Before I know it, the various songbirds of Le Champagne have
taken centre stage. Those birds are quite familiar, not that different from the
hubbub of my childhood awakenings back in the burbs huddling at the juncture of
North West Kent and South East London. The cheery flutes of blackbirds, the busy
chatter and chirrup of sparrows, the mournful cooing of wood pigeons. It’s just
another day in their world, I assume. The usual worries and tasks, flights to
and fro gathering food for what is likely to be a thrashing pile of fledgling
offspring, demanding, urging, and relentless.
We asked for an 8.30 breakfast. In our eagerness, we are awake
early enough to bring that forward by a half hour, which is fine by our
hostess. Downstairs is where continental breakfast will be served. The
surroundings are spotless, of course, with a large woodburner in the corner,
redundant at present. There are large wooden sideboards, a couple of tables and
chairs. The place has a kind of barn
feel to it, quite probably because it was one once upon a time. Breakfast it’s self
is a cornucopia of carbohydrates, coffee and confiture. There are other food
types present, yoghurt and butter representing the delegate from the world of
fats, but there is precious little in the way of protein. It’s all so neat in
its nature this style of breakfast, so it seems appropriate for it to be
provided by our hostess in these spruce environs. There is quite a lot of it
though. So, because I am an absolute gutbucket, I sit for quite some time
gorging myself, because I also know that this will be the last free meal till
tomorrow morning, and I am going to be surviving on the road in a Vauxhall. The
horror of it all! Ray seems less perturbed by the potential for starvation on
the impending journey. He eats only a moderate amount. I don’t eat much bread
at home, but here it’s practically ubiquitous, and as usual, I revert to
whatever I can get, particularly if it’s not really costing me anything except
my dignity. Dignity can be highly overrated in my opinion. This is the first
trip abroad since my near moratorium on wheat based food. I think now though, a
suspension of the suspension is in order, because Italy will be equally full of
the stuff.
We’ve finished brekky by around 9am and the maps are beckoning
us for another planning session. After a very short discussion, a decision is
made to avoid tolls and opt for the casual saunter through the world’s most
famed wine region. We bid our hostess a polite adieu, and hit the van, not bothering
to wake Patrick just yet as he seems to be quite tired after his long day
yesterday. (Good!).
Off we set, two travellers determined to get a decent starting
stretch under our belts. But wait! Within a few minutes of leaving, there is a
call to my mobile. Really? Who the hell?? I miss the call, which necessitates
an expensive recall, reaching the answerphone first off. I can hear the cash
registers at Virgin Mobile rattling from here. I get through at the second
attempt. It is our hostess. She sounds deeply concerned that one of us has left
something of indescribable import back at the BnB. Dammit! I knew it was going
too well this morning. A passport maybe, or a computer? ‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘A
toothbrush?’ .......... (RAYMOND!!) There is a snigger from the passenger seat.
‘No, thanks for ringing, I’m certain he’ll be able to buy another one.......
No, really, it’s only a toothbrush...... No, I don’t think it’s anything
special.....Yes, ...OK....Great, well, Merci beaucoups pour votre
hospitalite....Oui, merci, et au revoir.’ The sniggers develop into laughter as
Ray and I muse over what ill fate awaits his toothbrush now. Lonely, cast aside,
forlorn and forgotten in a foreign land, redundant. Will it be sold on the black
market, becoming just another statistic in a seedy underworld of gingivitis. Or
maybe rented out with reckless impunity from the dimly lit doorways of
backstreet dentists, suffering a daily onslaught from halitosis crazed French
farmers with smiles like unkempt graveyards? Pauvre, pauvre brosse a dents.
Though progress is measurable once we hit the road in earnest
again, our leisurely pace gives us a better chance of a tantalising view of the
region unfurling around us. It’s a no-brainer decision with hindsight, this tariff
free amble around rollercoaster scenery under overcast but gently improving
weather conditions. The tarmac cuts a swathe through tiny towns and sleepy
villages. Their names are fleeting navigational aids, and once passed through, they
can be forgotten. But one cannot fail to have imprinted upon the memory the
most striking thing about this place, the utter vastness of the vineyards. Rise
after rise, slope after slope, tens of thousands of acres of straight rows of
vines stretching off to every horizon like so many well organised legionaries.
Leaf upon stem upon root, they line up dutifully at the start of another
summer, waiting patiently, ready to convert the typically unbridled ammunition
of sunlight into innumerable clusters of grapes. Once their efforts are
realised, we will demand the ultimate voluntarily sacrifice of their fruits in
our ongoing global war against sobriety. As I ponder this act of unselfishness,
I assure them that their supreme altruism will not go to waste on my account. No
indeed, because I intend to honour them on a frequent and regular basis.
Patrick, who has been awoken from his slumbers like a yapping
Cerberus, does not approve of drinking. He wouldn’t say it to our faces, but
deep down we know it. I say we, but really it’s just my stuff this feud of
attrition with Pat. Ray has known him longer by far. I’ve only been acquainted
for a day. Call me paranoid, but I am getting the distinct impression he
doesn’t really like me. Ray displays a calmness and patience with Patrick’s
idiosyncratic outbursts which I have yet to bring into play. I’m sure he must
have noticed me swearing and chuntering under my breath at him by now. For the
time being, Pat and I will have to tread our paths in separate forests.
The skies are lifting, and by the time we are approaching
Lyon, the sun has won the most recent battle in its perennial and turbulent war
against clouds. It’s getting warmer, the van funk will rise in commensurate
proportion, no doubt. Lyon seems to me to be the gateway to the South. As we
view it from slight altitude on our approach, its sprawl is noticeable, and to
this outsider, its road system appears to have enormous potential for sinister
complexities which may be the catalyst for another of my tiffs with Patrick. I
have chosen to ignore him. It’s becoming my chief defence against his
interruptions. Ray and I have successfully shirked tolls thus far today for the
sake of scenic beauty. However, by our combined reckoning, Lyon has to be
circumnavigated by motorway for the sake of simplicity, so we reluctantly fork
out at the peage and get cracking. Light traffic and decent signposting put the
wind back in our sails, and Lyon becomes another box ticked on our itinerary of
course plotting targets. But a need for speed is soon usurped by our
requirement for more intricate scenery, and again we divert onto smaller and
more winding roads. The Alpine backdrop is becoming less and less distant. No
longer is this a region of the world known only to my imagination. There it is,
ahead, looming large and evoking the spirit of a thousand charity shop puzzle
box lids.
Hunger is also looming large, and until we find a shop to buy
lunch in, it will grow until it consumes our every thought, or mine at least.
So we need to find a supermarche. Foreign supermarkets being their mix of
wonderment, confusion and speedy mental arithmetic, I am soon more than ready
for an al fresco feast. We would like to choose a picnic spot in the suburban
environs a few minutes’ drive from the shopping area, but it’s easier said than
done. Eventually, we settle upon a sort of play-park with tall trees in a suburban
looking neighbourhood in Somewhereville, France. One of the more beautiful regions
of the world, and we decide, out of time pressured necessity, upon a place
where the local kids probably come to smoke illicit tabs and drink stolen
hooch. Maybe I’m looking at it through English Park Tinted Spectacles. Are we two
middle aged men without children trying their best to look like they should be
adjacent to a children’s play park eating a picnic lunch?
Of course, cheese is on the menu. I adore cheese, just bloody
love the stuff, but though I’ll eat almost any variety, not all cheeses are to
my taste. I have gone for goat cheese with its tang and roof-of-the-mouth
itching qualities. Ray has gone for some kind of rubbery stuff. Suffice to say,
I don’t share some peoples’ admiration for bendy cheeses. There is also bread,
of course, and tomatoes. It’s simple peasant fare. Ray has purchased a bottle
of red grape juice. The juice is not rich, or wealthy, or princely. Oh no, it
is the most stinkingly decadent grape juice known to mankind. Ray quite aptly
describes it as ‘liquid raisins’. I look at the bottle label and sure enough,
that’s what it says it is. It’s confirmation in writing, though my French to
English translation may lean a little toward my personal requirement for poetic
licence rather than any adherence to actual fact.
Fortified and restored by our super duper picnic in the park,
we must return to the van with its burgeoning emanations and make for the
border. We have a target, Asti, which is some distance across the Alps. It’s
funny how we are aiming at another region synonymous with effervescent wine. Coincidence?
We will never know. Once more, we assess the dichotomy of toll versus non toll.
If time bore no relevance to the decision making process, then an amiable
sightseeing roll through this staggering region would be preferable in the
extreme. But time is pressing, and we have no real clue as to how steep some of
the Alpine roads may be. In an attempt to lobby me toward his way of thinking,
Ray embarks on a cautionary tale from his previous experiences, regaling me
with disturbing reminiscences about the last trip he made when a burning smell
issued from the van due to the effects of steep gradient on a Vauxhall clutch. I really don’t fancy the challenge of
calling breakdown, because there are so, so many ways in which that particular
scenario can go horribly wrong, so toll it is
Herein lies a tale of simple economics, as it does in all
situations where ruthless capitalism reigns supreme. We aren’t the only people
who drive around here without local knowledge, and anyway, the roads don’t get
any less steep just because one may know them. The ‘somebody’ who sets the toll
charges knows this all too well, and not to put too fine a point on it, they
exploit the Bejeezus out of it. The bit of toll road we’re to use next is far
more expensive than the others. If I remember my economics A level well enough,
this is an example of inelastic demand. A reasonable summation of any
transaction involving inelastic demand is that it fucking sucks for the consumer.
So
we
unfetter the purse strings once more and pay, because to not do so may mean
that later we will be driving around the general vicinity of Asti in darkness,
with hunger and frustration the unwelcome accompaniments to Patrick’s
increasingly irksome ‘I told you so’ tone.
Once the toll is paid, progress is fast as we drive through a
succession of long tunnels intermixed with bursts of wide open road in bright
sunshine. And suddenly, Italy is all around us, clutching us to its rocky bosom.
We notice that the non-toll road is frequently in view and not looking too
slow. Of course! There is a brief moment, when stopped by a genuinely
insouciant border patrolman, that I thought there was to be a hitch. But his petty
questioning and expression of casual intransigence are short lived, replaced by
utter bewilderment as to why two middle aged Englishmen would need to cross the
Alps in a small van packed to the gunnels with such an assortment of apparent
jumble. Our disguise is perfect, and we can continue unimpeded by the vice like
clutch that no doubt exists at the long arm of the law. It’s not long before we
trundle into Asti, follow Patrick’s simple instructions, and arrive at the
appropriately named Luna, since there will be a full moon beaming once the
night sky descends to guide us into a balmy stupor.
Luna is a large two storey house up a steep, narrow lane. It’s
adjacent to similar old houses, with their terra cotta roofs radiating the
stored heat of the first day of June back at us with accrued interest. I feel
that there is an almost palpable veil of sticky air surrounding me. There are
leafy vines and big potted plants placed in an unsophisticated and unplanned
manner around a walled courtyard. A few chairs surround a metal table under a
shady overhanging upper floor.
A middle aged woman ambles out to greet us, and after fairly
brief ‘Hellos’ we are shown our rooms. They are full of dark wood and odd
artwork, photos from a different era and painted mismatched furniture. In my
room, above the bed is a strange painting of Harlequin, or Arlecchino, the 16th
century comic servant from Italian theatre. Do I need a flamboyantly attired
jocular butler hanging over my head through my slumbers? Perchance, nay. There
is also a classical painting which depicts a gathering of miserable looking
folk hanging around in a garden near a city wall. Their facial expressions are
so subtle they are almost invisible. I can’t figure out what they’re supposed
to be doing, but the composition intrigues me for that very reason. I resolve
to seek the artist and name of this painting upon my return to Blighty, but for
now it will just have to remain another of Italy’s many mysteries.
And then, and by far the best example of oddness found so far
in this house, there are two small highly stylised modern paintings of
children, just their faces. Any attempt at a written description of these
paintings cannot begin to do justice to the unnerving spookiness of their
staring blue eyes.
Soon we are showered and back down to receive a most agreeable
complimentary glass of white wine and directions to another venue for dinner.
We are recommended Madame Vigna, which is a mile or so away, and that means we
need to climb back aboard the van with its lingering, if gentle, aroma of unwashedness.
Madame Vigna is a trattoria at a crossroad in Baldicchieri.
Once inside, we are greeted by a young woman who it turns out is the
proprietor’s daughter. Good fortune because she speaks decent English. She
explains the menu in a dancing tuneful lilt so dramatically unlike our own it’s
almost as if it’s emitting from a different species altogether. Soon we are
indulging in a beautifully prepared meal under a vaulted ceiling, the sound of
Italian chatter bouncing from its angles like raindrops over palm leaves,
mingling with rhythms from one of the strangest background CD choices I have
ever heard for such a venue. There is some guitar based jazz, not uncommon I
suppose. Elvis Costello is not that odd either perhaps, but Joe Satriani? And
wait for it, my personal favourite as incongruousness goes, ‘Peaches en
Regalia’ by Frank Zappa. We must endeavour to find out why. Once the meal is
drawing to a close, the owner comes over for a chat and we find that it’s
nothing more bizarre than a CD his mate did for him, so he thought he’d put it
on in his restaurant. We turn down generously offered liqueur chasers as we’re
going to be driving. Our host, in extremely broken English, still a million
miles more useful than my non-existent Italian, proudly tells us he only drinks
wine or beer now. His days as a former whiskey guzzler are over due to what I
believe may be ulcers or acid reflux judging by his gargoyle impersonations and
abdominally directed gesticulations. I wonder what lightweight is in Italian.
We leave shortly afterward with a poorly pronounced ‘Grazie,
Buona Notte’ or two. Back at the dark Bed and Breakfast, those terrible eyes pierce my
soul, but I’m too exhausted to be unduly troubled by static artwork, despite
its notable capacity to unsettle the weak willed. It’s time to stretch out in a
comfortable if rather creaky iron framed bed. And so I do, and my world becomes
the picture postcard images from my day, ushering me gently through the surreal
mountains.
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