Florence 09-12-06
Three Countries in One Day to Thunderstorms All Night Long: La Roquette sur Siagne to Pegli (3 cycle days; 240 km; 1805 m)
It is 5 degrees when we wake and this little bunny is freezing while preparing breakfast outside. We want to leave as early as possible today as the ride and campsite are still uncertain. That plan goes out the window when Ali discovers the insert clips from his Ortlieb bags are missing. We comb the area to no avail and he puts replacements ones in. Of course they are at the bottom of an already packed and loaded bag. At this point, he decides to add the job of super-glueing them in place to the list of evening hour chores. We eventually took off at 9.10am and headed in the direction of Nice. (for an even better solution to the Ortlieb bag insert problems, see the tips section of this site)

It was a climb from the beginning and it was peak hour. This time of day is the same the world over. Impatient and not very observant people on their individual daily missions that is more important than anyone elses; and especially that of a couple of slower moving cyclists slowly pushing their way up a hill. Luckily enough, that time of day is not particulary long and we are soon on relatively quiet roads on the outskirts of Cannes. We roll down to the coast, stop on the esplanade just before Nice's Cote d'Azur airport, in the sunshine to eat lunch and watch the locals parade up and down. A two way cycle path leads out of town but ends promptly after a few 100 metres. We find another at the airport that goes the whole way into Nice. Quite a pretty beach despite the pebbles and this view slowly dissapears as we wind the steep incline out of the city. Apart from the swanky cruisers in the marina, the centre itself appears dingier and older than I expect for such a renowned area. The chiqueness and grandeur of buildings picks up as we move along the coast towards Monaco. Again, I'm not blown off my feet like I thought I would be. Not really sure what I had expected actually. The marina is jam-packed with boats the size of football fields and there is an overwhelming abundance of British flags masted on them. We stop for another bite to eat and take in the opulant views before jumping back on the bikes. We follow the Formular One tunnel just a bit slower than Alonso would have out of town and back into France for a bit and prior to entering Italy.

At first, I am shocked by all the rubbish lying around but that's often the case on border crossings and it does clean up as we make our way to Ventimiglia where we need to stop and ask where the campsite is situated. Lots of agriculture in this area and the hillsides are completely tiered with greenhouses. It's all rather hap-hazard and not particularly beautiful. Traffic picks up for the rush hour and there are tonnes of scooters and motorcycles on the road. We find the Tourist Information but are disappointed to discover that the campsite is closed. The nearest chance is in San Remo, a further 13km. Daylight is already beginning to fade and we find the site in darkness. It's 6pm and we are given a brick-laid pitch, which is a first for both of us. We wonder how the tent pins will fit in, but a few manage between the bricks. We sleep surprisingly well on the hard surface. The weather is much milder than the night before and the tent is reasonably dry the next morning.

It was as though someone had stuck a big, round, red glow-sticker on the horizon this morning. When you stood in its light, you could immediately feel its warmth. Great cycling weather for the hilly coastal ride that lay ahead. The road along this stretch Riviera di Ponente (San Remo to Campochiesa; 64km; 500m), is not too steep and before you know it, each incline turns into an invigorating fall. It's Saturday and there are a number of cyclists on the road with us. We get the thumbs up and are greeted enthousiastically by most of them. Ali has decided to introduce "Hola" into the Italian language. He hasn't been able to make the switch since Spain, which is only 10 days ago. All through France he used it. I kept on saying "Gracias" instead of "Merci". Very confusing this country hopping.

We go up and down for virtually the first half of the day; looking out over a serene aqua Meditteranean to the right and gazing high up at jagged rock faces to the left. We stop in Imperia at an internet cafe to update the site and check the mails. Later that day we pass pastures of flowers, vegetables and herbs. I have never seen so many cyclamens in all my life. We take the turn off from the main road in Campochiesa, pass a strongly scented fennel field before arriving at the only camp site open in the area.

Overcast skies threatened rain from the moment we set off the following morning. It is Sunday and the roads are literally full of cyclists. Hoards of them whizz past, greeting us as they do. They have no respect for traffic lights, motorists or anything in their way and they fly along, four or five wide as if they own the road. The expected rain comes just before Voltri, still 10 km or so before Pegli; our destination just outside Genova. We follow the campsite signs up, up and up a narrow winding road; all the while, hoping to goodness that it's open. We arrive at a closed gate but there is a buzzer. Neither of us feel like venturing back down for supplies and besides it begins to rain cats and dogs. Yep, that black cloud that followed us through Portugal and Spain has found us again and that evening, we had a repeat performance of Vila Real, with a river running through the front of our tent. Though not as intense as previously, Ali still tapped drainage holes all around the tent in the pouring rain, while I mopped up the inside.

Off to Lucca (3 days; 230 km; 2663 m)
Everything is wet and damp the next morning and we set off early, without breakfast to combat the likes of Genova city. Our goal is Deiva Marina (93km; 1406m). Seems to take forever to work around the port and city but it's not particularly difficult. Traffic is very congested but we manage to manoeuvre ourselves through it, using bus lanes when we can and the really good signposting helps a lot. Although the kilometres don't always add up, it's hard to loose your way in Italy. There are enough signs pointing you in any direction you want to go.

We stop for a well-earned breakfast at about 11am and then get back to peddling up some really energy-zapping hills. This section of coastline will give any cyclist jelly-legs. The hills just seem to go on and on and on. Still, we plod on up, basking in the delicious sun as we go. In this weather and especially after last night's downpour, you can only consider yourselves to be the luckiest people on earth. Our fortune changes further down the road though, when we think we only have 15km of tunnels along a flat stretch of road and signs tell us we may not enter. Our alternative is to climb 550m. It's 3pm. If I thought the riding earlier on in the day was difficult, that was because I hadn't yet experienced this. It took every last bit out of me and it was a relentless climb, not giving a moments rest for the entire journey up. Then, we had to go down. Three hours later, we arrive at the campsite very cold, very exhausted and very relieved that the 500m downhill ride in the dark has finally come to an end. We were blessed with a full moon for a short time and we, in turn, blessed the roadworkers that had painted the white line down the side of the road, which was still visible, even when nothing else was.

There is not much in the way of supplies but we still squeeze a soup-like pasta out of what is left and make chocolate rice with flaked almonds and stewed apple with coconut and sultanas for the next days breakfast. We will need something substantial as we have to get back out the way we came in. It takes us 1.5 hours to make the 500m climb, (5% average; 12% max) and it is really something to see; green grasses grow between moss covered stone walls. Forrest ferns protrude through brown and discarded popular tree leaves. A golden array of coloured leaves lights up the overcast and mist-filled air. Going down is as steep and winding as going up was. This is one of those moments when you forget all that's gone wrong and just enjoy what is in front of you.

We stop in Borghetto di Vara, find the bakery and sit in the square just opposite another person eating his lunch as well. Bizarre thing is, within a few minutes we are speaking Dutch with him and learn he's a buddhist monk that has been walking his way, penniless, around this planet for the last 8 years. He offers us what seems like a loaf of bread. We accept and later discover that there's also a half wheel of cheese inside as well. It is one of the nicest and most spontaneous gestures we have encountered on the way so far and sticks in our minds for quite some time.

There are another two cyclists touring around this region but both aren't interested in chatting with us. Bit wierd I think. It rains on us again but not for long. We ascend and descend with steep gradients the whole day until we hit the coast. It's then flat and gradually turns into tourist-land. We arrive in Marina di Massa (79km;916m) and the campsite that's supposed to be open, isn't. There's another and we swiftly put up the tent and venture out to find a supermarket, which takes more effort than we thought and we only find a mini-market. Means shopping for supplies the next day. Campsite leaves a lot to be desired and we decide that after Lucca, we are not busting a gut to get to these poorly maintained, overly expensive plots of gravel. We'll camp where we see fit.

Again it is overcast but the rain holds off until 20km out of Lucca. It rains enough for us to shelter under some trees for a while but subsides enough to continue on up the 5 hairpin bends on the hill near Quiesa. We get to just outside Lucca and shop at a Coop store. I come out to pouring rains. Again it subsides, but only for ten minutes or so and we shelter once again under a port at the city entrance. We leave in the drizzle, get out of town and climb 1.5km to our destination (5 km out of Lucca; 59km). La Fabbrica di San Martino is the home of Giovanna and Guiseppi. It is an absolute treat to stay here and we are lucky enough to have been given a two night stay as a pressie from Frank and Maggie. We dine with the family on the first night in a fire warmed and homely atmosphere with superb wine and delicious, traditionally cooked food. Our place is a renovated farmers cottage and as I type, am being warmed by the small stove fire in the kitchen area. Inside it's comfortable and has everything you need to feel at home. Outside it's grey and miserable and not much fun at all. A complete turn about from this morning's blue skies and sunshine. Tommorow we leave again. This time for Florence and yet another cultural treat; but of a completely different kind.

Cyberia [website], Patra 29-12-06
One Cultural Hub to the Next: Lucca - Florence - Rome (5 cycle days; 467 km; 3814m)
We leave Lucca only to stop at the end of the driveway to fix a broken spoke on Ali's bike. It's a late start but should be an easy enough ride to Florence (91km; 379m). It's December 8: a public holiday for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and cyclists are once again out in force. It dawns on us that we encounter them mainly in the flat areas and only on public holidays or at weekends; especially Sunday. On this day, one half of Italy is dressed up in all the right and very colourful bike gear, racing three and four deep along relatively easy stretches of road; taking no notice of traffic lights or cars for that matter. In facts drivers seem quite tolerant of this and to an outsider it could almost seem like holy bike day. Meanwhile, the other half go to church.

Apart from feasting our eyes on the beautiful autumn colours as we wind down the road away from San Martino in Vignane, the only other interesting sight, that morning is the gigantic wall confining the medieval village of Lucca. The rest is pretty much suburbia until the again colourful landscape around the Arno river between Fucecchio and Empoli. We follow the waterway, unhindered until irritatingly long waits in Lastra a Signa while traffic lights prevent more than one lane of traffic from manoeuvring the narrow streets. It appears that the city of Florence begins before it officially starts. We are on the S67 and enter Florence on the south side of the river. At the first plaza-like split in the road, we see the signs to Piazza del Michelangelo. We wind our way up through gorgeous parks and gardens, grandiose villas and statues to one of the most grand of all; David. Even the copy is splendidly magnificent. This would have to be the most beautiful road to a campsite yet. We arrive to find it completely full of Italian camper vans; long weekend. Plenty of tent space though; no-one is foolish enough to pitch a tent in zero degree temperatures here except the Ozzie writing this, her Dutch husband and a lone Spanish man on holiday in Italy. It is 20 euros and very expensive for the sloping gravel plots that we ponder over for a good while before making our choice. The new plastic ground sheet sucks up more of the rainfall that continues all night long than keeps our tent floor dry.

Next morning we manage to mop up the major water problems, cook a breakfast of spinach, almond and percorni cheese wraps between showers that don't let up until late that evening. We venture into town in any case. It's a good thing it's not peak season as it is incredibly busy and not much fun considering the weather; December, freezing cold and it's raining. Still long queues of more than two hours line the front of the Uffizzi Gallery. We dart into the Duomo like everyone else, as much out of interest as the necessity to shelter from the increasing drizzle. After a bit more walking around, dodging the pushy umbrella salesmen and finding an internet cafe, we decide to return to our very wet tent. It is difficult not being disheartened about the thought of cooking in the rain.

It is alive and full of action, as we poke our heads out of the tent in the morning. The camper vans are leaving one by one. Over breakfast, we plan going back to the same sights again to view them in a different light. When we get back that afternoon, we are the only ones left in the campsite bar a handful of die-hard travellers. Our tent still isn't dry and the washing from two days prior remains damp on the line. We move to a sunnier position the next day, do the bike maintenance stuff, try to find a bike shop for some supplies but instead end up on two wild goose chases that eventuate in nothing. This happens quite a lot when you are in unfamiliar territory and rely on quite ill-informed tourist personnel.

Today, there's a stunningly clear view over Florence from our ice covered tent as we stumble out very early to try and beat the queues at the Uffizzi Gallery. Being in Florence is like a virtual art history tour: The Medici Family, Vasari, Michelangelo, Brunellesci, Titian, Botticelli, Rafael, Filippo Lippi, Uccello, Da Vinci and the list just goes on and on. As I walk around and peruse masterpiece after masterpiece, the voice of Allard Koers (my art history lecturer in The Netherlands) subconsciously resonates in explanation of why the neck on Madonna is so long or the significance of the dog on the bed next to Venus. The Renaissance paintings, especially Botticelli's, are all very much darker than what you see in the books and a little disappointing. I actually enjoy the endless sculpture work much more. While getting close to Figlio's work, I appreciate what Han Janselijn (1st year 3-d teacher) meant when he talked about the "soccle" being part of the artwork itself. Figlio certainly found the movement in the rock itself. As we make our way back to the campsite in the afternoon sunshine , we dodge the same salesmen as yesterday, this time selling copies of Renaissance paintings, handbags, belts and camera tripods of all shapes and sizes. Adaptation at it's best. Tomorrow, we move on in the direction of Casciano de Murlo and a possible wild camp.

Florence to Casciano de Murlo (102km; 1585m)
Getting out of Florence is relatively easy, just the roads are really bad which means swerving all over them to cut out the smoothest route. The country is breathtaking in every measure and we puff our way up some very steep climbs which are immediately followed by teeth chattering descends. We knew a couple of passes were in store for us, but we see signage clearly stating that Sienna is only 40km away and if it continues like this, we'll make the only open campsite in the region in plenty of time. Every thing is going to plan until Poggibonsi. The roads are getting worse by the kilometer and by the amount of digging and pulling up of bitumen, will continue to do so. Roads signs now state that Sienna is 46km away. I nearly have a major accident due to an unperceptive driver overtaking and directly cutting me off by turning right. Later on, the turnoff to Costalpino slipped our view and not one local seems familiar with their surroundings. One man lived 10km from the town we wanted, but still was unable to direct us there. Only one option: to traipse into Sienna. We get a little lost and before we know it, darkness is looming (4.15pm). I stop at a small delicatessen for some supplies and am greeted by a big burly bloke who really knows his food and wine. Every Italian delicacy is on display and I just order what looks good. He cheerfully packs everything into a plastic bag sporting a dapper and somewhat thinner photograph of himself, while giving me a lesson in Italian food items at the same time. And while on the subject of food, I must add that if you want to forget all your troubles, then walk into an Italian supermarket. Being a lover of this cuisine, it was always sheer delight perusing the untold varieties of pastas, cheeses and the top quality fruit and vegetables. Beware though, what's good also costs money, but take it from me, each delicious morsel is worth every cent.

Anyway as I emerge from the gourmet haven, Ali has the lights on the bikes and we trundle on up the hill into dusk. There's no appropriate spot to camp wild as suburbia continues on a long way. We stop at a service station and Ali decides it's a good idea to try and reach the campsite which is only about 12km away. I agree, though hesitant about riding the highway in pitch black (5pm). It is every bit as terrible as you could expect and I am just hopeless in the dark. Putting it bluntly; I'm scared shitless. There is not a moments relaxation: cars coming from the front blind you with their lights so you literally can't see for a few seconds. Cars from the back may light your way but when there is no shoulder, they come dangerously close to you and the chance that they haven't seen you is always in the back of your mind. We make the turnoff and then the climb starts. The campsite is only 4km away and halfway there I surrender. I don't know how steep it is but it feels like 10% and my legs are like jelly and the bike is wobbling all over the road. I have absolutely nothing left in me to pedal anymore. Ali tries to egg me on but I just yell through tears of both fear and defeat: "I can't do anymore" and get off and push. This is also incredibly difficult. It's bitterly cold and I feel like a real loser for giving in. On a few flatter steches I try again but longer than a few hundred metres I can't do. Later on that evening, I don't feel like such a dork as I hear we had covered 102km and gone up 1585m with an average climb of 4%. So there is a good reason for me feeling so completely zapped. We arrive at Le Soline campsite to find a beautifully cared for set-up. The home-like, heated bathroom alone put a huge smile on my face and I revelled in total delight at the hairdryer on the wall. The smiles turn to laughter the next day, as the homestead donkey charges at a caravan leaving the parking lot and then later on bee-lines for Ali's parmesan cheese and honey sandwich. We relax in absolute peace and admire the beautiful views.

Casciano de Murlo to Fonteblanda (106km; 773m)
The day begins with an early morning upper body workout by pushing the bike up a long 17% stone and mud lane way (an Ali shortcut), followed by a few challenging climbs of around 15 and 16%. Several tunnels with no shoulders were next on the list and just when we think it's plain sailing, we find out we are on a road that doesn't exist anymore and have to cycle back the way we came. Very irritating! The day looks like ending with cycling on a highway in peak hour, again no shoulder, and tonnes of trucks that need every inch of the lane and then our luck changes and we stumble across a cycle path. It leads to rows of campsites and one is miraculously open. Relieved we set up camp for the night and try and fathom what this coming up from behind, passenger hanging his head out of the car window and screaming in a cyclists ear trick is all about? Happened to Ali this time and it scared the living daylights out of him. I nearly jumped through the roof the first time it happened to me (in Portugal). The other occasions were not any less frightening either.

Fonteblanda to Sta. Sevena (105km; 475m)
Today, we have no idea where we will spend the night. It's hit and miss with campsites in Italy at this time of year and it doesn't look like anything is open along the way. After a dull and boring highway stretch, we climb up into a beautiful village of stone houses overlooking the coast. There is a lot of fish farming to be seen in this area. End up on a straight and flat road which Ali finds boring, however the bird life of the WWF national park on the right keeps me entertained for the whole distance. I am less happy about the views of the ugly and industrial port of Civitavecchia. We try the campsite just before the town but it is closed. We move further along the coast and shop in Santa Marinella. By the time I get out it is dark and we pull into a monastery to see if we can camp the night there. No-one of authority is around that speaks English, so we carry on. I suggest turning a bit inland and the first turnoff to the left leads us to some suitable spots. Two farmers are out chatting and we ask if we can camp on the land behind them. They are more than obliging and we pitch in Fausto's back field. The next morning we leave with freshly made rock-cakes and chocolate and almond biscotti in our hands.

All roads lead to Rome (64km; 602m)

Italy to be seen

Flat start to the day but as soon as we turn off the Via Aurelia the short but very steep climbing bursts start and don't stop until we find the Via Aurelia again in Rome itself. The rubbish hits appauling heights around the town of Boccea where we witness a teenage kid sitting at a bus stop amidst a sea of plastic and cans. I have never seen anything like this before in my life and the filth continues until Rome.

It's Sunday and the traffic is not as bad as we expect. Ali navigates us brilliantly along roads that look like they haven't been repaired since The Renaissance. We arrive early at the campsite. It is very cold and we spend most of the afternoon and evening in the tent; only venturing out to cook or use the bathroom. I'm getting a little tired of not being able to do anything in the evenings. We tend to fall asleep early; the sleeping bag is definitely one refuge from the cold and it is exhausting in itself, trying to keep warm.

We spend two days in Rome. One fixing the bikes, doing the washing and all the menial chores and the next one seeing the sites. They say Rome wasn't built in a day but we certainly see most of it in that amount of time; Piazza Venezia / Roman Forum / Colosseum / Trevi Fountain / Pantheon / The Vatican. It's all so big and flambouyant. Even the architecture of each building is stunning. I could stop at each intersection to take in the atmosphere and admire the ornate structures. But by the end of the day, we both have had enough of the grandeur and riches and while it is great to get caught up in all that scene, it is not a true picture of Italy. The real Italy lies in the suburbs and they paint a completely different picture.

The real Italy: not a tourist destination

Rome to Foce Verde (102km; 279m)
We use the Via Della Pisana to get out of Rome and it's sunny and bright but still icy cold. Soon, we find ourselves in truck territory and it is difficult with no shoulder and extremely poor condition roads. Make a wrong turnoff and have to turn back, pass an airport before entering Lido di Ostia and encounter quite a bit of road rage along the way. Everyone seems to be in a hurry. Stop at a playground to grab a bite to eat prior to hitting coastal ghost towns. The rubbish along the sides of the road increases on the outskirts and subsides a little as you enter the main section of the so-called beach resorts. This is about the only way of telling where you are as they all seem to run into one and other.They are all run down and full of deserted appartments that look as though they were built around the 1960's and have never received a paint-job. The beach huts on the other side don't look much better. Very young, dark skinned girls line the forest and coastal roads and the sudden appearance of grey-haired men lurking around or waiting in the parking bays clearly indicates what these teenagers are doing here. The girls are scatttered over the next twenty kilometres and it feels incredibly creepy in this area.

We hit Anzio and this town is a little more spruced up, but it's not long before we are back on dismal roads running along side a military camp. I am jealous to see the generators pumping warm air into their tents. I am not, however, jealous to watch the silhouettes of gasmasked persons with machine guns in hand playing ficticious war games. We cycle further. As we approach a faded, dirt covered camping sign, it dawns on me that the rubbish tip we have just passed is actually the campsite. We are shocked at the mess but it does look like they are rebuilding everything. Anyway, it is only for one night and the shower, though not particulary clean, was piping hot.

Foce Verde to Marina di Minturno (99km; 400m)
The next day Ali swaps ten euros for his passport and we leave. Again heaps of cyclists on the road; again flat, not a hill in sight and it's coming up to Christmas so they are probably all on holiday. Pass a national park and beautiful beach fronts with plenty of closed campsites. We head in the direction of Gaeta and after a few tunnels stop by the sea to eat lunch. Tonight we want to camp somewhere near the sea but are dissapointed to find the area of Marina di Minturno full of abandoned campsites heavily padlocked with plenty of guard dogs and rubbish lying everywhere. It doesn't feel good here and we head back inland, following the Gargliano River in the dark, until an appropriate place appears just next to a small farmhouse. Ali starts setting up but I don't feel right without asking and I get the opportunity, almost immediately, when a guy leaves the house and jumps in his car. He doesn't speak English, but after a bit of hand and foot language, my very limited Italian and his even more so English, he understands and motions he needs to check with his mother. A tiny grey haired lady comes out and judging by the big smile it's fine for us to camp in her field. We eat well and fall asleep, even though a wind storm is in full swing and so is the tent.

Marina di Minturno to Pompei (100km; 540m)
The winds haven't subsided as we leave and there is a monster trip in store for us today. Subsequent to an initial 65km, we then need to undertake cycling through the city of Naples before making it to Pompei, our final destination till after Christmas. Pushing against some pretty blustery weather, we have done 10kms when a contradicting signposts declare that Naples is either 46km or 53km away. Six kilometres down the track it's 47km and after more than half an hours ride later back to 50km. At least we are going in the right direction. Around Mondragone and the rubbish really begins to astound us. We travel further along the coast and it continues, we turn inland and it continues. Now, when I say rubbish, I mean plastic bags of household refuse, cardboard, plastic bottles, cans, refridgerators, washing machines, mattresses, clothing and anything else I've forgotten to mention; all piled as high as possible and lining the road for anything up to 50 metres long. Probably the reason for the high incidence of rats, both dead and alive, lately. Further a field, chemical bottles and plastic sacks from fertilisers and farming products are added to the non-stop rubbish piles. We look at each other depressed and totally speechless. This is worse than we've have both ever seen and I feel like a right proper idiot for carrying my six pieces of loo paper with me until I find a rubbish bin to pop it in. I wish I could tell you that it got better as we headed towards Naples, but it doesn't. What's worse is, the level of stray dogs is multiplying rapidly and of course their favourite hangout is around the dumped rubbish.

Leading up to and upon entering Naples, we forget about the rubbish as we have to concentrate so hard on navigating our way on vehicle-jammed streets of cobble blocks (much larger version of cobble stones). It's worse than in Portugal and looks as if some sort of seismic movement has repositioned them in tiered disarray. Cycling with a load is hard enough work without the full-on "me-me-me" traffic/society. People walk in front of you, scooters swerve close, cars think they are faster and pull out without warning. Riding a bike does have it's advantages though. In a traffic jam, with a bit of deductive planning, a quick eye and hard work, you'll get there first, which pisses drivers off no end. You just have to get out there like the rest: develop a selfish attitude, think about no-one else except yourself and where you want to go, push and shove, scream, yell, shake your fist, stick your bike in the middle of the road when you think that it's unsafe for them to overtake you, be aggressive and above all make a big noise about it so you get noticed. Well, that's my view. However, Ali has a different one and thinks:come on hit me. Personally I try and avoid the situation but he has has even got a landing position worked out: elbows pointed outwards and when you land on the bonnet make sure they leave a big dent. Well, he nearly gets his chance the following day while cycling in Scafati. An old fellow decides to turn right into a petrol station without indicating and while Ali is on the inside of his car. He pounds his fist with such a force that the old man slams on the breaks and is probably still suffering from shock.

We make it, miraculously and after 1.5 hours, to the outskirts of Naples. This area of town (around Portici) is very dodgy so we keep on moving as fast as we can. Apart from the steep inclines and cobbles which have almost inflicted serious damage to ourselves or our bikes we think the worst is over. Of course, I wouldn't say that if it were true. Just a little further on down the road a dog decides my right leg is something to dig his teeth into and we lose a good half hour of cycling time. I jump around and scream louder than the seriousness of the wound deserves, clean it thoroughly with soap to an audience of local teenagers. Meanwhile, Ali tries to find the owner, but just as you would expect from a neighbourhood that strews rubbish all over it's streets, the "it's not my problem" attitude reemerges. Ever so conveniently, the dog disappears for 20 minutes or so. Of course, such a beast cannot be locked up for too long and comes out in barking force following a rather slovenly dressed woman. Ali approaches her but of course the dog isn't hers. According to her, it's a street dog. The story we got from the young kids in the neighbourhood went a little differently. Still there was little we could do other than take a few photographs of where it happened and of the culprit. Just incase.

We finally hit bitumen roads after the 20km stint of cobbles and it feels like rubber in comparison. The roads are still appauling, but you can veer around potholes when the traffic allows. The trip today seems to go on forever as do the townships. There 's no beginning and end to them like the map indicates. It is just one long city. I am totally oblivious to the fact that we have finally reached Pompei and we begin to check out the three available and at close-range campsites but quickly abandon that plan and grab the first one "Spartacus" They are all around the same price and we both can't be bothered nor are we in any state of mind to deliberate over which one is better. The girl at reception is extremely helpful. We ask where a doctor is, so I could get my leg checked out and within seconds the owner was by our side, ringing a friend who handles these sorts of cases. We get directions to the nearest hospital and he apologises profusely for what has happened to me. He reiterates that it is a very big problem in Italy and much to my distress in Pompei as well. A few days later he tells Ali the story that because Pompei is a pilgrim site, the stray dogs follow those walking here. Pity they don't follow them back as well. In any case, we have chosen well and camp close to the toilet block under three orange laden fruit trees. Because I am already inoculated with the rabies vaccine and all other dastardly diseases, we agree to go tomorrow morning to the hospital. We set up the tent, sit inside because it's blowing a gale outside and stare dumbfounded into space not uttering a word for about 30 minutes. Aaldrik breaks the silence with "I feel so sad. I can't face seeing or experiencing much more of this. I'm thinking that after we cycle the Amalfi Coast, we should get the train out of Salerno directly to Bari." I am of exactly the same opinion and instantaneously, I feel a little happier.

Wedding Anniversary in Emergency
It's December 23 and we have been married for 11 years. We celebrate the first part of the day in an Italian hospital. For a land that boasts such order and control, it is a disorganised display in Emergency. Firstly, there is no queue or waiting room. Everyone is crowded around the reception area. No-one speaks English, but when we say "carne" they all know what has happened and I am immediately ushered to a room, much to the dismay of the other people waiting longer than me. We must squeeze past an old women looking very ill on a stretcher bed blocking the entrance. There are two beds covered in protective tissue that has already been used several times prior to me and no chairs. The table in front is lined with plastic bins full to the brim with empty vaccine bottles, blood soaked cotton wool and used bandages. Second-hand syringes and needles lie loose in plastic bags lining cardboard boxes on the ground. I secretly think to myself that I might be better off not visiting this hospital. The medical assistant enters and wants to see the wound. The doctor then enters, ooh's and aah's and looks at the bite marks as well. Ali gives him our vaccine booklet, which he ponders over for quite a number of minutes. He doesn't understand the rabies inoculation system at all but is very impressed with all the other stamps and information. Ali and I both look at one another with raised eyebrows. I get the wound wiped down with betadine and a rather clumsy dressing is attached. Apparently there is no rabies in Italy and my tetanus shots are up to date. Just clean the wound for oh let's say 7 days with Betadine Cream is the advise. That evening we go out to dinner, both craving a pizza, but not finding one decent pizzeria open. We settle for the chain-like restaurant close to the campsite and leave still craving a decent pizza.

We visit the excavated site the day before Christmas and while my expectations are completely different from what I saw, I am intrigued and positively charmed by all the colourful fresco work. On the down side, some scaffolding has been in place for almost as long as the place has been open and barriers are broken and weather worn which leads to questions about maintenance of the complex. Besides the spanking new restaurant built inside a ruin, I wonder where all the money goes to. If you come from outside the EU, even your children, no matter what age, need to pay the full 11 euros entrance fee. EU children under 18 are free!

Christmas 2006: Riding the Amalfi Coast (97km; 1406m)
We rise early enough to stop off at the train station and purchase our ticket for the next days journey to Bari. We expect that it will be quiet on the roads, however are amazed at how many shops are open and the amount of traffic. Today's trip should be about 80km but actually turns out to be nearly 100km. It is worth it though, as this stretch of coastline is amazing and not like any that I have seen before. In some sections, you almost spiral down neat rows of hairpins that last for several kilometres. You are dropped an exhilarating 600m in one go. The views are more than spectacular and although the gradients are not that steep it's not for the unfit. We curve in and out of villages lined with restaurants, hotels, ceramic factories and shops. I contemplate the summer traffic jam these roads would hold and bless our choice to be here in the winter. It's perfectly serene except for the macho motorcycle riders. We make it back well after dark. A dog tries it on me one more time and I realise I will never be the same as far as that is concerned. Will take a while before I'm not scared again.

Pompei to Bari by train: Bari to Patra by ferry
It's a four train hop today and we are wondering what the facilities will be like for bikes. First train to Salerno is relatively easy to get onto and a big spacious area to leave the bikes in. However, no rails to tie your bikes to and the cabin entrance has three whopping steps to climb. 20 minutes later, we have a 50 minute wait for a more modern train which is easy to get on and off of and there is a large enough space for both our laden bicycles. The Foggia Regional is much more difficult. I can't even step up into the luggage compartment from the platform and getting on and off requires a lot of work and strength. Another 50 minutes later plus a 20 minute delay and we are finally on our last train of the day. Inconveniently, it doesn't have a bike compartment. The staff are all late and the driver, waiting for his crew, hurriedly ushers us towards a particular compartment, which is plainly not to the conductors liking, by the way he pushes my bike aside and it topples over. He is drunk or whacked out on something and rudely grabs our tickets before being told off by a superior and running to the other end of the train. He comes back about 15 minutes later, still glassy eyed, and begins to hassle us about tickets for the bikes. Luckily, we have checked this out before and know bikes are free on the regional trains. We argue back and he threatens to throw us off. We don't give in and he eventually leaves. He doesn't harass anymore that trip, except to make out that it is very difficult to manoeuvre around our bikes when he needs to pass. Well, I guess when you are off your face, it is! We arrive in Bari, pretty much on time, and after asking twice, make it relatively easily to the ferry. The tickets with Superfast Ferries are the price they say they are on internet and we opt for an airplane seat. Bad choice as it is stifling hot in this area when we finally retire. The extra 12 euros per person is wasted as we leave after 1 hour to find a comfy seat on deck to sleep in. Meet a young Australian, Andrew and an American economics student from Arizona on board. They both head straight for Athens after the 15 hour ferry ride and we make our way to the cheapest pension in town for a couple of days chill out before venturing our way through The Peloponnese. Nicos Pension: really clean and neat doubles with share bathroom for 30 euros. (refreshments included and I certainly recommend the El Greco coffee). We feel very much at home here and are overwhelmed at the politeness and friendliness of everyone. Hope it's a sign of the next chapter.

This will be our last entry before New Year, so a very merry one to you all. Cheers! Hic! (-:

Our cycling trip through Italy: click HERE to view larger map and more details

Pandigital [website], Pylos 03-01-07
Patra to Olympia (2 cycle days; 147km; 714m)
Patra is a modern and buzzing town with everything available that you can possibly think of. Ali does most of the walking around and purchasing of whatever is needed, while I sit in our small, but incredibly neat room and type and edit films. My video camera cannot be fixed, even though the only problem is that three screws, holding the focus ring and lens cover in place, have worked their way loose. Nope, closed unit and the screw tops are on the inside. Deems the camera totally useless but Ali superglues the whole thing together and it seems to be holding up so far.

Personally, I could stay another few days under the comfort of this roof. Everything is so much easier than when you camp. Just going to the toilet in the middle of the night is a pain-staking ordeal. First you have to wake up and fall asleep a couple times or lie there until the bladder screams "No more!" Then, you have to unzip the snuggly-warm sleeping bag and allow colder air to engulf you; put enough clothes on suitable for 3 degrees, without taking the time it takes to get fully dressed; unzip the inner tent; climb over Ali's head to the outer tent; zip the inner tent back up if you want to be nice to Ali; put your feet in your shoes lined up ready for this occasion; unzip one side of outer tent; and acrobatically slide out into the night. As soon as you have walked to wherever the toilet is, (not forgetting in your sleep-dazed state to take the toilet paper with you), you then have to decide whether you should fully wake-up by sticking your bottom on an icy cold surface. I'll pause a moment on this point. Why do so many (European) campsites refuse to put toilet seats on their toilets? Is it written somewhere that all campers have bums made of stone and are therefore resilient to the cold? Whatever you choose, you then need to stumble back to the tent; do the unzip and zip-up routine once again, only in reverse order; remember to take your shoes off before crawling back over Ali's head and into the inner tent; remove the unwanted clothing; jump in the sleeping bag; adjust the pillow made up of the unwanted clothing; and settle back to sleep. Aaah Haaaah!

After 3 comfort nights and not before the hygiene-conscious owner has placed her bucket of disinfectants on the table I occupied for 2 whole days, we leave the neat little room in Patra and head along the coast to Glyfa (85km; 292m). Ionian beach is on the top tip of the West Pelopennese coastline and here we find a campsite next to the sea, though disappointingly barricaded off with a wire fence. Still in search of the illusive campsite on the beach. The ride was unspectacular and it seems throwing rubbish from the car has become a raging sport in Greece as well. The countryside is rural and only rural. The sunset was radiant and promised another stunning day tomorrow. And although the owners have fixed a special affair for New Years Eve, we both agree to continue on. Something sounds rather special about camping at Olympia while seeing another year in. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

In contrast, we wake and by jove we are blessed. The sun hasn't stop shining except to go to sleep at night. The skies are clear, blue and when in the sun's rays it's toasty warm. Feels like Spring and judging by the amount of sour-sops, borage, jonquils, wild irises and orchids around the place it even looks like Spring. But it isn't. It's still Winter and that is only apparent by the icy-cold temperatures at night and first thing in the morning. Olympia (62km; 422m) is a tourist town. Nothing more, nothing less and in the Winter months has an air of a lost and forgotten village. I wonder how these souvenir shop owners, all selling ancient patterned pottery, copied ceramic statues or jewellery all survive. The campsite "Camping Diana" appears shut when we arrive at around 3pm and after swearing under our breath a bit, Ali tries the gate. It's open. An old man opens a locked door after ringing the doorbell and we are pointed in the direction of a leave covered camping area that hasn't seen the sunlight since August. Ali puts up the tent while I quickly stroll around the town to see what might possibly happen here tonight. It is completely dead. The Tourist Information is only open from 8am till 10am and the only bar open will close around 11pm. I head back to our recently assembled home and over a beer, we change our original plan of spending two nights here. Even though I allow gallons of icy water to run through the pipes and down the drain, I still have to take a cold shower and Ali too. Doesn't make you very happy, but after a super delicious vegetable curry and rice we warm a little. Both rugged with our sleeping bags around us we chat and try to stay awake till midnight. But the town is completely deserted and there is little in the way of noise coming from anything except the howling dogs and passing traffic and we don't stay awake as you can imagine. I wake at 11.15, get up and do the dishes and get Ali happening 10 minutes before the big event. At twelve a couple of fireworks go off and before we've made it out of the tent they have almost stopped. A far cry from the displays I witnessed in Geitenkamp, Arnhem, The Netherlands. It's January 2007 and the first time we have celebrated New Year with a cup of coffee and a swig of Grappa.

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