The espresso effect

On Easter Sunday the weather was still up to its usual tricks. There was no real surprise as I peered out early in the morning to be greeted by the grizzle of the day. The house was almost completely in the clouds and the village perched less than a kilometre away at the top of the hill, barely visible.

A tramp up the terraces for another "chat" with the Linden tree, leaves me once again pretty much soaked to the skin, so it's quickly back to the house for a shower and change before hopping in the car and making my way to Lucca.

The city is always a delight, even on an autumnal spring day. But I wasn't really prepared for the number of people parading up and down the main shopping street, via Fillungo, braving the elements and proudly and determinedly joining in that time honoured ritual, the passiagatta.

I had thought firstly the fact that it was Easter Sunday and secondly miserable weather for strolling along the streets, would have kept most people inside. But instead the city was buzzing with locals and tourists alike, everyone seemingly going nowhere very slowly.

Instead of joining in, I made straight for the elegant Antico Caffè di Simo, propped myself up against the bar and downed an espresso in double quick time. Now I'm not that much of a coffee drinker and certainly no connoisseur, but there's no denying the glorious effect a small shot of the rich, thick stuff the Italians brew up can have as it hits the back of the throat. It just has to be one of the simplest but most enjoyable pleasures of life and not something the US chains can ever hope to emulate, no matter how successful they might have been in making litres of coloured water a totally unacceptable alternative.

Invigorated and still smacking my lips at the aftertaste I rejoined the throng and took a leisurely walk around the old walls before hopping back into my car to race back to the house.

Monday would be an early start as I once again attempted to beat the traffic by setting off at another ungodly hour.

And little was I expecting the shock that was in store for me when I poked my head outside of the front door at five o'clock the next morning to be greeted by.... snow. And not just a thin layer, but a lovely fluffy carpet stretching from the grass just outside the house all the way down the track to where the car was parked.

The 10-minute drive down the steep and winding road to Pescia was going to be treacherous and of course I had no winter tyres and the roads would not have been gritted. I knew that if I wanted to arrive back in Paris before dark I would have to fast forward my schedule, so I hurriedly showered, dressed and packed before traipsing down to the car.

Rescue of sorts came in the shape of a small Ford Fiesta carefully rolling its way around the bends in front of me, and I followed in its path for the next 40 minutes, gently and slowly battling against my car's desire to go in every direction but the one in which I was pointing it.

By the time I made the motorway the snow had turned to rain of course, the temperature had risen and I was thankfully able to go at a fairly normal pace, given the driving conditions.

Heading north towards Genoa was almost like arriving on another planet. The skies had cleared, the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud to be seen. But on the radio there were warnings of more snow later on in the day on both sides of the Alps and possible tailbacks at both the Mont Blanc and Fréjus tunnels.

A decision had to be made. Did I want to spend most of the day on the shorter route most likely stuck in congestion, or would it be better to take the longer coastal drive passing by Nice and the Cote d'Azur, adding time and distance for sure but where the traffic would probably be more free flowing?

In the end I plumped for the latter, which made me smile somewhat as I realised that I would be travelling past the Fréjus to which I had for a while been unwittingly headed on my downward trip. It also meant that I would arrive in France earlier and avoid having to refuel in Italy, where the price of diesel at least, is a good 10 centimes more expensive per litre.

As I crossed the border, I resisted the temptation to programme the GPS - just to see how much further I had to go. Experience had taught me not to fiddle with it and to rely on my own ability to follow the signs. The Nice-Paris route was after all a familiar one I had taken in the past without any problem.

The hours and the kilometres passed, the traffic became denser, as did the proportion of nutters on the road. Still the traffic was relatively free flowing and the weather had held up - so far.

Then I hit Lyon. I missed the ring road and instead took the Fourvière tunnel, which passes underneath the city and is notorious for its traffic jams at most times of the day. Lady Luck must have been smiling on me - temporarily at least - because I made the other side without incident, but my fortune was short lived as the murky skies threatened and once again I found myself driving in pouring rain.

All four seasons in one journey, made longer by the enforced detour along the coast and one very exhausted Easter weekend holidaymaker arrived home more than 13 hours after he had set off.

Lesson learned - until the next time I fear.

Spiritual talks

So I’ve struggled out of bed still feeling a little groggy after the previous day’s mammoth drive and am ready to bask in the glorious Tuscan countryside and soak up some of the promised sun on the first day of Spring.

Fat chance as it turns out. Admittedly the scenery is as breathtaking as ever – it never fails to impress – but the weather isn’t playing ball and venturing outside again will mean getting soaked to the skin.

I had already made my morning pilgrimage to the local supermarket to stock up on all my favourite treats for the weekend. Vitello tonnato – slices of veal in a tuna sauce, fresh ingredients for a caprese salad - mozzarella di bufala, organic tomatoes and basil, Parmesan cheese and ravioli alla zucca. Hardly appropriate food given the storm clouds that have gathered and I would be have been better advised to buy ingredients to make a wholesome stew. But I’m going to take full advantage of unhinging my jaws and tipping back as much delicious Italian nosh in the short time I have here.

The weather doesn’t really matter too much. I’ve come here alone this Easter weekend to contemplate my navel a bit, gather my thoughts and most importantly to have a chat with my mother, whose ashes are buried beside a tree planted in her memory on one of the terraces behind the house.

Besides a little bit of rain never did any harm, and we Brits are supposedly made of sterner stuff. At least that’s what I tried to convince myself as I grabbed a raincoat and headed outside.

Several minutes later I found myself standing in the middle of a downpour, not so much talking as just allowing my thoughts to run freely. Somehow it seemed more appropriate and certainly a lot faster than trying to articulate what I really felt. Anyway, I always used to joke that my mother would take a trip around the world’s news subjects in 80 seconds – butterflying from one subject to another.

It’s a habit I’ve acquired and honed as I get older. It now seems quite logical to me. I’ll start off taking about one thing and then another idea will pop into my mind from which I’ll make a mental connection to something else. Unfortunately I often miss out the middle bit in a conversation, so others have problems understanding how I’ve made an apparent “Neil Armstrong” leap (I wish) when really for me it’s simply a sequence of totally related ideas.

All right I’m digressing. So there I was “thinking” my monologue and sometimes expressing it aloud to myself of course. A real stream of consciousness – perhaps a little lazy, but it allowed me to cover a whole raft of topics simultaneously and in random order.

Of course it was also bloody freezing - first day of spring indeed - and I discovered that the zip fastener had broken on my windbreaker. How wonderful that the inane can interrupt the oh-so-serious for a moment. I must have looked like the proverbial wreck of the Hesperus, but it hardly mattered as there wasn’t a soul around and I rested my head against the tree, tears streaming down my face, feeling pretty miserable and clutching hold of a €6 bunch of flowers I had bought. They were the sort of Chrysanthemum I hate, but my mother loved so much. Couldn’t believe that after nearly a decade, such emotions could surface so quickly. And they weren’t superficial ones either, but real humdingery strong feelings of loss.

Have to puff out my cheeks and sigh even as I think about it.

Perhaps part of the problem is that in recent years I’ve become such a big girl’s blouse and so many things seem to set me off. But that’s no bad thing either, I’ve decided. In fact it’s akin to admitting in the 70s to liking Abba (er – remember what I thought about making a leap of thought in my mind?) Back then it was definitely uncool and untrendy to admit to such musical tastes. Pink Floyd would have given me definite street cred. But I was never very “proud” or pretentious” when it came to such things. So I was quite happy to accept the ribbing for knowing by heart all the words to Dancing Queen. In fact I considered it almost a badge of honour to be unhip.

Similarly, it’s not really manly not to be able to control the waterworks – along the lines of not eating quiche. But once again I think “what the heck,” and go for the all-out blubber attack. Maybe it’s going to be the new thing to do shortly.

After several more minutes completing the process of getting well and truly drenched I squelched my way back to the house, promising that I would set aside some more time the following day – weather permitting, or not as the case may be – for another quick commune on the terraces.

To be quite honest, it really is the most magnificent view of the village and the valley my Ma would have from next to the Linden tree, where her ashes lie – fine or foul weather. If only she were around. But there again I suppose she is for as long as I am to remember her.

Morbid thoughts perhaps, but sometimes it’s good not to forget. That’s not being sentimental, just honest.

Spiritual talks indeed.

Driving mad

It takes a while at the best of times to drive the almost one thousand kilometres from Paris to my holiday home near Pescia in Italy - around 10 hours if the traffic isn't too heavy. So choosing the long Easter holiday weekend perhaps wasn't the brightest of ideas.

As soon as the Parisians get a whiff of a break - and it's pretty often given the number of days off they get each year - they pile into their cars and head out of the city. North, south, east or west, the direction doesn't really matter as a huge chunk of the 12 million or so who live in "la ville lumière" and its suburbs seek a few days R&R elsewhere.

The roads are jam packed at the best of times and this year, with Easter falling early, many decided to make their way to the mountains for a last minute chance to hit the slopes.

Needless to say, they were also joined by the hoards of north Europeans, taking advantage of the country's costly but excellent tolled motorways, to escape the forecast rain to either join in the skiing fun at one of the country's many resorts or enjoy the milder climes of the French Riviera.

My plan was to avoid the likely tailbacks on the Friday by setting off at the crack of dawn a day earlier than most and motoring gently southwards through the Alps to arrive at my destination, a small village nestled in the picturesque hills between Lucca and Florence,– some time in the early evening.

So with my GPS suitably programmed, I set off.

Now if I'm honest I'm not the world's best navigator. I'm not that awful either, but more often than not I don't carry a map with me in the car - although I do take a look at one ahead of any journey, just to "make sure" I prefer to trust my sometimes undeniably questionable sense of direction. My motto is to just follow the signs along the route. After all what can be so difficult in that?

Plus it wasn't the first (or last) time that I had made the drive, and since investing in a GPS system I guessed I had a foolproof guide to keep to my bearings from going their usual wobbly way. All in all I was pretty confident I wouldn't encounter too many problems along the way.

The shortest route would take me through the rolling hills of Burgundy - always a pleasure - then a left (yes that's right no east or west for me) at some point towards the Mont Blanc tunnel which would see me arrive in Italy on the other side to continue southwards past Turin, Genoa and Pisa, before taking another left for the final 50 or so kilometres.

By my reckoning, apart from hitting some light evening rush hour traffic in Genoa, the roads would be pretty much free flowing.

Now this is where I have to confess to having made an otherwise simple trip unnecessarily complicated. I don't like using the Mont Blanc tunnel. The last stretch on the French side and the first on the Italian is a real pain. Both the climb and the drop are steep (don't forget I'm talking about a tunnel through the Alps here) and the chances of getting stuck behind a convoy of trucks are fairly high and that can add valuable minutes on to the journey time. It can also require hair-raising overtaking skills or buckets of patience, neither of which I have in abundance.

So I plumped for the slightly longer, but easier route via the Fréjus tunnel. It's a personal thing really. Even though the difference in altitude between the two tunnels is not so great - just a couple of hundred metres - the climb to and from Fréjus on both sides (regardless of which direction you're driving of course) is gentler and easier.

I had rather cleverly I thought, pre-programmed the GPS to take me via my "preferred" tunnel. But by the time I had passed Lyon, I was beginning to wonder whether that delightfully computerised lady who was guiding me steadfastly onwards and southwards had paid any attention to where I actually wanted to go. Surely I should have taken a "left" by now.

And then it dawned on me. I was heading towards the other Fréjus in Provence! Now I've nothing against the town. It's full of Roman ruins - I know I've been there - and is a popular summertime tourist resort with some of the best year-round weather in France. But it's on the Cote d'Azur - over 450kms away from where I had actually planned on being.

A quick pit stop was called for and a reassessment of how I would get to where I wanted to go. Of course with no map to guide me, I tried to remember what other major towns I should be passing on the way and Chambéry seemed to ring a bell. So I quickly punched in my new destination and was soon making that "left" and picking up the signs en route.

A gradual but definite change in the landscape also told me that I was heading into Alpine country and all seemed well. Until that is, I suddenly found myself exiting the motorway at the final toll booth and caught up in mid afternoon traffic in the centre of the town.

The dulcet tones of my computerised companion had indeed guided me to where I had said I had wanted to go. Somehow I had managed to erase Florence as my final destination and instead had replaced it with the capital of the Savoy region of France.

With hindsight I realised that I should have tapped in St Jean de Maurienne - a town just a few kilometres away from the tunnel. That would have made my journey not only shorter but also far faster than the double detour I had already taken.

I finally arrived at the correct Fréjus, just over one hour behind schedule, and tuned in to Autoroute FM - the traffic information station - to listen to all the helpful tri-lingual (Italian-French-English) safety instructions as to what to do in case of an emergency. How reassuring, I thought, as I began the 13km drive.

Imagine my surprise then as I regained daylight on the other side to discover that my radio had automatically reprogrammed itself to Radio Maria. Just what the Pope ordered, I guess, as I settled back to listen to hours of liturgy and rosary.

It might be a somewhat perverse side to my nature, but the repetitive nature of the chanting really began to hypnotise me and I hurriedly had to slot in some Kate Nash just to break the spell.

Now while the French can sometimes drive like road hogs and all too often seem infuriatingly to forget to turn off their indicators after executing a manoeuvre, they've got a long way to go before they can match the excesses of their Italian counterparts.

Unfortunately all those clichés about the driving skills of the average Italian motorist – especially on the autostrada - seem to be oh so true, as quickly became apparent on the ring road around Turin.

Until you’ve actually “been” there then all those stories from many a well-worn foreign driver might seem to be wildly exaggerated. But fear not, they’re all true. Suddenly I found myself haunted by a constant stream of wannabe Ferrari test pilots appearing in my rear view mirror from out of nowhere, lights flashing and tailgating within inches of a two-car pile up.

Having already spent many hours on the road and feeling far too intimidated to retaliate by stubbornly staying in lane and within the speed limit, I pulled over only to realise that time after time the menace had been nothing more than a mild-mannered looking 50-something behind the wheel of a Fiat Panda. Clearly the Italians believe in flooring the accelerator pedal in their attempt to get the biggest performance out of the smallest of cars.

Of course I didn't hit the light evening rush hour traffic I had reckoned with in Genoa. Instead I was stuck in the full force of it as the motorway tortuously wound its way underneath the city, cars and trucks bumper-to-bumper for the best part of an hour.

By the time I finally arrived at my destination, it was pitch black, I had covered a good hundred or so kilometres more than originally planned, and I had not so much beaten the traffic as joined in with it for much of the way. And there was still the return journey to make three days later.

Next time maybe I'll take the 'plane rather than the car - especially if it's such a short break. Or if I insist on driving perhaps I'll spend a few more moment planning my route carefully berforehand.

Perhaps, maybe - probably NOT.