It is a commonly held assumption that the arrival of satellite-navigation systems have made maps redundant in much the same way that buggy whips were made redundant with the arrival of the motor car. Dear reader, let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. The corollary of this is that not all sat-nav systems are created equal. Nor, interestingly, do two different systems when used from the same starting point follow the same course to a designated destination. The tone of voice can also be remarkably different. The Smart, while on the whole more accurate, speaks with a very perfunctory German accent. The WLW’s voice is more charming (and she speaks in English – amongst other languages – she is accomplished in this respect) but often gives instructions much too late (an even greater crime when one considers the size of the WLW and the need to prepare for exits from the motor way in a more timely manner than most ordinary vehicles). The WLW ‘s voice also underestimates her size and comprehends neither that the WLW cannot go under low bridges, down narrow streets nor over bridges that have a modest weight limit (for her size the WLW is trim – a mere 7.5t, but sadly too big for less robust bridges – one soon discovers how many have a weight limit of 3.5t).
It is true that both vehicles have map displays and often these are helpful when the Voice can’t count exits at a roundabout (a frequent cause of tension between the navigator, your trampess, and the driver, the tramp: “but she said the second exit!” “Yes but she wants you to go over the river, I said take the third!”). This is a modest mistake, no doubt caused by the local road regulation bureau (or whatever it may be called – it is hard to imagine an appropriate name, the ones I would use would probably be considered abusive and certainly not suitable for the eyes or ears of children) failing to add road improvements to the information it provides the sat-nav operators for upgrading their software.
Some mis-directions are more serious and can result in severe frustration and rather more heated exchange between driver and navigator – of the kind that one can only imagine existed in pre-sat-nav days when it was frequently said that women could not read maps (while statistically this is true, let us put on record right now that I was a Girl Scout until I was 18 – I know, I know, decidedly uncool – and map reading was one of the skills we had to master). One small example serves to illustrate just how tiresome this can be. Outside Padua, in full sail, the WLW came upon an enormous roundabout leading, inter alia, to and from the motorway, to various industrial sites, the centre of town, and Ikea. The wonderful voice had us going around in large circles, exiting but then always returning to the roundabout, each time giving us the same absolutely clear instruction which was inevitably leading us back yet again to the same roundabout. She was very determined to keep us in this permanent loop – one could only feel like “the man who never returned - he must live forever ‘neath the streets of Boston”. The only solution was to look at a real map (which of course your trampess was madly doing the minute she realise the Voice was not being helpful) and determine that we wanted to exit on the road 180 degrees opposite to the exit she wished us to take. Miraculously, when we took that road she was totally content and allowed us to stay on it until the next, correct instruction. What was she thinking??!!
I will not even mention that the Smart asked us if we wanted to choose “destination and return” and then not only refused to take us back, but had not even the decency to record our starting point! Luckily, knowing the whimsical nature of the Voice, your trampess had written it down at the outset. Strangely though, perhaps having felt slighted, while she accepted the new (old) destination, she told us we had reached it when we were not even on the right street. Now this may be all right in Italy where the trampess can speak the local language (though the looks one received from the locals as one descends three steps from the living room have to be seen to be believed) but what happens when we are in Jordan?? I faint with horror at the thought. Nor will I mention that she also took us to a different motorway entrance from the one where we left the WLW in the rest station. (Was this a fit of jealousy? did she think we could survive without the WLW, was she tired of her trailer?) Again, happily (after a short prayer to St Anthony – the adored and very reliable, local saint), I remembered where we had got off the motorway; we drove back to that exit and found the mother ship. I admit that this was a bit scary – had I not remembered our exit we might still be circling Padua, the food in the back of the Smart starting to smell, and hob and bed far away.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Thursday, 12 June 2008
La Serenissima, Tosca, and First Principles, Again
With our house on our back, there is practically nowhere we can’t go, and with an open mind and an almost equally open diary, there is almost no place we won’t go. Having received an irresistible invitation to Tosca at La Fenice at the end of May, the tramp saw no reason at all that we couldn’t accept. While one would have no difficulty at all deciding which of the wonderful hotels to choose from were one staying in a hotel, the choice of campsite was a little more challenging – for the simple and obvious reason that there are no cars in Venice, let alone oversized ones. Luckily, our Italian connections stretched as far as La Serenissima, and after some pondering over the map we decided on the 5 star Camping Marina Venezia (not in Venice of course but on the Jesolo, part of the mainland hooking around on the east – with a large beach and closer to Venice proper than Torcello). Not only five star but run in a remarkably un-Italian way: well organised, disciplined (no cars, no noise between 1 and 3pm to insure a peaceful siesta) with unbelievable shops (delicious fruit, vegetables and salad), a swimming pool with so many slides and toys that any child would be happy there for days, life guards on the beach and guards checking your pass to and from the entry points to the beach (no room for gate crashers), and wonderful, wonderful showers.
The tramp placed the WLW in a spot most distant from the entry to the site but right next to the entry to the beach. Placing the Smart required a little help – your trampess was struggling to push it into its home next to the WLW so enlisted the support of a very large Dutchman in the adjacent stellplatz. In the end it took the addition of a Norwegian and two Germans to roll the little beast into her home (its amazing how a slight incline can make one feel her full 800kg!). After a light lunch, we decided to go to into Venice.
In theory we could take a bus to Punta Sabbioni from where we could catch a vaporetto to St Mark’s via the Lido. We had just missed the bus so decided to walk the 3.5 km from the campsite to the point. As we made a small wrong turn on leaving the campsite, we walked along the beach to the harbour – only a few extra kms. As the tramp saw the boat coming in, he suggested to the trampess that perhaps, what with her marathon legs still running, that she might like to sprint ahead and make sure we didn’t miss the boat! This would not be the last time the tramp made such a suggestion and I can only say that it is no doubt one of the reasons why, even with outrageous indulgence in all the temptations Venice has to offer (beginning with Bellini’s), the trampess failed to gain weight. The boat having been caught, the tramp and trampess walked around the old familiar places – checked out the restaurant booked for dinner the next night and then walked to an old haunt. This turned out to be critical: the trampess had booked the Monaco terrace for dinner the following night, but as we passed it, two things became obvious: it had changed, and not for the better, and secondly the view of the Dogana and Santa Maria della Salute were ruined by the fact that both were under scaffolding. Not the romantic setting for dinner I had planned (our hosts for Tosca had said that they had never really eaten well in Venice and as old Venice hands we had to meet this challenge). On to Do Forni – down back allies and around corners. Many wonderful evenings over many years had been spent there both alone and with the children (they were thrilled that one of the waiters was called Donatello – not because they were enamoured of Renaissance sculpture but because, at the time, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was the rage – his status went up of course, being a tv star). Sadly Donatello was no longer there but many of the faces were still recognisable to us. Dinner was delicious so the tramp persuaded me to chat up the waiter for a table the next night. Of course, the tramp did not want any table. There was only one table that would do in the small room that was almost always inhabited by locals. I won’t mention that I was not dressed in a way that would have made me feel comfortable with this task (a cute Gap t-shirt dress and Nike plus running shoes are not the normal uniform for convincing Italians of any rank that one merits the best table in the restaurant) but your trampess conjured up memories and mentioned Donatello, all in Italian of course (it is no good trying to do this sort of magic in English) and lo and behold she was promised the table. The next day, better dressed and better coiffed, she re-confirmed the booking. The table was ours. Dinner was excellent and our guests claimed they had never eaten so well in Venice. (I am happy to report that a cri de coeur that went to a friend, with a Venetian fixer, confirmed the choice by email when we returned after dinner the first night).
The next day it was decided that we could not possibly go into Venice in the morning dressed for the opera. So, your trampess’s new evening dress was rolled up and put in her bag along with the stilettos that certainly would not make the country lane walk to Punta Sabbioni (especially since, as was the case the first day and every subsequent day, the bus never came). The tramp also refused to wear his evening shoes and suit the whole day: everything was put into a suit bag. So in the famous Gap dress and with the tramp in shorts, we arrived, as one does, at the Gritti terrace where we had booked lunch. Despite our outrageous attire, we were greeted with all the charm that Italians can muster; the tramp’s suit was hung up and a delicious lunch was produced. The day was perfect and nothing but nothing could have been more enjoyable than sitting in decadent splendour, eating perfectly cooked fish and enjoying a splendid afternoon. Even the view was less miserable than expected: the scaffolding on Santa Maria della Salute was somehow less offensive and the palazzo opposite which was being restored was nearly finished and could provide the Gritti with some serious competition. Venice is one of the cities in the world where it is important never to stint on luxury. Second best in Venice is almost always extremely bad value: better to bite the bullet and at least be totally, but totally satisfied. After a stroll around town and a visit to St Mark’s we returned to change in the Critti washrooms. The staff swooned when we emerged (well, trust me it was a transformation). We strode off to La Fenice where our friends were waiting.
Obligatory photos in front of the opera, a glass of champagne and then into the newly restored jewel box of a theatre. None of the singers was world famous but all were accomplished and the performance was totally enchanting. We slipped out to the waiting Cipriani launch and returned with our friends to a lovely dinner on the terrace with the most splendid view of St Mark’s. It is hard to imagine a more perfect day. A taxi boat picked us up at midnight and we raced back to the Jesolo (typically, the driver had his girl friend with him, and he clearly was in a rush to get us home – we made it in Ferrari time). We arrived at Punta Sabbioni, the trampess slipped off her stilettos and slipped on her flatties and we walked the 45 minutes back to the WLW. The indulgence of pudding having been removed by the post-prandial exercise. Venice has a way of forgiving all sin.
The tramp placed the WLW in a spot most distant from the entry to the site but right next to the entry to the beach. Placing the Smart required a little help – your trampess was struggling to push it into its home next to the WLW so enlisted the support of a very large Dutchman in the adjacent stellplatz. In the end it took the addition of a Norwegian and two Germans to roll the little beast into her home (its amazing how a slight incline can make one feel her full 800kg!). After a light lunch, we decided to go to into Venice.
In theory we could take a bus to Punta Sabbioni from where we could catch a vaporetto to St Mark’s via the Lido. We had just missed the bus so decided to walk the 3.5 km from the campsite to the point. As we made a small wrong turn on leaving the campsite, we walked along the beach to the harbour – only a few extra kms. As the tramp saw the boat coming in, he suggested to the trampess that perhaps, what with her marathon legs still running, that she might like to sprint ahead and make sure we didn’t miss the boat! This would not be the last time the tramp made such a suggestion and I can only say that it is no doubt one of the reasons why, even with outrageous indulgence in all the temptations Venice has to offer (beginning with Bellini’s), the trampess failed to gain weight. The boat having been caught, the tramp and trampess walked around the old familiar places – checked out the restaurant booked for dinner the next night and then walked to an old haunt. This turned out to be critical: the trampess had booked the Monaco terrace for dinner the following night, but as we passed it, two things became obvious: it had changed, and not for the better, and secondly the view of the Dogana and Santa Maria della Salute were ruined by the fact that both were under scaffolding. Not the romantic setting for dinner I had planned (our hosts for Tosca had said that they had never really eaten well in Venice and as old Venice hands we had to meet this challenge). On to Do Forni – down back allies and around corners. Many wonderful evenings over many years had been spent there both alone and with the children (they were thrilled that one of the waiters was called Donatello – not because they were enamoured of Renaissance sculpture but because, at the time, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was the rage – his status went up of course, being a tv star). Sadly Donatello was no longer there but many of the faces were still recognisable to us. Dinner was delicious so the tramp persuaded me to chat up the waiter for a table the next night. Of course, the tramp did not want any table. There was only one table that would do in the small room that was almost always inhabited by locals. I won’t mention that I was not dressed in a way that would have made me feel comfortable with this task (a cute Gap t-shirt dress and Nike plus running shoes are not the normal uniform for convincing Italians of any rank that one merits the best table in the restaurant) but your trampess conjured up memories and mentioned Donatello, all in Italian of course (it is no good trying to do this sort of magic in English) and lo and behold she was promised the table. The next day, better dressed and better coiffed, she re-confirmed the booking. The table was ours. Dinner was excellent and our guests claimed they had never eaten so well in Venice. (I am happy to report that a cri de coeur that went to a friend, with a Venetian fixer, confirmed the choice by email when we returned after dinner the first night).
The next day it was decided that we could not possibly go into Venice in the morning dressed for the opera. So, your trampess’s new evening dress was rolled up and put in her bag along with the stilettos that certainly would not make the country lane walk to Punta Sabbioni (especially since, as was the case the first day and every subsequent day, the bus never came). The tramp also refused to wear his evening shoes and suit the whole day: everything was put into a suit bag. So in the famous Gap dress and with the tramp in shorts, we arrived, as one does, at the Gritti terrace where we had booked lunch. Despite our outrageous attire, we were greeted with all the charm that Italians can muster; the tramp’s suit was hung up and a delicious lunch was produced. The day was perfect and nothing but nothing could have been more enjoyable than sitting in decadent splendour, eating perfectly cooked fish and enjoying a splendid afternoon. Even the view was less miserable than expected: the scaffolding on Santa Maria della Salute was somehow less offensive and the palazzo opposite which was being restored was nearly finished and could provide the Gritti with some serious competition. Venice is one of the cities in the world where it is important never to stint on luxury. Second best in Venice is almost always extremely bad value: better to bite the bullet and at least be totally, but totally satisfied. After a stroll around town and a visit to St Mark’s we returned to change in the Critti washrooms. The staff swooned when we emerged (well, trust me it was a transformation). We strode off to La Fenice where our friends were waiting.
Obligatory photos in front of the opera, a glass of champagne and then into the newly restored jewel box of a theatre. None of the singers was world famous but all were accomplished and the performance was totally enchanting. We slipped out to the waiting Cipriani launch and returned with our friends to a lovely dinner on the terrace with the most splendid view of St Mark’s. It is hard to imagine a more perfect day. A taxi boat picked us up at midnight and we raced back to the Jesolo (typically, the driver had his girl friend with him, and he clearly was in a rush to get us home – we made it in Ferrari time). We arrived at Punta Sabbioni, the trampess slipped off her stilettos and slipped on her flatties and we walked the 45 minutes back to the WLW. The indulgence of pudding having been removed by the post-prandial exercise. Venice has a way of forgiving all sin.
Monday, 2 June 2008
5 Star Camping in the Dolomites, an Unerring Sense of Direction, and a less than Perfect Sense of Distance
The road to Venice is a long one for a vehicle which is constrained in speed (70km/hr when towing – as we are our Smart cabriolet) and to the right lane only. For the tramp, born and bred a German which means with a God given right to go as fast as mechanically possible, this is quite a change. But he loves the WLW and her vast size (length and height – much like the tramp himself – not girth) gives him a sense of commanding the road which does not require speed as well (although it should be mentioned that when he was taking the first of his HGV tests, the examiner exclaimed, once they reached the motorway section of the hour long road test, “please, please, you have definitely passed, could you drive this a little more like a lorry and a little less like a sports car?!). So, it was decided to break the journey from Friedrichshafen (on Lake Constance), where Ryan Air deposited me, to Venice with a short stay in the Dolomites.
Driving on long, winding roads with a large vehicle and a trailer is not something one wants to do after dusk so we stopped at the first campsite we found as the sun began to set. The attendant on duty was playing catch with a football. He was not a teenager. Campsite attendants are not moving in the fast lane to Bundeskanzler. As usual the tramp sent the trampess out to register and ascertain where the WLW was to park for the night. My German is improving, albeit within a rather narrow vocabulary (power, electricity, water usw _as the Germans would say). It was a small campsite and somewhat hilly. As is often the case, we were the largest caravan on site, but we try not to worry about it and behave as though we are small and nimble. Furthermore, the terrain was challenging : we had to go around a corner and up a hill simultaneously. The gearbox was not up to the challenge. Several times the tramp tried; each time the WLW stalled. There was, of course, only one solution. By now, if you have followed me this far, you probably know what it was: the Smart and her trailer had to be de-coupled and moved (by combined tramp and trampess power) so that the WLW could mount the hill to her assigned place. Did I mention that it was raining? In the end, the Smart came off her trailer and slept by the WLW with only the trailer left in a field below. This meant that the next morning, all the pieces had to be put back together again. Unlike Humpty-Dumpty, this actually worked. It does make one sympathetic to the tramp’s desire to upgrade to a longer vehicle with a garage for the Smart. Later that night, while the trampess made supper, the tramp sent another series of emails outlining the clutch’s failure to perform – not a serious problem this time, but imagine having to go through such an exercise in the snow, or worse, having it happen on a long, winding, single lane, mountain road with much traffic – precisely the sort of road we would be on the next day. It did not make for a good night’s rest.
However, the road to Sexten and the 5 star campsite (yes they do exist and I can assure you, having now stayed at 2, they are different in a definitely better way, to the extent that a new law exists for the tramp family: 5 star or nothing – nothing meaning a charming stellplatz such as on the Mosel; in between is never worth it – except of course in emergencies when probably even being parked outside the stadium of a World Cup football match would reluctantly qualify as a resting place for the night, always assuming that the crowds would eventually leave) was uneventful. We had a choice of places in the premium area (even in a 5 star site, there are sub-divisions!) and managed to find a quiet spot facing a gurgling brook. Having hooked up to electricity and water (the water is what really makes it premium), we armed ourselves with walking maps and set out on a short walk.
It was on the trail that we discovered that even though most of the area is bilingual, and indeed our campsite was clearly German in name, ownership and outlook, this part of the Dolomites is clearly Italian. Unlike the Mosel, where one could have taken the walks simply by knowing which numbers to follow (without reference to a walking map and without ever, I mean ever, doubting which path to follow), here the opposite was true: the map did not describe what was happening on the ground (so to speak) nor did the route numbers correspond to the ones on the map. Worse actually, the same route number was often used on two distinctly different paths. The tramp, of course, being both male and generally most competent, assumed that when your trampess expressed some difficulty at knowing quite where we were, was exhibiting typical female difficulty with map reading. He should know his trampess better. When he was finally persuaded to look at the map himself, he declared we definitely were in Italy, the map made no sense at all. (I must make a small aside here; the tramp adores Italy, he adores the Italians, he believes that Italian food is the only food, but he also believes that the Italians exist on instinct, flexibility and imagination, not on structure, organisation and vision; Bismarck, in other words, could never in a million years have been born in Italy). After an hour or so of very pleasant but uncategorised walking, the tramp suggested we head back. There ensued some discussion as to which way was back. The tramp, being in retirement and determined to become more Buddha-like, agreed against all his instincts, to follow the trampess’s lead. He persisted (slightly against his Buddha self) in asking why the trampesss thought this was right and all explanations as to where the brook was, where the sun was and what the mountains looked like at various points along the way failed to convince him that the trampess really knew what she was doing. Just as he was about to insist that we retrace our steps, our WLW was visible through a gap in the trees. We Girl Scouts do not do lost.
The next day, emboldened by our success and the transcendent beauty of the landscape, and feeling in need of a real hike (4hours was the target), set out on a grade 4 hike to St. Elmo (notice the false sense of security created by the accuracy of both grading and expected time). The tramp has not done any serious hiking - by which I mean graded - but when they were explained to him, he was quite comfortable that I had chosen something which he could handle (after all it doesn’t start to get technical until the final grades of 5 and 6). Again, the instructions had us walk through the forest to the next village “where the path would be indicated” HA! And HA! Again. After some searching, and discussions with the locals, and finding out which of the surrounding mountains St Elmo was (there were, I assure you many to choose from), we set out on a trail behind a non-operating lift and indeed, eventually found the route number we were looking for. At a certain point it became clear that 4 hours was the estimated time to arrive not to go and return. We scaled down our objective (having brought only water and the odd banana) so as to get back in time for lunch. HA, HA and HA again.
The route numbers which I had memorised from the day before allegedly connected to the lower part of the route we were on. In fact I had observed some of the connections earlier in the day. I felt confident then, that if we walked in the right direction and towards the 13 via the 138 that we would arrive at the point we had started from. We kept seeing signs to the town that we thought we had long ago left behind. The tramp was sceptical that we were doing anything but going around in circles. I was confident we were going back but the tramp became increasingly concerned as the hour approached 2pm. I confess to being somewhat flummoxed by the signs but was confident we were progressing in the right direction (though scepticism is catching and the tramp is very logical and observant so one cannot override him cavalierly), and mirabile dictu shortly before 2 we reached the intersection that I had been praying we would (while I do have confidence in my sense of direction and ability to observe helpful landmarks, I do feel it never hurts to have a little gentle nudge, especially when feeling very hunger and somewhat anxious).
We now assumed we were only a few minutes from the campsite. We both remembered the spot we had just reached and recalled it being at the beginning of our outward trek. How wrong we were! After walking for some time, we became quite certain, that for whatever reason, we had overshot the mark – the path was not at all like the one we had been on in the morning and we seemed to have been walking on it too long. We decided to go off piste in the direction of the brook hoping to find our WLW just across it. So began an adventure – small paths over fallen trees and down steep gullies eventually led us to the brook but at a point where it took a bend and the water was wide and gushing fast. The tramp felt (feeling brave and no doubt hungry) that we could cross but was uncertain as to where we would be when we got to the other side. We decided to retrace our steps. As we reached the beloved 13, again, we encountered some other trekkers . They confirmed that the campsite was indeed to be reached by that path but that it was still farther ahead. By 3 we were once again inside the beloved WLW but not because the road led us to the spot we had started from!: two different paths shared the same number – only in Italy! (it is still a mystery as to how we left the path we had been on in the morning).
Soon, your trampess was once again cooking. Sadly the restaurant, reputed to be excellent, closed at 2. The walk had been splendid, truly splendid, but nothing worked according to instructions or numbers. When we return in August (the walk really was splendid), it will be after having mastered the GPS system that was such a focus of the tramp’s attention in Cologne. Nothing can be left to the imagination of Italian maps.
Driving on long, winding roads with a large vehicle and a trailer is not something one wants to do after dusk so we stopped at the first campsite we found as the sun began to set. The attendant on duty was playing catch with a football. He was not a teenager. Campsite attendants are not moving in the fast lane to Bundeskanzler. As usual the tramp sent the trampess out to register and ascertain where the WLW was to park for the night. My German is improving, albeit within a rather narrow vocabulary (power, electricity, water usw _as the Germans would say). It was a small campsite and somewhat hilly. As is often the case, we were the largest caravan on site, but we try not to worry about it and behave as though we are small and nimble. Furthermore, the terrain was challenging : we had to go around a corner and up a hill simultaneously. The gearbox was not up to the challenge. Several times the tramp tried; each time the WLW stalled. There was, of course, only one solution. By now, if you have followed me this far, you probably know what it was: the Smart and her trailer had to be de-coupled and moved (by combined tramp and trampess power) so that the WLW could mount the hill to her assigned place. Did I mention that it was raining? In the end, the Smart came off her trailer and slept by the WLW with only the trailer left in a field below. This meant that the next morning, all the pieces had to be put back together again. Unlike Humpty-Dumpty, this actually worked. It does make one sympathetic to the tramp’s desire to upgrade to a longer vehicle with a garage for the Smart. Later that night, while the trampess made supper, the tramp sent another series of emails outlining the clutch’s failure to perform – not a serious problem this time, but imagine having to go through such an exercise in the snow, or worse, having it happen on a long, winding, single lane, mountain road with much traffic – precisely the sort of road we would be on the next day. It did not make for a good night’s rest.
However, the road to Sexten and the 5 star campsite (yes they do exist and I can assure you, having now stayed at 2, they are different in a definitely better way, to the extent that a new law exists for the tramp family: 5 star or nothing – nothing meaning a charming stellplatz such as on the Mosel; in between is never worth it – except of course in emergencies when probably even being parked outside the stadium of a World Cup football match would reluctantly qualify as a resting place for the night, always assuming that the crowds would eventually leave) was uneventful. We had a choice of places in the premium area (even in a 5 star site, there are sub-divisions!) and managed to find a quiet spot facing a gurgling brook. Having hooked up to electricity and water (the water is what really makes it premium), we armed ourselves with walking maps and set out on a short walk.
It was on the trail that we discovered that even though most of the area is bilingual, and indeed our campsite was clearly German in name, ownership and outlook, this part of the Dolomites is clearly Italian. Unlike the Mosel, where one could have taken the walks simply by knowing which numbers to follow (without reference to a walking map and without ever, I mean ever, doubting which path to follow), here the opposite was true: the map did not describe what was happening on the ground (so to speak) nor did the route numbers correspond to the ones on the map. Worse actually, the same route number was often used on two distinctly different paths. The tramp, of course, being both male and generally most competent, assumed that when your trampess expressed some difficulty at knowing quite where we were, was exhibiting typical female difficulty with map reading. He should know his trampess better. When he was finally persuaded to look at the map himself, he declared we definitely were in Italy, the map made no sense at all. (I must make a small aside here; the tramp adores Italy, he adores the Italians, he believes that Italian food is the only food, but he also believes that the Italians exist on instinct, flexibility and imagination, not on structure, organisation and vision; Bismarck, in other words, could never in a million years have been born in Italy). After an hour or so of very pleasant but uncategorised walking, the tramp suggested we head back. There ensued some discussion as to which way was back. The tramp, being in retirement and determined to become more Buddha-like, agreed against all his instincts, to follow the trampess’s lead. He persisted (slightly against his Buddha self) in asking why the trampesss thought this was right and all explanations as to where the brook was, where the sun was and what the mountains looked like at various points along the way failed to convince him that the trampess really knew what she was doing. Just as he was about to insist that we retrace our steps, our WLW was visible through a gap in the trees. We Girl Scouts do not do lost.
The next day, emboldened by our success and the transcendent beauty of the landscape, and feeling in need of a real hike (4hours was the target), set out on a grade 4 hike to St. Elmo (notice the false sense of security created by the accuracy of both grading and expected time). The tramp has not done any serious hiking - by which I mean graded - but when they were explained to him, he was quite comfortable that I had chosen something which he could handle (after all it doesn’t start to get technical until the final grades of 5 and 6). Again, the instructions had us walk through the forest to the next village “where the path would be indicated” HA! And HA! Again. After some searching, and discussions with the locals, and finding out which of the surrounding mountains St Elmo was (there were, I assure you many to choose from), we set out on a trail behind a non-operating lift and indeed, eventually found the route number we were looking for. At a certain point it became clear that 4 hours was the estimated time to arrive not to go and return. We scaled down our objective (having brought only water and the odd banana) so as to get back in time for lunch. HA, HA and HA again.
The route numbers which I had memorised from the day before allegedly connected to the lower part of the route we were on. In fact I had observed some of the connections earlier in the day. I felt confident then, that if we walked in the right direction and towards the 13 via the 138 that we would arrive at the point we had started from. We kept seeing signs to the town that we thought we had long ago left behind. The tramp was sceptical that we were doing anything but going around in circles. I was confident we were going back but the tramp became increasingly concerned as the hour approached 2pm. I confess to being somewhat flummoxed by the signs but was confident we were progressing in the right direction (though scepticism is catching and the tramp is very logical and observant so one cannot override him cavalierly), and mirabile dictu shortly before 2 we reached the intersection that I had been praying we would (while I do have confidence in my sense of direction and ability to observe helpful landmarks, I do feel it never hurts to have a little gentle nudge, especially when feeling very hunger and somewhat anxious).
We now assumed we were only a few minutes from the campsite. We both remembered the spot we had just reached and recalled it being at the beginning of our outward trek. How wrong we were! After walking for some time, we became quite certain, that for whatever reason, we had overshot the mark – the path was not at all like the one we had been on in the morning and we seemed to have been walking on it too long. We decided to go off piste in the direction of the brook hoping to find our WLW just across it. So began an adventure – small paths over fallen trees and down steep gullies eventually led us to the brook but at a point where it took a bend and the water was wide and gushing fast. The tramp felt (feeling brave and no doubt hungry) that we could cross but was uncertain as to where we would be when we got to the other side. We decided to retrace our steps. As we reached the beloved 13, again, we encountered some other trekkers . They confirmed that the campsite was indeed to be reached by that path but that it was still farther ahead. By 3 we were once again inside the beloved WLW but not because the road led us to the spot we had started from!: two different paths shared the same number – only in Italy! (it is still a mystery as to how we left the path we had been on in the morning).
Soon, your trampess was once again cooking. Sadly the restaurant, reputed to be excellent, closed at 2. The walk had been splendid, truly splendid, but nothing worked according to instructions or numbers. When we return in August (the walk really was splendid), it will be after having mastered the GPS system that was such a focus of the tramp’s attention in Cologne. Nothing can be left to the imagination of Italian maps.
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