Miles 2,655
Somwhere south of Piacenza, north of Parma
I've got LOADS to tell you. When this adventure is written as a book it'll have well constructed themes, layers, story arcs, the works, but right now you're getting a day by day, blow by blow account of our lives, with all the unexpected twists and turns. Sorry if it seems a bit random.
Coming up, the Scary Churchyard Encounter, but first I have to tell you of The Great Turbo Conspiracy.
In order of events then, we left Alessandria to cheers, folk songs and a ticker tape send off from the locals...or at least that's how it felt in our heads. Over the past week we've been debating whether to continue our planned journey south to Rome or not. Of the entire route we''ve planned this was the only diversion off our most direct path - a dip down Italy's west coast via Genoa and Pisa, then back up the other side to get back on track at Venice. Two things are pursuading us to still make the journey south; the educational value of all that culture. (Jill's slightly worried that we may have a cultural wasteland ahead through the Balkans and Turkey compared to what's on offer in Rome. Obviously 'wasteland' is a bit strong - there's loads of historical culture to discover of course, but it's very spread out so you can see her point). The seconds thing is one of our friends, Abi, has been the first to try out the Post Restante system, sending us a letter to collect at one of Rome's main Post Offices. Whether we make it is still undecided, but we certainly knew we didn't want to head south to Genoa again, so headed east towards Parma.
We decided to take things very easy in Penny, even paying the toll to take the autostrada towards Parma - no steep hills, no stopping and starting, just a steady 55mph all the way. No dramas...until 20 minutes into the journey, when we felt the undeniable lurch of the engine stuttering. It was exactly the same symptom we'd experienced before we got stranded with a failed turbo. Were we imaginging it? No. It was doing it again. After 40 minutes the engine was losing power, just like before. 'A second turbo can't fail, surely'. I knew where these symptoms were leading and didn't fancy being stranded on the autostrada. Exiting somewhere near Pavia, I pushed the clutch in and the engine died just like before. Everything was the same. And, just as before, I could re-start the engine and it ran fine. I called Blue interrupting his busy morning at T&P Motors in Bodicote and with the entire contents of the boot unloaded to expose the engine bay (that's us in a layby pictured above) he talked me through some basic fault finding. He severely doubted it was the turbo failing. And that's when I found it. Air bubbles streaming through the fuel pipe. All the hose clips were tight, no crack to be found, but that was undoubtedly the problem. A stop at a VW garage in Pavia led to a very friendly man, Luigi, taking a look at her. I regret not taking his photo for you, but the girls insisted he looked like the Hugh Laurie character Gregory House. I was sure, therefore, that if the problem was a mystery, he'd get out his wipe board and a team of young hotshots in white coats would diagnose it after a few dead ends and wry witticisms.
In fact, they diagnosed it in 5 minutes. A blocked fuel filter. It had been new before we left England, but here's the theory - (if you're a fan of 'House' picture rushing 3D internal graphics illustrating this): The fuel tank is old, it has lots of dirt in it. Italian diesel is, compared to what we're used to at home, a bit rough. So much so in fact that I've since learned that Italian truckers make it the norm to use the standard fuel filter plus another 2 in line, just to stop their engines clogging. The dirty fuel blocks the filter (and I looked, it was full of dark brown sludge), the fuel pump sucks madly, not enough fuel comes through so inevitably tiny air bubbles will be pulled in from somewhere along the system because the pump is causing a vacuum. According to Luigi, the only long term solution is to replace the tank, but with regular filter changes and a careful eye on not running the tank down to the red line, we should be fine. Blue concurred with the theory, adding the fact that with the van sitting still for so long, all the rubbish in the diesel will have had time to settle which is why we got 20 minutes in before she started coughing, once the tank had been sloshed around. (He did also tell me how to clean the tank out but it's a big job requiring a ramp - I doubt I'll do it). The conclusion of all this woe is that
1) Yay! We've solved the problem and know how to fix it next time - I have the next filter ready and waiting.
2) Dohhh! We may have just replaced a perfectly good turbo unnecessarily.
It puts us in a tricky position as you can imagine, trying to argue this with the VW garage back in Alessandria. Did they mis-diagnose a faulty turbo? If so that cost us a huge stack of cash, not just in the new part and their labour but in the hostel costs of waiting 2 weeks for the repair. Was it really as simple as a €50 filter change? I've spoken to Brickwerks, the company we've returned the original turbo to (the old turbos are refurbished and sold) who will let us know if there's anything obvious wrong with it. If not, I guess we're facing a battle to convince the original VW garage that they owe us some recompense. At home, y'know, I relish these 'fights for justice'. But while travelling? And in a foreign language? My heart sinks at the thought of it. I'm calling them tomorrow. Let's reserve judgement.
Then, later that same day...
We drove away from Pavia, cautiously paranoid that Penny was on the verge of collapse, just waiting for another stutter, another random loss of power at high speed. But, of course, she was fine. Completely cured. We should have been thrilled but were actually cross that we may have been misled with a costly mistake back in Alessandria. We made Piacenza our destination and started keeping an eye out for campsites. After an hour of approaching, touring the city, and then leaving Piacenza without seeing a single sign bearing a tent it started to occur to us that for the first time on this trip we may be forced to do some 'guerrilla camping' - in other words, sleeping for free. I'm sure there's a proper word for this, like when they call the posh tents as music festivals 'glamping', from the words 'glamorous camping'. I'd love to merge 'gratis camping' to form 'gramping', but it sounds like a naughty game teenagers might play of sneaking up and goosing old grandads. "I'm bored, let's go out gramping!"
Police said Stanley Timmins, 70, was the victim of a drive-by gramping. "They came from no-where" said the plucky pensioner. "I didn't see them coming. But I certainly felt them. It's just not right."
Has anyone used 'framping', from 'free camping'? I'll Google it later and probably get 48 million references, but if not, consider it invented right here. So, as we scoured suburban wastelands and remote farm tracks in the fading light, hoping to do some framping (or even some gramping, if the opportunity arose) I remembered that in France they quite often provide free camper van car parks near ancient abbeys and the like. Italy also has these car parks - we just couldn't find one. So we headed for a castle that was listed on brown signs, like a tourist attraction, and it took us mile after mile into the countryside until we'd all but given up on it. In the end, it was just one of the many small castles, more a fortified courtyard really, that is now a private house. Next to it, however, was a church which had a rather attractive, secluded grassy parking area completely empty. Not for long.
We parked up behind the church and were far enough away from the road not to be too concerned about drawing attention to ourselves. Up popped the little 2 man tent, in went all the bags, and within half an hour all the beds were ready, mosquito nets up and we were, after almost 3 weeks in this country, finally eating some home cooked fresh pasta. Spirits were high as darkness descended and we sat out under the stars polishing off the last of our tea. There was now no chance of us being disturbed at this most remote of locations at 9pm on a Tuesday evening. We were all alone. Bats flitted overhead. A large owl swept through the trees. A car drew up on the road next to the church, someone got out and we heard its central locking blip.
Oh. Not entirely alone then. Next, lights went on in the church. "What's the vicar doing here at this time?" Jill hissed. "Don't worry", I reassured everyone, "he'll just be picking up a cassock or something and he'll be on his way".
Speculation was rife about what the priest's reaction would be to seeing a camper van plonked in his car park. To try and settle nerves I said "What would Reverend Ben do if he found a family camping next to the church?".
"That's not a fair comparison" Jill said. "He'd invite them for dinner". (If you've never met him, Reverend Ben is an extraordinary vicar. In a recent theological family discussion Bethan said she considered Reverend Ben to be the closest thing to God on Earth.)
Tense minutes passed waiting for danger to pass, but more church lights went on. Then a second car arrived next to the first. Again, they were out on the road and couldn't really see us too clearly. "He's called the cops" Ella said. In the dim moonlight one of the children saw a woman getting out. "She's going into the church". By now we were all sitting, huddling, almost, behind Penny. It's funny how in these situations, when you know you're being a bit naughty, you can't shake that childish instinct to hide. By now, Jill and the girls were getting increasingly fraught. "What if he's called backup, to forcibly eject us?" asked Jill, rationally. I remained in my chair, cup of cheap Prosecco in hand, confident that whoever was in the church would simply do whatever chore needed doing and leave.
"Go and talk to them" instructed Jill.
"What?"
"Go in and ask if it's OK to stay here."
"Why? That just gives them the opportunity to say 'no'. Much harder for them to come to us. Just sit tight." (Notice here, the calculating mind of a master criminal)
An icy stalemate.
Suddenly we were bathed in light. A car, no two cars swung into the car park."
"OK" I conceded. "This is not what we planned".
Rather embarrassingly, they parked next to us.
"Either you go and talk to them" spat Jill in a furious whisper, "or we're packing and leaving. Those are your choices."
As car doors opened in the darkness, the two youngest members of the family clung, whimpering, to Jill.
It was showtime.
