France opened before us like some huge, unfolded map. The hills were the creases, and the countless small rural villages were the clusters of black dots linked by endless, empty, tree-lined roads. We made good time to our first riverside aire at the medieval village of Pont de l’Arche. Here we enjoyed an evening stroll beside the river before meandering amongst the timber-framed buildings to the parish church of Notre-Dame-des-Arts which was beautifully built in the late Flamboyant style. We marvelled at the intricate detail of seemingly innocuous carvings both in wood and stone, illuminated with the rainbow colours thrown by the stained-glass windows. After the short walk back to the van we fell asleep to the sound of lapping water and ducks.

Our pretty drive the next day was rudely interrupted by a road closure that sent us around the unsuitable roads near the lakes of Rethondes. Negotiating one sizeable pothole, a loud graunching sound indicated that all was not well, and I found that the plastic sump cover had dropped and would ‘ground’ whenever going over uneven surfaces, which was often. The rusty retaining bolt having sheared, I made a temporary repair with some heavy-duty cable ties that lasted our entire trip.

The pastoral non-toll route from the Parc naturel régional de la Montagne de Reims links seamlessly along the old national road with the lush Parc naturel régional de Lorraine and the scenic drop down to Kaysersberg. We spent most of the day driving in the welcome shade of the towering forest trees as the European heatwave took hold. Kaysersberg is best visited out of season, and when we were there, it was packed with camera-wielding tourists who snapped every colourful timbered house without ‘seeing’ them. Every vantage point was heaving and the narrow-cobbled streets between were congested with a pushing, bumping caterpillar of people. We left them to it and headed for the Intermarche where we bought provisions for the next few days before enjoying a cool glass of local Alsace wine at a quiet pavement bar.

Switzerland

We had bought a vignette for driving on the motorways of Switzerland before we left, so at the border, we could drive straight through without stopping. We drove through green valleys with crystal mountain streams and Sound of Music hillsides dotted with cigarette box-style chalets. Tannin brown cows chewed languorously at the lush grass while, like us, enjoying the mountain clean air. We stopped for lunch just before the inevitable queue for the formidable Gotthard Tunnel where safety restrictions limited the number of vehicles allowed to enter the ten-mile tunnel at any one time. A few days later, the tunnel was closed unexpectedly because a structural crack was found in the masonry and vehicles were forced to take the arduous pass over the mountain. As luck would have it, it may have been better for us had we had to have driven the pass as we may have found a good overnight stop.

We had planned to stop at the mountain Sosta Prato, but on arrival, it turned out to be a farmyard with no views and only a hose for a facility, and for which the farmer wanted fifty euros just to park. A few bored families hung around, obviously from the nearby holiday barns, with little access to either the countryside or the village. Our app told us of another sosta nearby, but this turned out to be on the side of a railway and home to some dodgy-looking full-timers who viewed us suspiciously as we turned around and left. Undaunted, we were happy to continue our picturesque drive through the stunning scenery with the new intention of staying at the campsite on the shores of Lago di Lugano. Having stayed there several times before, and despite it being the height of the holiday season, it did not occur to us that the place would be full, but it was, as were all the other sites nearby. We had been driving all day and we were now near the border with Italy, we were keen to find a suitable overnight stop without infringing the strict Swiss no overnighting rules.

Italy

We took all the quietest roads on our route but found nowhere where we were happy to wild camp in Switzerland, so we crossed the understated border into Italy on a tiny little back road marked only with a single small sign, Italy. Our app directed us to a campsite near Lake Como, and in so much as it was a rundown area, we were confident that they would have a space for us. Directed to park outside, we were told to wait while the guy looked to see if they had room for us. As more and more shady-looking people arrived, we became increasingly concerned and left; not all sites are secure, and we both felt uneasy about this one.

Near Bergamo, the app suggested a non-too-inviting sosta at Merate, and it being late, and we being tired, it seemed to be the best option for the night. We parked up in the neglected compound with one other camper for the night. Needing to stretch our legs after being in the van all day and having driven two hundred and eighty bucolic miles, we took a gentle evening stroll to a nearby lake. The setting sun threw long shadows on the mirror glass water, and the dancing insects became easy prey for the lightning strikes of the fish waiting just below the surface. Weary trees bowed their heads so that their delicate branches caused gentle ripples to radiate and disappear again. Ducks quaked conversationally with each other before flying off to their nightly roosts in the margins. Somewhere, a church clock chimed the passing time and realising just how tired we were, we made our way back to the van for a good night’s sleep.

The sound of various grass-cutting machinery woke us earlier than we would have liked, and we pulled the curtains aside to find we were surrounded by groundsmen tidying up the sosta. The engines of large mowers rumbled and shook the ground, and strimmers screamed as they threw grass and litter around. The agricultural alarm clock said it was time to leave.

Having driven the extra miles the day before, our next stop was only a couple of hours drive away, and one we were looking forward to. Leaving Como took us through the very worst of Italian suburbs, dull and uninviting, one roundabout after another, with dusty industrial parks all showing why the toll roads are sometimes better; but the further east we drove, the more interesting the roads became. Huge plateaus of fertile plains stretched to the footholds of the mountains to the north. Tumbled farms replaced commercial warehouses, and where once we had felt claustrophobic from the overdeveloped conurbations, we now felt as if we could breathe freely again.

The approach to Covelo on Lago d’Iseo is twisty as it follows the shoreline around the south of the lake, each bend revealing tantalising glimpses of the shimmering water that we would soon be kayaking on. Arriving at the campsite early, we were greeted with a glass of wine to enjoy before our pitch was ready. I had been unable to book a waterside pitch because it was high season, but we were grateful in the end that being two rows back meant we had more space and fewer people walking past us all the time. We set up the awning, rigged a washing line, and used the laundrette to do a load of washing. Once pegged out, we went for a bracing swim in the chilly mountain lake before a relaxing warm shower and glass of wine as the sun set on the campsites rodeo night that we opted to miss. We woke to another scorcher, and we were grateful for the shade of the Indian Bean trees as we set up our kayak. We paddled first to the village and around the little harbour where we were envious of the people enjoying gelatos from the little kiosks. Diving birds disappeared as we approached and we tried to guess where they might come back up, they were more successful than the lads that cast fishing lines from any vantage point before returning to their mobile phones. Passenger ferries plied their trade backwards and forwards, their wakes causing small craft such as ours to rock overdramatically and small breakers to form on the shore. The sun was getting higher, so we set out for the middle of the lake where a cooling breeze rippled the water invitingly. Here we could laze, our paddles at rest, and drift idly as the world carried on around us. Looking skywards dark clouds were rolling in over the mountains and the wind started to pick up, so we set off back for the campsite. Just as we were folding up our inflatable kayak, white horses with spray flicked off their crests like flowing manes whipped across the lake. Small whirlpools danced dizzily as undecided winds randomly changed direction before rejoining the mighty beast that now blew down the middle of the lake sending those caught unexpectedly to hurry home. As quickly as it started, it stopped, and life resumed as if nothing had happened. We had booked three nights on the campsite as we had hoped to hire bikes to cycle around the lake, but the next day dawned stormy and unpredictable, and we decided against the forty-mile ride in favour of the shorter walk into town. Iseo is a pleasant little town that attracts tourists from all over. The retail outlets range from overpriced clothes shops to numerous restaurants and bars, to quaint little antique shops that offer an insight into days gone by. It is easy to miss the interesting architecture, buildings with painted frescoes, ornate iron verandas partly hidden by creepers, columned walkways that lead to the water’s edge, and the statue of a man bearing a sword that stands atop a fern-covered rock between two cast iron lamps with water trickling into the pool below. It is harder to miss the gelato shops that we were so envious of yesterday, and we treated ourselves to the local delicacy before the walk back to the campsite.

We were up early the next day and took advantage of the site’s service area to empty and replenish our tanks as appropriate. We were on the road before 8:30 for the gentle drive to our next stop at Mantua, considered one of the most important towns in Lombardy. Mantua is a city surrounded by 3 artificial lakes, it is known for the architectural legacy of the Renaissance Gonzaga rulers, who built the 14^th-century Ducal Palace. This imposing building houses the Bridal Chamber, decorated with Andrea Mantegna frescoes and several impressive courtyards. Bustling streets connect spacious squares, everyone with at least one building of significance so much so that it was hard to appreciate them all. We were shattered by the time we crossed the bridge back to the sosta, our heads full of the sights and history we had seen.

The drive from Mantua to Bagnara was slow and tedious despite it being a toll road, ninety-six miles took four hours. We were pleased when we arrived at the sosta and even more pleased that there was a paid-for electric point available meaning we could have a cup of tea without using our precious reserve of gas. After a quick walk around town, we were joined by another van whose Spanish occupants enjoyed football on their telly at a volume clearly audible from the other end of the sosta. We left them to it and walked along the roads around fields full of rows of fruit trees until it started getting dark, and the match had finished. All was quiet as we turned in for the night.

Refreshed from a good night’s sleep, I discovered that a German family who had arrived at dawn had unkindly unplugged our electricity and were using our paid-for service for their own convenience while leaving our fridge to defrost. He dismissed my polite objection, and it was only after Linn and the Spaniard next door had also remonstrated with him that he offered us money for our spoiled goods. Unfortunately, this type of self-centred attitude is seen increasingly amongst the formerly caring community of motorhome travellers, as a wider population discovers the freedom that it brings. The Spaniard was still berating the German when we left.

Our two sat navs had behaved reasonably well so far, and I had begun to trust their directions without question, particularly when they agreed with one another. Today though I felt uneasy, they were both determined to send us east to Ravenna and down the horrendous Adriatica road with its crawling convoy of lorries and tedious delays. As often as I ignored them in favour of the more picturesque inland route, they tried to entice me back. It has happened there before, and we are still uncertain why.

As we neared San Marino, we were glad of our chosen route that gave us the best views of this tiny country set high on Monte Titano. San Marino, also known as the Most Serene Republic of San Marino, is a country enclaved by Italy. It is the fifth smallest country in the world and covers an area of just 61 km². It was first founded on 3^rd September 301AD and there followed a turbulent history. During the Italian unification process in the 19th century, San Marino served as a refuge for many people persecuted because of their support for unification, including Giuseppe Garibaldi and his wife Anita, and as a result Garibaldi allowed San Marino to remain independent. It remains independent to this day. We parked on the lower levels of the tiered free parking with its far-reaching views, and when we boarded the cable car to the city, the views from our glass bubble opened up into a stunning tapestry of Italian life. We could see as far as the Adriatic Sea in the east, to the hills of the Parco Nazionale delle Foreste Casentinesi in the north as we swayed perilously from the all too fragile looking cable. San Marino was bustling with tourists during our visit, and despite its small size, the spider’s web of diminutive streets made it hard work in the heat. Away from the souvenir shops, and many cafes, we enjoyed the precipitous fortifications of the 11^th-century Guaita Tower where the exhibits date back to more turbulent times, and simple cartoons adorn the walls of the cells where captives were kept. The Museum of Medieval Criminology and Torture offered a horrifying journey through human cruelty with over 100 tools for the unspeakable torture and punishment of people often wrongly suspected of crimes, witchcraft or conspiracy. Deeply moved, and with some relief, we stepped back into the sun and a trip to the impressive Palazzo Publico, the town hall and official Government building where state ceremonies take place. As elsewhere, soldiers stood guard in green costume uniforms surreptitiously eyeing up the pretty visitors, and to us, they summed up how San Marino has become a tourist euphemism that has lost a lot of its historic heritage. The sun was setting as the cable car took us back down to the now quiet parking terraces, and we reflected on man’s inhumanity to others in the name of greed, politics and religion. Tomorrow, we would arrive at the 14^th-century walled commune of Corinaldo, famed for the Polenta Well. The well is linked with a traditional folk story: a long time ago, a man was climbing La Piaggia staircase street with a sack of corn flour (polenta) on his shoulders. Once he reached the well, he put the sack on the well’s edge to catch his breath but unfortunately, the sack tumbled down into it. The poor man tried to save it and went down into the well himself. The original 15^th-century well was demolished in the 19^th century and the present one was rebuilt as recently as the 1980s, but the story lives on. The free aire at Corinaldo is usually our last stop in Italy before catching the ferry from Ancona to Greece. We can replenish the tanks and the store cupboards and see to any small repairs that may have become necessary before the overnight crossing.

Greece – to be continued……………………