Our departure from Paciano is always stressful as neither of us really wants to leave, but we know it has to happen. I recently read a comment that said ‘Some people stack a dishwasher like a Scandinavian architect. Others do it like a raccoon on meth.’ When it comes to packing, I’m the Scandinavian architect – I wonder at the number of lotions and potions a woman seems to see as essential whereas Lesley is astounded at the selection of writing materials and technical bric-a-brac, I consider normal. However, we achieve it all in a relatively calm manner, possibly due to the fact that we are both exhausted. The final stage involves switching off all the utilities in the house, as the payments over the last few years seem to imply that we are powering a major light show and heating the entire village.
The journey itself is without incident due to the lack of trucks on a Sunday, which consequently makes for fewer sharp intakes of breath, gasps and near-miss moments, though at this point, I would agree with Ben Elton’s assertion that they are, in fact, actually near-hits. The lack of commercial traffic is unfortunately compensated by the plethora of coaches, full of youths, football teams and elderly tourists who together make grabbing a quick coffee, a 40 minute affair. The issue that causes the problem is that the motorway services are designed with one point of entry and one exit and a complex maze of shelves, displays and stairs which ensure that you’re exposed to tempting potential purchases for as long as possible. The one benefit is that a visit to the bathroom may contributed substantially to your daily step count, though on the other hand, the stress factor may obliterate this positive aspect totally.
Anyway we survive and arrive at the Hotel in Grandate near Como. We go to check in and the woman on reception says ‘English?’ Neither of us reply for a few seconds and then in unison, say ‘Italiano!’ I don’t want to speak English there after spending a long time learning and continually trying to improve my Italian. No thank you!
After a quick change of clothes, we head for our customary aperitivo when disaster strikes – the bar is closed! The pizzeria is still open but sadly we’re in need of an aperitivo. There’s bunch of guys chatting in the car park who suggest the Centro Commerciale. It’s only 200 yards away, but getting there is fraught with danger. We tried to use a pedestrian crossing but strangely this gets us dirty looks from the drivers. The bar in the centre is okay – it’s clean, it has alcohol and as Lesley says it’s another adventure. I get a beer and Lesley receives a huge glass of wine. We stumble back to the pizzeria, where one of the older waitresses recognises us, which is very satisfying She comes over and says ‘Do you do the giro pizza or do you just split at pizza?’ I should explain that King Pizza is a giro pizza – where a fixed price gets you a large beer and as much pizza as you want. The first time we went, it was wonderful chaos with maybe five or six waiters walking around with huge platters offering pizza slices with a huge range of toppings – from fish, to Nutella but obviously no pineapple. We had a pizza with salsiccia and friarelli which was very good. It’s been a nice evening and as we leave the pizzeria we realise that the guys in the car park were still chatting. We’ve walked to the Centro, had a couple of drinks, walked back, ordered and eaten a meal and they’re still chatting in the car park. I point out to them that several hours has passed since I spoke to them, to which they look at each other, shrug their shoulders, smile and one says ‘There’s no rush…..’
We slept well and rose reasonably early, feeling ready for breakfast and we go back to the bar praying that they will be open this time. Turning into the car park, there’s a sign promoting a shop selling pet foods and the like which is called BARF. I suspect this is an onomatopoeic error as it is associated with a picture of a dog. Or perhaps they specialise in canine emetics, who knows . . .
The bar is open and as usual at breakfast in Italy, it’s buzzing. The woman behind the bar greets us like long-lost friends, much to our delight, and the puzzlement of the locals who are unsure as to who these pallid foreigners are. She also remembers most of what we want amazingly! Though maybe a coffee, a cappuccino and two croissants was a likely guess. However I want to believe it differently. I go to the bar to pay and the other woman says ‘Tutto fatto!’ pointing at the first waitress. ‘It’s all done!’ she’s offered us our breakfast. A lovely gesture and we feel warm inside as we start our journey.
Unfortunately, we are feeling so buoyant and loved that we have forgotten to fill up with fuel before reaching the costly country of Switzerland. We turn off the Autostrada and drive down a vertigo-inducing road into Como in search of a filling station. We eventually find one but the instructions on the pumps are not clear. A guy comes to help me, and I thank him saying I want to avoid the Swiss prices. He tells me that if he helps me, the fuel is 20 centesimi more expensive per litre. Hmm. I explain I’m lazy sometimes but not at that price. We laugh, I move the car to a self service pump, pay him and say thank you – especially for the advice.
Having left the Aurostrada system, we have to find a way through the Customs into Switzerland and onwards. We get stopped by a Customs officer who looks so young I feel I should ask if his mum knows he’s out doing this. Obviously I don’t express these doubts, as we’re already in a slightly embarrassing position of being unable to open the boot, behind which there are 40 (allowable) assorted bottles of alcohol. His only concern though, is whether I’m carrying in excess of €12,000. I resist the temptation of saying ‘magari!’ (I wish!) and we go.
The drive through Switzerland was dramatic as the mountains were ringed with clouds, but also dramatic in a terrifying way as a result of the truck drivers, getting ever closer to your tail, as if they’re trying to read a newspaper with particularly small print over your shoulder.
We stop to change drivers – that’s me and Lesley not some Swiss Chauffeur we’ve acquired en route. We also wish to take advantage of the facilities. Italian services are pretty good these days but the Swiss equivalents are technical masterpieces, combined with a cold lack of humanity. The unisex ‘loos’, if I can use that 70s adjective, are built around an enormous, inverted, stainless steel cone, above which is a seat on which is written the advice ‘Lower the seat before sitting!’ to which I wanted to add, ‘Otherwise you may never again see the light of day!’ To the left is a series of graphically labelled buttons which generate soap, water then air. Though it is well engineered, it is too similar in appearance to the type of high-tech torture chamber, favoured by Bond villains and I run out silently screaming. The rest of the journey is relatively normal – crazy truck-drivers, megalomaniac Merc owners, and hi-speed bikers – yeah, nothing unusual.
After checking into the hotel in Colmar we head for a bar, and Lesley is keen to find the one where we had a drink some years ago ‘Les trois coups’ The owner was friendly – as much as anybody can be when you don’t have a language in common and you communicate in gesture and demeanour. We enjoy a drink there, surrounded by a collection lovely classic black-and-white images – Cartier-Bresson’s young Parisian boy carry wine bottles, Anita Ekberg in the Trevi Fountain and Gregory with Audrey on a Vespa in Rome. Excellent.
We then tried to remember where we ate the Tartes Flambee last time in, and we ended up walking through part of the town we’d never seen before. It was beautiful, with small waterways cutting through the streets. We eventually found the place – L’Ancienne Douane – The Old Customs House. We managed to order the Tartes with Roquefort and walnuts, and half a litre of Riesling. The food was delicious and the wine was prompt. . .
Having finished eating pretty early in Italian terms, we went off in search of an alternative hostelry. Nothing really appealed but Lesley was keen to return to Le Trois Coups. To be honest, I was a bit reluctant because though I liked the place my inability to communicate with anybody, made me feel our presence was almost intrusive. When we got there it looked like they were about to close but the owner greeted us with a welcoming ‘bon soir’ so we went in. Lesley wanted coffee and Amaretto but he couldn’t find it so she settled for a Cointreau and I settle for a large beer. We sat chatting with each other, alongside him and some of his clients. Having finished our drinks, I went to pay and used Google translate to write in French ‘We first came here many years ago. On our way to Italy. It’s a lovely bar!’ He read it, smiled, and we tried to begin a conversation, and when I mentioned Italy again, he said he was born in Puglia! It felt like a valve had been released and I immediately went into Italian overdrive, relieved that I could communicate again. We chatted for a while, both agreeing that it was always good fun to reveal a second language. It was lovely. As we started off for the hotel, we also started to wonder: what was it that had such a strong attraction to this bar for Lesley. It’s innate Italian-ness? Who knows? Anyway it was a great conclusion to the day.
Neither of us slept well that night, so we were happily on the road early, knowing it was a long drive. We stopped at a peculiar services which is nothing more than a large hut, where we’ve stopped several times. We always remember the last time when we were bringing Archie back to the UK, and how he really didn’t want to go for a walk as the rain was lashing down. He loved his creature comforts. Fond memories.
At the next top we saw a couple in their 50s covered in tattoos – there was more blue than pink. From his bald head down to her less than dainty ankles, they were simply a canvas. I wondered whether if you saw them having sex would it look like some sort of animated cartoon, a thought which I was fortunately able to put very quickly out of my mind.
It was a long day and when we arrived in Coquelles, it was still raining so our only option was the burger place across the road. The aperitivo was fine, the Gorgonzola burger was actually really good, the accompanying wine was fine and as usual, the French coffee was awful. The most amazing item on the menu was the ‘Welsh pizza with cream, cheddar, ham and egg!’ What? They also served ‘Welsh complet’, a kind of genetically modified Welsh rarebit.
We didn’t sleep well, so we were already on the road for six, but it was a long day driving through several cloudbursts on the M6. When we finally arrived in Cheadle, we were more than relieved to discover that we could open the boot of the car. It was a long day and the drive had been hard, but the journey by car does have its compensations. Which is exactly what I was thinking as I unloaded 12 bottles of Primitivo, 4 bottles of Grillo, 3 bottles of Orvieto Classico, 6 bottles of Custoza, 6 bottles of Merlot, 1.5 L of Nera Davola, 2 bottles of Verdicchio, 4 bottles of Poretti and a bottle of Ribolla Gialla as a present from Anna. Yes several compensations.
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