Extremely old country, awful football team, perennially last in Eurovision, no not the United Kingdom but our next micronation: San Marino. Nestled in north-eastern Italy, ten kilometres west of the Italian coastal city of Rimini, San Marino can lay claim to having been an independent republic since Saint Marinus formed a monastic community there in 301 AD, thus making it the oldest sovereign state in the world as well as the oldest constitutional republic.
Following our Vatican visit and Rome roam, we re-joined Italy’s arterial motorway, the A1, in a south-easterly direction towards our last major Italian city of the tour: Naples. Informed to expect traffic chaos on levels only matched by Swindon’s Magic Roundabout, we decided to leave Vishnu well outside the city limits and use the decidedly ageing public transport system to get around.
You re-join us in the smallest, and quite possibly the most peculiar, nation on earth as we began to make the intrepid journey halfway across the entire country from Saint Peter's Square to the renowned Vatican Museums, a journey of a little over fifteen minutes by foot. You must keep your wits about you, however, as all manner of tourist traps and stubborn street sellers line the chaotic route, plying you with their wares.
When the country you’re visiting has the highest crime rate in the world but not a single prison cell or the shortest rail track but only one station you know you’re somewhere a little bit special.
Following a relatively relaxing week bathing in lakes and scraping on gates, our next involved far more hustle and bustle as we made our way to Italy’s second city in what were pretty miserable conditions. A bleak and gloomy Milan greeted us as we pulled into the only car park in the city guarded by a man in a hut, a very important requirement in this city, and withdrew our collapsible umbrellas from their holsters for the first time in earnest.
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.
The third leg of our Irish adventure brought us back to the Republic as we traced the Irish Sea southwards towards our return ferry home. One hundred and fifty Euros? Two hundred Euros? Those are the astronomical prices you’re looking at if booking anything with four walls, a mattress, and a soiled pillowcase within a hundred miles of Dublin.
As we continued our tour around the idyllic and viridescent island of Ireland, we weren’t exactly sure what to expect upon reaching the northern border - or even if there was one. Growing up hearing about the crises faced here, now coupled with the gift of Brexit, meant we had little idea what would greet us upon arriving at the European Union’s final frontier.
The Emerald Isle. Home of Guinness, Claddagh Rings, Taytos, and Bono - and it would also be our residence for a three-month stretch as we taught and toured our way around the rolling, verdant island of Ireland. Commencing in Rosslare Harbour on a frosty March morn, our strategy was to swiftly head westwards, pausing in the historic cities of Waterford and Cork before joining Ireland’s answer to the NC500: the Wild Atlantic Way.
