Pasta Point of No Return
With hectic, summer, working schedules drawing to a close and crisp, autumnal mornings making a most welcome return, our annual escape from the British Isles could commence in earnest. On this occasion, six months or more living and working from Vishnu, our converted builder’s van, await. Following last year’s eventful dry run around Western Europe, many lessons were learned and diesel heaters fixed and we now feel ever so slightly more prepared to undertake a voyage of a longer length and greater challenge. So here is the plan.
After making a beeline towards Italy via Dijon and spending at least six weeks dramatically feeding ourselves into pasta-induced comas, the mountainous Balkans await as a harsh, former-Yugoslavian winter hits us full in the face. Subsequently, newly named Türkiye and cargo-ferry requiring Cyprus should keep us warm into the new year, and after that… who knows (we currently have absolutely no idea). Although, if our heating system performs on par to last winter, then our dream of a festive and fun Christmas in North Macedonia will be increasingly unlikely and force our unfortunate return.
And so, following a highly uneventful two days scurrying across France’s easternmost reaches attempting to avoid blaspheming upon hearing the toll charge at every booth, we arrived at the Italian Alps with new cameras and phrasebooks in hand and new street dogs to argue over bringing back. The imposing, mountainous road to Aosta, our first stop, proved to be a breath-taking introduction to our first country as it took us within a hair’s breadth of Mont Blanc and some of Europe’s tallest peaks before quickly descending down some of the most hairpin-laden roads Vishnu has ever witnessed. With powerful wafts of exhausted brake pads and burnt clutch emanating from under the bonnet, we slowly, and relievedly, made our way into the aforementioned Alpine town in one piece and immediately searched for the nearest pizzeria.
I have absolutely no idea what possessed me to make my first pizza in Italy a cabbage one, perhaps it was the fact that the menu stated it was a local delicacy. Unfortunately, it was a mistake of Kwarteng proportions that resulted in an uncontrollable retching sensation and a mostly wasted meal, not an ideal start. However, a sunny beginning to the following morn did wonders for my gut whilst also allowing us to take a full look around the town’s large Roman landmarks and impressive central plaza, which might be something of a theme on this trip. As might be ordering an Earl Grey and receiving a lemon and ginger mix instead.
With signs of summer fading fast, we needed to make the most of the September sun while possible and headed towards the great lakes of Northern Italy, beginning with Maggiore. After spending several hours searching for a spot within walking distance of the lake and with a strong enough signal to teach, we settled upon the delightfully named town of Maccagno con Pino e Veddasca. From there, we were able to tutor, Lowri was able to swim, and I was able to make my cabbage pizza a distant memory by ordering a substantially safer, and drastically better, Margherita.
While Lake Maggiore may be greater in size, it is certainly not as renowned or as celebrated as its aqueous neighbour: Como. This may be due to the quite remarkable, rugged backdrop that accompanies the latter or the colourful fishing villages that adorn its shoreline, connected via winding roads that James Bond’s DB5 wouldn’t look out of place zooming along. However, we were not gliding around in a small Aston, but plodding along in a massive Movano, which led to some extreme parking difficulties and the first vehicular scratch of the trip thanks to an extremely narrow car park entrance (I fear it won’t be the last). A dip in the lake helped soothe my initial consternation and made the effort, and swearing, worthwhile.
On one of our days off, we caught a ferry across the lake, for fear of driving, to take a look at the aforementioned fishing villages and bask in their beauty. Whilst the days of flogging carp and peddling anchovies have been replaced by flogging Cartier and peddling Armani, many of the communes have managed to retain much of their original charm and character. Bellagio, most likely the wealthiest of Como’s townships judging from the number of Ferraris per capita, remains an architectural marvel. However, we decided not to stay and take out a small loan to cover dinner but instead took the option of returning to the “riff-raff” side of Como, purchasing takeaway pizzas and a few Peroni’s from the corner shop, and sitting on the pebbled shoreline while watching the sun set behind a slightly different Alpine backdrop. Tomorrow, the peace will cease.
J
