La Dolce Vita

[nsew]

Piedmont, Italy

Combined cost £2 and change.

Transport costs, about £1 a day spread over 6-7 months.

Twinings Ceylon tea, full fat latti pulvaroso, Joe’s Canadian maple syrup.

Tatonka 0.6L Steel Mug. Solo Stove Lite with Trangia inside. Light My Fire Titanium Spork. Nalgene medical bottles 500ml & 250ml. Camelbak 750ml water bottles. Sawyer mini filter. Carradice Super C.

Carbon footprint, negligible. Background thunderclaps, priceless.

[Sweep]

Enjoy the coffee, stay away from the politics.

[nsew]

Enjoy the coffee, stay away from the politics.

I was deported from Italy in 1983, for attempting to stowaway on a ship destined for Malta. It was an odd deportation as they drove me to Naples (from Sicily), booked me into a charming pensione and packed me off by train to London a couple of days later. I stopped off in Paris for a few weeks before returning to England where my passport was confiscated.

[nsew]

I emerge from the apple orchards at 0700. I think I overplayed that and could of bought another hour. No matter. I ask for a lot of milk, a little coffee and the largest glass at the first caffeteria. 1 euro. I do the full wash up in the toilet and leave it spotless. I go next door and take the small loaf, the local Raschera cheese and a biscuit. 3.50 euro. I go next door and take the local cherries, local apricot and a banana. 1.80 euro. I find a comfortable seat by the municipio, observe the commuters and tuck in. I’m soon joined by a Mali migrant and we converse in a mixture of mostly French with a little Italian. He’s waiting on the work to start in the agriculture. I am en route to Turin, as fresh as a daisy and feelin’ as fit as a fiddle.

[nsew]

Benito (I’m calling him that though we haven’t been formally introduced), calls me over. He’s upset about the route I’m taking. Benito is wearing flip-flops and ill fitting shorts. He is short, muscular, particularly stupid looking and has a distended gut. Benito explains to me at some length that it is forbidden to cycle that way. I inform Benito in perfect Italian that I don’t speak his language. This enrages Benito. He collects himself and asks in Spanish if I speak Spanish. I tell Benito in perfect Spanish that I don’t speak Spanish either. This further enrages Benito. He points to the various signs and again informs me that it is forbidden and that the police will arrest and fine me. I am now smirking and ask in Italian, where exactly are the police? This further enrages Benito and he has great difficulty removing something from underneath his chin while mouthing what appears to be the chorus of Otis Redding’s Fa Fa Fa Fa Fa Fa (Sad Song). But he’s got the melody hopelessly wrong. We’re at an impasse. I bid Benito farewell in both Spanish and Italian, and carry on my way. He doesn’t return the courtesy. I’m in the rice fields. I take the photo a few minutes later.

[nsew]

Tonight’s camp is the nuts, the hazelnuts to be precise. The moon is full. I could see the large roof wedged in the trees above me on the hill but liked the valley view and setting so much I decided it was worth the extra effort. Trouble is that it’s all gone tits up. I set the house/farm dogs off when I yelled out after handling a large squashed slug splattered on the outer. I grabbed all my kit and dived in the tent. It was a good 30 minutes before they shut the hell up. Dangnamit. I burnt a hole in the tent floor with the cigarette I lit to disguise my smell. I repaired that under a red light with the McNett tape. Then a hunters gun shot went off about 100 meters to my right across a field. I’m typing this laying flat. I also can’t eliminate the damned mosquito in the tent.

[slowster]

I think you may have picked the wrong film title for your thread. Suggest you change it to 'Deliverance'.

[nsew]

Ha! Thanks for the morning chuckle. It’s an unorthodox double bill. I settled matters with my nights companion and rejoined my path.

“As you start to walk on the way, the way appears” Rumi

[nsew]

The art classes or the Angels rally. Neither will get past the censor without a heavy edit - so let’s pick up the trail from yesterday morning. I wake in the hazelnuts (quelle surprise) at 0800, only this time they’re within the city of Asti. Far more civilized as there are no slugs, gun shots or blood thirsty beasts. Breakfast tea & strudelisimo (or whatever) in situ and I put in a fair old sprint of about 1km and collapse into a bar. It’s already seriously warm. Il Capo is an endearing old boy and we immediately strike up a rapport where his distant school learnt English provides much of the humour. After serving up my rum laced latte and brioche, he unlocks a rear door and ushers me through to a stylish old school area. It’s a two hour charging space for sure and I already have a kilometer under my belt.

[nsew]

I’m back in the mosquito infested rice fields after a cracking few days in the Asti / Monferrato region. Rolling hills, ancient villagi / citta perched atop of them, castles dating from 100AD, abundant foods (some of which ripe). Quiet roads in better than (Italian) average condition. Fountains in the central piazzas where you empty your water bottles all over yourself and no one minds. Better to be here in late May or September.

[nsew]

Woke here after having to douse myself in chemical repellent the night before. (Removed with wipes once in). I’ve been in mosquito swarms before, a Copenhagen nature park springs to mind, they’re always unsettling and God help you if you’re not prepared. However I wasn’t buzzed in the morning by a police helicopter, like in Denmark. It’s a short hop to the villagi where the bells are ringing yet time stands still. Latte & crema croissant at the sole cafe.

[nsew]

Matteo apologizes for the hound with excellent English and I proceed to learn all about rice and corn production. The family provides for Kellogg’s so give partial thanks to this fella if you eat that muck. Matteo fetches a couple of eggs, plucks a handful of peaches and two lemons from the trees and we tuck into the peach as we talk. I’m reminded of the classic Elmore James line “If you don’t like my peaches, please don’t shake my tree.”

[nsew]

Last night a bancomat (hole in the wall) gobbled up my currency card. I’m out in the sticks. I stop off to pray to St George and I’m yet to receive anything in return. I find some fenced off tarmac by the side of a straight fast road, I open up the fence and hide the Hille away. How hidden is that. It’s positioned for a lay-in that the bushes afford. In the morning the trucks are passing at full speed about three metres away. Some of the cars must be close to doubling that. It’s a thrill to be that close, I mix up a frappe and play the full ‘Innervisions’. At 1000 I depart, close up the fence, stash the bike and kit at a local bar and beg a lift into town about 15km away. After a little to and fro behind the scenes the stuffed suit claims no responsibility and says they will send the card back to Inghilterra as and when they receive it. There’s no persuading this chap so I let loose on him with my best English. We’re in the centre of a large open plan floor. By the time I’m finished he’s back at his desk. I glance around to assess the reaction to my handywork - it’s a mixture of horror and bemusement. It’s a good time to leave. At least there was some redress. Not much. It’s going to cost me.

[nsew]

St George came through. Grazie.

https://youtu.be/umxx2Qjxfww

[nsew]

I’m at the camping in, umm, don’t know. There’s no one on reception, no other campers, no facilities. This is becoming a recurring theme. I place the tent in a spot where a tree eliminates the one bright street light. This places me directly behind the goalposts. I wake at 0700. By 0900 I imagine the field will be occupied by Italians (don’t mess with their football, food or religion). In that order. I’m wondering how long I could remain here before a call is put through. Could I possibly make it to half-time? Will the goalie parli Inglesi? What if there’s a penalty awarded? Would it be poor form to distract the penalty taker by pulling faces from the door of the Unna?