Ireland, Scotland & Wales

Yes yes, I know. I've been slack. In fact, it almost defeats the purpose of writing a blog if I didn't update it. Probably most of you won't be bothered checking it any more. If you are one of these people, you won't be reading this though...

Anyway, so I left you at France, yes? Well, the holiday didn't finish right then and there - far from it. We still had around 3 weeks to spend in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales.

We stopped by at Nicola's Uncle and Aunts for a little while, with the multi-functional causes of saying 'hello', bolting our car back together and being able to sleep in a bed for once. It worked out beautifully, and we (as usual) left there much happier, cleaner and more motivated than when we arrived.

The first port of call from there was to head up to York, in Northern England. We had some friends to visit up North, which we did the first evening, before moving up towards Scotland.

We had made a joint decision while dry, warm and comfortable at Nicola's Aunt and Uncle's house that we would conquer the three highest peaks in England, Scotland and Wales during our three weeks. Making this promise brought about immediate consequences, namely having to step up to climb Scafell Pike in the beautiful Lake District (England's highest 'mountain' at 978m) on our third day of travel.

This in itself wasn't necessarily hard, especially given the fact that we'd climbed up many higher and longer mountains in Norway (let alone the ones in Italy). However what we didn't account for was the weather. I'll just throw some words at you here. Cold. Wet. Miserable. Low visibility. Bleak.

Upon descending the scree-scattered 'path', I realised that it was not going to be as easy as planned to sort out these three peaks. The only thing that outweighed the level of tiredness in my legs was the overwhelming stench of my shoes, which had become so wet as to attract prospectors searching for peat bogs.

After recovering our senses the next morning, we managed to begin our drive up north to Edinburgh, Scotland. I found this to be a really beautiful city, and a wonderful delivery of the Scottish personality. It was cold, it was grey, but it had a real sense of humour.

The signage and shop keepers were all presented with a tinge of 'taking the piss', and as an Australian I felt really welcomed by all we met. The architecture was gorgeous, and we thoroughly enjoyed our trip to the Edinburgh Castle.

The only downside? We somehow managed to attract the attention of a couple of Australians at the campsite, who made it their singular purpose of talking to us for HOURS. They were not the type of people we'd naturally choose to spend a lot of time with anyway, but it appeared that there was no escape, even when we deliberately shut ourselves into the laundry room only to find that it was THEIR washing which had been put into the dryer, and that they would shortly come into check said washing, only to discover another opportunity to chew our ears.

After extricating ourselves from the siege of inane babble, we managed to move further North to the area around Dundee. Driving through Scotland is very generous on the eye - roads wind around beautiful ruined castles, through fields of bracken and past low hills dropping off into the sea. Yes, it isn't the verdant green almost eye-injuringly beautiful 'Switzerland', but it certainly has a harsher, more 'grungy' appeal.

I wonder at the ability of animals and plants to deal with the climate here - it was September and it was bloody cold. Frosts were beginning to move in rather quickly, and although it was around 14 degrees during the day, we were under no illusions as to the extent of the cold during the winter months.

Dundee stands in my mind as the place where we couldn't really find a campsite. We had one on a driving map of the area which turned out to be closed for the 'winter months'. The other ones we looked at were either closed or looked a bit 'dodgy'. One of these was an open field with some camper vans in it. Right next to it was what looked like a band of gypsies perched next to a torched car.

As we drove around aimlessly, I strongly considered going to a bottle shop to buy some scotch to give to said gypsies for a prime 'burning car side' location, but Nicola would have none of it. We did eventually find a spot to camp, and slept soundly (although I did dream of gypsies torching our car).

Next on our itinerary was to do some 'family roots investigating' for Nicola in a town called New Byth, followed by a stay-over in Aberdeen, which was another beautiful Scottish city.

But the real highlight for me was our drive past Loch Ness to the Isle of Skye. Skye is a beautifully remote and picturesque little island, with tiny farms dotted throughout, stunning countryside and waterfalls dropping off cliffs. This was a slice of Scottish rural heaven, and we only left so as to head towards Ben Nevis (Scotland's highest mountain).

I found the Ben Nevis climb substantially easier than the previous one, even though it was a full couple of hundred metres higher. It was also substantially colder and wetter. By then my shoes were a lost cause anyway, so I suppose I had a bit of a 'nothing to lose' outlook.

We got the ferry across to Northern Ireland to spend our final week and a half driving around Ireland and climbing Mt. Snowdon (the last of the 3 peaks). Lodging in Belfast was a questionable decision - we are brave travellers, but even the bravest and most optimistic may struggle to find any glimmer of hope in that city.

We moved on ahead of schedule to try to get close to Dublin for the evening (a long drive, but we weren't about to stay in Belfast any longer). We got as far as Drogheda (just north of Dublin), but in truth were lucky to make it that far as I nearly exploded with needing to pee on the journey down. Saying 'we'll just stop at the next servo' is fine, as long as there are servos within 60km of you (there weren't) and as long as the one you get to in 65km has a toilet (it didn't).

So after peeing behind a shipping crate and almost hitting a cat, I was right to go again - back on track. Drogheda was a really fun place for us to stop - we stayed in the best hostel ever. It was run by an Australian guy and his Latvian wife, and had a restaurant and plenty of beers downstairs. We possibly over-indulged on Guinness, and as such my attempts to stay up to watch the Grand Final only worked til half time (i.e. 7:30am Ireland time), at which point I duly passed out with exhaustion.

From here, we decided to leave Dublin until last of all, and to instead go to picturesque fishing town Galway, with its colourful village and proximity to the Cliffs of Moher, stunning sea cliffs which plunge into the freezing stone blue waters below.

Killarney was next - a centre for many outdoors activities in Ireland, including the Killarney National Park, drives around the Ring of Kerry and more sea cliffs. It was a simply stunning area, and we wish we'd had time to wander around the park itself.

From Killarney, we booted the car down to Cork and Kilkenny (just quick sightseeing stopovers), before making our way back up to Dublin. Dublin was another great city - the Guinness Factory provided not only a great insight into the brewing process, but also the heritage of the city itself, which was a surprise for me. We took a look at Trinity College, and generally took time to wander around and take in the sights of a city which is so rich in architectural, cultural and 'human-power' heritage.

Boarding the ferry next morning to head over to Wales, we had one final aim - to climb Mt. Snowdon in Northern Wales. This was not the case solely for our desire to complete the 'three peaks', but also for the added purpose of expediting the process of me wearing my shoes for the final time. By this stage, the stench which had accumulated acted as an olfactory sledgehammer each time we entered the car. Let's just say that the 'new car smell' pine tree hanging from the back seat roof handle didn't stand a chance.

Snowdon was (apart from the gale force winds) the easiest of all three peaks, and even watching a passenger train full of smiling pensioners slowly ascend its summit beside us didn't dampen my outlook as we quickly made our way up.

After a final night in Birmingham (a surprisingly bustling and enormous city) and another trip to Windsor Castle, we dragged our tired, wet and smelly car full of camping gear home to Southampton. The unpacking process was fun, as it gave us access to things we'd not seen for some months and had all but given up hope of seeing again.

This was the end of an (albeit very small) era - a holiday in my life I've not encountered the likes of before. The trip was so incredibly much fun that it has seemed an injustice to feel disappointed about not still being on it.

I am planning on doing a 'sum up' blog from the trip, but based on how long it's taken me to write this, Christmas may well be a more immediate situation for us all.

Key activities on the trip…

• Climbing the 'three bleak peaks in three bleak weeks' as I've since named it
• Enjoying the beautifully scenic driving and clean fresh air of Scotland and Ireland
• Visiting areas where Nicola's Grandmother grew up in Scotland
• Driving around the Ring of Kerry and Cliffs of Moher in Ireland
• Taking a tour of the Guinness Factory in Dublin
• Avoiding being shot in Belfast

Highlights

• Visiting some of the great UK cities; Edinburgh, Dublin, Aberdeen - all architecturally and culturally significant in their own way
• We got the car through another thousand or so miles, and have given it a good clean and a well deserved rest before eBay decides its fate
• Edinburgh was an enchanting city - you could just feel the atmosphere and defiance of the people
• The Guinness I had in the Guinness brewery was awesome. I'm the kind of person that has traditionally considered Guinness to be a type of meat, but my outlook has been shifted.

Lowlights

• My shoes don't normally smell, but by god did the tables turn quickly. Upon reflection I should have just thrown them out, but they were/are still good. I may have lost some part of my smell/taste relationship due to bottling ourselves up in the car with said shoes, but I still think it's worth it.
• Blowing a tyre on some remote Irish road and not finding the locking wheel nut until after the RAC had been called.

The people:

They are quite similar, yet very different, so it is only fitting to do a quick run down on all three...

The Scottish:

I think the merriment I extract from watching Scottish people speak has been covered sufficiently in this blog previously. I nearly lost my shit when sitting in the living room of an old couple who lived in Nicola's Grandmother's old house and watched him try to talk to us. There were entire sentences where I did not understand one word - it was awkward to nod knowing full well the nod was not a suitable response to what he'd just said. His wife was marginally better, but it made for some embarrassed silences all round.

But scratch the (personally hilarious) surface of a Scot, and you'll find people with the most genuinely funny sense of humour you'll ever find. They are just born funny - they don't even need to try. It certainly explains Billy Connolly and countless others. They are quick with a smile and make you feel very very welcome.

They are fiercely proud of their heritage (both with and without Britain), and seem experienced at being able to reel off all victories they have had over the English in the past.

The Irish:

A little less predictable than their Scottish neighbours, the Irish are more of a mixed bag. I'm sure the 20th Century hasn't been a particularly happy time for this split country, although recent years have seen more unity and promise than once seemed possible. As a result, there are still the 'street fighters'; those who gave all for what now seems a completely senseless waste of life and energy - a religious war in which the only winners are those who pulled the strings politically.

Belfast is another example for me of how post-oppression or post-war development may never ever re-establish harmony or stability. Belfast is a city which has been so rent of all its soul through war and aggressive shows of pride that it is a shell of what it must once have been - a cold stark reminder that behind the 'happy go lucky leprechaun' image of the Irish that we get back home, there is a troubled past which is still yet to be fully recovered from.

But there is of course heart here too - the Irish are as welcoming and warm as their neighbours, with their reputed good nature beaming through. Especially in the South, where Ireland has become part of the EU, people are accommodating and keen to show tourists like us around.

Oh yeah, and they like drinking. A lot. It's no lie that the Irish love a good drink and a good fight, so it was nice to finally confirm a cultural stereotype.

The Welsh:

The 'poor cousins' of the aforementioned (literally), the Welsh are a simple rural people who have arguably a funnier accent than the Scots. We thoroughly enjoyed listening to them speak Welsh (which is very common), and once again were pleased to find a polite, welcoming people.

Their houses are proudly clad with what can only be described as a pebble/cement mix, which may or may not (depending on the era of construction) be laced with asbestos. You can't really drive far without a reminder that mining is a core part of the economy in much of this region.

In summary:

This part of the world has been raved about before by Australian travellers. Sure, it doesn't have the beaches and 'continental Europe' feel of our other destinations, but I loved it for its simplicity; its green fields, friendly faces and good beer. Pubs were everywhere, and accommodation was great value. We even camped in Scotland and Ireland without freezing.

It is, however, a part of the world which must be taken in via a car to appreciate its true value - although the cities were beautiful and unique, the country areas were truly special and provided some unforgettable memories for both of us.

I would liken it to:

Antiques Roadshow sure makes a lot more sense to me now...

FRANCE!

Ahhhh France; our first foray into Europe proper, as well as our last. It was the scene of my first experience driving on the right-hand side of the road, an experience which neither one of us wants to relive. It was the place which allowed us to stock up on cheap groceries prior to entering Switzerland. It was also the warm gentle 'hug' we received upon fleeing Italy like two highly strung squirrels in a blue Peugeot.

We had of course been to France earlier in the year for a skiing trip at Chamonix, the details of which I'm sure I've written about before in this blog. So my thoughts here are only from the trip we did most recently...

Upon alighting from the ferry which bore us the short distance across the English Channel, we became recipients of a few hard earned lessons.

One lesson was that driving on the right hand side of the road does not come second nature to an Australian. However, to be fair to myself, it was really only the first few roundabouts which caused concern from the passenger seat, and from there on it was simply 'following traffic'.

The other lesson we learnt was that if you have an choice between driving on the tolled motorways in France or instead taking a (free) 'A' road or 'Highway', stop being a tight arse, pay the toll and get to your destination 4 hours earlier. This lesson was taught in the old sense, the 'learning by doing' sense. A trip from Boulogne to Val-de-Vesle (in the Champagne Region) which ordinarily would have taken us 2.5 hours saw us instead arriving (via our NavMan-oriented myriad of roads) at our campsite near on dark, a solidly inefficient 6.5 hours later.

The area around Reims is known as the 'Champagne Region' for a good reason, and it's not because they grow 'region' grapes there. We happened upon a couple of local wineries and sampled some of the most palatable champagne I've ever had the pleasure of tasting. In fact, I'm fairly sure it was the only champagne I've been able to drink without drawing similarities in my mind with how urine of a cat may taste.

After a night in Val-de-Vesle, we moved on to visit Nicola's cousin, Laura, who lives in Ornans (towards the Swiss border). It was such a beautiful little town, resplendent with its surrounding green hills, snake-like river running in its centre and a Romanesque church (most of which dates from the 16th century, but the clock tower of which still stands from the 12th century). The hospitality we received was so warm and friendly that we were quite hesitant to move on - meeting Nicola's cousin, her husband and little daughter was a great way to begin our holiday!

From there, we were whisked away by our tight schedule to Switzerland, and were only to return to France after a further 77 days of hard travelling. As alluded to earlier, re-entry into France was particularly anticipated by me as I had grave concerns regarding the mental constitution of my small travelling companion, who (after being affected by the intensity of Italy) had taken to talking to the Tumeric.

Our first port of call after re-entry was St. Tropez, in the South of France. St. Tropez is known primarily for its beaches and beach-goers; the rich and beautiful who go to 'be seen'. It is simply too geographically close to Monaco and Nice to escape being tarnished by the brush of hedonism. We encountered this head-on when out for lunch one day, as we ended up in a restaurant packed with white-linen wearing, plastic surgeon-beach house-providing, Chihuahua-carriers. The intensity was not dulled by the waiters who were absolutely impeccably dressed in white themselves, and who seemed almost invisible to the diner while being a continuous source of movement and service.

Regardless of us putting away a beautiful Rose as an accompaniment to seafood, the expansiveness of the bill from that particular meal was still nowhere near as significant as the cultural learning that took place by yours truly.

We took advantage of what was to be the last remaining days of true summer to lounge around on the beach before our schedule had us heading north to the Loir Valley. Within the space of an (admittedly long) 8-hour drive, long sandy stretches of beach blurred into flat green pastures and finally into areas of deep forest. And on that same 8-hour drive, the top temperature went from a rather satisfying 26 degrees to around 15.

The Loir Valley is the place to go if you have a specific and unfulfilled hankering for castles. It appeared that we both DID have unquenched longings for castles, so it was lucky we were here. Castles 'France-style' seem to be generally less about 'fortifying the crap out of it' (others we'd seen seemed to have been prepared for invasion from a storming mass of tanks) and more about 'luxury, style and good positioning'. Amongst others, we saw a castle in the midst of a river, which used the natural environs as protection as well as a source of aesthetic convenience.

It was lovely to just drive between castles, winding through back roads lined by vineyards, corn fields and their small accompanying farmlets. It is one of the most rustically beautiful places I have ever been - except for the castles themselves, there was nothing ostentatious, showy or confronting about the place. Just clean, fresh air, green rolling meadows and a wonderful sense of simplicity.

For the final time on mainland Europe, our schedule got in the way of our desire to stay, and we made our way to Paris. Having been to Paris before, I knew what to expect to an extent. However, Paris on this occasion soon seemed to sweep away what I had expected and replaced it with a whole new perspective.

Sure, it has the Eiffel Tower (which we climbed), the Louvre (which we spent hours walking around), the Arc de Triomphe (which we stood under) along with countless other attractions. But as with France itself, Paris is not about what is there, it's about the way people live and interact. We experienced a large mix of lifestyles, from the well-off luxury brand store-spattered streets of Saint-Germain to the heavily immigrant populated areas near Saint-Ouen (which features men cooking corn in supermarket trolleys in flea markets).

Regardless of this spread of cultural diversity, there was something that brought it all together in Paris - a strong, coherent policy of 'no bullshit'. Unlike Italy, where we felt as though every interaction with someone (both invited and uninvited) would be a story in itself, French people are happy to be simply calm, polite and (almost) anonymous. We loved spending one of our days just simply 'living' there - we'd already taken in all of the tourist must-sees, and took the opportunity to wander around, shop and eat in the places which interested us.

Only Prague is its match with regards to romance, inspiration and 'vibe'.

On the way back to board our ferry back to Britain, I had made some plans to stop in at Daours, the final resting place of some of my ancestors. We had allocated 45 minutes to locating the town and visiting the graves, however hadn't foreseen a 'once a year' festival which was taking place in the centre of Daours itself, rendering the entire town inaccessible by car. The 45 minutes were soon taken up trying to find 'back ways' to enter the village, but to no avail. We simply couldn't stay any longer, and to my disappointment we had to speed off to catch our ferry in time without entering the cemetery.

However, my disappointment was soon quelled by the realisation that what had happened to me was very unapologetically 'French'. I had just come face to face with the very thing I loved about the place - the fact that people don't feel a need to put themselves out for you to any great extent - if they want to block off an ENTIRE town to all traffic on a particular day, then they will just damn well do it. And good on them.

Key activities on the trip…

• Sampling wine in the Champagne region
• Spending time with Nicola's family (in their beautiful little home) in Ornans
• Stretching out on the sandy beaches near St. Tropez, and sampling the local restaurant culture
• Castle-gawking in the Loir Valley
• Being tourists, shoppers and general awe-inspired appreciators of Paris

Highlights…

• The countryside was beautiful, the farms well organised and productive and the trees substantial, making for some of the more diverse and interesting driving of the journey.
• Paris was a stunning city, and behind all of the cultural icons and attractions it becomes even richer.
• Getting the opportunity of watching a man cook corn in a supermarket trolley would have to go in the almost full category of 'things I didn't think I ever needed to see'. Sure, using what appears to be an old rusted out oil drum filled with glowing embers may not SEEM to be the most hygienic or Worksafe-friendly means of preparing corn, but if imperative convenience and lack of fiscal resources hamper you, I don't see why not.
• Re-establishing sanity of both of us. My shoulders and eyebrows dropped around 2 inches each upon leaving Italy (I really loved the place, but it was intense) and entering relaxed, slower-paced France. I managed to locate and hide the Tumeric from Nicola to prevent any recurrence of the issues encountered earlier and I'm pleased to say that we're on track for a full recovery.
• Watching the North Africans around the Eiffel Tower (who sold mini Eiffel Tower keyrings and other assorted toys) spend their days stuffing around with their toys, joking with each other, and preparing for the arrival of the Police, at which point they all shouted and sprinted away as quickly as they could. Clearly it was illegal for them to be selling the items they were selling where they were selling them, but it was entertaining to watch nonetheless.

Lowlights…

• Missing out on visiting the grave of my ancestors was a bit disappointing, but at least I got within a few hundred metres!

The people:

Put simply, the French were some of the nicest people we encountered on our journeys. So strap yourselves in for a journey of stereotype destruction Dawes-style:

• French people ARE NOT rude. Calling a Frenchman 'rude' is akin to calling a goat 'uneducated'. Just because the goat does not know Pythagorean mathematical theory does not mean that it should.
• French people DO NOT mind that you speak English. My constant butchering of French was met with bright eyes, a knowing nod and a faint hint of a smile. After hearing aforementioned 'French', a conversation in English was forthcoming.
• French people DO NOT smell like garlic. They just don't.
• French people DO NOT only eat snails and frogs. Their food is amazing, especially pastries, vegetables and soups. I truly admire their strong desire to source food locally and to 'grow their own'.

Sure, there are exceptions to every rule (as with any population), but never has a culture been so heavily pigeonholed as the French. It gets me to think about the way that people think of their own culture, and has me quite sceptical of the desire Australians have to label themselves as 'friendly and laid-back'.

Trust me - French people are just as rude or as polite as they need to be in any given situation. There is nothing I hate more than a person who is fake and who will be overly friendly to your face, all the while hiding a brooding passive aggression (yes, I'm talking about you Mr. Croatian in the corner).

It was I suppose my positive experiences with the people that had a great influence on my final impressions of France as a whole. In a way, they are like the English, just without the extra chivalry.

In summary:

While the rest of Europe was akin to driving through and experiencing a mėlange of intense culture and personality, France appeared an island of sanity, of 'life as usual'. Of course, it had a beautifully rich culture of its' own, however the culture was more 'hands-off'.

You feel free to travel and experience exactly how you wish in France, each person is his or her own person, and there is not seen to be any real need to make an effort on anyone else's behalf (friends and family excepted of course). What a wonderfully refreshing and admirable way to live (especially coming from an Australian perspective, where Today Tonight and the Herald Sun together perpetuate a malignant culture of life intrusion, fence-peering and finger pointing). A Frenchman would not care if you had three heads and spoke as if a Bushman of the Kalahari - they would simply be polite to any enquiries you have and get on with their own lives.

How long this kind of free 'each person to themselves' existence can be maintained is up for question - France's President seems to be doing his utmost to alienate pockets of the population for whatever political purposes. However it does seem as though the French people themselves have a tightly held notion of sincerity, honesty but modest unobtrusiveness.

The countryside, the towns, the castles, the beaches - all of these in France were simply beautiful. This is combined with my appreciation of the people and their way of life. No wonder I left France pondering its place among my favourite places ever visited.

I would liken it to:

A zucchini. A completely misunderstood and often misjudged thing. People generally don't know enough about it and are scared of it, so it often goes untouched.

Fortunately, I know exactly what to do with it, and quite enjoy the richness of flavour it can provide.

ITALY!!

Italy was another of the growing series of countries in which we had spent time across separate occasions. First of all, we entered from the North, dashing across the Austrian border to the mountainous Dolomites region of Italy (staying at Cortina D'Ampezzo).

When the weather turned sour in Cortina, we shifted the schedule ahead to take in Venice early, and then returned to Cortina for two nights so that we could accomplish our aim of walking along the famed hiking trails the Via Ferrata. Following this phase were our adventures through Slovenia and Croatia, the tales of which you'll no doubt have familiarised yourself with above.

Sailing from Dubrovnik to Bari (the 'Achilles heel' of the Italian 'boot' concept), we made our way quickly over to the Amalfi Coast. Then it was to Rome (via Pompeii), to Florence and over to Cinque Terre for a couple of nights before departing for France.

Italy was for me an amazingly evocative place - there was so incredibly much to see and do, and such a great deal of content matter to take in that I couldn't help but feel as though I'd been swept into a cyclone.

Our first port of call, Cortina D'Ampezzo, was a beautiful little town tucked away in the midst of the Dolomites National Park, land which used to be owned by Austria but which was re-distributed post-WW1. It is known now for its high fashion visitors, especially during ski season.

However, clearly the best of this fashionability was not saved for winter only, as we discovered on assessing the fact that everyone there (other than us of course) was wearing high end designer clothing brands, including children. It was quite amazing to see them strut around with their walking poles and gear for hiking while trying to maintain a high-fashion look, marked particularly with white see-through pants, linen shirts and designer sunglasses.

The rain set in heavily (essentially non-stop) on our first two nights' stay, so we did not get an opportunity to undertake the walks we had planned to do originally. Taking a time-conscious outlook, we drove early to beautiful Venice, which certainly exceeded my expectations and memories of visiting the place years back. To me, Venice was a city which had always seemed overrated, a place which for some reason had gained fame for no doubt smelly and tainted waterways, and which was sinking slowly into oblivion.

Although the crowds were at peak thickness in Venice (particularly across the narrow pedestrian bridges, where tourists were perched like expectant seagulls waiting for photograph opportunities instead of chips), the nature of the city is such that you can lose yourself quite quickly and easily down the beautiful winding back alleyways.

What we got was something completely different to my expectations. As described again and again you could feel the romance of the city, which turned out to be a truly special and charming network of surprisingly clean and blue coloured canals. We explored all of the major tourist sights, and took the water taxi across to Lido, a beach side area on the 'mainland'. Upon returning from Lido, the sunset across the centre of Venice was simply breathtaking, and set me off like a piece of foil would a magpie, if that magpie was a keen photographer.

Ripping ourselves away from Venice to return to Cortina, we still had unfinished business to conquer; namely, walking the Via Ferrata trails, or 'Iron Ways'. I knew I had arrived back in Cortina immediately when I spied a female cyclist out on the road with see-through white bike pants, a white g-string and a tanned butt. It was certainly eye-catching if not vomit-inducing.

The 'Iron Way' trails we sought so eagerly were originally blazed by the Austrian and Italian armies during WW1, with astonishingly significant amounts of rock being excavated and moved to form full underground tunnel networks, to build perfectly camouflaged fortresses and decoys. Today, you get to walk the paths built by these armies, who used to use ropes and harnesses to clip onto iron cables and staples set into the rocky hillsides.

Armed with helmets and harnesses of our own, the weather cleared on our return journey to allow us up to the 3,000m mark of Mt. Cristallo to explore the tunnels and fortresses set up all those years ago. The walk, which took us 6 hours, guided us around the pathways and down to 1,200m, before the arguably most difficult part of the walk; a 6km, 600m ascent to the final destination (a chairlift back down to the bottom). The very final part of this was a walk up what must have been a blue rated ski slope, which was so steep that I was almost delirious by the end of it.

This possibly explains my untempered eagerness to get to the more relaxing confines of Slovenia and Croatia, and certainly explained why my legs ached considerably for several days afterwards.

After Croatia and Italy, we instantly knew that we had returned as we entered the ferry (a boat perhaps a little smaller than the Spirit of Tasmania, but certainly larger than the HMAS Shithouse). The boat trip over turned out to be a curious example of Italian culture. As we first of all took a couple of seats by a window I observed hoards of Italians consuming their brought-on-board lunches. I also couldn't help but observe that we were the only two people aged under 40 and the only ones who were not Italian.

Then, all of a sudden it was announced in Italian that the buffet had opened. I never saw a room clear as quickly, as they essentially clambered over each other like sheep dogs over sheep to get first go at what was on offer. But the effects of this were significant, and formed the impetus of a rocky journey ahead.

As the dust and shredded clothing from the group of cyclonic Italians began to clear in the direction of the buffet, another rival gang moved in to take their seats, headed up by an old grey-headed man in a black polo shirt. All of a sudden, arguments broke out like spot fires until a fully raged brawl was taking place over seating, with spittle flying, bags being thrown off seats and dramatic 'sit-down' protests and arm crossing taking place. I thought the gentleman with the black polo shirt would explode or suffer some form of internal overheating, as his face swelled and became blood-red.

Eventually, the invading seat marauders were overthrown, and the 'goodies' won the battle, as they all caught wind of trouble, dumped their salad bar appointments and swept back like waves of armed forces to reinforce their positions. To this point, the boat hadn't even left the dock at Dubrovnik. Nicola and I sat blatantly staring with our mouths hanging open.

But then the boat DID begin to move, and thus we entered phase two of the journey. As we sailed out of the heads at Dubrovnik, we hit some rather large waves (especially for Mediterranean standards) and it all very quickly turned to shit. Within 10 minutes, the floor of the entire ship was coated with clammy, vomiting old Italian people, clutching their rosaries and singing 'Ave Maria'. Nicola and I must have looked like clothing store mannequins sitting in our corner of the boat simply shocked, eating chips and ice creams while they were physically ill like a poorly conducted and composed orchestra.

It turned out that we were the only two people left untouched by the no doubt harrowing movement of the boat, and we were left considering how we would survive the remaining 8 hours on a boat full of sick people. We took walks to assess the damage, and on one such sojourn I stepped over countless bodies to get to the top deck. The restaurant looked like a war hospital, and as I passed by a flattened boat security guard, his radio crackled eerily with static as it would in a movie which detailed the effects of a deadly killer virus with no known survivors.

Needless to say, the buffet didn't open at 9:30pm as promised, and we couldn't help but feel a little pissed off as we stepped over the seemingly lifeless carcasses which were strewn across the floor back to our seat.

The delay in travel had us arriving hungry and bleary eyed at a rather impolite time of midnight and thirty. It meant that accommodation options were limited, so true to my nature I found myself resolving to drive as close to our final destination (Minori on the Amalfi Coast) as possible that evening. The consequences of this were stark - a night was to be spent at a roadside stop, sitting upright in our seats as in medieval times, although we weren't warding off the devil, but simply too stuffed to be bothered unloading the car to get to the mattress in the back.

The crick in my neck had me looking slightly left for a few hours next morn, however an Italian coffee and an achievable destination set me straight as it were. We were soon in the breathtakingly picturesque little village of Minori, which is known for its lemon groves, wine making, beaches and traditional Italian community feel.

Our campsite was simply a terrace within a large lemon grove, cleared of its previous inhabitants (trees) to allow at most 5 tents to be pitched. We had the entire campsite to ourselves, and the views of the small bay into which Minori was set were amazing. The only catch? The 377 steps necessary to alight when accessing the campsite from the town centre.

I soon realised that I have a strange internal compulsion to count steps as I climb them. I can even hold perfectly well-maintained conversations (and did) while counting the steps. It goes alongside my avid habit of using a bug smear or stone chip on the windscreen and crossing my eyes to make its' duplication loop around light poles on freeways when travelling as a passenger in the car as one of my least explainable quirks.

Anyway, the town, the campsite and the surrounding area was one of the most beautiful places I've been. As we descended the steps (at around the 128 step mark), we looked over some steeply built winding walls to see an old mother and daughter grinding tomatoes for Pomodoro Sauce, as sounds of Italian opera singers floated across the air like dandelion seeds. The vivid blue waters of the Mediterranean flashed sharply from the horizon, and momentarily distracted us from our descent.

The meal we were cooked by the campsite owners was amazing, and used the lemons, basil and tomatoes grown in their own gardens, along with homemade pasta and bread. I left Minori with an enormous sense of relaxation and awe that such a beautiful village could remain so untarnished by tourists and visitors in the context of what we'd seen before.

But Rome called us, and when Rome calls, you'd better answer the phone. Pompeii served as a fascinating cultural sidetrack for us on the way to Rome, with its ancient volcanic ash-preserved ruins both incredibly well maintained and thought-provoking. Seeing casts of the bodies found when excavations began still crouched in positions praying and cowering from smoke ensured a solemn and empathetic tone was present.

But like the old, ancient show-off that it is, Rome was our destination for that evening and was to be so for the following three. Our campsite was an easy train ride into the city, which proved just as well for we sought to do some hardcore, action-packed, foot-wearing, camera-carrying sight seeing. Within the space of our time we saw St. Peter's Basilica and the Vatican Museum, the Colosseum, the Catacombs, the Roman Forum (ruins of ancient Rome), the Pantheon and several smaller churches. Added to this was the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain and Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers.

Rome I could only describe as a human, cultural and religious washing machine. It is such a high-paced, loud, busy, crowded, ancient, culturally rich and beautifully artistic hotchpotch that we were left feeling utterly and completely exhausted after each day. But the thing about Rome was that it was utterly addictive. Getting the opportunity to see Caravaggio paintings hung for all to see up close in a small church near the Pantheon (Chiesa de Saint Luigi de Francesi) presented an amazing opportunity, and the entire city buzzes with an energy we've not felt elsewhere.

We then had three nights left, which we allocated to the beautiful Florence (one night) and Levanto (near Cinque Terre in the North - two nights).

Florence was another place which surprised me - I assumed it to be another vacuous tourist trap, flaunting cheaply its art galleries and museums. But what I found was a more laid back and less ancient version of Rome, with the crowds more focused on drifting in and out rather than installing themselves for a long stay. The Uffizi Gallery which is located just next to the square where Michelangelo's David was originally set was one of the best galleries we'd been to.

Cinque Terre, therefore, was where all the crowds had decided to settle. This place turned out to be easily the most overrated place I have ever been. Essentially, the concept of Cinque Terre is that there are five small towns tucked romantically away in small separate valleys which plunge into the restless Mediterranean. The brochures and guidebooks swear to provide a stunning footpath joining the five towns, as well as a scenic train service which can be caught between any of the towns.

But what we found was without exaggeration thousands of Australian, German and American tourists with previously unused walking poles and hiking boots packed onto a train. From there, it was all about standing within 20cm of the person in front of you as you 'walked' (at the pace of the overweight 64 year old American woman in front of you) along the 'hiking trail' (read: asphalted footpath). And the 'nice little remote towns' were nothing more than villages crammed with backpacker hostels (with more Australians) and tourist shops.

I was not impressed, and was continually wondering why it was that this place was so talked up, so hyped and so bloody packed full of people. It was especially disappointing to contrast our recent visit to Minori, and the wonderfully peaceful experience we had surrounded by stunning coastline. I would not recommend Cinque Terre to anyone, unless they only had a few days to explore Italy and perhaps enjoyed buying 'I heart Cinque Terre' t-shirts.

I leave you with a quote from a brochure we received on Cinque Terre:

"The sea lives on even without the sun; when the waves rise the gulf fills with dozens of surf boards, while from the promenade a curious, fascinated crowd follows the acrobatics of the young virtuosi of the sport, undisputed leading actors in this 'Californian' show that has no walk-on parts". What an utter load of shit. If i were to try to pen a critique of this statement I simply would not know where to begin.

The people…

Potentially the most striking element next to the 'sights' of Italy is the nature of its' people. What a bunch of crazy, emotional and unpredictable people the Italians are.

It is as such almost impossible to sum up Italians in just a few words. I instead will rely on some observations of commonalities and tendencies which I was able to grab like frantically dispersed feathers in the air:

1. Italian men love power equipment. This doesn't mean it's all about power saws and angle grinders, but I suppose hair dryers do count as power equipment. And it makes sense now why Italian men at home all use garden blowers, as a morning of our time in Venice was spent with the dulcet tones of two leaf blowers and a chainsaw. Italian men, it appears, hate leaves.
2. Italians are not known for their high levels of common sense and educational grounding. They tend to be too worried about looking good and wearing the right clothes to truly apply themselves, and we developed a theory that the truly smart Italians had to turn to organised crime to gain in a society which ultimately would not reward academic smarts. Grunting and blank stares were often encountered, and there was a specific mouth-hanging-open-to-catch-flies pose which adorned the face of many
3. For Italians, emotion rules far above practicality and logic. It would seem that an Italian would rather burn their entire vegetable patch to the ground than allow their neighbour to sneak a tomato or two. The drama queen like performance on board the boat to Bari featured exaggerated sit-downs and crossing of arms, accompanied with a pout which would make a 4 year old girl blush. Pride comes before all else, and emotion is just simmering beneath the surface if the need arises.
4. They are incredibly self-involved. We saw countless examples of Italian women looking at themselves in our car window and doing their hair. The frenzied trampling which took place when the buffet on board the ferry to Bari was announced was epic, and was another tilt in the 'me first, stuff you all' direction of note.

What does this all amount to? An absolute emotional and social observational drain, which left my head spinning. They are loud, larger than life, emotional and proud, and will give you each of these elements within the space of a minute.

Key activities…

• Climbing hills in Cortina D'Ampezzo, in the Dolomites National Park
• Drifting through the water-grid that is Venice
• Camping in the lemon groves of beautiful and relaxing Minori
• Visiting the ancient site of Pompeii, the victim of the Mt. Vesuvius devastation of AD79
• Encountering Rome, with its hot dusty streets and endless attractions
• Spending time in Florence, taking in more 'culcha' by visiting the Uffizi Gallery (home of countless Caravaggio, Da Vinci and Michelangelo pieces amongst others)
• Battling the soul breaking crowds of Cinque Terre

Highlights…

• Minori was such a typically 'Italian' place - it is just what you expect of a country known for its small twisting villages and seaside, and was a relaxing haven in an otherwise high fidelity nation.
• Venice surprised me - it was an example of how a place can be packed with tourists while still retaining an atmosphere of something truly special.
• Rome - was and still is the centre of civilisation in the area, and it shows.
• Saying a 'goodbye' to the pillows we had purchased for a miserly £6 each from Ikea. To this point they had become indistinguishable from a loaf of slept on 4 week old white toast bread (minus the mould perhaps). Oh but they were flat, compacted and as hard as buggery. We left them by a bin in our Rome campsite, and within 4 minutes one of them had disappeared. No doubt someone was an avid collector of useless haberdashery.

Lowlights…

• At some point earlier in our journey we must have purchased some carrots. It took a few days of 35 degree Italian heat for us to realise that the carrots no longer retained their original form, and were now in fact fermented carrot paste. Putting aside MasterChef dreams of how this paste could well revolutionise dinner parties, once we had detected the offending 'carrot bag', it followed the same path as the above-mentioned pillows. But not without leaving us with a potentially permanent reminder of its transformation by way of a stain on our recently fish sauce free mattress.
• The intensity of Italy really got to us both and genuinely made us tired and keen for some relaxation in France. It even got to my normally steadfast travelling partner who was overheard ranting 'I hate you turmeric' to an uncooperative jar of said spice which refused to be sealed shut. I pretended not to hear, but made a silent resolve to get moving as quickly as possible.
• Cinque Terre has just won itself a place in my black book, along with many others who I have not time to name at the present time.
• Italian radio is truly terrible. Every single potential bandwidth is used (without fail), and is filled with utter crap. People shouting, speaking and being in your face is one thing when you're out in the open, but in the confines of your own car, you feel a little hard done by when your radio serves more of this up to you. It's particularly disappointing when we needed to find (and resultantly could not find) just ONE vacant radio station to be able to tune in my iTrip and be saved by my own music.

In summary...

In all, we spent 15 nights in Italy, and spread our time beautifully between countryside, coastal areas and cities. Italy simply oozes culture, arts and history, and is a remarkable example of how well national icons can be preserved - it's something to be commended.

But the thing with Italy is that it tires the traveller out. It sounds funny to be exhausted by just experiencing a place, but the sights, sounds and personalities you encounter in such a short space of time proved to be ultimately overwhelming. I don't think it's a place that I could live for any significant amount of time.

As we crossed the border to France, my eyes were noted to have slight swelling and dark rings around them, and my brain ached slightly as the last Italian near the border overtook me at 140km/h before cutting in front of me and slowing down at random. I'd already just fought to protect my space in line at the roadside stop food outlet.

It kind of summed the place up - absolutely nuts. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

I would liken it to:

Having an involuntary lobotomy, where your brain is removed completely for the space of time you're visiting and put into a blender. Added to your brain is some ancient and amazingly well-preserved history and a splash of beautifully picturesque coastline. Then add a good serving of alps and fantastic hiking, a dollop of the world's most amazing art. And before you start blending, add in the fact that every Italian you meet is slightly crazy in his or her own unique way.

Then blend the crap out of it for 15 nights (in my case). Then return the mixture to your head and sew it all back up. That's getting to how I felt upon crossing the border to France.