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* photo by micora
There are a plethora of small regional Italian Banks, but only a certain number of clearing banks, thus international transactions can result in astronomical bank charges. Consequently Italians generally prefer to do lots of their transactions in cash. In fact they don’t trust banks at all, and often prefer to keep their savings hidden under the mattress. In the end we tore up the cheque book in disgust and closed this euro account, as it was basically useless.
So we had to organise setting up an Italian bank account, to enable us to transfer some of our funds over to Italy. Guido’s cousin worked as a cashier in one of the bigger Italian banks and he said he would try to help us by organising for us to meet the Bank Manager. In due course the meeting went ahead, but we were advised that we could not open a “normal” bank account, as we were not registered as “Residents” in Italy, yet we couldn’t be “Residents” because we didn’t have a normal bank account ??? Therefore we had to open a “Stranieri” account, which of course was subject to significantly higher charges.
The staff in the bank turned out to be very helpful, and it was just as well, as it took a full hour and a half to complete the procedure of opening the account, which meant Paul had to leave to feed the parking meter on several occasions. There was a long list of questions and a series of screens on the computer that the clerk had to fill in using a complicated system of codes. The staff didn’t seem to have created a “Stranieri” account before, clearly they were unsure of the procedures, as they had to phone up Head Office several times for advice. Then reams of documentation were printed off in triplicate, at least half a tree’s worth!!! Eventually after much sorting and stapling we were given pages and pages of documentation to sign, before we were finally despatched with two enormous bulging folders of paperwork. We left the bank totally exhausted by this experience.
We soon learned that free personal banking does not exist in Italy, because an account holder has to pay a three monthly fee just for the privilege of having an account. We opted not to have a cheque book as every cheque you write also comes with an additional cost.
Subsequent visits to the bank also proved to be very time consuming. Firstly simply getting in and out of the bank can be quite an ordeal, as most Italian banks are, for security reasons, equipped with a metal detecting device. (There are said to be more bank robberies in Italy than any other country in the European Union !!!)
Firstly you are told to leave your personal belongings such as: keys; coins; watches; jewellery and mobile phones in a small locker, a system somewhat similar to that of a swimming pool changing room. Then you have to push a button to open the door of a small, claustrophobic “airlock”, and automatically the door closes behind you, imprisoning you inside. Then inevitably the machine picks up on something metallic on your person, and a grating voice instructs you to go back outside and put all your metallic objects in the locker provided. Paul found, to his great annoyance, that many seemingly innocuous objects can fall foul of this wonder of modern technology, such as a buckle on a belt, zips and in particular safety shoes with protective steel toe-caps. Paul was often stared at by other customers whilst approaching to the counter, in his socks, holding up his trousers with one hand, whilst trying to get a cashpoint card out of his wallet with the other.
So, having eventually gained entry to the bank, you now have to start the process of “waiting to be served”. First you must make a mental note of exactly your place in the queue, as this can be confusing. There are sometimes chairs for elderly customers to sit on whilst waiting their turn. On one occasion an old dear entered just before us, gnarled and bent double, hobbling on a stick, complaining of her artriti. We smiled sympathetically as she took a pew, and noted that she was before us in the queue. I watched her shrewdly observing how the transactions at the counter were proceeding. When she concluded that it was her turn, she jumped up and made a sudden sprint to the counter, we’d never seen someone be so quickly energised, despite their dreadful artriti !!!
Basically, Italians just don’t comprehend queuing, and customers tend to stand around in a rebelliously disorderly fashion, huffing and puffing, generally grumbling loudly about the excruciatingly slow speed of service. Meanwhile, they take advantage of the situation to size each other up and listen in to other people’s conversations.
Customers are, on the whole, served in turn, but inevitably there is somebody who just wants to sneak in to “ask a simple question”, and “it will only take a moment”, and “You don’t mind do you?”. Consequently you end up waiting forever and a day, because nothing in Italy is simple, so inevitably the matter in question turns out to be far more complicated than it should be. Meanwhile you are left thinking of all the other things you could usefully be doing with the precious wasted time.
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So our house hunting started once again in earnest ……..
It is clear that Italian builders have a “passionate love affair with all things concrete“. In fact it was the Italians who had invented cement over 2000 years ago, when the Romans combined slaked lime (derived from limestone rock) volcanic ash (known as pozzolana) with sand and water. The great architectural masterpieces of the Pantheon and the Colosseum in Rome were all built using this type of mixture.
Nowadays, in Italy, it is nigh on impossible to find any modern buildings not constructed of concrete, indeed Italian building techniques vary greatly from the typical wood and brick constructions commonly seen in the UK. In Italy there is also legislation that all new edifices must be built to anti-seismic specifications, using a reinforced concrete framework to provide strength to the structure.
As building was now strictly controlled near to the coast, Itri being situated slightly inland was becoming an up and coming area. A few years before the local council had announced that they would permit some limited new development in the Itri area. Immediately many of the Itrani folk realised they could be on to a very good thing here, and readily jumped on the bandwagon, selling off portions of agricultural land for handsome profits, especially those who had successfully procured the required building licences. Small property speculators keenly moved in with bulldozers to level off building sites, some required excavators to pound and chisel through stubborn limestone bedrock. The local roads were buzzing with huge, lumbering cement mixing lorries, and new villas, both large and small began springing up, like mushrooms, overnight.
We calculated that during our various trips to Italy over the last eight months we had viewed over fifty properties dotted around the country outskirts of Itri. Numerous estate agents had taken us to view an array of newly constructed properties that were generally approached by rough dirt tracks and exceptionally steep inclines. However it was still not proving easy to find just what we were looking for: an affordably priced property to suit all our family’s various requirements. Eventually we short-listed two possibilities and contacted the relevant estate agents to re-book appointments to view them again.
The first property was a deserted casale or farmhouse, which had not been inhabited for over 10 years, even before this it had not been a true family home. The facilities were very basic and left much to be desired, as it had only served as a place to camp at busy times of the Italian farming year, particularly during the autumn grape or olive harvest. It was situated in a secluded little backwater in an unspoiled valley, with mountain views and a glimpse of the sea.
The building itself seemed to be structurally sound, however was in need of a great deal of work and renovation. This would involve the installation of a new electrical system, plumbing, heating, windows, doors, bathrooms, kitchens, and so forth. However the property came with a large piece of land measure 33,000 square metres, which equated to between 8 and 9 acres. Of that 23,000 square metres was olive grove comprising around 600 trees, and the remainder was a sizeable piece of wood and scrubland. However, this property did have a great deal of potential, as with the size of the land came the possibility of building another house or some small bungalows, and the possibility of setting up a small farm holiday business or Agriturismo.
On the other hand the second property was a grezzo, a basic concrete shell of a new house, measuring a spacious 300 square metres, with a most scenic outlook of the mountains and valley. It came with an olive grove of 4,500 square metres and a sizeable agricultural store, which would have been ideal for our son to convert into a little studio. The grezzo lent itself to be converted into three or four holiday apartments. The slick, designer clothed estate agent was more than eager to inform us that there was the possibility of purchasing two adjacent plots of land both of about 5,000 square metres. On one section there was a tiny ramshackle cottage, a perfect place for an artist’s studio I thought. The other had a small rustic structure comprising two rooms.
The three separate pieces of land were individually owned by various brothers of the same family. It was here that the fun and games commenced. As soon as the brothers realised we were showing some interest, they began to put the prices up. They felt that they had hooked a potential buyer, who was a foreigner into the bargain, no doubt with copious amounts of ready cash to spend. We decided that we would only be interested in purchasing this property if we could procure all three plots of land, and vowed that there would have to be some serious bartering on our part to knock the asking prices back down to an affordable level. It seemed doubtful that we would succeed in getting all three brothers to agree.
In any case, further investigations revealed that the local council had in fact only granted consent to build an agricultural store house or barn, all on one level, measuring 150 square metres. The reality was that the proprietors had built something twice the size on two floors, therefore it was abusivo. You may ask how did they get away with it? Where were the building inspectors at each stage of the build? Why wasn’t it stopped or demolished, as would no doubt be the case in the UK? Well, the answer is simple. This is Italy !!! Here illegal building is commonplace, sometimes, literally, houses spring up overnight. In fact, a few years back when Berlusconi’s government was a bit strapped for cash it brought in a new law offering an planning amnesty, known as a Condono Edilizo, to encourage offending parties to come clean about any building irregularities in exchange for a reasonably small fine, that could be paid over a couple of years in easy instalments. You could compare it to how things are done in the Catholic faith. You commit a sin, you go to confession and your repent and say you won’t re-offend and are sent off to say an “Our Father and 10 Hail Mary’s” and then the slate is wiped clean. Thus all is well (especially with regard for government’s coffers), all parties are happy and nobody cares a fig. The only possible hazard with illegal building work is if a nosey or vindictive neighbour tells on you and notifies the local authority of your illegal work with a denuncio, before you get a chance to own up to the local council.
So we found ourselves to be in something of a dilemma. We generally preferred the casale, recognising the potential of the size of the land. However, I must say I had some reservations about the amount of work that would be involved with the renovation and the upkeep of the grounds.
The grezzo had less land, but was still quite sizeable. However, we did not know if our resources would stretch to purchasing all three pieces of land, and leave sufficient funds to finish the building and convert it into apartments. Both properties required connection to basic utilities such as water, electricity, and telephone. With each of these properties there was the need to find some temporary accommodation for us all to live in while the building work was getting underway.
We decided we needed some good, sound advice so we organised a long session with Guido’s geometra friend Rocco. We sat anxiously as he did several complex calculations. Finally he told us that the grezzo was not going to be so much of a “bargain” as the estate agent had led us to believe. Indeed there were several grave problems. As we had already ascertained the construction had been built abusivo, being twice the size detailed on the architect’s plans. In addition, only a small portion of the top floor had been granted a permit for civile abitazione – i.e. living accommodation. To get the property fully licensed would cost us significantly more. In order to obtain this permission, it would mean knocking down both the small farmhouse and little cottage. As the law currently stood, it was no longer possible to get planning permission to construct any additional structures on any of land. After doing more calculations it soon became clear that this property was turning into something of a liability, so we decided to exclude it from further thought.
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Back on the site some of our fellow campers seemed genuinely alarmed to hear that we had been going for a daily dip in the sea, as Italians, as a rule, do not dare to take their first dip before June at the very earliest. Yes – It was very intrepid of us !!! - when some days the temperature had already topped the 30 degrees C mark !!!
What on earth would they make of documentary clips of eccentric Brits taking their annual Christmas morning plunge in the murky, green sea, or of crazy cross-channel swimmers, plastered in goose fat, wading bravely into the icy British waters? It was clear that Italians are just not as hardy a breed as us northerners, and can’t possibly comprehend why we don’t tend to suffer like themselves from the cold. In the evenings the Italians would wrap themselves up in weighty woollies, to ward off the cool, night air and the treacherous colpo d’aria.
photo by dogfrog *
Yes, the colpo d’aria is a extraordinary mysterious Italian phenomenon. Literally it translates as a “hit of air“, a treacherous draught that can swiftly strike you down with a dreadful chill.
I first came across this phenomenon in my youth when my parents and I visited an aged aunt and cousin at their home in Milan during the dreaded month of August. We found Milan’s steamy, sultry weather to be insupportable, so we opened up all the windows in an effort to encourage a breath of air to circulate the stifling apartment. Zia Filomena, however, was horrified by our actions. Waving her arms about, “C’é un corrente !!!” she exclaimed, and swiftly came along right behind us, firmly banging both the shutters and windows shut. There followed a fiery argument, which served only to add to the unfavourable ambient temperature. Zia was loath to even leave a window slightly ajar, for fear of the potentially fatal consequences. As a result we were left to swelter with the perspiration literally trickling off us.
Hence we vowed NEVER to go to Milan again in August !!!
Some Italians, even in the midst of the summer heat also exhibit an aversion to air-conditioning, cooling refreshing fans, or travelling in a car with the windows wound down, for fear of being laid low by such an invisible current of air, it beggars belief. My mother used to tell us a story about an elderly Italian neighbour who lived in a flat in London’s “Little Italy”. For months she complained that she was being tormented by a malevolent colpo d’aria. The old dear convinced herself that the “draught” was being caused by a neighbour’s refrigerator in the flat upstairs, and would regularly stomp up there to vociferously express her grievances. I will leave it for you to imagine the sort of response she generally received.
Strangely it seems that it is mainly only the older generations that seems to be affected from this peril. During the months from October to April they take extra special precautions by swathing themselves in copious layers of clothing including: woollen vests and long-johns, chunky, high-necked jumpers; thick socks and tights, padded, fur-trimmed coats; hats; scarves; gloves and boots, you name it, and seem to us to be ratherly overdressed for the relatively mild ambient conditions. Similarly anxious mothers bundle up their babies and toddlers tightly like little Eskimos in padded tiers even in quite temperate weather.
However, curiously enough it seems that the present teenage generation’s genes have evolved to give them considerably more robust constitutions, especially the young females who can to go out in the worst of the winter weather wearing just a teeny mini skirt and a skimpy top, leaving their pierced belly-button midriffs wide open to the elements.
If my dear Italian grandmother was still living today,
I wonder what she would make of it all !!!
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Preparing Anchovies
One day Salvatore arrived with several polystyrene crates of locally caught silvery alice, better known to us as anchovies. He wanted to show us how these could be preserved in salt. The previous day he had already prepared one boxful, but he demonstrated us the whole procedure with the contents of the second. He commenced by decapitating the little fish by pinching below the gills using his fingers and nails and then with a gentle twisting action teasing out the entrails. I just observed, squeamishly, while Paul decided to have a go, while Salvatore vigilantly watched on. It soon became apparent that this task was not as easy as it first appeared, but little by little Paul seemed to master the task. The fish were then sprinkled with coarse granules of sea salt, and left for 24 hours – this procedure was to absorb much of the blood and to help soften the fish. The following day the fish would be ready for the next process.
Preserving Anchovies In Salt
Salvatore then appeared with the crate of fish that he had prepared the previous day. He now took some large, wide necked glass jars, and sprinkled some sea salt into the bottom. He then proceeded to carefully create a layer of the little fish, placing them in a head to tail fashion. When the first layer was complete, in went another handful of salt, followed by another layer of fish. This process was repeated several times until the container appeared to be full. Then Salvatore took out his penknife and cut some circles of polystyrene which just fitted perfectly into the neck of the container. A heavy weight was placed on top for an hour or so, which compressed the fish down, closing any air gaps, so that finally yet another layer of fish could be added with more salt scattered over the top. These containers were then to be left for a week or so, and we were told that then the old salt and any liquor had to be removed before replacing more fish in new layers of salt. This was a similar curing process to that used by Cornish folk of yore, when huge nets were used for the pilchard catch, and the fish were salted in huge barrels called hogsheads.
Salvatore had kept a few fish back and grilled them for lunch on his BBQ, the delicious wafting aroma was truly exquisite. They were scrumptious, served piping hot with a drizzle of olive oil and a generous squeeze of lemon, washed down with a glass or two of Salvatore’s home-made vino bianco. Perfetto !!!
We resolved to go down to the Gaeta fish market soon, to visit Salvatore’s brother who was a fishmonger. Salvatore assured us that his fish was always the best and very fresh, as Salvatore described it: “the fish are still talking to you!”.
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At our new abode there was ample space to erect the caravan’s awning to provide us with some valuable extra living space, and to make things feel a little more homely and orderly. Nonetheless 3 people and 2 dogs residing together in such a confined space could be described as an “interesting experience”, but generally we managed to rub along pretty well. Everything was something of a challenge, even the simplest of chores.
Feeling a little sorry for myself one day as I stood at the stone sink laboriously washing and rinsing out our laundry by hand, I recalled how my mother had described my Nonna’s hard life as teenage girl back in Atina. On washdays she and the other women folk would have to walk several kilometres carrying their dirty laundry down to the river bank in large baskets, which they skilfully balanced on top of their heads. Subsequently they would kneel down by the water’s edge and commence scrubbing the soiled articles with a large bar of soap, pounding and pummelling the clothes against the large flat stones to help displace the dirt. The washing then had to be rinsed by swirling it around in the icy flowing current before it could be arduously wrung out by hand, hung up to dry. Finally the women had to carry their heavy loads all the way back up the steep hill to the village. How we take so much for granted in these days of modern appliances !!!
Each morning Salvatore would arrive and immediately disappear to change into his “work clothes”. He would emerge sporting a sleeveless vest, tatty shorts and some plastic flip floppy shoes that seemed to be a few sizes too small for his bare feet. In addition he would don an old canvas hat, pulling it down tightly over his balding pate to protect it from the burning sun. From under the brim his kind eyes twinkled. The compassionate Salvatore seemed truly concerned for us, being “all alone in this strange new country” and was eager to take us under his wing. We were soon to become firm friends.
He was keen to share with us some of his valuable pearls of knowledge, offering his personal tips on gardening, cooking and keeping chickens and life in general. It was obvious, that over the years he had learned to be thrifty and was very reluctant to throw anything away, in case it might turn out to prove useful some day. He busied himself preparing for the arrival of the demanding summer visitors, as were many similar establishments right along the coast. We were informed that the Italian summer season started off gently in June, and accelerated into July, reaching a dramatic peak in August, when virtually all Italians habitually take their annual holiday.
We tried to help him out here and there by doing some odd jobs around the site: tidying up the grounds, whitewashing walls with lime, splashing a lick of paint here and there, putting up shading and numerous international flags, erecting tables and benches, airing the little chalets and taking the parasols and deckchairs out of mothballs. “Lavoro, sempre lavoro, ma……. piano, piano” he used to say.
* photo by gaetan lee
At the weekend a couple of families turned up at the campsite, to prepare their plots for the summer season. A family from Rome were very sociable and sometimes, occasionally of an evening, invited us to eat with them. We soon learned that Vittore, a gentle, bronzed giant of man, was a muratore, a builder who had done some work for Salvatore over the years. His wife Maria Angela gave us more tips on Italian cooking, especially on how to prepare artichokes, aubergines, and peppers and an array of other vegetables that we are not so familiar with back home.
They took us to a local small holding or orto where they often purchased their fruit and vegetables. Here nothing was weighed out, there was nothing precise about it, quantity was just roughly gauged by the handful. For just a few euros we would leave the market garden with bulging bags of fresh produce. Somehow in Italy everything seemed to taste so much more flavoursome, we were sure this was because everything is grown or produced locally and is still very fresh when it comes to the table.
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Next day we eagerly pressed on southwards on the “Autostrada del Sole”, by-passing Rome, to Frosinone. Then we headed off the motorway towards Priverno and Terracina and on to our final destination, the beautiful seaside resorts of Sperlonga / Gaeta.
Sperlonga, South Lazio
We had nowhere pre-booked to stay, so we drove up and down the coast road until we eventually succeeded in locating a campsite, positioned next to the sea, which was willing to accommodate campers with dogs. As it was still April, the large site was virtually uninhabited – a ghost town of parked touring caravans, yet the price for a plot was rather expensive none-the-less. Here we made camp for two nights to give us time to consider our future options. During this time the weather was proving to be very changeable and one night we weathered a terrifyingly turbulent thunderstorm. “Thank heavens we were not just sheltering under canvas” we declared as we huddled together for comfort, still feeling a tad vulnerable as the deluge of rain battered down on the caravan’s tin can roof.
Mercifully, by morning all the leaden rain clouds had been whisked away by the blustery wind. We had decided to “up sticks” and drive along the coast road to a smaller campsite near to Gaeta, which had been recommended to us by Guido. The owner, Salvatore, warmly greeted us and generously invited us to remain there, at least in the short term, since his site didn’t officially open until the month of June. The scenic backdrop to the site was the steep rocky cliff face of Monte Moneta that dominates the bay and just a short stroll across the coast road was the vast expanse of golden sand, Sant’ Agostino beach. That evening, after a day’s work, Salvatore returned home to his family apartment in Sperlonga, leaving us to have the place just to ourselves.
Sant' Agostino Beach
Early each morning Paul and our “olde sea dogs” enjoyed going for a romp on the deserted sands and would return dripping wet from retrieving sticks and doggy paddling in the sea. By day our son enjoyed lazily basking like a lizard on the golden shore.
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The following morning, feeling much regenerated, we set off on the next stage of our journey, bypassing the busy commercial metropolis of Milan, crossing the flat fertile plains of the Po Valley, passing Parma and the university town of Bologna. We pressed on traversing Reggio Emilia and the rugged Upper Appenines, benefiting from the newly constructed sections of tunnel and elevated stretches of motorway that now slice through the mountains.
On into the quintessential landscape of Tuscany, with its stone farmhouses, olives groves, cypress trees, gently rolling hills and lush wild flower meadows. Soon we saw signs directing us to Florence, a place I had always longed to visit. It had been a pleasantly easy journey down, but once again we found it difficult to locate our campsite, and we found driving through Florence rather un-nerving towing the caravan. Eventually a kindly local gave us good, concise instructions, and before too long we were camped up.
The site was situated on south bank of the River Arno, indeed a very beautiful camping location, and very conveniently placed for walking down into the heart of Florence. Nearby was Piazzale Michelangelo which provided spectacular panoramic views of the medieval city and the surrounding landscape.
The Roof Tops Of Florence
The next day the weather was not too promising, with heavy thundery downpours and a fresh breeze. We set off to do a little site-seeing, but found the city was thronged with groups of tourists from all corners of the globe. There was a long queue to get into the Uffizi Gallery so we headed instead to La Piazza della Signoria. Here we admired at the imposing ramparts of the Palazzo Vecchio and its lofty clock tower, the replica of Michelangelo’s David, the gallery of statues in the Loggia dei Lanzi and the Fontana di Nettuno by Ammannati. We eagerly continued on our quest to find the magnificent domed Duomo dedicated to Santa Maria del Fiore with its intricate green and pink marble façade, and Giotto’s infamous Campanile and the bronze Gates of Paradise of the nearby Baptistry.
Then to Piazza Santa Croce, with its beautifully frescoed Palazzo and to the church itself, which bears the tombs of many famous citizens such as Michelangelo and Galileo.
Ponte Vecchio and River Arno
Lastly we explored the characteristic Ponte Vecchio which spans the Arno with its three wide arches. It is lined with a quaint row of little shops which nowadays house mainly jewellers, artists and antique merchants.
Later we strolled up, once again, to Piazzale Michelangelo and viewed the Florentine skyline by night. As I took one last look before leaving, I vowed I would return again sometime soon to further explore this truly remarkable city.
Then, the final leg of our long journey – our destination being Sperlonga / Gaeta on the Riviera di Ulisse.
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Switzerland
The next morning we continued south until we encountered the Swiss Border Crossing. Here we purchased the required “Vignettes” or Toll stickers, to travel on the Swiss motorway system. Approaching Basel we followed the curious subterranean route below the city streets. Before long the motorway took on the most scenic of routes as we passed steep, pine-clad slopes, fresh green pasture lands, charming chocolate box villages and farms, funicular railways, spectacular gorges, cascading water torrents and boulder strewn steams.
The landscape steadily became more wild and rugged and at Lake Lucerne the road skirted its beautiful shoreline treating us to some breathtaking vistas of the snow capped peaks of the majestic Swiss Alps. As we continued to climb steadily the weather once again turned for the worse, as we drove in slippery sleet and rain before entering the renowned San Gotthard Tunnel which leads through the bowels of the mountain bearing the same name. I was more than relieved to eventually see the light of day at the end of its mammoth 10 mile course, yet we still had to negotiate a succession of such “Gruyere cheese burrows” before triumphantly emerging into the uplifting sunshine of south eastern Switzerland. From here we slowly descended to Lake Lugano with its picturesque backdrop of impressive mountains before finally crossing the frontier at Chiasso into the Lombardy territory of “Bella Italia”.
We realised that we had been somewhat over optimistic with our planned schedule, and decided to rest up for the night somewhere near Lake Como. Thus we faced the challenge of finding a campsite at short notice, so we slowly convoyed into Como’s city centre, during what turned out to be the busy afternoon rush. We needed to find somewhere to pull off the road, so impulsively Paul turned sharply into a car park only to find that it was far too small to swing a cat, let alone manoeuvre a sluggish caravan. This resulted in the caravan taking a slight knock, but thankfully there was no serious damage.
Lago di Como
I decided it would be a good deal safer to proceed on foot and eventually located the tourist office and was given directions to a small campsite on the western side of the lake that was open that early in the season. We crawled along the road edging our way precariously through charming but very narrow, winding streets of pretty lakeside villages, we all breathed in deeply, just wishing that the caravan was just a few centimetres less ample. We eventually limped, mercifully unscathed, into the grounds of the small campsite, where we unanimously elected to stay for at least two nights, before venturing further south.
Lake Como and the Snowcapped Italian Alps
The next day the weather was crisp but clear and we spent a very agreeable time exploring the picturesque shores on the western side of the lake, adorned with opulent villas and ornate gardens embellished with pavilions, statues, grottoes, cascades, topiary hedges, spring blooming azaleas, rhododendrons, magnolias, mimosas, flowering fruit trees and trailing wisteria. We drove to the northern reaches of the lake, and enjoyed the splendid views of the lake ringed with snowy alpine peaks.
Menaggio
We stopped to investigate the port of Gravedona and particularly liked the resort of Menaggio with its tree lined waterfront promenade, and colourful flower beds planted with spring bulbs. From here we admired the views across the shimmering lake and watched the various ferries crossing back and forth.
On the Sunday afternoon we found the lively town of Como far too busy for our liking, when Italian day trippers were busily “passaggiata-ing” with their family. What it must be like during the summer months I would not like to imagine.
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Almost Ready
A few days later Paul and I, our younger son and our two faithful hounds prepared for the off. We were to lead the way, towing the caravan, I was to navigate, and our son was to follow behind in a second car. Thus our mini convoy rolled out on the first leg of the journey to West Sussex. We were in high spirits as we trundled out of Wales, over the Old Severn Bridge and into England.
We stopped over night with family in Storrington and the next morning, feeling re-energized, we set off again heading for Folkestone and the Channel Tunnel. Here all went extremely well, the dogs’ Pet Passports were hardly required. The “crossing” was remarkably painless, considering how concerned I had been about feeling claustrophobic during the subterranean train journey.
Entering Channel Tunnel Train Carriage
However, as we emerged on the other side of “La Manche” we found that the French weather was set against us, as the rain lashed down while we struggled to fit headlamp converters to the cars whilst endeavouring to shelter under numerous jackets and coats. Foolishly we realised that it would have been so much easier to have done this task during the boring but dry train journey. With window-wipers vigorously swishing back and forth onwards then into Belgium, to the Flemish city of Ghent, where we spent the first night of our journey in our compact caravan home in a distinctly damp campsite near the waterway at Blaarmeersen.
The next day as we progressed on our journey, we were buffeted by mischievous side winds which made towing the caravan something of a challenge. As we traversed the seemingly endless flatlands, we saw signposts to some of the renowned Battlefields of the First World War. It seemed incredulous that this now peaceful pastoral landscape had once been a quagmire of muddy trenches, a site of horrific slaughter and carnage, where countless good young men had been savagely cut down in their prime.
* Alsace
We entered the Wallonia region of Belgium before heading south, through the wooded hills of the uplands of Luxembourg. Finally we reached the Alsace region in situated in the north eastern corner of France, where the blend of French and German heritage was very apparent. We opted to take a slight detour towards Colmar, wandering through the charming verdant countryside passing small farmsteads, vineyards and blossoming orchards along the way.
Then on to the small city of Mullhouse, on the Rhine, near to the German frontier. Locating this campsite proved to be tricky, as we found our convoy repeatedly circumnavigating the bustling town centre desperately looking for campsite signposts. Eventually we parked up near the train station and were fortunate to be rescued by the owner, who sportingly came out in search of us and kindly escorted us to his premises.
* Alsace (www.all-freephotos.com)
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So, we decided to sell our house in Wales and set about sprucing it up before putting it on the market. Next we planned a much needed break in Italy and rented a villa by the sea in the Sperlonga area, just along the coast from Gaeta. We were soon winging our way to Naples Capodichino airport. With our feet firmly back on Italian soil we set about carrying out some more research of the area. During our two week stay we managed to view twenty or so properties, in order to get a feel of what was available on the market and get some idea of property prices in the area. We were reassured that many of these houses seemed to be within our means, and many seemed to come with a sizeable plot of land attached.
When we returned to the UK, we were bursting with enthusiasm for our new venture. We talked with my parents who said they would like to join forces and come with us, which was a very brave decision, considering their age. However soon we were to discover that there had been something of a down turn in the UK housing market and our house was slow to sell, despite there having been several viewings. Our spirits dropped, as weeks turned into months and Christmas came and went. Finally in the New Year some good news arrived at last, a couple were very interested and had made an offer on our house. We were elated.
At the end of January we flew out to Rome for another week, to start house hunting in earnest. Our younger son had chosen to tag along with us to see the area for himself. On this occasion we found that the mountains around Itri were delicately dusted with sparkling snow, yet the daytime temperatures remained mild, skies sunny and blue.
Itri
We embarked on doing the rounds of the local estate agents. Generally Italian estate agencies differ greatly from those we are familiar with in the UK. There are no eye catching photos of properties in the shop windows, and no pamphlets detailing the descriptions and specifications of each property for sale, rarely are agents signs displayed outside property for sale. The typical Italian estate agent just thumbs through his list of available houses, and selects some houses he deems suitable to show you. Often these are not at all what you are looking for, and often we found ourselves going to see houses that we had already seen with other rival agents. However, we viewed as many prospective properties as was possible in the limited time available.
We were seeking something that could easily be divided into at least two separate apartments, Paul wanted a property with some land, and our son wanted an extra room or two for himself and his musical equipment. We whittled the list down to a couple of properties which really impressed us all. The best option was a relatively new house, situated in open countryside with spectacular, scenic mountain views. It was just a 5 minute drive from the centre of Itri and just 15 minutes drive to the beautiful sandy beaches that line this region. It came with a large driveway and sizeable plot of land, planted with numerous fruiting olive trees. We met with the owner and estate agent several times, and we finally decided to put in a Proposito or offer, which the vendor seemed very eager to accept. We learned that in Italy it is normal for the prospective buyer to put down an Acconto (deposit) with the Proposito, which can range from two to five percent of the total purchase price. We explained that we were not in a position to supply such a deposit until the money was released from the sale of our house in the UK. The vendor said not to worry, and forcefully shook Paul’s hand said that we had his word that he would stick to this offer.
We returned home once again to the UK and we realised that we had now fully committed to uprooting ourselves from our safe, familiar surroundings. We now had to commence organising ourselves for the big move. Firstly we needed to organise European Pet Passports for our two dogs, who were to come and live in Italy with us.
We consulted the DEFRA web site http://www.defra.gov.uk/animalh/quarantine/pets/index.htm regarding the Pet Travel Scheme and discussed matters with our local vet. We discovered that firstly the dogs’ general vaccinations needed to be up-to-date and that they were required to be fitted with Microchip identification. Then they had to have Anti Rabies injections, followed a couple of weeks later by blood tests to confirm that the Rabies vaccine had in fact been effective. Then the vet could issue them with Pet Passports, recording all of the above information. This service did not come cheap, amounting to over £200 per dog.
A huge milestone was when Paul actually handed in his notice at work. With just five weeks of work left to serve, he started to feel a little jittery. “What am I doing, giving up a steady job and a steady income, and heading off into the unknown!”
We started the laborious task of sorting through the house prior to packing. What a lot of stuff we seemed to have accumulated since our last move 12 years beforehand. We categorised as follows :
1. Things we wanted to take with us to Italy.
2. Things suitable for a car boot or garage sale.
3. Things to donate to charity shops.
4. Things designated for the dump.
As we began to pack we carefully numbered and recorded the contents of each and every box for future reference. They soon started to pile up and we began transporting them to a friend’s house, who had kindly offered us some valuable storage space in their sizeable garage.
Then, just two days before Paul was due to leave work, our hearts sank as the rug was well and truly pulled from under our feet. Our solicitor rang saying there was a problem (in the UK) with our buyer’s buyer failing to exchange contracts on the house sale, which meant that we were unable to exchange contracts on our house either. Things then went from bad to worse, when shortly afterwards an email arrived from the estate agent in Italy, with the news that the Italian vendor, who apparently was suffering from health problems, had decided that the stress of selling his property was all too much, so had decided to withdraw his property from the market. The following week we were still waiting to exchange contracts on the houses in the UK, we no longer had a property in Italy ear-marked to buy and move into, and we didn’t have an income! Someone had suddenly moved all the goal posts !!!
Still, we had a wonderful couple of days over Good Friday and Easter Saturday, with lots of friends and work colleagues visiting our “Garage Sale” and “House Cooling Party”. Long busy days, but it was so enjoyable to meet up and have a farewell drink with so many people we had the pleasure of knowing over the years. The “Garage Sale” was far more successful than we could ever have imagined. It was quite astonishing just what people will buy!!! Then on the Easter Sunday it was the turn of family to party, relatives travelled from far and wide to gather around us to wish us well, and quite a few tears were shed that weekend I can tell you. These celebrations were followed by another couple of good days packing, with the emptying house packed into boxes we were almost ready for the off.
We nervously waited on tenter hooks for the all important telephone call from our solicitor to confirm that the contracts had finally been exchanged. We were so relieved to discover that this time all had gone smoothly and at last a firm date was set for Completion. In fact we found the extra week gained was a great bonus as we packed up the towing caravan, which was to be our home for the next few months. We checked and double checked that our passports and other important documentation were all in order and to hand.
We finally vacated our house on the same day that the keen new owners took possession. It was all rather frenetic, despite the fact that we thought we had been so well organised. Everything seemed to take an age, far longer than anticipated, and as the new owners were moving in – we were still trying to move out – it literally was “in one door and out the other”. Eventually we were left “out on the street“, with several of our belongings spread out on the pavement outside, awaiting transportation. We were so utterly exhausted after such a long, stressful day, that we decided to delay our departure for Italy by a couple of days, in order to refresh ourselves before embarking on our long arduous journey. This also enabled us to spend some extra special time with our nearest and dearest before our departure. For the time being my elderly parents were staying put in Wales, until we had found “the perfect little home in Bella Itri” to call our very own.
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