Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Europe
In a way this story starts 2 days earlier. We popped out to the pub for
a drink when Husband suddenly realised he had left his wallet at home, so we
did a quick u-turn and went back home. This handy as water was dripping through
the kitchen ceiling and forming a puddle in the kitchen. A quick investigation
identified that the loo cistern had taken it upon itself to start leaking. Had
we not needed a quick return home, the damage could have been extensive,
including the risk of electrical fire due to water getting into the wiring
above the kitchen ceiling. There wasn’t time to get a plumber sorted, so we
turned the cistern water off.
I worked at home the next day – primarily to allow as much time as
possible for final packing and preparations. It was a warm day so I had a
number of windows open – which then decided not to close properly. Perfect
timing for the house to start behaving badly.
We didn’t pack the car that evening, half expecting that with our
current luck someone would either steal it or break into it and take the
contents. So we rose early on Saturday and just about crammed everything into
the tiny boot, much of which was taken up by the tent and associated camping
gear leaving precious little room for clothes.
We had an uneventful drive to the tunnel, arriving with enough time to
get allocated to an earlier train as well as stop for coffee and breakfast at
the departure terminal – despite the carefully orchestrated car park chaos
whereby all entrances into the car park, bar one were closed off. This resulted
in a long queue to get in, not helped by current parked occupants trying to
leave as their departure had been summoned. Seeing this mayhem unfurl, we went
some way in to the car park in order to park away from the entering queue in
the hope that this would make our departure simple and swift. And it did.
We joined the queue for UK passport control where the man (having
established there were was no one but us in the two seater car) said to us,
very seriously, were we aware of Section 392 of the Road Traffic Act. Husband
said he was sure he was, but could the man remind us anyway. Whereupon he
imparted the information that it was the law that if you drove a soft top you
had to have the roof down. We smiled, slightly surprised by the fact that a
passport control person had a sense of humour, and duly complied.
It was fortunate that we were on an earlier train as an unexpected lack
of capacity has caused some delays and not all the people booked onto the
previous service had been able to board. When we were finally loaded the
unexpected incapacity issue became clear. We were in lorry carriages rather
than double decker car one – immediately halving the number of cars which could
be taken. In the event, our allocation to the 10.06 train proved fortuitous as
it finally left at 10.35 (our original booking was for the 10.40). So broadly
speaking, despite delays, we were on time.
Once France we directed ourselves towards Belgium, inhaling the stench
of rich slurry rising off the surrounding fields. We passed a large processing
plant and I wondered if this was dealing with manure or sewage – but right next
to it was a Coca Cola factory. That’s where coke gets its brown colour from, I
concluded.
Amusing town names appeared on the road signs – Manage, Spy, Champion
and – our personal favourite – Wierde.
It was hot. Very hot. The sort of hot where you can feel your skin burn
and crisp. Too hot for being in an open top car really. We slathered on sun
cream, and I wrapped a snood around me to limit the risk of sunburn. When we
stopped for fuel Husband armed himself with a cold drink – the water in the car
was getting warm. He passed me the can for a sip. I looked at the can to see
what the drink was – fruit flavoured wheat beer. Beer! I thought, while
driving. Husband said it was alcohol free, but I saw on the can that it was 2%
ABV. Admittedly that’s pretty low alcohol but Husband decided it was probably
best if I drank the rest of it. Apparently this had been the least alcoholic
drink available in the petrol station fridge.
We arrived in the pretty town of Durbuy around 4pm and after
negotiating the one way system and car parking, were able to dump the car and check
into our hotel. It was still hot and the air felt thick and close. I was far
too over dressed, but we had brought such limited quantity of clothing – due to
boot space limitations – that changing and sweating into something cooler
wasn’t really an option. Having checked in, we immediately left for Nurburgring
Nordschliefe. In our initial plans at home, Husband had estimated this as being
a 150 mile round trip and around an hour to an hour and half each way. We
loaded it into the sat nav, which confidently assured us it was two and a half
hours each way.
The situation here was that you could do a tourist drive of the 14km
Nordshliefe ring, which we had booked for a mere €29. However, standard car
insurance doesn’t cover this and we had therefore decided it would be sensible
to take out track day insurance – mainly in case of collision with someone else
or damage to the Armco for which we would be charged. This cost £167. While we
were happy to wave goodbye to the circuit cost, the car insurance fees meant that
– despite the journey being longer than anticipated – we had to go for it.
There is not a very direct road between Durbuy and Nurburg, so we wound
our way through towns, countryside and slightly irritating road closures and
road changes with no accompanying re-direction assistance. Occasionally the sat
nav wanted to take us off in very peculiar directions and a circuitous route.
We pressed on. After a while big fat rain drops started to fall. We pulled over
to put the lid up. But getting wet was not the only concern. It had been dry
for days. The Nordschliefe ring is notorious for being like an ice rink when
wet, and the first rain for a few days would probably make it particularly
treacherous.
Finally we arrived. However, it was not at all clear where the entrance
was. Was drove past Nurburging where numerous cars, and flat bed truck with
souped up vehicles were lined up. This all looked rather serious. Having passed
the track, we turned round at a fuel station which was filled with half naked,
cap wearing young men in pimped vehicles with heavy duty spoilers and which
backfired like gun shots as they pulled away. The idea of Nordschliefe is that
you drive it like a road, rather than a race track. These kids were not of that
mind and I was starting to worry.
There is a webcam which covers the entrance and Husband had a friend
back in the UK who watched this – having driven the circuit himself previously.
Husband had texted him to enquire about the way in. The friend commented that
there had been no movement at the entrance for quite a while, indicating the
track was closed or there had been some incident.
After driving up and down a few times, and going for one entry where it
was made clear we weren’t supposed to be, we finally found a helpful young man who
directed us to the correct place. The double gates by the entrance had one side
closed. We went to the other side, whereupon a loud alarm sounded causing us to
hurriedly reverse back – although this wasn’t a totally easy manoeuvre. We
parked and Husband when to investigate. Someone had had an accident. It wasn’t
clear when, but it is possible that the recent rain (it was now sunny again)
had played a part.
A short while later, all the waiting cars started to leave. It was now
7pm and the circuit closed at 7.30. With the likelihood of doing a lap now
gone, we raced back to Belgium. This literally was a race. It was night on
impossible to effectively shield Alfi’s headlights, so we needed to get back
before the sun set.
The sat nav took us back a slightly different, but equally long way
back. As we rushed along an empty country road we saw a fence across the road,
and a closed sign. Typical. To our right was another road, and with the power
of google maps I navigated us around the closure and back on track. Husband had
ponded stopping for dinner on the way back, but I suggested keeping going to
make the most of the daylight. In the event this options wouldn’t have been
possible anyway. Germany was asleep – all the towns were passed through were
silent and seemed empty. No one was around, no bars or restaurants had any
occupants.
We kept our lights off for as long as possible, but finally had to have
them on as the sun disappeared over the horizon. We got back to Durbuy at 9.15
after over 5 hours of unnecessary journey. It was definitely time for a well
earned beer and food after the days travel through 4 different countries.
We settled on a venue and were attended to by an initially gruff
waiter. As sat outside, I saw occasional bright flashes of light in the sky.
After a few minutes, we heard the heavy rumble of thunder. And then the rain
started. The restaurant put out the canopy over the outside tables. It didn’t
reach as far as us to we moved inward, to a recently vacated table nearer to
the building. The rain became torrential and was splashing against my back,
which was barely under the edge of the canpy. So we moved the table inward a
bit. The noise suddenly increased and we realised that it was now hailing –
this seemed very odd given how warm it still was.
During this downpour, the waiter started to warm to us. Perhaps due to
our hardy souls being unfazed by the weather. He brought out our moules, which
were delicious and swimming in a surprisingly delicious cream sauce – which was
boiling. Even after several minutes of eating, the sauce did not cool. However,
it was scrummy and we were hungry so we scooped it up with our spoons. When the
waiter cleared the table he seemed surprised that we had eaten it all. All
washed down with a couple of bottles of good Belgian beer. It was like being at
Au Trappiste in Paris.
Although the rain and hail eased, the flashes of lightening continued
as the storm moved on. It was akin to a display of northern lights as the
bright flashes rippled across the sky.
Seeing as how we had that ‘in Paris’ vibe, we had flambee crepe for
pudding. Husband went for the Norwegian crepe, which contained cream and ice
cream and was also flambéed. Set fire to ice cream, I mused, surely that will
be messy. Surprisingly, it worked rather well and the frozen state of the ice
cream remained untroubled by the experience.
We waited for a break in the rain, and then returned to the hotel via a
short walk around the pedestrianised cobbled streets of the town.
Our hotel room was boiling, partly because it was hot weather and
partly because there was a fridge in the room which acted as a heater.
The following day we set off for the race at Spa. Naturally there was a
road closure on the way and another, un-signposted, diversion. However, there
was a gradual build up in traffic so we followed other cars with reasonable
confidence and were soon back on track. We drove through the quiet, lush and
hilly countryside and through the pretty thermal spring town of Spa before
joining the inevitable queue of traffic. It seemed wonderfully badly organised.
Some people were parking on the road side, while we slowly crawled onward.
Before long we could hear the distant hum of racing cars, presumably from the
GP2 race. It took a while to get to our designated parking area which was
crammed onto a steep slope. We were pleased not to be in some of the spots that
cars had been asked to park in.
It was a short walk through the cool of the woods to the circuit, where
we joined the queue for ticket and bag checks before furnishing ourselves with
a cooling beer in the F1 village. We had been updated to weekend tickets, but
this information came too late to make use of, as we had already booked our
travel arrangements.
There was a nice feeling to the circuit. The village was crammed but
friendly, offering spectacular views of the Eau Rouge corner – which is far
steeper and hillier than TV shows. The portaloos were, like Hungary, little
more than a seated opening over a large pool of horror with unmentionable floating
around on the surface. To add to the amusement, as there was little flat space
at Spa, they were on a slope which meant that the urinal facility in the
portaloo didn’t completely run into the pool of doom in the intended manner.
We walked under the track and on a rather pleasant stroll through wood
and stream countryside, passing the Porsche racing team paddock where they
rather brilliantly had an inflatable sofa, to our stand over by the chicane
which we were pleased to see was undercover, and thereby would provide us with
some relief from the sun. After the driver’s parade we went in search of the
nearest loo. This proved to be more of a sweat inducing frustrating challenge
than we had anticipated. The row of portaloos was about 200m along a narrow path
on the slopes above our stand. However, on one side of the path hundreds of
general admission fans had set up camp, their chairs generally encroaching onto
the narrow path. On the other side, in the steeply rising woods, hundreds more
perched perilously on every available space and rocky outcrop, even digging in
flat areas so that they could perch a chair. To add to the chaos, food stalls
were also set up along the now largely populated path. There was therefore a
reasonable section of the path which was only about 1 person wide, but needed
to accommodate the queue for food, the travel of traffic towards the loo and
the travel of traffic coming back. There was no point politely waiting to get
through. This needed aggression and determination – and much shoving of the
people who had seen fit to put their chairs on the path itself.
Fans were crammed in everywhere. It was incredible, if frustrating to
navigate. We returned to our stand and cooled down from the experience in the
light breeze that passed over us, determining not to use that portaloo again.
The race began. While we had a TV screen in front of the stand, there
was little information or loud speaker commentary. There was, however, a
substantial Dutch presence and every time Max Verstappen went past, orange
smoke flares were set off. This soon stopped though after he rapidly lost the
benefit of his front line pole position. From our seats we could see the crowds
perched equally perilously on the steep banks just after Eau Rouge. So we saw
the plume of smoke and dust when Magnussen crashed into the barriers. After the
red flag to clear the debris the race settled into its inevitable order to
which we have all become accustomed. But it was Rosberg who led in the silver
arrow rather than Hamilton. We didn’t mind this – partly because I support
Ferrari and Husband supports Williams and partly because Lewis Hamilton comes
across as such a self centred, spoilt, arrogant man spouting forth the words of
his PR team rather than anything from the heart, that we would rather see
Rosberg win over him any day of the week.
As the race came to its end and Rosberg passed us to go round the final
corner and take the win the crowds started gathering near the fences, getting
ready to be released onto the track for the podium presentation.
Anticipating traffic issues getting out – based on our experience
getting in – we decided to scurry off. We went back through the woods, passing
the Porsche racing team paddock where the inflatable sofa had had its bung
removed and was now in a state of semi collapse.
Going back under the track at Eau Rouge we could see dozens of people
walking along the track, around that famous corner. We pondered doing it, but
it was a beastly hot day and in the end, it was just a tarmac hill which was
now so covered in people that it was unclear what sort of view or impression
you would get of the driver experience.
In the FI village an oom pah band was playing, livening up the crowd
and creating a fun party atmosphere, setting a totally different tone to the
not insignificant number of heavily armed police who were strategically
positioned around the site.
Once out of the circuit we walked back through the undulating woods
towards our hillside car park, Husband striding up the hills at a pace which I
struggled to keep up with.
It was a straightforward drive back, with broadly no traffic. Our
original plan had been to stay somewhere so that we would be heading back in a
different direction to any travelling Brits or indeed other European fans.
Consequently, our route back to Durbuy did not involve a motorway. When we
passed over the top of the motorway we smiled smugly at the sight of the 3
lanes of stationary vehicles. The route back again brought us to the closed
road, but the (un-signposted) diversion we took round it seemed to be different
from what we had done that morning. Perhaps it was a different road closure.
They certainly seemed to like them around these parts.
We arrived back at Durbuy with time for drinks before dinner. Total
travel for the day was 69 miles in travel time of 3 hours and 36 minutes (a
reasonable amount of which has been in very slow moving traffic). Husband had
been drawn to a place called Fever Tree – primarily, I suspect, because of his
liking for Fever Tree tonic. But the venue was also imaginatively arranged, the
tables and surrounding stools made from huge hunks of tree trunk, which slices
of tree trunk used for the flat surfaces. However, this is where the delight of
the place ended. The service was staggeringly slow. If you had arrived there
with malaria and in need of quinine, then you would almost certainly die before
anyone attended to you. Husband reminisced fondly of the UK system whereby you
go to the bar, order a drink and then sit down rather than the European
craziness of taking a seat and hoping that eventually someone will notice you
and have the decency to serve you. Eventually a man came over to take our
order. But it would have been foolish of us to think that we were now on the
server’s map. No drinks appeared. For some time. Eventually we caught the eye
of the man who had served us (the vast number of servers were all spectacularly
blinkered and oblivious to the attempts of customers to get their attention).
He gave us a look that indicated he had forgotten about us. This did not result
in anything being hurried up. Finally drinks arrived, at least 20 minutes after
we had first sat down and we immediately asked for the bill in case this took
an equivalent length of time.
We returned to the hotel to change. The room was still boiling. The
fridge plug was secured into place with a cable tie, but Husband used our nail
clippers to snip this off and unplugged the fridge. I wondered whether it was
secured on the plug to stop people stealing the fridge but Husband suspected
that when people check out, the staff might notice if they had tucked a fridge
under their arm.
We took the cable tie with us when we went out, to throw away in a
different bin somewhere in town so that the cleaners wouldn’t know or suspect
what we had done – in the event they either noticed or cared. We had a brief
wander around the town before exploring the huddle of narrow, quiet alleyways
in search of dinner. We went round once feeling generally uninspired, and then
repeated our travels. Husband had changed into shoes which were usually
comfortable, but his feet had swelled in the heat and he could now feel
blisters forming, so I wanted to find a dinner venue sooner rather than later.
Before long we found somewhere with the correct combination of
atmosphere and menu interest and who could accommodate us. A basket of bread
was brought out, which we quickly devoured. The empty basket was taken away
accompanied by a French grunt which indicated that perhaps we should have
waited until the food arrived before we ate the bread. We had steak and chips
for main course, and when it was delivered, wondered if we should have order
some veg as we tucked in heartily. The waitress re-appeared with a gravy boat
of sauce, which I had completely forgotten was referenced on the menu. Then she
came back again with a large bowl of fresh salad. We started to wonder if she
will keep bringing us food, even after we have finished the meal.
The steak knife was terrifyingly sharp, slicing through the meat with
little more than a touch. Surprisingly – for a steak knife – it wasn’t
serrated. Just as I was admiring its sharpness I realised that I was using it
upside down!
Thoroughly replete, we returned to the hotel for coffee – the room was
provided with a complicated coffee machine which included no instructions, or
cups. The previous day Husband had asked for cups and the staff member also
came up to show him how the machine worked. The empty cups left in our room and
cleared away that morning left no clue to the chamber maids that perhaps a new
set of cups might be required.
It was a cooler night, possibly because we had unplugged the fridge. It
was still cool in the morning, with a light drizzle as we set off for Belfort.
Today would only be a three country day. As we crossed the border into, and
subsequently out of Luxembourg we went through the old border controls, with
squat single storey civic buildings that seemed to be the blue print for all
border checkpoints. It was a matter of interest and curiosity that despite the
Shengen agreement, these old checkpoints had not been dismantled. Instead they
remained there as ghostly reminders of the past, but still maintained and able
to be brought back into use at any time. It was as though the nations of Europe
didn’t completely believe that the free movement would be forever. Most of the
countries we were passing through still retained this acknowledged ability to
raise the drawbridge around their perimeter.
As we drove through France we became aware that the champagne region
and Ardennes region were broadly the same area. In a Corney and Barrow wine
tasting event we had been advised that if ever you were uncertain about what
wine to pair with what food, the general rule of thumb was to have a wine which
came from the same region as the food you were presenting as the flavours would
be likely to complement each other. Therefore, we concluded, champagne should
surely be dunk accompanied by Ardennes pate on toast and rather wondered why
this was not a common menu feature.
As we travelled down the motorway we passed a Renault F1 team lorry,
presumably on its way to Monza – as we were we but in a more circuitous route.
We saw no other F1 lorries so either Renault had left much earlier, or much
later, than the other teams or was going by a totally different route.
France has a substantial quantity of large, flat, open countryside and
farmland, bearing the modern day scar lines of motorways cutting through it. As
we looked across these wide expanses Husband wondered if there was a way of
knowing the various troop movements that had happened across any given area of
land – going right back to Roman, Prussian and Napoleonic times as well as more
recent 20th century aggressions. He wondered whether there was any
reasonably sized chunk of western Europe which had never been subject to being
fought upon or marched across, anywhere which had only ever known peace.
The journey became tiring, and the motorway turned into a tediously
busy road which interchanged between single and dual carriageway. We had hoped
to take the road across the hills north of Belfort and stop for a break at the
summit of Ballon d’Alsace but the road layout was now a little different to our
10 year old Europe map and the sat nav lady was intending on taking us the
fastest rather than the scenic way, so I realised too late that we had missed
the turning. While we could still get onto the hills, it would now involve
extending the drive so we decided to carry on to Belfort. We were staying at
the same hotel we had found by accident in 2012. Back then, the walls of this
town house were crammed with the interesting art work of the owner. Now there
was much less. He no longer painted it seemed. We went to our room – bizarrely
the very same room we had had when we last stayed.
We still had our town map from when we last stayed, and using this,
wandered into town. At our last visit we had found a very nice bar and followed
this up with a spectacular dinner at Boeuf Carotes. The centre of town was now
slightly changed. The main square was more pedestrianised which meant the car
promenading (which still went on) needed to follow a longer route around town.
However, our corner bar was currently closed for refurbishment and other
options were limited.
After a quick circuit of the square we settled in a bar, and enjoyed
the afternoon sun over a drink or two. For variety I had a pamplemousse rose.
We watched the car promenading with amusement. Even heavily armed
police and military did the obligatory slow drive along the narrow roads around
the square, as well as people trying to casually look as though they actually
had somewhere to go rather than just show off.
No nibbles were provided with the drinks, nor where there any available
to buy and after a while I was starting to feel a bit woozy. Husband wondered
what kind of bar this was, not even having crisps or nuts. The only food
available was pudding. And this seemed a general theme. Tarts and ice cream
galore was available at nearby establishments, but a request for a plate of
chips raised eyebrows and required us to sit in the restaurant area – which we
didn’t do as it seemed a bit overkill just for chips.
It was a Monday which meant that France was broadly closed. The few
places that were threatening to serve dinner didn’t open until later. The large
and reasonably busy square had no open restaurants on it at all which seemed
like a poor marketing decision.
So to kill time we decided to walk up the hill to the impressive fort
which looms over the town. As we climbed, we saw that large statue of the Lion
of Belfort. Also, from our vantage point outside the walls of the fort it was
clear that Belfort sat in a dip, surrounded by a robust defence system aided by
the natural protection of substantial hills. The information boards indicated
that Belfort had held off against the Prussians, and continued to do so even
after the French government had agreed a ceasefire. This seemed very un-French.
We came back down, passing the old barracks which were now used by the police.
We could hear the men inside, and smell wafts of dinner. The building also
included cells and the entrance included detailed instructions for visitors to
those incarcerated inside.
As we had a final drink while waiting for the restaurants to open we
decided Italy was definitely the country for us. You wouldn’t have this problem
there. The Germans, of course, would all be in bed by 7pm. The French seem to
drink all day and either eat very late or not at all.
Finally we went for dinner. Husband asked for a local beer and the
waitress tried to make out that Kronenburg 1664 was a local beer. Admittedly
the town of Kronenburg was nearby but I don’t think she had understood the
thrust of what had been asked. I ordered a half bottle of white wine to
accompany my steak and chips. Apparently there was none left so she offered by
a half bottle of red instead, which was her favourite and, as she pointed out,
I was eating meat rather than fish. I suspected that there was plenty of white
but that she wasn’t going to have English people upsetting her standards.
We heard the microwave ping and Husband joked that our dinner was being
prepared. When the waitress took away the plates from our starters, she
returned the used cutlery to the table. This was certainly an interesting
venue.
Dinner complete, we returned to the hotel and had a good night’s sleep.
The following morning we had the breakfast we remembered of a substantial
basket of bread and brioche accompanied by home made conserves, jug of coffee
and milk served in a cow jug. We found out that Boeuf Carotes was still in
existence, but was only closed because it was Monday. This was excellent news
and Belfort had redeemed itself and could retain its place as one of our
preferred destinations.
Husband pondered taking Alfi on the central square promenade, but I
thought that rather than get stuck in a rush hour one way system, it may be
better to set off in earnest for Solda. Much of the drive was along dull
motorways through Switzerland. As Switzerland inconveniently doesn’t use Euros,
we had already decided to avoid stopping there if possible.
The roads around Basel were wonderfully complex and afforded us a view
of what is hopefully the least attractive, industrial part of the city. As we
approached Zurich we started to get more interesting views of the lake and
surrounding mountains. And the tunnels began. Some short, some long, but masses
of them. Switzerland were probably the boring champions of Europe.
As we left behind the larger cities and off the motorway, the road
started to climb. Obediently following sat nav, we turned off. I looked at the
map. Even taking into account the 10 year out of dateness of the map, this
didn’t seem right. We were led to the entry point for the car train up the
mountain. Husband said that this wasn’t right, we were scheduled to do the
mountain train the next day. However, there was no way out. Other than turning
round, going back out of the one way entrance and entering the roundabout from
an exit only road. Fortunately there was no one else around, but this didn’t
stop Husband from finding the experience a little unnerving and dangerous. If
anyone had been about, hopefully we could have brushed it off on the excuse of
being a craze Englander.
We carried on up Fluelepass to Davos, passing through some perilous
roadworks, taking place on the edge of the road above a reasonably substantial
drop over the valley below. As we climbed the air cooled and the traffic
reduced. It was quite, bar the occasional jangle of bells. On the surrounding
mountain peaks we could see small scraps of snow still lingering, and which
presumably never melt.
As the 2382m summit of the pass we stopped to buy a sticker. There are
some other cars here and a number of bikers, some bearing English number plates.
From there, we headed on to Ofenpass to the pretty town of Davos. Here we had a
choice. We could take the longer, flatter road round to our destination of
Solda, or we could go up Umbrailpass, onto Stelvio pass and then drop down to
Solda. We chose the latter. By reference to former posts on the Anonymous blog
we subsequently discovered that we had done the longer route in 2008 when we
last tried to go over Stelvio. Neither of us had any recollection of having
been through Davos before, and indeed would have strongly attested if
challenged that we had never been here before in our lives. It had started
lightly raining so we needed to put up Alfi’s rood and then headed up the pass
to its 2501m summit. Husband clearly enjoyed this road. It was narrow which was
barely wide enough for two car widths and the switchbacks happened with such
frequency that the road barely straightened out between them and I started to
feel a little dizzy. Fortunately, given the narrowness of the road, there was
very little car traffic – in either direction. There was however a reasonable
number of bikers and cyclists. I was unclear of the joy that was provided by
such extreme hill cycling. It was presumably considerable pain going up, and
life threatening terror coming down. We made a note to self to find the Top
Gear greatest driving road in the world episode, which had concluded that Davos
to Stelvio was the winner, to see if they had come up this pass.
We kept climbing, steeply, towards a clear blue sky as the valley fell
away behind us, the air around bathed in the standard mountain pass aroma of
burning brakes and clutches to which we start contributing.
The landscape changed as we climbed, moving from a tree laden, grassy
hillside to a tougher, barren terrain. Finally we reach the top and turn onto
Stelvio pass, near its summit. We saw a cyclist waiting at a bus stop and Husband
commented that if he was cycling over a mountain he too would be inclined to
stop and catch a bus instead.
The summit of Stelvio was busy, packed with bikers. As we came over the
top we saw the road snaking down the slopes below us. Husband seemed intent on
racing down and was surprised that I hadn’t closed my eyes. He let a BMW pass
us as it was much faster on the straights and then seemed determined to keep up
with it, so was smugly pleased when he saw it had pulled over lower down the
hillside. Husband concluded that as it was such a heavy car and had been going
fast on the straights, it had burned its brakes out trying to bringing the
speed down on the corners.
The hair pins never seemed to end and the sat nav looked like a child’s
scribble, but the straight sections between them did start to lengthen. We were
still high, which Husband commented on when we turned a corner and on the hill
drop side next to him were the tops of reasonably tall trees.
Eventually we came down into a lush wooded valley which looked
remarkably similar to the further point we had managed to get to in our
previous attempt. But still the road fell away behind us, and it rather
surprised us how far we had managed to climb in 2008 when the road was thick
with ice and snow.
We continued on to Solda which was clearly a town aimed at the ski
market. Although there were plenty of walks in the area, the place was largely
empty. It was a definitely out of season. We found our hotel at the far end of
town and checked in. Total drive for the day was 257 miles over 5.41 hours. It
had been a good day for Alfi to have been treated to a tank of V-power 100
octane fuel.
The hotel was a 1970’s throwback, with much wood panelling. Our room
was substantial and had a brown tiled bathroom. This seemed odd but Husband
suggested that if you had been skiing all day, the last thing you want to look
at is white.
We went in search of beer and food in the sleepy town. When the
proprietor saw us heading out he asked if we were going for a walk. Yes, we
replied. So he helpfully gave us a map. I looked at it. This wasn’t (as I had
expected) a town map, but rather a detailed guide to local mountain walks. That
wasn’t quite the walk we had meant. And he surely couldn’t have thought it was,
given that we were not dressed for significant hill wandering.
We were, however, reasonably well covered. It was cool here. We hadn’t
really packed for cool, so were wearing our F1 jackets to give extra padding.
There was a bar more or less opposite the hotel, which we headed
towards. Despite being just inside the border of Italy, the prominent language
and feel of the place was German. The bar reminded me of the film Noi the
Albino. It seemed to be largely occupied by locals, as a social gathering place
in the absence of anything else to do locally.
We walked into town, via the pathway through the woods, along the side
of the river. This was not only shorter than following the road, but also very
pleasant. A swing had been built out of wood and was accompanied by
instructions to lie on it your belly and gently swing or rotate to bring peace
and tranquillity. We tried it, and it was quite fun and peaceful – but you
needed to get the motion right to avoid bringing on feelings of dizziness and
nausea instead. There was also a hunk of wood affixed to springs for you to stand
and balance, presumably to practice snow board skills. We were rubbish.
As we arrived into town there was a small church which we went into. It
was small and pretty, and surrounded by graves – some of which seemed to have
recently been provided with occupants. There was a poignant war memorial,
displaying a wooden cross with a tin helmet perched on top and a list of names
for the 1914-18 war which had worryingly similar surnames to those listed for
the 1935045 war. Fathers and sons lost. It seemed unthinkable that men from
this quiet, peaceful valley were thrust into the noise and chaos of war.
The town of Solda is largely comprised of hotels and presumably heaving
in ski season – less so in walking season. Husband was amused by the hostelry
named Villa Fanny. The small church beat out time mournfully across the valley
at regular intervals.
The centre of town was just as quiet but we did see a bar with people
sitting outside and, more excitingly, a sign claiming that their pizzeria
opened at 5.30 and restaurant at 6. This seemed ideal, so we furnished
ourselves with a beer and passed the time. Gradually small groups of walkers
started to return. Not so many as to indicate that a lively night was imminent.
We were the first into the restaurant and sat in a corner table. The
next couple in sat in another corner. The third party sat in a third corner. It
was starting to look as though we all wanted to sit as far away from each other
as possible. Once all the corners were filled it was interesting to see which
of us the next party would choose to sit near. They plonked themselves next to
us without a moment’s hesitation thereby making us the winners of the
popularity contest that no one else knew was being played.
We rounded the meal off with a shared portion of apple strudel and
reminisced over ‘Heidi’ from our Bavarian trip, and how delicious the apple
strudel she served us had been. Perhaps its deliciousness was enhanced by the
fact that we had just walked several miles across the mountains and were very hungry.
In any other context, it may have been pretty ordinary.
On the walk back as we cross the fast flowing water in the stream tumbling
off the mountains we noticed a small wooden model in the water. It was of a man
holding onto and furiously turning a water wheel. The wheel was of course being
turned by the torrent of water, which consequently tossed the small ‘turning’
man around in a frantic manner. It was a remarkably effective bit of fun.
The following day we woke to stunning mountain scenery, with the
sunlight shining brightly off the snow capped peaks above the valley, and we
now had a chance to properly appreciate our surroundings.
We left early to go back up the Stelvio pass. Our weather forecast
check had indicated that it would be fine until around noon and then start
clouding over. When we mentioned this to the hotel proprietor he disagreed and
considered that it would be fine weather, all day. It struck me as odd that
someone who lives in the mountains and appreciates how quickly weather can
change, particularly on summits, was so convinced. But we still left early, as
planned.
The pass in the morning was wonderfully quiet which allowed us the
opportunity to stop in a couple of the larger hairpins to take photos. After a
while we found ourselves behind a lorry laden with rock who would get part way
round the corners, then need to reverse back a bit before being able to carry
on. Husband concluded that the driver must have the patience of a saint – after
also being amused at the concept of taking rocks up a mountain.
I needed to keep an eye out on any traffic that was coming down, after
we came alarmingly face to face with a couple of vehicles who weren’t expecting
upward traffic, and for this hill, ideally you want to maintain a good forward
thrust on the turns rather than needing to screech to a halt and then get going
again.
As we gained height we started to move beyond the reach of the trees
and into the rocky terrain. There was still snow on some of the peaks, which
presumably never melts. We reached the summit which was wonderfully quiet and
empty. The tourist shops were still in the process of opening up. There was an
option to walk up a reasonably serious looking hill to a small building at the
top. We looked at it, and decided against it. Later we found out at that up
this hill there was access to old wartime trenches. Next time then!
T shirts on the summit stalls referenced Stelvio’s 39 +48 bends of
adrenaline.
After a few minutes admiring the view we dropped down the other side
towards Bormeo. As we passed the top of Umbrailpass, there was the tinkle of
cow bells from a herd grazing by the roadside. The ribbon of road tumbled
haphazardly down the valley below us, running in and out of short lengths of
tunnel in the rock face. There was more industry this side, pylons and
hydroelectric stations garnering energy from the thunderous waterfalls.
We saw a small section of the old road – narrower and with considerably
more frequent switchbacks as we made our descent. The galleries punched through
the mountainside sometimes became single lane without warning and were like
driving through dripping dungeons.
Cyclists were starting to climb the pass, slowly and painfully.
The car made a beep and a message appeared on the dashboard. The VDC
had stopped working. I foraged through the manual to find out what this was –
it was the thing which helps with grip when the tyres are under pressure and to
give the right torque on hills. We hoped that this was due to rather warm
clutch and brakes and would resolve once Alfi had cooled down. When I
referenced this incident on facebook, a friend of Husband’s suggested removing
the dashboard bulbs, and said that this had solved all the issues with his
Alfa.
As we neared the town, a line of small traffic cones appeared in the
middle of the road, and ahead of us we saw a man on a motorised device,
dropping cones behind him while the device re-painted the white lines ahead. It
was a rather brilliant thing.
We arrived in Bormeo and sought out our hotel. Bormeo immediately
seemed busier, livelier, more Italian and considerably warmer than Solda, just
the other side of the pass, had been.
Our room was fabulous, with a geranium lined balcony that wrapped
around the corner affording us fabulous views over the town.
Bormeo is a thermal area and there were two spas just out of town,
Bagni Vecchi and Bagni Nuovi. We opted for Vecchi. On the directions map
provided by the hotel it had the appearance of being just at the edge of town,
and I initially suggested walking – to give the car more time to cool. But Husband
thought we should drive, so we did. And it was a good decision. The spa was
some way out of town, indeed we were starting to climb back up the pass. Fortunately
Alfi had decided that the VDC failure was no longer present.
Finally we came to the baths, nestling in the crook of the slopes.
There was a Victorian sanitarium feel to the entrance and changing rooms area –
long, high ceilinged black and white floored tiled corridors with frosted
windowed wooden doors leading to who knows where, and rubber soled white
dressed staff quietly going about their business.
The first set of baths we went into included an underground dimly lit
tunnel. Beyond this was a small, deep frigidarium plunge pool. I climbed the
steps, perched on the edge, held the rail on the wall next to me and then
dropped in and immediately lifted myself out. It was freezing and fabulously
invigorating. From there we went to a sauna style area at the end of another
tunnel. Each area had information about what it was, what you were to do and
the apparent health benefits it provided. As we went back, I had another dip in
the icy plunge pool but was unable to persuade Husband that the benefits
outweighed the sudden shock of cold.
We went downstairs to a series of sunken rooms, with grey walls and
high windows. One was filled with floatation aids and we spent several relaxed
minutes wrapping these strategically around us and then just lying in the warm
water, gently floating and half drifting off to sleep. Husband’s favourite room
was one where you stood or sat on a semi submersed shelf while a heavy torrent
of water thundered onto your back and neck, providing the most vigorous massage
of your life. It was all I could do to stay seated rather than be pushed back
into the pool. Other pools were small chambers in which you sat, where there
were various underwater jets.
All the rooms were intimate, and lined with dark stone. But the areas
between them were crisp and cleanly decorated with white and cream.
The outside, panoramic pool had various underwater jets around the edge
and a large underwater metal hammock that emitted a constant stream of bubbles.
A line of people were lounging on this, their heads resting on the back wall of
the pool, eyes closed – partly to rest and partly because of the glare coming
off the water from the warm sun above. It looked like a group of people sitting
happily in their own farts.
Despite being called the panoramic pool, you couldn’t see much of the
valley below unless you lifted yourself up a bit to peer over the front edge. Husband
swam vigorously across it, to the disdainful look of the one of fart dwellers.
Clearly swimming in this pool was not the done thing.
The final area, accessed by walking down the path in the gardens
outside, was next to a small chapel. There were 2 rooms. Both were wonderfully
green and mouldy. The pools were immediately deep – other had had steps leading
down into them, and the second pool included a large underwater shelf at one
end and claimed that the mud walls were good for the skin and exfoliation. So I
lay on the shelf and gently rubbed myself against it. In the light coming in
from the small, high windows, Husband noticed particles floating on the water
surface and wondered if this was fragments of mud or other peoples’ skin cells.
We left feeling very very clean, scrubbed and pummelled. Which was a
good thing prior to our upcoming three days of camping.
Back in town we were once again in the situation of having missed
lunch, were too early for dinner – but were hungry. Most places had stopped
serving food until 6. We wandered through the town. It was a pretty, cobbled mixture
of old and new, where narrow street then opened out into occasional large
squares, over looked by squat clock towers. There were a number of bars and
boutique style shops. But places to eat were harder to come by. Then we saw a
place claiming to serve food all day. We decided to have a snack to tide us
over until dinner, so ordered a plate of cured meat and a baguette to share.
It’s a good thing we planned to share it because it was a whole baguette –as in
the 2-3 foot long ones. It was enormous and scrumptiously filled with beef,
rocket and parmesan. We probably weren’t going to need dinner.
We continued our walk through the town, going down to the river and
along to the park before turning back towards our hotel. The river was little
more than a stream but the embankment defences implied that the water level did
get very high, presumably when the snow melted off the surrounding mountains.
That evening we sat in the hotel bar for a gin and tonic. We wondered
if they were trying to get rid of the gin, as they didn’t measure out a shot
but instead half filled the glass with gin, then threw in a couple of ice cubes
and served with a small bottle of tonic – which couldn’t be emptied into the
glass as there wasn’t enough room. It was pleasantly strong and risked sending
us off to sleep. We concluded that all this mountain air had made us tired.
Total miles for the day had been a mere 36.4 over 1 hour 49 minutes of
driving.
The following morning, after a mildly unsatisfactory subterranean
breakfast we set off for the Alfa museum just outside Milan. At a roundabout, a
policewoman had blocked the onward main road and we were directed onto the
smaller roads which went through the numerous small towns in the valley. After
a while, we were able to re-join the main road – which was now in a lengthy
tunnel. However, before long we reached a blockage. Clearly there had been an
accident resulting in the tunnel being closed and presumably this was linked to
the policewoman who had prevented us initially getting onto this road.
We did a u turn in the tunnel. But we couldn’t get back out of the side
entrance we had come in. So kept going, all the way back to where we had
started (by the policewoman) which seemed much further than we had imagined.
There were no cars behind us, and others had turned round. So Husband suspected
that they had dived out of the side entrance and said that if he had seen
someone do that, he would also have done so – with appropriate caution.
Back at the roundabout, we started again. This time, when we reached
the side tunnel entrance a civilian had parked his vehicle there and using his
cap to wave people on.
We continued our onward journey, slowly meandering along the floor of
the valley between the mountains, along the edge of mountain streams. Towns
formed before the previous town had properly ended, and numerous churches
teetered on the steep edges of the surrounding slopes. I wasn’t entirely clear
why they were so placed, overlooking the town below and really only accessible
(in days of yore) to the fit and able bodied.
Finally we reach the tip of Lake Como which we could see far below us
and drove down the side towards Milan. Much of the road is through tunnels and
every time we emerged the water level was closer. Husband commented that he
could feel us dramatically dropping height.
The Alfa Romeo Museo Storico is based in a 1970’s building in Arese and
was there the manufacture of Alfa’s actually took place. It has recently been
refurbished and subsequently called Museo Alfa Romeo - La macchina del tempo,
literally Alfa Romeo Museum - The time machine.
The man on the gate, permitting entrance, gave us a smiling look of
respect as we drove our GB number plated Alfa into the car park. The museum was
fabulous with numerous Alfa’s from across the years, including some very
curious looking concept cars. In one room where there was a line of stunning,
old red single seater racing cars, brought to life by a dramatic light and
music show. There was also information about the history of the location
itself. The display ended with a 4D cinema experience. The high seats needed us
to belt in as we became passengers in open topped Alfa’s racing along circuits
and streets, which included getting a little bit wet and rapped on the back of
your legs. The clues about the vigorousness so of the experience were in the
seatbelts.
The roundabout outside the museum had the logo and name prominently
placed on it, so Husband dropped me off and then drove round it a couple of
time so that I could get a photo of Alfi with the logo. Once completed, we set
off for Monza – or more specifically, the F1 Camping.
Getting to the small town outside Monza where the campsite was situated
was fairly straightforward. Getting to the campsite was a little more
problematic. The sat nav did not recognise the post code, so we needed to
resort to i-phone technology. Then, when we did find it, the entrance and
‘advertising’ was so small that we drove right passed it, and then needed to go
round in a circle to get back to it.
Finally we arrived and were directed to our plot. The campsite was in a
relatively small field, so it was reasonably quiet, very friendly and full of
GB cars. We set to with putting up our tent – in temperatures of around 40
degrees. Consequently, before long we were extremely hot and sweaty, Husband’s
shirt comprehensively sodden. There were also dozens of little flies rising off
the hot grass and flying around our faces, just to add to the discomfort.
Before long another car drew up carrying our new neighbour – an
American called (we later established) Andre. He was an older rather than a
younger man, with an aura of relaxed solo nomadic wanderer. He had made the
mistake of going to Monza in search of the campsite and spending considerable
time driving round there in circles.
Fortunately, next to the campsite was a restaurant and bar. So as soon
as the tent was constructed, we went for a much needed beer. Some of the other
campers noted Husband’s shirt, and gave him due respect for putting up a tent
in this heat. As we worked our way through a beer or two, his shirt dried and
he joked that it now looked perfectly ok and would probably do another couple
of days.
We started chatting to a couple, the female half of which bore a
similarity in looks to Katie Price. She asked if our sat nav had found this
place. Did it bollocks, I replied, and was comforted to know that other people
had struggled to find it.
It was a warm, relaxed and pleasant evening, and the beers flowed
freely (well, we had to pay obviously). ‘Katie’ referred to needing the FFP –
first fatal piss. A number of us had been to the race at Spa as well, so we
compared notes about how we had filled the intervening days. One couple had
seen a McLaren lorry on their way to Monza – but it was going in the wrong
direction. The restaurant/bar had lavatory facilities, which we made use of.
But in fairness, the campsite facilities in this regard were pretty good. We
used the showers – which were remarkably good for a mobile set, and then sat by
the tent for an evening coffee as the light faded. We did need to ask a lady in
the row just beyond us to turn her car lights off, which were pointing
blindingly directly at us. It seemed as though she was sleeping in her car.
There was a small tent next to the vehicle, but very small. Smaller than our
hiking tent. We were pleased of our new weekending tent – which you could stand
up inside. And also pleased that we had practised assembling it at home.
There was a noisy start to the night, and we had forebodings of our
weekend camping at Silverstone, where on one side of us was a group of lads who
were excited to be away from spouses and children, and determined to stay awake
loudly until the early hours. While on the other side of us was a former
military man who insisted on getting up at 6am and putting his radio on. Here
there was one set of loud talkers a few tents away comprised a Dutch man and
loudly spoken scouser having a robust discussion about who was right or wrong
in the Raikonnen Verstappen incident at Spa. This was accompanied by the
barking of a dog from a neighbouring house, presumably rather perturbed by the
sudden invasion of strange people in the field next to him. Despite this, we
had a remarkably good sleep, although we did slide down the tent a little,
which we had needed to pitch on a slight slope.
We woke early to the screech of owls and cockrills. Other than the
wildlife, this was not an early rising site. The restaurant was also providing
breakfast – which consisted of many egg based dishes. Fried egg, scrambled egg,
omelette, Spanish omelette. And some cured meat and chocolate croissants just
for variety. However, it served its purpose, and once replete, we joined the
queue for the shuttle bus to the track.
The circuit was old and ramshackle. Concrete seats lined some of the
public access areas, and were presumably remnants of the original seating
arrangement. The concrete steps into the newer, temporary stands were crumbling
and there was tree debris scattered across these stands, gradually being swept
away as people wanted to sit down.
The circuit has a rather chaotic system whereby you repeatedly left and
re-entered the circuit in order to travel between certain areas. What this did
mean was that in some areas, you had a trackside view without needing ticket
access. It was a bizarre set up that needed a little getting used to.
We found the F1 Village, near a green space nestled between the trees.
Then we walked under the track – seeing the podium hovering over it – into the
central area and then on to the circuit the other side. There was a long
straight with a viewing bank running along side. We walked on to the
parabolica, where our stand was.
For Friday practice there was free access to most of the grandstands,
so we sat initially in our allocated stand. But it wasn’t covered, and before
long the heat of the sun was too much, so we went to a neighbouring covered
stand which had views of the final corner. To get into this stand, we had
climbed through a mesh fence that was already unclipped and partly rolled back,
and seemed to be the acknowledged entrance. When we came to leave, the fence
had been repaired, and we had to go through the gate, which involved being
scanned out. In other words, by leaving the stand and getting onto the
circuit’s perimeter road, we had left the circuit. We walked to get back to the
F1 Village and as we did so, we passed under the steep banking of the old
circuit, almost vertical and supported by what seemed to be rather old and
mildewing concrete, with long fronds of greenery hanging from the underside of
the bridge.
We had a longer than expected, but pleasant walk through the woods to
the Village, and were thankful to be out of the sun and oppressive heat. The
Village now had the feel of a genteel festival. Huddles of people sat or lay in
groups on the grass, drinking beer and eating food.
The warmth was making us sleepy. For the next practice we sat in the
Piscine stand. This was next to the park’s lido – which had been emptied and
closed, either because it was no longer functioning or because F1 fans couldn’t
be trusted. Either way, it seemed a shame. Being in cold water would have been
very welcome.
The piscine stand is towered over a by a large oak tree that had
deposited a reasonable quantity of twigs and acorn husks all over the seating.
We pushed this off, and then remembered the group of men sleeping in the shade
under the stand. As sat in the shade afforded by the tree and watched the
practice – but kept dozing off.
The first return bus was at 4 so as that hour approached, we meandered
back to the meeting point. We were early, but just beyond the pick up place
there was a bar with a very friendly and welcoming man who was also doing a
half decent job of DJ’ing (certainly better than the DJ in the F1 village had
been) in between serving beers and inviting us to a beer festival at the bar
later that evening. We barely had time to sink our beers before the return bus
appeared. So we returned to the meet point – handily placed next to a showroom
filled with mint condition old cars, including a stunning 1959 Alfa roadster.
Back at the campsite we tried to find some shade or coolness. At 6pm it
was still 37 degrees. The heat was impossible. Husband needed to charge his
phone, so we got into the car and turned on the engine so that would could get
the charger going, but the other advantage of this was that we could sit in air
conditioned bliss. According to friends back in England it was 17 degrees back
home, which at that moment, sounded like heaven.
As evening drew on and the temperature felt less like the inside of an
oven we readied ourselves for dinner. I noticed that the outer skin of the tent
now housed a reasonable number of insects, including a brightly coloured spider
with a substantially fat body. Husband suggested that as he was at the far end,
and didn’t seem to want to go anywhere, we should just leave it be.
We had dinner and were chatting with Andre over drinks when Martin
Brundle appeared and spent an hour or so, right in front of us, having a
Q&A chat, as well as giving his insights on the Spa race and the growing
tensions over Max Verstappen’s driving style. He talked about his pit lane
interviews which I had always found uncomfortable viewing, so it was a welcome
surprise to hear him talk about these are car crash TV and his own guilt about
needing to disturb drivers as they tried to get in the zone just before the
race. He also said that during these walks he was often introduced to various
actors, singers, sportspeople or politicians and generally had no idea who they
were, but was expected to have some form of conversation with them.
That evening we slept well, the residents now settled and quiet. But I
was woken early by the sound of cockerills and barking dogs. The day ahead
promised to be cooler at a mere 31 degrees. We armed ourselves with another
breakfast provided by the onsite hotel – but really this amounted to little
more than eggs done 3 ways (fried, omletted and something else not easily
defined). Perhaps they just really didn’t want us using their loos.
Back at the track, we explored a bit more. There were parts of where
you could stand right up against the fence, with a view of part of the track,
without needing a ticket at all. We had now got used to the slightly unusual
layout and constant entering and exiting of the circuit. I was pleased that we
had done the weekend because we were now warming to Monza. If we had only done
race day, we would possibly have been disappointed by the circuit.
We went into the middle and found a bar with neighbouring tables that
were under cover so sat there for a while over a beer, watching the crowds go
by. The bar used the Italian system where you paid at one desk, got a token and
then took that token to the beer serving wenches. As Husband looked at their
overly made up faces and skimpy tops that struggled to contain their
substantial bosom, he wondered what the selection criteria had been.
A group of Ferrari fans, dressed in red and sporting red wig, appeared
with a boom box, and arranged themselves in a central area, held aloft the
Italian flag and broke into a rousing rendition of the Italian anthem which the
gathered crowd joined in with heartily. It sent tingles up your spine.
The gathering of carabinieri strutted around looking important and
threatening, which was slightly hard to maintain when they clambered into tiny
cars, little bigger (or more complex) than a lawn mower to go cruising.
Next to us was a gated VIP area. Various people showed up who were
admitted, but no one that we recognised. Just beyond that was another
restricted area outside the Paddock Club that we wandered into unchallenged,
and then realised that the only reason why this had been possible was because
an ambulance was there attending to someone who had fallen over face first and
smashed their nose. Blood and bloodied tissues littered the tarmac. Once the
casualty had been safely stowed in the ambulance the areas security suddenly
became aware of the large proportion of interloper present and visibly started
fretting as we tried to clear out the hoi palloi. Rather than wait for this
undignified process, we rapidly removed ourselves.
There was a bronze statue of Fangio from 1954 posed next to a bronze
Mercedes. I sat in the car. Because I could. As had many others, evidenced by
the shiny glow on its steering wheel.
It did seem cooler, more bearable, but dustier. We walked across the
circuit on the opposite side and sat in the shade of the trees. As we were near
to the old Monza ring I wandered down to look at the old circuit. I was
currently being used as a car park. The simple, wide concrete track stretched
out in both directions to where it then visibly banked to make the corner. It
would be nice to come back on a non race day and walk along it.
We headed towards our seat for qualifying. There were numerous people
standing in the shade of the scaffolding that supported the stand to keep out
of the sun until the final possible moment. We joined them and then made our
way up to our seats. The seating was simplistic – numbers written on the metal
planks that formed the stand. Fortunately we were not sitting next to fat
people.
The camera helicopter circled overhead causing a delightful breeze
which was cheered by the crowd.
After quali we fought our way through the crowds and across the centre
of the circuit to get to the bus back rather than the long walk around the edge
of the circuit. There are two tunnels that go under the start line side of the
track. The one we came back through emerged where the floating podium stretched
out over the circuit. We decided then and there not to come through this tunnel
after the race as it would most likely be rammed with people trying to get a
view of the podium.
The bus back to the campsite was gloriously air conditioned. Back at
the tent we grabbed towels from the foyer to go and shower. In this process I
got a cobweb on me. So when we got back from showering I looked cautiously for
the spider. And found it. It was huge. Its body was striped in yellow and
black. Husband suggested it might be venomous. I suggested he might like to
kill it. He agreed but wanted me to take a photo first. Then he beat it to
death with a water bottle. At the first blow, it ran but fortunately Husband
was fast and soon bludgeoned it to death and a reasonable quantity of brown
gunge emerged from its fat body. He then told me that its body had twitched, as
though about to jump, when I had gone near it with the camera.
That evening,, at the bar, Eddie Jordan showed up for a chat. He didn’t
want to engage in Q&A or conversation but rather preferred to tell his own
stories and anecdotes. This did include admitting that his Jordan racing team
had cheated in their build of the car. But apparently so did everyone. He also
said the Lauder and Hunt’s sons raced, but were rubbish. And he suggested that
Toto Woolf would go to Ferrari.
As the next day would be an early start, we opted for an early night.
The following morning I realised why the cockerills were probably so
easily able to wake us – it was wandering around the campsite near the tent. As
we were heading off after the race, we dismantled the tent, packed everything
up and oregami’d it back into Alfi before going to wait for the bus to the
track. It was a cooler day and we were blessed with cloud cover.
We arrived in time to watch the GP3 and then the Porsche race which was
fraught with accidents, including 2 alarming occasions of cars flying upside
down through the air. The announcement was made that weekend of Ecclestone’s
sale of F1 to a US media group.
The tractors and car collecting lorries were kept busy after the
Porsche race going round and collecting all the crashed ones. As they went
round, the crowd cheered, and the drivers played along by waving back – like
royalty. They drove along the crowd line several times and the support for them
didn’t waver one iota. Nor did the drivers’ enjoyment of the moment.
However, they ultimately needed to clear off the track to allow the
driver’s parade to come through. It stopped in front of our stand and the two
Ferrari drivers got off for an interview to chants of Ferrari Ferrari, against
a backdrop of air that hung with red smoke from flares that had been let off. All
of the British people asked whether people in the stands ought to be doing that
– so indoctrinated we have become with health and safety. Some people in the
crowd on the other side of the track had an enormous flag which blocked the TV
screen. With the aid of much Italian shouting and gesticulating, this situation
was effectively imparted to the people concerned who obliged by moving the
offending item, which was greeted by roars of approval.
The smoke from the flares was nothing compared to the cigarette smoke
in the air. Everyone smoked, everywhere. The circuit was well populated with
tobacconists and it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a no smoking sign for
several days.
There was a minutes silence for the earthquake victims. I wondered how
this sombre moment would be appropriately respected by the national anthem,
which was a pretty jolly song at the best of time. However, an impressively
mournful version was warbled out, which was a remarkable feat. Then the Italian
version of the Red Arrows, who had been circling in the distance for some time,
did a fly past, releasing flares to create the Italian flag in the sky.
The commentator started to build the excitement to a frenzy, counting
down the final seconds until the start of the formation lap and then counting
down the lights to start the race. It worked, the crowd was excited and the
security men struggled to keep people back from the fence line along the edge
of the track.
It was a bad start for Hamilton and Ferrari were in second and third
for much of the race, until their tyre strategy changed that to third and
fourth.
As the race ended, the crowd piled towards the fence gates in order to
get on to the track and run round to the podium. This was the opposite
direction from where we were trying to go so we had a relatively swift and
straightforward exit and prompt return to the campsite. We saw the hoards
piling down the track towards the floating podium.
We set off for the short drive up to Cernobbio on the banks of Lake
Como and managed to get there without really being troubled by any Monza
related traffic problems. Having been in one place for three days it was nice
to be back in the car and on the move.
We found the hotel relatively easily. It was above a trattoria which
was currently closed. However the door was open so we walked in and called out
until a man appeared who showed us to the room. It was a stunning room, with a
balcony and interesting artwork.
We had a welcome shower and attempted to find whatever clothes we had
left which might still be clean, then wandered out in search of food.
There was a bar overlooking the river with a live band on. So we
settled there for a few drinks. Each round was served with a substantial plate
of snacks – including slices of pizza. The plan had been for this to be pre
dinner drinks but we stayed longer than expected as we were enjoying the band.
And when it came to the moment we ought to leave we realised that we were
actually now too full for dinner. We’d pretty much eaten a whole pizza. So we
went back to the hotel and had a coffee on the balcony before going to bed.
After doing some banks of Como posing shots for Alfi, we set off
reasonably early for the longest driving day of the trip. We quickly crossed
the border into Switzerland. Almost immediately the temperature fell and black
clouds bubbled up on the horizon. Fortunately we found a place to pull over and
put the roof, which was well timed as we then were faced with torrential rain
for much of the drive across Switzerland. As the road climbed into the
mountains, we drove through clouds that sat low in the hills and wedged into
the valleys. We had the tedium of driving through the Gotthard Tunnel and
Seelisburg Tunnel, but this did at least provide some relief from the rain.
The weather improved as we entered France. Perhaps this was a benefit
of EU membership which hadn’t been highlighted in the pre referendum
campaigning. We stopped at a service station for our first break and some food.
We couldn’t stop in Switzerland as we didn’t have the right currency.
The food process seemed unnecessarily complex and was accompanied by
lashings of French condescension. She was in the middle of serving when Husband
suggested chips. In a huff she went into the kitchen then put all the food she
had just served back into the hot plates. About a minute later, she retrieved
the chips from the kitchen and re-plated all the food. So it all seemed like a
bit of a petulant demonstration. We both chose something that looked like
sausages. They weren’t they were inedibly disgusting. I have no idea what
animal or what part of that animal was contained in this tube of doom. But I do
not recommend it. Husband did a far more valiant effort but also conceded
defeat. It was badly packed and filled with lumps of stuff that looked like
meat but didn’t have the texture or taste of meat – and the smell was god awful.
According to the sign outside, they had been selling gourmet food since 1967.
Not today, clearly.
On our onward journey we passed the amusing named Eugene Production
building. All Eugene’s in the world should be obliged to complete a pilgrimage
to this place of their creation.
One stretch of road was concrete slabs and bumpy. Husband commented
that the man behind us in the S class probably wouldn’t even be feeling it.
Yes, I responded, but he’s not having as much fun, as we sat there shaking and
rattling in Alfi. Husband hunkered down, pushed his neck into his shoulder
blades and shook along with the road, saying de de de de de in time with the
ongoing noise. It would not occur to the Mercedes driver to do this.
The road signs warned that there was Traffic in Panne ahead. Traffic in
bread, translated Husband, confidently. Bread and jam. This could be a bit of a
mess.
And then the signs took on the sombre tone that still lingers over most
of northern France. The Maginot line, Husband observed, didn’t really work
after world war 1 as the Germans had simply walked round it or through it.
The weather improved enough for us to risk taking the roof off again,
which inevitably summoned all clouds in the vicinity to gather above us. So
shortly afterwards, the roof went back up. We got to Reims after 473 miles and
8 hours of driving, plus many stressful Paege stations for me to negotiate – as
I was technically on the driver’s side.
I logged in to the hotel wi fi to receive an email from the father
about blockades at Calais. The revolting French were making a fuss about the
fact that England tries to impose some controls on migrants when the rest of
the EU can’t be arsed. It could make the next day’s planned return home a bit
more interesting but at least it was on the homebound trip.
We wandered around Reims cathedral which has been largely destroyed in
world war 1 and most of what was there today had been rebuilt and had visible
newness to it. Rebuilding finished in 1938, so the onset of world war 2 must have
been particularly depressing news, but it had seemingly been spared another
bombing.
We tried to find some places for food, but we were in France on a
bloody Monday again so the place was more or less shut. But we did find a
bistro that appealed. They didn’t have Ardennes so we had champagne with fois
gras. Dinner was spectacular, delicious steak washed down with a bottle of
Beaujolais and followed by an enormous café gourmand.
We had coffee back at the hotel and saw on the news that the French
blockaders had all gone home. The next day was moist. Perhaps the blockaders
had known this. It was not a good day for standing in the motorway.
Husband was excited that the girl on reception when we checked out was
called Amelie, a real life Amelie. But not as quirky of winsome as the girl in
the film.
We set off for Calais along a road amusingly named Autoroute des
Anglais. Husband wondered if this was why it had so many tolls on it. The speed
limit signs on the road side gave different speed limits depending on whether
it was wet or dry. Husband wondered what a gendarme’s definition of rain would
be. It was currently moist with cloud so low that it hid the tops of the
windmills in the wind farms.
We drove through the wide, open flat fields at the northern end of
France, now empty, quiet and peaceful but impossible to forget or ignore the
violence they had witnessed 100 years ago.
We stopped at Bethune for breakfast and parked in the square by the old
belfry that chimes every 15 minutes in a peal of high pitched bells. We found
out that the town had been defended by the British but flattened by the Germans
on 21 May 1918 which seemed a bit of a shame, so near the end. The current
town, despite looking old with its narrow, high dormered buildings, had been
more or less entirely rebuilt from scratch.
As we approached the tunnel I realised that I had been incorrectly
assessing the map distances in miles instead of kilometres.
We arrived at the tunnel very early – which had been sort of expected
as we had left early in case of any ongoing blockade issues. Happily we were
able to get onto a much earlier train and I spent the journey putting the
various stickers onto Alfi. The Alfa Museum sticker was particularly
challenging as it was in several bits that refused to come off their protective
backer.
We finally got home after 291.5 miles 4 hours and 44 minutes and a
total journey of 46 hours and 59 minutes covering 2086.4 miles – plus the bit
to Guildford.
Alif has earned an air freshener now.
