Up early and out of town..following miles of urban sprawl which the French seem to be so good at.
Just before the motorway and on the outskirts I saw a lovely church with one of those multi coloured tiled roofs, like the famous hospital in Beaune. In front was an elegant manor, a beautiful collection of buildings that would have made a landscape composition worthy of Corot.
I found out later that it was a religious complex, comprising a church – St Nicolas de Tolentin de Brou – with its roof of glazed tiles, and a Royal Monastery built at the start of the 16th century for Margaret of Austria. Now owned by the state and housing a collection of art. But, no time to stop.
Onwards to the A40. And very different to the one that runs from London to Wales with the crash barrier held together with baling twine. This is the road that goes to the Mont Blanc tunnel. A proper bit of infrastructure with carriageways suspended between gorges and one above the other up the mountainside. An exhilarating drive through low cloud and sunshine.
Nearing the tunnel a Brit in an Aston Martin slowed down and gave me a cheery wave. Pedro is becoming noticed more as I go further south. And not everyone is laughing, at least!
Great driving in spectacular country with mountains rising each side and snow on the tops. Just one small ‘bouchon’ at Annamasse caused by the corporation cutting the verges. You know when you’re close to Switzerland when they stop the traffic to mow the grass. Tidy people.
No queue to speak of for the tunnel which always surprises me by it’s length. They are repairing it at night and it is shut most evenings. In a poor state inside despite the major refit after the fire. The ceiling is blackened and crusty. I wondered if they had really cleaned it properly. I didn’t want to think what might be up there. 39 people had died in that fire in 1999, but you could hardly turn it into a memorial. Just like the Kings Cross fire, which I narrowly missed. But that’s another story.
Out the other side and no sign of a border. Was I now in Italy as a post-Brexit illegal alien? I guess I’d find out when it came to leave on the ferry from Ancona. Note to self, get to the port extra early.
Different drivers now that I was in Italy. Most Italian men seem to see the tollbooth as an F1 pitstop. Revving their engines when they see me get out and walk around, but taking as much time as they like to sort coins from backseat passengers when it’s their turn. Impatience is the norm but it’s not really aggressive like you find in the UK.
I drove till I got tired and stopped for a beer. This was 4pm. I’d eaten nothing all day except some rationed wine gums, water and a dodgy coffee in a service station. I’d been cracking on, another 400 miles, and the temperature was rising. I’d driven all day again with the windows down, not very fuel efficient but what was the alternative? The hundred quid we’d saved on the AC seemed a fool’s economy now. I thought it was enough for today and looking at the map. Modena seemed a likely possible for the night.
Modena, spiritual home of Ferrari and Il Commendatore’s birthplace. There’s a museum full of all things Ferrari here choc a bloc with engines and F1 cars. I guessed this must be a pilgrimage site for the tifosi? But pristine racing cars in glass and steel vitrines weren’t really my cup of tea.
By contrast, Pedro was now getting pretty mucky with a bug-squashed windscreen atttracting annoying vespi everytime we stopped. So, how nice to have the car filled up by an attendant and the screen professionally washed. I’d pay a small tip for that service anytime.
Into Modena. Quite a jumping ickle town with obvs plenty brass about. Pretty in a medieval way with colonnades and big brick churches. But a little schizoid for my taste, and uncertain if it was Northern or central in its building style.
It was a warm and very humid evening. I found it all a bit claustrophobic and the dead air, buzzing with mosquitoes only added to the atmosphere. So typical of these old towns that despite large public spaces there is nowhere that you can go to escape or to get a vista.
For the first time my ‘unpassable’ italian was unrecognised. I was a bit annoyed by this. Even I have been able to make myself understood when enquiring after a table. But there was nothing doing anyway. All restaurants were full, mostly with Americans. I wondered why? Ah well, no dinner then. Good for la bella figura!
Wandering the backstreets I settled at a quiet bar and ordered a Campari spritz, which came with small slices of pizza, nuts crisps and olives. So, dinner after all.
Then two stateside crones arrived and started talking at the tops of their voices. ‘Senta! Por favoray!!’ the waitress approached and asked what they’d like. The one with the Dame Edna Everidge glasses took the hands of the waitress in hers saying. ‘My dear, you just do not know what a day we have had. Four plane journeys. And now we’d like a drink.’ I caught the eye of the girl whose face was poker professional when the other harridan said. ‘You got any of that Spanish wine?’
When she came back later to ask if I wanted a refill, I took the opportunity to enquire if she had any Albanian wine. She wagged a finger at me and returned with another Campari spritz.
It was the end of another looong day in the saddle. I got to my room, made a thourough search with my torch for mosquitoes, turned the AC up full blast and hit the hay.