During the picturesque drive through mixed fields, forests and mountains to Sloupsko Caves, our reversing camera developed an intermittent fault that I could not fix despite removing half of the dashboard. Undoubtedly a casualty of the poor roads it would cause us annoyance throughout the rest of the trip. At Sloupsko, we left Truffle in the van while we took a one-and-a-half-hour personal guided tour of the amazing underground caverns with a knowledgeable English-speaking guide. Sloup-Šošůvka caves consist of a large complex of domes, corridors, and huge underground eighty-meter-deep gorges, created over millions of years on two levels by the subterranean Sloup Stream that rushes through the system still. So prolific are the stalagmites and stalactites, they are often referred to as ‘decorations’ and some are named, Snow Mountain, Waterfall, Fortress, Mandarin, Medusa and Minaret to name just a few. 

Kemp Olšovec, where we intended to stay our second night in Czechia, was more holiday camp than a campsite, so we drove on for a few miles and found another wonderful trout-filled lake in a small, wooded area at Stavesice. Each community seems to have them, plus a nearby wooden shelter where they meet to enjoy a beer and log fire in the winter. We loved Czechia, the place, the people and the roads, and we were sorry to leave after two nights.

Romania was a place that just kept giving. Our route followed an old railway track for much of one day, and then a river that sparkled as it meandered between lakes under woods that dappled the shimmer. The scenery was varied, and every bend brought a new vista to delight the eye. The weather grew ever warmer, and we were glad to stop for lunch in the shade at the isolated craft village in Orăştie, Transylvania, noted for its monumental sculpture of a Dacian Sica surrounded by replica medieval buildings. Truffle enjoyed the freedom of being off her lead and having a scout around as there was no one there. In the late afternoon, as we drove up the mountain to the rustic Camping Ananas at Sibiou for the night, the sky became very dark bringing a massive downpour so severe that the road flooded and many drivers pulled over. The rain continued into the night, but we were dry and comfortable in the van, unlike the occupants of several tents whose heavily stickered cars suggested they were on a rally and which offered them more protection than their flimsy canvas.    

The next day we moved on in the sun, along an elevated road that circumnavigated the vast Lake Valcele, past horse-drawn trailers, and around mountain villages to the bohemian campsite at Muddy Volcanoes. The Berca Mud Volcanoes is a geological and botanical reservation in the Scorțoasa commune close to Berca in Buzău County. Its most spectacular feature is the mud volcanoes, small volcano-shaped structures typically a few metres high caused by the eruption of mud and natural gases. As the gases erupt from 3000 meters below the surface, through the underground layers of clay and water, they push up underground salty water and mud. This overflows through the mouths of the volcanoes, while the gas emerges as bubbles. The mud dries off at the surface, creating a relatively solid conical structure resembling a real volcano. The mud expelled is cold as it comes from inside the Earth’s continental crust, not the mantle. This spectacle was one of several highlights of the trip for both Linn and me, and Truffle enjoyed the total freedom to play with the campsite’s huge mongrel that came visiting.

Later, we moved on in another tempestuous storm to spend the night wild camped under the Buzludzha Monument. Eerie and sinister, it was built as the monument house of the Bulgarian Communist Party in the eighties but has fallen into ruin since the collapse of communism here. Most of the external walls are covered in graffiti, and while it is not possible to go inside what was once the lavish interior, the surrounding views are amazing. Here we met a fellow Brit, a live-aboard vanlifer who had recently bought a house in Bulgaria and who assured us that we would certainly receive fines for trumped-up traffic offences. He explained that they were part of the new fascist regime that replaced communism and were implemented by the overhead gantries of cameras being installed on every road and the seemingly arbitrary rules. Having endeavoured to be lawful at all times, it came as a salutary warning that marred our stay in Bulgaria, a country we had otherwise come to love.   

As we drove down the mountain from the Buzludzha Monument, the temperature rose from 12° to 27° and later stayed in the early 30’s as we drove to Ancient Perperikon. The potholed roads, an abundance of cautionary signs, and the omnipresent cameras tracking our every move continued to be unsettling. Perperikon, also Perpericum, is an ancient Thracian city located in the Eastern Rhodope Mountains, situated on a 470 m high rocky hill which is thought to have been a sacred place. The village of Gorna Krepost (“Upper Fortress”) is located at the foot of the hill and the gold-bearing Perpereshka River flows nearby. Perperikon is the largest megalith ensemble site in the Balkans, and in the Middle Ages, it served as a fortress. Nowadays it is a jumbled ancient acropolis commune, with lavish new walkways funded by the EU to the detriment of the site and archaeology. The people doing a dig there were more interesting than the sparse ruins, most quite elderly, working in the heat of the day with no protection, with the cheeriest smiles as they scraped in the dirt and called Truffle over to share some of their lunch.

Still a couple of days from the first ferry journey of our trip, Piraeus to Rhodes, we received an email to say we would be stopping at Symi so the captain could drop off some chickens and we would be late arriving in Rhodes. The previous dilapidated roads had taken their toll on the van. Breakages so far included the radio, the reversing camera, the air suspension, two headlamp bulbs, and as we would find out later, the fridge, the bed, and probably the awning mounts. Two nights at delightful Camping Sylvia with its own private beach near Plakia allowed me to carry out some repairs, but the reversing camera and air suspension were likely to need parts that we could only source when we got home again.

We wandered down the coast with a short interruption at Thermopylae which derives its name from its hot sulphur springs; in Greek mythology, the Hot Gates is one of the entrances to Hades. The Battle of Thermopylae was fought in 480 BC between the Achaemenid Persian Empire and an alliance of Greek city-states led by Sparta under Leonidas I. Lasting three days, around the start of the invasion, a Greek force of approximately 7,000 men led by Leonidas marched north to block the pass of Thermopylae. Ancient authors vastly inflated the size of the Persian army, with estimates in the millions, but modern scholars estimate it at between 120,000 and 300,000 soldiers. They arrived at Thermopylae by late August or early September; the outnumbered Greeks held them off for seven days (including three of direct battle) before their rear guard was annihilated in one of history’s most famous last stands. During two full days of battle, the Greeks blocked the only road through which the massive Persian army could traverse the narrow pass. After the second day, a local resident named Ephialtes revealed to the Persians the existence of a path leading behind the Greek lines. Subsequently, Leonidas, aware that his force was being outflanked by the Persians, dismissed the bulk of the Greek army and remained to guard their retreat along with 300 Spartans and 700 Thespians. It has been reported that others also remained, including up to 900 helots and 400 Thebans. Except for the Thebans, most of whom reportedly surrendered, the Greeks fought the Persians to the death. We were saddened to see that they are building a visitors’ centre and much of where you could once soak up the atmosphere is now cordoned off.

At our next two-night wild camp on Arkitsa beach opposite the island of Chalcis, they had installed a huge floating inflatable bouncy castle and a bar playing beatbox music late into the night since our last visit. The once pretty area is now littered with the evidence that it is regularly used as a toilet, the once quiet road is now a parade of cars. Fortunately, the tourists have not yet discovered the local village that remains peaceful and inviting for traditional Greek cuisine. Arkitsa was hot, very hot, so it was inevitable that the second night we had a violent storm which would normally have me rush outside with the camera. But Truffle hates thunder, and she was so terrified that I slept on the floor with her until it passed sometime during the night. In the morning, she behaved like nothing had happened.

The following day we had the best drive of the journey so far. Past cotton fields and over mountains. Through forests and around lakes so deep who knows what is living in them? But the best bit was rediscovering the Paleomylos Sinkhole cave that we had first found a few years ago. It is incredibly deep, with various passages that need proper gear to explore safely, but the three of us had a great time exploring anyway. Fascinated, we found teeth like stalactites and smooth limestone runs over the insecure multi-coloured rocks hanging above our heads. Truffle was more interested in a goat’s jawbone which Linn was convinced was human; that would have been some underbite. Back on the surface the drive just continued getting better as we joined the road down to Psathas. I had been warned about the steep decline, one in five in places, with tight hairpins where we took up the whole road to get around. Psathas was meant to be a quiet beach, but it being hot, Sunday, and the last day of the school holidays, it was packed. We parked up the road and walked back to the beach to find a taverna. People-watching is a great way to pass the time, drinking ice-cold beers also helps. With no signs of the crowds dispelling, I asked the owner if we could park in his car park for the night if we ate there later. He readily agreed, did not bat an eyelid at the size of the van when I drove up, and insisted we plug into his electrics. He suggested we fill our water tanks and found me a hose, all for free. We enjoyed an afternoon of drinks, a huge meal, and some lovely company all for less than one night on a campsite in the UK. We rounded off the evening with a stroll along the beach and then I went swimming in the dark.

Unplugging the electric at the taverna the next day revealed the latest casualty of the terrible roads. Our main fridge had stopped working on gas, it only worked on 12 volts while driving and on 240 volts when hooked up. This disaster meant unloading the beer from the backup fridge and moving the food into it, hoping to repair the three-way fridge later. We spent the rest of the morning exploring the neighbouring village so as not to arrive at Piraeus port too early for our six pm ferry. After lunch, we took a very pastoral route through the cotton fields to the mountain forests north of Athens, which two years ago had burnt fiercely in the forest fires. Signs warned of wild boars, but we weren’t lucky enough to see any. When driving in Athens, it pays to adopt the local mindset of everyone for themselves. Linn deals with this by gripping any available handhold with white knuckles. I just close my eyes. And remarkably, without incident, we shoulder barged large lorries out of the way, ran duels with taxi drivers, and raced motorbikes away from the lights to arrive on time at Piraeus port to collect our tickets at four pm. Ignoring the lines of vehicles already forming for the ferry, I drove towards a deckhand and said “Rhodos, dog onboard” and to our amazement, we got waved straight onboard with the lorries. Our ‘dog’ cabin was spacious and spotless. And two hours later the three of us were sat at the stern of the ferry with our second beer as we waved goodbye to mainland Greece for six weeks.

The friendships, the food, walking, swimming and kayaking most days, draw us back again and again. Typically, our days would start with an early morning swim, leisurely breakfast, maybe a walk or kayaking or paddleboarding, or snorkelling out to a secret cove under threat by nearby building work. We walked to Prophet Elias Church, high above the village with commanding views, a climb so strenuous that we needed to stop at the bakery on the way back to enjoy a coffee with the local men who vociferously put the world to rights. Or sometimes we walked past tiny coves to the far-off army camp that has now been mothballed. Sometimes Linn paddle-boarded as I swam or snorkelled, one day discovering a group of five predatory lionfish who had joined the invasive puffer fish swimming up the Suez Canal to the detriment of the local fish stock. The lionfish taste as good as they look and are often hunted by the local spearfishermen which goes some way to controlling numbers. Often, while setting up the kayak, people would ask about our route and the countries we had been through, expressing a wish that one day they could do the same. We always urge them to do it sooner rather than later as we never know what lies around the corner. We kayaked either to the little coves with kingfishers darting from rock to rock or to explore Lardos Bay before a swim in a small natural harbour on the way back. Truffle took it all in her stride, leaping into the kayak as soon as it was afloat she took up her place in the front like a furry figurehead much to the amusement of anyone watching. Occasionally we used Pefkos as a pit stop for chores like using a hotel’s washing machines and driers to lessen our often feral look. We would reward ourselves with breakfast in the adjoining taverna as the machines went about their business. Our stays there allowed us the luxury of eating out in several local hostelries, our favourites being Lee Beach Bar, Fliers, and Nostalgias. The proprietors are like family now after the many years we have visited the island. Accounts of our travels on the island would often invite locals to ask for more details as they have not visited or even heard of some of the places despite the island’s comparatively small size. Sometimes, as a special treat, we enjoyed a cocktail or even two on our way out, and wherever we went, Truffle was welcomed with great enthusiasm before lying quietly under our table. Such was people’s affection towards her, our hosts often greeted her before us, and after time she developed a taste for the bottled water that they gave her in preference to the water from our van’s tank.         

Often our next stop would be Lardos Port only a few miles away, having left Pefkos late the night before when the car park was less busy and we could manoeuvre out more easily. We would have breakfast with the fishermen and marvel at the clarity of the sea as it threw wistful waves over the rocky headland and lapped the old stone structure of the jetty with a deep gurgling sound. Shoals of tiny fish beckoned me to get my rods out, but knowing the futility of trying to catch anything other than bait or pufferfish, the rods remained bagged.      

Just south of Lardos Port is Genadi. We often stopped on the pebbly Genadi beach where we parked in the shade of trees before a leisurely swim in the crystal clear sea, or rediscovered the old town and the pilgrimage way that connects three churches. We found allotments with scruffy upright hens pecking in the dirt who squared up to Truffle through their wire pens. We walked on ancient, pebbled mosaics that belonged in museums and gestured “Kalimera” to the locals enjoying the sun in their small walled courtyards ablaze with colourful flowers. Mama’s Kitchen is another of our favourite restaurants, their shrimp saganaki is to die for. Fresh local shrimp swimming in a rich tomato sauce with icebergs of feta floating on top and a healthy glug of ouzo. Followed by a pork chop beautifully cooked in local herbs or maybe calamari lightly battered needing nothing more than a pinch of salt to bring out the delicate flavour. Delicious. So delicious we returned to Genadi several times during our stay on Rhodes, swimming and exploring during the day, and eating saganaki in the evening.

We crossed over a mountain to the lovely remote Limni Beach. Locals have put two caravans in the car park that are used as communal meeting places for sunset suppers after swimming in the lagoon. Other than that, it was very quiet there. Limni Lagoon is a natural harbour protected from the surf and currents by a line of rocks, sometimes the unwary get swept helplessly along if they venture out of its confines, to be deposited further down the beach in a flurry of arms and legs. We had many swims there, only occasionally bothered by the little fish that nibbled at our legs. We enjoyed the three-mile walk along the beach counting the turtle nests or scrumping for figs and watermelons along the track through now-abandoned allotments. All often rounded off with another Cadac creation at sunset, using the limited contents of what should have been our beer fridge. During one stay at Limni, I tackled the faulty main fridge one last time, everything was working but the fault remained intermittent. As Linn flicked the on/off button I wriggled any wires I could reach, and in a Eureka moment, I found one wire would make the flame appear and disappear. With limited parts available, the frustratingly simple solution was to wedge and superglue a broken match into the connector to hold the wire in place. The fridge has been working ever since, it cooled from the ambient 35° to 4-6° reliably, and that night we celebrated with a cold beer or two.

Emboldened by the success with the fridge, we left Limni the next day and called at a local garage to see if I could borrow their trolley jack to look under the van at our leaking air suspension. He happily gestured with a wave of his hand that I was free to use whatever I wanted, and ten minutes later, with the van off the ground but still unable to get safely under it, I was frustrated not to find a leak. We decided to live with it as I could inflate the bellows with the built-in compressor when needed. The cost of this loan and kind use of their washroom for me to tidy up in, so typical of the Rhodians, was two cans of Vap orange that we bought since they refused any money. When we finally got home and I could have a proper look underneath for the leak, we discovered that the airbag itself was leaking; we were both relieved that it was something that I could not easily have fixed while away, but also frustrated that the bouncy roads might have taken their toll on yet another piece of equipment.   

A couple of days later, we ignored the call of the shrimp saganaki on our way through Genadi and stopped for only one quick cocktail at the colourful Mojitos beach bar on our way to the remote Mavros Kavos beach. A rough track meanders the four miles from tarmacked roads to a place where we can park up away from civilisation. They say God does not subtract the time spent sailing from man’s allotted days. The same is true for us of the time we spend at Mavros Kavos. In front of us, the beautiful Black Cave beach with few visitors at that time of year. Behind us, the mothballed military firing range with now abandoned buildings and tank tracks where I enjoyed hunting for spent shells and detonated landmines. Above, the sun performed a graceful arc during the day, and the Milky Way freckled with stars at night. One night, a Hunter’s Supermoon lit the beach with such a yellow glow that at one in the morning it looked like daylight. It is our special place. It is one of the few places where we actually relax and sunbathe. Even Truffle enjoyed snoozing in a hole dug in the damp sand with her parasol for shade. We swam to keep cool. Hunted small crabs that darted down perfectly round holes as we approached. Watched freshly emerged mayflies dry their wings as they quivered on the guy ropes to our beach tent. Walked to a remote fisherman’s hut. And on one day, while a forest fire raged inland, our peace on the beach was disturbed by planes and helicopters dredging water from the sea right in front of us. Although fun to watch, it was a reminder that we had to be constantly vigilant about not getting cut off by the seasonal fires.

During our travels on the island, we passed several groups of illegal migrants, many were making the crossing from Turkey to remote beaches on Rhodes at that time of the year. The traffickers bring them across in speed boats now, to avoid detection, the trip only taking six minutes. The vast majority were young men from teens to mid-thirties, with only a few token women and children thrown in for the sympathy vote. We found many discarded items including clothes, wallets, credit cards and phone cases, and some locals have even managed to acquire some of the boats they arrived in. The migrants head for Rhodes town hoping to be moved to mainland Greece and onward passage through Europe. Lack of funds and sufficient police manpower to escort them from the island means that many outstay their welcome in what is becoming an increasing problem for the Rhodians. It begs the question, what sort of virile men leave their wives, children, siblings, parents and grandparents, allegedly in dire conditions in their home countries, while they flee through many safe countries in pursuit of financial gain?

After a brief visit to the Cape of Prasonisi where two seas join and wind and kite surfers float like brightly coloured butterflies over the waves of the Aegean and the calm of the Mediterranean, we took the mountain drive to the beautiful Skiadi Monastery. The monastery is renowned for its silver depiction of the Virgin Mary that cried tears of blood when attacked by a heretic. She was home again from her Easter holiday when she tours Rhodes and the nearby islands, and it was hard to disbelieve the legend when we looked at her brown-stained cheeks. A cup of mountain tea and a shot of a port-like liqueur brewed by the monks bolstered us for our trip along dirt roads over the top of the mountain. Mesanagros village nestles neatly in the basin at the top, but as the streets are too small for our van, we dropped down using the recently widened road, through Arnitha to Apolakkia Dam and reservoir. The once glistening lake was little more than a puddle reflecting the island’s poor resources. The lack of water meant we could hike to the usually submerged chapel. A small village was drowned when the reservoir was originally flooded, and all but the chapel has vanished permanently. We skirted the touristy Monolithos Castle, to take the precipitous hairpin road that leads to the quiet beach of Fourni. Most visitors come simply to eat at the excellent cantina and know nothing of the ancient tombs on the headland or the even more hidden caves below. We join them on this occasion, keen to move up the coast after our lunch stop.

We took the mountain and forest road towards Kritinia and found a new sign pointing to The Acropolis of Saint Fokas and the Necropolis of Kimisala, neither of which we had heard of. After a dappled forest walk in the afternoon sun, we found the recently rediscovered ancient burial ground and temple. We felt privileged to join the few who had walked amongst the numerous burial tombs and caves before ascending to the Mycean Acropolis. Having so enjoyed our first visit to the Necropolis of Kimisala, we returned later for a second, more detailed visit. It did not disappoint as we discovered in the region of one hundred underground cave tombs, some beautifully hewn from the solid rock, some with inscribed name plaques. All revealing the reverence with which the dead were treated at that time, which endured to this day despite the graves having been pillaged many centuries before. The highlight of this visit was a three am moonlit walk in the woods, surrounded by the orange eyes of barely visible goats, listening to their bells, watching hunters’ torches flash between the trees. Eerie, and at the same time, magical.

As we left the following day, I stopped to take photographs of a shepherd and his goats. He called me over and gave me two huge watermelons. Knowing we would not eat them both, Linn gave one of them to a surprised Latvian couple at our next stop. Such was the immense size of the fruit, we hoped they did not have far to walk. 

The 16th-century Kritinia Castle was sadly over-restored and then subsequently neglected. Modern building work has fallen into decay faster than the ancient parts and disrespectful tourists clamber over the fallen stones oblivious to the history. It does have the best sunsets on the island though, and many turn up as the light fades in search of the elusive green dot.

From the pretty port of Kamiros Skala, with its unique upright ancient Lycean tombs carved in the rocks above a taverna, we took the hour-long bumpy crossing to Chalki (Halki) island. We passed several uninhabited islands on the way, sometimes breathtakingly close, before entering the natural horseshoe harbour on Chalki with its colourful Symi-style houses. The island is mostly barren and unexplorable, there are few roads, and the terrain is bleak. A short walk took us to a beautiful sandy beach, spoilt by a forest of parasols erected for the summer tourists. Hindered by the heat and lack of shade on the road, we headed back to the harbour passing a gang of wild turkeys that threatened us from atop a dry stone wall. Our lovely day out was only slightly marred by the unbelievable rudeness of the locals. Quick to take visitors’ money, they made even locals unwelcome, a fact later confirmed by one of the ferrymen when we told him. The day was rounded off by a school of dolphins who played in our wake on our way back.

As we left Kamiros Scala, Google took my request for a pretty route onward too literally and we travelled a few miles down a lane where the bushes eventually brushed both sides of the van. The track took us through vineyards, orchards, and allotments, which provided some good scrumping, but eventually petered out in a riverbed where at least I could turn around. Finding a more suitable road, we chanced upon deer nonchalantly eating at the roadside as the sun fell out of the sky as it does at that time of year.

In a cultural mood, we drove further up the coast to Linn’s favourite place, Ancient Kamiros. A vast archaeological site that was once one of the three most important cities on Rhodes, Kamiros, Ialysos, and Lindos, is now a mosaic of ancient, ruined buildings that adorn the hillside like a patchwork quilt. Having climbed to the top, we sat and imagined what would have happened in the lively streets three thousand years ago.

This was the first time we had stayed overnight at the little harbour at Fanes. A beautiful, quiet sandy beach trailed like spilt paint from the manmade harbour whose narrow entrance is regularly dredged by an old digger. The piles of dredged seaweedy sand attract insects that the local ducks snatch from the air, and the smell pervades with a sickly cloyingness. We parked down a little road where neither the flies nor the smell caused us any nuisance. During a routine van inspection, I was alarmed to find that one of the awning mountings had cracked the outer skin of the van. Not having any suitable filler, we walked into the nearby town and found the most wonderful hardware shop which had exactly what we needed for a temporary repair. Walking a little further, we found a large unfinished castle-like structure that was built for modern-day jousting tournaments, but the money ran out and it was never completed. It looked every bit like a film set. We also found a derelict winery, complete with hand carts, thousands of empty bottles, millstones and other paraphernalia relating to the trade. Once again, we celebrated the discoveries that often follow unfortunate mishaps, albeit we never found out the cause of the damage to the van.    

We have found Theologos to be an interesting overnight stop on several occasions. On the windy side of the island, it is a mecca for wind, kite and hydrofoil surfers. Having marvelled at their antics during the day, we were surprised to find ourselves in the middle of filming for a television soap opera as the sun set. The two stars had to act a chance meeting as they rode horses on the beach, before riding off into the sunset together. We made sure to place ourselves in as many shots as we could.  

Tsampika monastery is set high on a hilltop with stunning views around. Traditionally, childless couples would make the pilgrimage up the 350+ steps on their knees in the hope of becoming pregnant. If successful, a boy would be called Tsampikos, and a girl Tsampika. The names are still popular on the island. We found the climb hard enough to walk upright.

There is a place called Epta Piges (Seven Springs), a bit of a tourist attraction that we seldom visit. Unusual on Rhodes for having naturally running water all year round, it is also home to peacocks and the most stinking goats known to man. Another attraction is a man-made tunnel some 180 meters long.  I’ve walked it several times, but this would be Linn’s, and Truffle’s, first time. It is very narrow, and dark, and you cannot see from one end to the other. You walk through icy water, just over ankle deep. And if people enter from both ends, they cannot pass. It is more fun than it sounds.

Further inland there is an ancient church called Saint Nicolas of the Hazelnut, given the abundance of walnut trees around it, we assume this is a misinterpretation. The inside walls of the tiny chapel are adorned with darkly painted murals, all the harder to see because of the dim light emitted through the onyx windows. A little further on lays the abandoned Villa de Vecchi, also known as Mussolini’s Villa, located on the Profitis Ilias Mountain. The place was planned to be the holiday home of Benito Mussolini, the Italian dictator, which explains the unusual, for its age, artfully decorated walls, floors and ceilings. However, Mussolini never actually visited the house, and it has long since fallen into disrepair following disputes over who owns it.

The temperature was dropping, the evenings were cooler, and the sea felt cold getting in, not too cold to stop us from swimming luckily. The air was more humid and more insects were buzzing around, our bug-killing tennis racket looked like a mixed grill. It would soon be time to leave Rhodes for another year, and we spent the last few days in Pefkos saying goodbye to our friends. The day before we were due to leave, an email announced a two-day flash strike by the dockers, our ferry was cancelled. Three hours on the phone supposedly secured us a crossing for the first ferry leaving Rhodes, albeit with no cabin for the 15-hour journey but with the promise of a full refund of our previous ticket which was honoured a few days later. The 48-hour strike proved so popular that they decided to extend it indefinitely. We went up to Rhodes town anyway to see if we could get more information from the office when it finally reopened. In the meantime, we spent an interesting night on Filerimos mountain high above Ialysos with the huge sixteen-metre high concrete cross and the Monastery of Panagia for company. You could once climb up inside the cross and the brave would venture onto the outstretched arms, but it is now unsafe and can only be viewed from below. The monastery was built in the 15th century by the Knights of Saint John who had conquered the island at that time. Inside, the holy icon of the Virgin Mary was housed, which the Knights had probably brought to Rhodes from Jerusalem. When the Ottomans conquered the island in 1523, the Knights left and took the icon with them. After stays in Italy, Malta, France, and Russia, the icon is now hosted in the National Museum of Montenegro. Ancient buildings outside the monastery grounds were used during the various modern-day invasions of the island and bear the camouflage paint of the era.

The news announced that the dockers’ strike had been resolved, but with ships far from their intended ports, it would take another two days before normal service could be resumed. We spent the time visiting the Cave of Archangel Michael Panormitis and exploring Monte Smith. The tiny little cave chapel is set close to the sea and there are several explanations of why it is there, non-provable. People leave sweeping brushes there, supposedly having used them to sweep the evil out of their houses. And swords, symbols of the fiery sword of Saint Michael that he used to convey the dead to God. At Monte Smith, we explored the ancient amphitheatre and stadium, where events were the forerunners of the modern Olympic games. With a few hours to kill before boarding the ferry, we explored Mandraki Harbour and enjoyed our last lunch in the Yacht Club.

Having not been able to secure a cabin, and not looking forward to fifteen hours on deck, we were pleased to blag a camping onboard crossing from one of the garage hands. This was fortuitous because such tickets closed at the end of October and it was now November, so we decided to be as discrete as possible while onboard. Although we did not have mains hookup, we were parked right beside the open windows of the garage deck, and able to bid farewell to Rhodes for another year as the sun set one last time on our island odyssey.

In the morning the vehicles spewed off the ferry at Pireaus in surprisingly controlled chaos and we followed the scenic coastal route to the submersible bridge that crosses the southern end of the Corinth Canal, before heading up to the north coast of southern Greece. The Ohi Day parades played havoc with navigation, many towns were simply blocked off for parades and bands. At one, the police sent us down a dead-end road that took me twenty-five minutes to turn in, with a kindly Greek lady using her hands to signal that I needed to move sideways. Having turned the van, she rested her ample bosom through Linn’s open window and said “You, very good driver. Sorry for telling you wrong”.

We stopped at the lovely Akrata Beach stop for a refreshing swim and walk but decided to overnight in the adjacent campsite after some young lads arrived noisily and we felt uneasy wild camping. The stop was convenient for the Diakopto – Kalavrita Rack Railway that we hoped to board even though dogs were not allowed. The lovely lady at the Diakopto railway station shook her head sadly at our request to take Truffle with us on the train, but when Linn lifted Truffle for her to see, we knew we had won. A smile formed, and so as not to admit defeat, she said it would be fine if we had a muzzle. I said I’d nip back to the van to get ours, but the three of us knew it was not going to be used, and Truffle was more certain than all of us of that. The 750 mm narrow gauge rack train consists of three electric carriages coupled together and climbs inclines up to 18% over the 22 km of track. The journey takes 67 minutes, from Diakopto on the Gulf of Corinth to the holocaust village of Kalavryta. It is both awesome and breathtaking. Sections go over rusty steel bridges, under carved rock faces, through tunnels and along precipitous drops into the Vouraikos gorge. The photos cannot do it justice.

I have wanted to visit Kalavryta since reading about it. On 13 December 1943, in retribution for the killing of captured German soldiers, German troops perpetrated the Kalavryta massacre; they ordered all male residents of Kalavryta aged 14 years or older to gather in a field just outside the village. Some 1,300 women and children were locked in a school which was then set on fire while the men looked on from the hill outside the village. Luckily most of the women and children escaped because a soldier secretly unlocked the door. Then, 696 boys and men were machine-gunned, only 13 survived. After that, the Germans burnt down the town before they left and the next day, they burnt down the monastery of Agia Lavra, the birthplace of the Greek War of Independence. In total, 752 civilians were killed during “Operation Kalavryta”, a deliberate strategy by the Nazis to break the resistance by targeting civilians. The women, wives and mothers, dragged the bodies of the dead on blankets and coats to bury them. Similar tragic events were perpetrated by the Nazis in many places across Europe, probably the most famous being Oradour sur Glane in France which we visited a few years ago. I was moved to tears by our visit to the museum, I cannot comprehend how man can be so barbaric against fellow men.

Having lost three days on mainland Greece because of the strike, we missed our planned two-night stops at Poros and Nafplion, this gave us a ‘spare’ day to use later which turned out just as well. We left Diakopto in the morning and followed the coast road along the Gulf of Corinth to the Rion Antirion bridge, a celebration of man’s better qualities. From there we took the wonderful old national road, past the salt lagoons of Messolonghi National Park with flamingos and vast piles of salt glistening in the sun. Onwards to the unique island of Aitoliko, which sits like a little Venice connected to the land by two umbilical causeways. We crossed the mountain ranges at Astrakos to descend steeply down to the scenic coast road, and just eight miles short of our planned pomegranate field stop at Mytikas, the red engine light came on. I pulled over, stopped the engine, and while contemplating the possible causes, vainly hoped that it would stay off when I restarted the engine. It came back on. And the van hobbled along like it had a stone in its shoe. I stopped again. We discussed the difficulties of an off-road recovery if I drove to our planned overnight stop and could not resolve the problem. We agreed to go straight into the village and park in the central square, but being out of season, this was now fenced off to keep the goats out. Reluctantly we decided to try the nearby campsite, Ionion Camping, and were pleasantly surprised by the warm welcome from the non-English-speaking owner. €15 for the night including electrics, hot showers, a huge pitch (room to work on the van tomorrow), and a handful of playful kittens trying to stow away in our lockers. Tiredness and hunger forced us into the village where we luckily found one place still serving meals from the few items remaining on the menu being the end of the season. While we ate, Truffle won a staring match with a black cat, but the cat didn’t seem too bothered as it stretched out one back leg, held it with his front paws, and licked nonchalantly at its shiny fur, both oblivious of the engine problem awaiting us back at the campsite.

The OBD scanner showed an emission fault and a historic ABS fault, I cleared both and it seemed to solve the misfire on the engine but not the ominous red light. We left Mytikas in the morning and took the stunning coast road north heading for Lefkas. We passed islands in the sky where you cannot determine between the sea and sky the colours being so similar. We clung to the side of rocky mountains the colour of Devon clay. We avoided diminutive cows with bells around their necks that strolled across the road on blind bends. The whole time the red engine light glowered at me, but the engine did not miss a beat. A few miles out of Lefkas, the van started missing again, particularly on any inclines. We hobbled to our overnight stop where I checked the fuel cap was holding pressure, and the injector connectors were good. But the engine still ran rough, and I was sure an injector was the culprit. A local garage did not seem up to the job, so we drove back across the causeway from Lefkada and parked outside a Fiat dealership for the night in the middle of nowhere near Preveza. The following morning the dealership and several other workshops all declined the work, and we only had two days before catching the ferry to Italy. Fortunately, with our options fading, we found Kosta’s HGV workshop which resembled a scrapyard, his diagnostics scanner showed number four injector was faulty. More fortunately, Kostas had his own injector servicing equipment, and we agreed on a price to have all four injectors serviced. Kostas and I chatted as the machine went about its business; he swapped the injectors to be tested as required. When finished, he showed me the results. One injector had failed and the other three were badly leaking. He offered to clean them and put them back at the agreed price but could make no assurances about how long they would last, or even that the cleaning would clear the fault. He recommended that we replace them at a cost that was comparable with the UK, so we agreed given the importance that the van was reliable. The new injectors had to come from Athens, four hours away, so Kostas could not do the job until the next day. With the van in pieces, we walked to a nearby village Mitikas (not Mytikas) for a late lunch. We were wary of the many large stray dogs in the area, but we did not expect our footpath to be blocked by a recalcitrant black stallion who only reluctantly gave way, but who later shyly came up to be stroked on our way back. Nearly all the tavernas were closed and we had to settle for a fish restaurant with few options for Linn. I ordered calamari and was shocked and saddened by the plateful of entire baby squid presented. The Greeks do not share our sensitivities when it comes to food. We returned to the van and were locked into the secure enclosure when the workshop closed. Linn and I discussed our concerns that the parts may not arrive the next day, maybe a fuel additive would have got us home, or maybe the problem might not be solved with the new injectors. We had an anxious night. At 08:30 Kostas and his engineers arrived. Without a word, the mechanic produced four new injectors and took less than an hour to fit them and check for leaks. The engine fired first go and the engine light remained off. It seemed our concerns were groundless, and Kostas greeted our obvious relief with a shrug of his shoulders as if to say what did we expect? We’d agreed cash, and when I went to pay him, he knocked off another $100. We drove away humbled by our cynicism.

It was only an hour’s drive before we were back on our itinerary, along coastal roads carved from sheer rocks notched by the teeth of diggers’ buckets and looking every bit like giant bite marks.  The proposed camper stop at Plataria was rammed so we carried on up the coast and found an idyllic site on the water’s edge, Camping Elana’s Beach. The owner explained that as the taverna was closed, we were welcome to join them for their evening meal. We politely declined, the Greeks believe being a vegetarian is a punishment for lent, and it was unlikely that Linn would have braved a plateful of baby squid as courageously as I had the day before. The owner kindly allowed us to stay the next day while waiting for our evening ferry. We spent it watching them harvest their olives and unwinding by the water’s edge. We were sad to leave eventually, our host being such a wonderful, kind, and interesting extrovert. We all agreed that we would go back there one day.

After a Lidl’s shop, thank God for English supermarkets, we had our final Greek supper on Deprano beach listening to the ferries chug their way across to Corfu. And watching another amazing sunset.

Boarding Greek/Italian ferries is akin to fairground dodgems. There is no system, no organisation, you just sit there gunning the engine until the man in the high viz jacket gets out of the way and then you drop the clutch. We got onboard safely, and we even managed a three-point turn amidst the lorries. But getting off the garage deck to our cabin proved impossible because a lorry blocked the exit. Not fancying climbing under it as Linn and I have had to before, we led an escape party through the crews’ quarters. Our two-berth pet cabin was tiny, and instead of allowing Truffle to sleep under my bed, I let her sleep on it with me. A glint in her eyes suggested that she thought this was the new norm, she’s not even allowed upstairs at home.

Our time on the mainland had not gone according to plan, the cancelled ferry, and the mechanical fault, but we took with us some remarkable memories, and had made new friends along the way.

Other sights were more enjoyable, glimpses of the sea on our right, and distant mountains on our left, between, hundreds of square miles of fields sitting like a ruffled quilt cover.

Our first planned stop at the beautiful marina in San Pietro was busy and felt insecure, so we checked the apps for other stops further up the coast. Eventually, we found Area Camper di Chiosco which we considered relatively safe. We enjoyed a beer on the pebbly beach before promenading with the locals past the gelaterias and cocktail bars of the nearby resort. It was colder now, dropping to 7° at night but still shorts and T-shirts weather during the day. So, we were grateful when we could get electric hookups and have the heating on without using our limited store of gas, and Truffle liked to sleep in front of one of the blown air ducts.

Feeling that we hurried through mainland Greece because of the cancelled ferry and van breakdown, we were determined to make the most of Italy. When I read about the painted murals on the houses at Dozza, not far from Bologna, we decided to have a look, and we spent a marvellous afternoon wandering around the cobbled streets of the town. Every two years they hold a festival and renowned artists are invited to paint murals on the walls of the houses, a practice that has been going on since the 1960’s. Some are copies of famous pictures, most are originals, and some are very contemporary. All have a vibrancy that delights the eye and makes Dozza a unique place.

The next day dawned cold, damp and foggy, and we decided to forego our next stop at Bologna. Instead, we headed straight for Lago di Viverone and by the time we got there the fog had lifted. We found a lovely, empty, flat sosta a short walk from the lake, but with no electrics it was going to be a cold night. To warm up after a walk along the shore, we stopped at a café where we had hot chocolate that was thick enough to eat with a spoon. In the evening, we treated ourselves to the fabulous hospitality of a little restaurant called Ciciarampa. Our pre-dinner Spritz came with a board of delicious treats that very nearly filled us up before our main meal. Replete, we retired to the van to work out our options for crossing the border into France the next day. Mont Blanc tunnel was closed for autumnal repairs. The Mont Cenis pass was closed for the winter although I was still keen to test our three peaks tyres, but the lack of chains dissuaded us. The two remaining options were via Switzerland which meant buying a vignette for just a few hours’ drive, or the Frejus Tunnel. We chose Frejus.

We wanted electric hookup so we could have the heating on that night as the temperature was set to drop to 5° or less. So, we were happy when we found Verger campsite set in a pear tree orchard. The French-speaking owner greeted us warmly, gave us a sweet each, and proved to be as mad as a box of frogs. Any language difficulties were overcome with exaggerated mimes, bizarre facial expressions, and a few “ha ha ha’s” with a nudge firm enough to knock you off your feet. As he showed us how to secure the wrought iron gate onto the road, he clasped his shoulders and shivered to show us that the gate had to be closed to keep the warm air in. We’d not long parked up before the first pear from the tree above landed on our roof. The walk from the site to the town centre was four miles and followed the lakeside all the way. The ‘tring’ of bicycle bells warned of approaching bikes, but the electric scooters sped past silently. There were people exercising dogs, in-line skaters with poles, joggers, and people, like us, just ambling into the town. We spent our first evening in Annecy exploring the wonderful old town, rivers and pavement food taverns. It was truly an amazing place and the people were so incredibly friendly. A perfect combination of Venice and Kaysersberg, with a little bit of Bath thrown in for good measure. Leaving the fairground lights of the lakeside behind, we were glad of the heating by the time we got back to the van. In the morning, we did it all again to see what it looked like in the daylight. It was no less beautiful. Clouds embraced the surrounding mountains, and the serene lake was muted in a mist not yet burnt off. People rowing needle-sharp boats that defied the laws of physics sped effortlessly through the mirror-like water. Paddle boarders looked slow in comparison, but no less serene. Water skiers further down the lake sent plumes of spray with every turn, careful not to leave their designated area and spoil the early morning peace that others were enjoying. There was an abundance of wildfowl but there seemed few fish, none that we saw anyway. We did see a lobster though, not to be confused with a crayfish or clawfish, this was a blue lobster that took us by surprise in this freshwater lake.

We strolled through the large park area with its catalogue of sculptures, wandered around the cobbled streets lined with timbered buildings, and crisscrossed the canals and river over romantically picturesque bridges. Spoilt for choice for lunch, I had another first, toasted mincemeat baguette, it was oddly delicious. Linn went for an equally good-looking vegetarian panini, and the waitress gave Truffle three doggy biscuits and a huge bowl of water that she tucked into like she was never fed at home. We rounded off a lovely day with a glass of wine at a bar, watching people queue on a nearby bridge to take photos of the famous Palais de I’Île opposite. We both fell in love with Annecy.

One advantage of travelling with your home on your back, as any tortoise will tell you, is the freedom to stop off wherever you like. Leaving Annecy with a day in hand still, we crossed some seriously pretty mountains cloaked in autumn colours. We edged deep gorges that disappeared at the side of the road. And we encountered Clochemerle villages with their flag-bedecked mayoral buildings before the roads opened up into vast plains. We had planned a night at Dijon but instead opted for a small site on the Soane at Saint Usage. Like the weather, it was cold and damp but had lovely warm showers. Although Saint Usage itself had little to offer, it does have the largest inland marina in France and some interesting boatyards that were fun to explore.

We left in thick fog the following morning which did not burn off until midday, but that did not spoil another classic day’s drive through rural France. Some wet walnuts rounded off our bread and cheese lunch when we stopped at one of the many picnic lay-byes dotted along the roads.

The aire at Troyes is huge, well serviced, and only a few euros a night. A facility so badly needed in the UK. The walk into town though is less salubrious and took us along streets where even the muggers are shown on Google maps such is their permanence.

Passing a vet surgery we tried to get Truffle’s worming tablet and passport signed, the vet responded with “Ha, English” and walked away. The receptionist apologised saying he did not speak English, but that clearly was not the case, so we left. Many French vets refuse to update EU Pet Passports for UK citizens claiming it is against the rules; it is not, but they do think that we are bending them post-Brexit.

Troyes town was amazing. Beautiful timbered houses that lean across tiny, cobbled streets, you could shake hands with the person opposite through the open upstairs windows. Secret, magical parterre gardens beckoned through narrow gaps. Cobbled squares with old-fashioned fairground rides and the laughter of children. Old iron streetlamps and heavily studded oak doors gave a real Dickensian feel. As we walked back to the aire, we were amused by a plump of bronze geese taking flight as they were chased by a playful spaniel with flapping ears from a small island in the river.

The next day’s drive ventured over rivers, through flintstone villages, and past solid little Norman churches, and mistletoe trees. Sporadically, we found huge piles of turnips beside the road before the zig-zag hill up to the medieval town of Laon. We walked around the ramparts before taking to the narrow cobbled streets that rumbled as cars drove over them. Both the new and the old cathedrals were closed, a shame as we so wanted to see inside them. But as a consolation, we did find a wonderful little alley with murals painted on the walls. Some were so realistically three-dimensional that we had to look twice to check that they were just paintings. Google got confused again as we left, sending us into the maze of narrow streets with sharp ninety-degree bends under the overhanging buildings. It took some undoing to get us back onto the modern roads to Saint Quentin.

Another fantastic aire, a few euros a night with electrics and right on a canal section of the river Somme. We managed a short walk in the dark before turning in as we wanted an early start to find a vet that would be open tomorrow, Armistice Day. The day dawned wet and cold again, and we set off in search of a vet none of whom were answering their phones. None were open, but we did get to see most of the tired old town for our efforts. Preparations were being made at the cenotaph for Armistice Day celebrations, so following security advice, we found a quieter route to the cathedral. Happily, it was open and full of architectural delights, illuminated in the spectrum of light thrown by the stained glass windows. On the off chance, we called at a nearby vet and although closed he advised us to come back the following morning to get Truffle’s worming tablet and passport signed. We were there first thing, and the receptionist said he would see us in one hour. Despite them knowing exactly the purpose of our visit, the vet informed us that he would not sign the passport and that we needed additional paperwork that we could not get while in France. After several minutes of discussion, he finally agreed to give the worming tablet and fill in the passport, but as we paid the excessive bill, he advised that passport control was unlikely to let us through.    

We were happy to leave Saint Quentin and set off for our final night at Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. It was a sobering drive with the war memorials and vast graveyards. Their simple, unnamed crosses, each one representing a life lost and a family devastated in the name of, well what exactly? War does not determine who is right, only who is left.

The aire at Saint-Valery is huge, costs only a few euros a night, and if you get there early enough, there are a few free electric hookups. We were lucky and enjoyed a French stick with cheeses in the van with the heater on before a chilly walk into town. One street had brightly painted houses adorned with fishing floats and paraphernalia, it felt a bit like Clovelly and took us down to the sea and shops. The first shop we came across was an art gallery that had some beautiful pottery figurines of young children playing, cute little urchins with wicked smiles. Unfortunately way too expensive for us, so we settled for a glass of wine in a brasserie and a sugar and lemon crepe from a hole in the wall to warm us up.

We were sad making the preparations for the final leg of our trip to catch the ferry at Dieppe that evening, our journey seemed to have come to an end very abruptly. But we were also looking forward to some creature comforts when we got home.

We arrived at Dieppe early and we were second in line at the gates. To save time later we went to the check-in office where the girl questioned Truffle’s passport saying that we needed the additional paperwork that we did not have. We tactfully explained that the Northern Ireland Pet Passport was legal, and the veterinary check in Saint Quentin was valid, but she warned us again that border control may not let us travel. Trying not to worry about it we walked to pretty Dieppe harbour where I wanted Moules-frites at a pavement cafe before a brisk walk around the town. Back at the van, when the gates opened, we rolled forward to border control where the very same girl we had spoken to earlier passed a cursory glance over our three passports and waved us on with a beaming smile and wished us “Bonne voyage”. The French can be a cussed bunch when they want to be. At the security check, the armed policeman had a quick look inside the van before he too waved us through. We pulled up to our allocated lane and found ourselves parked next to a car and trailer loaded with the most unusual giant pots, two carved stone ones and one copper. We were soon boarded and settled Truffle for her solitary four-hour crossing left in the van. On the way up to the bar, we bumped into the driver of the pots. An English man, living in France, running an export business, he explained that the two stone pots were carved limestone washing machines from the Jura region in France. They were a meter round and high, had two drainage holes drilled in the bottom, and were used with large wooden paddles for washing clothes. The copper one of a similar size with a heavy swing-over handle, was used for making cheese over open fires. It was an interesting chat and the four-hour journey soon passed before we rescued a very relieved Truffle and joined the chaotic UK road system that we had so happily left behind three months before.

The UK was cold and damp, the traffic manic, and the numerous roadworks inconvenient. We missed the wide fast roads of France, the men in Italy who wave a little red flag in the hope that you might slow down if there is a workforce in the road, or the Greeks who will happily dig up a road with no signage and let everyone fend for themselves. We are already planning next year’s lampoon………….