All roads lead to - chaos!

IT'S THE Italian drivers that are the bane of our holiday here, in Campania.

I was told they were all mad before we came; they are!

But worse still, the road networks are completely potty. I mean we tried to get to Salerno the other day. Our road map indicated that we should take the main S444 (or whatever it was) but we found that none of the roads actually had any numbers indicated on them.

What's more the main S roads look no different to smaller P lanes and tracks - and these aren't numbered either.

Sign-posting is virtually none existent at any of the junctions and roundabouts you come to, and all the roads are in an appalling state of repair, potted with holes, with large tracts of them unsurfaced and jarringly uneven.

The there's the slight problem of lane and junction markings - again, there aren't any; and whereas in England you know who has right of way at such places, here it seems everybody has right of way.

The result is utter gridlock, with drivers simply forcing their way through and totally disregarding everyone else in sight and completely oblivious to the dangers they are causing.

And in the midst of all this chaos, My Good Lady and I sedately pottering along in our usual English way and causing no end of confusion by our very lack of madness!

In truth, I think we are more of a danger to the Italians by our simple obedience to the rules of motoring and our general courtesy to other road users.

If we survive to another day, we shall speak more of our trip later...

Bags packed and ready to go - sort of...

OUR BAGS are packed and standing in the hall, and we’re as ready to go as we’re likely to be.

We’re not bothering with a taxi this time; instead we’ve booked a room near Manchester Airport for the night and we’re leaving the car there for a couple of weeks.

This has the double advantage of being cheaper than a taxi and gives us an extra couple of hours in bed before reporting to the check-in desk at the ungodly hour of 4.30am.

I have to say we’re both in a bit of sombre mood this evening, considering we’re off on our summer hols in the morning; my general anxieties have rubbed off on My Good Lady, I think, and unfortunately I don’t feel in any position to be reassuring – although almost certainly things will work out perfectly well.

My trouble is, I’m so in need of a break, that I require a holiday in order to put me into the mood for a holiday.

It’s been a bit too long since our last vacation, and a stressful year to boot.

If we do nothing else but eat and sleep and read our novels for two weeks I’m sure it’ll still do us a power of good.

Fingers crossed!

What's the Italian for "nervous"?

BETWEEN THEE, ME and this laptop, I have to confess to being a bit nervous.

I’m talking about our coming holiday in Italy – we’re off in a few days time, and I feel far from prepared for the trip.

First, there’s the language problem. Try as I might, I can’t get my head around Italian – for some reason it just won’t stay in. Each time I speak it comes out as French!

“Buongiorno” – hello - comes out as “bonjour”; thank you, “grazie” is confusingly transformed into “merci”; and as for Italian verb forms – Gordon Bennett!... Someone once told me that if you can speak French you should be okay in Italian. Not true. The two are horses of quite a different stripe.

Then there’s the problem of the region where we’re going.

Naples is the fourth largest city in Europe; it’s also one of the most violent and the dirtiest. Pickpockets and snatch thieves abound – you’re strongly advised not to carry valuables with you, and definitely to steer clear of the street gangs that hang around in certain public places such as the train and bus stations.

Tourists, it seems, are a favourite target for them – although, strangely, the guide books don’t seem to mention them.

A number of our friends who have visited the city have all commented on how unsettling an experience it is.

Then, of course, there’s the problem with Italian drivers. They’re all mad! They like to drive fast, fast, fast, and God help you if you don’t get out of their way!

They’ll sit on your exhaust-pipe and blow their horns, making impolite gestures with their hands all the while.

All in all, then, I’m beginning the think we might have been better going to Cleethorpes!

Experimental fish dish

WE'RE OUT shopping for fish - a couple of neat fillets of plaice, locally-caught if the fishmonger's to be believed.

It's my experimental cook day, and I've already prepared the spicy tomato relish to go with the fish fillets which are to be turned into goujons, and coated in tempura batter before being deep-fried in my trusty old wok.

We've got a little time to spare, though, so we pop along to our village local where I can enjoy a pint of Thwaite's Lancaster Bomber bitter. This local has a good range of guest beers, and I study their names with bemusement - "Fluffy Duck" and "Riddlers Piddle" giving me cause to smile.

Back home, I whisk up the batter - a mixture of flour, cornflour and ice cold fizzy water - and dip the strips of fish into it. I've tried to skin the fish, but given it up as I was hacking off great lumps of flesh - I love the way some TV chefs pull the skin off just like that...

As I lower the battered fish into the hot oil, I reflect that this is the first meal I've done us for a while, and that I'm getting a little rusty. The wretched cold which has had me in it's coils for nearly two weeks, and which I'm still not completely clear off, has crimped my cooking style.

The fish, I'm pleased to report, turns out lovely and light and cripy, while the tomato dip is sweet and gently spicy. I'm rather chuffed with my effort.

The £655 pizza

PD IS telling of a family birthday party held at a local branch of Pizza Hut.

There are about twenty family members present, four car loads of them.

"You can imagine our shock when, on Saturday morning, we all got parking tickets for £150 each!" PD says.

It seems they didn't read the posted notices, saying that the car park was a private one, and that only the first two hours were free. After that, the charge was £10 a minute!

And, due to the slowness of service, they were fifteen minutes late in finishing their party.

Needless to say, PD and all his family are somewhat upset. "We thought fifty-five pounds for a family treat was really good value," he says sadly. And he adds, "It was a party; we didn't look at the car park notices; we didn't worry about the time!"

Anyhow, the family have rung Pizza Hut to complain, they've rung the police to seek advice, and PD even rang My Good Lady to consult her legal knowledge.

The advice is universally the same: "Don't pay!"

They've been advised to write a letter of complaint to the car park owners and to Pizza Hut.

If nothing else, £655 for a pizza would seem somewhat excessive.

Samuel Marchbanks, aka....

THE BOOK arrives in the morning post.

I ordered it a few days ago from a private seller associated with Amazon, and it cost me just 1p!

Of course, the postage cost £2.65 - but even so, I still think I got a bargain.

It's called The Papers of Samuel Marchbanks and it's a collection of short articles and pieces written by Canadian author Robertson Davies.

I've been a fan of Davies for many years and his novels are well represented on our shelves, as well as his witty and gently ghostly book of short stories, High Spirits.

Glancing through Samuel Marchbanks, though, I'm amused just by some of the titles of the pieces in the collection: Davies's wit and wisdom (sometime crotchety) span subjects as diverse as "Garbage and Our Culture" to "Religion without Tears", and encompassing "Female Beauty", "Improved False Teeth" and "Romantic Poverty".

He was of course writing before the advent of the personal computer - a device for which, I'm sure, he would have had no time - by my goodness me, what a blogger he would have made!

Autumn showers

WE ARE driving along the Coast Road towards the Pub when the heavens truly open!

We are pelted by a shattering downpour, rain so heavy that it bounces off the road and forms a mist that blurs the line between the concrete of the road and heavy, water-laden air.

And as if this isn't enough, the gale blowing in from across the expanse of Morecambe sands, lashes the stair rods of rain into a deafeningly shrieking menace - the whole car (by no means lightweight) shakes as if buffeted by a giant, wet hand.

My Good Lady and I glance at one another, both sharing the same thought which she puts into words: "I wonder why we came out today when we didn't have to."

We do get there safely, and soon afterwards the shower ceases and the sun comes out. Returning home, in fact, we have the opposite problem: sunlight bounces off the wet road dazzlingly.

"I'm hungry," MGL remarks. I'm cooking this evening and I assure her that dinner shouldn't take long.

I do us an old favourite this evening, although a new recipe for me: Chicken à la King; leftover chicken shredded into a creamy mushroom sauce (actually, made up from a packet of dried mushroom soup) and served on rice with a few extra fried mushrooms on the side.

We sit in the comfort of our kitchen enjoying our tasty meal and watch as yet another heavy shower rattles against the window. It seems that autumn has arrived with a vengeance!