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In Which I Get Out Of Italy Before The Italian Drivers Can Get Me

August 18, 2008 by Mike

Ankaran

Route: Cavallino - Caorle - Grado - Monfalcone - Trieste - Ankaran (Slovenia)

And another thing about the Cavallino campsite: something to chew over while I work the pain out of my back enough for me to be able to break camp and pack the tent and all my stuff away. (It all takes a little longer than it should, as I can't move too well for the first hour of the day.. and not because of a lack of coffee. Or because of too much of anything else to drink the night before. Usually.)

Where was I? That's right - in the campsite, surrounded by more Austrians than I've ever seen before in my life. It makes sense - Austria is an hour or so away up the motorway, and this is one of the closest bits of coast to that landlocked country. I know I should reflect on what it means to have no access to the sea -- it's a point we'll return to as I'm now in lands that were part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Indeed, Venice was Austria's main naval port for a while in the 19th century, before the Venetians became just too revolting.

But enough of that.. for now.. there's a bad voice in my head calling out very loudly, daring me to write that the reason I've never seen so many Austrians in one place is obviously because I've never been to a neo-Nazi rally.

There. The bad voice won and I've written it. Sorry, Austrians, that you get one eensy-weensy reference in this entire blo- I mean diary, and it's derogatory. Still, serves you right for supporting Georg Haider, I suppose.

Time to lave, before the Austrians realise what I'm thinking -- and call on all the Germans staying in the campsite to do something about it.

Am I sad to be leaving Venice, a city I have fallen so deeply in love with?

Not at all.

I know there are many adventures and beautiful things ahead of me. And I know I'll be back here one day.

The roads north from Venice keep me happy and smiling. They drift inland more than I'd like, but the land hereabouts is pretty damp -- river systems falling swiftly from the Dolomite mountains forming a flood plain and series of lagoons between Venice and the very top of the Adriatic. Such towns as there are out on the farther reaches could never compete, historically, with Venice. They have none of that city's magnificence. Their smaller populations never required the construction of houses, canals and infrastructure that make Venice unique. Nevertheless, they share the closeness to the sea, the qualities of light and stillness and calm which that brings.

Most dramatically, little Grado sits remote and quiet at the end of a long man-made causeway. There's no way of stopping the bike as I ride its length, so no photograph to show where the electricity pylon had been snapped in two by the latest Tramontana winds -- presumably the same day as the tremendous storm over Venice -- but a reminder to me of the power of nature and the impermanence of Man. Or something like that. There's clearly an alternative means of electricity supply to the town as the ice-cream sellers, fashion boutiques and pizzerias are still brightly-lit and doing a roaring trade.

Onwards we fly. The mountains now are visible to the north, topped with a fetching blend of snow and clod, and many of the roads down on the plain are lined with old and dignified parades of trees. Once in a while the road changes direction while the trees continue off in a straight line, only to be reunited a few minutes later. More lines of trees mark the driveways to old farms and the turnings to ancient stately homes. There's something wonderfully evocative, for me, about the way these trees last as a legacy of the person who planted or planned them. Never ceases to move me when I see them -- and they always bring to my mind great tree-lined roads I have seen before. There's one in Uruguay (sorry to place-drop) on the outskirts of Colonia. I found another in Kaliningrad on this trip. I'd like to get some trees planted somewhere before I shuffle off, I think.

Somewhere in drab, industrial Monfalcone as I round the Panzano Gulf the road turns towards the south again and we are, the bike and I, as far north as we have been since we rode out of La Rochelle on 26 Augst last year... And we won't be this far north again until I'm within shouting distance of Odessa in Ukraine. (Well, I will, as I fly back to see my Pa, as you know.. but the bike stays put.)

I shiver slightly, even though it's bloomin' sunny again today, scrunch my shoulders against the bitter northern winds (it's a mere 34 degrees today -- how was it for you?) and metaphorically huddle inside the fleece jacket I threw away in January to make more space in the panniers for t-shirts and sun cream.

By all logic the 20 miles or so to Trieste should be part of Slovenia. The hills to my immediate left are Slovenian. Many of the people who live here now (and most of the people who have lived here historically, are Slovenian speakers. The road-signs are bilingual here and have been since south of Monfalcone. Instead, though, this narrow strip, no more than eight kilometres wide and often much less, is part of Italy.

I'm entering a part of Europe where nationality, ethnicity and religion are powerful and emotive factors -- not least because so many of them are mixed so fully in such a small space. The mixture is still volatile -- in ways I haven't seen on this trip since the Basque Country, and before that the Baltic. Welcome to the Balkans. And what is it about places that begin with a B?

I'll try to understand and will doubtless fail miserably and make some really dumb and facile comments -- I'll also try to sum up my strong but contradictory thoughts about Italy -- but that can wait for another day.

For now, let's sit back and enjoy the sunshine, and a pause in Duino, where I have a gander at the local princely castle. Not a bad gig, being a prince round here. No principality to speak of, so not many onerous duties. No armies to equip or dragons to slay. Visits from tourists like me and the Prince of Wales apart, (and you can see his actual signature in the visitor's book, folks), the hardest thing must be deciding whether to sunbathe on the terrace or sail the yacht. The sea here is very, very blue (in a green kinda way.)

And next door is the United World College Of The Adriatic

Believe me, if the students here are half as smart and as friendly as my niece and her friends who I met at the sister College in Wales, then the princes have very nice neighbours indeed.

Blimey I don't half go on. Well, there's so much to see and do and say round here. I've reached a new country (in more than one sense) today: I rode through Trieste in order to camp in Slovenia. It's cheaper, better and friendlier here than any Italian campsite since " target="_blank">my friend Bruno in Calounia and it's not Italy.

I can't do justice to Slovenia here, at the foot of a long entry. And I can't sum up Italy in a few words either. I'll try to do all that (and more) next time instead. Bye for now.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Get Out Of Italy Before The Italian Drivers Can Get Me

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