The music finally stopped around 2.30 in the morning. I’d been awake since midnight, woken by the throbbing bass which kept pounding on. Every so often it would stop and like a dying patient be jerked back into life again, just like something out of Holby City, to name my guilty secret…I was lying sleepless, in my campervan, in the small town of Bergues near Dunkirk.
Yes, chères amies and chers amis, I’m back in France, currently en route to Sardinia. So yet again, I will bore you or amuse you with tales of my ramblings. Hit delete button as necessary! I’ve set up a blog at vhramblings.com but it’s pretty dull as I need to organise it with pictures etc. Hopefully I’ll be able to do that either in Cyprus or at Christmas when I am home.
So, Bergues is a small, pretty, fortified old town whose residents have thoughtfully provided an ‘aire’ for travelling campervans, in the hope that we will spend money in their town. Which we do. The aire is located by the sports fields where the local archery club was practising as we arrived in the evening sunshine. It was pretty strange, the archers circle round a huge pole about 50 feet high and target small sticks at the top. Very entertaining. I held my tongue and desisted from muttering ‘Agincourt’ and waving two fingers at them (which is apparently where it comes from) thinking that would not help the entente cordiale much. We had a pleasant stroll around Bergues and I was going to mark it 8/10 but the music has reduced that score I’m afraid!
Onwards we went, the beautiful weather continued and we were on a mission to get to Genoa and the ferry. No lying abed, we were gone by 9, which half killed me but never mind. It was Sunday, no lorries on French roads, so I bravely took the wheel of Bertie the Beast and we motored on uneventfully to Joinville, south of Reims. Here we parked by the canal de Marne and admired the huge number of ?trout as we walked into town. It was a French Sunday afternoon, so really quiet. I know we’ve gone overboard in the UK with Sunday trading but this is the other, Hancock-like extreme. Dull. Never mind, the town was pretty with its river and canal, geraniums in tubs and waterside pathways slightly reminiscent of Venice.
I practised my fluent French in the chemist’s next day buying an ice pack for my ankle: ‘When one is hurting oneself, one gets the ice and one puts it on the leg’ …….followed by question mark and upward Aussie-like intonation, plus hopeful look on face. Luckily I had a clever assistant who twigged what I was rambling on about.
And on ever southwards to Seyssel, another riverside parking and a brief shop at Carrefour, where I was reacquainted with the joys of French public lavatories; this time it was the ‘hole in the floor, jump out of the way as you flush’ variety, after scrabbling in bag for tissues of course.
Can anyone remember which way Hannibal went over the Alps? Well, we decided to head for Briancon and then over, via Sestriere towards Turin. Getting to Briancon was some fun, a tortuous mountain pass, used on the Tour de France, through the Col du Telegraphe, complete with model of cyclist at the top. Pretty Alpine landscapes with chalets and so forth. One could imagine Heidi skipping out of a doorway, yes I know, wrong country but you get the gist…..The weather closed in and it started to snow! On to the next pass which was barren and forbidding. Some of the bends were pretty challenging and I very firmly did not look over the white lines at the unprotected edges. You just have to rely on your brakes and driver, they were both excellent.
The aire at Briancon did not appeal so we pressed on to Monteginevra, a ski resort close to the Italian border. Have you ever been to an out of season ski resort? Well think seaside but worse. Remember, snow covers a multitude of sins and resorts are dependant on people and activity. Everything was closed and it was like a one horse town. The aire was built for 220 vans and the sign proudly indicated that there were still 219 spaces. Yes, we were the only van there and oh my goodness it was cold. So cold that the heating turned on at night and there was frost on the windows in the morning. Time to keep heading south, quickly!
So on to Italy next day, the temperature went up, the sky turned blue and the sun shone once more. Phew! The sat nav went completely mad, its definition of ‘easy’ route seemed to involve driving round in circles on ever smaller Italian roads. Swearing under our breath, we stopped for lunch in a very unattractive field where they were chopping up sweetcorn for cattle feed. From the delights of the Alps, we were in the rather dull reaches of the river Po, which are strangely reminiscent of the Fens. I will say no more but I don’t think I’ll be rushing back.
Map firmly in hand and sat nav duly rapped across its little suckers (well it doesn’t have knuckles), we drove on and blimey, the landscape was beautiful once more as we drove through the beautiful terraced landscapes of wine making country near Asti. We really did cross the river Cinzano, I kid you not and we really did pass the Aperol factory and we are now on a campsite in the middle of Barbera di Asti country.
It’s quite noticeable how much poorer Italy is than France or should I say, how they choose to spend their money? Italian roads are really badly maintained, the town centres are not as well kept, buildings are dilapidated and fields are unkempt. It’s not as neat and orderly as France and while I still love Italy, it’s rather worrying to see.
We arrived here at Agliano Terme in glorious sunshine and relaxed after our 1000km trip. It’s a nice small campsite with great showers (Hooray! Lots of hot water, no having to lean on buttons, no sudden cold blasts, hooks and shelves for one’s bits and a stool to lean on while dressing, easy really, why can’t they all do it?!) Tomorrow evening it’s the ferry to Sardinia from Genoa. It’s decided to pour down with rain this afternoon, so South! South! South! to paraphrase the famous Italian wine.