'Ferrari, Florence & frustration'
29km 44'38.052, 10'54.999 The Ferrari road car and F1 factories are on a spurningly industrial estate within the town of Maranello south of Modena. After the simple form of the Renault F1 factory buried deep in the glorious Cotswolds countryside of Oxfordshire, the Ferrari factories seem quite functional and rather ugly. For a while I watch the new Maserati and Ferrari road cars being taken out for a test run before exploring the Ferrari Galleria, the Ferrari musemum well worth visiting with both significant race and road cars. Among the famous race cars they have one of the Ferrari 125S racing cars, which was the first car to be called a Ferrari, plus many exotic road cars. By the time I leave the museum I guess it must be lunch time as there is a sea of red outside as the Ferrari road car factory workers stream through the factory gates. Modena, where Emiliano my host for the night lives, has a small central historic part with a couple of plazas. In one, a couple of intriguing laughing devils catch my eye as they are mortified as stone gargoles. I also watch as a pigeon sips from a running tap, but only that one pigeon, his mates sticking to the little pools of water around the tap. Over one of Emiliano's legionary pasta dinners (carbonara, but without any of the sickly sauce usually find in an English carbonara) I meet Anna his wife. She is a warm friendly girl with blonde highlights left over from their recent wedding. Anna works from home as a translator, English, Russian and Spanish very much like my dancing German friend back in Oxford. This night Anna was translating a patent about reciprocating levers but as she did not have the diagrams I failed to understand the uniqueness of the patents claim. We leave Anna to it and go into Modena for a drink around mid-night as I'm too tired to make the proposed night time venture to Bologna. However this turns about to be a poor call as we find many of the bars in Modena have shut already and the one open one is very quiet but it does at least allow us to catch up.
Oct 11th Modena to the Leonardo de Vinci museum and then Florence
229km 43'45.702,11'156.702 Taking the scenic route to Vinci I climb to 1300 metres and have to wear the inner gloves my brother gave me as the temparature drops to a cool 12deg with the wind chill factor. The scenic route took me nearly 5 hours instead of the estimated 2hours but finding the museum is easy. However trying to get a quick snack before going in proves impossible, for the local café seemed to be the lotto centre and plenty older ladies had to get their scratch cards. Resorting to crisps and a chocolate bar I head into the museum.
229km 43'45.702,11'156.702 Taking the scenic route to Vinci I climb to 1300 metres and have to wear the inner gloves my brother gave me as the temparature drops to a cool 12deg with the wind chill factor. The scenic route took me nearly 5 hours instead of the estimated 2hours but finding the museum is easy. However trying to get a quick snack before going in proves impossible, for the local café seemed to be the lotto centre and plenty older ladies had to get their scratch cards. Resorting to crisps and a chocolate bar I head into the museum.
Leonardo had no surname in the modern sense, "da Vinci" simply meaning "of Vinci": his full birth name was "Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci", meaning "Leonardo, son of (Mes)ser Piero from Vinci." Born at Vinci in the region of Florence, the illegitimate son of a notary, Piero da Vinci, and a peasant girl, Caterina.
Throughout his life Leonardo recorded his studies of science and engineering in some13,000 pages of notes and drawings. The journals are mostly written in mirror-image cursive. As Leonardo was left handed it may simply have been easier to write from right to left or it may be something more secretive as is often suggested.
The Museum at Vinci contains many working models created from images and text contained within his journals.
The museum was interesting with a number of working models of Leonardo da Vinci's ideas as well as some strange artifacts relating to him. Surprisingly I finish the visit with time to spare so decide to visit Florence as so many people have recommended it, but by the time I have fought my way through the road works, one way systems and endless scooters to the tourist office I am already annoyed, so the quick tour I do by foot is hampered by this annoyance and I decide the town has no peace, essential for a beautiful place I decide, and give up and go to the campsite on the south side of the river. Quite shocked to find the campsite is as expensive as England presumably reflecting the location right under the plaza with a floodlight Michaelo statue in it. The campsite is the busiest I have used and it takes a while to find a spot so yet again I build my little home for the night in the dark.
My neighbours are busy cooking away on their camp stove but as they appear to be mountain bikers I am lost how they manage to carry the stove when I don't have room on my motorcycle. I console myself as my rivoli pasta in the local restaurant is splendid; a splashout after the poor lunch.
A secondary school teacher from Italy sat at the camp tables, revising for her 4th degree so she can teach primary school kids instead of the awful secondary school children, tells me Florence is really splendid so I resolve to take advantage of the late camp checkout and explore again tomorrow when hopefully I'm in the right frame of mind.
Oct 12th Florence to anywhere south and the second drop
386km 41'28.940,13'49.983 Florence is indeed wonderful I learn from a secondary exploration. Even if it is still very busy tourists and many scooters. The architecture, the narrow streets and the statures really are quite special. One statue is a man holding the head of a woman he has just decapitated but there is no explanation and as my time is limited I skip buying the necessary guide book.
In the afternoon and early evening I take the autostrada south covering as many miles as I dare to make progress to meet my ex, Abigail, at Lamenzia airport. The original idea was for me to tour Italy including the south but as I started my journey later than anticipated, due to the late decision to get visas before going rather than en route, and I took the opportunities of visiting Brittany and Monza I am now having to ride directly to the airport.
Tiredness on a bike is different to in a car. I dont feel drowsy or tempted to nod off but do know I'm exhuasted, so I pull into a services, put the bike on its side stand (the centre stand would be better but fully loaded I can not manage that,) put my feet upon the tanks, lean back on my tent and without taking my helmet off doze and sleep on and off for half an hour. Every now and then I wake to see the car drivers looking at me with some surprise.
Eventually I start looking on the map for somewhere to pull off the autostrade and the town of Cassino looks a good point as I do not want to be to near Naples for its bad reputation and having visited it some years ago remain happy never to go back. Just the amount and intensity of the graffiti was enough.
Taking a junction before Cassino, with the idea of riding into the town and maybe passing a campsite on the outskirts, I pull up to the toll booth to find it is automatic and therefore charges me the car rate, 18.80 euro, disgruntled I have no choice but to pay. Later on the campsite I go ask the other tennants what is interesting locally, to find ten or more caravans belonging to a load of Irish navies familes from Coventry. Each year they come down this way for a holiday for the children spending 6 weeks moving around doing road jobs. Their pickups and vans are all brand new latest spec. and I realize they are gypos since the children should otherwise be at school rather than screaming around the shower and toilet block. The men explain how to avoid paying the tolls simply closely follow a lorry through the automatic payment booths. They reckon since they can do it with a big pickup and a double axle caravan I should be ok on a bike. However I decline since the cameras for and aft of the toll booths make it easy to detect a non-payer but I guess if you are of no fixed abode then this is not an issue.
The campsite is in the back streets and took some finding so I'd been searching for the tourist office and as it was nearing 7pm I found the office and quickly stopped the bike parking it on some rough pavement. Having got the directions I came to get going and had to get back on the road but there was a minor dip in the pavement which took the front wheel and at 0.2mph I toppled slowly over to the left. So that is both sides down now and a good test of the uprated spacers I'd put behind the side tanks when in Matt's underground garage. Installing those spacers had been a job I'd failed to have time for in the pre trip preparation so it finally allowed me to send another package of tools and spares back home.
The side tanks are doing a brilliant job, even though I've yet to really put anything in them. They protect the bike in a drop, advertise I'm travelling and attract attention. In Modena this was very useful as a BMW car pulls alongside me at the lights and asks me where I'm going after a few questions to fro about my travels I ask him where the centre of town is and he says follow him - perfect!
386km 41'28.940,13'49.983 Florence is indeed wonderful I learn from a secondary exploration. Even if it is still very busy tourists and many scooters. The architecture, the narrow streets and the statures really are quite special. One statue is a man holding the head of a woman he has just decapitated but there is no explanation and as my time is limited I skip buying the necessary guide book.
The Legend of Perseus & Medusa
Perseus was the son of Jupiter and Danaë. His grandfather Acrisius, alarmed by an oracle which had told him that his daughter's child would be the instrument of his death, caused the mother and child to be shut up in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards Seriphus, where it was found by a fisherman who conveyed the mother and infant to Polydectes, king of the country, by whom they were treated with kindness. When Perseus was grown up, Polydectes sent him to attempt the conquest of Medusa, a terrible monster who had laid waste the country. She was once a beautiful maiden whose hair was her chief glory, but as she dared to vie in beauty with Minerva, the goddess deprived her of her charms and changed her beautiful ringlets into hissing serpents. She became a cruel monster of so frightful an aspect that no living thing could behold her without being turned into stone. All around the cavern where she dwelt might be seen the stony figures of men and animals which had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified with the sight. Perseus, favored by Minerva and Mercury, the former of whom lent him her shield and the latter his winged shoes, approached Medusa while she slept, and taking care not to look directly at her, but guided by her image reflected in the bright shield which he bore, he cut off her head and gave it to Minerva, who fixed it in the middle of her Ægis.
Oct 13th A long autostrade run to find all campsites shut.
481km 38'57.631,16'23.249 Today was noteable for an execllent tuna and egg sandwich followed by my latest discovery, Allbran chocolate bars, at one of the service stops as I piled the miles on the autostrade south. Arriving at Lamenzia airport, where Abigail will fly into on Monday, I suss out the layout and parking so I can be sure of arriving in good time to meet her. The tourist office there give me plenty of advice but when I ask about putting my bike on a train north to save Abi a lot of pillion motorway miles, the lady gives up, tired of answering silly questions to the English biker. Another person in the office says cars are allowed but on visiting the train station I'm told bikes are not allowed. I take a bed and breakfast for the night as all the campsites are shut. Which is strange given they are open in Northern Italy but here in the South where it is hotter they are shut as it is too cold. The B&B is in a village, Feroleto Antico, up in the hils over looking Lamezia Terme. Arriving in the centre there is one scooter shop, one pizzeria cum internet cafe cum pub and a news agent and not much for the locals to do, so as well as the usual teenagers hanging about so are the old men. Stopping the engine and rolling to a coast as a technique I find is less intimidating and with my open face helmet I can engage my assistant/victim quite quickly with a quick 'excusie' though I've no idea if I am saying it in French or Italian. One of the old men looks at the address I have given him and motions for me to follow him. Turning the bike around I'm able to freewheel alongside him and his mate who comes along for the laugh I assume as when I'm shown where the B&B is I admit to baulking. Sure there was something looking like a roadway to a pleasant house 20metres up but it would be a masterful acting of riding to get a very heavily laden sports tourer up there. Now I understood why Catherine and Jacqui preferred their smaller bikes although the ride south today of nearly 500km would have been tough on a little 125cc trial bike I fear. Luckly the lead old man sees my fear and walks along the roadway to knock on the door of the B&B and down comes the owner, a sweet white hair lady with an easy smile and happy tones in her fairly good English. I ask, Maria Frinlrous, to thank the man on my behalf and she explains he is one of her neighbours. With more luck, Maria has a garage nearby with room for my bike as well as her car. The house is fine with 6 cats and one dog who thankfully does not bark. For again, the previous night had been spent with earplugs to dull the noise of some dumb dog barking continously.
481km 38'57.631,16'23.249 Today was noteable for an execllent tuna and egg sandwich followed by my latest discovery, Allbran chocolate bars, at one of the service stops as I piled the miles on the autostrade south. Arriving at Lamenzia airport, where Abigail will fly into on Monday, I suss out the layout and parking so I can be sure of arriving in good time to meet her. The tourist office there give me plenty of advice but when I ask about putting my bike on a train north to save Abi a lot of pillion motorway miles, the lady gives up, tired of answering silly questions to the English biker. Another person in the office says cars are allowed but on visiting the train station I'm told bikes are not allowed. I take a bed and breakfast for the night as all the campsites are shut. Which is strange given they are open in Northern Italy but here in the South where it is hotter they are shut as it is too cold. The B&B is in a village, Feroleto Antico, up in the hils over looking Lamezia Terme. Arriving in the centre there is one scooter shop, one pizzeria cum internet cafe cum pub and a news agent and not much for the locals to do, so as well as the usual teenagers hanging about so are the old men. Stopping the engine and rolling to a coast as a technique I find is less intimidating and with my open face helmet I can engage my assistant/victim quite quickly with a quick 'excusie' though I've no idea if I am saying it in French or Italian. One of the old men looks at the address I have given him and motions for me to follow him. Turning the bike around I'm able to freewheel alongside him and his mate who comes along for the laugh I assume as when I'm shown where the B&B is I admit to baulking. Sure there was something looking like a roadway to a pleasant house 20metres up but it would be a masterful acting of riding to get a very heavily laden sports tourer up there. Now I understood why Catherine and Jacqui preferred their smaller bikes although the ride south today of nearly 500km would have been tough on a little 125cc trial bike I fear. Luckly the lead old man sees my fear and walks along the roadway to knock on the door of the B&B and down comes the owner, a sweet white hair lady with an easy smile and happy tones in her fairly good English. I ask, Maria Frinlrous, to thank the man on my behalf and she explains he is one of her neighbours. With more luck, Maria has a garage nearby with room for my bike as well as her car. The house is fine with 6 cats and one dog who thankfully does not bark. For again, the previous night had been spent with earplugs to dull the noise of some dumb dog barking continously.
Oct 14 Sunday Visiting Pizzo's beach church and a close shave followed by frustration
161km 38'57.535, 16'23.242 Strawberry grapes, small and deep purple with a new to me and very sweet delicious taste, are a wonderful part of my breakfast. A fresh jar of homemade marmalade made from small oranges giving a tangy exotic flavour to the pre-toasted dry bread. The toast I find a strange concept coming in a packet but I can only assume the French and Italians have never experienced a slice of fresh thick white heavy farm house bread from the local baker toasted on a coal fired Aga with the lid down to trap the mositure in the centre of the toast while the outer layers are toasted quickly with just a hint of coal dust to give the true rustic flavour mixed with a slab of butter - before the days of vegetable spread.
Another delicacy of the B&B breakfast is a Kaki fruit, grown locally but coming from Japan. About the size of an apple containing a number of prune like stones it is very, very juicy and messy to eat but rewardly fresh.
The strawberry grapes remain my favourite and asking if I will be able to buy them locally so Abi can enjoy them also, Maria takes me down the garden and past the chickens to help myself from the over-laden vines. Maybe the B&B was twice the cost of the campsite but Maria certainly did me proud.
I climb lazily onto the bike, stuffed from breakfast (I also had some homemade cake containing strawberry grape jam a friend had given her)
I rode to see the church in a seashore cave at Pizzo where I sit under the Angel of Death in the cool to write my notes listening to the tide lapping the shore only 30metres away.
On the beach there is only one couple sunbathing and some pedalos. Being a confirmed pedalo addict, like Abi, I hope we can manage a ride together during the next 7 days. Especially as I have yet to have 'pedelled' on a deep blue sea under a mediterranean sun.
What follows next is frustration for I spend more than 3 hours riding around Lamezia's three inner towns: Nicastro, Sambiase and Centrale (which is way out South and not central at all) trying to find ether life or a hotel. The tourist office says there are only 12 hotels. I find only 2 which are too expensive so I give up and ring Maria for a second night. Each of the three towns seem very dead even for siesta time (later I find out it is quiet because it is a Sunday, I guess by this point I've really left the work mentality behind). Reaching a square I ask the only guy if this is the centre. He tells me he is Italian but hates Italy as the rich men do not distribute their money by job creation just pocketting the money for themselves so there are plenty of unemployed. He tells me Australia is far better, his brother lives there. He confirms I am in the centre and it is to him and me both very grim and awful.
I go to the beach for some peace and maybe a swim but although empty there is a continuous stream of cars, quads and motocross bikes passing through. Giving up on the beach I retire to the woods to read and eat. Now bored of cheap pizzas I had earlier purchased a slice of roast pork, fresh bread and really tasty tomatoes for my dinner. Even though it cost more than the cheap 4 euro pizzas it was perfect. The tomatoes are a joy. In the UK I very much avoid any but those from my father's small greenhouse as the shop and restaurant tomatoes are just cold, wet and very tasteless. Where as the tomatoes here, like those of my father's, have colour and taste so I have some most days.
The evening is spent in Maria's kitchen drinking tea, with warm milk, listening to her and her two friends babbling away in Italian with a little English pause once in a while for me.
Attempting to trim my beard for Abigail's arrival I decide I don't like the result. So using the soap in my room and a BIC razor I hack my way through over 20 days of growth, a tedious job indeed this morning.
161km 38'57.535, 16'23.242 Strawberry grapes, small and deep purple with a new to me and very sweet delicious taste, are a wonderful part of my breakfast. A fresh jar of homemade marmalade made from small oranges giving a tangy exotic flavour to the pre-toasted dry bread. The toast I find a strange concept coming in a packet but I can only assume the French and Italians have never experienced a slice of fresh thick white heavy farm house bread from the local baker toasted on a coal fired Aga with the lid down to trap the mositure in the centre of the toast while the outer layers are toasted quickly with just a hint of coal dust to give the true rustic flavour mixed with a slab of butter - before the days of vegetable spread.
Persimmon
(aka Fuji Fruit, Sharon Fruit, Kaki Fruit):
In Japan, it is the national fruit and the name means "Food of the Gods". It was introduced into Queensland in the 1800's. There are 2 types of fruit, Astringent and Non-astringent. The astringent fruit has soft mushy flesh when ripe and is flatter in shape with distinct jelly-like segments. The non-astringent variety has crisp flesh and is more round in shape. In both varieties the flesh is sweet tasting.
Strawberry Grape (also known as 'Fragole').
This is an unusual variety, because its flavour is strawberry-like. The fruit is mauve and is very prolific either in greenhouse or indeed quite successful outside. Is a strong grower and makes good fruity wine.
Another delicacy of the B&B breakfast is a Kaki fruit, grown locally but coming from Japan. About the size of an apple containing a number of prune like stones it is very, very juicy and messy to eat but rewardly fresh.
The strawberry grapes remain my favourite and asking if I will be able to buy them locally so Abi can enjoy them also, Maria takes me down the garden and past the chickens to help myself from the over-laden vines. Maybe the B&B was twice the cost of the campsite but Maria certainly did me proud.
I climb lazily onto the bike, stuffed from breakfast (I also had some homemade cake containing strawberry grape jam a friend had given her)
I rode to see the church in a seashore cave at Pizzo where I sit under the Angel of Death in the cool to write my notes listening to the tide lapping the shore only 30metres away.
On the beach there is only one couple sunbathing and some pedalos. Being a confirmed pedalo addict, like Abi, I hope we can manage a ride together during the next 7 days. Especially as I have yet to have 'pedelled' on a deep blue sea under a mediterranean sun.
What follows next is frustration for I spend more than 3 hours riding around Lamezia's three inner towns: Nicastro, Sambiase and Centrale (which is way out South and not central at all) trying to find ether life or a hotel. The tourist office says there are only 12 hotels. I find only 2 which are too expensive so I give up and ring Maria for a second night. Each of the three towns seem very dead even for siesta time (later I find out it is quiet because it is a Sunday, I guess by this point I've really left the work mentality behind). Reaching a square I ask the only guy if this is the centre. He tells me he is Italian but hates Italy as the rich men do not distribute their money by job creation just pocketting the money for themselves so there are plenty of unemployed. He tells me Australia is far better, his brother lives there. He confirms I am in the centre and it is to him and me both very grim and awful.
I go to the beach for some peace and maybe a swim but although empty there is a continuous stream of cars, quads and motocross bikes passing through. Giving up on the beach I retire to the woods to read and eat. Now bored of cheap pizzas I had earlier purchased a slice of roast pork, fresh bread and really tasty tomatoes for my dinner. Even though it cost more than the cheap 4 euro pizzas it was perfect. The tomatoes are a joy. In the UK I very much avoid any but those from my father's small greenhouse as the shop and restaurant tomatoes are just cold, wet and very tasteless. Where as the tomatoes here, like those of my father's, have colour and taste so I have some most days.
The evening is spent in Maria's kitchen drinking tea, with warm milk, listening to her and her two friends babbling away in Italian with a little English pause once in a while for me.
Attempting to trim my beard for Abigail's arrival I decide I don't like the result. So using the soap in my room and a BIC razor I hack my way through over 20 days of growth, a tedious job indeed this morning.