6
Unexpectantly, Kevin drew his attention to the horizon on the right and to what appeared to be a medieval palace nestling high on a sloping hillside looking unbelievably knightly and decidedly unique, 'Kerr-ist! We're in a time warp!' and instantly the mood lightened. Checking his travel guide, Kevin cleared his throat, 'Listen to this, 'Urbino is a 15th century walled city in the Marche region of Italy, a World Heritage Site. The palace of Duke Federico da Montefeltro, one of the most illustrious courts in Europe, is one of Italy's most beautiful Renaissance palaces and home to the greatest painters, poets and scholars of his day. None of the rooms of the palace were designed to oppress with grandeur but were built on a human scale and decorated with glad-hearted sobriety. The Duke's Studiolo is the most unusual room in the palace. His tiny study is entirely decorated in exquisite trompe l'oeil inlaid woodwork panels based on designs by Botticelli. Virtually the entire city within the walls dates from the 15th and 16th centuries; the ghost of Federico would still not lose his way in the maze of pink-bricked alleys. Urbino hosts the University of Urbino, founded in 1506.' Shall we take a look, fellow pleb?'
Ben's version would read slightly differently, 'Urbino is an ultra-smart college town of fascinating mediaeval architecture housing smartly dressed students with highly acknowledged tutors all of whom avoid eye contact with strangers and who reserve their smart conversation for each other.' They received not a single hint of welcome nor indeed, any sign of acknowledgement of their existence, and might well have been invisible. Or aliens. Or both.
Ben apologised to Kevin for his thoughtlessness earlier when preparing to leave Sienna and it wasn't long before they became chums again. In recognising the time had come for them to move on from Italy and discard what was an impossible nut to crack, and after another expensive but average beer, they relaxed and Kevin's conclusion was to head for Greece as soon as possible.
And Ben was over the moon.
Greece. At last. Without regular visits to Greece Ben felt isolated. In his experience it was the country of friendly and crazy people, uncomplicated, hard-working and brave. The country of strange light and shade. And a country whose people speak excellent English amongst a salad of other languages. Surely she would provide an opportunity for earning a little money and thereby enable them to extend their retreat from routine.
A lounge in the Villa with a glass of wine, a delicious smokey bread and cheese, a little card play, a little music then out to another little bar near the van.
They took their drinks outside and chose a place to sit and sip and scan the affluence framing the palace quadrangle. Fine buildings indeed with money no object in design nor construct of ideas. Kevin was holding his glass to his eyes and through his wine glass was scrutinising the castellations and turrets on the building opposite when he shattered the reverential silence between them with a wide and noisy yawn, 'Oh, Jeezuzz! These macho mediaeval towns are incredibly passé!' A flying glance between them and they fell about laughing and once again settled into each other's company. 'Who needs unfriendly barmen who have to wear waistcoats to justify their prices?'
The new daybreak would take them away again but before leaving they stood outside the rear gate beholding the elegant unfolding countryside spreading from the feet of the Zorbus as far as the horizon. Ben had never seen a landscape simmer, but the mist and the greens and the beige slashed by streams showed a searing, sultry passion.
Kevin was the first to speak, 'Jeez! It's all true. It's not so much our Leonardo was one brilliantly inventive painter, more likely he just had to paint what he saw!' Ben was flummoxed. He looked over the landscape, as rolling and as silent as the Mona Lisa and realised exactly what Kevin was getting at. It was all there, and just as understated.
'OK Benjamini, I've had enough of this. Let's get real!' and Kevin jumped into the van singing, with due deference to Dominico Mudugno, 'Ciao, Ciao Urbino'.
They tumbled down from the Appennini, onto coastal, sober Fano and headed straight down the coast toward Ancona where the S16 becomes the E55 and links dozens of dusty outcrops of houses which really should all share the same name because they all have the same vacant character.
Another town, another day and at around ten into another Caffe for coffee and bread roll before the push to Pescara along the Autostrada Adriatica and further towards their ultimate Italian destination of Brindisi where they would take the ferry to Patra in the Peloponissos. It was a joy to be travelling again with such an uninterrupted view of the Adriatic over on the port side but with that view came the slightly brackish taste in the realisation that across that flat, seemingly calm stretch of water was Croatia and the Balkan Peninsular, a land of painful tensions and murderous conflicts.
Already they'd covered over two thousand miles and with each day Ben grew more weary of driving. By mid-afternoon that day they were all but done in but coming up on the left was the turn-off to a town or commune they could see on the coast standing above deep green trees climbing high on a hill stretching out into the sea. It beckoned and they complied. The Zorbus indicated, slowed and sailed into the bend towards the coast.
The town introduced itself as San Vito Chietino and bade them welcome as they pulled to a halt amid the rich earthy tones of the village centre around three in that afternoon, siesta time, just as the Zorbus was melting. All was calm and serene.
That briny Adriatic fragrance was so reviving and refreshing that to simply gaze and watch the rolling of the sea for the first time in so long and inhale its sensational clarity and then to turn and look inland across to the distant white peaks of Majella Mountain, could only serve to leave them completely motionless and mesmerised and becalmed.
Yet at dinner in the only restaurant in the village, Ben could take no pleasure in the wine or the food. It was not a fault of the grape or the chef. He was overtaxed and as soon as dinner was over had to get some sleep. Even Kevin was surprised to see Ben look so done in.
By daylight, however, Ben felt refreshed and recharged enough to climb into the cockpit, fire up the engine, bid farewell to a brief romance and take off for Greece. They couldn't wait and it wasn't long before the Zorbus was shooting past sprawling Foggia with its football stadium sitting like a giant inflatable dominating its skyline in another torrid day with Ben enjoying the push. And it was a happy ride with music and singing, their jokes, the breeze and just being there; in fact everything was easy until, until, they entered - CERIGNOLA!
Cerignola has to be experienced to be believed. One minute before you arrive you see a sign, 'Wilcommen, Welcome, Bienvenue', but the name Cerignola has been over- sprayed with the word Beirut. This is definitely no exaggeration.
Cerignola is the cradle of Total Motoring Anarchy. You see cars in every stage of disintegration driven by lunatics with total disregard for safety or emergency whether pedestrian or motorist who passionately clutter the equally deteriorated asphalt. The mere suggestion of a Code of Highway Ethics brings snorts of hysteria to the ears with the realisation that any author of such a foolish publication would be crucified as a threat to self-indulgence. Chauffeurs of these ramshackle machines lean on their horns and wave through the open windows or make impromptu last minute screeching stops. They ignore traffic lights almost as much as they ignore other drivers or even the traffic police who seem to spend most of their time studiously checking out their complexions and handsome uniforms in their rear-view mirrors. The road hogs grin and shout and insult their mates the moment they recognise them whilst crunching and grating in and out of gears and potholes. Clouds of dust and grit billowing through the heat of Bumper Cars from Hell, clog up the eyes. Chaos is absolute and yet, and yet.... through all this cacophonous insanity, Kevin and Ben were thunderstruck to see the slight frame of a bespectacled young uniformed schoolgirl, satchel on her back like a safety parachute, slowly but steadily threading her way through all the unpredictable madness like a butterfly fluttering through a blaze, crossing one side of the intersection to the other as calm and confident and careful as could be, and completely unfazed.
The craziness was hypnotic. Ben began to inch their way forward with heart in mouth, head aching from total concentration and foot hovering over the brake pedal and yet through all this pandemonium, he heard a chuckle, then the chuckle became a guffaw, and the guffaw became choking laughter.
Clear as a light in the night, Kevin had seen this scenario for what it was, madness as a game. Ben's own guffaw erupted when Kevin reached over and slammed his fist on the horn. So Ben pressed the horn, then they just took turns blaring and honking and yelling out of the window as the tears of madness trickled down their cheeks. Ironically, they were completely ignored. No one took the slightest notice as the Zorbus wove through and turned and twisted forward past meaningless warning signs until in no time, purely more by luck than judgement, they were back on the track to Brindisi.
In a lifetime of rules and regulations what an abso-blinking-lutely incredible, once-in-a-lifetime experience of bedlam and rebellion and to think they had intended to stop and to eat essential reviving nourishment, but by the time they pulled up and Ben's rubbery legs had stopped shaking, it was hard to believe what they had seen, contributed to, been accompliced in, aided and abetted - and survived. Remember the name...
CERIGNOLA.
Ben's exhaustion the previous evening, then the comforting San Vito Chietino, Kevin's patience, their silent seafood pasta, all seemed a million years away from the noise and blistering motoring madness just minutes away back along the road. After a vigorous ratatouille just inside the entrance to someone's private driveway alongside racing traffic on the A14 coastal, sleep seemed to beckon like a mother's open arms and so they ran to her and slept.
An hour later, they swung through pine and poplar and relentless searing heat into Mola Di Bari, there to spend the night and rest because the next day they would be in Brindisi and the possible realisation of a dream - the crossing to Greece. Ben could hardly grasp that they were only twenty-four hours away from turning the dream into reality. But for the moment it was still only a dream.
''In recent times, Mola Di Bari was best known for having primarily whitewashed buildings while its bakeries are known to make the finest focaccia in Italy,' - and we both enjoy some cake, don't we!'
After almost two weeks in a sometimes haughty Italy, Kevin and Ben were not expecting the easy going charm that welcomed them with open arms to Mola di Bari.
Mola di Bari is a friendly, sociable, salty fishing town balmy with the fragrance of freshly caught fish lingering everywhere around its harbour. Its trawlers prepare for serious business, equipped from port to starboard, bow to stern, with the most expensive gadgetry the likes of which one rarely saw in Falmouth. Even the coffee house they chose had a friendly waiter who smiled a lot, wasn't keen to show them he could overcharge and even tried to speak his own version of English. They warmed toward the working, everyday, not at all pretentious, seaside town.
Zorbus was settled up against a small warehouse in the harbour area. A group of oldsters were sitting around its entrance chewing the fat and reminiscing and probably telling stories. When asked if it was OK to park there, they all nodded and gave a kind of no problem wave of the hands, more friendliness. One of them wore a t-shirt which carried the legend in English:
In Heaven:
The English are the policemen
The French are the cooks
The Italians are the lovers
And The Germans are the organisers.
In Hell:
The English are the cooks
The French are the policemen
The Germans are the lovers
And the Italians are the organisers.
Behind an incredibly well-stocked fish market is the piazza and fountain. The fish market is an example of how to introduce fish in the most artistic way. Huge octop us, crayfish, squid, parrot fish, monk fish, sea-eels, mullet all carefully displayed around whiting and mackerel set in trays standing on their tails with mouths agape like a cartoon marine choir. The evening arrived, warm, but with a breeze from the sea. It was the finest evening since the earth cooled. Around the fountain children played and people wandered, reading quietly or happily chatting. It was as though the whole town had come out to meet and be seen. Under trees and on the walls, lovers met and girls preened as gigolos strutted. Kevin and Ben felt accepted. There was a casual yet energetic buzz around the central area near the harbour and it seemed to draw them in.
It wasn't long before a small, simple yet graceful, elderly restaurant selling local dishes came into view. This was an honest room called Locanda Blu and full of local custom. Its small windows were leaded, the entrance door was panelled oak, inside was seating for around twenty diners. One wall was entirely mirrored and another had a fascinating display of a hundred wide-ranging wines encased behind more leaded panes. Lightly coloured glass lampshades hung from the ceiling and the moment they sat back they were at ease, looking forward to dinner like famished schoolboys. They hardly spoke. Once again they were enchanted. And although unable to understand the names of the various items on the menu they were encourage by Signora Sophia, the owner, to take a chance and order by pointing to anything they found intriguing. Cautiously they eyed this rather large lady, wrapped in a rather large apron, as she floated round the ovens leisurely preparing their food until slowly there came from her kitchen a fragrance straight from the kitchens of the gods.
And as the fish cooked, she came and prepared their table. She must have overheard Ben sniff a couple of times because she stopped wiping the table, turned and looked him in the eyes and said firmly, 'NO Sambuca!' She looked stern until she chuckled and placed a glass before him on the table, 'Aperitivo, kind sir?'
Kevin laughed. Ben laughed and all at once they knew they were home. Then came that sinking feeling when you realise you might not have enough cash to cover the bill. Ben checked their wallet and it was, indeed, almost empty but when he asked Sophia if she could delay for a moment while he searched for a cash machine, she shrugged and said, 'Ah, eat first - later bank,' as though the money was a mere consequence and within minutes she came with their dinners and they fell silent.
Beautifully presented on traditional floral designed beige dinnerware, they were served hearty fillets of sole lightly dressed with parsley and sprinkled with a little salt and freshly ground black pepper. And around the fish sat juicy local gamberetto prawns in a tasty marine chorus. It was a delicate artwork, sizzling and fragrant! She even ran out to buy more limone for them. Of course, the food was delicious, exquisite and to this day every time Ben smells cooked fish with lemon he is taken back to that evening in Mola Di Bari. But as usual, all too soon the feast was finished and they sat back sipping a dry white wine called Verdiccho dei Castelli di Jesi watching Signora Sophia through the reflections in the mirrors as she entertained her diners like a star.
'Kevin, is there anything you really miss about home?'
'Yes. Watching my cat meticulously clan itself after it being out all night. You?'
'Nothing.'
Their wine was especially sociable so Ben wrote down its name and number. At one point Signora Sophia placed a freshly baked crusty fruity loaf or cake before three fishermen on the next table for them to enjoy after their meal. She must have noticed Kevin and Ben wondering and watching because she pulled a piece from their loaf, tore it in two and held the pieces before the Englishmen, 'Special pani di Mola! NOT for sale.' The men nodded encouragingly. It tasted and smelled of thyme, garlic, olive oil and was studded with olives and ancient tradition and from Ben's first taste he knew it was the most delicious bread he would ever taste.
Later the money exchange appeared and they thanked Sophia and told her they would always remember her exquisite cooking and promised to return before leaving for Brindisi. Afterwards, through the Mediterranean evening, came shades of déjà vu from the lemon and the oil, the wine and the fish on their fingertips and faces. They were deeply content.
There are special moments when we meet people who make a difference. The Locanda Blu had no music, no TV, no fuss but it did have the delicious Signora Sophia – so no problema.
No, they would never forget that dinner. They were satisfied and comfortable, and felt safe within the precautions they always observed when parking in public. They were at ease and played a game of, 'Chase the Ace', as was their custom. It was almost time for a nightcap and Ben was definitely hammering Kevin with a six-four overall battering when out of the dusk they heard a voice say in perfect English, 'Hello in there, how are you?'
Paranoia made Ben expect the worst. Quizzical glances were shot between them but with no sense of recognition. They pulled back the door. Before them was an open face, friendly and Italian, accompanied by a lady and two children. A typical family looking very pleased to see them. They were invited into the bus 'Forgive me. My name is Nino, and may I present my wife Margaret, and our children Nicholas and Maria.' Nino had lived in England for eighteen years where he had married Margaret from Barnet and started his own electrical business there. The recession of the early nineties ruined his investment and he'd gone bankrupt, rented out his house and returned to his native Italy and home town of Mona Di Bari to start again. But he came face to face with the corruption and barbarity of the Mafia-controlled Italian bureaucracy. Unless you were prepared to pay off the bosses, it was impossible to find work and since there is no State Benefit, your personal wealth was constantly in great danger of evaporating which meant his whole family structure was at risk and this made him despise the Italian system so much he wanted to be English. He loved the thoroughness of our system and was angry at what had been done to his Italy. At that moment he was on the brink of finally deciding to try his luck in Amsterdam and thereby turning his back on joining the morally depraved.
'Never complain about your English systems my friends; they are the best in Europe.'
After about half an hour of standing and getting it all off his chest, Nino decided they should go home, explaining his kids were tired. Then, re-energised, he stayed another half an hour, explaining the whereabouts of the fresh water fountain, where he was living in one of his mother's two houses, and finally taking their entire dirty laundry home for his wife to launder. To top it all, he invited Kevin and Ben to lunch next day.
Ben asked him if he knew of a wholesale wine merchant and proudly, he told them his father pressed his own wine and that he would go and bring them some. When he returned he presented them with four litres of a very, very, cosy and comforting red, tasting of old family values and even older traditions.
Suddenly it was Friday so Kevin and Ben decided to spend the weekend in Mola Di Bari and ease up a little as long as they didn't drop off. It was time for coffee and the nearest coffee house was just around the corner, under a minute from the van. Distance from the bus is quite crucial when you're in a public place since the very first thing your body wants when it returns to consciousness is to test itself and hopefully, embarrass you.
Kevin made the point, 'It has to be said that not counting the Gents at Truro central bus station, and as a casual traveller, Italy has the cleanest toilets I've ever used and Greece has most of the worst. We have to be careful living out of the campervan and one rule we must adopt is to always take soft-tissue toilet paper when leaving the Villa to visit a loo because you never know what you find, or rather, what you don't find. After all, you don't want to walk like a duck and smell like a farmyard, do you?'
'One moment! Kevin! I think I need a plug spanner.'
Kevin was amused and with a wagging finger said, 'Aha! You've been reading the manual again, haven't you?' But just as Ben was congratulating himself over the tool kit he was gradually assembling Kevin muttered, 'Tools, a VW mechanic do not necessarily make.'
During their conflab with Nino, a market had magically materialised in the square before them with all the usual stalls and attractions. At around ten, Kevin and Ben took a gentlemanly stroll in search of a feeler gauge which would enable them to check the points and change the spark plugs. As it was, they saw no feeler gauges but there were lots of shoes and ladies clothes and, of course, food. They bought nothing and returned to the camper in time for lunch to await Nino.
While they were waiting, the big lady sitting in the dilapidated Fiat next to the Zorbus began talking to Kevin about her marketeering and travelling and sleeping in the old tin can. She was really very motherly towards them, and kindly shared her bread rolls in case they were hungry. As usual, it's those with least who share whatever they've got.
Nino arrived all smiles and impatience, ready to guide them to his home where they were seated in a long, narrow, well fitted-out tiled kitchen that gave real relief from the growing heat outside. Everything was clean and tidy and would put most restaurant kitchens to shame. Their starter was mussels baked with garlic, egg and bread crumb stuffing; all lovingly well baked, tempting Ben towards another dishful. So pasta and tomato sauce, thinly sliced chicken breasts lightly fried in olive oil, (his father's) potatoes, and fruit salad for dessert. All this supported by ample supplies of family wine and coffee; a memorable feast and a delicious memory of Mola Di Bari. Nino had to dash away for an interview so after a little polite talk Kevin invited Nino and family tea in the Zorbus that evening at around eight. And the feeling was good.
Taking their time and feeling slightly elevated, they wandered back through the square toward the Zorbus when they realised something was different. The market had magically vaporised as surprisingly as it had materialised leaving a pregnant silence waiting for a noise. It was as tranquil as a Sunday afternoon.
The calm was shattered by a roar from Ben the second he realised the quarter- light above the passenger door had been shattered. Fragments of glass littered the rubber matting on the inside but absolutely nothing had been touched. Nothing. Had they disturbed the thief when they rounded the corner? Had someone else? The old men were sitting in the doorway of the warehouse again but Ben was sure they would have told them if they had seen anything.
Very curious. Kevin even wondered if it had been a mistake made by those dismantling the nearest market awnings with their scaffold poles and just couldn't afford to hang round and explain. It might have even been the big lady when she was packing up. They'd never know.
It could have been much worse. Inside the glove compartment lay Ben's precious quadraphonic press-button digital super-cassette radio with its luminous dial. But for security he'd hidden it inside a crumpled Tesco bag and the first thing you touched when you opened the bag was a selection of dirty underpants and smelly socks. The radio was the most expensive and easily transportable and disposable item in the van and the most obvious thing any thief would go for. But, nothing at all was missing and anyway, no real harm was done.
Kevin used Bill's magic tape to save their lives with a makeshift window made from foil dishes they found in a waste bin. If anyone tried to break in while they slept, at least the clatter would wake them and thereby foil the intruder. Kevin had a smart head on his shoulders, a talent he'd kept secret all these years.
Nino, Margaret and the children arrived. They were presented with tea and in turn they returned some very, very, clean and fragrant laundry. Too soon, they had to leave but not without inviting Kevin and Ben for breakfast before their drive to Brindisi; really generous and hospitable to a fault. They will never know how much it meant to two stinkies to receive that priceless hospitality.
The evening was balmy and leisurely. Ben had intended to get to work at writing but couldn't concentrate, well actually, he just couldn't remember anything once they had finished off the four litres of wine. Before they left, they wanted to fill the big water container from the tap at the sea wall where the fishing boats moored. The people of Mola di Bari seemed to live well enough despite the overall impression that money was scarce. They were light-hearted, self-aware and generally buzzing.
Before turning in they felt at last they had seen another , more humane, side to Italy and were indebted for the very acceptable humanity they'd received from total strangers.
Sunday came all bells, fresh air and sunshine with a smiling Nino at the door to their Villa encouraging them to come for breakfast. As they got themselves organised, a young girl swayed by and the thoughtful silence was broken by Kevin with, 'She's blond, tanned, gorgeous, and her legs start in heaven.'
Under Nino's directions, and almost totally in first gear, Zorbus crept around just one corner into a neat red stone square lined with small shops and parked in full frontal view of Nino's mother's apartment. In her kitchen they enjoyed a traditional English breakfast of cornflakes, toast and jam with lovely coffee and the only thing making them curious about the whole ideal family set-up was the behaviour of Nicolas and Maria, the two kids. They hardly ever spoke, asked a question or expressed an opinion. Nor showed any excitement or curiosity as one might expect from most kids their age.
The Mamma popped in and what a charming lady with handsome chestnut, velvety skin. She apologised for the smallness of her house, 'Not like the big houses in England', and the father came in later to shake hands. He looked much younger than his sixty-six years. A hard-working ex-fisherman now making some money selling fruit- flavoured crushed ice. In Italy where 'nothing is for nothing', there is no state benefit or pension fund. If you're down on skid row, you'll stay there without a family to support you.
Kevin and Ben went to look at the house being slowly renovated by Nino`s brother, and they loved it. Squashed between a thousand others in a community of cramped streets just like those you see in Italian movies with clean linen drying and airing on lines between limewashed yellow houses. It was a house over three floors tall with a flat roof from where one could look out over the surrounding coastal community of Mola Di Bari. The airing of bedding, the dusting of carpets, the tinny cacophony of high-pitched gossip shouted across the rising heat from balcony to balcony, the kind of home Ben felt he could love and never leave.
But the day was pulling them on and Brindisi was waiting with an open door to Greece. Their chance stopover in Mola di Bari had introduced them to a slightly unusual family that had shown them such warmth and hospitality they would never forget. Now it was time to bid farewell wrapped in much Italian hugging and kissing and just as they stepped into the street the Mamma touched Kevin's arm, 'Signore Kevin, Ben, before you leave you must visit the Grotta di Castellana. These caves are very strange and they are not far. They are just a little way off the road to the sea port. You cannot leave without a visit there. You get over an hour guided through deep caves famous for stalactites and stalagmites with miraculous resemblances to the face of Christ and the Madonna among them. Papa will guide you. After you can visit to the beautiful little village of Alberobello. It also is strange. The little dry stone houses have round pointy roofs and they fill the village. You must see.'
So off they set on a heading to the south enthusiastically escorted by Nino's father on his moped. After about half an hour he pulled over to the side of the road and pointed to a turn off, 'Grotta! Grotta!' and came over with his parting gifts of crushed ice fru