Week commencing Monday 13th August

Hurrah!! House completion at last! We go and buy ourselves a new fishing rod as a celebratory treat. This is not easy to do in our limited Italian, but we get there in the end. Came away with a great rod, which will henceforth be known as Trotter. The vermeeze are for it now. Less so the fish though me thinks!

Wednesday sees a rather pleasing amount of money land in the bank, house sale complete! All is done. Thank god as the budget was looking rather unhealthy! Butter is back on the menu. We all head to Roccaverano, (is this place at the top of the world? Thankfully we didn’t go in Onzo) for a plate of meats and a cheeseboard and a bottle of the local red. Very gentle pleasurable evening. Everyone extremely content.

Thursday   

A quick, quiet drink together at the Nazionale turns into a rather more prolonged affair than anticipated as every single mad local that we have met decides to come and say hello. This is not a brief English ‘sorry to disturb’ hello, this is a “sit down, put drinks on the tab, refuse to shut up about self and never leave” type of hello. Jon seems alright with this. I, however, go from being amused, to becoming gradually more frustrated, before finally arriving at the simmering rage only usually associated with stubbed toes and long distance calls at a fiver a minute to customer services peopled by complete idiots (Santander in Bangalore are you listening?).  This of course only amuses Jon more, which of course results in me becoming silently apoplectic. Hours and I mean hours later, we finally get some alone time, by which time we’ve both been in the bar far too long, if you know what I mean, and our cosy intimate quiet drink is nothing but gobbledegook. Ah well. Such is life. Epic rage. Jon still smiling to think of it. It took me about 48 hours to calm down. I feel strong sympathy for Mount Etna.

Jon has invested in a tin hat for any further eruptions (cheap at the local market though). A wise purchase I feel. Medic, medic……

The weekend…

We are leaving on Sunday and Onzo preparations have gone into overdrive. He is spruced up, re-packed, supplies are on board, we are good to go! We’ve even managed to buy some more gas and a back up bottle of anti-freeze/coolant. The gas wasn’t too problematic, but there is a whole dark world of mystery surrounding coolant. Can you mix it? Do you have to drain it first? Will it really form a globulous mass and clag up your radiator if you get it wrong? Does it really improve performance? Does any of it really matter?? Does anybody actually know any of these things??? Apparently not. Even google is stumped. Eventually we form our own master plan and decide to consult local Fiat aficionados and try and purchase the Fiat recommended stuff after we’ve showed them what we’ve already got. Amazingly this plan is successful despite me asking for “anti-ice cream” at first. Sigh.

Mother has just cooked up an amazing final meal and tonight sees the ‘Sagra delle Nociole’ taking place in Cortemilia which involves celebrating all things nutty (we’ll fit right in!) and a huge fireworks display at midnight which we hope to take in from the top of Perletto, a fitting finale to our stay here. This festival lasts for two weeks, two weeks!! How many holidays do the Italians need??! Can’t say I blame them though, it’s meltingly hot and nigh on impossible to function. Hence for us tomorrow it’s down to the coast to Savona, to the cool of the Med, playing in the sea and sand between the toes, very excited!

A parting shot of us outside the Nazionale; goodbye and thanks to all the staff (Slime 1 has been promoted to lovely bar owner numero uno) and a shot of mother outside the church, bye bye Ma, thanks for your wonderful hospitality and a lovely time x

Sunday 12th August

News from Walter! After much head scratching Walter has sorted the window on the van and given it a good going over. Window and service complete, Onzo in very good condition apparently, huge sighs of relief this end. All for the princely sum of €70. Walter, bless you and thanks.

Walters’s garage was from a bygone era. The type of Garage you see in old scratchy film footage, or those faded pictures in books where peeling Cinzano prints adorn the walls. Everything was old fashioned, yet immaculate. Sun bleached Ferrari red shutters were pulled back to reveal tools in neat rows on the wall, even the oil spills had been scrubbed. You could imagine a group of men in shirts and trousers, probably a couple of them smoking. All in silence. Poring over the open bonnet of a scarlet Ferrari. Slightly puzzled expressions, tuning fork in hand. There’d most certainly be a pastis or a small glass of red wine perched on the work bench. No rush, everything considered at length. Any questions asked were answered, but eventually. Walter’s Father was one of those men.

Saturday 11th August

Today is market day in Alba, we have promised ourselves that we will go, so despite epic shab off we set. Mother is in alarmingly good form, we are not. Mother’s shab kicks in later to rather devastating effect, but as we mooch around Alba our senses are revived somewhat. The air smells of expensive things and also, oddly, chocolate, wafting from the Ferrero factory which is situated just on the outskirts. We had high hopes of being able to pick up an example of fine Italian tailoring in the form of a replacement shirt for Jon’s ever decreasing wardrobe at the market, (Noush guilt), but Alba doesn’t seem to understand the concept of reasonably priced clothing, so we leave, shirtless. We have however been successful in buying some clippers with which we intend to relieve Moo of most of his fur. This turns out to be a rather laborious process, how can one dog be so hairy? He seems pretty happy with the result though….

A quick trip to town in the evening (hair of the dog anyone?), is going very pleasantly until events take a rather weird and surreal turn in the form of Hans and Margherita..oh dear.

On the face of it two chatty swiss types who heard us talking English and were curious. So they sort of invite themselves over to our table and much small talk ensues. All quite harmless, or so you’d think. Early warning signs are some serious over-inquisitiveness and, rather more alarmingly, Nico standing behind them making obscure hand warnings that seem to imply ‘run away!’. He’s muttering something that I can’t catch, but Margherita graciously supplies us with the translation: “ He is saying for you be careful, for we like to make naked swim! Of course is not obligatoire, but you are very welcome”. Jon and I exchange glances. Is this serious? The evening progresses and nothing untoward occurs. Hans is like a very quiet twinkly skinny Santa claus, Margherita like a fairly mad artist of a certain age. We are lulled. Probably against our better judgement we accept the invitation to go back to theirs for a swim (not naked!), thinking that we can always just scarper if it gets creepy. So we follow them to their house in the hills, where all thoughts of scarpering are swiftly curtailed as the giant electric gates are locked behind us. Oh dear.

Hans then proceeds to produce some (fairly grim) food, and Margherita proceeds to talk non-stop for what feels like forever. Warning signs are getting bigger and darker in the form of talk of open marriages, naked swim, naked bath…this is very very bad. I even set the alarm on my phone while pretending to root in my bag so that it’ll sound like its ringing and we have an iron clad excuse to leave. The pool is even made to look enticing with glowy balloon type things, which Hans throws in, setting the scene… creepy! Enough is enough – time to bail and sharpish too. They remind us of the types who would perhaps being involved in some dodgy films. I don’t know of these films, but my mates have told me. Excuses made and we’re off. Thoughts of the gates not being opened and the Stephen King book Misery flash through my mind. We escape! Back to the safety of the hous, quick medicinal restorative before bed. We live to fight/swim another day. 

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.