"Wow! What a view". I exclaimed pulling Sadie into a narrow precarious cliff hugging and stone blocked old quarry entrance. I clambered to the top of a small rise of ground to take in the breathtaking view out over 'Massa', 'Carrara', the port of 'La Spezia' on the blue Mediterranean which was our destination. Just behind us were the tunnels through the solid snow covered peaks and their deep river gorges that had provided the narrow twisty road we had just negotiated from 'Castelnuovo di Garfanga'.
The mountain wind was icily cutting as I turned to descend my viewpoint and gain the warmth of Sadie. Next thing I knew I was screaming obscenities to the heavens while rolling on the ground clutching at what surely must be a broken ankle. The pain was excruciating but behind that pain and behind the coping mechanism of voluminous obscenities I, with utter despair, knew clearly what had just transpired. My right foot had rolled right over and once again ripped muscle and tendon to shreds. I say once again as unfortunately my life has been regularly punctuated with such painful incidents rendering my ankles weak and vulnerable.
The obscenities finally stopped echoing round the mountains and the pain eased. I managed to limp across and haul myself into Sadies warmth. I sat for a while recovering from the shock and assessing the situation. Everything moved as it should albeit painfully and with limited mobility.
"Nothing broken then". I muttered to Tanya and "Happy bloody birthday Steve"
I sarcastically said as I gingerly worked Witch-Hazel cream into the now grotesquely swollen and throbbing ankle. Yes; this was April 7. My 67th birthday.
My biggest worry was driving. We were at the top of a high mountain pass and in front of three and a half ton Sadie lay an hour of steep downhill, second gear only, zig zag narrow hairpin roads. Regular right foot brake operation was going to be required.
"Am I gonna manage it"? I thought to myself.
Happily the downward gradient of the road was kind to us. Sadie's slow but safe second gear adequately held momentum at a level requiring only occasional light braking. Even so I was wincing with pain well before our rendezvous for the night.
"Got to stop Tan, this is hurting and starting to get dangerous"
We were thankfully on the flatter but busier coastal strip by then with eyes peeled left and right for a suitable bolt hole for the night.
"That's it, that'll do, winker on, hang a left and we're in".
A nearly empty parking area adjacent a grassy field and communal area. Phew! was I glad to stop, make a cup of tea, down a couple of paracetamol and put my foot up to rest. Which is exactly what I did for about an hour till Mr Carabineri poked his head in the open door and said.
"You no stay here. You no camp, you go!"
I did, with a masterful limping demonstration and best 'poor me' pitiful painful facial expression put forward my case for staying put. This however; only elicited the same few monosyllabic English statements in louder voice and with sterner face. This repeat was accompanied by jacketed Carabineri arm firmly pointing to anywhere else but where we were.
I had no choice but to pack up and go. Which within ten minutes is exactly what I did. Such is the flexibility of a motorhome. I flicked on Mrs Sat nav again and let her lead us the remaining thirty kilometres to our original destination, a Sosta (motorhome parking area) listed in my book at 'Porto Venere'.
This, according to a lovely Italian guy at 'Castlenuovo' was a must see place right out at the point on the far side of 'La Spezia' at the Southern end of the highly popular area known as 'Cinque Terre'. (pronounce - 'chingwaterra') He backed up his enthusiastic insistence with smart phone pictures of his previous days visit with family friends and local priest. It did look inviting.
The journey was relatively easy. I'd had an hours rest and the paracetamol had kicked in reducing the pain. Good old Mrs Sat nav took us right to the spot, a pleasant grassy area above 'Porto Venere'. This in itself was a relief as I've discovered that having a book listing Italian motorhome parking areas and sites is no guarantee they actually exist. This time though it was real. We quickly settled in, conjured up eats and with a 'Phew! Some Birthday', I gratefully placed my throbbing and swollen excuse for an ankle up high for a well earned rest.
We've remained here for two days. There is a parking ticket machine which requires €12.00 in coins for a twenty four hour stay. Quite reasonable but no good if you only have paper money.
"Need to go down to the port, have a meal and get some cash eh Tan".
So off we go, limping well and leaning heavily on walking pole. The task? To get to the bus stop and board the free shuttle bus down to 'Porto Venere' itself. Now remember Italy is different. The notice I'd espied earlier indicating said shuttle bus runs hourly April to April is, to put it bluntly, a wee fib. We waited for some time before an English speaking Italian lady explained, as though it was obvious.
"Oh no! Bus only run for Easter in April". Well; how silly of me not being able to infer such 'obviousity' from the big clearly written A4 size notice saying it ran hourly April to April.
We did get our meal and we did get our coinage. We bannister rail and walking poled our way down hundreds of steps to a sea front restaurant (expensive!) then very slowly limped back to Sadie via the hairpin roadway which also involved doing battle with huge German, Swiss and Italian tourist coaches. We made it though and meter was duly fed. Plus I will admit 'Porto Venere' is a very pretty seaside destination. As the rough guide says though. Don't do it July/August unless you love crowds and gridlocked traffic.
Ankle? I hear you ask: Black and blue with ugly yellow patches and limping will be standard for a couple of weeks. Apart from that everything is rosy.
