The drive through Germany to Geisenheim was laborious, but was rewarded with an unexpected and very pleasant ferry across the Rhein with nearby vineyards dipping their toes in the fast-flowing river. Our intended free overnight stop had been closed with barriers erected by the local campsite, which greedily charged us 49€ to park on a parched bit of grass with few services available. The Rhein is always pretty, though, and we enjoyed the walk into town to look at the multi coloured medieval houses; and we especially enjoyed a nice meal in a charming Indian-Italian-German-Mediterranean pavement cafe with an equally eclectic menu. Dark by now, the lights were on over the river, and so to bed before the drive down the Romantic Road to Gothenburg tomorrow.

The Romantic Strasse is 220 miles of dualled tarmac without an ounce of romance. As much a nonsense as Scotland’s NC 500, it corrals the masses along one route with brown signs indicating the nearby historic treats you are missing. Rothenburg lies a stone’s throw off the Romantic Road. There is a pleasant aire, which we were lucky to get in, within easy walking distance of the medieval walled town, packed with camera-toting tourists and ice cream-smeared children. They queued for photos with the car from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and the Child Catcher’s cage, endangering this remarkable town from becoming a theme park. We enjoyed the colourful Bavarian houses and cobbled streets leading to the main square, then took a side street where we found a pavement cafe and enjoyed a raspberry spritzer in the shade of a parasol. Truffle lay quietly under the table in her cooler coat, enjoying the rest. Leaving the crowds, we explored the tranquil park and admired a young girl’s harp playing, which beautifully complemented the peaceful surroundings. The park offered stunning views over the lush valley below before we climbed the stone steps to the medieval wall walk. The tiled canopy cast welcome shadows until we were back where we had entered the old town, a short walk to the van.

The road started climbing steeply as soon as we left Chur. The hills that were once above us now surrounded us like a giant’s welcoming hand. Log cabins dotted the lower slopes, and the sound of cow bells provided a melodic soundtrack. Green/blue lakes lay at the bottom of mountain cascades, and the road clung precariously to, or sometimes dived temporarily into, the mountains through dimly lit tunnels. At Davos, the scenery became even more awesome as we climbed higher. The mountain pass carved its way along the canyons, sometimes spilling into lush plateaus. Above us, snow still nestled in the mountains, and the temperature dropped from the mid-thirties to a fresher sixteen degrees. Daredevil motorcyclists overtook us on blind bends, touching a knee to the ground as they lay their bikes into the hairpins. Even at Klosters, we carried on climbing; the sign in the lay-by where we stopped for lunch said we were already at 1750 meters, and we climbed still further after that before the long descent to Merano. Two low bridges warned that they were only 3.1 meters, only a tad higher than our van, so central placement under the semi-circular arches was paramount, and breathing in advisable. This was by far our prettiest drive so far, and it was probably a good job that Linn was not sitting on the side of some of the more precipitous drops.

This would be one of our few toll routes, essential to save two hours if we had gone non-toll. Pretty enough to begin with as we dropped out of the mountains, it soon became fast and furious as we raced across northern Italy. The sparsity of fuel stations meant we had to stop on the expressway despite the ludicrous prices, but the cheap LPG helped to offset the cost, and we filled both bottles for a fraction of the price in the UK.

Palmanova Camping turned out to be three spaces on a derelict piece of land with tank emptying, electrics and fresh water, just outside the city walls. The fact that it was free was the only reason there was a queue of vans waiting to use the services. We were lucky, and after a short wait, we got a space with a hook-up for the night. Palmanova is an example of a star fort of the late Renaissance, built by the Venetian Republic in 1593. Impressive from the air, much is lost at ground level. There are three main gates, one of which was wrapped in scaffolding, a large central square, and the amazing basilica, but architecturally, there is little else of interest. Walking around did not take long, and when the pavement cafe where we were eating started taking down the parasols and turning the lights out, we headed back to the van to chat with our English neighbours.

We woke to rain. The rain turned to a full-on storm. Thunder and lightning cracked overhead, and Truffle cowered under the table. We were confined inside as the rain beat down on the roof with the sound of a timpani until the storm receded, and the lightning briefly lit up far-off rooftops as it moved away. In light rain, I filled the water tanks before we left for Plitvice.

We enjoyed the coastal drive south in Croatia which is always picture-postcard perfect. Just after Senj, we turned away from the coast towards Plitvice and found the road to be a rugged adventure into bear country. Camping Plitvice would be our most expensive site ever, 180€ for two nights! We had high expectations. The site, though, was pretty average, and it was only because most other Croatian campsite prices in the area were the same that we did not feel ripped off. We had booked two nights as we planned to visit the nearby Plitvice Lakes National Park. Plitvice Lakes National Park is the oldest and largest national park in Croatia and has been a UNESCO World Heritage site since 1979. It’s a stunning natural wonder, famous for its sixteen terraced lakes interconnected by a series of waterfalls that descend through a limestone canyon. We chose the six-mile circular walk that took us over rustic wooden boardwalks and up gravel woodland tracks; shorter and longer variants were available. The scenery is stunning, the water crystal clear, and the air as fresh as a mountain brook. The falls range from gentle cascades to one, a mighty 78 meters high, and the lakes, from modest to vast expanses where electric shuttle boats ferry people around. Our final leg was completed by a bus-train that dropped us conveniently at a small wooden shelter just as another thunderstorm erupted overhead.

I was looking forward to the drive from Plitvice to our next planned stop at Split, until a last-minute check revealed that the site had recently adopted a minimum five-night policy, and we had to find somewhere else. Google confirmed that the average price for a Croatian site was 80€ to 140€ per night (in 2025), plus a non-refundable booking fee of 30€ and a service charge of 20€; and wild camping in Croatia near the coast is illegal and difficult. We were pleased to find a site a little further on than we had planned for only 38€ for the night.

The drive across the Croatian mountains was thrilling. Signs warned of wild boars and bears, and wild dogs skulked in the road as we approached. Logging is the main industry, and the smell of freshly cut pine hung in the air and drifted through our open windows. On one gentle incline, the van shuddered, and I thought at first that I had missed a gear until we saw the dreaded engine light come on. Memories of last year’s failed injectors in mainland Greece flooded back, and our hearts sank. Stopping and starting did not cure the misfire, and with nothing around us except nature, we decided to nurse the van to our campsite that was still one hour away. By Split, the van protested at even the slightest incline, queues formed patiently behind us, but we managed to get to Camping Sirena, and it turned out to be perfect. They kindly allowed us to park just inside the entrance, where I could investigate the problem without having to negotiate the steep terracing down to the sea. Pressing each injector lead in turn, I found the faulty connector. Strapping it tightly with cable ties appeared to stop the misfire and clear the engine light. We’d find out tomorrow as we crossed into Bosnia, but first, a well-deserved and tasty meal in the site restaurant with the drunk owner swaying unsteadily as he precariously served platefuls of food.

After a stormy night, we helped our neighbour recover his gazebo/tent and other possessions that had been dispersed in the wind, leaving him oblivious and asleep in the open air. We left the campsite quite early and followed the Croatian coastline, which, while inarguably beautiful, is sadly mostly unreachable now due to the coastal development. The once-pretty villages are now full of hotels, all of which claim the local beaches as their own with private access. Having driven a few miles, the engine light came on again, and the van started missing. After several attempts at remaking the electrical connection to the injector, and a couple more cable ties to hold it in place, we carried on with everything crossed.

A few miles down the road, we did stop for lunch, beside a huge nature park with butterflies the size of your hand, and ominous-looking buoys that looked like dead seals floating in the estuary with mussels growing in the tidal waters. This part of Croatia is prettier and less spoiled than the northern coastline, and we thoroughly enjoyed our drive to Dubrovnik.

Hot, Saturday, and school holidays, Dubrovnik was never going to be quiet. We parked near the marina, where we could spend the night in the municipal car park, and stayed cool in the van until the early evening when the temperature dropped from the late thirties to a manageable mid-twenties. It was still a hot walk to the Old Town, which I had last visited about fifty-five years ago. It, and no doubt I, had changed a lot. Then, it had been a shady respite within ancient walls, with a few canvas stalls and only a handful of tourists. Now, it is a bustling shopping and eating mecca, packed with selfie-taking tourists cashing in on its Game of Thrones fame, and a stop-off for huge cruise ships. We managed a couple of hours of jostling while taking in the amazing architecture before enjoying an Aperol spritz to set us up for the walk back to the van. When we got back, we were relieved to find it untampered with, having seen some dodgy-looking Hungarians hanging around when we left. We upped the security that night before going to sleep.

We had planned to spend two nights in Dubrovnik, but we found the crowds oppressive, and we decided to have an extra night somewhere quieter later on in our trip. We left quite early the next morning after a pleasant walk around the marina with its active-art displays and armoured vehicle exhibits, a solemn reminder of the Yugoslav Wars of Independence in the 1990s.

The scenery improved the further south we went. Like the Amalfi coast road, but without the coaches and scooters. On our right, the turquoise sea, on our left, towering mountains. Tempting as some of the little coves looked, accessing them was nigh on impossible in our motorhome.

There was at least one police checkpoint in every conurbation we drove through, so we arrived hot, tired and stressed at Auto Camp Under The Olive Tree, where we received the most wonderful welcome. Literally a campsite in a back garden, we were soon set up and drinking beer in the shade with a load of washing in our host’s machine. She even kindly offered to print off an insurance document that we hoped would satisfy the police if they did stop us, but we had to wait for her son to come and do it after he finished work. We enjoyed a quiet night, in the distance, the sound of boats steaming up and down the nearby river, their lights reflecting brightly to the water’s edge. In the morning, the owner insisted on helping us fill our tanks and empty cassettes, etc, the whole time regaling us with stories of his two visits to Tetbury in the UK; as a retired engineer, he recounted technical data about Tower Bridge with impressive detail. His helpfulness included stopping traffic on the main road so we could leave the site, even before I had had time to set our sat nav.

We were pleased not to be stopped at yet another police checkpoint just before we queued for the small river ferry at Jošice. Here, the car handlers ignored us until the very last moment. Then, they signalled us aboard to a space half a meter too short so that we overhung the boarding ramp that they had to leave slightly down.

Albanian roads are rustic at the best of times, but the arterial ones are even worse now. The EU is upgrading the main roads to form part of the new International E network, which will link northern Europe to Asia, with no thought to the chaos it is causing in the meantime. At Shkoder, the system broke and became a free-for-all before we eventually unmeshed ourselves and found a slightly quieter local road. We were elated to find Riverside Camping and settle into a bohemian rhapsody under the watchful eye of Rozafa Castle. Stray dogs, geese and hens roamed freely around the site. Albino geckos hung precariously to the outbuilding walls, hoping not to be seen. Five local lads floated boatless past with the current, down the river and out of sight. We wondered how they would get back to their starting point, having drifted so far. We were the only ones in the campsite bar that evening, not even a barman, and we enjoyed sampling local beers by helping ourselves to the beers and glasses from the fridge and leaving the money in a dish under the bar. By the time the sun fell behind the dark silhouette of Rozafa Castle on the hill, we were very relaxed.

Unfortunately, we did not get to explore Rosafa Castle, as it was too risky to walk along the busy roads, and the chaotic drive was equally daunting. Perched on a rocky hill overlooking the confluence of the Buna and Drin rivers, it is one of Albania’s most iconic historical landmarks. With roots tracing back to the Illyrian times, the castle has stood as a silent witness to centuries of conflict, legend, and cultural transformation. Its massive stone walls, still largely intact, offer sweeping panoramic views of the city, Lake Shkoder, and the surrounding Albanian Alps. Rozafa Castle is perhaps best known for the legend of Rozafa, a powerful tale of sacrifice and devotion. According to folklore, the wife of one of the three brothers building the fortress was walled into the structure to keep it from collapsing. She agreed, under the condition that her right breast, eye, hand, and foot be left free so she could continue to care for her infant son. This story is immortalised in a sculpture near the castle entrance.

In the morning, one of the stray dogs and a few of the geese and hens joined Truffle and me for a walk beside the river. We would happily have stayed another day, but the sound of traffic in the distance reminded us of the slow progress ahead. Taking advantage of the campsite wifi, our roaming contract does not cover Albania, I was able to set our route on Google maps as a backup to our temperamental Garmin sat nav. Luckily, the drive to Tirana was problem-free until the old road merged with the new E toll road, and both sat navs gave up. Tirana is the vibrant capital of Albania, known for its colourful, eclectic architecture, combining Ottoman, Fascist, and Communist styles, and lively cafe culture. Founded in 1614, this walkable city centres around Skanderbeg Square, but we had received several warnings of petty crime directed against tourists, and decided to give it a miss. Following the traffic seemed best, and somehow, we skirted Tirana without incident, but instead got routed through the centre of Elbason. It was nose-to-tail horn-honking chaos. There was no escape; we just had to be jostled along until we spilt out the other side of the town with an audible sigh of relief.     

The roads then disappeared altogether and became loose gravel tracks, often single carriageway. Not happy to work on short sections, they just ripped the whole lot up. Impatient, often blacked out four by fours, paid no heed and blasted their way against the oncoming traffic that unquestioningly moved over to let them by; this type of behaviour is often attributed to members of the recognised Albanian mafia. Our progress was further hampered by our dodgy injector connector, which, because of the heat loosening the improvised cable tie repair, required several adjustments on the way. Seeking a pull-in for one such adjustment, we found them all occupied by high-pressure hoses firing like water cannons into the air. These are the car wash people, who for a few lek will remove vital parts of your vehicle’s bodywork in the name of cleanliness.  

After one hundred and twenty-eight miles of mostly off-roading, we arrived at Lin on Lake Ohrid. The campsite was grim, the cantina car park grimmer, so we parked up for the night on the side of the lake with a few other vans. Swimming came as a blessed relief to the heat of the day, and not even a persistent water snake drove us ashore. Lake Ohrid is primarily fed by underground springs, accounting for about 50% of the inflow, with significant contributions from Lake Prespa through underground karst channels, about 20%, and the rest from direct precipitation and small rivers.

Sitting outside the van later, the setting sun threw a pale pink blanket over the mountains on the opposite shoreline of North Macedonia. Despite the atrocious roads and the blacked-out four by fours, we loved Albania and would be sorry to leave.

The mountain country roads of Macedonia were a big improvement over the roadworks of Albania, with great views and little traffic. Lush green mountains towered above us, with cropped fields on either side. We passed more tractors than we did cars.

We had intended to stay at Ambassador Campsite high in the mountains, but far from our back garden experience in Montenegro, our patrons were unwelcoming and we felt we were intruding, so we left. We stopped for lunch on a grassy verge and weighed up the options. With few options showing for overnight stops nearby, we decided to carry on towards Greece in the hope that we would find somewhere else on the way. Too quickly, we were at the border, and just as quickly through it until a Greek policeman demanded our paperwork. He questioned why our logbook did not have our insurance details on it, and, even after we explained the documents to him, he stood blocking the road until he was finally happy to let us go.

Nervous that the cable ties would not last on the injector connector, I stripped it down and carefully bent the small contacts inside to make a better connection to the terminal on the injector. Everything seemed fine when I started the engine. The engine did not miss and the engine light did not come on even when I wiggled the connector. Two thousand miles later, and it was still holding up fine. We were now two nights ahead of schedule, so I spent the evening planning a new route through Greece before our ferry to Rhodes.

Before leaving the next morning, we visited the nearby impressive Dragon Cave, a spectacle of stalagmites and stalactites, and underground lakes. The Dragon’s Cave is named after a local myth about a fire-breathing dragon guarding a gold mine, which a young hero slew after the mythical King Kastor revealed the cave to guests. The cave itself houses ancient cave bear bones, adding a paleontological dimension to its legendary interest. We had the cave to ourselves for most of our visit, and we were able to soak up the atmosphere at our leisure.

Our onward route took us beside another lake within the Prespa National Park, where we were directed up a dubious-looking mountain track beside the half-empty reservoir. Several miles on, Linn spotted a beautiful old Greek tortoise beside the road, lumbering slowly on, barging the undergrowth out of its way. We watched as it nestled in the shade of a small shrub, regulating her body’s temperature from the full morning sun. This old girl could have been as old as me, or even older, and meeting her will be a lasting memory. A little further on, we encountered a landslide, and we had to turn around and retrace our route. We looked, but did not see our reptilian friend again. It was a long way back around the lake, and we still had another six and a half hours driving to do. We eventually arrived at Camping Sylvia on the coast near Plaka at 4.30 pm, and we were lucky to get a pitch. We sat outside with a well-deserved beer, looking at our neighbours washing, just one of the joys of communal campsites.

We used the campsite facilities to fill our water tanks and empty the cassette to get our money’s worth before leaving in the morning, still uncertain of where we were heading with the time in hand.  The supposedly non-toll road we were on quickly brought us to a toll booth demanding 4.60€ to proceed, a not-so-uncommon practice as new road systems are regularly introduced and have to be paid for. The mostly agricultural route crisscrossed the new toll road with random irregularity, but fortunately, no more fees. Then, a brief mountainous section where they were blowing huge sections of it up to use the rock for building roads, and a few half-flat areas that were swathed with solar panels, creating a truly lunar landscape. We struggled to find a shady place for our picnic lunch, and when we did eventually find somewhere to stop, it was shady in more ways than one. The nearby derelict sports centre was now home to migrants, all young males, wandering around with their mobiles, and while not threatening, their presence was intimidating. A short walk after lunch brought us to a sparkling green cascade of sulphurous water flowing from the mountain, where locals were bathing despite the pungent smell. Bathing in mineral waters, known as balneotherapy, has been a traditional practice for centuries to treat various skin, respiratory, and musculoskeletal conditions. Hydrogen sulfide, the active molecule in sulphurous waters, can be absorbed through the skin, where it is believed to have anti-inflammatory, antibacterial, and antifungal properties.

Just down the road, we stopped at the Monument of Leonidas in Thermopylae. Thermopylae is a narrow pass and a modern town in Lamia, Greece. It derives its name from its hot sulphur springs, and in Greek mythology, this Hot Gate is one of the entrances to Hades. Leonidas was the Spartan king who led a small force of Greeks against the entire Persian army at the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC. He is famous for his bravery and sacrifice, leading 300 Spartans and other Greek allies in a heroic stand before being killed.

With two days in hand and having already racked up the miles, we looked for a quiet beach to hole up for a few days. The small taverna at remote Atki Beach seemed to tick all the right boxes, and we parked on a sandy promontory right on the water’s edge overlooking the island of Chalcis. We enjoyed a long cooling swim with a handful of locals, dodging the harmless Soufa (Brown or Fried Egg) jellyfish that drifted unhurriedly in the gentle current. I was intrigued to discover that their flesh was so firm that tapping their backs with my hand felt like they were made of wood. A splashing sound alerted us to the flying fish that leapt effortlessly from the water, no doubt being chased by the large barracudas we had seen cruising the area. Later, as we ate at the small taverna, we hoped we were far enough off the beaten track not to be moved on by the police under the new strict rules for camping. A few other vans seemed to have the same idea, so we felt quietly confident. Day two and no sign of being moved on, we sat outside enjoying the sun, watching small ferries dart like water beetles backwards and forwards to Chalcis. We swam, ate at the taverna again, walked along the beach towards Arkitsa, and fixed a few things on the van. The sun swung its perfect arc overhead, casting ever lengthening shadows over the verdant hills opposite while our burgers sizzled on an alfresco barbecue. This really was the perfect stop, so much so that we stayed another beautiful night in this little bit of heaven.

As we left the beach, we were waved off by the predominantly local male campers with whom we had shared this idyll. We opted for a slow and picturesque drive to Piraeus port, hoping to find a supermarket, diesel and gas on the way. At the filling station, the fuel was efficiently dispensed by an enthusiastic woman who refused to let me help with any of it, and she, too, gave us a cheery wave as we left. We then drove through vast regions of freshly cropped fields, hectares of solar farms, and small colourful villages where people stopped to watch us pass. Supermarkets were few and far between, and around lunchtime we stopped in the shade of some trees by a small shop-come-bakers. Inside it had all the usual staples, but out the back, an oasis of gastronomic delights. Mouthwatering cakes, including my favourite Greek orange cake. Small dainties in little crimped paper cups. Individual chocolates with dried fruit or nut decorations. Sumptuous to look at, ruinous to the wallet and the waistline.  

Moving on, we passed the entrance to the sinkhole that we had visited a few times previously. Now hidden by lush vegetation despite the mid-summer heat, hinting at the underground water that had formed the void in the first place. Beyond, an open cave church so innocuous that it is easily missed. North of Athens, the mountains still bore the scars of the horrific fires three years ago, but green shoots were now forming bushes in a sign of hope.

The traffic became busier as we entered the suburbs of Athens. Picking the right lane was as hard as choosing the right checkout in a supermarket. Choosing the wrong lane either meant being stuck behind stationary traffic or being forced down lengthy detours around the houses.

Despite our unhurried drive, we arrived at Piraeus in plenty of time and hoped to collect our tickets and drive straight onto the ferry before the loading bedlam began in earnest. Having picked up our tickets at the small booth, a garage hand had other ideas and gestured for me to pull over and wait. Rhodes is the last island on this route; not boarding early can mean having to get up in the middle of the night to move the van to let others off at the earlier stops. An hour into our wait, but still two hours before departure, I waved our laminated sign saying Rhodes at a bunch of deckhands. While one smilingly indicated for me to be patient, another immediately directed us onboard alongside a Hellas mail van. We were glad to get out of the heat and into our air-conditioned pet cabin before waving goodbye to mainland Greece with a beer at the stern of the ship.

Truffle slept on my bed; in fact, she tried to take all of my bed. But we all woke early and enjoyed breakfast on deck as we entered the penultimate harbour of Symi. Here, we could safely turn our phones back on without incurring roaming or satellite charges.

We were not expecting the news from a neighbour that three houses in our village had been broken into during the night, including ours. Had our phones been on, I would have received alerts from our cameras at home and might have prevented the damage done. We had a smashed window, and the frame had been jemmied, but fortunately, they did not manage to get in. Our neighbours were not so lucky. A friend boarded up our window within a couple of hours of my calling him, but the news was unsettling as we arrived on Rhodes.

We made a couple of stops on our way to Pefkos where we planned to spend time with friends, and at one, we found that our three-way fridge was struggling with the heat. We started to wonder what would go wrong next. At Pefkos, we parked easily on an old private airstrip where we had arranged to stay with the owner. Lacking shade, we were grateful for the choice of small beaches only a short walk away, and the chance to cool off in the sea. With no campsites on Rhodes, the new Greek no camping laws meant that our only options were to hide away in the obscurity of remote places, which suited us fine, or to get permission to park on private land like this. For now, we were comfortable and legal. Slowly, we started to unwind.

We spent the days swimming, paddleboarding and kayaking; it was too hot for long walks. Some of the old coves where we have watched kingfishers and dived looking for octopus in the past have gone now because of nearby building work and the rubble being dumped in them. But there were still a few quiet places to paddle to and escape the crowds, and cool off in the crystal waters. Most evenings, we caught up with friends and enjoyed the luxury of eating out.

October can be stormy on Rhodes, and early in the month, the forecast predicted a big one approaching. The rental boats were all cleared from their moorings and tucked safely away in a sheltered part of the bay. Sun loungers were dragged further up the beach away from the storm surges that might carry them away. The restaurants and bars put up their heavy-duty plastic screens to protect their open areas, the locals were taking the warnings seriously. We made sure we were as sheltered as possible, closed our rooflights, and double-checked that the outside lockers were all secure. The storm hit during the night, but was not as bad as predicted, or so we thought, and it seemed that Pefkos had had a lucky escape. In the morning, the beach told another story. Sun loungers and parasols had been torn from the sand and battered against the rocks, and the wooden walkways floated a little offshore like undulating rugs. The waves, now gentler, still reached halfway up the beach, swirling around the bases of the remaining parasols and floating the little wooden tables held captive by the trunk-like poles. Gradually, locals appeared and started the tidy-up. Anything retrievable was carried to safety; anything else was left to be swept out to sea. By mid-morning, the beach was presentable again, just as the tourists ventured down to it, most of them oblivious of the recent carnage. This is the Greek way, no drama, just quietly and acceptingly getting on with what needs to be done.       

After nearly a week, we decided to venture away from the comfort of our private site to further south on the island. Greek friends had warned us that the local police were on a mission to collect fines, and we had seen several marked cars cruising with their blue lights on, which was unusual for Rhodes. The latest moderations of the law served only to confuse matters even more; on reading the document, some would argue that we could park and stay anywhere that it was legal for a car. The problem was that Greek police might not agree, and fines are issued on the spot. We were anxious to avoid the €300 fines each for infringing the no-wild camping rules, so we called at the municipal police station for clarification. Here, the duty officer listened to my enquiry, double checked exactly our intentions, and affirmed that, provided we did not park on a beach, in a wood, or on an archaeological site, he had no objections. He added that it was not to say the police on the beat would agree, but it was good enough for us.

We stopped for provisions and set off for remote Limni beach for a few nights. In the past, locals had set up caravans in the car park for the summer, but this is now strictly banned; caravans do not count as motorised vehicles. In response, they now had two permanent pitches fenced on adjoining land that we presume they would argue was private, albeit that they did not own it and it was unlikely that they had permission. They made us welcome, even offering to move their boat so that we could have a better position, but anxious not to crowd them, we were happy to park in the small area of the car park that they had abandoned.

Limni is off the beaten track; only a few tourists stumble across it. Mostly, we spent our time there with a few locals swimming in the lagoon or walking along the beach in search of turtles. The beach shower was very welcome, and a tap meant that we could do some handwashing while conserving our tanked water. The lack of shade prompted us to rig up a temporary awning to shade our fridge, which was struggling in the unusually high temperatures; most days it was over forty degrees. It worked to a point, but we were glad of our additional compressor fridge that was less affected by the ambient temperatures. Linn’s brother and his partner, who were also visiting Rhodes, called by one morning, so we made the effort to appear less feral, tidied ourselves up, and enjoyed a few hours with them. There are several old, abandoned army lookouts nearby, and we always enjoy walking to them and searching for memorabilia. The views are spectacular, wide vistas of the coast where invading forces were once likely to land. As the threat diminished, the buildings fell into a state of disrepair, and while some have been secured for safety, we could still climb down to other, less easily accessible ones. During several of our visits, we had storms there, even the normally quiet lagoon heaved as waves crashed over the surrounding rocks and out again with frightening force. Despite being parked above and slightly away from the beach, the sea spray splattered our van with salty droplets that left little white crusty rings when the water evaporated. Our evening walks along the beach regularly gifted us flotsam of old fishing net floats and even marker buoys that we would proudly display around our pond when we got back home.

Another walk, slightly inland, leads to an old fishermen’s slipway. Here we regularly saw large herds of fallow deer known locally as Dama-dama; their peaceful existence so rarely interrupted that they would let us get quite close before they trotted to another bit of nearby grazing.

Limni has some of the best sunsets on the whole of Rhodes; so spectacular that even elderly locals turned up on battered motorcycles to sit on either of the two wooden benches and watch the golden-orange sun drop from the sky beyond the horizon.

Above Limni is the small chapel of Saint George Kalamos. This peaceful place with great views attracts a few locals who come to get away from it all, and it is yet to be discovered by tourists. Inside the domed structure, it was once painted with the muted colours of natural pigments; regrettably, this has now been covered by modern wallpaper depicting bible stories and saints.      

Sometimes, after a quick stop for provisions and a compulsory visit for orange cake and ice cream at our preferred bakers, we moved to our favourite remote beach stop, Mavros Kavos (Black Cave). A few miles of dusty stone track brought us to a small parking area above the beach. There is enough space for about four cars, and usually we would manage to park because people are deterred by the long track and then the scramble down onto the beach. For the second year running, there was a Harvest Moon while we were there; at one in the morning, it was light enough to go for a midnight walk. On another night at a similar time, a black 4 x 4 quietly arrived and parked next to us. This unusual event, given the time, prompted me to go outside to investigate. Four young men in town clothes were unloading gear to carry down to the beach. My appearance was acknowledged when they explained that they were going fishing, which seemed very much out of the ordinary given their clothes, the time, and the remoteness. Suspicious, I kept an eye on them, but sure enough, twenty minutes later, bright lights under the water indicated that they were indeed spear fishing in the shallows. They had gone by the morning, and the only evidence that they had ever been there was the remains of chops and sausages left in the sand for the crabs to finish off. We reasoned from this that their nocturnal hunting had been unsuccessful.

There was a magic we never tired of, in arriving on the sandy beach and discovering ours were the only footprints. Often, we would swim for hours, and Truffle would follow our movements along the beach, she being too scared of the water to join us. Given how quiet the beach was, this worked well, and we did not have to worry about other people. Her protective boots were great for stopping the sand from burning her feet, and when the shelter of her sunshade was not enough, she would lie in the gentle waves with her legs outstretched. Towards the end of the day, the sun would move behind the overhanging rock and spread long shadows across the beach. It was then cool enough to play fetch, which inevitably ended up with Truffle doing zoomies around the deserted beach. Sometimes, around that time, the water would thrash with shoals of fish desperately making for the safety of the shallows at great speed, and occasionally, we would catch the blue/green flash of the chasing barracudas.

Snorkelling around Rhodes, like the fishing, has declined over recent years because of overfishing, environmental issues, and invading non-native predator species. Puffer and Lionfish coming up through the Suez Canal have wreaked havoc on local fish stocks. Even so, the crystal clear waters around Rhodes are always a joy to dive in, but we were disappointed by the depleted stocks, and in some places, the complete lack of squid and octopus. Locals told us that they no longer fish to eat; they fish merely to escape modern life. Above ground, too, nature’s bounty had been affected. We have always enjoyed scrumping on our walks in out-of-the-way places, and it has often provided us with figs, nuts, pomegranates, and even watermelons and tomatoes after the main crop has been harvested. Now, once productive allotments are fallow, once cared for trees have died of drought and not been tended. Nobody seemed to know why for sure, but certainly the loss of free irrigation water will have something to do with it; that and a younger generation less interested in the hard work involved with growing crops for food.

On pulling away from Mavros one day, we found that one of the van’s airbag suspension units had leaked overnight. The onboard compressor would not inflate it, so we found a garage that allowed me to jack the van up and take a look. The bag had irreparably split, and with no replacement available until we got home, we spent the rest of the trip at a slightly jaunty angle.

Before leaving the UK, I had replaced the UK-only gas bottles with refillable ones. These proved to be a game-changer. Instead of worrying about how much gas we used, we could now have as many hot drinks as we liked and cook more extravagant meals. To refill our bottles, we had to drive to the north of the island, as only a couple of garages had LPG for sale on Rhodes. On arriving at one of these filling stations, the lady shook her head, indicating that we could not buy gas as it was only for propulsion and not domestic use. I showed her our external filling point, and she relinquished with a look over her shoulder and filled our gas bottles.

Rhodes has always been the friendliest of Greek islands that we have visited, but like many places in Europe, there is a change in the air. Some locals, away from the resorts, now seem to resent visitors despite depending on their money in one way or another. More shops have two prices, local and tourist. Some restaurants provide what makes them a profit and not what many tourists want. Courtesies are being withdrawn, and even in some places, explicit graffiti advises us to go home. It may be a sign of the times as world economics dictate harder times; some locals blame outsiders for the hardships in their economy, and this is possibly exaggerated by the migrants who are commonly seen as burdens on the local economy. Our walks around Mavros Kavos and talks with locals confirmed the growing number of illegals arriving on their quieter shores. We often found discarded clothes, bank cards, and personal paraphernalia on the beaches, dropped as soon as they arrive to avoid being identified in the hope that they will not be returned to their country of origin. Predominantly, these are all young men; arguably, they are economic migrants in that they are not fleeing war-torn countries; they arrived from Turkey. Their arrival on Greek islands is unprecedented and unwelcome amidst the financial hardships the country faces, and is increasingly provoking local frustration. While we were on Rhodes, there were several reports of boatloads of migrants arriving. The largest was over one hundred men on a stolen ferry from Turkey who ran onto rocks near where we were staying. The boat broke up, but they managed to get ashore where they were rounded up to be taken to mainland Greece. By the following day, the wooden boat was kindling strewn across the rocks, and all that was to be seen of the migrants was the trail of personal items as they made their way to the road for their taxi service to Rhodes town and what they hoped would be a better life. Does this entitled behaviour by a few provoke resentment by some locals to intruders, and does that include the once sought-after tourists who now bring new problems like water and power shortages, increasing crime, and insatiable demands on the islands’ finite resources? At the moment, Greece is dealing with it, but it is a problem that will only get worse unless more action is taken.

We visited two reservoirs on Rhodes, both less than half full, the lowest we have ever seen them. At Apolakia Dam, trees are now growing where once they would have been underwater. The old chapel, submerged when they constructed the dam, is now permanently visible. The island cannot cope with the demands of the seasonal influx of tourists, and promises that the newer resorts would bring water in by boat have not been fulfilled. Being an island, desalination plants might be the answer, but no one seems willing to pay. It seems that trying to force developers, often foreign, to install them as part of the planning conditions is not working.

Another favourite stop of ours is Genadi. Here we parked not quite on the beach, but so close that we could step out of the van onto it. Reassuringly, several police cars showed no interest when they drove past during our stays, and we repaid the hospitality by spending not inconsiderable amounts of money at the local restaurants, shops and bars. One in particular, Mama’s Kitchen, prompted several return visits with their warm welcome, accommodating Truffle, and their excellent Greek food. Booking was essential and meant that we could have the same table every visit. Quite quickly, the resident cats realised that we always put a bowl of water down for Truffle, and they would sidle up, commando style, to sit and drink. Truffle showed little interest and happily let them have their fill while watching from under the table.

There is a partly shaded walk in Genadi that we call the Pilgrim Walk, it links three chapels. We can vary our route through the village to use the shade of the narrow streets depending on the angle of the sun. One section passes through allotments, where upright cockerels noisily protect their harem of hens. Crates of stale bread are delivered, but since they already have an abundance of food, these are often left to go rock hard. Some enclosures have large hunting dogs shackled to chains so that they are pulled up just short when they run at anyone daring to walk past. A few allotments grow vegetables, and invariably these have a solitary chair where old women dressed in black sit and shell peas, or top and tail carrots, or generally prepare whatever crop they have grown. It is truly pastoral, and an escape from the hubbub of modern life nearby.   

One night a week, Luca performs his own special karaoke in the little square. Once an entertainer on cruise ships, he is charismatic and not without talent, and draws a large crowd at every performance. His audience is made up of locals, some ex-pats, and tourists who hope that he will pose with them for selfies as he belts out hits from Queen to Hot Chocolate. It is a fun night out and great for trade at the local bars that put seats in the street, bringing traffic to a standstill.

By now, it was getting cooler. It was late September, and any pressure we felt to make the most of our last couple of weeks on Rhodes was tempered by knowing that we would be back again one day. Still, we felt obliged to spend a few days driving around the island to visit old and new places. We bypassed the ever-touristy Monolithos Castle and took the hairpin road down to Fourni Beach. Here, our usual car park was blocked by a trench that had been dug to prevent vehicles from getting too close to the cliff edge which was now falling away. We weren’t comfortable staying overnight, but we did have time for a snack at the excellent cantina. Climbing back up the mountain, we found Siana surprisingly quiet, as if the holiday coaches had found a new route, abandoning the roadside purveyors of honey and Souma, and the small tavernas, so many had closed.

From the woods, we dropped down the steep road to the small fishing settlements of Glyfada and Lakia. Here we parked beside the track and walked to the tiny chapel of Saint George, where we had once sheltered from a hurricane. Somewhat recklessly, we then carried on in the heat of the day for the woodland walk to Torre Cretense, an abandoned watchtower that overlooked the sea. Well-constructed handrails and steps, now fallen into disrepair, indicated that the path must have been well used once, but that day we saw only four people who jokingly warned us to beware of the grizzly bears ahead. By the time we reached the small pebbly beach, we regretted not having brought any water with us, and that the sea was too rough for swimming, but it was well worth the effort, and we had discovered another bit of heaven on this magical island.

We rewarded our efforts with an excellent lunch at Kamiros Skala. Large crowds of suitcase-dragging tourists waited for the ferries to Halki and Tilos. Other smaller boats bounced in on the choppy sea before being effortlessly recovered by swarfy men with waiting trailers. It was lively and exciting to watch before we carried on north to Fanes and Theologos beach, where we risked staying overnight in the nearby car park. Here, the Meltemi wind enticed the brave and the bold onto the water in a colourful display of kite and windsurfers, all within sight of Turkey which looked on like a disapproving big brother.   

While this far north, we got gas at Pastida and then followed the pretty pastoral route from Theologos to Soroni, Dimilia, Eleousa and Platania. At Platania, we made the mistake of stopping for a quick snack at a popular taverna. Unfortunately, the elderly owner had made a fine art of bad service, deliberately keeping people waiting and serving food only as they were about to leave. His son did his best to get dishes out to people, but many just upped and left.

Returning to Lardos, we visited the monastery of Panagia Ipseni. Two years ago, a raging forest fire had surrounded it; miraculously, all that was lost was a small section of the roof. Now fully restored, we enjoyed the walk around the large complex, surrounded by charred trees that stood like statuesque reminders of the forces of nature.

On this trip, we discovered Moni Thari for the first time. The monastery is dedicated to the Archangel Michael. According to legend, during the 7th century, a deadly ill princess travelled from Constantinople to Rhodes to live out the rest of her days. One night, the Archangel came to her in a dream and promised her that she would recover, which she miraculously did. In gratitude, the young woman decided to establish the Monastery of Thari in his honour. Scholars disagree on exactly when the current monastery was constructed, placing it between the 9th and 13th centuries. What is known, however, is that it was built on the foundations of a much older church dating back to the 5th century and that it underwent major reconstructions around the 12th century. Today, the monastery is a magnificent place to visit. Surrounded by pine trees and lush nature, it was built to be undetectable by invading pirates and other intruders. The 12th-century north and south walls remain, as do buildings from the 14th to 16th century. It is reputed to have been built at the site of a holy water well, from which the water still runs to this day. The interiors of the buildings and the domed church are renowned for the remarkable frescoes lining their walls. Noteworthy is the mural on the dome, depicting Jesus Christ surrounded by 16 prophets, as are the depictions of the Last Supper, the Samaritan woman and the Ascension. Among its many artefacts, the most treasured is the metal figurine of the miraculously healed princess who founded it.

We spent our last few days on Rhodes at Pefkos, swimming. kayaking, paddle boarding, snorkelling and walking during the day, socialising with friends at night. We had been reticent about our visit this year because of the new no wild camping laws and lack of campsites on the island, but having to rethink our usual behaviours, if anything, we had enjoyed our stay all the more, thanks to the hospitality of our friends, the Rhodites. We had spent more time at each stop, more time with friends, and certainly more money, but we had had a blast and could not wait to return next year for more of the same.

Despite landing at Piraeus at the peak of the morning rush hour, we made good time through the suburbs to the pretty coast road that follows the Megara Gulf to the Peloponnese Peninsula. It now being the end of October, most of the resorts were closed, the small vendors’ roadside stalls were empty, and the last of the festivals had been and gone, so there were no road closures. Still, we decided to use the rise and fall bridge at the southern end of the Corinth Canal at Isthmia, as it is usually quieter than the popular routes to the north. It is a charming experience, particularly if you have to wait as the bridge sinks below the water to allow boats to motor over it. It then slowly reappears, rising out of the isthmus, glistening wet, and maybe with the odd bit of seaweed attached.

We had planned our route back through mainland Greece so that if we found wild camping was not possible, we always had a nearby campsite as a backup. Our first planned stop was Galatas, and we hoped to stop overnight near the harbour. The wonderful coast road took us past the stunningly pretty bay at Loutra Elenis, into the mountains at Nea Epidavros, past the ancient ruins of Archaia Epidauros and around the inland sea nature reserve at Psiftas Lagoon where flamingos added a colourful display to the tidal waters.

Galatas was buzzing when we arrived. The narrow streets were crowded, and the car parks full; it was market day. Just as we were thinking we would have to back track to the nearest campsite, we found a large empty parking area literally on the water’s edge overlooking the nearby island of Poros. There were maybe four or five other camper vans there, well spaced, so we followed suit and parked discreetly at the far end. A young local lad was fishing in a small stream that trickled into the narrow Poros Strait, the water gently lapping only a few feet from our wheels.

The ferry to Poros cost us one euro each as foot passengers, Truffle was free, and it ran every twenty minutes, the crossing taking only ten minutes. Poros is a charming, green island in the Saronic Gulf, known for its picturesque harbour town with neoclassical buildings, pine forests, and relaxing atmosphere. It is a popular spot for island-hopping cruising yachts, water sports, history (like the Sanctuary of Poseidon), and beautiful beaches like Askeli and Love Bay. It is technically two islands, Sferia & Kalavria, connected by a bridge, offering both town life and lush nature. The pretty port has Italian vibes, both in architecture and culture and has many cafes and restaurants from which to watch the world go by. Poros is the site of Greece’s first naval base; there is still one there today, opposite a newer Russian one that is surrounded by a heavily razor-wired security fence and shielded from the public eye. We spent a lovely afternoon wandering around and stopped for a drink to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere. Later, back at the van, we sat and watched the harbour lights come on and reflect brightly in the still water between us and the island.

Enchanted as we were with Galatas and Poros, we nevertheless decided to move on the next day. We had two long days of driving scheduled in the week before we caught the ferry from Igoumenitsa to Venice, and it would be handy to break them up. We left Galatas just as it was waking up the next morning. Back across the causeway at Psiftas Lagoon, and up into the mountains for the rugged drive to Nafplion. We stopped a few times to allow the dishevelled mountain dogs to move slowly out of our way, and to scrump oranges from a roadside tree. On our previous visits to Nafplion, signs prohibited the parking of motorhomes in the harbour area, so we were uncertain where we would spend the night, particularly in view of the new rules. We arrived to find the signs gone, and a huge flat area where several motorhomes were clearly staying overnight. Motorhome envy set in as we parked next to a top-of-the-range Niesmann+Bischoff motorhome that dwarfed us, and which was very much in keeping with the two luxury superyachts moored only a stone’s throw away. A perfect morning’s drive and our luxury surroundings improved even more as we enjoyed freshly baked bread and cheese, still warm from a baker just up the road.

After lunch, we walked around the cobbled streets of the beautiful old city.  Nafplion (or Nafplio) is famous for its Venetian and neoclassical architecture, romantic atmosphere, and role as the first capital of modern Greece (1827-1834). The narrow streets form a spider’s web of confusion before they climb relentlessly to the imposing fortresses of Palamidi Castle and Akronafplias Castle with their impressive views over the Argolic Gulf and Bourtzi Castle that sits on a tiny island just outside the harbour. Having managed to get lost, we stopped for a refresher at a pavement bar in a wonderful old square. Here, gypsy women walked around with children slung casually, and uncomfortably, under one arm, the other outstretched for loose change; it was a stark contrast to the displays of wealth all around. Beautiful during the day, Nafplion became magical at night when the lights came on. The bars were full of the rich and glamorous, and the elegant people promenading along the harbour front looked like a fashion show. Underwater lights on the superyachts illuminated shoals of fish putting on a display of aqua gymnastics as they tumbled around in a game of follow the leader. Tearing ourselves away from the late-night city vibe, we headed back to the van just as a cacophony of car horns announced the arrival of a wedding party convoy, and a little later, the night sky fizzed with a firework display that lasted half an hour. Everything was a theatrical spectacle.  

It was raining as we left Nafplion, but that did nothing to dampen our mood. The fabulous non-toll road took us through orchards and vineyards, ancient olive groves and small, rundown villages. Several times, we were brought to a virtual standstill as we tentatively crossed crumbling bridges with only a few inches on either side. After a while, we joined the old national road that hugs the coast with views across to northern Greece. In places, the road has been washed away, and waves swoosh across the once tarmacked surface, knocking the temporary traffic cones over like skittles. We had originally planned to do a long day’s drive before our next stop, but with a day in hand, we decided to stop overnight halfway at the small Tsoli Campsite that sits on the Gulf of Corinth. We put the piping hot showers and washing machine to good use before walking around this little paradise created by one hard-working family; everything was spotless and well cared for. The rain eventually stopped, and as we hung out our washing, we chatted with an English couple travelling down to Morocco for the winter. We could not help but envy the warm weather they would enjoy for the next few months as we headed back to the chilly UK.

The superb old coast road took us all the way to Rio, where we stopped to watch the tumultuous waves break over the ancient walls of the castle. Rio Castle is an Ottoman fortress, built by Sultan Bayezid II in 1499 to guard the entrance to the Corinthian Gulf. It is often referred to as the Little Dardanelles alongside its counterpart, Antirio Castle. Constructed in just three months atop ruins of an ancient Temple of Poseidon, it features bastions, a moat, and was a key strategic point. Later, it was used as a prison and occupied during WWII before becoming a Greek historic site. During our visit, the wind howled around the turrets and through arrow slit windows. Spray from the invading sea occasionally drenched us as it reached over the walls like an untethered hose. Daring to scale the ramparts gave the most amazing views of the Rion Antirion bridge which stretched across the Gulf, connecting the two castles like a sinuous thread.

The Rion Antirion Bridge (officially called the Charilaos Trikoupis Bridge) is the world’s longest multi-span cable-stayed bridge with a continuous suspended deck. It was completed in 2004 and is a landmark of 21st-century Greece, improving the movement of people and goods in Western Greece. With this project, the vision to connect the narrow sea passage between Rio and Antirion of Charilaos Trikoupis (Prime Minister of Greece), more than one hundred years ago, became a reality. No matter how many times we drive over it, we never tire of its superb design and stunning looks.

Continuing north, we skirted the Klisova Lagoon until we reached the remote Salt Museum at Missolonghi. The museum was closed, but we could still explore the huge piles of coarse salt and drainable lagoons and admire the flamingos that inhabit this weird waterscape. Unfortunately, the swarms of mosquitoes prevented us from fully exploring Tourlida island, which is reached by a narrow earthy causeway about four miles long. It is the largest island in the lagoon, and the only one inhabited with a recorded population of 15 inhabitants. Tourlida is renowned for the timber houses constructed on wooden piles and connected by elevated walkways; there is also a veritable fleet of small fishing sculling boats that bobbed around with their huge scallop-shaped nets drying in the wind.

Our passage north took us through a wonderful mountain gorge, carved long ago by a raging river, to Loutraki. Here we found a secluded beach, every bit as picturesque as anything the Caribbean has to offer, where we could stay overnight beside the Ambracian Gulf. The shoreline was littered with shells and sea urchin tests (shells), evidence of the rich plethora of life hiding just below the surface. We spent some in the evening chatting with a local fisherman who had a business growing and exporting kiwi fruit. He explained that Greece is one of the top global exporters of green and golden kiwi, which surprised us as we had never noticed any kiwi trees there. As the sun set in a blaze of reds and oranges, two local dogs came to enjoy it with us as we sat outside our van.

The morning broke cloudy but promising; the sea was like a millpond. We soon had the kayak inflated and basic provisions aboard to explore the gulf. We followed the shoreline where the roots of olive groves and mangroves stabilised the fine sandy margins. The water was so clear, we watched glassy jellyfish drift by, jumping fish narrowly avoid coming aboard, and even a seahorse that wrapped its tail around a blade of sea grass which was part of an underwater forest that swayed gently with the motion of the water. A dark shadow unexpectedly moved, and we realised that it was a large ray. Crabs scuttled sideways, sending up tiny clouds of fine sand, and perfectly formed round holes indicated a thriving community of sea worms below the seabed. We would have swum if it were not for the vast numbers of sea urchins that aptly deserve their common name, Spiney Normans. We reluctantly paddled back as the sun began to drop and the heat of the day waned, but there was still one surprise left. As we passed the few waterside houses just along from where we were parked, we saw a fin break the water. Certain that it was a dolphin, we stopped paddling and waited. It had swum into a dead-end creek, and we so wanted it to swim out again and come past us. We drifted a while, but didn’t see it again, and finally gave up waiting so that we could recover the kayak and get it dry before packing it away for possibly the last time this year.

We had tried twice previously to spend a couple of nights on Lefkada (Lefkas) Island. The first time we hit a massive traffic jam on the causeway that was going nowhere, and reluctantly, we had to do a U-turn. The second time, last year, we broke down when the van’s injectors failed; we lost power, and we had to find an engineer on the mainland. Incredibly, we broke down again in almost the same place. The engine started to race, and the engine light came on. I pulled over, stopped the engine and restarted it, still the same problem. The code reader found no fault codes, and I could not tell if it was an electrical or fuel problem. Disappointed, but only twenty miles from the guy who so expertly sorted our injectors last year, we decided to visit him again.

Kostas, despite being very busy, greeted us with a smile and a handshake. When we told him the injectors were fine, he replied with a grin, “I know, we are the best”. He listened to our latest problem, tried the engine, heard it race, said he knew what the problem was, and told us to come back tomorrow. It was late afternoon, and if he needed a part, he would not be able to get it until tomorrow anyway. Not wanting to spend the night inside his locked enclosure again, we drove a short way to the beach at Paralia Monolithi; it would have been a great overnighter in any other circumstance. On the way, we passed the wonderfully preserved 11th-century Byzantine walls of Nicopolis, but neither of us felt much like stopping there, as by now a full-on storm was blowing and the rain was horizontal. I moved the van to higher ground early the next morning so that we did not get stuck where the rain was now causing flooding. We got back to Kostas for 9 am, and his son ran full engine diagnostics that indicated the problem was the accelerator pedal position sensor. Kostas had already supposed this was the problem and had tried to get a new one, but it would not arrive until tomorrow. We had an option: his son could try to fix ours, or we could wait around another day. It was an easy decision given our confidence in their work, and a few minutes later and only a few euros lighter, we were back on the road.

We only had two nights left on mainland Greece, the last to be spent at Igoumenitsa port so that we were ready to board our ferry at 4 am. So we set off for Camping Eleni at Plataria on the shores of the Ionian Sea as our final pit stop. Our sea front pitch provided excellent views of the Syvota Peninsula opposite, but a fresh offshore wind counselled us not to inflate the kayak and attempt a crossing. Instead, we enjoyed a picnic while watching another kayaking couple finally resort to swimming their craft ashore before lying exhausted on the pebbly beach.

The campsite owners generously allow late departures, knowing that many visitors are catching ferries from the nearby Igoumenitsa port at all times of the day. So we were able to enjoy a walk along the beach and then prepare our van for the real world when we landed in Venice in two days, all before we left the site. We picked up provisions before stopping at Drepano Beach to watch the sunset. Thinking we would get ahead of the game by checking in early for our crossing, we arrived at the port check-in around nine in the evening, along with nearly every other passenger due to travel it seemed. The queues were horrendous, and tempers raised, a shout-off between an elderly man and a younger woman evolved into a comical game of slaps before both walked off losing their places in the queue, we all shuffled forward two places. Over an hour later, I finally got our tickets and was dismayed to be told we could not get through security until four the following morning. Igoumenitsa is one of the largest passenger ports in Greece, and a key departure point for anyone going to mainland Europe. Migrants are everywhere, they intend to stowaway in unsuspecting vehicles. We had an uneasy night.

We were first in the queue for border control the next morning, us and a huge old shaggy dog that lay in the road with its head propped up on the pavement like a pillow, one eye open. Even before the guards arrived and the lights started flashing, the dog slowly got up and wandered casually to the big gates just as they slid aside. We followed him through, and while his progress was unhindered, we were told that Linn had to get out and go through the terminal building as a foot passenger. This absolute nonsense causes unnecessary delays, adds significantly to security risks, and is totally arbitrary depending on who happens to be on duty at the time. I was the first to arrive at the exit of the terminal building where I hoped Linn would emerge, and I was instructed to move by an officious type who offered no alternative place for me to wait. I refused, and by now I had quite a few vehicles behind me waiting to collect their own passengers, so the jobsworth gave up and walked away to annoy somebody else. The entire port facility is so poorly run, with so many security risks, that we are unlikely to use it again.

We were moved twice more as we waited for the ferry. When we finally boarded, things did not improve, and the deckhand manically directed me into a space shorter and lower than our van. When I pointed this out, he shrugged, and another one took over. Mindful of our size and the restricted space, we eventually got parked just as an elderly chap towing a trailer finally lost his temper and struck one of the deckhands a glancing blow with the front of his car. No one batted an eyelid; this was clearly an everyday occurrence. The deckhand staggered away with an exaggerated limp, and we were sure that the driver struggled to suppress a grin.

Disembarking proved to be a reversal of the chaotic loading at Igoumenitsa; the garage deckhands excelling in confused and impossible directions, leaving drivers disorientated and cars stranded. Seizing an opportunity, we trundled lopsidedly down the metal ramp and discharged ungraciously into the port complex. We were stopped twice at separate security checkpoints and then waved on at both without being searched before joining the non-toll road towards Verona.

Peaceful and pastoral, the road wandered casually past fields of end-of-season crops, small painted villages and lush woodlands. It felt like it would take us into some far-off enchanted fairyland, and we enjoyed the peace. Slowly, the road started to climb, and we got our first glimpses of the snow-covered mountains. Just seeing them made us feel cold after the Mediterranean climate of Greece.

Navigating around the busy suburbs of Verona was further complicated by having to avoid the LEZs and find our camperstop. On arriving, we had a short wait before a space became available and we could finally have the breakfast which we had missed on board the ferry. A short, pretty walk took us into the historic heart of Verona.

Verona is a historic city in northern Italy’s Veneto region, famous for its stunning Roman Arena, UNESCO-listed medieval old town, and as the setting for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. It attracts visitors for opera, art, architecture, and romance. Key sights include the Verona Arena, “Juliet’s House” with its iconic balcony, vibrant squares like Piazza delle Erbe, and Roman ruins, offering rich history, fine food, and wine from the Valpolicella region. Its compact size makes it ideal for the short-stay visitor, and we managed to take in all the famous sights in an unhurried afternoon and evening. We even found an enchanting little bistro where we enjoyed a superb meal at a very reasonable cost. Probably the highlight of our visit, though, was stumbling across a marching flag-throwing troupe. Flag throwing, known in Italy as sbandieratori, is a vibrant Italian tradition originating from medieval military exercises. Skilled performers in historical costume toss and catch large flags to rhythmic drumming during festivals, often featuring elaborate routines and competitions, representing local pride and history. While famous in Florence and Siena, similar troupes perform throughout Italy, including Verona’s own historic carnivals and events, showcasing athletic skill and pageantry. As the troupe marched off in one direction, we left this wonderful old city in the other as night drew in.  

Concerned that we might have inadvertently driven into one of several LEZs that operate in Verona, we left early in the morning before the schemes became active to avoid any fines. The traffic was already building up, but we made it out of the city limits before the Monday morning 07:30 deadline.   

Our route consisted of both non-toll and toll roads that day, and keen to find somewhere to stop for breakfast, we discovered a wonderful riverside stop at Casa Otello near Perschiara del Garda. The winter sun was glinting on the surface of the slow-flowing River Mincia, enticing us first in one direction along its banks, and then in the other. We found the massive stone walls of Porta Verona that rise from Lake Garda with stout steadfastness. A short climb up from the riverbank took us through a huge open-air market that sold just about anything anyone would want. Street food from every culture to local fresh produce, high fashion clothes to military surplus, treats for pets to parts for vacuum cleaners, some people browsed and others haggled earnestly.

We crossed the bridge to the ancient walled town and entered a different world. Little narrow streets where you could almost hold hands upstairs with the person in the opposite house opened into small squares where bistros had set up their tables and chairs. Random statues hinted at a historic past. Bridges, adorned with colourful flowers, spanned small waterways that drew us ever closer to the banks of Lake Garda. We had been there once before, a few years ago, but earlier in the season when the vast crowds of tourists and swarms of mosquitoes had made us beat a hasty retreat. Things were very different on this visit, and while still very touristy, we enjoyed our coddiwomple.

We planned to spend the night at one of our favourite campsites, Camping Iseo. And after a wonderful drive through the mountains, we were disappointed when we arrived to be told that they were closing early for the end of the season. No worries, we could stay at another site a short distance away. We followed the directions given and were soon driving down increasingly narrow streets with signs warning that they got narrower. I parked up, walked down to the campsite, and, receiving a surly welcome from the owner, I decided not to stay. I asked him about the narrow entrance road, to which he replied that if you bring your mirrors in, most vans can do it without damage. As I walked back to the van, I found that I could touch the walls on either side with my arms outstretched in some places.

As all the other lakeside campsites were already closed for the season, we settled for Iseo Sosta, essentially Lidl’s car park, but with a friendly group of liveaboards parked up for the night it felt safe enough. We enjoyed a late lunch in the van before going for a walk around charming Iseo town with its fabulous views across our favourite Italian lake. Being the end of October, there were few tourists around, and it had a closed-down feel about it. There were few boats on the lake, cafes had their shutters closed, and locals shuffled quietly along with their heavy winter coats on. It felt almost Dickensian, and we walked briskly to stay warm. As the lights came on in the evening, we found a great little restaurant that was happy for us to take Truffle in; the food was good, the welcome friendly, and it was just what was needed before the cold walk back to the van.  

Blue flashing lights alerted us to the presence of two emergency vehicles outside our van. Seeing one of our neighbours being loaded into the ambulance, and the police making enquiries at other vans, we feared the worst. On asking his friend if there was anything we could do to help, we were sad to hear that it was an elderly gentleman living in his old van who had pneumonia. It was a big relief to see him back again the next morning.       

Italy, like many European countries, is going down the environmental route of imposing prohibitive LEZs and ZTLs. The Low Emission Zones are more widespread; the Limited Traffic Zones (Zona a Traffico Limitato) are far more draconian and often forbid all but local residential traffic but for a couple of hours of the day. The fines are strictly enforced and cruel, and with the often complicated rules, common. Avoiding them can be difficult, particularly since they are updated often and with little disclosure. So, while it was a lovely rural drive to Bergamo, we just hoped that our sat nav had managed to avoid any penalty.

The welcome at Bergamo Sosta was one of the warmest and most helpful we have ever received. We were given a complete tour of the site, which was spotless and well laid out. When finding us the best pitch, our host noticed that our habitation door was on the ‘wrong’ side and found another, more convenient one. Clearly as proud of his city as he was of his sosta, he went into great detail to tell us the places of interest. When I asked which ones we should try not to miss because of the limited time we had, he seemed hurt and replied that in his city, they were all unmissable. A short walk later proved him right.

Bergamo is a historic city in Italy’s Lombardy region, known for its unique duality: the medieval, walled Città Alta (Upper Town) on a hill and the modern Città Bassa (Lower Town) below, connected by a funicular. Its UNESCO-listed Venetian walls, cobblestone streets, and Renaissance architecture in the Città Alta offer rich history, while the Lower Town provides contemporary amenities and shopping, all at the foothills of the Alps. We only had time to visit the charming, historic heart of the Upper Town with medieval squares like Piazza Vecchia, the spectacular Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, the Colleoni Chapel, and panoramic views from its Venetian walls. Fortunately, we found a discarded tourist map that indexed the key places; without it, we would have missed so much. Every corner revealed hidden gems, architectural delights, and opulent extravagances. The many young students attending the university there gave it an energetic and vibrant feel. We hope to go back and spend more time exploring one day.

Leaving the sosta the next morning, I was keen not to risk entering the ZTL and had to negotiate a particularly tight right-hand turn. As always in those situations, it attracted some spectators who watched, confused by my seemingly bizarre decision. With several shunts, we got away unscathed, only to find I could have gone left after all.

Our route took us via the Milano north ring road, for which there is nothing good to be said other than it avoids a LEZ on the more scenic southern route. The only interesting part of the journey was the ascent to Viverone at the base of the Alps.     

Viverone is a charming commune on the beautiful glacial lake of Lago di Viverone in the Piedmont region of northern Italy. It is known for outdoor activities like water sports, hiking, and birdwatching, alongside historical sites like Bronze Age pile dwellings, making it a popular, relaxed holiday spot with lakeside promenades, restaurants, and nearby castles, perfect for nature lovers. Having been there before at this time of year, we knew to expect the tired, end-of-season atmosphere we had felt before, but we were not prepared for how bad it had got. Lakeside walks had fallen into disrepair, and overgrown hedges and grass areas looked scruffy and unkempt. Locals were unwelcoming and resentful of our late arrival; we felt like we were intruding on their out-of-season lives. We had sought permission to stay in the car park of a wonderful little restaurant, Ciciarampa, where we had dined last year. Permission was given when we explained that we would like to dine there again. Last year, we had been greeted with a feast of fresh nibbles and a glass of Aperol spritz; this time, we were shown hastily into the cold restaurant with only fast food available. The girl serving was unable to take our order even when we pointed at dishes on the menu, and when other local customers arrived, we were pretty much left to our own devices. It was a disappointing evening, given how welcoming they had been the year before.

Our failed suspension airbag was becoming more troublesome now that it had completely come apart. I had to reduce the pressure on the other side just to keep us remotely level, resulting in even the smallest bumps or potholes causing load thumps as we bottomed out. I had to keep the speed well down and avoid as many as I could, and this made driving tiring. With the imminent crossing of the Alps into France planned for the next day, we carefully weighed up the options. The Frejus Tunnel was probably the wisest choice, but when the sun came out, we opted to go over the top of Mont Cenis.

This is a picturesque route that climbs the snow-covered Alps steeply with stunning views. At Rivoli, we had to contrive a crazy detour to avoid the LEZ, which resulted in pointless extra miles of environmental pollution. After Susa, the views became even more spectacular as the narrow road hairpinned to gain altitude quickly. Five miles from the French border, the conditions became icy and little snow drifts formed on the verges. It was a gentle warning of what was to come.

Truffle was a little confused by the snow at first. Travelling inside the van is a bit like being in a time capsule for her; she’ll get in at one place and then get out in another, totally different landscape and climate, all in the blink of an eye as she tends to sleep most of the time we are driving. She padded around, sniffing the snow, her paws that only a couple of weeks before we had been worried about burning, now grew clumps of ice that she tried to shake off. She ran her nose along the ground, letting the snow pile up to her eyes before snorting it off and starting again. She jumped from one spot to another, as if launching herself onto some unseen quarry, before a furtive sidelong glance just to check that I was still there.

Overhead, clouds were forming, and we were keen to get down the French side of the mountain before more snow arrived. Val Cenis lies in the shadow of Mont Cenis, and the road is always a little more sketchy than the Italian approach. We passed a few four-by-fours who were out having fun, and a couple of campers who, like us, were warily moving off the mountain before the weather turned.

Val Cenis is a ski resort in the Maurienne Valley of the French Alps, it merges the traditional villages of Lanslebourg, Lanslevillard, and Termignon. The resort offers 80 miles of varied ski slopes, including the long “L’Escargot” green run and is noted for its extensive tree-lined skiing. We dropped down into the village through lush forests and under chairlifts hanging idly as they waited for the season to begin. We crossed the raging Doron de Termignon just before it joined the River Arc, known for its summer river-tubing trips. We had intended to follow it all the way to Aiton, where it becomes the River Isère, which would lead us to Lac d’Annecy, but a rockslide forced us to divert up into the mountains again, through the small villages of Sardières, Aussois and Le Bourget. Pretty as they were, the roads were not intended for large vehicles, and as they clung perilously to the side of the mountain, we often found ourselves hoping aloud that nothing would come the other way. We rejoined our intended route at Mondane and had a clear, but busy passage to Annecy and Camping Le Verger.

We had stayed here last year and appreciated the eccentric host who welcomed us with a saucer full of sweets, a well-practised account of the site and its rules, and the freedom to park anywhere under the pear trees. This year, it was raining; the ground was soft, and our convivial host was missing. I parked on a small patch of tarmac for fear of getting stuck, and his wife immediately instructed me to drive onto the grass. We promptly got stuck. We were at a jaunty angle, away from the electric hookup, and cut off from the facilities by a swamp; it was far from ideal, but she assured us that her son would come first thing tomorrow and tow us off. He didn’t. Our host fetched some short lengths of timber, which, had we driven onto them, would have broken in half and stabbed up under the van. He clasped his hands in anguish and urged us to wait for his son, whom we found out later was asleep inside. Frustrated, I used our traction mats and was able to free ourselves and park up for our second night with his approval. His wife appeared again, berated us for even considering staying where we were, telling us that the site was fully booked, and we had to leave. There were three other vans there, and even fewer when we drove past the next day.         

Oddly, as Annecy is an all-season destination, most of the other sites were closed, and we were forced to try the community aire. The reviews weren’t great, and the small space was crammed with vans of all sizes. As we parked outside, considering our options, a motorhome left and we nipped quickly into his space. Although not what we had hoped for, it seemed secure and was a shorter walk into town.

The morning mist hung over the lake like a carelessly discarded wedding veil. Some ducks, and a few keen rowers, were the only things disturbing the mirror-like surface. We walked around the lake, renowned as one of Europe’s cleanest, until the path came to an end, and then back into the medieval old town, the Vieille Ville. Cobbled streets and canals characterise this area, featuring 16th-century buildings and the iconic Palais de l’Île, a former 12th-century prison that splits the canal. It is easy to see why Annecy is often called the “Venice of the Alps” or “Pearl of the French Alps”. It was Halloween when we visited, and some of the shops and restaurants were putting up spooky decorations to mark the event that evening, but after a few hours, we grew tired of the crowds and left them to it.

The drive north from Annecy climbed spectacularly through the wild boar Mountains of Jura in the Rhone Alps and into the France-Comté region. Narrow roads carpeted with fir cones weaved through the trees, offering glimpses of steep gorges with raging rivers in the bottom. Randomly parked pickups with secure metal dog cages in the back announced that somewhere, deep in the woods, hunters were after the wild boar, and occasionally a shot rang out. This is one of the best drives in France, whatever the season.

We arrived in Dijon late in the afternoon, and with a little language confusion, we managed to check into the municipal aire. Dijon is known for its cold and damp winters with about ten days of rain in every month; it was raining when we arrived. However, the aire was secure, and with shared facilities with the neighbouring campsite, we were at least assured of hot showers. It was ideal as an overnighter to explore Dijon, a short walk away beside the river.

Dijon is the historic, pedestrian-friendly capital of Burgundy, known for its well-preserved medieval and Renaissance, half-timbered houses, cobbled streets, and UNESCO-listed sites. It is a renowned culinary destination offering high-quality gastronomy and famous mustard. The city offers an elegant and authentic French experience, even in the rain. We enjoyed the relaxed and intimate feel of this “City of a hundred Bell towers”, with the highlights including the Ducal Palace, the Église Saint-Michel, and the Cathedral of Saint Bénigne, which are all spectacularly lit at night. Perversely, in a city revered for its French cuisine, we found the most wonderful little Japanese restaurant that provided the sustenance for the wet walk back to our van. Dijon is a city we would like to go back to and hopefully follow the inlaid bronze arrows featuring the iconic owl, the “Owl’s Trail”, that explores the main heritage sites.

In the morning, we were surprised to find that the aire was closing down for the season, and we realised that it was this misunderstanding that had confused things when we checked in. Luckily, though, it meant that we did not have to leave as early as usual, and we took a stroll around Lac Kir. Thirty hectares of green spaces surround the artificial lake created by Canon Kir, where people can enjoy sports and relaxation activities. It being Sunday, the regular Park Runners were congregating for the off.

We had booked Truffle in for her compulsory worming tablet and Pet Passport signing with the vet at Langres; this meant we had to spend the night there before the early morning appointment. The aire is a new, large, purpose-built park just outside the city walls. It is barrier-controlled, but when we arrived, the barrier was up, and it seemed from the other campers that we did not have to pay out of season. It is a wonderful facility, a short walk from the medieval walled city.

Some claim that Langres is not as well-known as it should be; that it is not only one of the oldest towns in France, but also one of the most stunningly beautiful. It boasts the longest ramparts in Europe, a whole two miles, and, if you include the ramparts that surround the citadel, they measure an astonishing three and a half miles. The ancient town, founded more than two thousand years ago, is perched 475 metres up on a promontory. The first inhabitants were a Gallic tribe who allied themselves with the invading Roman force, and the traces of their time are prominent here. A monumental Roman arch survives from those days, built into the ramparts. Topped by a carving of two naked men with their hands behind their backs, it was a warning message to unwelcome visitors and a sign of the sense of humour of the people of this off-the-beaten-track part of France. We did not fall in love with the city or the people. There is no doubting that the Cathédrale Saint-Mammès de Langres is wonderful in its unusually simple architecture, but we found nothing else that stood out above many other French cities of the period. We found the people rude and unwelcoming in the shops and at the vets. Despite having been given a time for our appointment, we were kept waiting by the receptionist before a charming and caring vet saw Truffle to give her the tablet we had taken with us and fill in her passport. A service that usually costs 19€ cost us 59€. We were pleased to get Truffle’s paperwork done and pleased to get underway again and continue north through pastoral Picardie. 

The aire at Rozoy-sur-Serre is a small park-up opposite a working farm. It is beautifully maintained by the local community in the heart of the countryside. We had stopped at a small Intermarche on the way, and I was unable to resist a huge box of 56 bottles of local beer for a little more than the usual six-pack. We settled in for the night to try a couple, and we were not disappointed.

We were up early the next morning, and with time in hand, we took a pretty but muddy woodland walk to the next village, Chéry-lès-Rozoy. We had hoped to visit the Église Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Chéry-lès-Rozoy, which is part of the Thiérache area known for its fortified churches, but true to its history, it was locked. Fortified churches were built to serve a defensive role in times of war; they were specially designed to incorporate military features, such as thick walls, battlements and embrasures. We made do with the many unusual farm buildings, all having some dedicated purpose, before finding an alternative way back. Here, we made friends with a rather large bull.

Driving through Picardie was pleasant enough, but inevitably the nearer we got to Calais, the denser the traffic became. We had chosen Aire-sur-la-Lys for our last night, because it was far enough from the port to be migrant free, and beside a pretty canal basin for walking. The unmanned aire was superb; quiet, pretty, with modern facilities and electric hook-ups all for a few euros per night. Locals fishing from the narrow swing bridge tucked their poles in to let us pass as we crossed the river Leie and approached the lift-up barrier. Four elderly men watched with amusement as we could not get the barrier to lift, the trick being you have to almost touch the barrier with your bonnet before it ‘sees’ you. Once in, we were soon hooked up for the night and took a short walk around the neighbourhood. At what used to be the old harbour master’s house, you could buy, somewhat unhygienically, fresh fruit and bread that was left on the pavement in open crates. Just across the road, a small wooden hut smelling of old fat advertised sandwiches and frites, but you had to walk back to the house and knock if you wanted serving. Back at the aire, we enjoyed the luxury of a shower and unlimited hot water, before a beer and supper in the van.

All of a sudden, our odyssey was coming to an end. We marvelled at how this was the last of our eighty-five nights away, how quickly it had gone, and all the things we had seen and done. We were sad that it was ending, but already excited about the next one.