Croatia or bust - week 6 - Taking a motorhome down to Croatia and back, from the UK

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You can find the start of our posts about our Croatian adventure here: https://wherenexthun.blogspot.com/2026/02/a-motorhome-tour-down-to-croatia-and.html

Tuesday 7th October – Day Thirty-Five, Week Six

From Slovenia to Verona: Toll Tags, Truck Convoys and Stargazing Hopes

We were away early this morning - wheels rolling by 7am - with one clear mission before leaving Slovenia: return the DarsGo toll box. Thankfully, it couldn’t have been easier. The very last service station before entering Italy was the answer. A friendly attendant took my IBAN number, refunded the remaining balance on the toll tag, and that was that. Simple, quick, painless - always a relief when dealing with toll systems abroad.

From there, it was another three-hour drive across northeast Italy towards Verona. And what a drive it was.

I’ve never seen so many lorries on one stretch of road. Ever. It was like joining an endless metal migration - a non-stop, nose-to-tail convoy of articulated trucks. Thousands of them. On the road, in service stations, queued patiently trying to access the A22. It was genuinely fascinating to watch.

Even more remarkable was the behaviour of the drivers. Courteous to a fault. They left gaps to let us pull in, didn’t tailgate, didn’t barge out in front of us. Compared to some driving cultures, it felt almost choreographed - like a slow-moving ballet of horsepower and logistics.

Heading for Verona.....romance, architecture and......CAKES! 

Just south of Verona, we stopped at a large shopping mall for a supermarket stock-up and a long-overdue visit to Decathlon. I’ve been on a personal quest to make winter astrophotography more bearable - specifically, to stop my feet turning into blocks of ice.

Mission one: warm, fleece-lined, cheap-but-cheerful boots. I’ve tried everything - double socks, thermal insoles, specialist socks, even standing on insulated camping mats - and still end up with freezing feet. I found the perfect pair… just not in my size. Typical.

Mission two was more successful: a fleece-lined, long-sleeved thermal T-shirt to layer over a base layer. Standing still for hours at -4°C will chill anyone eventually, so the plan now is two thermal layers, my duvet jacket, and a windproof outer. That should finally crack it.

By late afternoon, we arrived at Camping Village Verona, on the southern outskirts of the city. And yes - I got mildly conned. Or perhaps I conned myself. Their website showed limited availability, so I booked online. On arrival, it became clear they had plenty of pitches, but because we’d booked online and were allocated a “comfort pitch”, they wouldn’t honour the ACSI rate.

Naivety strikes again.

Still, the pitch itself is excellent: double-sized, level, close to facilities, with electric and water on the pitch. And not just electric - 16 amps, which feels positively indulgent. The site is open with no trees (great for satellite reception and airflow), though there are overhead power lines which might interfere slightly with open skies for stargazing. Nothing insurmountable.

Hot showers, spotless washrooms, and - a big win - a bus stop right outside the gate, with a regular 20-minute service straight into the centre of Verona.

So here we are. Another stop. Another pause. Feeling relaxed and settled, and very much looking forward to exploring Verona tomorrow. And as a final bonus, the forecast hints at three nights of clear skies - which, if true, might just make all this worthwhile.

Costs today:

Campsite (two nights): €64        Fuel top-up: €53       Tolls: €12

Wednesday 8th October – Day Thirty-Six, Week Six

"But anywhere: in the churches, among the palaces, in the streets, on the bridge, or down beside the river: it was always pleasant Verona, and in my remembrance always will be." — Charles Dickens

Wandering Verona in autumn feels like stepping into a timeless love story. Well, it does for one of us, who may be slightly more romantic and soppier! Golden leaves drift lazily through the air, settling on cobblestones that echo with centuries of whispered passion. Warm honeyed light spills from old cafés, mingling with the scent of roasted chestnuts on the crisp breeze. Lovers stroll hand in hand beneath Juliet’s balcony, where ivy clings to stone like a memory that refuses to fade. Every corner reveals a quiet piazza, an arched bridge, or a sun-drenched street bathed in amber hues. In Verona, autumn doesn’t just arrive - it lingers, like a tender kiss, soft, poetic, and unforgettable. Truly, this is the city of lovers.

Our day began in the only way it should: with coffee. A short stop at tourist information followed, where we collected Verona Pass cards and a map to guide us through the labyrinth of history and romance. Next, we headed to the amphitheatre - only to find it partially dressed for a concert, the Roman atmosphere slightly diminished by stage scaffolding. A minor hiccup in an otherwise perfect day.

From there, it was impossible not to wander toward the heart of Verona - the central plaza and the narrow streets leading to Juliet’s balcony. The scene was chaotic yet charming.

Love-struck couples weave through the courtyard, young women clutching books, red marker pens, and blocks of post-it notes like painters armed with palettes, ready to leave their own mark on history. Even amid the bustling crowd, standing beneath Juliet’s balcony feels like floating in a dream spun from centuries of longing and whispered devotion. The worn stone archway, draped in ivy like nature’s own lace, frames the very spot where Shakespeare’s heroine once called into the night. Visitors of the twenty-first century lean close to the past, whispering their wishes and leaving names and notes on the ancient walls. A semi-hushed reverence blankets the courtyard, punctuated by bursts of laughter when a daring soul steps onto the balcony and calls down to a lover below. Here, hearts slow, breaths soften, and time itself seems to pause - as if love, eternal and patient, has settled for just a moment among the living. Whether alone, or, as in my fortunate case, beside someone I absolutely adore, the air beneath that balcony hums with the quiet magic of hope, devotion, and romance.

If you’ve ever watched Letters to Juliet, you’ll understand: red post boxes overflowing with letters, walls plastered with pinned notes and post-its - declarations of love and heartfelt wishes - and other walls covered with graffiti hearts, scribbled names, and messages of undying affection. And dear reader, though it might sound cynical, I assure you it is anything but. Despite the throngs of visitors, it is truly romantic - a living homage to the Bard himself. Here we are, five hundred years later, paying quiet respect to one of literature’s greatest love stories. I can’t speak for Mag, but ssshhh… I loved every single minute of it. And yes, I even coaxed her out onto the balcony for a photo, making the centuries-old magic of Verona ours, if only for a fleeting heartbeat.

Verona itself is a city of elegance and style, from fashion-conscious locals to ornate churches, palaces, and piazzas that seem to dance between Roman grandeur and Renaissance charm. Two churches built one atop the other, Roman ruins interwoven seamlessly with Renaissance facades, and a dizzying array of arched gates - Verona’s architecture is a feast for the eyes and the imagination.

We wandered the streets for hours, visited museums, and paused for a small lunch in a hidden bookshop just a stone’s throw from Juliet’s house. Up a maze of narrow staircases, students hunched over tables surrounded by stacks of books, while the aroma of espresso and pastries drifted like a gentle lullaby through the corridors.

Later, we strolled along the banks of the Adige, ate gelato by one of the bridges, and admired the art and sculptures of Castelvecchio. The Roman theatre disappointed slightly - staging from a summer music festival was being dismantled - but the museum alongside offered fascinating glimpses into Verona’s storied past.

By the end of the day, our legs ached from several miles of urban exploration, but our hearts were full. Our only regret? Not opting for a two-day pass - one day was just not enough to fully soak in Verona’s magic.

Verona blends timeless romance, rich history, and irresistible charm. Cobblestone streets wind toward vibrant piazzas where cafés buzz with local life, medieval bridges frame scenic river views, and every corner seems to whisper a story of love and longing. Its compact size makes it perfect for exploring on foot - discovering hidden courtyards, historic landmarks, and quiet spots to linger.

rennaisance wooden church ceiling murals 

Roman mass production moulds for little heads of the Gods! 

Did Verona capture my heart? Absolutely. Maggie’s? Yes, I think it did too. Next time, we’ll return for a concert in the arena - letting music weave another layer into this city’s rich tapestry of romance.

Practical Info: The number 41 bus runs from directly outside the campsite gates to Castelvecchio, returning roughly every 30 minutes. Your Verona Pass is valid on the bus as well.

Costs: Two Verona Passes at €26 each.

Thursday, 9th October: Day 37 – Week 6

The landscape unfolds like a vibrant patchwork quilt, rich with colours, shapes and textures. Peas, delicate green jewels, in tangled masses in fields, rows of shiny pink apples gleaming in the sun and adding vibrant splashes of colour to the scenery. Enormous cabbages - plump and proud - in the fields, and low hanging ripe kiwi fruit on trees below black netting. Towering onions stretching towards the sky, and beneath plastic-hooped tents, green tomatoes and crimson red peppers ripen under the warm embrace of the autumn sun. Strawberries peek out from beneath their protective cover; we can almost taste their sweetness as we cycle by. All around, the pulse of agriculture beats strongly on the fertile floodplains of the River Adige.

The air rumbles with the sound of tractors, towing giant tanks of muck, spreading life-giving nutrients across the land. Herons stalk the deep drainage ditches, their movements slow, deliberate, and ponderous; they might as well be ghosts - silent hunters on a quiet prowl. White egrets, with their yellow bills and some with striking black bills and nearly fluorescent green feet, float through the air like ethereal mini gliders.

Down in the drainage ditches that crisscross the floodplain 

Amidst it all, a hare bounds into the field, zigzagging in panic to escape the approaching combine harvester. The cloud of dust trailing behind the machine reveals its steady march across the land, a mechanical giant methodically harvesting the fields. Poor hare, caught in the machinery’s path and desperately seeking an exit point.

We roll through small suburban towns, their narrow streets alive with the sounds of schoolyard laughter and the hum of music drifting from open windows. Tall church towers, like silent sentinels, stretch into the sky, their belfries a timeless reminder of the past. The towns are surrounded by endless fields, the land dotted with white plastic tents and black netting, stretching far and wide. Ancient barns stand with rusty tractors parked beside them, a quiet homage to the land’s hardworking history.

And then, we find ourselves on Velo Route 7. It’s a smooth ribbon of tarmac that crosses the fertile plain, cutting east to west - or west to east, depending on your perspective. Along the route, the land is divided by drainage ditches and old irrigation pipes, some still sporting their metal pull-up shutters, a reminder of how vital the waters once were for the crops that stretch endlessly before us.

Our destination today? Villafranca. It’s not just any town - this one is home to a magnificent castle. Picture this: an imposing fortress surrounded by a large moat. Today, that moat houses playful parks, but the grandeur of the castle remains undeniable. The road to Villafranca takes a few unexpected turns, weaving through suburban streets, but the effort is worth it. We finally find our way onto the cycle path, and our prize awaits.

The town itself is a feast for the eyes, with Italian flags fluttering from every lamp post along the long, elegant main street. The real gem, though, is the stunning Renaissance Basilica. Its massive copper-clad dome gleams in the sunlight, a quiet testament to the artistry and history of this place.

And let’s not forget the little roadside bistro café nestled just down the street from the castle. The coffee is rich, the croissants flaky, and the welcome? Warm and inviting - just the kind of stop you dream of when cycling through beautiful, sunlit towns.

But there’s something more hidden beneath the surface. As we explore, we notice the quiet presence of a large Sikh community, members of which we pass on foot, smiling or lost in their own thoughts. The immigrant fruit pickers, taking a moment to rest, finding a quiet spot to send a text to their loved ones. It’s a reminder of the diverse lives that weave through this landscape, each person adding a thread to the tapestry of the place.

The day ends with a 28-mile round trip of cycling, the miles slipping by as we follow the winding roads. As night falls, I’m aware of a distant hum, like the sound of waves crashing on a faraway beach. It’s not the sound of the ocean, though - it’s the motorways to the north, a faint, muted roar that lingers in the background. It’s not intrusive, but if you stop and listen, it’s there, like a reminder of the world beyond this peaceful haven.

Friday, 10th October: Day 38 – Week 6

A Day of Surprises and Paragliders

Last night, I abandoned the stars. It started well - I had everything set up and even spotted Polaris hiding behind the thin, wispy veil of high-altitude clouds. But, as often happens in the city, light pollution threw a wrench in the plan. The full moon added its own glow, and my trusty filter just couldn’t handle the barrage. The tracking system kept losing its focus star, a battle I knew I couldn’t win. Frustrating, sure, but sometimes you’ve just got to admit when the universe has other plans. Still, it wasn’t all bad - met our English neighbours next door and had a nice chat while setting up. That, at least, was a win.

This morning, we decided to shake things up a bit. Yesterday, when we went to catch the 08:30 bus into the city, we noticed a queue of vans waiting to dump grey waste at the only drain point on the site. With each tank taking 10-15 minutes to drain, it could mean an hour of waiting just to do the basics. So, we moved Bryony (our motorhome), drained the grey waste, then returned to the pitch to enjoy breakfast and get ready for the day’s move.

That’s when the surprise hit. I went to settle the bill - 60 euros should have been the total. But no, I had forgotten about the tourist tax, and suddenly the bill was 108 euros for three nights! The breakdown? 30 euros deposit, another 30 for the previous night, 30 more for the extra night, and 18 euros in tourist taxes. Ouch. Definitely need to get better at budgeting for these things and scouting for cheaper campsites.

After the wallet shock, we hit the supermarket for a quick stock-up before hitting the road. Our destination? Camping Claudia, tucked away just off Lake Garda. The drive up the A22 was anything but scenic, with the pollution around Verona creating a thick greyish haze that swallowed up the distant mountains. But, as we drew closer to the lake, something magical happened - the haze began to fade, revealing the stunning mountain range that just rose out of the earth, grand, sharp and stunning.

The road along the eastern side of Lake Garda was perfect: little traffic, end-of-season calm, and blessed with three days of fine weather. The lake shimmered in deep blue, its surface rippling gently in the wind. The mountainsides, steep and dramatic, were dotted with landslip gullies and bare rock faces. As we wound our way through olive groves and vineyards, we passed villages like Malcesine, with their terracotta rooftops reflecting off the calm lake waters. It was like something out of a postcard - ancient castles bathed in golden hues, cypress-lined promenades, and the unmistakable scent of citrus fruits and wild herbs hanging in the air. Every curve of the road revealed a new, breathtaking view. It wasn’t just a drive; it was another love letter to Italy, a place where natural beauty and tranquillity intertwine in perfect harmony.

And then, as if on cue, the paragliders appeared. We watched in awe as a group of fifty or so soared down from the mountains to land gracefully on the lakeside green near Malcesine. It was like watching a flock of birds riding the thermals, spiralling down with pinpoint precision, finally swerving into the wind for a perfect landing with barely a bounce. The skill and precision were nothing short of mesmerizing, exciting and frankly, very dramatic.

When we finally reached Camping Claudia, tucked away across the road from the lake, we were ready to settle in. The campsite is small but charming, with around 90 pitches nestled among olive trees. Some of the spots were tricky to get into - tight turns and uneven ground meant we had to use level blocks - but the site had a welcoming vibe. There’s a café-restaurant on-site, and you can even order fresh bread and pastries for delivery the next morning. Facilities were clean and more than sufficient. At this time of year, the place is mostly populated by wind and kite surfers, while the paragliders seem to prefer Camp Tolioni further down the road, closer to the landing strip.

Back at our pitch, we spotted wetsuits drying on olive branches and parasails stretched out between vans in the sun. It was like a scene from an action-packed adventure movie, where the spirit of outdoor fun fills the air.

Our pitch - 63, at the corner of the site - was a bit of a treasure hunt to find. Not all pitches are numbered, so a little guessing and trial-and-error were involved. But once we settled in, surrounded by olive trees, it felt like home. We arrived around 1:30 pm and, after setting up, just chilled. For some reason, the morning had been a bit of a rough start - both of us nursing headaches and aches, and a nagging worry that we might have picked up something on the crowded bus ride from a few days ago. Hopefully, it was just the travel stress.

Later, we wandered down the road to watch the paragliders land, and the excitement in the air was contagious. It had a festive, almost celebratory vibe as the paragliders came down in waves. The crowd was a mix of mostly 20-35-year-olds, predominantly German and Italian. They gathered in groups, methodically packing away their sails, checking lines, and discussing technique with serious focus. It was like being in the middle of an outdoor sports festival.

We couldn’t resist the pull of the bar shack, playing great music and offering cold drinks. We tried to fit in with the cool crowd, sipping a beer and a coffee, but it’s safe to say we didn’t quite carry off that continental chic vibe. No matter how hard we tried, we were definitely marked by our “British-ness” – I think it is stamped on our fore-heads in some way - and that’s okay. There’s something endearing about embracing your own style, even if it’s not as effortlessly cool as the paragliding crew.

Clearly my italian isnt up to scratch - i could have sworn in my head 

I ordered a BIG coffee and a small beer!

As I watched them, I realized something: teaching young people in their twenties and thirties has always been something I loved. But for the first time, I felt… well, old. Not out of touch, but definitely out of place. I think it’s because I’ve recently sold my boat and haven’t yet replaced sailing with another outdoor passion. It’s something I need to reflect on this winter, find that new adventure to fuel my soul.

All in all, a day full of highs and lows, but one that ended with the sun setting over a peaceful campsite, surrounded by the hum of life and nature.

Cost today: 90 euros for three nights campsite. A little painful, but worth it for the beauty and adventure we’re soaking in.

 

Saturday 11th^th October: Day thirty nine  – week six

Winds, Paragliders, and a Day of Two Halves

"Why do windsurfers get up so early on Lake Garda—around 6:00 to 8:00 am—while the paragliders don’t start until mid-morning?"
Now, that’s a classic GCSE Geography question, isn’t it? Something about wind patterns, (Katabatic and Anabatic) maybe a little lesson on local climate. And today, we got a first-hand masterclass on it.

Standing at the bus stop this morning at 8:00 am, a few things immediately caught my attention. There was a cool southerly breeze, strong enough to stir the water into what sailors like to call a “gently choppy” surface. Little waves were rolling up the sandy, pebbled beach next to the stop, while windsurfers and kiteboarders began assembling beneath the trees, the sound of air pumps rasping in the crisp morning air. Slowly, their colourful sail foils began to inflate - a vibrant fleet preparing to take flight. There was a whole gang of them, clad in wetsuits, struggling to control their foils and boards, ready to charge into the lake.

Out on the water, windsurfers zoomed from one end of the lake to the other, their boards cutting through the ripples, while kiteboarders zig-zagged in the gusts, slicing the wind like they were born to do it. Nearby, a few thermally-clad joggers trotted along the shoreline, and Lycra-clad cyclists whizzed by. It was like watching a high-energy performance, one we couldn’t help but admire - and honestly, we were exhausted just watching it all.

We, on the other hand, were heading to Malcesine - to ride the funicular gondola up to the top of Monte Baldo. Tickets were booked on a whim last night, 25 euros each for the return trip. The spontaneous decisions always end up being the best ones, don’t they?

And wow, what a day it turned out to be. The gondola ride itself was an adventure - revolving gently, offering sweeping views of the lake as we climbed. The ascent was broken into two stages, but the views just kept getting better. We arrived at the top to find a cozy café, perfect for a morning coffee.

From there, we took a stroll along one of the ridges, where paragliders were already assembling, waiting for the perfect breeze. The scene was almost meditative - lines of young people, sitting calmly on the grassy slopes, watching the subtle fluttering direction of grass tufts thrown in the air – groups waiting for any sign of wind. The slightest flutter of grass would tell them the breeze was coming, but there was nothing yet. It was still, quiet, almost serene.

We paused to chat with a twenty-something guy who was sorting out his gear. His foil was laid out before him as he checked the lines - three sets of control lines (A, B, and C) and brake lines. The A and B lines helped with lift and descent, the C lines keep you steady; and the brake lines dump all the air! Apparently, learning to control the parasail on the ground was step one; once you could master the kite on solid ground, you were ready to take to the air. The first solo run down that steep slope must take some serious guts - like launching yourself into the unknown. A true leap of faith.

Paragliders gear varies from incredibly basic to full-on cradle-like seats for comfort. The thinnest of control lines look like they could be made of something strong, like Dyneema or carbon fibre. But life jackets? Yes, life jackets are mandatory, even though I couldn’t quite figure out the logic. I’m a sailor, and my "safety antennae" was on high alert. If you're wearing a lifejacket and then clipping a seat over it, how can it inflate when you hit the water? And without crotch straps, and only loosely fitted, how can it not ride up over your head when inflated? My mind raced with questions I probably shouldn’t be worrying about in the moment. I must have missed something, but it felt like an odd combination of safety gear.

The whole atmosphere, though - was incredible. Against a back drop of the Alps, it was like an airborne carnival: people of all ages, all fitness levels, trekking up the gravel track carrying enormous foils. They were preparing to launch themselves into the unknown, and you could feel the collective energy of excitement buzzing in the air.

Up here, I found myself reflecting on what it is that draws so many to the sport of paragliding. What is it that makes people from all walks of life - young and old - run off the slopes, throw themselves into the air, and soar? It’s that moment when you first leap, the world dropping away beneath you, replaced by the wind and a sense of weightlessness. It’s a thrill that’s almost impossible to describe, but when you’ve felt it - when you’ve danced with gravity and the sky - it clearly stays with you.  I remember that from my mountaineering days. Its intoxicating, difficult to describe to those who haven’t experienced it.

As we stood there, watching the paragliders launch, feeling the wind pick up, we couldn’t help but be in awe. The air was filled with grace, precision, and an undeniable joy. Each glider, rising and falling with the thermals, felt like a dance with the mountains and the lake. I could almost feel the exhilaration in my bones. And right beside me, my wife - my intelligent, adventurous, beautiful partner - was equally captivated by the spectacle. We were both lucky to be here, in this place, at this moment.

Later, we made our way down to the charming medieval streets of Malcesine. The contrast was like stepping into a different world - narrow alleyways, tiny boutiques, and a grand castle watching over it all. It’s a tourist hotspot, sure, but it didn’t matter. The energy of the town, the cafes bustling with people enjoying the sunshine, felt just right. We wandered aimlessly for an hour or two, soaking it all in.

Malcesine was like a storybook come to life. Its cobbled streets wound their way through pastel-coloured buildings, while the Scaliger Castle towered over the lake. The boats in the harbour bobbed gently in the wind, and the air smelled of espresso, gelato, and lemon trees. It was everything you imagine a perfect lakeside town to be. Of course it is a tourist honey pot, but who cares. Today it wasn’t that crowded.

All these gelatos.....would be rude not to sample them occasionally.....frequently.....!

By the time we returned to our campsite, the day had already shifted in tone. The sun was beginning to dip behind the olive trees, casting long shadows across the ground. A gentle evening breeze began to stir, bringing with it the first hint of a chill, as if the day had quietly passed the baton to the night. And in that moment, as the world slowed, I couldn’t help but think: This has been one of the best days we’ve had on this trip. There’s no one thing that made it special; it’s just the kind of day that sneaks up on you and wraps you in its magic.

Of course, the 9 euros for a plate of chips at the top of Monte Baldo wasn’t exactly on the "romantic adventure" budget, but hey, even Mag didn’t see that one coming. And she’s usually the clever budget queen!

Oh, and as promised, the answer to the winds question at the start of this post:

Katabatic and anabatic winds are local winds that flow along slopes, moving in opposite directions due to temperature differences. Katabatic winds are cold, dry, and driven by gravity - they flow downslope and are most intense at night or in the early morning. Anabatic winds, on the other hand, are warm and light, rising up the slope during the day as the sun heats the ground. You can feel both here at Lake Garda, where the winds shape the life of the lake, from surfers in the early morning to paragliders later in the day.

Costs for today: 50 euros for two return tickets on the funicular, 8 euros for bus trips, and let’s not even talk about the food, coffees, and ice creams. Let’s just say, we were well-fed and well-chilled. 😉

Mt. Baldo - a walking, cycling and paragliding paradise

 

Sunday 12th^th October: Day forty  – week six

A Day in Riva del Garda: Unexpected Moments and a Bit of Drama

It’s 8:30 am, and we’re catching the bus to Riva del Garda, at the northern tip of the lake. The air is crisp, with a chill that makes us pull our jackets a little tighter and the chin guards up over our noses. Well, I did. Maggie’s near permanent coat setting is zips only half way up, no hat or scarf and everything sloping off her shoulders. I don’t know how she does it!

The wind and kite surfers seem to be taking their time this morning – not as keen to rush onto the lake as they did yesterday; perhaps they are waiting for the wind to pick up. By the time we arrive in Riva del Garda, at the northern end of the lake, the world around us is shrouded in thick, grey clouds. The kind of weather that makes everything feel a little muted – including our moods.

We grab a coffee - comforting, warm - and catch up on the news through our apps. It’s a quiet kind of morning, the kind where you can hear your own thoughts, but still, something about it feels a little off. We begin wandering the narrow streets, the rhythm of our steps matching the rhythm of the day – slow!

On a corner, we find an art gallery, its warm light spilling out into the street. Inside, canvases in all shapes and sizes are scattered about, leaning against walls and tables, a beautiful chaos of colours and forms. In the corner, an older man sits playing an old stand-up piano. His music flows effortlessly - classical melodies blending into soulful jazz. He’s good, really good and we stop briefly to listen. The sound fills the space and for a moment, it’s like we’re the only ones in the street, lost in the magic of his notes.

bit of a breezy start this morning ...... and chilly

As we stroll further, the towering cliffs above seem to loom over the town, the landscape both dramatic and humbling. Behind a grand, classical architecture hydroelectric power station, the mountains rise sharply, their slopes marked by the fresh scars of recent landslides. Nature here is definitely in charge, its power raw and unrelenting. There are crumbling watchtowers, as if plucked from the pages of a history book, and a curious glass funicular elevator that somehow feels like something out of James and the Giant Peach - oddly ill-fitting in this picturesque town.

And then, there’s the trumpet man. We’d met him yesterday in Malcesine, his trumpet blasting out Mexican tunes in the heart of Italy. At first, it’s a quirky contrast - Mexican music, right here, in the land of opera and classical serenades. But today, he’s in Riva, and his set has grown repetitive - five songs on a constant loop, each one louder than the last. I can’t help but appreciate his dedication. As a former very bad trumpet player myself, I respect his craft, showmanship and obvious skill. But when he stands right next to the cafés, his trumpet blasting across the cobblestones, you can’t help but feel it’s a bit much. It’s not unpleasant - it’s just... persistent and mildly irritating.

We try to warm up to Riva, but it’s not happening. Maybe it’s the grey skies that refuse to lift, or maybe it’s just the noise and bustle of over-commercialized streets - endless shops selling clothes and handbags. There’s something about it that feels a bit out of place. There are the Roman bath ruins – but we think they are small and a little disappointing, barely visible beneath a roof that’s supposed to protect them. The town, for all its charm, just isn’t resonating with us.

By midday, we’ve had enough. It’s 12:15 pm, and we’re already back on the bus, heading home. The town, despite its beauty, hasn’t quite captured our hearts.

Back at the campsite, we focus on getting Bryony ready for her long journey home. Thursday night’s ferry to Caen is looming, and we’ve got a lot of prep to do. It’s a bittersweet moment, knowing that our time here is almost up, and the road back to reality is just around the corner.

But, there was a little unexpected twist in the day. Maggie, went on a spending spree in Riva! Yesterday, it was 9 euros for a plate of chips (yes, 9 euros - don’t ask me how), and today, she splurged 20 euros on a leather handbag. 20 euros! It’s like a whole new side of her has emerged, and frankly, it’s rattling me a little. Who is she, where has my wife gone? I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve married a secret shopaholic who is only discovering this secret power of Her’s now.  

She was tempted....but I talked her down.....eventually! 

Despite the ups and downs of the day, there’s something undeniably sweet about these moments. There’s the quiet stillness of the morning in Riva, the strange harmony of an art gallery and a trumpet player, and then the calm routine of preparing for the journey home. Life on the road has a way of surprising us - sometimes in big, beautiful ways, and sometimes in small, humorous ones.

Costs today:

• 50 euros for the two return tickets on the bus and funicular
• 20 euros for the leather handbag (don’t ask me about that one!)
• And, well, let’s not go into food, coffees, and ice creams…

 

Monday 13th^th October: Day forty-one – week six

Starting mileage: 27771

The early morning sunlight is a painter's brush across the valley, softly brushing the almond-coloured rocks that dotted the glaciated U-shaped valleys. The sun stretches its fingers across the peaks, lighting up the western sides of the mountains in shades of gold and amber. As the mist begins to lift, we glimpse the spires of castles and monasteries perched on rocky outliers, like forgotten sentinels standing tall against the test of time. It’s a sight that feels like stepping into a dream - a place where history, perseverance, and resilience have been etched into the very stone of the landscape.

As we leave the familiar charm of Lake Garda behind, we venture deeper into the heart of the Dolomites, where the land itself tells the story of ancient collisions. The surrounding mountains, made of dolomite, are not just rocks; they’re the remnants of a battle between continents millions of years ago. To me, a partial geologist, the rocks, laid down during the Triassic and Jurassic periods, are almost like pages of a geology book that I can reach out and touch. With every mile, I feel the weight of history - layers of marine sediment compressed over eons, before being thrust upwards during the Tertiary period. We are driving through a masterpiece painted by the Earth itself. Well, that’s how it feels to me. Poor Maggie, on the other hand, has her head buried in the atlas!

We are following the slow, winding course of the Adige River, its deep green waters eddying beside us as we climb upwards. The valley below is a patchwork of vineyards that stretch across every available inch of land. If the vines don’t grow here, apple trees stretch out, their branches draped in black protective nets, as though the land itself is wearing a crotchet quilt.

Passing through Trento, we watched massive transporters hauling Ferraris and McLarens, sleek, polished cars gleaming like jewels under the cloudy sky. Lorry drivers, a little too distracted by their phones, swerve over the rumble strips with a casual disregard for the grandeur around them.

It’s a sharp geographical contrast today – starting with the glacial landscapes around us, where hanging valleys, moraines, and canyons draw a beautiful tapestry of natural engineering. It’s as though we are following an ancient map of the Earth itself - a map that will see us pass incised river floodplains and terraces before leading us over the Brenner Pass, into the Alpine lands of lush meadows.

As we climb into the Alps, the landscape unfolds. Those lush meadows roll out before us, dotted with grazing cattle, and alpine houses, their wooden balconies weighed down by vibrant flower boxes. A chocolate box lid landscape painting. Winding roads carve through towering peaks and past glittering snow-dusted summits. Kites, like magical creatures, glide across the mown grass mounds, their claws turning the cut grass in search of their next feast. It’s an enchanting world, one that takes our breath away at every turn.

And then, unexpectedly, we reached the Brenner Pass. The drive over it is nothing short of joyful. Freedom in the air, a joy that comes with the beauty of the mountains, the sense of adventure, and the quiet thrill of being at the heart of Europe. It feels like we are driving through history, and with each turn, we dive deeper into the soul of the continent.

As we venture into Germany, we follow the Romantic Road past Garmisch, where limestone spires shoot up like the teeth of ancient slumbering craggy giants. The scenery is nothing short of breathtaking, with every gnarled rock face telling a story and eventually, we reach the wide, open floodplains, where potatoes, late sunflowers, and dried-out maize spread out like another patchwork quilt.

Finally, just south of Augsburg, we come to a stop at Friedberg.

A ten-minute stroll from the motorhome park brings us into a quaint little town with cobbled streets and a red and buff-coloured church standing proudly at its centre. Like stepping into a fairy tale, each narrow street and ancient building whisper stories of centuries past. There’s a quiet charm to Friedberg, a romance that isn’t immediately obvious but emerges the longer you linger. A Renaissance castle, clock towers, and old city walls invite us to imagine the intrigue and history that have unfolded here.

It’s a place where time seems to stand still - until we learn, from a wall plaque, that during World War II, the brave residents of Friedberg negotiated with the advancing American forces to save the town. Through clever diplomacy, they prevented the town from being shelled, and today, it stands as a living testament to their courage. Walking the town’s walls, we found small “postcard bites” plaques of history - little glimpses of its past that made the present feel all the more precious.

As the autumn trees stand bare against a grey sky, we sense something intimate about this town, difficult to articulate, but as if we are visitors in a secret world known only to those who take the time to stop and truly look.

But to more mundane matters of interest.

The motorhome park here is simple, but it has everything we need - a place to park, free services, and only a small fee for water and electricity. The EasyPark app makes paying a breeze, though the internet signal isn’t anything to write home about. But who needs the internet when you're in a place like this?

And speaking of simple pleasures? Maggie used her German skills to great effect today. After months of Duolingo practice, she came out of the bakery with four fresh rolls and a delicious apple cake. I half-expected her to come out holding a tortoise, three shoes, and two tickets to a local Rave – not an aspersion on her linguist skills in any way – but more, a nod, to some of the bizarre phrases that Duolingo makes you learn. But no, today, her perseverance paid off. I’m both impressed and proud. Maggie, without a doubt, is the brains of this outfit - she always has been, and always will be.

Today has been a reminder of how travel can bring us closer to the heart of things - the stories embedded in mountain passes, the secrets hidden in cobblestone streets, and the way small moments, like a simple apple cake, can feel like a celebration of life itself. As we continue our journey, I’m struck by the freedom, beauty, and history that surrounds us. This road, this life - it’s all one big adventure, and I couldn’t imagine sharing it with anyone else.

Costs today:  tolls 24 euros. Aire 12 euros. Fuel 54 euros