... at Lake Como

 

Adventures of the Anonymous Four at Lake Como

 

To avoid a very early start and reduce the number of hours spent driving in one day; we left on Thursday evening and stayed at a nearby Anonymous Inn. The following day we were therefore able to rise at the much more respectable time of 6am and headed off for the Channel Tunnel – which somehow became mutated to Channel Trouble. We had just enough time to grab something for breakfast, change money and buy stickers to put on the headlights before we were summoned to our vehicle. Initially Husband insisted on being in the right hand lane rather than join the dawdling queue in the left. As we merrily sped along it soon became clear that we were in the flexi pass lane and we actually needed the left hand lane all along.

With a cheery smile and wave at the security camera, we left the country.

We arrived in France and pointed towards Switzerland – which basically involved driving south. The roads were largely empty and carried us through generally dull, flat and non descript landscapes. We stopped briefly for lunch and Child the Younger sampled a tiny amount of French espresso. It was undrinkably strong. We bought some baguettes to have for lunch and carried on. Lunch was consumed on the move. My poulet fumet was rather nice and I fed Husband his food piecemeal. Child the Younger’s baguette was rather less successful. Firstly she had picked jambon and emmental but quickly remembered she didn’t like emmental. However, it descended into utter disaster when she decided that the sweet bread used was not her preferred accompaniment to ham. I’m sure it was all a cunning ploy to skip forward to the chocolate brownie pudding.

As we neared the French/Swiss border there was a discussion about borders and whether it was possible to stand astride it. Husband and I pointed out that we had done the very thing when walking in the Bavarian Alps. Child the Younger pointed out that you could therefore go on holiday for just a couple of minutes. 

The approach to Switzerland was much more interesting to drive through – there were bizarre artistic shapes along the edge of the motorway – which could actually be very dangerous if drivers looked at them more than the road. 

We stopped again briefly for a comfort break. I went into the Ladies – there were two cubicles. One was a tiled hole in the ground whilst the other bore a closer resemblance to a normal lavatory, albeit minus a seat. I briefly considered the options and went for the more substantial option, knowing the girls were following. And in they came. I heard their stunned silence and giggled ever so slightly. They of course were unaware that my cubicle had anything different. After initially deciding that they wouldn’t go I explained that it was fine, they just needed to keep long trousers well out of the way. 

Unable to delay my cubicle occupation much longer without causing comment, I emerged to find Child the Elder had almost completed the process of rolling her trousers up to her knees. Child the Younger caught sight of the loo, and the deception was over. Neither of them used the hole in the ground. I absolved myself of the need to try it, having used the hole in the ground variety on several occasions previously, particularly in China. 

We returned to the car and pressed on, happening across the first piece of seriously bendy road which zigzagged perilously down a hillside. The sat nav map showed it to be as frenetic as it was. The steep hill side consisted of dark, solid rock with water streaming off it, creating gushing cascades of waterfalls as rain and snow melt came off the pine clad hills above us. This was not a moment for the sat nav lady to state ‘you are no longer on the planned route’. 

The drive through France continued, but we neared the border with Germany and nudged our way along it down to Switzerland.  

With Switzerland began the tunnels. Having driven through a few Child the Younger asked ‘are we out of the tunnel yet?’ ‘Well,’ said Husband, ‘Let’s look at the clues’ as he glanced up through the windscreen at the blue sky above. 

Switzerland was infinitely more interesting. Firstly, the countryside did not have the flat boredom of France. Secondly the roads passed through towns and villages that did actually look like they belonged on a box of Alpen. 

We drove along the River Aare which passed through the town of Aarburg, presumably inhabited by Aarburgers with thriving careers as pirates. 

Finally we arrive at Lucerne – a picturesque town built around the edge of a large lake. Typically Swiss buildings jostled for space in the windy, narrow roads. The hotel – a prison until 1998 - was a huge building. Inside were dark stone corners and ominous signs of bars and solid doors. We went upstairs – each flight barricaded with a steel bar gate. Our cell had a thick wooden door with large metal hinges and the distinct remnants of the peephole which had now been blocked in for guest comfort.

 

It was a small room with extremely high bunk beds.

We ventured out in search of dinner and were now aware that Switzerland – like England – opted out of having the Euro. However, in their case, it was the wrong decision and very annoying as we had no Swiss francs, which seriously limited spending options. As it was raining we decided to eat at the first place we could find which was open and serving food. It took a while to find. In our perambulations we did get a brief tour of the town. The buildings were fascinating – many with round staircase towers on the outer walls. The lake was traversed by two ancient covered wooden bridges. 

It was handy having Child the Elder and Child the Younger about as the Swiss speak a curious form of German – as the girls both speak German they were able to translate vital things like what I might be about to order for dinner. The place we found for dinner served pasta and all the meals were utterly delicious. No one left anything. We returned to the hotel jail over the second wooden bridge and wandered through what appeared to be the shopping heart of the town - the narrow streets would suddenly open up into small cobbled squares with decorative fountains at the centre. There were a lot of watch shops, unsurprisingly. And we tried to find the most expensive. I attempted explaining to Child the Younger the difference between bling and subtle in action form, by either sidling up to her or leaping at her. I thought the metaphor was good, but I’m not sure if it worked.  

We got back and readied ourselves for bed. After clambering onto my top bunk I looked at Husband, a long way off in the bunk below me and commented that I hadn’t kissed him today. I suggested that if I spat in his mouth it would amount to the same thing. To my surprise he then stuck his head out and opened his mouth. Well, I couldn’t now back down. So I spat. And completely missed him. Embarrassed by this I tried again and got his ear. Now running out of ready spit I had a final attempt and hit the bulls eye. Child the Younger nearly wet herself laughing and Husband observed that actually it wasn’t quite as disgusting as he had thought it might be. Child the Elder emerged from the box in the corner which was the bathroom and asked whether she wanted to know what had happened.  

‘Well’, Child the Younger piped up, ‘it all began when Anonymous Author said ..’. 

We turned the lights off and Husband then stood up and let me kiss him properly. ‘Could you be any louder’ came a call out of the darkness. Well yes, actually, we could. As we immediately went on to demonstrate. 

The prison beds were very comfortable. However, after a few hours good sleep we were all woken at various intervals during the rest of the night by the high spirited shouts of the lads from the bar downstairs. Also all through the night I had been barely able to breathe for the smell of cigarette smoke. Even my throat was hurting and my chest ached. However, no one else smelled anything and they rather suspect I imagined it all. But I am quite confident that I didn’t.  

I was pleased when it was finally time to get up in the morning and make use of the shower – which was so fierce that it sucked the shower curtain in on you and then drilled holes in your body with each water jet, which tickled a bit even though it did feel as if your skin was coming off. 

As we went down to breakfast Husband sent a text to the family back in the UK to confirm that we had spent the night in prison and were just going down to breakfast. Bro Younger and Middle Bro soon replied with queries about what the journey had been like. 

Former Wife (and mother to Child the Elder and Child the Younger) replied with a demanding ‘Why?’ Immediately the girls looked sheepish. 

‘Did you tell mum we were staying in a jail?’ was of course the first question from us. Child the Younger ummed and erred a bit. ‘Yes I’m sure I did. Maybe I didn’t. I think I did. I don’t remember’. 

The phone rang. It was Former Wife. Husband hurriedly explained that we were in a hotel which used to be a jail and did she want to speak to the girls. Oh yes she did. It appears that she had really thought the situation through – imagining that they would have been taken off to a special children’s unit. For a brief moment everyone felt a bit guilty. But at the same time, it was also quite funny. 

Having bothered to pack handcuffs, Husband insisted on handcuffing me to the bars on the window, taking pictures and then behaving in a manner as though the girls weren’t actually there. 

We wandered around town in the morning sunshine and now saw the town by daylight. Knobbly trees lined the lake where ducks and swans competed for breakfast. It was cold, the surrounding snow capped hills looked crisp in the hazy sunshine and you could feel that you were breathing fresh mountain air. Market stalls lined the lake were conducting a brisk trade. We passed stalls with fabulously smelly, mouldy, crumbling cheeses – some with olives in and some with dark crusts. Other stalls held luscious, vibrant coloured fruit and vegetables, or arrays of hanging salamis. There were huge containers of croissants and the warm smell of freshly baked bread mixed in with the perfume and sudden flashes of colour from the tulips on a neighbouring stall. 

Tall, slender spires and decorative buildings abounded, punctuated by sudden empty squares and fountains which we now saw were often painted.  

 

Deciding it was time to continue onward we returned to the car and with the assistance of the sat nav lady, found our way easily back onto the motorway. 

Now the scenery became distinctly more Alpy. The road wound past snow frosted mountains with cloud collars, craggy rocks peeped out from the cloud and the snowy summits rose up aware from the pine clad lower foothills. 

Chocolate box towns hugged the undulating fields at the base of the clouds while other houses perched perilously on upper slopes. 

We approached the Seelisberg Tunnel – a mere 6 miles long. Being in a tunnel for 6 miles is actually not very exciting. Soon after leaving, we joined the queue for the Gothard Tunnel – except we didn’t know at the time it was a queue to control entry to the tunnel so as to avoid congestion in the mountain. We assumed the queue went all the way and jolly nearly diverted off to the mountain pass – which was closed anyway due to the snow. We had looked at the pass on the sat nav – it was a very chaotic looking road. 

Emerging from the other side of the tunnel the mountains looked a little more menacing, and there were narrow cascades of water finding their way down from the melting snow line. Trees forced life on every small shelf down the otherwise sheer rock faces. 

We passed a Butticars outlet – presumably selling cars that ‘shake that arse’ and followed the road on around Lake Lugano. It was a beautiful lake with a smattering of villages around the shore line and a line of white peaked mountains towering behind. 

At Lugano we crossed into Italy and immediately the buildings and roads were different and thoroughly Italian in culture and spirit, a fascinating insight into the tricky question of what makes Lake Como so quintessentially Italian whilst Lake Lugano is unequivocally Swiss. 

On the map the border between Lake Como and Lake Lugano appears as an afterthought, perhaps the result of a post war boundary adjustment. However, it has in fact been an international frontier for 500 years. Lake Lugano has been Swiss since the dukes of Milan lost the surrounding region of Ticino to the invading northerners in 1512. Even today, with Switzerland not a member of the EU, this frontier remains significant. 

In the small piece of road between the end of Switzerland but before the beginning of Italy there was a tunnel. As it technically wasn’t in any country at all clearly no on was prepared to maintain it. It was roughly hewn out of the mountain side, rained more in the tunnel than out and was unlit. It made me wonder what would happen if you lived here – would you need to pay taxes? The towns immediately looked more ramshackle yet still retained a rustic charm, crumbling under the weight of history and poor urban planning. Even the roads quickly deteriorated into winding, narrow lanes where the oncoming drivers disregarded the obvious danger this implied. Dozens of churches filled every town, each having a tall bell tower that struggled to contain the huddle of bells within it. 

Finally we arrived at Musso and drove up the steep winding road to the apartment. After very briefly settling in we headed off to Dongo in search of lunch which was satisfied in the form of beer and paninis. We parked in the crammed piazza dominated by the town hall which held the trial of Mussolini. Wanting to explore the town a little, Child the Younger and I ran up the hill to the church while Husband and Child the Elder followed at a more sedate pace. Dongo had formed part of an independent republic, victimised in the 15^th century by the inquisitor Peter of Verona for daring to doubt that the Pope was God’s earthly representative. The people got rid of Peter by hacking him to death, and that independent defiance could still be sensed in the atmosphere of the town. It was a small, close knit place where strangers were a source of interest and suspicion. 

We returned to the car and went back to Musso to explore the town that would be home for the next week. Musso is a small village snuggled under the rock face of Il Sasso which is quarried for marble. 

A steep path edged its way between the houses in the midst of which we happened across the small church of Sant’ Eufemia built in 1662. We followed a general downward path until it joined the road at an inevitable hair pin. The pavement came and went adding extra danger to the walk down. Musso is quiet and faintly pretty. We found the beach and wandered along to the peaceful harbour where a handful of fishermen and ducks were passing the afternoon. A moorhen had made its nest in the steps of a presumably rarely used boat. Along the shore was an old building whose huge veranda covered with a fading wisteria. We sat in the sun for a while with no noise but the gentle flack flack of the boat masts and quiet lapping of the lake waters against the shore. Of all the Italian lakes, Lake Como comes most heavily praised and has drawn people as a result of the magnificence of its surroundings as well as the simplicity of the working life led by local fishermen and craftspeople. And in parts that atmosphere still survives. 

 

Breaking into the gently stillness, the church bells peeled out, calling the faithful. 

We wandered back, past the church which now emitted the haunting sounds of song, and climbed the hill back to the apartment. Child the Elder suggested we should climb the hill at least three times a day in the interest of keeping fit. 

After unpacking and settling in (which included popping down to the local supermarket to buy in some supplies – and there was the option of frozen whole octopus) we returned to Dongo in the evening for dinner at a pizzeria – where George Clooney has apparently dined. To get there involved negotiating the narrow, traffic light controlled road through Musso. Something had happened to Husband during the afternoon because during the drive to dinner he had suddenly turned into a local and hurtled along this winding road at what could only really be described as a reckless pace. Although the traffic light at the other end was undoubtedly red, given this was Italy, there was no guarantee that there would not be an oncoming vehicle. Husband’s argument was that the car in front was his insurance as it would get hit first and that would be ok, therefore it was imperative to keep up with it. Unfortunately the car in front was being driven by an Italian version of Anonymous British Formula 1 Driver. He also felt a sense of male pride given that there were local lads in front and local lads behind us. When I pointed out that he didn’t need to try to keep up with them his response was ‘yes I do’. 

After some initial issues finding somewhere to park, we piled into the very busy pizzeria. The staff there clearly had not finished their course at the charm school. Under pressure to order we selected some meats for antipasti and having sorted out something that the girls would like I randomly selected a Napoli pizza. The cold meats were delicious – although the smoked meat did taste rather curiously of salmon. The pizzas arrived. They were enormous. And then I noticed with a mild degree of disappointment that the Napoli pizza has anchovies and capers. If there’s one thing I dislike more than capers, it is anchovies. Other than that, the pizza was delicious. Child the Younger’s had a burned bottom although she didn’t mention this until a few days later.

Although no one could finish their pizza Husband and I decided to have a pudding. The girls abstained – either from some ridiculous notion of being full or teenage body shape self consciousness and consequent dietary guilt. Earlier in the meal Child the Younger had been worried about her bulging tummy. I tried to explain that your body has to go somewhere when you sit down, and used an empty grissini packet to demonstrate that it was flat when stretched out (standing up) but bulged when ‘sat down’. She looked at me a bit oddly and said ‘are you really trying to say that the grissini packet represents me?’ It was a fair point – so I folded the packet in half to make it shorter, and ran the demonstration again. 

Returning to Musso, Child the Younger and I took Child the Elder at her word and asked Husband to drop us off at the bottom of the hill so that we could walk up. Initially we decided to run – which was a bit silly as it was the steepest part of the hill, so by the time we reached the first hairpin (about 20m up the road) we were completely knackered and resorted to a brisk walk for the remaining climb. In the darkness we caught the attention of the some of the many dogs skulking in back gardens and now and then a vicious peal of dog barks would ring out from the black silence – which made me jump and walk a little faster. 

We got back to the apartment before Child the Elder and Husband. Apparently they had been delayed by having to be imaginative about where to park the car. 

We slept well and opened the shutters to a bright and sunny day, the morning sunlight gleaming on the snowy mountain peaks. We breakfasted and ventured out. 

 

Without any distinct plan, we headed to Menaggio – one of the larger towns situated on the lake shore at the mouth of the river Senagra. In 1945 the town witnessed Mussolini’s escape attempt before he was stopped in Dongo by partisans. 

Despite the bright sunshine, it was cool as we walked along the lake shore to the town centre, past curious stumpy trees – dark trunked on which sprouted vibrant green leaves. There were a number of pigeons about and I asked Child the Elder – who was half chasing them – whether a pigeon could walk without moving its head. She said no. Therefore, I reasoned, could you make a pigeon walk so fast it would get a headache? 

 

We sat in Piazza Garibaldi and had drinks in the sun; beside us was the gentle tinkle of the fountains from which sparrows came to drink. The peace was briefly shattered by the loud rev of a motorbike. Child the Younger turned to look but all that we could see were two small boys on tricycles. We discussed how cool it would be to invent a tricycle with sound effects so that children could out-rev young scooter drivers. Some work would probably also need to be done on the tricycle’s bell as this would clearly be poor competition for a horn. 

We wandered round the town briefly and then returned to the square for lunch.

Having ‘done’ Menaggio we ventured further along the lake to Argeno, but by now the weather was starting to turn – and we were stuck behind a particularly slow driver. The car was Italian but we surmised that it must be hire car because the driving was just too cautious. Husband was becoming concerned that the growing queue of traffic would see his GB sign and assume it was the English driver who was dawdling. To save the reputation of English drivers he selected a barely adequate piece of road to overtake and earn the respect of the Italians. Initially none of the Italian drivers followed but soon a few others managed to pass the slow driver and came into view behind us.

Requiring lavatory facilities we went in search of a café. As the weather was cool the girls opted for hot chocolate while Husband and I had coffee. The cioccolato con panna were enormous and so good that neither of them would actually speak while they were drinking it. It went down on the list of the top 5 best hot chocolates in the world – although they couldn’t actually remember what the other 4 were. The coffee was served in a small glass cup not much bigger than a thimble and even then, it was only half full. This was all the information I needed to know. It was going to be very very strong. And it was. Child the Younger – having disliked the French espresso – refused to try any, which was a shame as this was on a whole new level of undrinkable. 

Argegno was far more tumbledown than Menaggio. Despite tourist guide claims that the area becomes prettier the further south you go along the lake, this was clearly a place that tourists drove through rather than stopped at. Children played around the fountain in the small piazza outside the café under the ominously dark clouds that loomed overhead. 

The Italian effect was now starting to rub off on Child the Younger as well who had started going round saying ‘ehh, ehh’ in an Italian accent quite a lot. On the drive back I taught them ‘che cosa fa’ and for the entire length of the journey the back seat ringed with ‘ehh, ehh che cosa fa’ – and Husband kept glaring at me. They then wanted the words for alien face, which I decided were ‘faccia straniera’. Child the Elder was slightly baffled as to why I knew the Italian word for alien. I was baffled about why they wanted to be able say ‘what are you doing alien face’ in preference to vorrei una pizza e una coca. 

Again we walked up the hill to the apartment, Child the Elder joining us on this occasion while Husband drove – obviously disappointed to miss out on the climb. Husband and I had a siesta while the girls watched films. 

For dinner we went to the nearby Spinnaker restaurant. They had limited English – well, closer to none. But I liked that it meant I had to be able to speak Italian and be understood without the rather irritating thing of having the Italians insist on reverting to English. I managed with reasonable success. 

We were the only diners but a crowd of local men were watching football, and every now and then a cheer would resound from the end of the restaurant. The food was delicious, especially the Spinnaker salad which actually was completely different to how she had described it. 

During dinner our conversation naturally covered a wide range of subjects. We walked about the film Shirley Valentine. As soon as Child the Elder mentioned it I said that it was my mother in it. She agreed to such an extent that the mouthful of coke she had just taken was in danger of returning to the world via her nostrils. I told her to put it back into the glass – which she duly, and rather ungracefully did, and then commented that it was good I had suggested this as it had not occurred to her. 

The ensuing conversation has this effect another couple of times but with less dramatic results. 

We discussed what you would do if the world was going to end in 2 minutes, for example make love. Twice.  

As the subject matter had turned to matters of a sexual nature I gave the girl a handy tip for how to get out of an amorous situation which was escalating in intensity and had initially seemed a good idea but now they weren’t so sure about. It basically consists of pointing and laughing and is usually guaranteed to spoil any moment. 

We also discussed how we would like to die – clearly not a cheery subject but given that it will happen to all of us there is no harm having a preference on how the exact form it would take. Child the Elder wanted to be killed by a bomb. I wanted something equally dramatic but more along the lines of a plane crash so that I would have a few seconds at least to know it was going to happen, and to enjoy the moment. Child the Younger wanted to die in her sleep but next to someone she didn’t like so that they would be covered in all the goo when she wee’d and poo’d in the final relax of death. 

The following day pioveva so we got up late and Husband made the executive decision that it was a good day to go to Milan for a shopping trip. 

Milan stands in the middle of Lombardy’s rich agricultural plains at the foot of the Alps, guarding the route from central Europe south to Rome. As the home of the country’s stock exchange and banks, the centre of Italian broadcasting, publishing and marketing, Milan has in many ways more of a claim to be Italy’s capital city than Rome. Indeed there’s a long standing antipathy between the two cities, with the Milanese often insinuating that the Romans are lazy and corrupt.

Milan is a place where appearance counts and it is almost impossible to be overdressed. So time was taken to get ready. 

Husband fired up the sat nav and we set off. If you want to confuse a sat nav, I suggest you drive around the east shore of Lake Como which consists largely of tunnels. The sat nav had no idea where we were and seemed to insist that we were meandering along windy country roads, then would suddenly move us in the brief interludes between tunnels before reverting to the original idea that we were actually in completely the wrong place. After a while, driving through a constant series of tunnels becomes rather dull. 

With the excellent sat nav facility we ended up in the centre of town and located a convenient place to park. Naturally the rain has eased off until the moment that we parked. Armed with only a very limited map we navigated out way to Pizza della Scala, on one side of which was the showy opera theatre La Scala. Galleria Vittorio Emmanuelle II shopping centre was constructed to link La Scala with the Piazza del Duomo. This was a huge cross shaped arcade with a high glass roof and mosaic floor – very similar to the one in Naples (which was built as a copy based on the success of the Milan version) only this one was a thriving hub. Originally intended as a covered walkway it was designed by Guiseppe Mengoni who died when he fell from the roof a few days before the inaugural ceremony. The mosaic between the glass cupola is composed of the symbols that made up the cities of unified Italy – Romulus and Remus for Rome, a fleus-de-lys for Florence, a white shield with a red cross for Milan and a bull for Turin. It is considered good luck to spin round three times on the bull’s testicles and the floor is consequently indented. 

Restaurants and cafes sat between the designer shops which included Gucci, Prada and Louis Vuitton. At Prada a man opened the door to you and relieved you of your coat and umbrella leaving you completely free to spend money. Clearly browsers with no cash were not welcome. At Gucci – where we were welcome – none of the items had prices listed on the basis that if you had to ask then you couldn’t afford it.

The other end of the arcade it opened onto huge Piazza del Duomo that was dominated by the exaggerated spires of the Duomo – a massive, florid, pale stoned structure that was so decorative you couldn’t tell which part of the building all the various spires belonged to. Medieval buildings in the piazza were demolished in the late 1800’s to allow grander, unobstructed views of the cathedral. 

 

The gaudily opulent arcade formed a huge colonnaded continuation of shopping around the edge of the piazza. Given the torrential rain we – along with several hundred other people – decided to remain in the cover of the colonnade. The small downside to this was that the marble paving was dangerously slippery as result of the wet feet walking over it. Note to self – must learn the Italian word for puddle. 

We went in search of food but to be honest, didn’t fancy sitting outside in a street café – despite the large umbrella covers and gas heaters. Husband led us to a panini shop where the owner, seeing our dilemma set up a table inside for us. It therefore seemed rude not to eat there. We looked at the vast range of panini and our selection was promptly toasted. They were absolutely delicious. Probably the best panini in the world. And a certificate on the wall implied that this outlet had won good food awards in the past, and also featured in the press. 

Suitably replenished we returned for some serious shopping. In the interests of staying warm and dry we went into the department store. This was the Milan version of Debenhams. By which I mean the various chains inside, instead of being Pineapple, Maine, Country Casuals and Principles were Versace, Armani, Gucci, Agent Provocateur, Dolce & Gabanna. Child the Elder took a fancy to a Gucci bag that was barely big enough to hold your mobile phone. For a mere €240 it could have been hers. Much in need of a belt, I found the Gucci belt that I had admired in their individual shop in the Galleria– it was €165. Probably a bit too much for a belt. In the young ladies department we saw a dress for just under €1000. We went up, floor by floor, admiring the clothes and shrinking away from the prices. The shoe department was fabulous – the shoes were exhibits, works of art rather than things to be worn. I have now touched Jimmy Choo shoes. 

Child the Elder bought some underwear she rather liked and was then rather proud of the fancy shop bag she could now carry. Talking of bags, Child the Elder had a bag thing. She had bought a Milano bag – similar to the Roma one she bought on the last Italy trip. But this was not to be the end of it. A collection was underway that was not linked to how many bags a girl could possibly need. 

After wandering around the 7^th floor and still not having reached the top – or ventured into the basement we decided to call it a day. Anyway, the prices seemed to rise with the building and Husband had been remarkably brave and patient.  

As the Duomo was such a magnificent looking edifice we decided to venture inside. Child the Younger was curious as to how unreligious people such as Husband and myself wanted to go into churches, but I explained to her that the buildings themselves were beautiful, amazing things and I just didn’t concern myself with who lived there. The interior was huge, dark and forbidding. The pale exterior did not continue inside, where the dark stone was dimly lit by a green hue from the minimal amount of daylight coming through the stained glass windows. It was also curiously devoid of ornaments and not at all the gaudy catholic display of gold leafed wealth. The Duomo is the world’s largest Gothic cathedral and third largest Roman Catholic church. You can walk along the rooftop forest of pinnacle and statues, but it didn’t seem like the right weather for it today. 

Milan has a reputation for being ugly and industrial. The post-war suburbs are not attractive and allied bombing raids destroyed much of what was left of the medieval town. Bomb damage still riddles the city as many sites were issued with preservation orders, limiting what could be built. But the centre contains a range of architectural styles. 

We wandered back to the car and on the way the girls had an ice cream – in pouring rain. Child the Younger went for chocolate fondant which judging by its taste couldn’t possibly have been ice cream but rather chocolate fudge cake in a cone. It was fabulously rich. 

The rain started to come down with greater persistence. Despite this, all of the un-umbrella’d refused to purchase one from the vast number of black street umbrella sales men who must have initially thought their luck would be in today. Presumably they swapped the brollies for sunglasses on nicer days. 

Back in the car, and thoroughly soaked, we all took our shoes off in an attempt to dry and warm our feet. Except Husband of course, who needed to drive. 

We returned to the apartment (did not walk up the hill due to wearing silly shoes for the sake of looking fashionable in Milan) and Husband set about making dinner of spaghetti bolognaise. Well, when in Rome – although we weren’t, but you take the point. 

We discussed our plan for the morrow. If the weather was good we would go to Menaggio and take a boat. If the weather was bad, we would go to Menaggio and take a boat. Always good to have a plan. 

We settled down for our now usual film viewing. During it Child the Elder – who was on a different sofa – saw a cat walked past the door and therefore commented ‘ooh look, there’s a cat’ in response to which the three of us leaned forward in unison to look at it. We didn’t see il gatto but apparently the effect was amusing. 

When we woke up the next day Child the Younger asked if we were both in the bedroom and if we were covered up. Receiving a yes to both questions she bounded in and showered us with confetti. I should perhaps mention at this juncture that it was our third wedding anniversary. The bedroom remained strewn with confetti for the rest of the holiday. We went downstairs for breakfast and on the table were presents, a card and more confetti. I was deeply touched and rather suspect that Husband was as well, particularly when we opened the presents and saw that they were very well thought out gifts, entirely appropriate for us. The card made a comment about us being weird. Husband told me that the girls had never thought he was strange before I came along and that therefore it must be all be my fault. I suspect he had always been a bit peculiar but kept it hidden well. 

It wasn’t raining and the sun was making an effort to shine even though it was still a cool morning, so we decided to go with Plan A – go to Menaggio and take a boat. The choice of where to go was simple – wherever the next boat was going to. This turned out to be Bellaggio. It was a short crossing, which was good as Child the Elder was still not good on boats despite all the times we have made her do boat trips. 

 

Bellaggio, cradled by cypress-spiked hills on the tip of the Triangolo Lariano, is scattered over the vast area of land from the lakeside to the top of Mt San Primo at 1686m. The Borgo is the town’s historic centre and the shore is lined on one side with oleanders and lime trees and on the other by fancy hotels painted in pastel shades of butterscotch and peach, fronted by long arcades that were filled with table clothed empty tables although dreary elderly couples could be seen just inside the windows, looking out across the lake and appearing to be somehow stuck in the 1920’s, preserving an aristocratic air of nostalgia. 

As it was close enough to lunch time, we walked up the steep cobbled alleyways in search of food.

A busy café seemed to fit the bill and it was filled with multi national custom. I decided that it would be a good idea to write a book which told you how to say please, thank you, bill and 2 beers in every language in the world. How much else could you possibly need to say. 

As it was a cool day we treated ourselves to hot food for lunch. Followed by a not at all hot ice cream from the gelateria opposite. This time I went for the dangerously rich chocolate fondant flavour. Child the Elder had meringue flavour – which was very odd. It wasn’t cold. At all. It was just like the soggy centre of a freshly baked gooey meringue. Child the Younger initially seemed willing to let me try her ice cream but instead she pushed it into my face and covered my nose with ice cream. There was a Crema della Nonna flavour, which concerned me. Nonna is Italian for granny, so that would be cream of granny flavour.

I had a small walking tour of the town, and on the say so of this, suggested that we walk out to Punta Spartivento – literally translated as the point where the wind divides. It was soon clear that the reference to the wind was not light hearted. Husband wanted to confirm with me exactly what was so special about what we were doing. So Child the Younger and I jogged down the road to see – she was still eating ice cream during this venture and I did have visions of disaster.  

It was worth seeing, despite the strong and cold wind. There were good views along the three prongs of the lake and from there you became starkly aware of how surrounded by mountains the area actually was, giving it a wilder, less developed feel than the heavily touristy other lakes. 

We retraced our steps towards the centre to continue our exploration and went into the St James Basilica. It is the only church I can recall where the nave goes up an obvious and reasonably steep slope. In the piazza outside the church the former monastery was now a Bar Sport.  

Bellagio is characterised by narrow, cobbled passageways that wind steeply up the mountain side and most of these passageways are lined by shops and restaurants. Occasionally there were glimpses of the old medieval defences – the odd tower or wall. Salita Serbelloni – flanked by colourful shops and a few restaurants and bars is called The Ditch by the locals as it was part of the defence system for the old town and medieval walls can still be seen running down one side of the street. 

We walked on to Villa Gotica – a former neo gothic Anglican church that had been converted into a private home at the end of the 19^th century and converted to apartments in the 1950’s. Despite all this it still looked like a place that Dracula might consider if he was looking for a holiday home. 

We went into the park and wandered back down the hill towards the lake. Child the Elder and Child the Younger played on the seesaw and various other activities put there for the benefit of children. Husband used this opportunity to try and get some nice pictures of them, preferably near each other – he did. There was one good picture in the 30-ish he took. I was coerced into going on the seesaw as well and the entire thing erupted into disaster when all three of us were on it and Child the Elder ended up slowly back flipping over Child the Younger while that end was on the ground. Unfortunately the entire incident was captured on film by the ever vigilant Husband. 

On returning to the boat port we ambled around the shops to buy postcards and souvenirs before catching the boat back to Menaggio – fortunately not the same boat being taken by the very large and elderly group of German tourists who had suddenly appeared. 

Our return boat went via Varenna so we had a nice, close up view of that town as well which rather curiously spread itself across either side of a rocky outcrop into the lake, trapped beneath towering cliffs. A small wooden walkway had been constructed around said outcrop so that you could easily pass from one part of the town to the other. 

As we had had a more than usually sumptuous lunch we knocked up a snack for dinner of parma ham, cheese, bread and rocket and tomato salad. The girls wouldn’t eat anything that resembled green, but other than that, it was a remarkably success.  

During dinner we discussed kitchen equipment. Child the Younger wanted a dishwasher but would only use it when she was pushed for time – for example, she said, if her house was on fire. I suggested that getting the dishes done would be the last thing on your mind if your house was burning. The fireman were unlikely to bring you back in – having rescued you – on the grounds that you were a dirty cow. Child the Younger then commented that she would want her dishes dried in the washing machine – yes, washing machine. There was a unanimous decision that Child the Younger should never have white goods of any variety. 

The following day – which, by the way, was Wednesday – was a beautiful sunny morning so we decided to go in search of Top Gear’s greatest driving road in the world. Husband went off to plug it into the sat nav. It was a 6 hour round trip not including stops. As it was a nice day and would be a long time in the car he wanted a group decision. We decided to go for it. 

After breakfast had been dealt with and the dishwasher emptied we were ready. However, in the dishwasher Child the Elder discovered a strand of spaghetti had remained in one of the saucepans. She didn’t want to touch it. Child the Younger did. I told them that the way to tell if spaghetti is cooked is to throw it against the wall – it will stick if cooked. Child the Younger threw it. It didn’t stick (top tip – you cannot cook spaghetti in a dishwasher). Furthermore, it completely vanished. And I mean completely. Husband, suddenly reverting to grown up phase, insisted we find it to throw it away. But it was nowhere. (Top tip – you can make disappearing spaghetti in a dishwasher). 

Remembering the passports at the last minute, we drove north into the mountains towards St Moritz – which certainly had all the appearance of a place where rich people go the ski. We crossed the border into Switzerland – not that any of the customs official took the slightest bit of notice of us – and followed the road up into the mountains. Soon there were high banks of snow on either side of the road which zig zagged up the mountain side to the Julierpass at 2284m. We stopped to look at the view and play around in the snow for a bit – even though Child the Elder was wearing cropped trousers and flip flops, although she did make use of the walking boots conveniently left in the boot of the car. Icicles gleamed and gently melted in the sun. There were pure, vast swathes of untouched snow like a huge, thick blanket laid across the landscape. It was stunning. And bright. Aware that we couldn’t eat or drink until we returned to Italy (not having Swiss francs) Husband was anxious to keep going. We curled up to Zurnez and then round to the Pass de Fuorn 2149m high. 

 

The lay-bys and viewing points along the road had not been cleared and remained treacherous, covered as they were by deep snow and ice. 

We drove round the edge of a snow covered lake, which obviously froze over often enough to warrant a warning sign. Child the Younger started to feel unwell – partly because of the constantly weaving and winding roads. 

We joined the road from Davos to Stelvio which had been picked out by Top Gear. The road did indeed consist of a series of hairpin bends with little room for error – particularly in wintery weather. Stelvio itself was a pretty and decorative Swiss village. We passed through and back into Italy – again the customs officials barely acknowledged our passing though. The first town we came across was a rather fabulous old walled town with wall and gate houses still very much intact. It had the rather unattractive name of Sludarno but would do for lunch. It had a quiet and quaint village feel to it and the distinct impression that it hadn’t been touched for 100 years. After initially suspecting that everywhere was shut we noticed that the bar in the piazza was actually serving sandwiches and not just ice cream. Despite being part of Italy there was the distinct impression that they did not consider themselves Italian.  

Out of nowhere a tour group appeared, circumnavigate the town and then all piled into a small church and never appeared again. As soon as they were out of sight, all the shops opened. It was most bizarre – perhaps some rural way of indicating when the siesta is over. 

Child the Elder and Husband went off in search of biscuits and left me alone with Child the Younger. The prospect frightened her and she ran off to the loo. When the others returned they also brought a postcard of the Stelvio pass. It looked serious. The photo didn’t even look real – the road seemed to float on the mountain as though it had been drawn on there. 

We pressed on. The road became narrower and climbed determinedly towards the 2757m high Stelvio pass. Then, at the last minute was a sign confirming the pass was closed. It was slightly disappointing that the Swiss passes had all been open and the Italian one was closed. We parked and decided to walk along the pass a little way. The road was extremely narrow and I wasn’t entirely convinced you could fit two lanes of traffic on it. In the silence all we could hear was snow falling off the pine trees that covered the mountainside and a constant sound of running water from the snow melt. The road soon became very icy and water from the melt run off could be clearly seen running below the thick ice. On either side of the road there were banks of snow that had been cleared previously. A number of hairpins led up the mountain, rising sharply with each turn. 

 

It was definitely too dangerous to drive through. We went back to the car and consulted the map. There was no option other than to return the way we had come. Whilst there were a couple of points where we could have diverted off, there was no guaranteed that the roads would be open. Rather than take the risk, all we could do was re-trace our steps. 

Back we went into Switzerland – and this time we were stopped. Go in and out of a country a couple of times during the day and eventually they will sit up and notice you. The man examined our passports closely and asked where we were going. Lake Como, I replied. He seemed a little surprised but let us carry on our way. It’s a good thing we hadn’t been stopped going out as I am not entirely sure where I would have said we were off to – he probably hasn’t heard of Top Gear’s greatest driving road in the world. 

Finally we re-entered Italy and arrived back in Musso. Much in need of dinner we went to the restaurant in the centre of town which overlooked the lake. It did have fabulous views out of the large windows. We could see the sun set, and then watched the bats flitting about in the half light of dusk. 

The food was fancier – not your ordinary pasta and pizza. I decided on pasta with courgette but then for some utterly bizarre reason ordered the wrong dinner in the form of spinach gnocchi. My green balls in tomato sauce duly appeared and were delicious. 

The next day was grey and the clouds curled themselves around the waists of the mountains. In the absence of other ideas we went to Como. Unfortunately there were some Americans there – Husband commented that the chaps on the border control were not doing their job. He could appreciate that it was a dull job, but even so.  

Como isn’t the prettiest town on the lake, and on the outskirts is fairly industrialised – being the main supplier of silk for Milan’s fashion houses. However, due to its proximity to Milan and the autostrada is it much visited. 

We had lunch in a lakeside café on the corner of the thoroughly unromantic concrete paved Piazza Cavour which was bounded by unsightly modern hotels and banks. It was tasty food, but Como is not renowned for its culinary depth. Even the local people moan that there’s nowhere worthwhile to eat in the town at all. After eating, we set about wandering around the Citta Murata – pausing in a few tourist shops for Child the Elder and Child the Younger to argue about what they bought their mother. Apparently anything they bought would get broken so Child the Younger wanted to go for something indestructible – but without any specific idea as to what, while Child the Elder didn’t mind getting something that could break on the basis that it was the thought that counts. Eventually they settled on multi coloured pasta. 

In our perambulations of the old town’s dense grid of narrow pedestrianised lanes Husband found himself drawn to a model shop while Child the Younger’s attention was grabbed by a funky bike helmet. There were also some rather fun Union Jack bike goggles. Later in the day when we discussed the effect of chopping onions and how best not to cry Child the Younger suggested that wearing these goggles might be just the thing.  

The Duomo, in the heart of the lanes, is a strikingly beautiful building, combining Gothic and Renaissance styles. The façade which towers over the piazza, shows the Gothic spirit with its fairytale pinnacles and buffoonish gargoyles, but was finished in a Renaissance style. We went inside and messed around with cameras for a while, and left as a coach load of noisy tourists came in – to the annoyance of the local faithful who loudly whispered ‘silenzio’. 

We walked through the narrow streets to Piazza San Fedele, formerly the city’s corn market on which several medieval frontages survive. Squashed into a corner, its façade partly obscured by an arcaded building stuck in front of it is the church of San Fedele. 

After having seen all that was really worth seeing on a damp day in Como, we returned to Musso. 

Husband set to making dinner – a fabulous chicken and tomato concoction with jacket potatoes. It was all going splendidly until he put the butter into the oven to soften it up a bit – and then completely forgot about it. When I opened the oven to get the jackets I asked him why there was a packet of butter in there. Husband looked sheepish and said oops. The jackets were now swimming in butter so it was more a case of having butter on your jacket rather than in it. 

After dinner, I got on with some vital revising while the others played Uno. Which they played until 1am. 

The following day – our last full day – the game of Uno was continued. At one point I selected a colour change, and accidentally said the wrong colour and then couldn’t go. 

As it was our last full day and we would be leaving early the next day, we cleaned the apartment and packed. I re-washed the white shirt that I had turned slightly blue by washing it with a new pair of jeans, and managed to get it a little bit more white again. 

As Husband’s sat nav was helpfully not recognising the street name of the hotel we were due to stay at in Lille we went to the nearest internet café to look up the hotel location and hopefully find a nearby street name. We found the café and although there were people inside it did look not entirely open. Husband went to turn the handle – which did nothing. Rather in despair he looked through the window at the people inside. On the door was a sign saying Spingere. Child the Younger asked me what it meant. I said it meant Push. So she pushed, and the door opened. The man inside looked at us in a surprised manner as though we were visitors to the planet – which we did indeed appear to be as we had failed to cope with the basic mechanics of a door.

We then set of in search of the Musso castle. We drove along the road suggestively named Via al Castello. At the end we parked and walked through the narrow passageways between the houses. After a few false turns, the path turned steeply up the hillside, alongside a field with particularly inquisitive sheep. It later transpired that the sheep were waiting for dinner and thought that we were bringing it – hence their interest in us. 

The ground underfoot was wet and muddy, and the ramshackle path – or rather steps, well actually chunks of stone set into the hillside – was getting steeper. Or disappearing completely. We climbed up onto a small plateau which was wonderfully overgrown with grass and wild flowers, but the path vanished completely. There were two small, tumbledown cottages and I headed towards those on the basis that the path must re-appear around there – which indeed it did. The suggestion of a path – and more steps – led between the buildings up the hillside beyond.

We heard the sound of frantic barking and an Alsatian looking dog which had been placidly languishing outside a farmhouse a few hundred metres over to the right suddenly started to run towards us. It didn’t look friendly and I was worried. So was Child the Younger, which worried me more as she is a dog person. So if a dog person was scared then there was good reason to be jolly concerned about the whole situation. I had not said anything about the dog – pretending to be quite calm about the situation. But Child the Younger said something along the lines of ‘we’re going to be killed by a dog’. ‘What shall we do’ I helpfully enquired. Child the Younger opted for run. Fast. Away.  

So we continued up the hill at pace – which was difficult and tiring. Once fully embedded in the wood and feeling safe – for no obvious reason at all – we stopped and got our breath back. 

There were remnants of buildings in the wood but the path now really was deteriorating and I was concerned that we were in the wrong footwear and that Child the Elder and Husband had stopped following quite a while away, so we turned back. I warned Child the Younger that going down would be harder than going up, and the trick was to run towards a tree and use it to ‘land’ on. She slightly misinterpreted the message and a few times ran to me – not being as firmly rooted as a tree I was less successful at slowing her down. 

At one particularly steep point – which we had clambered up on all fours, I suggested that she hold onto a tree branch and use that to provide support while she climbed down the sheer sided slope. She did hold the branch, and then proceeded to slide down the slope on her bum. Refer to aforementioned comment about wet and muddy underfoot. It was now wet and muddy on Child the Younger’s back and bum.

We climbed down the steps through the fields behind the cluster of houses and found Child the Elder and Husband. They had been chatting to an old man with a lot of dogs who had informed them that you could actually drive to the castle. So we followed the road that he had indicated. It meandered along the hillside, initially in the wrong direction. Unfortunately we couldn’t get to the ruins as a JCB was blocking the road, apparently re-building it. As the road was very narrow, Husband had no option to attempt a three point turn. He backed the car towards the sheer drop and we asked the girls to let us know if the back wheel went over the edge. They were curiously unimpressed. 

For our last dinner in Italy we returned to the Spinnaker. Being a Friday night it was a little busier, and the manageress’s daughter was wandering around with her dog – which was intermittently dressed up.  

We ordered drinks and much to Husband’s amusement Child the Younger was served my wine while I was given her coke.  

For dinner, Child the Younger opted for a wurstel pizza. We didn’t see the dog again after this, and I suggested that perhaps she had eaten the dog. As it tasted nice she was relatively unrepentant. 

The following day we left promptly for the drive back to Lille. We had thought we would pass through 6 countries but in the event the journey went from Italy, to Switzerland, France, Luxembourg, Belgium and back to France. The passports certainly got a bit of action.  

Arriving in Lille we went to the road that Husband had identified from his internet search. There was no sign at all of the hotel. So we called the hotel and described where we were – it seemed to mean nothing to him but he assured us that the hotel was at the end of Rue de Paul Doumer. We drove up and down the road a number of times. There was no hotel. So we phoned again to be robustly told by the Frenchman ‘look, we are not invisible’. Getting more address details from him we then plugged in some new information into the sat nav which led us to the similarly named Rue de President Paul Doumer. And indeed the hotel was far from invisible. To add insult to injury, when we turned into the road where the hotel was the sat nav knew exactly what it was called - despite having been adamant that it had never heard of the location when we originally typed it in. Part of the problem was that the location of the hotel on the website was wrong – showing it in the other Rue de Paul Doumer. We tried to explain this to the wiry blonde chap on reception, but he still seemed to be adamant that we were stupid English people. 

The hotel consisted of apartments and our apartment was made up to sleep 7. Also it had a separate loo and bathroom as well as a small kitchen area. After the faffing about trying to find the hotel we were now hungry, and went in search of food. Having had a week of pasta and pizza we felt a strong urge for steak and located a nearby Buffalo Grill. 

Being an American restaurant chain, we had baskets of bread and a free salad before scoffing our starters. It was handy that we had so much food before the main course as the steak was disappointing. 

We returned to the apartment and watched Il Postino before going to bed. 

In the morning we feasted on very nice croissants and baguettes – albeit served in a most shambolic way – before driving around Lille and then headed to Calais.  

Back in England Husband had a final couple of hundred miles to do to complete the entire 2250 miles driven during what had been an epic driving holiday.

 

NOTES

The above is a true story. At the time of writing Child the Elder was 16 and Child the Younger was 14. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from tourist information. Other than such information, the Author retains all rights over the above content.