Lard and Wine For Breakfast

Well, we slept when we arrived in Bologna - for precisely three hours - and then put on our dandiest clothes and caught the bus into town. Bologna is beautiful, like Italian cities are, and it has not one, but two, leaning towers. They stopped half way through building one because, due to subsidence, it was (and still is) leaning precariously.

It says much about the Italian predisposition for chaotic organisation that almost immediately, another, taller tower was commissioned to be built ten yards away from the first. It now leans at an even more perilous angle.

We spent the next three days hassled by benevolent Italian mosquitoes (the worst we found anywhere), and eventually gave up in an itchy, bite-fuelled huff and headed north to Schio. We found the cheapest campsite within 50 miles, which was up a mountain near Schio. It was staffed and populated by pensioners, none of whom spoke English, but all were thrilled by the exciting addition of young foreigners.

They demonstrated their pleasure at our presence through gifts of food, wine and by putting up with my garbled attempts at Italian. On the 1st of August, we were woken up at 9.30 and beckoned over to the social room, where everyone was sitting around tables, drinking litres of frizzante white wine and eating lard sandwiches. This, it was explained, is an old yearly tradition. Eating the cured pork fat sandwiches and drinking wine prevents snakes from biting you for the a whole year.

This seemed as good a reason for drinking at that time in the morning as any I'd ever managed to conjure up, so we joined in (see picture), and by 11.30 were full of lard and hopelessly drunk, and so went back to bed. Lesson learned: OAPs have lots off boozy fun. We stayed at the campsite for five nights, due mainly to the persuasive attention of the old folk.

In the end, we escaped for the border, through the delicious town of Trieste, and free-wheeled into Slovenia, hoping the petrol would be cheaper. It was, and, car topped up to overflowing, we gunned the mighty Micra for Senj in Croatia.