/h) and I was being passed by almost every small car on the road, doing at least 90.
I stopped for more go-juice at a filling station still branded with the Agip logo despite their being acquired by Eni some time back. Distinct lack of Super Unleaded... Hmm. Little did I know, but I had seen my last ever Super Unleaded back on the mainland. The car will run on 95RON gas, but it's tuned for 98 or better... Setting back off into the night into the teeming rain and swarms of suicidal Fiats, the last 100 or so miles to my hotel near Ispica seemed to last forever. Add to this that I had a proper fever, was feeling very wobbly and just wanted to get to bed and go to sleep, this was probably the low point of the trip. I arrived on the outskirts of the hillside town of Ispica, rich in history and probably a quite interesting place to visit. At this juncture, I couldn't care less about the place. I just wanted to curl up and sleep and not wake up until I was well again. Negotiating the streets of this ancient place, I was trying hard to follow my sat-nav, but despite this, some of the instructions didn't seem to correspond to the way the road turned and I found myself heading in the wrong direction and down some very dark and narrow streets. Eventually, I got back en route, but I seemed to be heading up into the hills and further away from town. As this, like my other stops, weren't planned to any degree -- plot roughly where the end of each leg is going to be and do a Trip Advisor search when I get there; all part of the adventure -- I hadn't recce'd the place as I had with the ferry, so when I found myself heading down a dirt road and into utter darkness, I was convinced that I (or TomTom) had screwed up.
But, as most blokes reading this will attest, that's also part of the "fun"; just where is my sat-nav taking me? Although, I'll be honest and say that in my physical and mental condition at that point, "fun" wasn't the first word that came to mind. However, I stuck it out and after a short while, with a few twists and turns, I arrived at... Somebody's mansion... "Crap", I thought and started to try and figure out how to do a u-turn on the terrace I found I'd parked on whilst avoiding the neat topiary overlooking what was probably (I couldn't tell, it was dark) beautiful ornamental garden, whilst simultaneously not destroying any of the large stone Venetian urn-style planters. Halfway through my manoeuvrings and having undoubtedly awoken any and all of the residents of this grand villa with V8 throbbings, a diminutive chap in jeans and a sweater came trotting down the front steps and over to my car.
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| Villa Principe di Belmonte entrance |
This chap turned out to be the manager, Massimo and he and his three kids were insistent that they help me in with my bags despite the main one, a 100 litre Berghaus Mule, being almost as big as he was. I think all I ended up with was my sat-nav. Me being me immediately thought "Crap! If this *is* the right place, surely the €40 per night figure needs an extra zero adding to it!", so I summoned up the courage to check the rate was correct and... it was!
I probably looked how I felt at this time and just wanted to get to my room. Massimo wanted me to know that chef was still on duty and had I eaten and would he like him to prepare me some pasta, some ravioli maybe? Given that I hadn't, but also mindful of the earlier unpleasantness I'd experienced on the road, I was reluctant and also hugely disappointed to not be able to say yes to what would undoubtedly have been an excellent, possibly epic meal. I explained that I was unwell, but Massimo was insistent I should eat. He was right, of course, but what to have? I eventually decided that I should try and force down some plain white bread. The look on the poor guy's face! He *so* wanted to impress and yet this haggard, unshaven, doubtless rather fragrant Brit stand in his beautiful house and request plain white bread...? Questo è pazzo!
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Massimo returned a short while later with over half a dozen small, white bread rolls, presumably of the part-baked variety as they were lovely and warm along with miniature pats of butter. He also brought a bottle of water and asked if I would like breakfast in the morning. I explained that I was uncertain and besides, I wasn't planning on getting up that early. Now, at most hotels, I'm used to asking what time I need to check out. Here, Massimo asked *me* what time *I* would be like to stay until. Ever the reserved Brit, I thought I'd misunderstood, so I asked him the question: "What time do you need me out of here?" No, he meant what he said; I can checkout whenever I want, stay as long as I need to. In fact, why not have a lay in. Would breakfast at around 1100 be suitable? Er, I guess we could see how I feel in the morning and I'll call you if I'm still feeling really poorly..? Great! Then that's arranged! Would sir like coffee or tea?
Still concerned that if I felt like I did at that moment come the morning, then it'd be dry toast for me, I enquired where the breakfast room was. No, no! We'll bring you breakfast here in your room! Goodnight sir and I hope you feel better in the morning.
Well, wow...
My ferry from Pozallo to Valetta wasn't until the following evening, so I had a full day in hand. This was already planned into my schedule, the original intention was, assuming that I'd got this far at this time, to use this "spare" day to do some sightseeing, if not, I'd have a day in hand to make up the distance and not miss my ferry which was something I dreaded given that when I booked it back in December from the UK, I had read that at this time of year, i.e. winter, it's not uncommon for the ferry to be postponed due to the weather and what's more, the service is restricted anyway, running only once or twice a week.
Not having to get up in the morning and rush anywhere or indeed do anything was a blessing. I managed to eat a couple of the rolls, feeling rather guilty that they'd done so many. I watched a little TV although of the 600+ channels (really), none were in English except Al Jazeera which isn't really what I'd call entertainment. The wireless internet, like everywhere I'd stayed, was free, but I had trouble keeping a signal and after SMSing Sue, I read my Kindle for a little while before settling down to sleep.
January 15 2013 -- Day 5
I had a fitful night and was up twice to drive the porcelain truck, so 1000 came around all too soon. I showered and dressed and watched a little more random TV from around the world before there was a knock at the door and Massimo and his wife appeared with two huge trays of breakfast. Holy crap! There was fresh (proper fresh, not carton "fresh") orange juice, bread, prosciutto crudo and cotto, two different salamis, at least three different types of cheese including a lovely smoked provolone, preserves, yoghurt, granola, croissant, pain au chocolat, a banana and an apple, all of it really fresh and lovely, oh and some *excellent* coffee! I must admit, it was the aroma of the coffee above all else that got my taste-buds excited and I was also really hungry. Massimo and I had a brief chat about what time my ferry was and when I explained that it wasn't until the evening he was insistent that I stay and enjoy his hotel for as long as I needed to.
He then asked if I'd noticed the bottle of wine and the two bars of artisanal chocolate that were on the dresser. Well, of course I had, but being more used to staying at establishments where the minibar is booby-trapped to quadruple one's bill by merely opening the damned thing to peek inside, I'd assumed that these were one of those "if you would like to purchase one of these items, we can add it to your bill" kind of deals. But no, these were for me! Take them! Put them in your case! Give them to your wife as a gift from us! Wow.
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| View from my room, Villa di Principe Belmonte |
The journey down to the harbour took longer than anticipated and upon arrival there were quite a lot of vehicles present. I was worried that they were boarding already and so got in the queue. They weren't, but I wasn't able to establish this until I got to the front and the guy half-heartedly directing traffic stopped me to ask if I'd checked in. Er, no. Then you must check-in. Where? He gestures to an adjacent temporary structure with a couple of dozen people milling in front. But now, I must go to the back of the queue. Count to ten... Wish I still smoked cigarettes... Drive noisily to back of the line. Find documents and booking confirmation, approach portakabin. See that there's a "tickets" and "reservations" window, decide that it's reservations that I need. Later discover that it matters not which window you go to, nobody is being particularly helpful at either. Besides, it's Italy, it doesn't matter which window you use if you gesticulate enough you'll get served...
Another guy who was there before me, chain-smoking for his country, shuffles forward. Then shuffles sideways. Then shuffles backward. All the time, puff, puff, puffing on his ciggy. Are you queuing? Yes, but you may go first. Okay, I will, thanks. I finally reach the window and present my documents and receive a ticket and a pendant for my rear-view mirror. I ask if I should go forward with my car now or should I wait. "Yes" is the utterly ambiguous response. Fine. Forward it is and hang the consequences. This time, traffic-guy doesn't even acknowledge me, but nor does he direct me, so I guess that I go this way... Okay, not that way, should clearly have gone through the un-signed, partially open gateway at 120 degrees from the direction I'm facing and up the ramp into the darkness.
Get to the top of the ramp and there's a wee gadgie there with a torch in his hand. Not actually doing anything, certainly not helping, but his torch works. I burble forward and point in the general direction of the only ferry-looking vessel in the vicinity. Halfway across the tarmac, a bloke with a sidearm steps out and signals for me to halt. I halt. He's Italian border control and wants to see my ticket and my passport and why I'm travelling to Malta. I provide the documents and the information and he waves me on my way, still not in any particular direction, but this big, white boaty thing is looking more and more like the right way.
I've left one very important -- and at this juncture, very useful -- item in my luggage in the car: my Kindle. Bugger. Nothing to read... Tum-te-tum-te-tum... Amazing how boring things have just become. I'm reluctant to move because I've got what I consider to be a good seat. Now, with time to contemplate my own brilliance, I'm beginning to think that maybe it's not that great after all; it's a low-backed chair designed for sitting in whilst quaffing a beverage or consuming a snack, it's not suited for relaxing in or even grabbing a few zees. Moreover, there's the square-root of bugger-all to see out of the window because it's dark and that's going to get worse the moment we actually head out to sea. Muppet. Thing is, I've no idea whether the sailing is full or not, whether at any minute several coach-loads of Italian school-kids are going to swarm aboard and make the place a chattering, squealing, screaming, nautical hell. 30 minutes to go... Listen to Hermann und Rolf putting the world to rights in German. Don't actually understand anything apart from the occasional word: "yes","no", "perhaps", "potato", "shit", "Mercedes", "diesel". Not much of a conversation. Or I'm just rubbish at German.
T minus 15 minutes to go. Oh God, here comes a coach. Please don't let it be full of noisy kids... Wonder if they have free Wi-Fi on board?... Yes, they do! Can I connect to it?... No, I can't. Arse.
T minus 5 minutes to go. Another coach. What the hell happened to "please ensure your vehicle is here at least two hours prior to departure?". Oh yes, that's right: We're in Italy.
T minus 0 minutes to go. Spot the unmistakable outline of a Porsche 911 coming down the approach road to the docks at crazy batshit speed, at least 120mph judging by the way he's covering ground. Ha ha, sucker! It's go-time and you just missed the boat!
T plus 5 minutes. Two more lorries coming on board now.
T plus 10 minutes. Porsche rolls up the ramp onto the boat. Wtf?!
T plus 15 minutes. Couple more trucks coming on now.
T plus 20 minutes. Finally! The ramp has been withdrawn. Get under way almost half an hour past our departure time. Hey ho, at least we're going and it's not like Malta is going anywhere. I watch as we manoeuvre out of the dock and into the Mediterranean. Recorded safety announcement for what to do in the event of the boat springing a leak, etc. Not a lot to see for the next 90 minutes or so. Decide to go for a wander about the boat and see what there is to see. Answer: also not a lot. Hmm. Find one of the darker corners of the lounge areas created on each flank of the ship and settle into a high backed recliner. Comfy. There's a film showing, but I don't recognise it and can barely hear it anyway. Attempt to sleep. Fail. Find myself watching a film that I can't hear and can't really work out what it's about. Amazing what you'll tolerate when you're bored.
An hour and a half passes surprisingly quickly. I must be tired. Tannoy announces our pending arrival into Valletta. People seem to spring to life and start preparing to get off. Why? What are you going to do? Leap overboard and swim the last half mile?! Besides, I want to see what happens with the dude with the dog and the chick with the funny eyes. Still no bloody idea what I'm watching.
I can now actually see Malta through the front windows. Cool! Another announcement about collecting one's belongings. S'pose I should get my shit together now... I round-up my stuff and make my way toward the stairway I came up on. There are crew here directing people to stay behind an imaginary line. The people behind said line are all jostling for position like they're about to run a foot-race. Maybe they are? Maybe, I've underestimated them and actually there'll be a vehicular brawl to see who can get off the boat fastest? Well, that'll be me, suckers, unless there's a Formula 1 car there. Or a monster-truck. Or it's actually marshalled properly.
There are cars and trucks with their engines running long before we actually stop, let alone have the ramp come down. Have these people never heard of carbon-monoxide poisoning? Or do they just enjoy the smell of concentrated diesel fug? I fire-up the sat-nav and tell it to navigate to our flat in Bugibba -- it's not a big island, but I've never driven from Valletta to Bugibba in the dark. Or the daylight for that matter. What's more, the signs are difficult to see, the streetlighting of variable quality and the roads aren't great in places, so I want to have the best chance possible of getting where I want to go with me and the car in as best shape as possible. Thing is, this giant metal box I'm currently incarcerated within is not conducive with receiving signals from satellites hundreds of miles overhead, so I'm going to have to wait until TomTom can see the sky.
Ok, so there's some marshalling, but still a lot of automotive jostling nonetheless. There's a guy to my left in some non-descript thing of a car and he's doing the universal stare-straight-ahead-so-that-you-can-pretend-like-you-don't-know-there's-someone-to-your-right thing. I may have to ram him to get his attention. Okay, it's time to push out. Still don't see me, eh? Fuck you, fuck you very much...
Finally, down the ramp and off the boat. Been sat with the engine running and the aircon on recirculate for most of it, think the smell of diesel is mostly gone now. There are a great many police and presumably immigration/customs personnel here performing spot-checks and plucking people out of the queue seemingly at random. Thing is, there seems not to be a dedicated inspection area, so when they stop an 18-wheeler, it brings the show to a near halt. Takes 10 full minutes to go 100yards and get out of the terminal. At least the sat-nav has now caught up and knows where we are. Avanti! Er, or whatever the Maltese equivalent is.
End of the road, take the second exit at the round... a... bou-What the?! The road's blocked off... That's fucked-up... Okay, take the third exit and see how quickly this five year old TomTom can recalculate and un-fuck the situation. <Recalculating route> This looks to be a fairly big road. Looks vaguely familiar, too. Stay on it. <Recalculating route> Come on TomTom... <Recalculating route> "In 100yards, take the exit left. Christ! Almost on top of it! Good job there's very few people about.
Make unnecessary but entertainingly noisy downshift and apply right foot to loud-pedal through tunnel, see sign for speed-camera, quickly lift off. TomTom announces (almost too late) that we're to bear left about, er, here.
Just following the sat-nav now -- don't know my way around at all and only know the route between the airport and Bugibba, which is chaff-all help at this moment in time. TomTom takes me out via Paceville, St Julians, Pembroke, etc. along the North coast and into Bugibba via Kennedy drive. I know my own way from here, the last three-quarters of a mile or so.
Finally arrive at our building at near enough 2200. Sue's mum is here with the keys. Journey's end. So begins life in the Med.
