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.
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