Friday 10th August

We visit the market in Cortemilia in the morning. The sense of community here is really underlined by this spectacle. The whole place is alive; every car parking space is taken, the bar is packed, friends and acquaintances catching up, no doubt business being done. I am forced to go for a haircut. Quite an experience it turns out to be. A gaggle of half a dozen people are gathered behind as I get a head massage before the main event begins. I catch the odd word as all eyes are on the ‘’Inglese’’ (English) having his haircut. Much merriment and laughter occurs, most of it over my head. All very pleasant nonetheless and made all the sweeter by having a beer to swig on from the bar opposite. This is the way to have the old wig seen to- audience and all!

The evening sees us go to a festival in a local town – Serole. €10’s got you entry, food and as much red wine as you could drink. (You can see where this one is going can’t you!?) After you’d tucked in all seated along trestle tables the main event started which involved a peculiar form of ball room dancing around a sizable room, all in time to a band. The ‘dance floor’ was in front of numerous rows of seats that were occupied by very serious and somewhat disapproving aged Italians. All the events on the floor were watched with a critical eye, occasional tuts and raised eyebrows. This was strictly come dancing meets Italian ancient custom. It felt oddly gladiatorial.

After this morning’s haircut I was keen to play a low profile (wore a hat and everything) and not attract any attention. Sadly this was hampered by having to cross the dance floor, past the baying hounds to reach the toilet. Quiver. I stood back to assess the best path through the sharked infested waters, but failed at base one. A tap on the shoulder and I was confronted by a middle aged Italian woman with perfectly coiffured hair. I recognised the words ‘’Inglese’’ and was then dragged off to the floor of death to perform for the baying masses. Following the dancing was impossible. Whilst being whirled to and fro (she was strong this one) I caught glimpses of headshaking and folded arms from the sidelines. Clearly I wasn’t a natural.

Oh the shame and I didn’t even get to visit the toilet afterall.  

One who shall remain nameless (clue - female) was epically drunk. Threw at least two pints of red wine on me and took home the most enormous amount of cake that was provided for dessert.

Van Fail 6 - Thursday 9th August

With great regret I report a further Van fail. Not so much the Van’s fault this time, but user error. Still, it qualifies. It’s the Van and it’s a fail.

It goes something like this. We set off for the shop (ok, well the bar really), all pre-flight checks are complete (this involves moving breakable things and stashing them safely before moving). Half way to the destination there’s an almighty crash. Nothing visible has malfunctioned or fallen off. What has happened now ffs!?? We stop in the nearest available layby and discover to our horror that the long window above the cab (next to the bed) has parted company with the Van, landed in the road and smashed. The reason why is immediately apparent. It was left open before leaving. School boy error. This is not great news.

The bad news is further compounded by the potential cost of replacement. New ones are not available, second hand only if you get really lucky and can wait indefinitely. Made to measure is an option, but they have to be made in the UK and the cost has the same effect on you as the first morning espresso.

Step forward Walter and Nico (fishing rod bloke from the bar). Local mechanic Walter (who is giving the Van the once over) says he can do the job providing we can get the window. We visit the window shop in town, suggested by him clutching the measurements. Closed until 26^th August. At this point, dejected and desperate we decide to get a quick medicinal beer on board at the Nazionale to console ourselves. Then, lady luck shines on us again in the form of Nico, who just on cue rolls round the corner on his bike. We explain the problem and, of course, “is no problem’’. Upon walking into the Ferramenta (a smelting iron monger type place that also sells windows??) Nico demands that all work ceases and that our window is sorted ‘Subito!’ (this means ‘Immediately!’) We learn that this is Nico’s modus operandum. He says ‘Subito!’ and people leap to obey. Brilliant. The man is a star. Half an hour later we are in the possession of the newly cut, made to measure window.  He even rounded off the edges! Is there nothing this man can’t do??!

It turns out there really is nothing that Nico can’t do? Not only has he rustled up a fishing rod and a window within moments of being asked, but he has also successfully sourced a scooter for Noush’s mum and today, well, he found us vermeeze!

Vermeeze are in fact worms. We asked Nico which was the best bait to use for fishing in the Bormida and it turns out that vermeeze, along with mice, are  best. He then drags Noush off to the fishing shop, to purchase vermeeze and mice, which it transpires are worms and sweetcorn. The poor owner of the fishing shop had just closed up and was actually in his car, outside his shop, about to leave. Nico, one hand on the car door, insists that the man gets out of his car, opens his shop and sells us some vermeeze and mice, subito!! Despite the poor man’s protestations that he has closed for ten days and so everything is locked away, there’s no till, he can’t give a change, Nico is not taking no for an answer. Two minutes later, we are the proud new owners of some vermeeze and mice. Never mind Jim, Nico will fix it. He the man.

Cortemilia Wed 8th August

We find ourselves in a wonderful Italian villa situated in the hills a few kilometres away from the charming town of Cortemilia (in the Piemonte region, famous for its Hazelnuts amongst other things) and a short hop from the truffle mecca that is Alba. A trip to town involves small one track roads that run past the vines, hazelnut groves and fruit trees, hairpin after hairpin, views across the wooded valley, dropping you to the River Bormida. All in all this is a fairly spectacular place to be.

As is always the case, no town is complete without a decent bar and in this respect Cortemilia boasts the focal point that is the Nazionale. The owner is rather ingratiating to say the least, especially around the ladies (hence the nickname Slime 1) but he’s harmless and aside from that it’s a good place to sit and enjoy the cheap and plentiful wine.

The weather is scorching during our first few days. So much so that sitting outside is nigh on impossible for more than fifteen minutes at a time. To assist with the heat we employ the hose and our solar shower, which if filled with cold water and hung from a tree is bliss. Something about doing these things outside makes them more refreshing for some reason? Despite months of moaning about the British weather I admit to the occasional longing for an hour or two of rain, although I keep these sordid thoughts to myself.

On Wednesday evening we visit San Giorgio Scarampi, a hill top town with a wonderfully ornate chapel (San Antonio). The settlement is little more than a collection of houses which makes the existence of the chapel even more surprising. The views are just amazing.

We are here to enjoy some cold meats and wine in the small bar next to the Chapel.  The food and wine are fab, especially the local honey, not so the wasps and the Bar owner (Slime 2) – is there a trend developing here?! His efforts and receipt of the subsequent rebuff tarnish the night very slightly as we end up with a much higher bill than it should have been. Nevertheless a night to remember.

Faverges to Cortemilia (Italy) Monday 6th August

Great night’s sleep, but awake to crap weather. Stormy, dark and not overly warm. We have spotted a walk we want to do to a place called Seythenex which is a trek up a mountain to some cascades and grottes. This brings thoughts of waterfalls and swimming in ice cold pools which after yesterday’s heat would be bliss. After a trip to Carrefour to get breakfast and stock up (why is it impossible to find BBQ charcoal in French Supermarkets?) the weather is showing no signs of improvement, in fact it’s getting worse. Certainly not suitable for trekking up a Mountain in the foothills of the Alps in flip flops. We decide to give it until around midday before making our minds up. Deep down we both know it’s set in for the day. 11.30 brings on the decision. Time to go to Italy.

The weather remains dreadful, but we are in the foothills of the Alps, so the scenery is tremendously dramatic, trees clinging to vertical hills with impossibly located tiny chalets peeking out, mist and clouds cover the tops of the mountains and roll gently down to nestle in the valleys.

Albertville comes and goes and before long we are in the queue for the Frejus Tunnel. The queue snakes up a fairly steep hill and we are in it for over half an hour. Nervous moments pass as we have visions of Onzo letting the side down in the single lane contraflow. Thankfully Onzo comes through without the merest hint of a further Van fail. The nice people at the Tunnel peage relieve us of €50 (budget goes out of the window) and we make our way from France to Italy – Si.

Hello Italy! At the Italian end we arrive to bright sunshine and heat. Literally light at the end of the tunnel after what was the unfortunate weather in the Alps. The view is instantly spectacular, which Noush thinks is all part of a cunning plan on the part of the Italians to bamboozle you into taking the autoroute because you’re not paying close enough attention the road signs. A last second swerve across several lanes (we are excellent at adopting the local style!) at which no one bats an lash at, gets us off the autoroute and onto the teeny tiny rubbishly signposted alternative route towards Bardonecchia, Susa and Torino. Jonathan Keates described this area as “Alpine villages full of cretins and goitres and people who ate nothing but cheese”, we are concerned that we may never escape, but this is before we learn that all roads do not, in fact, lead to Rome, they all – all of them – lead to Torino. Onzo seems totally in his element and is zooming along quite happily, perhaps he knows he’s home? No more happy smiley faces on the speedo checks though, perhaps the Italians are all about red angry grr faces and randomly placed traffic lights to slow you down, personally I think the catastrophic signposts are enough to keep anybody at a steady 20km/h, map on steering wheel, totally lost.

We are now in the Italian Alps: hills rising vertically and plummeting to dramatic gorges, old forts hewn out of the rock and strategic villages littered everywhere, some with ski lifts rising to the sky. We can sometimes see the autoroute and it weaves its way, hanging in the sky, across the valleys, a feat of engineering indeed.   

We arrive at Torino remarkably quickly and then proceed to get lost as usual. This, however, is not our fault for once. Three maps on the go and not one agreeing with another, and sign posts that insist on only mentioning the smallest local hamlet rather than anywhere that might actually be on the map. Any map.

Eventually we adopt the local mentality and head towards Torino in the hope that this will actually take us south and away. The strategy pays off and we find ourselves on the right road, heading to Cortemilia. Si!!!

As is the norm, (as this is where Noush’s mum resides) we decide to toast our successful arrival in Italy and conclusion to the first part of the voyage with a visit to the local bar in Cortemilia – Nazionale. Liquid refreshement in the form of a cold beer is just what we need after roasting in the Van since we left France at 11.30. We have been hankering after a fishing rod since we left as we think it could be fun in the lakes and rivers we stumble upon. We ask this local dude in the Bar, Nico (this name will crop up again) who disappears and then reappears not ten minutes later (on his bike) with a rod and reel for us – how very random!

After a couple of beers we decamp to the house in the hills (can’t wait to sleep in a bed) and unpack for a week or so of chilling and fixing the Van. Within ten minutes we have broken the bloody rod. Tip fell off after being closed in the van window (sorry Nico). No fishing just yet then.

Food, wine and sleep follows soon after.

Annecy to Faverges

Our journey out of Annecy is slow – and now the cloud has gone, very hot. There are a couple of small towns on the map in-between Annecy and Albertville that we hope will prove suitable for a stopover. Initially we follow the lake. It’s just so pretty. Every part of spare grass has someone on it though– beautiful as it is I’m glad we are leaving. We both agree we need to come back to see this place at a quieter time (if there is one).

Eventually we stumble on Faverges, which has a camping car area. Despite the fact this place is tiny (think small English Town) the facilities are bigger and better than those in Annecy – go figure! Despite this consideration towards camping cars, in typical French style, they also throw in a little something to really sabotage the unsuspecting Brit. In this case it is oversized speed bumps; these things need a 4x4 or, better yet, a monster truck. Attempt one resulted in Moo nearly getting taken out by a cast iron pan that was heaved out of the cupboard by the impact. Not safe, you have been warned! We’re both knackered and hot so an early night is on the cards. The weather is cloudy and close, no air at all. A few glasses of wine and collapso occurs.

Nantua to Annecy

We attempt a bit of Autoroute for this part of the journey. This does not make Onzo happy. Fuel economy hits the deck and everyone is grumpy. No more Autoroutes for us! The drive to Annecy is uneventful. The grey cloudy weather begins to lift as we approach. We park up in a central spot with the intention of going to the Tourist Office to get the low down on parking. Just as we are about to leave I trip over Moo who is lying in one of his normal ‘convenient’ spots. Nasty twisted ankle is the result. A trip to the Tourist Office reveals there are two areas that cater for Camping cars. We go to the first one and it is full. Bearing in mind the number of tourists around at this time of the year we find it incredible that they only cater for 15 Camping Cars. We have visited tiny towns in rural France that have more and better facilities than this. So we journey to the next one which has loads of free spaces but is a located in one of the less salubrious parts of town more akin to a favela.

Annecy is quite lovely. However we may have made a bit of an error here. Last night they had their Festival du Lac. The place is heaving. Just walking the streets is nigh on impossible, particularly the narrower ones. It’s not just the sheer volume of people either. Cars, delivery vans and to top it all off the streets in their entirety are being hosed down. This does not add up to fun walking, which is a shame. After lunch (overlooking the Favela) we buy some beer and walk to the park on the edge of the lake. Stunning views but the amount of people is quite staggering. As for the lake there is barely a patch of water going spare for the amount of boats plying the water. A swift beer revives the senses and we decide that perhaps it is best to move on. We also decide a minor change of plan is called for. The remaining places we wanted to visit in the Alps can wait for another day. Instead we are going to head for Italy. There’s work required on the Van (albeit minor we hope!) and completion is getting close on the house. As we leave our decision is vindicated. The traffic leaving Annecy is unreal. Our aim now is to overnight and depending on the weather make our way to the Frejus Tunnel and wind our way to Italy.

Nantua Sunday 5th aug

Sunday brings no change in the weather. Dark clouds, drizzle but thankfully warm. Over the first buttock clenching coffee we decide to bail and head towards Annecy.

Before departure however, we decide to make the most of the lack of people up and about and attempt poo clear out. Since we started we haven’t a) worked out how to do it and b) wanted to (would you?) Now however we have no choice. We head the 50yds down the road with great trepidation. No one else seems to be awake so if we have an embarrassing fail we can scarper. Both of us are nervous as we reverse Onzo into the designated Camping Car service bay thingy.

The operation should be straight forward in theory. Underneath the van are two outlet pipes. One for grey water (camping car terminology there – smooth huh?) i.e. shower water and the other outlet is the dreaded pipe de merde. Clip on another pipe that attaches to a box the size of a large jerry can (approx. 30 litres) and Roberts your Dads brother – you’re ready to pull out the red pin that turns out the Tom Tit into the box. (Oddly pulling the pin out is how I imagine you’d feel when you lob a grenade and frankly not dissimilar in effect). A final glance between us, the knowing nod and we go for the pin. Reassuring sounds of unmentionables flowing from A to B signal success. But then, catastrophe strikes. Squirts (The irony is strong here) of nasty things are coming from the top of the poo box. It doesn’t take long for us to realise the holding tank in the van is considerably larger than the box. This is very bad. It’s raining and we are both effectively covered in shite. A brave hand shoots under the Van disconnects and the remaining effluent is deposited in the service bay (gazelle like leaps from us to avoid splashback!). Now however, we click like clockwork – the like of which only happens when you are in the brown and nasty. I go for the box and empty it down the designated waste hole and Noush is furiously hosing down the service bay. We fill the Van with water, take a dip in the lake to cleanse our souls and leave – quickly. Despite the minor catastrophe we are celebrating. The burden and mystery of the poo tank is solved. We and Onzo (who is considerably lighter) head for the AutoRoute to Annecy. Poo Success! Zoom!