24th Sept – 4th Oct 2024
It was time to head to Lake Garda in preparation for a main event. As part of the celebrations for his 50th birthday this summer Nick’s cousin, Kris, wanted to come and find us on our travels. Many iterations of what this might look like, where this might happen and who it might involve were brainstormed and the final result was: Kris and Rick (Nick’s middle brother) would come out to Lake Garda for a weekend and we would rent an apartment for two nights. There would be a soupçon of sightseeing, some larking about in the lake, a plethora of perambulations, an excess of eating and a deluge of drinking. Nick and his two brothers grew up with Kris, their adult relationship cemented by a closely shared childhood. Their Whatsapp group is called’ The Four Hamigos’ and their common genetics undeniable. Despite their arrival into middle age, whenever two or more of them congregate, especially after a period of separation, there is a transmutation of their beings into a single entity. This morphing of man-flesh is always well fuelled and well lubricated and, especially if the quantity of accompanying Mrs Hampsons is low, there is the possibility of mayhem.
Accomodation was secured, their flights were booked and we opted to arrive a few days early to do some pre-planning and make sure we had a good place to leave Davide. Our stay was to be in the slightly unusually named area of Sportsman-Ceola, a small settlement with a big hotel and some appartments that is located on the easterly shore of the lake, equidistant between the towns of Garda and Bardolino, an easy 30 minute drive from Verona airport. The other thing that this area offered us was a big, reasonably priced, lakeside car park that allowed overnight camper vans and had the requisite services of water and drainage. It was only 200m from the appartment so provided a nearly perfect solution to the problem of what to do with Davide whilst we having our ‘nights on dry land’. Our only mild stress as we headed there was not knowing if there would be space for us. Our fears were unfounded as we pulled in and secured one of the best spaces, a mere stone’s throw from the lake.
There were about ten or so other campers, strategically occupying alternate parking bays at this more desireable end of the car park. This meant that we all had a bit of elbow room and although small cars might park between us between us if got busy, there was no space for campers to fill in….or so we thought! Later in the afternoon we strolled the very short distance to the lake shore and its small, grassy public beach to admire the view and check out the water access. Our ten minute absence coincided with the arrival of another camper (Italian, need it be said) that had heroically, and ludicrously, parked in the space next to us. It was even orientated so that its door opened exactly level with our door, and so close that there was not space to open either door without hitting the other. This was maddness as there were loads of other spaces. We gave them a knock and politely, but firmly suggested in our best sign language and simple English that they move. They acquiesced without a fuss and moved about 10m into a free area. We offered our best ‘Grazie mille!’ and we all got on with our days. It was unfathomable that they would have arrived, surveyed the car park as a whole, looked at the tiny gap next to us and thought “Yup, that’ll be good for us”, even if they weren’t considering how it might affect their prospective neighbour. I think that this episode sums up the Italians quite well (as far as I can make sweeping judgements on a whole nation of people having only been here a few weeks). They sail through life and space with a strong emphasis on their own sphere of existance rather than worrying too much on the opinion or needs of others outside this sphere. Their personal spheres are small spaces and they are used to butting up against each other, not really getting upset by it, or being called out for it. This also quite acurately describes their attitude to driving.
We had a few days before the boys arrived and it was a great opportunity to get orientated and explore the locale. As mentioned, the car park was right on the lake front, with only a hedge, the lakeside promenade and a small grassy area between us and the water. The weather was still amazing so we took the opportunity to get the paddle boards out again a couple of times, leaving them inflated and tucked under the van ready for the weekend. We also explored Garda and Bardolino, both about 2km away in opposite directions along the promenade, and hunted out a spot for dinner on Saturday evening. We settled on Bardelino and asked at a few choice restaurants if we could book a table. They all advised that they did not take reservations at this time of year as it was getting quieter and it was easy to get a table. (We shall return to this.)
I also managed to get a haircut in these few days. That was an interesting experience. By virtue of our lack of shared language, my hairdresser and I barely communicated. There was a small amount of sign language to acertain roughly what I wanted, then I white-knuckled it in silence as she wielded scissors, thinners and clippers. All was fine in the end and I left happy. Ah, the lesser known adventures of travel.
Soon it was time to check into our accomodation and we had a couple of hours before the scheduled arrival of the Rick and Kris who were driving from the airport. The appartment was perfect. It had three bedrooms, a good communal space and a great terrace with lake views. It was only a five minute walk from Davide and we made the journey looking like homeless people, laden down with reuseable shopping bags full of clothes and provisions. I also took all our laundry, never one to look a gift washing machine in the mouth. We had bought some 50th birthday decorations for Kris, so bunting needed to be put up and balloons needed inflating and we also put together a platter of nibbles and made preparations for welcome cocktails. Add to that the fact that we had been substituting lake swims for actual washing over the past few days, we also needed to shower. It was a busy few hours.
Soon they were with us and the party began. The terrace was the perfect spot for sundowner drinks and snacks and later we headed to the very closely situated, lakeside pizzeria for dinner and beers. This was a magical spot, a place that you would travel to, and it was right on our doorstep. The rest of the evening played out fairly predictably with much liquid enhanced merriment and I retired to bed and left them to it.
There was a predictably slow start to the next day and it was midday before we left the building and strolled along the lake front to Garda.
It was a beautiful day to soak up some Italian autumn sunshine, sit in a waterfront cafe, rehydrate and watch the world go by, with most of the world here coming in Germanic form. They seem to make up 95% of the visitors to this area.
The rest of the afternoon was spent enjoying the lake itself. The appartment complex we were staying in had its own little private, grassy beach and a jetty so we grabbed the paddle boards and played in and on the water for a few hours.
The evening saw us washed, dressed and strolling in the other direction to Bardolino for dinner. On the way we stopped at another lakeside bar for a sunset drink and then headed to town.
May I just say here….’quieter at this time of year’, my ar$e. The place was heaving. We struggled to find a suitable restaurant, but we did prevail, settled ourselves into our outdoor seats under the large umbrellas in a courtyard and had just about ordered our drinks when the mother of all storms hit the town. There was thunder and lightning, torrential rain and hail and it was only because that we were in a sheltered courtyard that the wind did not blow everything away. 90% of the other diners decamped inside, but we were brave and managed to (mostly) stay dry under our umbrella.
The place was in chaos, the wait staff abandoning any hope of clearing up whilst until the storm passed over, concentrating instead on keeping tabs on who had moved to where. It was quite exciting. Our food was good, the wine excellent and the company sublime, obviously! We had the obligatory grappa digestif that was dispensed from a comically oversized glass bottle that was entrusted to me to hold for a moment. It was a nervous few seconds!
The wild weather was all done and dusted by the time we walked home and there was no repeat of the late night drinking as the boys realised that they are all middle aged men now and they cannot do it two nights in a row. That and the fact that they had drunk the entire weekend’s supply of booze on the first night.
Sunday morning saw clearer heads and an earlier start. We drove up the lakeshore in Kris and Rick’s rental car to the town of Malcesine. Here there is a cable car that goes to the summit of Monte Baldo giving a great view of the lake, the mountains and, if one is so inclined, a place to jump off and parapont. It was, of course, busy, but the lines moved with acceptable speed and within the hour we found ourselves at the top.
Here we appreciated the beautiful view, took snaps, watched paraponters and found a moderately challanging 5km loop to walk. It was a gorgeous day, last night’s rain having cleared away the haze. We were on a bit of a schedule as Rick and Kris had a flight to catch in the evening so we beetled back down the hill and drove back towards home. Our final destination was the superbly located Ristorante San Vigillio. This sits on a small promentory, co-located with a beautiful hotel that Kris and family had stayed at in the not too distant past. He thought it would be an excellent place for a late lunch and he was so very right.
The shady tables were crammed onto a stone built dock and overlooked the lake and the comings and goings of the small harbour here. The swankier customers can arrive by boat and be collected by a small tender. It was very chi chi and Kris treated us.
Finally it was time to get back to the appartment and for the UK contingent to head back to the airport. One major plus point of this appartment was that it offered a third night free, so Nick and I had a night to ourselves before we reversed the trip back to Davide, laden down with shopping bags filled with our possessions, including four loads of clean laundry. It had been a very fine weekend.
From Lake Garda we headed to Maranello. It would not be possible to bring my car obsessed husband to this vague area of Italy without a visit to the Ferrari museum, even if he is not particularly a Ferrari nut. We found a place to camp that was a short cycle out of town and spent a day in and around the birth place of the Prancing Horse. The day started with a non-Ferrari themed activity, a visit to a mobile phone provider. Here we procured an Italian data-only sim card to power our on-board wifi, our UK provider having changed their roaming T&Cs and effectively cut us off. Thanks for the memories, but we need Netflix….We will work out what to do in France when we get there.
Next we cycled to the museum. The area around here has loads of businesses offering Ferrari hourly rentals and ‘joy rides’ and every stretch of moderately straight bit of road circling the town has an excited Ferrari fan in a merch baseball hat behind the wheel of one of his dream cars, giving it ‘the beans’ and making ‘the noise’. The cars are a variety of models but all red, of course. Not many petrol heads arrive at the hallowed ground of Italian motoring by bicycle, consequently there was no bike rack to be seen so we just left ours in pride of place outside the front door.
The museum was, as expected, full of lovely, shiny, mostly red, examples of exquisite automotive engineering. They had a good selection of past Formula 1 cars too. And lots of trophies. It was impressive.
After here we did a ‘cycle by’ of the original factory site, complete with iconic signage and then tried to get a look at the test track. This was unsuccessful, but we did spy something in camouflage livery as it was leaving.
Next we headed in a vague south easterly direction through the region of Emelia-Romagna, location of recent rain deluges and internationally reported flooding. We have felt quite lucky that the timings of our travels have kept us safe from the weather chaos both here and further north in Austria. Our next destination was a small, non-descript town up a valley out of Imola. The reason for this? Another Bourdain pilgrimage site. The town, Borgo Tossignano, is home to a small, meat-focused family run eatery called Fita Trattoria.
Our route through Imola brought us right past the back entrance of the Formula 1 circuit: ‘Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari’. We stopped, de-bussed, and pressed our faces to the chain link fence, catching the end of a race of Ferrari 360 GTs. Just a normal thing to do in this neck of the woods…
In Borgo Tossignano we found a free car park by a park and a river that had very obviously been quite affected by the recent floods. It was a short walk from the restaurant and we headed there that evening for dinner. Having faithfully practiced the Italian for ‘Good evening, I have a reservation at 7.30pm in the name of Nick’, we were the first to arrive in the restaurant and before even the word ‘Buon’ was out of our mouths, the owner said “Ah, you must be Nick!”. Is it so obvious that we are not Italian? Yes. It absolutely is. The whole experience of the evening was splendid. In the middle of the small space there was a glass fronted meat fridge stuffed full of great slabs of cow-sides, a butchers block and an open fire.
We were taken to the fridge and chose our steak based on a ‘meat tasting’ of slivers of raw meat. A huge T-bone was then hewn from the slab, weighed to calculate its price, then cooked to perfection on the open fire. Our host refused to serve us a potato side dish (too much food he said, quite correctly), did serve us some very tasty and very cheap red wine and was very entertaining. We shared our table with a couple of friendly Italian chaps who included us in their football watching on the ipad propped up on the table between us, ending the evening with swapped telephone numbers and an invitation to Jerry’s ski pad in Cortina. Oh, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry. What have you done? See you in February!!
We heroically ate a phenomenal amount of our beautiful steak and still had some to take home.
Heavy rain started overnight and we vacated the flood zone before there was any sniff of the river rising again. Our next stop was a village up another valley, this time one that was slightly elevated and with no river to worry about. Brisighella is another one of I Borghi più belli d’Italia, a fine example of a medieval village on the slopes of the Apennines. Here there are vineyards and olive groves, with fine olive oil being one of its best known products. The town is scenically overlooked by three structures built atop three rocky hilltops: a fort, a clock tower and a church.
We had another solo car park camping site and there was relentless monsoonal rain. There was no prospect of it easing so we bit the bullet, dug out the coats, hats and boots and set out to explore.
I am sure this beautiful place can often be busy with people in their quests for the perfect photograph, but today we had it to ourselves. There was a misty quietness over the hills and a slippery deadliness on the uneven cobbles and steps.
We managed not to come a cropper as we climbed two of the three hills and meandered through the back streets, all whilst the rain poured down. One short moment of relief from the deluge was walking down a 700 year old covered walkway, evolved from one of the town’s defensive walls which became a commercial thoroughfare serviced by cart-pulling donkeys. Hence its name: Via degli Asini (Donkey Street).
From here, with a shower cubicle full of wet clothes, coats, hats and boots and a fleeting yearning for a normal life in a house with a utility room and a tumble dryer we headed to the coastal town of Rimini.