Monaco, Milano …

Italy is probably our favourite place in the world. What’s not to like? Sun-strewn summers, snow- blessed winters, cypress trees, medieval fortified hill towns and pasta … pesca … pizza … pinot grigio. I’m not even starting on the gelato. The beautiful language. The history. Columns poking up everywhere. OK, Italy is just stupidly gorgeous and perfect. Did I mention the beaches, the mad driving, the utter romance, people kissing everywhere? No. I think I have made my point already. We always feel like we are coming home when we come to Italy. OK so not always in a totally good way: we are braced for the insane motorists and the corrupt police. The exuberant hand gestures, exasperation and swearing (even though you don’t know the exact words, you KNOW it’s charmingly obscene). This time and for the first time, we were venturing into our beloved Italy in a motorhome towing car.

Advice on whether you CAN tow on the autostrade varied, but in the interest of getting across pretty quickly, hassle-free and having spent a great deal of time in Italy on our previous voyages, we split the car from van and drove in convoy. Rhys and I took the lead in our temperamental Peugeot, while Joe followed hard on our heels in the 30 foot beast of an RV, accompanied by the girls. We sped out of France through Monaco without any problems, then hit the tunnels of Italy. All was going very well until I noticed in my rear view mirror that an 8ft section of solid steel was hanging off the side of the bus, bashing repeatedly against the side. A quick phone call to Rowan confirmed that they were WELL aware of the problem! In one of the tunnels, Joe had had a brief encounter with something on his offside, something static thank goodness. The awning support had broken loose and was now enjoying its freedom. It was much more alarming for those in the van who could hear the constant banging and envisaged terrible damage, than for us who could see the admittedly huge but still vaguely connected steel bar. After some more helpful motorists flashed to inform us that, yes, something was not quite right, we found the next services.

Of course what you need at this point is a nice big area in which to try and sort out a temporary fix. What we got was a tiny lane with two pumps only, which we promptly blocked completely. Gaffer tape, washing line and much relief that we hadn’t lost the awning entirely ensued. Somewhat tentatively, we moved off again and everything held. Apart from this minor (?!) inconvenience, the journey across to Milan was pretty straightfoward and the police didn’t bat an eyelid at us.

For two nights we stopped in a campsite right in the heart of Milan, that somewhat swanky, somewhat industrial and somewhat rich northern city. Northern Italy is a very different land from its more laid back, poorer, rural but very touristy southern half. Here, fashion, ferraris and founders of industry rule. Milan itself was stately and bustling, OK, it lacks the ancient history and piazza lifestyle of, say Rome or Florence, but it has a wonderful duomo, wide avenues and – of course – The Last Supper. A young Rhys had once described Da Vinci’s masterpiece as “some blokes having their tea”, so of course we were desperate to see it. It sits on the canteen wall of the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Slightly superior to most of the murals on canteen walls, we suspect. Getting to actually see this UNESCO World Heritage painting however is somewhat tricky (unless you happen to be a Dominican monk), requiring considerably more forethought than we ever display. With just a handful of people allowed to reverently gaze on it at any one time, tickets to see The Last Supper are booked up months in advance. Except you can’t book more than two months in advance, so it’s all a bit tricksy really unless you pay a fortune to the touts who no doubt bulk buy them all up anyway. Oh to have the luxury of knowing exactly when you are going to be in a city! We hadn’t even decided to stop at Milan until a couple of days before. Still, undeterred, we went to the Santa Maria, driving right into the heart of the city. We stood outside. We took photos of the UNESCO sign. Rhys even took a photo of the photo of the world-famous painting. I, as the coward, forced Joe and Rowan to go into the ticket office ‘on the offchance’. Who knew? Maybe they’d had a cancellation. These things happen! Alas, not today, though the cashier smiled pityingly, sympathetically and wanly. She’d heard the request many times before. We reluctantly left without getting inside the monastery. Never mind; another day, another trip.