After a lovely wander around Greve last
night, very picturesque and not the British ‘Chiantishire’ we had been dreading,
we awake to moody skies which quickly resolve into torrential rain and thunder.
It appears we have not escaped your typical British bank holiday weather after
all. Chiantishire is alive and well. Grr. We have a sausage and egg breakfast under the
black clouds as a salute to Britain. Still, it’s a welcome relief not to be
overheating. This, however, does not last long. The clouds clear around noon
and we’re back to furnace territory. In the cool and quiet of the morning and
with the car park to ourselves we have achieved nothing (bloody Lidl), but even
with the sun showing its face and folk arriving to take advantage of free water
we’ve got poo things to attend to. It shall and must be done.
The very minute we start Onzo half the world
seems to arrive. We get as far as emptying the poo tank (Onzo breathes the relieved
sigh of “prunes really do work” type), but there is evil-ness afoot and the tank
needs some assistance in the form of serious chemical action and a prolonged stop
over the manhole drain. It simply isn’t meant to be. Too many people and this
is not a job for public viewing. We retreat to the edges, small and hidey-like
and un-start Onzo. We decide to wait them all out. This proves time consuming. Old
dude turns up (for the third time??) in an old Italian post office van with a
100 litre water tank in the back which he proceeds to fill up for the next half
hour (hose pipe ban anyone?), suspension groaning and without so much of a nod
of apology off he trundles. Then some odd looking vagrant gypsy types arrive and
park up next to fountain thingy and hang a bucket off the tap. The bucket hangs
there, empty. They do nothing. We are mystified until about twenty minutes
later the rest of their cavalry turn up, literally. Five horses (with a
distinctly healthier chromosome count than their riders) pitch up for the
longest watering/lunch stop on the planet. Will they never leave? The horses
slurp from the bucket, the gypsies of unidentifiable and indistinguishable gender
slouch around. We continue to hide in Onzo. FCTVs turn up, do their thing and
leave. We remain, paralysed, waiting for our moment. Poo fail and the complexities
of the tank continue – how hard can it be?
We’ve given up on poo for the day (again).
The tank is full of chemicals and hopefully doing its thing. We’re off down the
Blake for a pint of Farmer’s, ta very much (Noush’s old local, finest ale known
to man). Just goes to show you shouldn’t joke about such things. Ale? In
Chianti? And not just Ale either.. We find ourselves in a nondescript bar in
Greve, bear in mind this is the heart of some of the finest wine producing land
on the planet and they serve pale ale. That’s odd. More so is their range of
Cider. On full view behind the bar are bottles of Cornish Orchards produced and
bottled 1 mile outside Looe in a place called Duloe. Taken into consideration
that Jon has lived in Looe for nigh on the last decade and bought his apple juice
from Duloe, this is weird indeed! Back to the van to escape such peculiarities.
Gentle evening and early night, yawns and peace. Nice.
