# Three Lakes and a Lagoon September 2007



## SpeedyDux (Jul 13, 2007)

Three Lakes and a Lagoon September 2007

(Or, Venice and back again)

Bit of a newbie, but here goes:

The Prologue

Last year, before I bought the Westy, we (La Duxette and I) took a package summer holiday to Lake Garda. We loved it and wanted to come back. I noticed all the motorhomes and campervans touring the area and thought this might be rather better than travelling by package mass air travel.

The things I would like to get shot of:

Getting to the Airport before dawn, exorbitant long-term parking, security queues, post- 9/11 restrictions on toiletries, 20 kg baggage allowance, delayed flights, cattle-class seats and in-flight service, stressful landings, waiting and hoping that the luggage will appear on the carousel in one piece, finding the right Tour Operator's coach, waiting in the heat gasping for a cold beer you can't have, hours of confinement on the coach because your hotel is the last drop-off, and then repeating all this on the return home.

The holiday bit in the middle is fine, but the hotel is pot luck and if it turns out to be a semi-building site with unappealing food there are limited options to rescue the holiday.

This was our inaugural (and somewhat ambitious) first motorhoming holiday together. The shakedown trip of the Dux Van had taken place in June when SpeedyDux and a Good Bloke went to Le Mans for 4 nights to fulfil an ambition to see the 24 hour race live. Quite an experience, especially off the race track itself.

Thanks to the almost continuous June rain our allocated Le Mans pitch was half under water and the electrical hook-up (via a lash-up that piggy-backed off several other campers between us and a distant borne) was seriously dodgy. Gruesome "Turkish" loos in the services block … 'nuff said. Our gazebo blew away and the rain extinguished the barbecue. Mud lay everywhere inside and outside but this failed to dampen the enthusiasm of the fans in their sodden tents who drank and sang into the early hours. The British lad on the pitch opposite comprehensively smashed both ends of his red Porsche 911 into some solid part of the Houx campsite at 1:30 am post-race on Sunday night, after which all went very quiet at last. Fortunately it appears that no tent campers got squashed or maybe the bodies still lie deep under the mud.

Seeing as we hadn't done this together before (motor homing together, obv.) and we would be sharing the "cosy" space inside a VW T4 Westy California with elevating roof for nearly 3 weeks there was no guarantee that La Duxette and I would still be speaking to each other by the end.

No toilet on board - except the Porta Potti - a facility not greeted with enthusiasm by La Duxette - she being accustomed only to hotels with not less than 3 stars and proper ensuite bathrooms. The capacity of the tiny corner wardrobe to hold all her sun dresses is also unlikely to pass close scrutiny.

Having specifically asked La Duxette to pack her clothes in a nice squashy hold-all, she turns up with a suitcase. Aaaaggh. The holiday begins with a row. The suitcase will not fit in the luggage space below the bed if we are to retain the Porta Potti (which she now insists we keep for emergencies), so I start throwing out other stuff I hope will not be wanted on the voyage. The barbecue and Silver Screens are discarded. Cab curtains only, this trip.

Me: Do we really need the travel iron?

Her: Darling, I am not going without it. See, it fits where you put the towels.

And so on. [NB The wretched travel iron has accompanied us on every holiday for the past 2 years, and remains in brand new unused condition. When we fly it goes in my case, naturally. Charity shop? … tempting …]

For the rest of the holiday every morning the awkward suitcase is heaved up onto the space intended for bedding, and back into the boot below sleeping quarters at night. Chiz, chiz.

A photo of our beloved budgies is Blu Tack-ed to the dashboard by her as a reminder that they have been left in the care of strangers for the duration. We set off towards the M4 and distant Folkestone.

Her: Isn't this exciting, Darling? Don't you feel excited yet?

Me: (stressed out) Don't worry Sweetheart, I expect I will feel more excited when we reach France.

Day 1 - destination Folkestone

Booked on the early morning Chunnel crossing we stop overnight at the excellent Black Horse Caravan Club site near Folkestone. Warden anxious to close the Reception mutters in response to my cheery Hello and points to a notice board with an envelope for late arrivals. Hey, we aren't late, it's half an hour before reception closing time, but she turns her back and shuts the door.

Luxurious spotless heated shower/ loo block close to the short stay pitches, all spacious on level half grass/ half hard standing. Our tiny Westy sitting in the middle of a vast pitch, dwarfed by other nearby outfits. This is the only occasion on this trip that a numbered pitch is pre-allocated to us. Needs the full 25 metre hook-up cable, chiz. Fortunately, brought long as well as short (15 metre) cable.

No eating-out facilities on site, so under protest and looking longingly at the crammed food locker and fridge I agree to have dinner at the Pub across the road. No bar food available. Mein Landlady says the restaurant is fully booked (on a Tuesday?) but if we agree to eat early (and presumably leave early) we could be squeezed into a table for 2. Not a great gastro experience, but Hey-Ho, start of hols so we munch on regardless. The bill at £19.28 for basic pub grub for two and half a pint of lager each is a bit steep.

Little wild rabbits emerge after dark to nibble the grass next to the Van. Sweeet!

Time to try out the mail-order double sleeping bag with matching pillows, La Duxette commenting that it was OK, but the matching pillows were a bit small so we should have brought our normal pillows. We both bang our heads on the lower part of the rear roof locker above the bed, something which we repeat several times during our trip. We must be slow learners. I struggle a bit to fit the cab curtain and the press studs aren't in the right places but never mind, I'm too tired to care tonight.

£13.50 paid to the CC over the internet for this handy overnight stop, a bargain.

Day 2 - destination Karlsruhe, Germany

The queue of trucks tailing back onto the M20 as we approached Folkestone yesterday made La Duxette fearful that a very early start would be required. Up before dawn isn't my ideal holiday experience. After a short, easy, 10 minute drive from campsite to Chunnel complex along empty roads, barely a handful of waiting trucks visible, we arrive at the check-in area with an hour to spare.

Not having used the Chunnel before, we find the Eurotunnel lane system very confusing. The website had us convinced that as we are over 1.85 metres we should be with the Truckies, but embarrassingly we have to back out of the automated check-in for Truckies and go to the car one instead. The long-distance Pole in the big cab behind no doubt going Har Har stupid British in their tiny van think they are a big lorry.

Small rant: Why doesn't Eurotunnel's signage consistently include a symbol for motorhomes as well as cars, trucks and coaches? Some of their signs do, some don't. Also, which parking area at the terminal are motorhomes supposed to use? Very unclear and confusing, like the departure announcements. Get your act together, you Eurotunnel chaps.

Furthermore, the suggestion that Eurotunnel will put you on an earlier Shuttle if you arrive early appears to be an urban myth. We turned up early both outbound and return and still were only offered the Shuttle at the original pre-booked time.

Mr Eurotunnel Uniform checks our little Campingaz 907 tap is fully turned off before letting us move onto the Shuttle.

Very odd, this way of crossing the Channel. Chosen to eliminate all possibility of seasickness albeit at a premium cost, we are nevertheless a bit surprised that on the move, our carriage heaves and pitches like a ferry in a choppy sea. During the crossing I go forward to the 1st carriage to visit the aircraft-style tiny loo facility. On the way there I walk along empty carriages that are uniformly stable and level. In our section of the train all vehicles (motorhomes, coaches etc.) are crammed into just 2 carriages, one of which (ours of course) lurches about uncomfortably like a dinghy in a Force 5. Very odd.

Back on terra firma in France, hoping for a sniff of freshly baked Baguette on the morning air as we grow in confidence on the right side of the roads.

It feels odd to drive off without Gendarmes stopping and searching for contraband. Nobody cares that we have driven through a Restricted Foot & Mouth Area in Surrey to get here and we have smuggled tinned Chilli Con Carne into France. I am used to being pulled over and searched - it happens a lot abroad. It must be my looks.

Now starts the real adventure.

Helga The Grumpy Sat Nav guides us away from France through the deeply uninspiring flat countryside of Belgium, then via Luxembourg to fill up with cheap Diesel, and into Germany for a hotel stop in Karlsruhe. Yes, a budget hotel, somewhat of a cop-out but a precaution in case her ladyship's first taste of the camping side of things is too much of a shock. Welcome luxury after a 5 hour drive. Handily close to an ALDI store for fresh produce and cheap beer.

Day 3 - destination Lake Garda, Italy

More mile-munching along toll-free Autobahns towards the border with Austria. Conifers getting denser so I guess it might be part of the Black Forest. Some big Mercs and Audis are whooshing by at ton-plus speed but the Klingons are not doing full Warp 9 today, Captain.

Outside it's now mid-20 Cs and sunny, but inside we have the aircon keeping us cool. Cruising at 110 kph and still getting (hopefully) 35 - 40 mpg. The VW wafts along quietly and comfortably. Left hand drive makes this Continental driving easy-peasy. Hoping we won't hear a traffic bulletin on the radio announcing an "Unfall" and our Autobahn number. That's about all my rudimentary German can glean from the local radio, which plays 70's British pop. Not an Oompah band to be heard on the airwaves.

I wish we had time for a detour along the Romantische Strasse. I've always wanted to see mad King Ludwig of Bavaria's fantasy fairytale castle of Neuschwanstein, designed by a theatrical set designer and not an architect. That experience will have to wait.

The pre-Alps get bigger and prettier and suddenly we are at the Austrian Border. Time to buy the 7-day Vignette. No queue at the counter for Cars. Much quicker than buying a stamp at our local Post Office. There are cops pulling over the defaulters just after the border crossing, before the first tunnel entrance. Smugly legal with Vignette on screen we accelerate past.

Onwards towards Innsbruck and the Brenner pass. Road tunnels galore - this is a new experience. The longest is over 20 kilometres. The lights coming towards the Van at metronomic intervals become mesmeric and I have to ask La Duxette to keep checking I am not hypnotically about to slam into the nearest truck.

Helga repeatedly complains she has lost satellite reception and makes me touch the screen otherwise she threatens to shut down. Well, what do you expect under the mountains? Aren't these tunnels on your maps? The little car in the centre of the map display seems lost and rotates randomly. There is no alternative motorhome avatar available to choose from the Sat Nav preferences, chiz.

Just before Innsbruck is a nice surprise. We stop to top up with Agip Diesel at the Trofana Tyrol motorway service area. This has luxury marbled loos normally found only in five star hotels. The best loos we have seen on Europe's motorways, ever.

Climbing high into the Alps now, the VW motor rumbling louder up the long inclines past crawling convoys of Truckies from all over Europe and the Russias. We cannot identify the BR one - which country is he from? Not many motorhomes to be seen. La Duxette is taking photos of the snow-topped mountains towering above through the mist. No sunshine now. It's raining, turning to sleet and then snow on the windscreen as the outside temperature drops to 1 C. Forwards, into the clouds. One more long hard climb kilometre after kilometre, easing off the throttle in case the auto gearbox overheats. She cannae take much more of this, Captain, Scotty says in my head.

Outstandingly beautiful scenery as we go over the Brenner pass into the Dolomites and head for warmer Italy. The pass is guarded at intervals by abandoned grim fortresses where soldiers must have shivered behind thick stone walls cursing their misfortune to be posted to desperate frontier garrisons.

A mountain crossing that will be remembered.

Through the windscreen in the snow a big square blue sign with gold EU stars announces ITALIA. The passing villages now have less of the cuckoo clock about them. The car drivers are undisciplined maniacs. Sunshine breaks out. It must be Italy. It's warm again so we stop for a picnic lunch at the first service area. The Italian sparrows are charming, one feeding its juvenile offspring with our English breadcrumbs.

Finally, we are off the motorway (and its tolls) and after a minor bout of grumpiness from Helga as we circle a complex of confusabouts we are heading for Lake Garda on the back roads via the commune of Nago-Torbole. There is a spectacular twisty descent with Mediterranean-like glimpses of the lake through vineyards, olive trees and cypresses. Then we arrive in Torbole, where the windsurfers camp by the lake. A short drive along the shore and nirvana appears through the last road tunnel - Riva del Garda. Camping Al Lago is just on the left and we drive in, expected. Welcome, and choose your own pitch. This is the last campsite on this trip that we have booked in advance. Trusting the advice on Motorhome Facts we believe that out of season you can just turn up. It works!

The Camping Al Lago pitches are small, hard and dusty, but fairly level and shady. We find one with a view looking out to the beach that lies at the end of the site. The owner comes to lock one end of our hook up lead into a box and we have mains electricity (reverse polarity, natch). Not many amps but enough to run the fridge and lights, and La Duxette's hair dryer if necessary. The small but clean toilet/ shower block is a few yards away. It's obviously just enough capacity at peak times in the off season so I expect there could be queues in July and August. Blokes can choose between Turkish and conventional loos. No toilet paper provided. Showers require a token - €1 for 7 minutes.

A young man is washing his dog in the Male section. It's a bitch - but anything goes in Italy, I expect.

Break out the chairs and table - at last a chilled beer in the warm sunshine with a vibrant lake view to enjoy.

Then it's a short walk up to our favourite restaurant, the one with outdoor tables overlooking the main road, at the Hotel Rialto, for the best pizza Marinara ever, anywhere. The balance of flavours is subtle and perfect, the base thin and crisp. Amazingly cheap too at 4.50 Euros. La Duxette speaks Italian so she is in charge of ordering food and drink. After beer therapy, a gentle passegiata with La Duxette along the lake shore towards the town centre and back. This is heaven.

We stay for 5 nights in Camping Al Lago. It's basic but adequate. €25 per night with electricity. We are the only Brits here. The other campers are German, Austrian, Italian or Dutch. On the first night the group of well-lubricated German students next to us come back to their combined double pitch (touring caravan, large awning and adjacent VW T3 campervan all less than 10 ft away from the Dux Van) at 11 pm and carry on partying. They attempt to ignite their gas barbecue after midnight. There is a loud "whoosh" and huge orange flame that lights up the campsite and brings concerned Austrians out of their motorhomes and caravans to help extinguish the inferno.

At 1 am I open the window and ask the students (6 feet away) in my best pidgin German politely to shut up because we have just driven 800 km and want to sleep. They promise to go to bed in 10 minutes but carry on until past 2 am. It dawns on us that there is a reason why the pitch next to theirs was still available when we arrived.

Next day we complain to the site manager/ owner who says they will have a word with the German students. This has the desired effect and the Germans are meek and respectful and the flame-throwing episode is not repeated. The day after that, they leave. In fact, every pitch within a 20 metre radius of ours suddenly becomes vacant and we assume that word has got round that these Brits are not to be messed with. Either that, or we have Mad Cow Disease or something else highly contagious.

A small gang of Hells Angels arrive in the afternoon on their throbbing Harleys. They move into a caravan in a corner of the site and turn out to be a friendly group of middle-aged German bikers down for a male bonding and drinking weekend.

Riva is bliss. Very restful. You can walk everywhere. Ideal for mooching about doing nothing in particular, enjoying the views of the mountains and lake, or sitting outside a bar with a chilled glass of birra. The food is just as I like it and I consume at least 1 delicious pizza every day.

A pair of crested Grebes are diving for fish together near the harbour, just by a Café Bar, unconcerned by the people who haven't noticed them anyway. The lake is so clear that we can see the Grebes swimming all the way to the bottom. They even perform a little ritual dance, mirroring each other's movements. Delightful.

We visit an art exhibition in the Museum located in the old castle in the town centre. The Artist himself, Massimo Scolari, is there in person signing books. We later see one of his monumental wood sculptures in Venice. It turns out that he is really famous. With a name like that, he has to be.

In the moat of the old castle four Little Grebes are diving for fish next to moored dinghies. This is a great sighting, right in the middle of Riva. La Duxette is also enchanted by the many little shops and narrow old streets with their pavement cafés.

Torbole town is also a sunny walk away along the shore and the brisk warm wind brings out squadrons of windsurfers and a few Hoby Cats. The fast ones skim along the whitecaps of the lake and their gaudy rainbow sails echo the bright butterflies flitting along the shoreline. More birra therapy, and then we catch an evening ferry back to Riva. Better than the bus, any day.

A colony of bats roosts somewhere at Camping Al Lago. One evening we wait at dusk on the beach outside the campsite and count 43 bats flitting off towards the olive groves on nearby Monte Brione to hunt for flying insects. The bats ignore the presence of humans and fly inches away past your face, guided safely by their sonar. Moving too fast to identify. Perhaps these are Pipistrelles, Italy's most common bat, or Daubenton's Bat, found in woods and parks near water. Dry weather and bats help account for the welcome absence of mosquitoes on this site.

Day 8 - destination Venice, Italy

Having to vacate our pitch at Camping al Lago by noon, we nevertheless extend our stay in Riva for a final stroll around the town and delicious lunch. The cunning plan is to move the Dux Van to the purpose-built Aree Sosta Camper at Via Brione. This is only 200 yards from Camping al Lago. It sits behind the Police Station. Parking costs €0.50 per hour for a maximum stay of 48 hours. Expensive, but it must be the most secure parking ever. The cops out on their roof terrace for a crafty smoke have a commanding view over the whole area.

There are 41 motorhome parking spaces and about 30 are occupied. A handy service point with free drinking water supply, but no electric hook-up and little shade to be had. An enthusiastic young Uniform arrives by scooter just as I am walking back with a ticket from a Pay-and-Display machine. Yes, I Have Just Arrived, as I wave the 2-hour ticket in front of him before fitting it to the windscreen.

After a good lunch we are back on toll motorways cruising towards Venice in the afternoon sunshine. The usual quota of loony Italian car drivers cut us up as they swerve across the bow of the Dux Van at the last possible moment before the next exit ramp. I am getting used to tooting the feeble VW horn and stamping on the brakes to avoid impromptu van-car matings. LHD gives a few vital milliseconds' extra warning of the impending collisions.

La Duxette is apprehensive about the infamous chaotic queues at the approach to the toll booths at the Venice end. No worries, the toll booths are congestion free this afternoon. We turn south towards the Mestre industrial area.

Confused by road signs I miss the turn announced by Helga. Recalculating. There is a big Truck blocking the road at the next left turn. Eventually he moves off and we drive past a sad-looking Cantina towards Camping Fusina. The locality is flat as Somerset and there is nothing of interest near the campsite.

The attraction of Camping Fusina for the Dux Van expedition is mainly its direct ferry link to Venice that gets you across in only 20 minutes. The Italian receptionist advises choosing a pitch in the area furthest from the Bar.

The far end of the site is close to the lagoon, so we get onto a large grass pitch under trees with a glimpse of the water not far away. All the waterfront pitches are already occupied. We leap from the Dux Van to grab a first sight of Venice's skyline in the late afternoon sunshine. It is truly magical and exciting. Time to break out the cold beer and sit on a bench overlooking the lagoon.

According to the 2006 Alan Rogers Italy guide, "This is old-fashioned camping, but what fun .."

Mr Rogers adds helpfully: "Those who don't wish to be disturbed by the lively bar can choose from the many super informal waterside pitches on the far end of the site."

Har Har. In fact the site is dominated by coach parties of hyper-loud yoofs and yoofettes from a fun-loving Club 18 - 35 Australian tour operator called Contiki. Their website refers to this place as "Contiki's Venice Village". The mostly Ozzie yoofs are staying in static mobile homes and have a huge private marquee. Every evening the sound of Disco / House beats and bar drinking games with the extra shouting option spreads across the entire site from the Bar area and does not begin to subside until midnight has passed. SCREAM go the airhead girlies for no good reason. They lack utterly the gene that confers consideration for others. Unless you are very hard of hearing or well supplied with earplugs there is no peace to be had anywhere on Camping Fusina once darkness falls until all juveniles are just too shagged out or dead drunk. Beam me up Scotty, there's no intelligent life down here.

A pair of cargo pants and a shirt lie in a heap outside the main shower block for the duration of our stay. Presumably the Contiki traveller who forgot them walked back to his chalet naked in the dark and had to get on the bus in a hurry. The Fusina cleaning staff aren't up to much.

Mr Rogers, you forgot to mention that Camping Fusina is also directly under the flight path into Venice Airport. Until 11:30 pm the jets come low over the site at 5 minute intervals with their landing gear and flaps down. The rear-engined MD 82s are much noisier than the Boeing 737s and Airbus A320s that sound like flying hairdryers. Watching them makes up for lack of telly.

Up before dawn (and after taking in the jaw-droppingly gorgeous sunrise - a red fireball rising over Venice across the lagoon) we buy the 3-day ticket for the Fusina - Zaterra Venice ferry route for €20. This turns out to be limited to a single route only so an additional fare is necessary to visit other islands or to go to the Lido beaches. Plenty of seats on the top deck in the open air, so a pleasant vaporetto ride in the sunshine later we are marching briskly through the Accademia quarter towards the Piazza san Marco. La Duxette who has been before says this gallop is necessary to beat the tourist queues for the interior of the Duomo of San Marco. There is still a brief queue outside, but it's worth getting here before 10 am to view the magnificent gilded Byzantine interior before the crush. Entrance is free.

Large bags are forbidden so the shoulder bag and its contents of cameras, spare batteries, baby wipes, sun cream, waterproofs and other essential stuff are quickly pushed up the front of my jacket. The Uniform at the entrance gives this somewhat contrived beer belly a suspicious glare but merely requests politely that my hat be removed before entering this Holy building. Once inside, you only pay if you want to see specific parts of the building. It's very impressive with almost every surface covered in fabulous gold leaf and mosaics, but not as spiritually stirring as (say) Reims Cathedral.

Outside, the tables of the cafes that line the square are empty. That ridiculously overpriced cup of coffee scam has finally been rumbled by the tourists. Try giving value for money, perhaps? The string quartet (with accordionist) outside Florian's is vainly playing "When the Saints go Marching In". How very odd. Surely Vivaldi is mandatory here. In the 18th century Florian's was a notorious brothel but the music was most likely Vivaldi's latest hits.

On the base of one of the Venetian Lion statues in the Piazza there is what appears to be a discreetly small Banksy graffito, that makes me smile. Banksy's subversive wit contrasts with the many awful spray-painted tags the local vandals have been putting on beautiful Venice. They are just mindless crimes against a World Heritage site. The tallest flagpoles in Piazza San Marco should be hung with the rotting eyeless heads of taggers to deter others.

A group of waiting Gondoliers are chatting and one is having his first beer of the day at 10 am.

The Osteria da Barco is in our Rough Guide and we admire the traditional wood panelled interior. La Duxette tries to order drinks and fresh sandwiches in her best Italian, but it is soon clear that this is a local haunt for Gondoliers and other Venetians - tourists like us are unwelcome unless you just want a takeaway sandwich to eat elsewhere.

We find a traditional backstreet restaurant instead, the Antica Sacristi. The walls are covered by an eclectic collection of paintings. The waiters are polite, attentive and the lunch is better than good, as well as inexpensive. The bill is wrong, but graciously corrected by the boss.

The rest of the afternoon is a lengthy photo opportunity as we wander round the streets and canals up to the Rialto bridge. Many shops on the way are carefully explored by La Duxette. Either the Venetians shop on the mainland or starve, because 99% of the goods on sale in Venice are Murano glass objects or carnival masks and other tat for tourists.

In the Church of San Salvador is Titian's Annunciation, a huge painting that escaped Napoleon Bonaparte's looting and so is not in the Louvre. It is guarded by a girl reading a book. We light a candle and say a quiet prayer in memory of a close friend who succumbed to cancer earlier this year.

Back at the site a French caravan has pitched up while we were in Venice, and their Peugeot tug is parked right next to the Dux Van, where we would sit outside. It's a pitch invasion. The French are absent so we pointedly put our table and chairs right up against their car before trooping off to the campsite restaurant. On our return the car has been moved. Madame comes over from the caravan and apologises for being "genant" so we smile graciously and wish her "Bonne soirée".

There are mosquitoes and I itch in several lumpy spots. The fragrant Duxette appears not to have been bitten. That'll teach me to sit outside at night.

Next morning, another early start, another early vaporetto to Venice. In the back streets we come across Eastern European women in shawls prostrating themselves on the pavement, begging bowls at our feet, mumbling about "bambini". Having seen Michael Palin's TV show where this was mentioned, I realise these are probably trafficked village women from places like Albania or Moldavia. Too old for the other street profession, gangsters force them to beg instead.

Along the quays we run the gauntlet of African illegal street vendors with their knock-off designer handbags, belts and sunglasses. No, there is no such brand as VerGucci, NO THANKS we aren't interested. The Africans pee under the bridges when they think no-one is looking.

We visit the astonishingly interesting Museo Storico Navale (Naval History Museum) at the old Arsenal. Only €1.60 entry fee, a true bargain. We have to force ourselves to hurry through the last galleries to allow time for lunch. Yet another restaurant discovered nearby in the back streets, with a large sunny walled rear courtyard garden and tables under the trees. Lizards scurry up the flaking brickwork behind sculptures and trailing vines into the sunshine and it's a haven of green tranquillity in this frantic city. Not so tranquil is the Kitchen where the Chef is shouting and gesticulating at the disorganised waiter who must be his idiot son. Pizzas are waiting to be taken to the customers' tables. Mine's a Siciliana and hers is al vongole, with animals in it that lived in the sea but are related to spiders and snails. Each to his/ her own tastes.

A vaporetto ride and 8 stops later we are in Murano for an afternoon's browsing in the glass shops and a peek into the workshops where the artisans create all this beauty. The Venice fire brigade arrives, Keystone Cop-like in their little red fire boat with vigili del fuoco on the side, trying to look uber-cool under designer sunglasses. The fire boat has no ladder, so in the event of a fire the best bet for Venetians trapped on upper floors is a screaming dive into the canal. In Versace nightwear, sunglasses perched on head. Even when scorched and bedraggled one must try to look one's best, here in Venice.

Some of the Murano glass artefacts are achingly lovely but with invisible price tags. Only the lack of a Lotto jackpot stops us buying the lot. In one shop, a disappointed and embarrassed American tourist and his wife - Waddya mean, did they really say my Card has been declined? It's the sub-prime lending crisis, ya see. Disappointment for the sales assistant too.

I am utterly captivated by an aquarium. Not an actual fish tank, but a full-size Murano replica in solid glass, complete with swarms of gaudy tropical fish, plant fronds waving in an imaginary current, and even bubbles, so realistic and clever, a masterpiece. A 3-D snapshot in glass of the real thing. But for the lack of €5,000 it would be packaged up and on its way to England in the Dux Van.

A tall glass Christmas tree stands in a small Piazza by a Campanile, and nearby an elegant shuttered balcony supports window boxes with pretty glass flowers in white, yellow, red and blue, all too bright primary colours to be true, yet good enough to fool a casual glance. Murano is unique.

The afternoon is soon over and we are back on a vaporetto towards the Piazza San Marco.

There is a lengthy queue at the Zaterra ferry terminal for the 5:30 pm service back to Fusina. The Contiki yoofs and yoofettes have an utter disregard for the etiquette of queuing and barge right to the front to be with their mates, without an "excuse me". If I were bigger and younger I would cheerfully throw them into the Grand Canal. We eventually get on board but there are no empty seats and we stand all the way.

Our vaporetto passes the Crystal Serenity, from Nassau, a massive Cruise Liner pushing its way out of the lagoon, with a local Tug on a stern rope to keep it from getting wayward. These floating 12 storey hotel / casinos are ruining the hydrography of the lagoon and hastening the sinking of the city of Venice. They dominate the skyline, totally out of scale against the medieval Palazzos and churches that are generally only 4 or 5 storeys tall and utterly dwarfed by these massive travelling tower blocks.

An upsetting incident greets us back at Camping Fusina. There is a small family of 3 donkeys, including a foal and its pregnant mother, brought in to a temporary paddock by the Bar as an amusement for the Contiki Bazzas and Sheilas. A notice board announces a "Wine Festival", with donkeys. Why? The Bar is almost deserted but already the DJ is spinning his disks at high volume, and the visibly distressed donkeys break out of the paddock and make a run for it. We follow in case they try to get out of the gate onto the main road. Staff are trying to catch them and put them back in that horrible paddock. We are not animal rights loonies but feel the situation is thoughtlessly cruel, unacceptably so. We consider who we might complain to but it is pretty clear that the man taking charge of this fiasco is probably the Manager of Camping Fusina in person. Unfortunately our command of Italian doesn't go as far as enabling us to phone the Italian equivalent of the RSPCA, whatever that might be.

To cap it all that evening the Bar disco is thumping out a moronic hard house track that can be heard right across the site yelling "SHUT THE F*CK UP" over and over again. Yes, you d*ckhead, why don't you take your own advice.

We go to bed feeling very unsettled by the ill-treatment of the unfortunate Donks and decide to leave a day earlier than planned. The spiritually uplifting effects of time spent in beautiful Venice each day are being cancelled out each evening. The distress caused to the poor Donks is the final straw. We can't stand Camping Fusina any longer.

Time to move on again to restore the holiday mood and seek relaxation. To be fair, we have enjoyed the views across the lagoon to Venice and the passing ships that glide by the shore were also impressive, but that wasn't enough. We couldn't recommend this site (at least, in mid-September) as long as it continues to give priority to the interests of the Contiki Club 18 - 35 contingent above the interests of touring campers. The site is big, but not big enough for both groups to co-exist in harmony. Otherwise, it would be a great base for visiting Venice in the low season. It's expensive too, at €30 per night.

We consider moving to a campsite at Punta Sabbioni for one night but the hassle involved puts us off. We cancel plans for the third day - earmarked for visiting Venice's art galleries. We vow to return - Punta Sabbioni will be our base next time.

Day 11 - destination Lake Iseo, Italy

Replenish the diesel tank at a truck garage in the industrial area - €40 is enough so we haven't used much fuel since Innsbruck. Unusually it isn't self-service. I have to explain to the pump attendant requesting I remove it that the filler cap at the back of the van is only for aqua, not diesel.

The morning rush hour traffic is still trying to get off the motorway at 10 am and this jams up the roundabout that we must use to get out of Venice. Forcing our way across 3 lines of Italian traffic gets the adrenaline going. Then it's back into a congested motorway that is like the M25 with extra nutters. Outside it soon reaches 27C and the aircon just about copes as the sun heats the cab. Helga sits in the cool breeze from the dashboard vent to keep her from frying her chips.

Stopping for a lunch break in a large service area with an Autogrill, we bag the last parking space. Next to us is a lively extended family of about 15 Albanian immigrants with an old van and car. Keeping a wary eye on them we take it in turns to check out the shop and loos before settling down to a picnic in the Dux Van.

Off the busy motorway and a pleasant warm afternoon's drive to Lake Iseo. A smaller Northern Lake that apparently is less frequented by tourists than Maggiore or Como.

Helga commands an impromptu diversion via a shopping centre car park. Slightly puzzled, I obey. We can see the main road we have just left running parallel, and the exit from the car park takes us back onto it. The tail of Italian drivers behind us (we adhere to speed limits) is released and off into the distance ahead.

Three circuits of Iseo town centre later we finally spot the elusive sign that marks the entrance to Camping Del Sole. Helga had taken us past the entrance each time and a confusing signpost sent us further into town than necessary.

Nice English-speaking Italian lady says Choose your own pitch and come back to Reception to tell us. The International Camping Card entitles us to a 20% discount on the out of season rate. We are given bar-coded tickets to get us in and out of the site entrance and raise the barrier.

This site has fairly level gravel / grassy pitches with hook-ups and a magnificent modern services block with piped music. One end of the site along the lakefront is reserved for campers with dogs, separated from the rest by a hedge. We find a lakefront pitch in the dog-free zone. It is close to the Bar, which is all but deserted anyway and tends to close early each evening through lack of custom. Unlike Fusina this campsite is utterly laid back and relaxing to be in. Everyone is polite and friendly. Nobody encroaches onto our pitch.

The seasonal caravans and family tents are being packed up and awnings being washed before putting away. A few caravans are still occupied by Italians down for the weekend. There are a number of motorhomes including British ones on this site, as well as a smattering of tent campers, but the site is hardly quarter full. Some Austrians in a caravan have brought their Budgies. In halting German we try to explain we also keep such birds, that we miss while away.

At night the views across the lake are simply stunning, even better than Lake Garda. The lights from each little town sparkle across the calm water. Bats skim the water like swallows then flit silently past our heads.

A citronella candle helps to deter the mosquitoes as we sit outside the Westy sipping chilled beers, taking in the lights reflected across the water.

Near the ablutions block a long-haired retired hippy practices on his drum kit in his caravan, but not so loudly or late as to offend. The loudest noise in the evenings comes from the local social club in Iseo, about half a kilometre distant across the bay. On the first night there is a lively singing talent contest, the second a Bingo evening, and so on. Competition comes from the all-night quacking of manic ducks and occasional Church bells. The ducks are louder than the Church bells. I am generally a big fan of Mallards but the ones in Iseo harbour are mutants with a bad quacking compulsion.

Night brings thunder and lightning, with rain lashing down. After the previous multiple rain test at Le Mans I am confident that the canvas elevating roof is watertight. A thunderstorm is pretty exciting in a small Westy.

The air next morning is clear so the previously invisible furthest picturesque mountains are now in photo range.

A young English couple arrive on the next-door pitch in their "small" Road Trek van. They are on a tour of Europe, spending their redundancy money. With a thirsty V8 to feed they will need that money. Interlaken had superb scenery but they froze at night. They crossed the Brenner pass the day before we did, in exactly the same weather conditions. They had the same trouble finding the sign that marks the entrance to this site and went several times round Iseo's one-way system, like us. Snap. After Lake Iseo they are off to Lake Garda and a family wedding. We share information.

Iseo town is charming and mostly unspoilt with a pedestrianised centre and cobbled Piazza Garibaldi complete with statue. Old buildings and intriguing alleyways draw the eye. Only 15 minutes easy walk from the site. The posh bakery in Piazza Garibaldi is heaving and requires a ticket for the queue to be served so we find another shop in the back streets selling warm crusty farmhouse bread.

The smart shops are either extremely pricey clothes and home furnishings and jewellers that suggest half the population is very rich retired, and the other half are grungy trendy shops for the idle yoof of Italy. Plenty to keep La Duxette occupied. The main pier even has a helipad for world-class shopaholics.

Café Bleu on the harbourside has shady tables and even comfy outdoor sofas. Our favourite waterhole for birra and cappuccino. Sparrows swoop down for crisps. A temporarily deaf street vendor in Nigerian costume tries to sell us a "lucky" wooden elephant. NO THANKS, we repeat.

The site bar has a TV where we watch the MotoGP and F1 motor sport on Sunday. Lewis Hamilton does reasonably well at Spa Francorchamps in the Belgian Grand Prix to keep his title hopes alive. On 2 wheels, Valentino Rossi is the local hero but it isn't going to be his championship this year, thanks to Casey Stoner of Australia and his superior Ducati.

The list of bar snack dishes available keeps diminishing, and La Duxette bags the only remaining risotto al funghi. You can tell that the bar and the mini-market shop are running stocks down before they close for the winter. A couple of Italian campers with a gambling problem are feeding the kids' inheritance into a slot machine in the corner of the bar.

Wildfowl to be seen on the lake include a cormorant, coots, Bewick's swans (as well as the usual mute variety), and diving crested grebes. The swans feed on long strands of green weed, slurping it like spaghetti. One even wears a green scarf of weed across his neck as he swims round the harbour, perhaps saving an especially tasty treat for later.

We like Camping Del Sole and its locality so much we cancel plans to move on to Lake Como, and decide to stay a couple of extra days instead. We would gladly use this site again. We also both enjoy Radio Delta, a local station playing a wide selection of recent and nostalgic rock and pop music but no R&B or other Rap-derived dross.

The extended stay means that we can visit Iseo on Market day. The main piazza and surrounding streets are filled by traders' vans and stalls. I never realised Italy had so many different cheeses. We buy a large bunch of big juicy green grapes that will last us until we leave France. Just off the vine, they are fresher and sweeter than any grapes you can buy in England.

On the final evening a gale arrives from the North and we must abandon our cherished lake views and retreat to the more sheltered pitches towards the back of the site, otherwise the roof will have to stay shut. We also fear that branches may be brought down. By now I am getting the hang of this camping lark. I can pack the table away and get the roof down in under 10 minutes without much loss of blood, yay!

The young Dutch couple on the adjacent pitch battle to save their awning. In the end they park their car between caravan and lake, lashing the remnants of their awning to its roof bars and wheels. There is no rain. The sky remains clear. What a strange gale.

Day 16 - destination Lake Annecy, France

Next morning it is as if nothing had happened. The weather is warm and sunny with a light breeze. We set off for the Vale d' Aosta and on to France. From the motorway the Alps rise suddenly about 20 kilometres distant across the north Italian plain. It's packed with trucks until we turn northwards away from Turin towards Aosta at which point the traffic thins and the driving is more relaxed.

Having watched a "Seconds from Disaster" documentary on the Discovery channel about the fire in 1998 that claimed 38 lives, I do have some apprehension about using the Mont Blanc tunnel. La Duxette is snapping the spectacular views as we approach.

Mid-October when snow chains become compulsory is not far away, and after crossing the snowy Brenner pass I discount the alternative cheaper scenic crawl over the St Bernard pass and we pay the €32.30 toll. The Westy is under 2 metres tall and classed as a car, so we get the cheapest rate. A colour card in several languages summarising the safety instructions and traffic regulations is thrust through the window.

Inside the Mont Blanc tunnel the cruise control keeps us at an average 67 kph, just under the 70 kph limit in case Big Brother is watching. Speed cameras lurk somewhere in the tunnel. Traffic is very light and the 150 metre minimum separation between vehicles is not an issue.

Emerging on the French side, the Dux Van is pulled over by the cops. I get stopped at least once on most trips to France - last year a stroppy Gendarme doing some Sunday overtime gave me a breath test at a road block near Bordeaux. It was pretty clear that GB plates were being targeted. Or, is it just the way I look, eh? Who knows.

This time the young Cop is at least polite. Bonjour monsieur, parlez-vous Francais? Oui, un peu. There is a perfunctory search of the van for luxury goods (none in our case) and stashes of currency of €10,000 plus (we wish). Merci, et bonne journée.

We descend a steep switchback road down the mountain. The limit is 50 kph, and round every hairpin bend a sinister black pole topped with a black CCTV camera with a pair of infra-red lights looms between the fir trees - the cameras remind me of SPECS average speed cameras so I drive very cautiously with an eye on the speedo.

Back on the motorway we have a really close shave when a French nutter in his old green Ford Escort cuts suddenly across the nose of the van, forcing an emergency braking event. Too quick for me to toot the horn, before he is rushing to his next appointment with the Grim Reaper. Had we been a Truck they would be needing a teaspoon to gather his remains.

In the late afternoon Helga finally leads us through the modern town of Annecy to Camping Le Belvedere. She directs me to turn right into a narrow and very steep side road. I have turned before spotting the red No Entry sauf riverains sign. Loud pedal to the floor and we squirt up the steep hill in a cloud of smoke before any of the riverains can call the cops. It turns out this is Helga's literal interpretation of the shortest rout to the campsite, saving a few yards instead of directing us along the proper route du Semnoz.

A very friendly young Frenchwoman gives us a warm welcome at Reception. She has 2 little girls and a shaggy dog and is looking forward to her holidays when the site closes for the winter, in 3 weeks' time.

The site snack bar closed yesterday, désole. We are given a map and directions for the walk into the old town - take a torch because the path is unlit. A torch also comes in handy to get to the loos at night due to sparse coverage of the campsite lighting and a slippery gravel path.

Fresh bread is delivered to site if you order it the day before, but that doesn't fit our short-stay plans.

A good selection of vacant pitches with hook-ups is available to choose from. Access roads are cul-de-sacs so better walk round first than have to back up. The gravelled and mostly shaded "grand confort" motorhome pitches are a reasonable size with 10 amp electricity bornes and drinking water taps close by. A French 2-pin + hole adapter is needed for the hook-up lead. The pitches are terraced and not quite level. The ablutions block is modern, heated and clean - none of the dreaded Turkish loos here. Hot showers are included. €17.70 per night and you pay the day before you leave. Smart log cabin Chalets are available for hire and contractors are installing more at the upper end of the site.

Camping Le Belvedere is a 3 Star municipal campsite, and the only campsite within Annecy itself. It's up a wooded hill from which there used to be fabulous views over the lake 20 years ago, but today they are mostly obscured by mature trees. English tenters have bagged the grass pitch with the finest view and proudly tell us so.

The ville-annecy website says Vous êtes à 10 mn à pied de la Vieille Ville (you are 10 minutes by foot from the Old Town). http://www.lac-annecy.com/fr/hebergements/pop-camping/campingspop_present.php?cle=1

Alan Rogers (in the France 2007 guide) says helpfully that Annecy "… can be reached in 15 minutes by a quiet, but steep footpath."

Yeah, riiiight. We are quite fit but reckon it took us almost 30 minutes to walk to the Old Town via this steep path. The return trip is a slower climb with the added benefit of a cardiovascular workout, and you don't want to be carrying heavy shopping bags. On one side there is a high wall, and a wood lines the other. The many steps are a bit uneven and a slip & trip hazard that would no doubt land the Council in court if this were England, but the French municipality prefers natural selection to keep the infirm and the reckless from reaching their town on foot. In high season there is a bus from the site.

On the pitch directly between us and a possible glimpse of the lake is a Belgian motorhome. I may not know much about this lark but it doesn't seem right for them to leave their waste outlet open. We can hear splashing sounds under their van at regular intervals. I hope it is only grey water.

Annecy feels very expensive, even when measured against Lake Garda tourist prices. Restaurant menu prices threaten the remnants of our end-of-holiday cash that needs to last until Calais. For purely financial reasons we settle for pizza, albeit not half as good as the authentic Italian version we have become fond of.

It's colder in Annecy than anywhere we have stayed in Italy. The restaurants light their patio heaters for outside diners. Our summer sleeping bag won't be sufficient and we go to bed in fleecy tracksuits for warmth.

I wake thinking dawn has arrived. There is so much light coming in through the back curtains. My watch says it is only 3:30 am and I struggle to get back to sleep. The culprit is the light within the electricity borne shining through the back curtains. Too bright. The following evening I fix a black bin bag over the side of the borne with Duck tape. Ta Da - a good night's sleep! La Duxette will remind me to take it off again before we depart.

Dawn is distinctly chilly so on with the Eberspacher diesel heater - a quiet and effective piece of standard kit in the Westy.

That day we stroll round Annecy Old Town, the Lake shore and some of the shops in the modern town centre. The Old Town is pretty, befitting the second most visited place in France after Paris. The architecture is medieval, all higgledy-piggledy random windows and doorways for dwarfs, with walls gone out of plumb.

Looking down from one bridge into the clear lake water there is a clutch of shiny objects lying close to each other on the bottom. Silver eggs? No, I realise these are mobile phones. Evidence later disposed of by the scrotes who grab the mobiles from restaurant tables then leg it. Probably.

The Old Town is an unashamed tourist trap but is compact enough to take in by a couple of hours' wander at most. La Duxette purchases final souvenirs to bring home, and gifts for rellies. In the modern Annecy we choose a Crêperie for lunch. It is in a side street and well frequented by locals, with reasonable prices.

Before wandering back up the hill to the campsite, sitting outside a Café Bar in a square we take in the late afternoon atmosphere. The young waitress wants us to pay for our drinks immediately in case we do a runner. To stay in the warm afternoon sun we move table 3 times as chill shadows creep round the square. There is an ornamental fountain opposite. French students wearing shorts and black bin-bag tunics jump in the fountain from time to time, being videoed on mobile phones by their mates. There is some sort of festival taking place today in Annecy but the significance of the bin-bag costumes eludes us.

Next morning the door of the ablutions is wide open and the purpose of having them heated has been negated by some negligent twits the night before. Hanging is too good for them.

A Black Redstart sings in the tree above our Van, as we prepare to set off.

Day 18 - destination St Quentin, France

Time to head North towards Calais. The plan is to cross as much of France as possible, and leave time tomorrow for a leisurely visit to a French supermarket before the crossing. Rather than shop in the Calais booze warehouses (which I heard were aimed at Brits and expensive by French standards) we intend to find a normal supermarket in a town along the route.

Motorways, and tolls, tolls, tolls. Next time we will follow Russell's advice and take his mainly toll-free route to the Italian lakes and back. Luckily being in Classe 1 the Dux Van isn't too badly hit. I get the impression that cruise control actually results in higher diesel consumption, because the computer opens the throttle wide going up hills where I would ease back, and it seems to brake going downhill when I would let the speed rise to get the full benefit of the energy expended up the previous climb and also get a better run at the next hill.

On one stretch of motorway an oncoming car flashes its headlights. La Duxette remarks that it must be a warning. Sure enough, at the bottom of the next hill, under a bridge there is a Gendarme pointing a hand-held laser gun at us. Being targeted is not a comfortable feeling but cruising past at 110 kph we are not his prey today.

France has some fixed radar speed cameras, but compared with the UK these are few. Invariably they are heralded by a warning large sign so you must really switch your brain off to be flashed. The roadside mobile speed traps are far more common and I have never made a trip to France without passing at least one Flic lurking more or less covertly with his laser gun and hostile intent to fine you on the spot.

By contrast, the German Polizei don't seem so fussed about enforcing their speed limits but on the whole German drivers are a pretty disciplined lot. Their main fault is tailgating. The Italian drivers are anarchic and it's fun to watch their road tantrums where they shout and gesticulate then drive away grinning thinking they got the better of that other idiot.

In the evening we pull in to the final campsite on our trip. Helga gets us there perfectly for once.

Camping Caravanning du Vivier Aux Carpes is described by Alan Rogers as an ideal overnight stop only 2 hours from Calais. It's in a village in deepest countryside with few amenities apart from a village mini-mart shop. Keen fishermen might regard the possibilities as worth the detour.

According to Mr Rogers, "The enthusiastic owners and manager speak excellent English and are keen to welcome British visitors." The door is ajar, but Reception is empty so I enter and call out a cheery "Bonsoir". Half a minute later a middle-aged Frenchwoman appears behind me with a greeting in French along the lines of "Why are you speaking to an empty room (you moron)?" Har Har.

After 7 hours' driving I am having a sense of humour malfunction and cannot think of a witty riposte in French. I realise that Sarcastic Madame and I will not become lifelong friends. There is a brusque completion of formalities and €17.50 cash in advance is requested. The back door of the reception is opened and I am given an indication of the whereabouts of the Sanitaires. These are basic but adequate. Unheated, too. Prominent signs demand that campers turn off the lights or else.

We find a nearly level grassy pitch in a quiet corner and hook up the Dux Van before settling in for the evening. A random smattering of seasonal caravans have little gardens, decking and patios with the usual cheesy ornaments and gnomes. This is nevertheless a cheery sight, unlike the prominent big red signs that proclaim it is formally interdicted to approach, never mind feed, any duck or swan, upon pain of expulsion. This sets the tone for the site. Again, the night is cold.

Screeching air horns announce the arrival of the baker's van from St Quentin. A queue forms for fresh baguettes and croissants. I wish bakers would send a little van round every campsite.

After breakfast we slip away without saying Au revoir to Sarcastic Madame and head for Calais.

Day 19 - destination Home, via Calais

The plan today is to stop paying, so toll road avoidance is programmed into Helga. There is a curious incident when a message appears on Helga: There is a better route available would you like to take it? Touch the YES button. The familiar purple route disappears from the map display leaving blank roads. Helga stays mute as we approach junctions. What the … ? We stop to re-programme our Calais destination and Helga blithely resumes her grumpy voice as if she had only been offline for some benign purpose and not having a head fit.

An ATAC supermarket fuel station provides a final fill-up with cheap French Gazole (diesel) at €1.10 per litre. The supermarket itself is too small to offer the sort of exotic shopping experience we seek, so we follow the signs to a larger Intermarché. Helga announces in grumpier tones that she is Recalculating.

Back on the sunny Route Nationales we start looking for a shady spot to park for a lunch break. The sun is positioned so that all shaded lay-bys are on the wrong side.

Her: I need proper toilet facilities, there aren't any along these roads.

Me: Then we will have to get back on the Autoroutes, and find an aire de service with toilets where we can stop.

The avoid toll roads preference is changed so Helga will direct us back onto the A26 motorway in the direction of Calais. Back on the A26, I spot a leafy aire with picnic tables and a loo block, so we stop.

Her: It's no good, the toilets are Turkish. I need proper toilets. Let's go on.

A bigger aire de service with petrol station, shop, Autogrill and decent loos appears in 20 kilometres and we pull in. It's busy with cars and trucks. Get the table out and enjoy the salads we bought in that Intermarché. Delicious. Snap - there is an almost identical silver T4 Westfalia California Event parked nearby, with German plates.

Arriving in Calais in the early afternoon, we are overtaken by cars and 4x4s piled to the roof with heavy cartons as they emerge on sagging suspension from Boozers and the other similar retail sheds peddling contraband to the British day-trippers.

We arrive nearly 2 hours early at the Eurotunnel check-in but are not offered an earlier Shuttle than the one booked, so we have a long boring wait. The terminal resembles a third world airport lounge and apart from buying an English newspaper it holds no interest. Not much of the original investors' £2 billion budget was spent on facilities for customers, obviously.

A horn toots repeatedly as the lines of vehicles moves away from the Terminal area. A coach has driven off with its main luggage locker door open.

The over 1.85 metre high non-Trucks, motorhomes and coaches are held until the last minute in distant marshalling lanes watching the other travellers heading to the loading area. Finally our van boards, behind a shiny new Bentley. Quite why that isn't with the other cars isn't understood as it isn't tall, just extravagant.

As the Shuttle moves off, two excited young lads with Prep School accents are running up and down the carriages and playing silly games with fire doors - as if any Eurotunnel safety regulations apply to them, of course. I contemplate accidentally opening the heavy cab door just as one young posh twit runs past … a wicked thought.

We take a break at Maidstone Services on the M20. It's so British. A cramped service station with the emphasis on shops and fast food to take as much money as possible, offering little by way relaxation and peace for weary travellers. The Westy is our tranquil haven in a crowded car park, where we eat the last of our French salads and baguette in comfort. Outside it feels quite autumnal. Fleeces on.

Take the black tape off the headlights and release the beams for driving on the left again. Joining the M25 there is a spectacular sunset dead ahead. We don't really need Helga now but it's useful to see our ETA for arriving home displayed - 10:35 pm.

The Epilogue

After 18 days, 6 campsites, 3,658 kilometres and 277 litres of diesel frugally consumed we have completed our trip to 3 Lakes and a Lagoon across 6 countries. Too soon over.

The weather gave us a sunny and sometimes hot antidote to 2007's wet non-summer, and mild nights at least in Italy. It only rained once, conveniently a thunderstorm at night. Marvellous.

Every electrical hook-up encountered has been reverse polarity! In the Westy this is easily corrected - just turn the 3-pin continental adapter in the socket next to the kitchen unit upside down, then re-test. 3 lights, OK.

The Westy performed well as a compact motorhome, the main drawbacks being lack of headroom at the back end (luckily we had enough plasters for my head) and lack of surfaces to put things down on without obstructing access to the table under the seat, the fridge, or the hob/ sink. Despite the very firm mattress we slept well, and would have enjoyed more hours' kip if certain other campers had been more considerate. We never bothered with levelling ramps and got used to things being slightly out of level. The only time it became a noticeable problem was the extra effort needed to push the heavy rock 'n roll seat uphill to its travel position.

The compressor fridge is so quiet and efficient we haven't noticed it and yet the contents (especially beer) were always chilled to 4C and there was space to spare. The Eberspacher diesel-fired heating works well when summoned on a chilly morning. Only once did the Waste Tank Full symbol appear on the control panel. The luxury VW cab with its aircon and armrests has been really comfortable even on 7 hour driving days after which we arrived still feeling quite fresh. Having said that, we might consider swapping the Westy for a high-top LWB T4 conversion with a cassette toilet, roll-out awning and a bit more storage.

Things we took but didn't use included a windbreak, beach mats and a parasol, 2 pairs of wellies (in case Venice was flooded!), Fiamma levelling ramps, a fire extinguisher, and of course the Porta Potti.

The Westy must have been fitted with a bike rack by a previous owner but no longer has it. Wondering if that might be a worthwhile accessory, the impression I got from this trip was that dozens of motorhomes we saw had bikes on racks, probably the majority, but over 90% of the bikes stayed firmly on the racks throughout our stay, despite ideal cycling weather. Is this normal? We also saw a GB-plated Smart on a trailer - again, it stayed lashed on its trailer and never left the site. Imagine the extra fuel consumed by thousands of motorhomers lugging all this heavy kit across Europe and hardly using it. It makes no sense.

A final thought for motorhoming snowbirds who intend to spend some of next winter in Morocco. One of the lead news items we heard on French radio was a reported instruction by Al-Qaeda's leadership to all Muslims in the Maghreb countries to use violence to throw out the French and Spanish foreigners. The countries concerned are Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya and Mauritania. I don't know if this was also reported in the UK, but the Islamist hotheads in Morocco might consider that Al-Qaeda's fatwa applies to all Europeans including Brits.

There are over a thousand photos downloaded on the laptop. At some point I may learn how to post a selection of them on the web. Cherished memories. Laundry. Budgies ransomed.

I shall look forward to reading your stories between now and my next holiday trip.

Until next time, Cheers.

SpeedyDux


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## geraldandannie (Jun 4, 2006)

Hi, Speedydux

Great writing! I have only got as far as the Chunnel at the moment, and the time has come to mount my trusty steed for the ride home. I will continue later (or maybe copy / paste and print off).

Gerald


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## Dougle (May 18, 2006)

So.......... was it so much better than airports/rip off parking/baggage collection/delays/tour coaches etc etc etc and did La Duxette approve?
:wink: 
Dave
P.S. Very absorbing tale.


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## Grizzly (May 9, 2005)

Brilliant ! I did enjoy reading that. Many thanks. Have you put it on the blog pages so it doesn't get lost ?

Interesting to hear of your experiences at Fusina. We stayed there at Easter and loved it...but it was quiet, uncrowded and we had a lagoon-side pitch. We vetoed the idea this September and drove past Venice as it was hot and mosquitoey. Looks like we did the right thing as we would have gone to Fusina.

Venice has several supermarkets by the way but they are all hidden behind other shops in inner courtyards or even up stairs. It is very odd to dive into a dark alleyway between medieval buildings and find yourself in what looks like our local Budgens !

G


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