We've been away for our
summer holidays. I use the term very
broadly. What we attempted to do was get
Alistair out of the house by helping him start his Grand Tour. We planned to do it in four weeks, with Henry
and I showing him the ropes for the first two, and leaving him to it for the
remaining fortnight, whilst we enjoyed having the house to ourselves. The Other One has taken to staying in her room
a great deal – she read something about ‘confinement’ in the Middle Ages – I
mean, she read it in the present, about
the Middle Ages – and felt it suited her surroundings and preferred activity
levels.
Unlike most people in the
so-called First World, I am not connected to the ‘World Wide Net’ twenty-four hours
a day, seven days a week, even if stuck in some Foreign Legion fort in the
middle of an African desert. Heaven
forfend. No. Rather, I kept a more traditional diary,
using a proper pen on proper paper. I
did, however, decide to embrace the Network's motto of 'Share, Share, Share!',
so I have now transcribed the aforesaid diary to the computer and thought you
might like to read it.
Sunday 28th July 2013
Had to briefly re-teach
Henry how to drive. It's been a while,
but he insisted on being the carriage driver.
Left Airnfitchie with the Landie mostly full of high-visibility jackets
and warning triangles for when driving through France. Won't be letting those buggers book us on
whatever traffic regulation they've come up with this week for foreign
drivers. Alastair seems a bit out of
sorts; being made to leave that heap of laundry called a bedroom probably not
sitting well with him.
Had to stop on the way at
the Quine & Loon
Kennels to drop off Patches and Fang. Not leaving them behind with The Other
One. She'd probably try to feed them
wheatgrass smoothies, and we would return to find nothing left of her but a
long, dry arm bone.
Hadn't reached England
when H. decided to swear at SatNav for taking us near Manchester. He thinks it smells peculiar; and frankly,
back in ’83, it really, really
did. Scenic route down A1 instead. Got to Folkestone in just 14 hours.
Reached France half an
hour after that. Went into nearest Tesco
at A.'s insistence. You would have
thought that he would upgrade from the dreaded Stella Artois as the plonk is so
very much cheaper and cheerfuller over here.
Alas, no! Hopefully we can
persuade him otherwise whilst we tour.
This being a time of
austerity, we are camping tonight at the Huttopia Versailles in one of their
Canadian tents. Ignored pleas from A. to
use one of their wood cabins. He has no idea about making economies.
Bottle of red plonk (not
merlot) as we watch A. burn dinner on the barbecue, which is not, was never,
and ought never to be spelled with the letter ‘q’.
Monday 29th July 2013
Paris day of the Grand
Tour started off fine. Having avoided
the gleefully avaricious clutches of the boat-trip-up-the-Seine mob, H. and I splashed
out on hiring a French-speaking guide to take the three of us around
Paris. I can just remember when Paris was seen as preparation for a young lad’s
future a leadership role in government or diplomacy. I could fancy A. as a fabulous ambassador to
France, or some such. However, his grasp
of French was very limited. He succeeded
in chatting up some floozies during his fencing lesson; and some others, during
his dancing lesson; and another one during his riding lesson. Frankly, I think the appeal of French high
society and courtly behaviour was lost on him.
H. and I were intently listening to our French guide during a small tour
of the Tuileries before lunch when we noticed A. was missing.
We found him in the
evening at the Moulin Rouge, enjoying the Belle
Epoque menu, accompanied by all his lesson-fellows sharing a very large bottle of Champagne. H. was kind enough to let him finish his croquant feuilleté au caramel before
dragging him out by his ear.
At least the female
population will always find dear A. diplomatic.
Unfortunately, the FCO probably won't.
Tuesday 30th July 2013
On to Geneva. To make it easy on H., we took the A5 all the
way there. Alisdair sulked in the back
seat under a blanket. I heard only a few
snores and his iWhatsit blaring something from the headphones.
Arrived at Geneva with a
grumpy H. It's not his ideal stop, since
Geneva was Calvinist, and therefore the birthplace of the Church of
Scotland. Not his thing at all, but we're here for the cultural
education of A., so we toughened up our sense of predestination and went exploring.
As we searched for a famous church historian of H.’s
acquaintance, we heard a terrible sound and realised that A. was yodelling, or
rather attempting to yodel, at two well-busted young women. Worse, they were yodelling back. We beat a hasty retreat to a wristwatch
emporium roughly the size of Kincardineshire, but then there occurred something
rather unseemly involving an Omega ‘Plongeur
Professional’, the capacious pockets of A.’s surfboarding shorts, and a very, very unamused Swiss man dressed approximately
like Erwin Rommel, but shinier.
Wednesday 31st July 2013
Left A. to stew in gaol overnight
as we prepared for the next leg of our journey.
Although H. and I did visit the Conservatoire et Jardin botaniques
(where it was hard to tell where the conservatory ended and the gardens began)
and Musée d'Art et d'Histoire
(a very impressive building indeed). I
also suggested the Museum of Voltaire, but then H. growled something about his
ancestor who was shot to pieces at the Battle of Brandywine, followed by a
string of very, very rude words, interspersed with the names Locke,
Shaftesbury, Paine, Cromwell, Washington, Jefferson, and ‘that horrible little man
from the television’.. Dashed if I know
what it was all about.
We only managed to find a
yak when it was time to turn in for the night.
Will avoid all cultural hotspots tomorrow and seriously get ready to
endure the difficult crossing over the Alp – or perhaps more than one – as we proceed into northern Italy. Wondering if we might have to dismantle the
Landie. Will probably need a bigger yak.
Thursday 1st August 2013
Well, would you believe
it? The Great St Bernard Pass is now a road, that you can drive on! Took the yak back,
but unfortunately didn't get a refund on the deposit. H. went to bail A. out
whilst I packed provisions for the journey.
Since it was August, we decided to take the historic road
winding over the pass itself. The Landie
would find it a summer holiday after winter in Airnefitchie. Still, I took all the necessary winter
survival precautions, and we just about had room for A. and H. in the car
alongside the tents, brandy, mittens, a St Bernard dog and half a hundredweight
of salted beef.
Camera in hand and sulky son in the back, I drove this
leg of the journey…and with gusto.
Whilst still in Switzerland we got a puncture. Silly me!
I rummaged around the provisions for the jack. A. asked me what I was looking for, and when
I described it to him, he said he had moved it off his seat when getting in the
car back in Geneva. No, he didn't know
where he’d put it. Yes, it was likely to
be ‘just, like, on the pavement.’ No
improvised jack could be made: the rocks lying about were too unstable. Fortunately, H. remembered a group of monks
living somewhere this side of the border, so we sent out the dog to request
their help. Sure enough, half an hour
later, the dog came back with a rescue party.
They didn't look happy.
Apparently the beast had fornicated its way around the rest of the St
Bernards holidaying in the Alps for the summer.
A. seemed proud, and a rapport between him and dog developed more or
less instantly. Rescue party helped us
get the Landie over to the hospice kept by the monks.
We had a quick tour of the place whilst we were waiting
for the wheel to be changed. Apparently
the Great St Bernard Hospice, founded in 1049, straddles the highest point of
the road. Most of the traffic is
re-routed around the outside of the place on the modern road. The two buildings are from 1560 and 1898…oh
hang on…where's A.?
A. and the dog were found chatting up a group of blonde,
buxom gap-year backpackers. Again, we
dragged him away by his ear, though the other ear, to avoid any permanent
damage. With the wheel mended, we made a
hasty getaway on the modern highway through the pass. Since A. was clearly a bad influence on the
dog, we left it at the hospice, where the dogs have been used since, at least,
1690. A., sulking again, missed most of
the gorgeous views. We were soon in
Turin.
To keep A. firmly within our sights, we have found a
dodgy-looking campsite and settled in for the evening.
Friday 2nd August 2013
Knowing we'd be in Italy
for a fair bit of our Grand Tour, we hired a local guide who could help us with
our rusty Italian skills, and to find our way around the city (big museum and
gallery day tomorrow).
As regards A., our day
was rather uneventful. He stayed with us
and hung off every word our guide spoke.
Yes, our guide was a woman. Yes,
she was of student age, doing a bit of tour work over the summer break from
university to earn a few extra euros. And
yes, she seemed somehow susceptible to A's brutish charm.
We started in Piazza
Castello, as the square in which some of the main central streets
converge. There are some staggering
buildings: Palazzo Reale, the Palazzo Madama and the Biblioteca Reale. The skyscraper Torre Littoria, which was
supposed to be the Fascist party headquarters, and is quite different from the prevailing
Savoyard Baroque style.
There was a very tasty
lunch, during which H. and I were left to amuse ourselves whilst our tour guide
and A. whispered sweet nothings to each other.
A.'s grasp of Italian came shockingly quickly.
At the end of the
afternoon, H. and I looked up from our guidebooks to see A. wandering off into
the distance with our guide in the general distance of the incipient ‘night life’.
This made hotel selection
a bit easier. We swung up to the Grand Sitea back in Piazza Castello and booked
into a rather spiffy double room, with breakfast thrown in naturally.
We are now parked in the hotel
bar awaiting a pair of veal burgers and sampling the selection of gin and
whiskies, just to ensure everything is fresh.
Saturday 3rd August 2013
When we awoke, we put on
the TV for a bit of local news and to our shock found A.'s mug, or technically
a ‘mug shot’, plastered all over the headlines.
The daft boy had been
accused of stealing the Shroud of Turin.
We calmly had breakfast
and then proceeded to the nearest police station. It took quite a bit of delicate negotiation; A.
had apparently hoped to use the Shroud as a toga in one of the nightclubs –and,
I suppose, that seven million religious pilgrims wouldn't notice that Christ now
had two arse prints. But we managed to dislodge A. from the holding cells by
dint of a fat bribe and the promise that we would leave Turin immediately and never return. I was secretly
rather impressed that A. was able to get as close to the damned thing as he did:
real Dangerman stuff.
After H. attaining some
very questionable speeds on the A12, we passed Florence in record time, and reached
the Chianti region. To keep a low
profile after A.'s derring-do, H. and I booked into a hostel (twin garden room
with private bathroom). I think the
hostel owners were rather shocked to see all the tweed, but they soon got used
to us.
We have made A. sleep in
the Landie as punishment, and more to the point, to keep him away from the
local female hostel clientele. Why go
hoarse shouting ‘Lock up your daughters!’ when you can simply lock up your
sons, as Mother used to say. Don't
worry, we left a window open a smidge.
Sunday 4th August 2013
Florence was a lengthy stop
on the original Grand Tour. There was a
considerable Anglo-Italian society accessible to travelling Englishmen 'of
quality', and it brought together a large collection of art and sculpture which
would inspire picture galleries and art collections back on the farm.
Obviously, we weren't
able to spend months visiting Florence and neighbouring cities, so we will settle
for a day trip to Pisa.
This time we hired a tour
guide who was H.'s age. A. was moody
most of the day. Even when faced with
the façade of the Santa Maria del Fiore, he just guzzled from a bottle of
Peroni he seemed to have prestidigitated.
In Piazza della Signoria,
we took photos of the Fountain of Neptune – a complete masterpiece of marble
sculpture at the end of a still-functioning Roman aqueduct. But it was no good. By now, A. had had quite a few Peroni (God
knows where he was getting them) and tried to urinate into the fountain. Our tour guide actually preceded H. in giving
our son a clip around the ear. Quite a
good chap.
A. cheered up slightly
when he encountered a rather pretty Italian shop-girl on the Ponte Vecchio: a
sort of replica of Old London Bridge, which I was hardly expecting to see in
the middle of Italy. If we have to drag
him away by the ear too many more times, there will not be much ear left. Not
even the Uffizi would cheer him up.
Eventually, the tour
guide gave A. a handful of euros and told him to bugger off in the most
beautiful Florentine.
We are anticipating a
very hearty dinner sharing a bistecca
alla fiorentina, washed down with plenty of red wine.
Monday 5th August 2013
I used an internet café
to print off the Wikipedia page for Pisa and bought a map of the place from a
tourist information bureau. H. and I
spent our morning Earl Grey just marking off all the sites of interest on the
map. Somehow, A. had found out where we
were and joined us just in time for the bacon to turn up. He looked very green around the gills. Surprisingly
there were no mobs of paesani pursuing
him with forconi and torce, but we'll be looking out for tear-stained
letters from an Italian shop-girl (RE: love child) for years to come.
Even though it only took
an hour to get to Pisa from Florence, we left as early as we could, as the
drive from Pisa to Venice would take four to five hours, and we (read: H. and
I) wanted to see more in Pisa than its well-known leaning tower.
Just as well, the crowds
were immense at the Piazza del Duomo, so we went into the Museo Nazionale degli
Strumenti per il Calcolo soon after taking the obligatory photos of A. holding
up the leaning tower, which he instantly shared on Oafbook. After a quick look around the scientific
instruments, we took in some of the architecture, including the small church of
St Sixtus, one of the best preserved early Romanesque buildings in Pisa. We
even had time to visit the oldest university botanical garden,the Orto botanico.
Luckily, A.’s hangover lasted
most of the day, allowing me to imagine (howbeit briefly) that we were making some
progress on A.'s cultural education.
Maybe he could still be an ambassador, but to Italy instead? I then remembered his brush in with the law
in regards to the Shroud and quickly shook the idea from mind.
Tuesday 6th August 2013
Venice is our stop for
music and interior design. Why it is
'twinned' with Wolverhampton of all
places, H. and I simply have not been able to figure out. Marked by a characteristic style of composition
and the development of the Venetian polychoral style, Venice become of the one
most important musical centres during the 16th century. It was home to Vivaldi, Ciera, Picchi and
Dalla Casa during the baroque period, after all – not to mention Petrucci who
began publishing music almost as soon as the technology to do so existed.
We succeeded in dragging
A. into a glass workshop (not by an ear this time). He was impressed for a minute or two, which
H. and I thought was the start of something cultural for him, but alas! It was not to be.
We had hoped that the
city would calm A. down, but unfortunately, we lost him after he was asked by
some pretty young things if he could drive their gondola, a plush one with
velvet seats and a Persian rug; they claimed to have no sense of direction. A. immediately said he could and swam
straight to them (in the circumstances I hesitate to call it a ‘bee line’),
muttering something about learning on the job.
We are getting used to
this, and have chosen to spend our A.-free time to indulge ourselves at the Terrazza
Danieli and are watching all the lights come on as night falls.
Wednesday 7th August 2013
Remarkably, A. managed to
find us having a leisurely breakfast with our tour guide by the waterfront, and
as always was just in time for the bacon.
He seemed awfully pleased with himself.
We reached Rome in about seven hours.
A. was awfully giddy and kept taking photos of the coast as we drove
south. At that point, we didn't know
which A. we preferred, this being the most animated we've ever seen him since
we took him to Blair Drummond Safari Park when he was five.
I was rather looking
forward to seeing the sights of Rome. I
hadn't been there in so long. The
aqueducts, the fountains, the churches and palaces, oh and the Roman
ruins! Surely A. couldn't help but absorb
some culture in this metropolis! The
Colosseum alone ought to do it. Failing
that, the Stadio Olimpico would work for the more modern-minded, surely?
However, due to the
radial street pattern, we spent about an hour on each circular road before we
were able to penetrate the horde of people on mopeds to reach the next circular
road. This continued for a good while
until we somehow got stuck circling the Colosseum for two hours looking for a
way out.
This was not fun,
especially in the really quite hot Italian
summer heat and we were all losing our patience. In the end, we made A. hang onto the front of
the Landie and shout broad Scots at everyone until they moved and we were able
to plough our way (quite illegally no doubt) back out of the city and on to the
road to Pompeii.
I shall not be going back
to Rome next year.
Thursday 8th August 2013
It was dark as we
approached Pompeii, so we stopped close by and slept in the car. Imagine our surprise when we awoke to see
Mount Vesuvius staring down at us.
Something appealed to A.'s
sense of stupidity, as he insisted on going up to the top to see the
crater. Now, I know the last time it
erupted was back in 1944, but it is still under constant supervision. Would we make it up and then down again
before it exploded? A. spotted a road
quite handily going up the mountain and he was sure the Landie could handle it,
especially if Italian bus tours could.
If the volcano did erupt, the Landie would be heading back down, leaving
all the bus tours in the ash, before the first hint of lava. We'd probably be clear of Naples and halfway
to Palermo – on bright yellow
glass-fibre pedal-boats if need be.
Volcanism is such an
excellent motivator, don’t you find?
Luckily, we were the
first ones to arrive at the designated car park. We bought a few snacks for breakfast and
headed the rest of the way on foot.
It was a very impressive
sight, especially as it wasn't yet crawling with other tourists. It also made me very glad we didn't live in
any heavily populated volcano plains back home.
Even if the 'Snow-pocalyse' happened, our lovely Airnefitchie would
still be standing. And with our new
Armageddon shelter in the cellar, we too would still be standing.
Pompeii seemed to appeal
to some morbid humour in A. Didn't
really fancy it myself, though the views were nice. Too much roped off for conservation purposes. Almost felt we were trespassing. Prefer my archaeology to be in the form of
that rather nifty Civilisation
computer game. A. took a few photos of
the more hilarious plaster moulds of the dead Pompeiians, especially the one of
the dog appearing to lick itself mid-volcanic destruction.
Much limoncello later, H. and I have retired to the Landie for a
doze. A. carries on.
Friday 9th August 2013
The haze of limoncello having worn off, H. and I
tried to source breakfast. Easy enough to find the retailers, but hard enough
to find somewhere that wasn't already packed with residents and tourists. I briefly considered trying to find Alister instead
in full confidence that bacon would immediately appear. But coffee and pastries were all we could get
our paws on.
We were sitting on a park
bench munching away when A. managed to stroll along and steal some from us. He
then surprised us by saying he wanted to visit the National Archaeological
Museum. Baffled, but rather pleased that
the Grand Tour was finally working, we proceeded there directly. It was founded in the 1750s by Charles III of
Spain, in a building originally built as a cavalry barracks: ah, memories.
I was quite excited,
actually, as it was supposed to have a fine collection of engraved gems and
marble, including marble Roman copies of Greek lost works, the only way to know
what these works looked like. Very
cultural indeed. I was rather pleased
that A. was so interested. However, I
was not able to get rid of this niggling feeling at the back of my mind about
the museum. Something secret…
Unfortunately, I have
been proved correct. A. bypassed all the
marble and headed straight for the Secret
Cabinet, where the Bourbon Monarchy kept the really rude stuff, only
accessible by people of 'mature age and known morals', of which A. is
neither. Sadly, you only need to be over
14 to see the exhibit nowadays and I couldn't very well stop A. and drag him
over to the marbles. Instead, I diverted
H. before he went in and died of an apoplexy, and took him to the more
classical statues of curvy ladies with lovely bottoms. Disaster diverted.
Saturday 10th August 2013
This was the day we left
A. to the rest of his Grand Tour. H. and
I would head back home to Airnefitchie whilst A. went around the German-speaking
parts of Europe before coming home.
Very early in the
morning, we gave him his travelling, lodging and food allowance, packed up the
Landie and headed towards Calais. We are
in a service station not far from the shuttle terminal and about to turn in, in
the Landie amongst the caravans and motorhomes (with adequate protection in
case of theft from all the illegal immigrants).
Sunday 11th August 2013
We arrived back at
Airnefitchie. The Other One hadn't
noticed we were gone, but was still annoyed we didn't buy her anything from all
the boutiques in Paris and Italy.
Wednesday 14th August 2013
Alistair got home
today. He had run out of money in Naples
approximately ninety minutes after we left him.
So he lived as a non-sexual gigolo for as long as he could, living off a
very wealthy old heiress who liked his accent, before getting beaten up by the
Italian mafia for stealing their business.
It's taken him this long to hitch rides back to Scotland: an experience he
would rather not discuss.
No comments:
Post a Comment