Today turns out to be an eventful day. In fact, it is
the catalyst for major change.
All starts off normally. We awake to the sound of the
sea in Agropoli (which is a great little place and really friendly – we were
showing a small child and his Grandfather round the van last night after they
showed interest), as with the last few days the skies are dark and threatening.
We wander to town for swift refreshment and wi-fi in the Lounge Bar on the sea
front (great bar and cheap) and are confined there rather longer than expected
by (surprise surprise) an EPIC downpour. Two extraordinarily smart Carabinieri
turn up looking stern enough to stop the weather itself. How come an English
police officer could never exude such glamorous authority? Eventually blue
skies poke back through and we decide to move on. The plan is to follow the
coast road slowly making our way towards Sicily, visiting small villages and
soaking up the sun, sea and of course food. Bring it on!
The plan starts very well, the coastline is everything
we hoped for: dramatic, rugged, sunny and every bit the sparkling blue med of
the travel glossies. We stop for lunch in Acciaroli and the first thing that
happens is that the parking machine eats our money and refuses to give us a
ticket. In hindsight perhaps this was a sign that should have started alarm
bells ringing. Undeterred we scribble a note to traffic warden types and go for
a look around. The place reeks of money, spangly yachts, exclusive boutique
type hotels and smart cafes abound. It’s all very beautiful, but the people
aren’t that friendly and the place lacks any sort of soul; there’s not a hair
out of place. On our return we realise that we’ve parked under a sign that says
‘no campers’, this is perhaps another sign that had we better heeded on a
larger scale would have prevented the pain of what was to be the rest of the
day. In fact, in light of what occurs next perhaps the Italians should just get
it over with and put that sign, writ large, at the entrance to all roads that
lead south of Naples.
Acciaroli to Palinurno, via Pisciotta
So, we leave Acciaroli and decide that the next pretty
little village that we can get Onzo down to (tricky steep little coastal paths
make this a bit hairy sometimes) is our destination for the night, we are sort
of aiming for Pisciotta and Palinuro. Off we toddle. What happens next should
really go down as Camper Van legend. Unbeknownst to us, the road ahead is
basically an excuse for a 4x4 rally. It begins as a slow, tortuous Everest type
climb: relentlessly steep and with hairpins and everything. To add a little
complication the right hand side of the road has actually fallen away and the
rest is buckled and bulging. This goes on for about half an hour. Everybody is
struggling with it, not least Onzo. Just as we reach the crest we round a
corner (nought miles an hour) and are confronted with 30m of vertical (15%?)
ascent. There is no possibility of a run up, the road is (thankfully) straight,
but is rippled like a badly laid table cloth. This is a one shot affair only,
if we don’t get up first time we are stuck. We’re also desperately low on
petrol, quite simply we have to do this. Onzo pointed and hearts in mouths,
it’s into first gear, quick prayer and off we go. Half way up Onzo’s tyres
start to lose grip, there is slipping and massive momentary panic, but then,
miraculously, we’re over it and it’s done. Onzo is officially actually a Land
Rover. Hence Camper van legend “Onzo Off Roading 1” was born. We make a pact
that under no circumstances are we undertaking that road ever again, not even
going the other way. Why can’t the Italians make it clear that a road is
unsuitable for anything other than rally cars and 4x4s??? There’s a petrol
station at the top of the hill, but it’s broken, so we slowly and gently descend
to Palinuro to fill up and hopefully stop for the rest of the day.
Palinuro
The road is nearly flat!! We’ve made it down. We’re
alive. And we’re back by the sea. We stop to have a recuperative swim and to
give Onzo a chance to recover. Sadly it is not to be. Some snot nosed Italian
bloke tells us we can’t park there, it’s reserved for their Lido clients. This
has been the same for most of the Italian coast. All the beaches are privately
owned by sea-side campsites, Lidos and weird Italian private concerns. We had
thought that as we got further south and into the off-season that all would be
much more laid back and informal. Snot nosed Italian bloke proves that this is
not the case. Their Lido thing is empty and still they won’t let us park. Slightly
gratifyingly his wife did look a bit embarrassed at moving us on. Shoulders
slightly drooping we get back into Onzo and leave. We find a petrol station (and
get told off for parking at the wrong pump, do they never stop being difficult
these southerners?), we decide that enough really is enough and head into
Palinuro to collapse. This does not go according to plan. The streets are tiny,
once again campers clearly aren’t catered for. We get sent down some ridiculous
one way system and the street gets narrower and narrower and the balconies
lower. There’s no chance of turning round and finally the inevitable happens.
There’s the most almighty crashing grinding sound from the top of the van.
We’ve hit something. Parking up as soon as possible (no mean feat in itself),
Noush legs it back to the scene of the crime, Jon’s instructions of ‘don’t give
them any money!’ ringing in her ears, to see what on earth we’ve done. There
are two Italian men investigating what appears to be a shop awning that is
definitely looking slightly on the wonk and wouldn’t you know it, it’s bang
opposite a café (that means about 2 feet away on these streets), witnesses
anyone? Sigh. Hugely sheepish, grovelling approach and broken Italian apologies
on Noush’s part seem to smooth troubled waters. The two Italians are utter
sweethearts and explain that the awning seems to be fine, it belongs the
Doctor’s office and he’s closed and shouldn’t have left it down anyway. No harm
done, off you go and good luck in your travels. Finally!! Some reasonable and
lovely Italians! Even the café audience gave a smile to our rueful grins, a
small oasis of charm. However, still nowhere to park, still not camper
friendly, we have no choice but to leave.
Palinuro to Marina di Camerota
It’s been hours now and all we wanted was a swim. How
hard can it be? Marina di Camerota surely must accommodate campers?? We stop
above the Marina and the harbour and the sea is spread out beneath our feet.
Where, however is the road down to all this? There is one small access road
that Onzo might not get down and definitely won’t get back up. There does not
appear to be any other way down. We admit defeat. So very close and yet so far.
Once again the Italians are making it perfectly clear that Campers just aren’t
welcome around here. We bail. Or try to. We strike out towards Sapri, this is
another massive ascent, on and on. How is Onzo doing all this? We arrive at the
top and suddenly the reason for the beeping and the flashing from the Italian
cars coming the other way reveals itself. The village, Lentiscosa, through
which we must pass, is entered via an archway that Onzo can’t fit through; even
if he were narrower there is also a height restriction. Why oh why wasn’t there
a sign saying this at the bottom of the hill? What is wrong with the Italians??
Noush gets out and stops traffic while Jon does some masterful reversing to a
suitable turning spot (thank God there was one) and we descend back to Marina
di Camerota to hopefully find another road out of this Godforsaken place. There
is only one road left. We can’t go back over table cloth road, we can’t get
through via Lentiscosa ,
we have no choice but to go to Camerota proper.
Marinia di Camerota to Maratea, via the Himalayas,
Policastro and Sapri
We can see what we think is Camerota from sea level.
It’s basically hanging in the sky about a million miles above us. Are we going
to make it? We have to, there is simply no other option. We begin to climb. And
climb. And climb. We pass Camerota and go higher, and higher. Rocky cliffs are
overhanging the tiny winding road making
every minute tense and fraught with difficulty. Eventually we reach the top.
There is no doubt in our minds that we are the first campervan to have ever
done this. You’d have to be totally insane. Especially when you see the descent
that we now have to undertake. The hairpins are so tight that it’s questionable
if Onzo will make it round them. The road snakes down for miles beneath us,
curling back on itself with horrendous regularity for as far down as we can see.
There are no resting points, turning points or anything. We honestly don’t know
if we can get down, but the simple fact is that we have to.
Do not, under any circumstances, come here in anything other than a land rover!
Ages later we have arrived at the bottom. Noush at
this point is writing to the Queen to propose a Knighthood for Jon and Onzo.
She is also writing rather less complimentary letters to the various Italian
peeps in charge of sign posts, road maintenance and also, rather oddly, litter.
One can only think that these jobs have been outsourced to the blind association
(should one exist).
Thankfully we have been spat out onto a main road. We
zoom (albeit uphill, as ever) towards Policastro and Sapri. We arrive at
Policastro and are instantly filled with optimism. We can see a beach, there’s
tons of space, it has the feel of Capidomonte about the place, a bit more
welcoming perhaps? We pootle through the town, eyes peeled, we don’t spot
anywhere where we can park, but we’ve got high hopes for the car park and the
beach at the end. We arrive at said point and, Ma Dai what a surprise, big fat
old ‘No Campers allowed’ sign. Funny how the Italians always seem to manage to
get that particular signpost spot on. With some inappropriate hand gestures we
move on. To Sapri! Arrive at Sapri, siiii! No campers. Another fail, sigh.
Leave Sapri. Non. To Maratea! How bloody hard can it be to find a place to
park? We gave up on the swim a long time ago, all we are looking for is a safe
place to hole up for the night. Sadly it is not meant to be. We approach the
harbour of Maratea, the road has been cliff top all the way, truly beautiful
scenery, but not so good for stopping. There’s a big old angel type thing on
top of the mountain of Maratea, hopefully she will look after us? We descend to
the harbour, another tortuous tiny coastal access road and arrive to find a
huge empty car park, right on the edge of the sea, empty, flat, perfect. We
park just above it to go and investigate. What do you know, there’s a locked
barrier and a ‘No Campers allowed’ sign. Finally we get the message. Campers
are simply not welcome south of Naples. The Southern Italians are in
inhospitable, rude, greedy, exclusive bunch that simply will not let you in
(unless you own half of monte carlo or something) or perhaps they are all the
reserve of Silvo Berlusconi’s mates and the Mafioso, and they don’t want the
masses disturbing their bunga bunga parties, who knows? Enough is enough, it’s been about 8 hours of
driving simply to find somewhere safe to park for the night. With
disappointment and no small amount of frustration in our hearts, we make the
only decision we can make, we are turning around. Find the motorway, get back
to Salerno and get the ferry to Sardinia. Sicily and all its Italian charms
(excluding the actual southern Italians) can wait for another time.
Maratea to Salerno
Motorway, zoom!!!!! We arrive in no time. How any of
us are still going is a total mystery. We aim straight for the port in the hope
of a) finding parking and b) finding information on ferries.
The Port, is thankfully very well signposted, but by
now its dark, the road is really busy (read filled with useless drivers who
epitomise this areas mentality i.e selfish, self-absorbed, inconsiderate,
unaware, rude, unwelcoming and useless), seeing the correct road and managing
to get onto it do not necessarily go hand in hand, but we make it. We park up
and find a map of the port. Upon stopping a dock worker and asking him where
the information point was (map had pointed us straight towards some massive
fenced off area), he asked in that flat, you’re-a-stupid-foreigner way that
Italians can do so well “What do you want information on”?. Noush gives him
flat level stare in return.. “What do you think, you imbecile??” The long and
short of it is that no ferries leave here for anywhere we need. (They probably
wouldn’t have taken Camper s anyway). So, we chose our only option available.
Leave for the docks at Naples.
We get to Naples in no time and head straight for the
docks. This is a large transport hub for ferries, (imagine Dover x10). All is
in darkness and it is impossible to navigate. It transpires that no ticket
office is open, there is nowhere to park and it generally resembles a rundown
ex dockyard. We finally find one office open only to find out that there is a
ticket place open tomorrow, but not until 3pm!! Options are now limited to say
the least. We have nowhere to park safely in Naples, so what do we do? Head for
the nearest Autotsrada service station. What joy. Easier said than done. The
exit road from the port consists of nothing so much as three miles worth of
uneven giant cobbles and potholes and of
course the obligatory honking, undertaking, cutting up, zoom/dead-slow-and
-stop ineptitude of Italian drivers. Thank God for the autostrada. Successful
circumnavigation of Naples, hit autostrada north and stop at Caserta service
station. Who knew you could be so grateful to achieve the safety and sanctuary
of a service station? Italy has not been
kind to us today at all.