So with some wistful thoughts, and looking forward to coming back to spend some time getting to know Andrea, Silvia and their friends better, we set off northward. As, it turned out, into something resembling the apocalypse. Dark, intimidating clouds loomed in front of us as we approached, with some excitement, the first foothills of the Dolomites (the Italian Alps). The sky reminded us of the skyscape one sees in tornado movies, writhing menacingly as they curled off the mountains.

It added a fantastic ambiance to the scene as we followed the road into a narrow river valley between two steep-sided mountains, and dusk closed in around us. Then, the rain started, and it meant business: We slowed to a crawl as the downpour reduced visibility to almost zero – “I… guess the road’s out there somewhere”. The hail threatened to crack the windscreen, it came down so hard. Wow!

It eventually abated and we sped up again, heading out into a suddenly lighter day, like winding back the clock a few hours. We got an SMS from Andrea – “What the…Are you ok?”; “I’ve just seen the end of the world from my bike, that was exciting and wet”. We just hope he only saw it, rather than actually experienced it on a bike — that sounds not so dissimilar to drowning!

We drove on through the mountains, following the autostrada, while Katherine read out a heartwarming email we’d just received from Andrea, which mirrored our own excitement and gratefulness at having met. Warm fuzzies well established, we grinned out at the beautiful world around us and marvelled at our blessings.

We drove past vast fields of vines, and found a convenient lay-by off a relatively quiet road to park for the night, beside a wide, slow river and overlooked by a high rocky cliff topped with dense green forest, a little steam hurling itself into the air above us.

The next day we set out on foot to explore this exciting new world, and followed the river while we admired the rocky mountains surrounding us, every remotely-horizontal surface festooned with rich green plant life. It was sunny and warm and we were feeling good!

We drove onward and upwards as the scenery changed further. Lots of bright green fields of vines and increasingly amazing mountains, topped with snow (I’ll never get tired of snow-capped mountains. That’s the stuff, right there.). Very quickly, we noticed that the road signs all had Germanic names, and soon after we were amazed to notice the marked difference in architecture. Suddenly the roofs of houses and other buildings were sharply angled, and the village churches had pointy, colourful steeples. Roofs were no longer orange-coloured, but a deep brown, and much more deep wooden hues were apparent.

We were in another country! But, a glance at the map showed us we were wrong — it was going to be two more days of driving before we were out of Italy. We mused to ourselves that whoever had been tasked to draw the country boundaries had probably been bumped or slipped, and the border skewed south accidentally. They probably just hoped no-one would notice. We noticed, imaginary map guy! I was baffled further when Nettle’s lunchtime came (she’s a thirsty girl sometimes!) and I filled up at a petrol station, and the attendant spoke German! Okay, that’s fine — I threw in a “Danke!” for good measure.

A long but enjoyable drive led us eventually into a little town climbing the side of a hill — not entirely deliberately, but one of Noia’s more quirky routes – she likes it scenic. (Noia is our anthropomorphised Navigon GPS navigator app, short for “paranoia” and named for her inordinately cautious disposition; “beware” every time I go a fraction over the speed limit, or when she thinks the limit is less than it really is; “In 500 metres, take the second exit from the roundabout; beware”, “beware: traffic control”). It got a tad narrow, but we made it through with no drama, and discovered to our delight a car park on the other side that seemed a reasonable place to stop for the day — we were certainly ready for it. There was even a great view of the surrounding hillside.

We wandered back on foot the way we’d come, with the hopes of visiting a little supermarket we’d passed. It turned out to be closed, but we walked around the town anyway, intrigued by its…Austrian-ness!

Back at Nettle, we were investigating the most level and out-of-the-way place to stop for the night, when we discovered a sign prohibiting overnight parking! Oh, how we wished we could’ve un-seen that sign, but the cat was out of the bag, and our hopes of settling in for the evening were temporarily dashed. Lesson learned: Don’t look around too much!

So, dusk rapidly approaching, we set off again, following the road that zig-zagged up a long, gentle sloping mountainside dotted with wind turbines and delightful little brooks lined with flowers. Before long, Katherine spotted a park labelled “Camper”, to our delight, and I executed a speedy across-road 6 point turn, and we pulled in — it was a roadside café car park, kind enough to offer a place for campers to stop for the night. We made sure the café folks were happy with us being there (and scored a couple of pairs of warm woolen slippers, which totally look like bear feet), and happily stopped for the night, with a view out over the long grassy downhill slope we’d climbed, and surrounding snowy and misty mountains.

I’d discovered the alluring Apennines, a spectacular-looking mountain range in the region of Abruzzo, north east of our current position in Amalfi — some great-looking national parks with wonderful hikes. I became quite attached to the idea, which sounded so romantic and fun. And then it became clear that there would be no hiking, and the driving would quite possibly be fairly treacherous: It’s still winter! An Italian friend, Andrea, tells me there has recently been snow down to 400m, which is quite spectacular. So, with great regret we’re putting the Apennines off till “next time”. We’ll see other cool stuff.

In the meantime, while I was mucking about in Google Earth, figuring out the regions that may be within the “usually safe from snow” level of 1000m and agonising about passing the mountains by, Katherine pressed on reading about the next region of interest to the north: Rome and Lazio. I eventually gave up and joined her; Rome is certainly going to be our next destination (the clincher was Katherine’s discovery of “Original Language” cinemas, playing the new Alice in Wonderland film in English!).

We were originally thinking we might leave yesterday. Then our friend Nuccio in Sicily warned us to stay put, because there was some interesting weather headed our way. Sure enough, soon afterwards, thunder rang through the valley and it started hailing, then actually snowing! Only a little — within a few minutes it was back to light hail, but we actually had snow, which was very exciting. We were very glad not to be driving.

The hills around us are white, and there are drifts of un-melted hail, even the day after!

So, we were going to leave today. We woke up quite early (for us!), to the sound of sharp booming explosions ringing through the valley. I peered out the window to see the explosions preceded by little bright flashes in the sky and puffs of smoke — not a freaking clue. Are we under attack?

I still haven’t figured out what it was (maybe Paolo here at the caravan park will know). Anyway, Katherine happily got up and jumped in the shower while I rolled over and snoozed, as usual. It was a real struggle dragging myself out of bed! When I did manage it, I pulled up Google Earth and set about planning a driving route, and found myself entirely incapable of making any decisions about routing and whether or not to take the motorway, or just about anything — I felt like a sloth!

We went out into the cold and got some groceries (more of the awesome tasty provolone cheese we found earlier in the week), and I still hadn’t got my brain into gear. We noticed some light hail as we walked back to Nettle, and then decided to stay another day (Katherine said she didn’t trust my foggy brain to operate heavy machinery).

It felt like a very good decision, so we cosied up in Nettle again and set about finding a caravan park to stay in, in Rome. We felt very disinclined to pay €30/night for one of the main caravan parks, then I was thrilled to find some area attrezzatas for €12-15 per night within easy reach of Rome by train! The one that really takes the cake is one we found right on the side of a lake just 40 mins train ride south of Rome, and just a short walk from the train station. Sounds very promising.

So, we feel heaps better about heading off tomorrow with a set destination in mind, and we’re taking the ~€14 tolled route to save a couple of hours driving, so we should make it in one day. Here’s hoping for a clear brain.

Using my brilliant new-found POI database and Google Earth, I found us a caravan park (actually, a hostel, Beata Solitudo, with attached camping facilities) right in the thick of it, about 3km as the crow flies (but 16 switchbacked kilometers as the Nettle drives!) from Amalfi, in a town called San Lazzaro.

Google Earth suggested a drive up through the outskirts of Naples and back down into San Lazzaro, but I didn’t want a bar of it; it was only a tiny bit further taking the coastal road, and it would be infinitely more enjoyable, adventure on the narrow roads notwithstanding.

So off we went, taking the motorway back towards Salerno, then veering off along the road clinging to the steep hillside over Salerno, which sprawled prettily way below us. It was heavily overcast, a decidedly grey day, but something about the cloud cover made the diffuse daylight appear as it was coming from low in the sky, which made it seem like a perpetual early morning, even in the middle of the day.

Our luck stayed with us as we negotiated the few tricky intersections, squinting at the map on my iPhone, and picked the correct route each time — except once, when the map’s blue dot indicting our location wandered slightly off (I think it gets bored sometimes), and told us we were somewhere else. We make a wrong turn, heading towards a pretty-yet-narrow cobbled street on Salerno’s eastern side, but easily did a U-turn (with guidance from a friendly police officer who happened to be beside us) and continued on.

Almost immediately, the road took to the edge of the coast, following the buttress-like spits of land that jut out into the ocean, with the occasional hairpin or bridge over a river valley.

Every turn brought new exclamations from us — such a feast for the eyes. The coastline itself was extremely pretty — craggy cliffs and bits of exposed rock poking out of the lush greenery, precipitous slopes down to blue water (even with an overcast sky), the higher reaches wreathed in cloud. With the addition of the delightful little villages nestled into each valley, often with tiers of vines climbing the steep valley walls, the place was just amazing.

Last time we were here, we’d taken a bus along this road, from Sorrento (to the west) to Amalfi and back. At the time, we’d marvelled at the narrow roads that the big buses barrelled down, honking their horns at each hairpin to let oncoming vehicles know they were there. We’d decided then there was no way we’d be driving the route in Nettle. Ah, but we’ve come so far since then! In fact, it was quite relaxed and thoroughly enjoyable — it was certainly tight driving, and I was swinging the steering wheel around the entire time, often doing my don’t-look-at-the-oncoming-vehicle routine (the way I see it, it’s like throwing a ball — if I focus on what I don’t want to run into, I’ll probably veer that way). At once point while passing a large van, there was a thud as the edge of the right mirror flicked against a bit of a stairwell, but no damage. Piece of cake.

Once we had passed through Amalfi, we took a right turn towards our destination (which was actually quite close, high above us). We continued winding upwards and suddenly we were in an impenetrable fog. Oncoming cars would loom out of nowhere, twin points of their headlights the only warning. It was wonderful and atmospheric; white nothingness off the edge of the road, except the odd skeletal tree poking up. Once, we paused momentarily, staring out over the sea we could only just glimpse below us though the roiling clouds, and when we turned back to the front, we caught a glimpse of a whimsical looking tower poking through the mist before it was enveloped again. Magical. The whole thing reminded me of some of the scenery in Half Life 2, oddly (particularly Ravenholm).

We made a right turn onto a steep little side road, which we barely made it up, tires slipping on the wet surface the whole way, then picked our way though the maze-like villages, skeletal trees looming out of the fog, deep green grass beneath them, and lots of adorable brick cottages with red roofs. It was so damp and green and rural we felt like we were back in beautiful Ireland.

The trusty iPhone led us to the caravan park, and I met the owner who welcomed us in. We had lunch of tasty leftovers, and then I went and spoke with the friendly English-speaking owner about local activities — he gave us a huge amount of information on hikes we could do, which sound absolutely fantastic. Looks like we’ll be walking to Positano from here, a few-hours walk with great views along the coast, apparently. Can’t wait.

For now, though, we’re hanging out in Nettle, heater on against the cold, the wind howling outside, sometimes rocking us from side to side; every now and then, a church bell rings atmospherically, even in the middle of the night. To our chagrin, there’s no 3G here either, but the EDGE is very good, and the laptop has a night ahead of it of gathering new episodes of TV shows we’ve missed!

We love Italy!

A little detour through Medanine due to a road closure, through one of the many “road blocks” with a big STOP sign and a couple of police standing around — I always slow right down at these and look over at the police, and they invariably smile and wave us though, along with everyone else. By “Stop”, of course, they mean “Whatever, it’s all good!”

As we headed away from Medanine the wind was getting quite strong, conveniently counteracting the gentle rightwards steering drift that Nettle has had since bumping into a couple of kerbs on some of Italy’s insanely narrow streets (we’re thinking we’ll get her aligned again once we’re in France!).

The countryside became very desert-like and the sand became so fine that it was pouring across the road, driven by the wind, looking like tendrils of mist. It was quite hypnotic, streaming along in front of us as I fought the steering wheel against the wind. We thought sympathetically of Tara and Tyler riding through this.

We arrived in Tataouine after about 45 minutes; I was a little surprised to find it quite a big, modern-looking town, not quite the sandy collection of huts-filled-with-techno-junk than George Lucas would have you believe. That guy makes terrible documentaries.

We drove on, headed for Ksar Ouled Soltane south of Tatouine, another ksar (the Berber mud-brick huts/storage facilities that look so cool) which sounded promising. The drive there was fascinating, getting ever-more deserty. We passed through a few towns, men, women and children waving cheerfully as we drove past.

We parked by the road and hopped out to wander around the Ksar, which was indeed impressive. There were lots of whimsical little alcoves and organic-looking stairways.

We met a friendly local who attended the site, ran a little mini-café inside one of the little rooms (ghorfas) and made and sold watercolor paintings. We chatted for a little while (he spoke English), and we bought one of his paintings that we liked.

We drove onwards, to the ancient village of Chenini, a Berber hilltop village perched high above the surrounding landscape. When we entered the new village, we were flagged down by several young guys making somewhat inscrutable gestures. After a little incomprehension, it become clear they were offering tours. We conferred and then agreed, and we welcomed aboard a youngster who would accompany us to the old village.

After winding our way along the mountain with some amazing views, we stopped first at a cool ancient mosque that kinda looked like a miniature of itself, all organic and handmade-looking. We were invited inside for a look around, and our guide explained many very interesting things, in French, that we made the appropriate noises in response to but understood not a word of. Oh, well. The mosque was awesome though, as was the view from the hillside behind it.

Back to Nettle and happy she hadn’t been blown off the cliff yet, we drove back around the corner to the village proper, parked, and struggled on foot up the road, battling the grit-filled wind that became a gale at the top of the hill, making it hard to stand.

Our guide flitted us around, us fighting the wind the whole time, popping in and out of some abandoned cave-like rooms with tiny little doorways; he took us into the home of a very old woman with tattoos over her face (we are kicking ourselves that we didn’t take her picture), again, like a cave — funny to see a stove and fridge there.

At this point we would’ve loved to just roam around the village at our own pace, and afterwards we really regretted accepting a tour, but instead we headed back to Nettle for the last part of the tour.

As Katherine was getting back into Nettle, the wind caught the door with enormous force and slammed it right into the side of her head — Shit! I jumped out and found her crouched over in pain. Very luckily, she swiftly recovered and was fine — a bit of a lump, but okay. Writing about it makes me realise how poorly I handled the incident — I should’ve had her sit down and just be still for a while, at least, followed by close monitoring. I need to brush up on my first aid. This time, anyway, everything was fine. We now have a healthy caution of the door on windy days!

Shortly after, we drove on down the road a little, following our guide’s directions — a copse of palms, with a well, the significance of which was lost on us due to the language barrier.

So alas, we’d run out of time — it was time to start heading back to Metameur before it got dark. We feel like we sorta wasted the opportunity to see Chenini, and if we had a second chance would avoid the tour. Damn. We drove back through the amazing countryside, and settled in for the night back at the ksar in Metameur.

A short and picturesque drive inland through pretty, rocky mountains, through a rather sad-looking town amusingly called ‘Purgatoria’, and through another deserted seaside tourist town. We followed GPS co-ordinates to a promising-sounding wildcamp that I had found mentioned on a forum: We ended up on the shore of a rocky, sweeping bay surrounded by mountains lightly dusted with dry grassy scrub: A strangely lunar-esque landscape, but a very beautiful one.

We stopped for lunch and a quick walk, but plagued by a low battery and plaintively beeping inverter, and wishing to have operational laptops, we moved on into the town of San Vito Lo Capo, in search of a caravan park.

Unfortunately, all of the caravan parks in the town were prohibitively expensive, unpleasant or closed, so we retreated for the night back to the wildcamp on the beach. We never cease to be astonished by the cost of occupying a few square metres for the night while occasionally using a few tens of watts of electricity! Went to sleep by the sound of waves — very restful — and our stowed satellite dish creaking in the wind — not so restful!

The following day we thought we’d take a quick peek around San Vito Lo Capo, then move on to greener pastures. In the process we spotted a ‘camper service’ sign and followed it to a quite delightful unofficial-looking camper stop — a little area right on the rocky shoreline to the north of the town, walled in with a fence of palm fronds and dotted with ground cover with little purple flowers. We called a phone number on the locked fence, crossing our fingers, and got through to a fellow who told me ‘diche minute!’.

Sure enough, he appeared ten minutes later and let us in and agreed on €10 per night to stay seven days — much more reasonable! I asked about water and he told us the water there wasn’t actually drinkable. Given that we were completely empty, we ummed and ahhed in our separate languages until he decided upon something, and directed us forward to what turned out to be his house! He ran a hose from a tap somewhere out the back and filled us up with drinking water, much to our astonishment and gratefulness.

So, all set up, we settled into our temporary new home, mere metres from the very blue water of the sea and with a grand view of the bay.

We spent the week there, continuing with our separate projects. The days were sunny and warm, although we spent them indoors! The nights were incredibly wild and stormy. The town’s power flickered on and off all night; quite a thing to see the entire town, visible from our bed facing the sea, completely lose power and disappear into the darkness. Lightning blinded us, rain pounded us and wind almost threatened to roll us over! It felt very cosy to lie in bed and watch it all happen outside.

One evening, keen to get a taste of the local cuisine, we wandered the town and found a delightful Arab-esque restaurant in which to try the particular mix of Arabic and Italian cuisine that is the Sicilian specialty. Katherine had a pistachio-encrusted hunk of her new favourite, pesci spada, and I had an interesting vegetable cous-cous, accompanied by an odd soup concoction that presumably was to be poured onto the cous-cous. The sweet mint tea we had after, topped with pine nuts, was particularly good.

For our final day in San Vito Lo Capo, we decided to venture out into the world, and drove the short, windy and spectacular road to the nearby Zingaro National Park. We strapped on our hiking gear and headed out into what turned out to be one of the most spectacular and beautiful places we’ve been on our journey so far. Neon green lizards sprang from the bright ochre pathway through striking dry coastal scrub, overlooking bright turquoise water met by white pebbled beaches. Quite a feast for the eye. At one point, we found a bush being visited by an indigo-coloured bumblebee! Our path ran along the coast, through a lush valley and up a rocky path that led high above the water and along over a number of hilly promontories. Beautiful.

We walked almost back to Scopello, then made our way back along the highland route, crossing comparatively barren hills with, at the latter part of the trek, amazing views over the coast, the soft form of clouds out to sea being reflected in the still ocean in the late afternoon light. Sunset happened around us as we were approaching the end of our trek, casting brilliant pinks and oranges around us, making the orange-coloured dirt path seem luminescent.

We certainly won’t be forgetting Zingaro any time soon!

With our seven days in San Vito Lo Capo behind us, we deemed it time to move on, and headed out towards the medieval mountain town of Erice, mentioned by our one-time French neighbours in Palermo. The drive there wound through the mountains, then met the suburbs by the coast, and finally switchbacked up the mountain upon which the little ancient town sat. With neither of us able to quite remember the directions our French friends gave us, we drove in and found free out-of-season parking, propped off the road into a very pretty wooded area. Opening the door after parking, the waft of crisp, clean wooded mountain air — leaf litter, grass, trees — caused fond memories of our hills home in Belgrave to spring to mind.

We went for a long walk around the town’s ancient cobbled streets and narrow alleyways; we craved pizza, found a pizzeria, and sat down only to find out pizza was off for the day — too bad; we had some quite tasty alternatives. Then more wandering: Derelict, empty houses, doors with colourful faded paint, bright red leaves of ivy climbing a few walls.

We climbed the tiny winding staircase of the bell tower, poking over the town’s roofs beside the church Chiesa Madre, and found our way back around the town by the amazing Castello di Vinere, a.k.a. the Castle of Venus, built over an ancient temple of a cult notorious for ‘sacred prostitution’ (Any excuse…), and now a hulking shape dotted with moss and hanging precipitously over the edge of the mountain. Behind Castello di Vinere squatted the smaller Pepoli Castle, neatly atop a rocky outcrop, a sheer drop beneath each wall. These builders sure liked to make things hard for themselves.

Back to our peaceful little wooded nook for the night, and after a final morning stroll around town we pressed on.

Regrettably, Nigel was up to his tricks again, and rather than take us around the city of Trapani like a good GPS navigator, he took us straight into its maze of narrow, traffic-clogged and confusing one-way streets before dropping out on us entirely due to poor satellite reception. Great. We ended up pointing the wrong way down a one-way street, no way forward, and the way behind us blocked by a stream of traffic. Much sweating, cursing and careful inching backwards later, we managed to reach the turn-off we had missed and continue onwards.

We drove south, turning east near Masala and driving through one of Sicily’s famous wine regions — unfortunately, it was mostly bare soil or dead vines, as it’s not really the right time of year. Having discovered no place to settle, we pulled over on a grotty road in Salemi, jumped online to do some research for our next move. An hour later, we had a decision, and headed south to Selinunte, home of some heartily impressive Greek ruins. Stopped at the caravan park we had identified, winced at the fee but stayed anyway; very tasty and cheap pizza in the attached restaurant.

A day wandering around the archaeological area (the picnic area could’ve been somewhere in Australia, buried among eucalyptus trees). We sat on a fallen chunk of temple column and read (from the Internet on my iPhone — an interesting contrast of old and new) about the Greek god Dionysus, god of wine, fertility and madness, whose ruined temple we sat upon.

We got quite lost heading towards the Acropolis, and took a long detour through some half-excavated plots. Interesting to see behind the scenes a little.

Thought we’d rest overnight in the empty car park, but got moved on by a grumpy official, and found ourselves a less-expensive, less-official but much prettier caravan stop for the night. The best ones are always the unofficial, cheap ones! Every time!

The following day, after doing some much-needed laundry, we headed out east, bound for Mount Etna national park which sounded quite promising. Very pretty rolling hills; raw earth and vines making a patchwork of colours. Evening crept up on us, and on a whim I took a little road off the highway. It led around a hill and we found a spot by the side of the road with sweeping views over the surrounding countryside, shades of purple in the evening light — beautiful, and very peaceful.

So, next stop: Etna.

It’s been a while since the last update: We’ve had many pleasant distractions, and every time there was the opportunity to do some blogging, something else enticed me away. But, as our time here in Italy draws to a close (already!), it’s time to record them before they fall out of my memory! Read on, and apologies for the silent spell!

Slow travel time! In the wake of Tim, Jen and Annie we spent several extra days in Sorrento, adjusting to being without our new-found family, and doing some software development. A little culture-shock, interestingly.

Having eventually judged it time to get on with things, we unplugged and headed out into the unknown to the south. Our culture shock intensified driving through the rubbish-strewn ghettos of the urban sprawl near Naples, and we were greatly relieved to find the open road later in the day.

Over the next couple of days, we drove south down the coast, stopping to pick up a second SIM card in Salerno to extend our Internet quota and getting into some tight squeezes in Nettle in the process — not helped by some rampant double- and triple-parking.

We had some quite pleasant wild-camps in the area around the Cilento and Vallo di Diano National Park; parked above the seaside town of Marina di Casal Velino, high above the sea in a lay-by of a cliffside road near San Giorgio, and by the beach in eerily silent Lenzi, closed down for low season. Hoping to find somewhere to settle for a little while, we took a drive through the mountains of the National Park, quite pleasant and green, but not quite what we were looking for and devoid of any worthy caravan parks that we could find. Some beautiful towns perched atop hills, though.

Onwards we drove, down through increasingly decrepit towns, our moods and comfort levels declining accordingly! All changed for a moment when we drove through a delightful seaside town, Scilla, three- and four-storey houses with orange-tiled roofs clustered around a promontory with a castle perched atop it. Charmed, we tried to find a place to park for the evening and explore the town, but were met with no-camper signs everywhere, and reluctantly moved on.

Eventually we made it to Villa San Giovanni, with Sicily visible just a short hop over the channel. We took a evening stroll along the dirty foreshore, past many groups of men gathered around chatting, and spotted a diver coming out of the water, two or three octopus dangling from his belt! We spent a night parked by the sea, beautiful clear blue water with a white sandy beach completely littered with all kinds of rubbish.

In the morning, we took the ferry over, and arrived in Messina, Sicily, and drove our way along the picturesque winding inland road through forests of eucalyptus. What a familiar sight!

Some minor drama after an unwise turn suggested by Nigel, involving getting ourselves nearly wedged down a tiny little road in a tiny little town and having to reverse for a considerable distance with cars waiting on us. Tense, sweat-inducing stuff.

We made it out alive and unscathed, and drove through the cluttered yet not unattractive suburbs to Milazzo. Milazzo is a quite nice town which is one of the launching points to get to the Aolian Islands, one of which is Stromboli, a tiny island almost entirely occupied by a ‘continuously erupting’ volcano. We spent a few nights at a caravan park on the peninsula to the north-west of the town: We met a lovely Swiss family, Pascal, Vivienne and their children, and shared some swiss beer (and a little vegemite!); saw some amazing lightning and ate some incredible pesci spada (swordfish) from the caravan park’s restaurant, of all places.

With the Stromboli boat tour booked out, we decided to press on, postponing it for our return journey. A quite pleasant drive along the coast, cut short by a road closure, presumably because the road fell into the ocean. We backtracked and found a beautiful wildcamp in an area off the road near San Giorgio-Magaro, looking out over the Tyrrhenian Sea. A wild night of wind, rain and electrical shenanigans, which we somehow survived without being blown off the cliff — as we found out later, however, not everyone was as fortunate: The nearby city of Messina was victim to flooding and landslides that killed at least 20.

We pressed on — or rather, backwards, until we got on the motorway to continue our journey. Once on the motorway, the kilometers passed quickly, and we took the exit to Cefalu, a stunning ancient seaside town, wedged between a tall rocky outcrop and the ocean, with a maze of picturesque little cobbled streets weaving through. We found a park on the promontory, and went for a sunset-lit walk along the beach and through the town. The following day, my birthday, we walked through the town some more — the little alleys smelt pleasantly of the clean laundry hanging from every balcony, drying in the sun, while scooters scooted past us nimbly. We had an astonishingly expensive but pleasant meal of pesci spada and some local fish, in an outdoor restaurant in a piazza by the ancient church (in lieu of the cute little restaurant we saw the night before, with tables wedged into a tiny little alley: Which we were unable to find again), then went for a long swim in the warm waves beside Nettle.

The following day we hopped back on the motorway and headed towards the city of Palermo. The motorway became a highway and skirted the city. In the process, we got a taste of the somewhat chaotic traffic: Intersections where basically anything goes, and one just enters and hopes for the best; formula-one driver wannabes ducking and weaving, and general impatience and pushiness. It’s hard to imagine how it all makes for a sensible system: The resulting need for extreme caution and alertness for neighbouring drivers’ foolishness makes for slow going. Surely a couple of extra traffic lights and a general adherence to a semblance of road rules would lead to smoother progress! Still: It all works, somehow.

Slightly west of Palermo, we began another caravan park search, hoping to find somewhere to be a base while we explored the city. The first caravan park lay on the far side of a little town on the coast, and Nigel decided on a particular route that very nearly led to disaster: We found ourselves heading down the tiniest road we’d seen yet, lined on each side by parked cars, and with no possibility of reversing. We inched along, and found ourselves at a tight T-intersection with another tiny road, parked cars everywhere. We both leaned out the window to check the distance between the cars on either side: Katherine had one or two centimetres, while I had quite literally a millimetre or less. The car’s mirror was touching the side of Nettle as we crept by, not hard enough to scrape or cause any marks, but definitely making contact. Thankfully there were two pot-plants on the far side of the intersection where there were no cars, and a kind gentleman who noticed our plight aided us by directing me forward around the corner. If we’d had a millimetre’s less room, I don’t know what we would have done. Helicopter lift, perhaps?

With one more false start, requiring some cautious reversing out while cars behind hopped out of the way, I decided enough was enough, pulled over, and scouted ahead on foot, to try to find a way through. Once I found the caravan park on foot, I realised it was horrendous and it was all for naught; we continued onwards! One or two unpleasant and expensive caravan parks later, we stopped on a road by the beach instead. Two friendly French motorhomers drove by and parked in a field beside the road, and invited us up. We talked for a while; He told us they were originally from Paris, but now lived in Brittany where they ran a B&B. They had travelled in Croatia, where we were planning to spend the winter, and he recounted the extreme motorhome-unfriendliness there: “No camper” signs everywhere, and insanely expensive caravan parks. At one place, he told us, it was actually cheaper to stay an a nearby B&B, parking their camper outside, rather than stay in the caravan park. Damn! He also told us they’d come from Erice, a town he pointed out on my iPhone’s map, and described a wild-camp there. So, we moved beside them and settled in for the night.

The following day we moved into Palermo proper, to a car park that also catered for campers, with electrical hook-up and a bathroom. Mercifully wide roads and a nice and uneventful journey in.

We got directions from a helpful woman at the car park who spoke a little English, and wandered around Palermo, a very interesting but very dirty town. We found ourselves at one point in what appeared to be the student quarter, with signs in Arabic and an even an Indian restaurant. There were street corners piled to shoulder-height with rotting garbage, and dirty water running across the street — colourful indeed.

We found a little antiques market, wandered some more, and visited the Capuchin Crypt, of the Capuchin Order who had the somewhat macabre tradition of embalming their dead, dressing them up and suspending them from hooks in these catacombs. Creepy stuff: Hundreds of bodies in varying states of decomposition leering down from the walls. It was cold, the air dry but unscented, and very quiet, tourists like us walking around the dusty passageways in silence. This was no sterile tourist display: The bodies were out in the air, hanging just an arms length away from the walkways. Some had skin still hanging off their grinning skulls; the less-decayed ones were the most creepy, as one could still make out a semblance of a lopsided face. Yeech.

Footsore, we started heading back in the direction of a main road where we might find a bus — then, in short order my iPhone’s battery ran out, then Nigel’s battery died, leaving us without any form of map or navigation. It was no good asking anyone else — we tried once, and got a long, entirely unintelligible answer; thanks anyway! By some good guesswork and a bit of luck, we found our way to the bus depot, a fairly safe bet, then found the right bus and made our way back to Nettle.

We spent a few extra days in Nettle at the caravan park while I recovered from a short spell under the weather (I have been quite the sickly one lately!), then anxious to leave the grotty city, we headed onwards.

We drove along the road high above the sea, past the insanely dense sprawl of Castellemare del Golfo, towards Scopello, a promising destination that Katherine had discovered.

We didn’t quite make it, instead finding a delightful ‘parcheggio’ (parking area), grassy and dotted with olive trees, overlooking the sweep of a bay, in a little town called Casa de Franchis on the map. Beautiful mountains made a picturesque backdrop behind our little olive grove, and — jackpot — there was strong 3G reception and electricity hookup points, just what we need to remain for a while. That, with an amazing €2 per night fee had us hopping up and down with excitement!

Unfortunately, our dreams of our new home fell apart a little when we realised the electricity was turned off for low-season, and there wasn’t a soul around who we could talk to about it, although I tried, carrying around a handwritten copy of a Google translation asking after the owner.

We stayed a couple of nights until the power shortage forced us to move on; all wasn’t lost, though, as we found a ‘sosta camper’ just outside of Scopello, with electricity, water, a dump point and a pleasant view, for €10 per day. Not quite our pretty olive grove, but it’d do: We stayed there for a week and I got some good software development done, while Katherine got stuck into some art. For both of us, it was one of the best weeks of our trip yet! The sheer joy of creativity certainly rivals our enjoyment of visiting exciting new places: Combining the two is just brilliant.

So, we spent our days focusing on our respective passions, enjoying the view out the window every now and then, of the startlingly multi-hued blue of the ocean, and the pretty coastline and mountains inland. The sea had amazing patterns of dark and light over it, which would change throughout the day — cloud shadows, we realised later in a ‘duh!’ moment — and patches of green/yellow caused by silt would creep in from the beach when it rained. Beautiful.

The ‘sosta’ owner was quite friendly, and kept popping around to make sure we were happy. The woman at the local grocery store was also very friendly, and we had a little conversation with a lot of hand-waving while a short rainstorm came and went, during which she insisted that we wait it out in her shop. On the walk back to Nettle, in the drizzling rain, another kind soul offered us a ride back!

Scopello itself was surprisingly empty and small — low season, probably! — and after a week we decided it was time for a change of scene — and time to find a place to buy groceries at less than the tourist prices we found in Scopello!

We spent one last wistful night in our ‘olive grove’ in Casa de Franchis, and headed onwards.

We were destined for Pompeii, and the drive took us well past dusk — it was dark by the time we drove through the immense urban sprawl and found the caravan park that Jen and Annie had discovered for us, down a rather unlikely-seeming street in the back-waters of the town (Note: further movements around said town revealed that the entire suburban region would appear to be back-water. Eww!).

So, Timmy and I jumped out and scouted for a place to park amongst the trees, performed Nettle’s ablutions, and we settled in. Another enormous electrical storm during the night, which in my mostly-asleep state I worried might be Vesuvius. Was there an early warning system in place? Could we escape in Nettle?

The next morning — magma free — the team cooked up a feast of scrambled eggs, fried cherry tomatoes and mushrooms and coffee, and all fuelled up, we donned our wet weather gear and headed out to the ruins of ancient Pompeii, which happened to be right beside the caravan park. Not having personally done much reading about Pompeii in advance, I was surprised to find an entire city, not just a few ruins.

We found ourselves wandering down cobbled streets, now distorted and irregular, lined by residences with intricate tiled floors and faded frescoes on the walls. Vesuvius squatted in the background, a constant, gloating presence (okay, that was a little fanciful). Columns, pocked and free-standing, marked the locations where temples stood; unfortunately the informational booklet was not particularly forthcoming on how and why the locals worshipped, or many other details of the lives of the people that lived here. I just kept picturing that Doctor Who episode set here to fill in the gaps (I’m not proud).

Graffiti scratched into the wall of a temple carried the date 1808, which was an interesting — even the tourist graffiti is ancient. Plaster casts of bodies found at the site were displayed, strewn carelessly amongst dusty shelves of jars and other paraphernalia. These sent a shiver down my spine; the most disturbing being a dog, all twisted up like it was writhing in pain.

We returned to Nettle, to discover that we had been infested by the local ants, who were moving enthusiastically into a gap just beneath the windscreen. Spent some time mopping the buggers up, and wiping their trails off with soapy water, then discovered that the electricity wasn’t working, which made us a little skittish after some other Australians stopped by to say hi, and told us their fridge had stopped working on gas (which is quite a setback) — they had us pondering our reliance on our equipment! Anyway, after checking the pillar we were plugged into, checking with the neighbours and trying another pillar, we eventually discovered that the safety switch had been tripped (ants again?). That’s an easy fix, at least.

So, with our new insect companions we set off again the following day, for Sorrento on the Amalfi coast — an exciting prospect that had us anticipating days of lazing on the beach by turquoise water. The start of the drive there took us through some pretty nasty areas: Derelict buildings, pot-holed roads, rubbish and dirty water. Things picked up somewhat as we approached Sorrento, taking a road that ran high above the coast, with views over the water towards Vesuvius and the suburban sprawl climbing its sides, perhaps a little unwisely.

The roads got progressively narrower, until we were edging along past other cars, trucks and coaches going in the opposite direction — quite a tight squeeze in parts. We arrived intact though, at the caravan park just outside of Sorrento. We have a very pleasant view out of the front windows of Nettle, down over the bay, though the caravan park’s many olive trees.

We have a “beach”, where some rocks meet the sea, and Timmy and I took a quick dip before joining the others sitting on the rocks above with a bottle or two of wine.

For the following day, Jen and Annie had booked us passage over to the popular island of Capri, apparently the holiday-home of the rich and famous. We met the boat down on the ‘beach’ early in the morning, and were shuttled the short distance to the island, with one boat changeover along the way (where we all hopped over the side of the boat into the other one). Timmy, ever the people-magnet, made friends with a German passenger beside us.

Capri’s water was a stunning bright aqua, luminescent in the sunlight. We had a coffee at a nearby café with a very friendly and helpful waiter who gave us a map and suggested a path that led from the marina into the town along the coast. The track meandered along the shore for a short distance, then switchbacked up a steep slope bordered by cliffs, to the town.

The town of Capri was full of people and designer clothes shops. We grabbed a quick snack, shared some of it with a dog who decided to be our temporary friend, and wandered for a while. Tourist shops, cactuses and narrow laneways navigated by teensy little trucks. On our way back to the marina we stopped at a stall for lemon granitas, which were about the best thing we had ever tasted. I vaguely remember someone (perhaps my Spain-dwelling friend Hayden?) proclaiming the joys of granita, and now I can see why.

We had a brief swim at the packed beach by the marina, then it was time to get back on the boat. Some healthy competition for the seats at the back in the open, but we managed to claim some for Katherine and Annie, who didn’t quite have their sea-legs yet. Timmy, Jen and I made do with nearby seats inside until the boat’s captain, who had taken a liking to us, ushered us up the front onto the bow, against the cabin windows, along with a lone-travelling French tourist. Quite the upgrade. So, we had a very good view on the way back, although we got quite damp!

Day two in Sorrento — our last day with the trio! — we caught the bus along the Amalfi coast. I thought the roads were a little hairy in Sorrento — they are quite ridiculous further along the coast! We watched cars creeping past the bus with millimetres to spare on either side, tucking in their mirrors. The buses honk their horns (which make an amusing two-tone ‘doo-dee-doo-dee’ sound) around every corner to warn oncoming traffic, as they hurtle along with a sheer drop down to the sea on one side. Freakin’ insane.

Anyway, along with Andee, a friendly American living in Florence who we met on the bus, we hopped off the coach of consternation at Positano, a delightful town that clings to a rocky gorge, sloping down to a small black pebbly beach. It was very…vertical, and we certainly got our exercise wandering around the town, up and down steep but quite charming staircases.

We found a restaurant and had lunch there; Katherine ordered what sounded like a fairly innocuous lunch of fish, but which turned out to be a little challenging for we squeamish almost-vegetarians: Baby octopus, little whole fish, unshelled prawns. Some food-swapping and all was well; I surprised myself by giving the baby octopus a go. Euuarch.

We jumped back on the next bus that passed by, and continued along the coast towards Amalfi. It quickly grew dark and the nightly electrical storm began to flash and rumble out to sea. Very quickly, rain was streaming down the windows, and great rivers of water were running along the road, making everything dark black or glittering white in the lights. It was really quite a thing, watching impressive forked lightning over the ocean.

We stayed on the bus as it reached Amalfi and turned around for the trek back to Sorrento, and chatted with Andee until it was time to part ways — we got off together and walked back to our respective caravan parks.

We had a surprisingly good meal at the caravan park’s restaurant, and called it a night.

All too soon, our two weeks with Timmy, Jen and Annie were up. In this record, I haven’t managed to represent the experience of travelling with these three — the small moments are so hard to capture, but they are so vital! A better group of people to spend time with one would never find. Travelling together has been a real highlight of our trip so far, and we have enjoyed their company immeasurably.

Having become very close as a group, and used to each other’s company, it was quite a sad farewell — we will miss them sorely. So, we saw them off at the bus stop, a quite emotional affair, then headed back to Nettle. We are sad, but there’s also a sense of anticipation as we set about re-thinking our lifestyle for the second time. It’s slow travel time: Time to make this into a sustainable lifestyle.

The drive from Tuscany was quite long but scenic for the most part; at one point we drove past an escarpment with a village clinging to the plateau, multi-storey buildings right up to the edge, with bunker-like holes in the rock beneath. Time got away from us, and by the time we were in the outskirts of Rome it was getting dark. What’s more, Nigel’s instructions were getting a little vague and out of kilter, and a wrong turn took us off the motorway and into the northern suburbs. We decided to take the opportunity to find a place to eat, and so we did, after driving around a bustling and grotty little square that looked like a promising area to find some food. It being still quite early, the restaurants were empty but open, and we picked one and had some pizza, in the sparsely covered Italian style. Very tasty Ortolana, with eggplant.

Moving on, I entered into a little private navigation nightmare, with Nigel leading us all over the place, dropping out and freezing up at critical intersections, leaving me to fend for myself. After about 45 minutes of this (it should’ve been only about 15 minutes to the caravan park we were after), we finally found our destination on the other side of the divided road. I found a way across to the other side, and after an interesting six-point-turn manoeuvre to turn onto the road from what looked quite a bit like an off-ramp (during which there was sudden silence from the passengers — where’s the trust?), we finally made it. There was even applause.

So, we checked in, and were thrilled in the process to find out we could pay €5 for three days of wi-fi access (the presence of Internet access is a very exciting thing on the road! Or is it just us?). We picked up some fresh water at the caravan park’s service point, Timmy and I taking turns holding the hose against the tap as I lost the attachment in Florence, and as is our new routine, the two of us walked around and scouted out a site. Very fun to have Timmy there to do that stuff with! This was a very swish caravan park, with opera playing in the deluxe bathrooms, a shop, and its own tourist info desk. Luxury.

We bought ourselves some €25 ‘Roma passes’, which give us entry into two attractions and include public transport usage, and headed on into Rome on the quite comprehensively graffitied train.

Rome bustled with people, as well as scooters and cars, bouncing over the cobbled streets. Everywhere, beautiful old buildings met our eyes, as well as an absolute glut of impressive fountains, statues and obelisks. Dodgy guys roamed the piazzas with roses to thrust at unsuspecting female tourists then demand payment; a very, very bad human statue of liberty fidgeted beside the fountain, and a busking couple Latin danced to a tape in an alley, surrounded by admiring onlookers.

We spotted a Wind telco shop on our way, and excitedly ducked in to talk mobile broadband; we would return the next day with my passport and seal the deal — a very exciting proposition to be connected again! Further on we found the Trevi fountain, beside a seething mass of visitors; Jen tossed in a AU$2 coin to ensure her return to Rome. I’m sketchy on the physics, but I’m told that’s how it works.

Our next sight was the Pantheon, an imposing and ancient cylindrical building with a massive columned annex, looming over cafés, souvenir shops and fully costumed gladiators prowling around for people to take their picture for a fee. Inside, a quiet roar of hundreds of low voices filled the huge circular space, and a volumetric beam of sunlight was cast down through a round hole in the ceiling. Intricately decorated marble everywhere we looked, and statues and shrines in every nook around the outside.

We stopped for a lunch break in a café down a nearby alley (the tiramisu being the highlight!), then pressed on. Almost immediately we stumbled upon a particularly impressive building, by the Piazza Di Sant’ignazio, and peered inside to find a church, impossibly opulent, with every surface either painted with incredible detail (the entire roof, for example), intricately gilded, or festooned with statuary. The space was filled with organ music accompanying two amazing voices, a man and a woman, rehearsing up by the altar. It was impossible to take it all in, although we tried for a while!

Next, we found the Monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, a mighty columned building with steps leading up towards it and sporting some fairly impressive equestrian statuary. After a little time spent searching unsuccessfully for the Apple store promised by Google Maps to be nearby (we wanted Snow Leopard, dammit!), we made our way to the Colosseum.

Framed by imposing grey clouds, the Colosseum was quite a thing to behold. We entered and followed an audio tour by Rick Steves that we took along with us on my iPhone, all huddled around the phone for each section. This turned out to be absolutely fantastic, much better than your standard packaged audio tour. On that note, by the way, basically all of the informational material we came across in Rome was appalling — badly written, and very dry, focusing on the most tedious of details (building materials, names and dates, to the exclusion of, say, cultural significance). Having Rick Steves’ guide was therefore fantastic, and really transformed the experience for us.

Almost as soon as we entered the Colosseum, those grey clouds made their presence felt, and the place shook with thunder. The accompanying rain made us a tad damp, but it brought out the colours of the Colosseum. Very atmospheric.

The thing I found most interesting there was not so much the size of the stadium or the other details with which we were already familiar (it is quite famous, after all!), but the graffiti, dating back from the Colosseum’s glory days. Some things never change. See, the attendees would scratch names of gladiators in the stone beside them, or draw scenes of combat. I found that record of the small details of everyday life quite interesting.

Minds full and feet sore, it was time to call it a day — we caught the crowded and pushy metro to our train back to the caravan park.

We started the next day walking through Rome, down along the river. We stopped for lunch at Piazza Navona (amusing scenes of statues plagued by pigeons), and headed onwards to a few other sites that Annie and Jen had pegged. We found our way to the Forum, beside the Colosseum: The original centre of everything Ancient Rome. Queue the next thunderstorm — amazing fork lightning over the ruins — as we went through the rest of Rick Steves’ tour. The site of Caesar’s cremation and the Curia Julia, the senate building, were two sites that stuck in my mind, as well as the house of the ‘vestigial virgins’ (yikes, so much for human rights — you don’t want to be a vestigial virgin caught being not-so-pure!). The tour’s concluding remarks nicely rounded off the latter end of Roman history for us, talking about the decline into corruption, the trouble with Genghis Kahn and the eventual descent into the Dark Ages. Heavy stuff, looking out over the ruined Forum bathed in that odd post-storm late afternoon light.

For our final day in Rome, it was Vatican time. We booked tickets from the caravan park, with an agency that allows you to skip the queue and includes an audio tour. We arrived at the meeting place at the designated time, having walked there from the metro stop past about 700 metres of queuing tourists, and were escorted en masse to the Vatican museum’s entrance and handed tickets. A bizarre system, but at least we skipped the line.

The Vatican museum was a seething ‘conveyer belt’ of packed-in tourists, the most remarkable tourist experience I’ve ever had. If this was ‘limiting the number of visitors’, I’d hate to see the alternative! As it was, it was very difficult to stop and look at particular items; the best course of action being to just go with the tide, step after plodding step, and just see what you could from where you were.

One interesting aspect was the fig leaves covering most statues’ bits: Apparently all of the penises were deliberately broken off the statues at some point during the Vatican’s history (as they might inspire lusty thoughts!), and replaced by plaster fig leaves! Ah, such a beacon of enlightenment.

The audio guide was mildly informative, although I did feel quite bewildered by the sheer amount of material, and the pace of the tourist-tide didn’t really lend itself to stopping to listen to much! At one point I lost my companions in the crowd and didn’t find them again until Katherine plucked me out of the crowd 20 or 30 lonely minutes down the line; at other point we lost Timmy and only found him again at the exit.

Not surprisingly, the highlight was the Sistine Chapel. How amazing that during the time of Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and the other teenage mutant ninja turtles, the art culture was such that art was just slathered all over the walls of significant buildings, in eye-bursting masses. How gaudy! Seeing that famous work, The Creation of Adam (touched by His noodly appendage!), in its proper context on the roof of the Sistine Chapel, almost lost in the profusion of other paintings, was quite remarkable. It’s just one little panel in a collection of dozens. I stood for a long time, working through the audio tour sections trying to wrap my head around the collection, but I honestly still can’t begin to understand the symbolic significance of any of it. Apparently it’s very clever though.

The Chapel gently hummed with hushed voices. Signs around the Chapel called for silence but, amusingly, the peace was broken at regular intervals by staff members hissing for quiet and calling out when people started to pull out their cameras. Once, a startlingly loud announcement blared out a list of rules in five or six different languages for a few minutes. Hilarious.

So, we re-entered the human tide and were swept out and back into the world. It was time for our second meet-up for our next ticket delivery procession, this time to the big daddy of churches, St Peter’s Basilica. It was also time for the daily thunderstorm, and we got drenched in the process, rain absolutely chucking down. We dripped our way up to the audio tour pickup desk, picked up our handsets, headed into the basilica and started the audio tour’s first item playing.

My first impression was of bemusement as the slightly breathless, bordering-on-hysterical audio tour narrator began spouting some quite impressive hyperbole about my imminent commencement of one of the most emotional and spiritual experiences of my life. My bemusement rapidly deteriorated to want-to-strangle-somebody irritation as the narration became both more extreme and religious, and filled with uninteresting, irrelevant facts like the purchase history of various artwork. Argh!

Irritating audio tour aside, St Peter’s Basilica is an incredible place, making the church we saw earlier look like a lean-to. Such a display of wealth and power, it’s hard to comprehend; every surface was intricately painted, gilded or contained some priceless (or pricey!) artefact.

Anyway, with very tired feet, we trudged through Rome to the Wind shop to set ourselves up with mobile broadband, me leading the charge with the map in hand. This was ultimately a triumph, and we returned to Nettle to rest our weary bones.

We drove through County Clare, the county from which Katherine’s mother’s ancestors came, and characterised by strange purple hills which upon closer inspection were covered with purple rock. The abundance of stone in the area has led to a vast number of pretty stone fences being built, marching over the terrain.

We stopped briefly in a cute little village called Ballyvaughan, and drove on and upwards through rapidly changing weather, finding ourselves in impenetrable fog by the time we reached our destination, the spectacular Cliffs of Moher.

Being unsure of the local area and unable to find a viable alternative, we parked in the ludicrously expensive car park, felt our way through the mist to a parking space, donned wet weather gear and walked doubtfully to the cliffs. Oh, dear.

Done with the head-in-a-wet-plastic-bag Moher experience, and done laughing at our misfortune and that of our fellow tourists, we huddled back in Nettle and decided to wring every last cent of value from our parking space and stay the night, with hopes the fog would clear up. No such luck — while visibility had improved to about 20 metres the following day, it still wasn’t quite enough to see anything but the hand-rail. Having seen hand-rails before, we decided to cut our losses and move on.

We drove downwards through the fog, which cleared up as we descended, and on towards Shanagolden.

Shanagolden is a little town in County Limerick from which my great-great-etc-grandparents Michael Bourke, an agricultural labourer, and Catherine Kelly, a dairy maid (of all things!) lived. My aunt Sue tells me Michael and Catherine left Co Limerick in 1838 (some reports say they eloped, some say they were married in Ireland) bound on the ship Aliquis for NSW, Australia, seeking a better life in the colonies, with assistance from their landlord Thomas Spring Rice of Mount Trenchard and Sir Richard Bourke, of no apparent relation. They eventually settled in Pakenham and had no less than 15 children.

So, after an overnight stay in a nearby forest, it was a different Michael and Katherine that drove into Shanagolden on an ancestor hunt. Passing an elderly fellow on the street and wondering if he knew anyone I’m related to, we walked around the town, and visited the town cemetery. I was delighted to see several headstones with Kelly names on them — Denis and Bridget Kerry, aged 81 and 84, both passing away in 1981, and their sons Michael and Jimmy who died in the ’90s’ 59 and 69; Ellen and Daniel Kelly, who died in ’67 aged 69 and ’81 aged 80, respectively, and Patrick Kelly of 71 years who passed in 1993.

We spoke to a barkeeper in the local pub, who laughed and told us there were tribes of Kellys all over town. She suggested an older cemetery on a nearby hill we should visit, and suggested that we find an elderly fellow named Dooney (or similar) Kelly who lives in town, who may know something useful. By her description, I realised we had passed him in the street earlier, but we didn’t end up finding him.

We had great success in the other cemetery though, in Knockpatrick on the top of a hill with beautiful 360° views. We found a host of Kellys — the most notable being Catherine Kelly who died 1897 aged 66 years, by her age possibly a niece, or younger sister or cousin of our Catherine Kelly.

We also found a number of Bourkes, which I found particularly exciting, given that Bourke remains my family’s name. We found a sizeable tomb ‘erected by Mr Peter Bourke of Foynes Island’ (from which Michael Bourke originated), ‘for himself & Family on August the 9th 1829′. There was also a headstone naming Mary and Nora Bourke Foynes, who died in 1923 and 1935 aged 22 and 3, and their parents James and Mary Bourke, who died 1954 aged 86 and 1965 aged 88.

With my ancestor hunting bug satisfied, we headed back to Nettle who was leaning alarmingly to one side where we’d parked her, and drove on towards Dingle.

Next morning, we drove the minute or two into town and made for the tourist information office. No great help there, just an armful of assorted brochures. I’d found mention of a walk online at the Telegraph, so we bought the referenced map instead and prepared to do the walk, made a packed lunch, filled the water bottle, packed the pack…Then I noticed an odd discrepancy on the map. Where was Strabane? A quick check with Nigel revealed that we were, in fact, about an hour’s drive away from the walk’s starting point.

D’oh. Another thing that apparently drives me crazy. I threw up my arms in dismay, Katherine told me to settle down, it wasn’t a big deal. Turns out she was right — we had a very pleasant drive following the official scenic route, or trying to; the road signage had a tendency to lead one down a dubious-looking road, then leave one to one’s own devices when presented with an intersection. We made it with no problems though, thanks to some creative navigation on Katherine’s part. At one point, we nearly drove over a bridge marked with a 3 tonne limit, before it clicked that we were 3.5 tonnes. Yikes. Thankfully there was another bridge with a 7 tonne limit. We started checking bridges very carefully after that.

We arrived in Moneyneany, the town near which the walk started, and followed the directions to the starting point. This was a rather tiny road that got tinier as we continued; no obvious parking spots in sight. On a whim, we turned up a side road that turned into an interesting pseudo-4WD experience that Nettle handled splendidly.

It was a bum lead though, and we ended up finding ourselves a lovely wild camp the other side of Moneyneany, beside a creek and a forest. I cooked us up some zucchini fritters with some brilliant cinnamon-y curry powder, a meal with nicely portable leftovers for a packed lunch.

The next morning we were ready to give it another go. Katherine sorted out the pack, I scribbled our approximate route down on the map, made sure we had the textual directions available on the iPhone, and we took Nettle back up the indicated road. This time we found a good out-of-the-way park beside an abandoned house (there are lots of these in Ireland!). We climbed into our waterproof gear and headed out.

Our walk took us switchbacking up the side of Crockmore mountain in the warm sun, panoramic views over the surrounding mountains and green-and-yellow patchwork plains. We were stopped for a moment while two farmers herded some sheep between paddocks. Upon reaching the top, and passing over the summit, everything became dark, a fierce icy wind started up and it began to rain. We threw on our raincoats and hunkered down, and where minutes ago we were too warm, we were suddenly quite chilly.

We could see we were in the cloud layer, clouds scooting by in front of our faces while in the distance we could see fields in full sunlight. Within a few minutes, the clouds had risen, presenting us with a clear view over the previously completely obscured mountaintop.

Now well off the path and following fencelines over the bog, skirting wet patches of bright green moss that our boots sank into, we descended the mountain into a glen marking the beginning of the Drumderg River. The rain had stopped by this point, and the wind lessened. A brief stop for lunch, then we climbed the other side, and down a track/creek that became a road.

Through an obscure side fence, past a bumblebee the size of a bus, legs dangling comically beneath it when it flew, like a Pixar character, then down across the all-grown-up Drumderg River and back through fields to Nettle.

The six mile walk had our feet aching a bit, so we lounged around for a while to recover. Then we piled back into Nettle’s cockpit and headed out south-west, for Ireland, the Republic of.

First up was a forest at the edge of the town of Glenarm, a recommendation from the CL owner — rather than turning right and continuing down the A2, one continues onwards down the narrow street. Being Ireland, it was raining, so we donned our waterproof gear and stomped out down the path. The park was very picturesque, with one of those tea-brown creeks we love so much, with deep pools, rapids and waterfalls, a pine forest and silver birches, still funny to see growing naturally.

Rain still coming down, we continued onwards, after stopping for a tasty scone with jam and cream, and a hopelessly poor coffee.

Next, on another recommendation from our increasingly admired CL host, we stopped in on another forest near Waterfoot, just beside the car park of Larah Lodge, a left turn along the A43. The rain was now really, seriously chucking down, so back on with the waterproofs and out we went, camera bulging out beneath my raincoat like some bizarre tumour.

Our walk took us skirting around the side of a hill overlooking a neighbouring escarpment, wreathed picturesquely in cloud, then the path became a boardwalk wound precariously down a steep narrow gorge filled with brilliant greenery clinging to every nook and cranny, and vibrating with the roar of an intimidatingly large and vigourous waterfall.

After some careful extraction of ourselves from the washing machine that was the Irish atmosphere, and without bringing too much of it into Nettle, we continued down the road, now in search of a place to park up for the night. The caravan park was asking more than we wanted to pay, so we went further onwards, while the rain continued to bucket down. The fog on the windscreen gradually closed in on us, ignoring my attempts to blow it away with the fan, until we were both bent forward peering through a clear patch a foot in diameter, only to have visibility limited to about a foot or two by the rain anyway. We finally took to it with a tea-towel, and settled on a car park in Cushendall, beside an old church.