Lake Como - Days 4 & 5

Things I love about Italy:

1. The Food. Sorry, rest of Europe, but when it comes to immediately accessible, in-yer-face, don't-have-to-know-a-local-to-get-it, consistently good food, Italy wins HANDS DOWN.
2. The accent.  Hilarious.
3. Foot-operated flushes in public toilets.  Hoorah.

Things I don't love about Italy:

1. The bloody prices. Jeeeez...  probably not an awful lot worse than London prices and probably more obvious because I'm coming from a fellow Euro-using country so can't baffle myself with mental exchange rates, but even so.  €5 for a teeny glass of wine, when I'm used to paying €2 for a whole bottle is crazymad.
2. The vast numbers of American tourists.  I'm sorry, I don't mean to have a go at a whole nation but seriously U S of A residents, can't you pipe down a bit? I mean, seriously, just....ssshhhhhh.
3. The way cars don't stop when you're waiting to cross the road at a zebra crossing.  Rude.

Had a lovely couple of days. Yesterday I got on a boat to Bellagio. Lake Como is shaped like a headless, armless man standing with his legs apart, and Bellagio is situated where his willy would be.  It's widely considered to be the most beautiful town on Lake Como, but having been spewed off the boat with all the other (largely American) tourists straight into a plethora of leather handbag shops, Como silk scarf shops and ice cream shops, I beg to differ.  Varenna is better.

Bellagio is definitely lovely, but it's just a bit much. Too many people for my liking, even at this time of year, so I beat a hasty retreat and walked to the very tip of the promontory; the anus of the headless, armless man, aptly named Punta Spartivento (point where the wind splits). It was lovely and peaceful there, with wonderful views towards the northern part of the lake and the mountains and I considered having lunch in the little restaurant but it turned out that every table was reserved, or maybe they just didn't like the look of me, so I wandered back to town, and meandered up and down alleys until I found a likely looking old pizzeria and had a most delicious lunch of penne al salmone. Grace Gable eat your heart out.

Afterwards I got a chestnut and vanilla ice cream (not sure about chestnut ice-cream tbh) and wandered south to visit the villa and gardens of Villa Melzi, which was very pleasant, but certainly nothing to write home about.

*Pointedly stops writing home about it*

I got the boat back to Varenna and had a nice aperitif in a quayside bar, before coming back to the apartment and catching up on a load of shite on iPlayer on my laptop. (Christ, Downton's a bit thin on plot, isn't it? Lovely frocks though.)

Today I got the boat over to Tremezzo on the opposite side of the lake and spent a couple of hours wandering the house and gardens of Villa Carlotta.  NOW you're talking.  It was magnificent. But if you're ever going to come here to see the gardens, come in April (would be my advice) - the azaleas must be fantastic at that time of year.

Then I decided to walk south for some lunch, and on the way I managed to get myself onto the 'Greenway del Lago' which is a nice pathway up above and behind the towns, which avoids traffic.  I was hoping to visit the spot where Mussolini actually copped it, whilst trying to escape into Switzerland at the end of the war (a bit macabre, I know, but I'm not fond of fascists), and felt sure the Greenway del Lago would deliver me to it, but it didn't, sadly. Walked MILES and ended up at Lenno, where I had a late lunch of lasagne and then jumped on the boat back to Varenna.

Since I've been here I've noticed an awful lot of people drinking a vile orange drink that looks like toxic Lucozade, and thanks to an incidental chat with my friend (Nick Harris) I discovered that it's an aperitif widely drunk in these here parts, called Spritz.  It's prosecco and the local spirit, Aperol, on ice.  It looks ghastly but I had one this evening and it's DELICIOUS. I'm going to buy a bottle of Aperol to take home.

I heard on the indirect internet grapevine that my dear husband, currently enjoying a jolly in the Algarve but without a wifi device so not in direct contact, fell over whilst pissed last night and has hurt his shoulder. In truth, I think he drew the very very short straw.  I'm looking forward to a cup of tea, a booze-free early night and ten hours solid sleep.

Although that's not all that easy with your passport shoved down your knickers.

Lake Como, Day 3 - Karma bites me in the arse

You know that thing where you're being a bit smug; when you're a tad too pleased with yourself; when you tempt fate by gloating and fate turns around and laughs right in your face?

Yeah.  THAT.

This morning I got myself all ready and appropriately kitted out for a hike up the mountain behind Varenna to visit a castle and have a lovely lunch, and just before I left the apartment I thrust my hand in my backpack, as is my wont, to check for the presence of keys, wallet and (as I'm abroad) passport and guess what? No palpable passport in the bottom of my back pack.

I felt about, checking pockets, checking jeans, checking coat, emptying backpack onto bed...no passport.

I checked the backpack again.  And again. I told myself to keep calm, whilst feeling the panic rising in my chest. I checked the backpack again. This is not possible.

Anyone who knows me well knows that this is not possible.  I'm not the sort of person to lose important things.  I always know EXACTLY where my wallet and keys are and when travelling I have a fanatical obsession with keeping passports and travel documents safe. This was like a bad dream. A nightmare actually. I checked my backpack for the eleventh time.

I started talking out loud to my self. 'Keep calm.  It's here somewhere' I said, as I checked my suitcase, under the bed, in drawers I'd never opened, in the bathroom, under the bloody rug ffs. My passport lives right at the bottom of my backpack, with my wallet. My wallet is actually tied to the inside of my backpack on a long string, as is my phone. I have never lost a phone, wallet, key or passport in my life (apart from my phone that time on the beach, but I found it again and learnt a 'tie it to your person with string' lesson). Even when I've been out on the lash and can hardly remember how I got home, I've always woken up with my handbag and its full contents right next to me.

I started hyperventilating.  I wondered whether I'd slept walked (I've never slept walked) and put it somewhere weird, so I checked inside the fridge and the oven and the microwave and behind the toilet.  I checked my backpack again. Eight times.

My passport wasn't in my apartment.

The last time I saw it was yesterday when I was checking in and Diego, the manager guy, had photocopied it.  But I distinctly remembered taking it back off him and stuffing it into the bottom of my backpack, where it lives.  After that I'd gone down into town and had been into my backpack four times. Once in each of the grocery stores, and once in two separate cafe bars.

It's Sunday today and Diego had told me that although there was someone around from 9am to 6pm Monday to Saturday, Sunday was their day off, and he would be at home on the other side of the lake.  I tried to text him but I couldn't get my Portuguese phone to work. I wasn't expecting to have to use it, frankly.

Having searched every nook and cranny in the apartment, I decided that it was either still in the hall where I checked in (which was now locked and I was quite certain it wasn't in any case) OR it had fallen out of my backpack when I had pulled my wallet out in one of the grocery stores or cafe bars.

I started to cry.  Then I slapped myself across the face, found Diego's email and emailed him, then set off to see if someone had found it or handed it in. No-one had.  In one of the grocery stores I met Mr and Mrs Snotty Englishers and their Snivelling Baby. They listened as I asked the young girl behind the counter if anyone had found a passport and they COMPLETELY BLANKED ME. Not a smile or a nod or a sympathetic murmur. After all, nothing can be as important as them and their bloody baby. I mean let's face it NO-ONE ELSE HAS EVER HAD A CHILD AND TAKEN IT ON HOLIDAY HAVE THEY?!
OK, I'm getting angry now.  It's a good sign.

The lovely shop girl could see I was upset and took me by the arm up to the Tourist Office.  The lovely lady there regrettably informed me that no-one had handed a passport in but that if one had been found it may have been handed into the Municipality Office (kinda doubles as a police station) but that it was Sunday so everything would be closed until tomorrow.

So that was that. As far as I was concerned my passport was gone, with someone probably stealing my ID as we speak, but I wouldn't find out for sure until tomorrow when (a) Diego turned up and checked reception, and (b) the Municipality Office was open.

I would have to wait for 24 hours to find out for sure that my passport was gone, and then, once it was confirmed, I would have to spend the rest of the week trying to sort out a replacement.  I'd probably have to go to Rome, or at least Milan, at great expense, and everything was ruined, basically. I went back to my apartment and wept.

Diego phoned. He seemed pretty laid back about the whole thing and said he'd be here first thing tomorrow and we'd definitely find it.  His tone was reassuring, but I was unconvinced. I'd just have to deal with it.  My holiday was ruined but no-one was going to die. Worse things have happened to people, me included, so I'd just have to fucking deal with it. But, God, what a DRRRRAAAAGGGGG.  I so wish I hadn't gloated about how wonderful everything was yesterday.  What an arse I am.

After a couple of hours I pulled myself together and decided to hike the mountain anyway. Better than staying in fretting all day when there was absolutely nothing to be done. I set off with a heavy heart and a face like a wet weekend.  Actually, a face like a ruined holiday.

As I let myself out and set off up the lane I was aware of an old gentleman coming out of a ground floor apartment.  He was very old but far too dapper to be British - he was wearing chequered trousers and a cravat and had a tan. He turned and walked up the lane behind me, away from town, which I thought a bit odd.  Perhaps he was going to hike up to the castle too, I thought. Looks a bit old for that.  He'll probably collapse in front of me and I'll have to bloody deal with that too, I thought, meanly.

I glanced behind me just in time to see him produce a set of keys for the huge oak doors that led into the reception hall of the villa where I'd checked in yesterday, and let himself in.  I trotted back down the lane - and arrived at the open doors just in time to see him lift the lid of the photocopier and pick up a passport.

He examined it briefly, then looked up at my face.

"I theenk thees ees yoours", he smiled, as he handed it to me.

I could have kissed him. I ADORE that man. He chuckled as he hobbled off down the lane, and at that point my phone rang.  Diego explained that he had asked his elderly father who lived in the downstairs apartment to go and check if my passport was in the photocopier. And there it bloody was. THERE IT BLOODY WAS. I can hardly believe it. I must have had some sort of mental aberration.

Villa Monti (where my apartment is)

I blame Mr and Mrs Snotty Englishers.  If they hadn't been so self-important and humourless and STRESSY, with all their bloody bags and paraphernalia then neither Diego NOR I would have allowed this to happen.

I'm going find out where they live.

After that the day went swimmingly.  The hike was beautiful, if a little nerve-wracking for someone who's not keen on heights (but hey, what's a little fall off a mountain when you thought you'd lost your passport?) and the castle at the top was delightful.  And when I got there I met someone who looked like I'd felt an hour previously:

Me

I had a plate of carpaccio and parmesan and a celebratory glass of wine in a little restaurant in the mountaintop village, before descending back down the mountain via the easy route, and treating myself to a big fat rum and raisin ice cream whilst dangling my feet over the edge of the pier. Later I went for a stroll around Villa Monastero and its beautiful lakeside gardens, and concluded that, all things considered, I preferred my own garden. Which is a good thing. But I'm not being smug, honest.  Just grateful.

I shall sleep well tonight.

View from castle

View of Varenna from castle

Villa Monastero

Villa Monastero

Lake Como - Days 1 and 2

You know your life has turned out OK when, on the morning of the day you're due to fly away on a week-long holiday you kind of feel like you don't really want to go.
This is how I felt yesterday as I pottered about my garden, barefoot and in my jimjams, harvesting the odd aubergine here and squishing the odd bug there, whilst reeling off instructions to Grace about plant watering regimes and animal feeding routines.  My enthusiasm was further dampened by the weather app on my phone which forecast that my destination was going to be a good few degrees cooler than my home. WTF? Why would I want to drag myself away from three quarters of the bosom of my fambly and do that whole hideous airport thing, just to mope about on my own by a cold and soggy Italian lake? I bet you feel really sorry for me.

Back in the spring Rich had declared that in September he was going to the Algarve to meet up with a load of old cronies from Wales, and spend a week trying to hit a ball into a small hole, so I saw an opportunity for a little jolly of my own (I love travelling alone) and booked a cheap flight from Lisbon to Milan.  This was really a case of SleazyJet dictating where I take my holiday, but it's fortuitous that a trip to the Italian Lakes has always been on my 'to do' list.

But my heart still wasn't really in it until half way over the Pyrenees when, plastic cup of rosé in hand and a gob full of Pringles, I started to get that holiday feeling. I arrived in Milan at about 6pm, from where I needed to get a train to Saronno and then another train on to Como. Turns out that Italians don't really understand a Welsh person speaking very poor Portuguese at them (force of habit), and I had a job trying to ascertain if I was on the right train. It also turns out that you have to pronounce Italian place names with an Italian accent, otherwise they won't understand you. Saronno is pronounced SarOOHHnno and Varenna (my ultimate destination) is pronounced VarAAYYnna.  I find the Italian accent hilarious. It sounds to me like they're taking the piss out of themselves. But I probably need to stop laughing when they speak or I'm going to get in trouble.

Anyway, it turned out I was on the right train and eventually I arrived in Como after dark. I found the hotel I'd booked into in the very attractive old town, dumped my stuff and headed out for a pizza  under the the imposing and floodlit gothic/renaissance (bit of both) Duomo, which I washed down (the pizza, that is, not the Duomo) with a nice glass of Chianti.
*makes Hannibal Lecter 'sccchhhllll sccchhhlll' noises*

Como from the lake

I love arriving at places after dark, because you have no idea where you are when you wake up the next morning. Como old town is beautiful at night time but spectacular in the daytime.  It has a lovely waterfront  and is flanked by steep mountains. I bought a ticket for the 'slow boat' to take me north up the western limb of Lake Como to a little village called Varenna on the eastern edge of the central part of the lake.

I can't describe how beautiful Lake Como is, and neither do my pictures do it justice. It's breathtakingly spectacular. I sat, literally awe-struck, for the entire 2 hour journey. Its deepest bit is 420 metres deep you know. FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY METRES. Ugh.  That creeps me out. I hate deep water.

Beautiful Lake Como

There are some fantastic houses - we passed the place where Volta lived (invented electricity), the place where Winston Churchill stayed after the war, the place Mussolini got murdered, Richard Bransom's new gaff, Versace's gaff before he was murdered, George Cloony's gaff and the place where they filmed James Bond. Like everywhere else in the world, most of the best houses - originally the summerhouses of Italian noblemen - are now owned by Russian multi-millionaires.

Where Casino Royale was filmed

Eventually, after stopping at about fifteen villages en route, I arrived at Varenna. What a gorgeous place - all steep cobbled alleys and lapping water edges. I found my way from the boat jetty around the cliff-hugging walkway to the main part of the village and clambered up cobbled steps to the main square, where I killed the hour and a half before my accommodation was ready by enjoying a long and delicious lunch of prawn salad followed by strawberries and ice-cream. Absolutely fabulous, darling.

Varenna

I'm staying in a studio apartment in the tower of a renovated villa and everything is lovely lovely lovely. Except for Mr and Mrs Snotty Englishers and their snivelling baby, that is, who are also staying somewhere in this villa. I met them in the hall when I checked in.  I say 'met' - what actually happened is that I smiled at them and said hello and helped them with their ridiculous number of bags which included helium balloons for some reason, and they both completely blanked me.  English, obviously. Very. He's a bit dim and ruddy and looks harassed.  She's got her nose in the air and a face like a smacked arse. I 'met' them again half an hour later in one of the only two grocery stores and smiled and they blanked me again.  Then I met them again an hour later in the other grocery store and did a sort of laugh/smile/we-must-stop-meeting-like-this thing and they bloody blanked me again. Now I'm bearing a grudge.

Tomorrow I'm going to ask them who won the rugby. Heh heh.

Varenna

Varenna

View from my apartment