After the mad dusk drive over the myriad viaducts we arrived at Montechiaro d'Acqui. Luckily we have clear instructions to look for bin 21 near the pine trees, and the kids excitedly spot it. Mark is not happy – the road down to Ian and Lisa's house looks like a near vertical drop and he is panicking about whether we will ever get back up if we bite the bullet and go for it. I go ahead on foot to check the terrain, pleased to get away from his prophesies of doom. I find the house, and our hosts shining faces, and Ian accompanies me back up the 'road' calling mark a wuss and spurring him on to take the plunge. We arrive and re-aquaint ourselves, with the girls sitting shyly on my knee for a full twenty minutes, then are invited to stay in the house. After copious glasses of wine and catching up on the last 5 years, we retire to the comfort of the biggest bed in the world which Ian and Lisa have kindly donated for the duration of our visit.
We awake the next day to glorious sunshine. The kids are in heaven, the farmhouse has two barns, chickens, a rabbit, mountains and loveliness all around, enough to feed their imaginations for weeks on end and Ian and Lisa have all the time in the world to spend playing and laughing with them. They set to work living the fairy tale, collecting eggs from the three beautiful chickens and making a house in the barn while we split our time between working the land and relaxing big time. I check out train fares to Rome, and come up with the exorbitant figure of €184 each way – a bit of a non starter really, so we decide on Verona and Venice as a substitute - sadly all roads won't lead to Rome after all. Ottilie's plans have changed again, she is no longer taking Frida back to Edinburgh, but is arriving in Milan the following Wednesday, so we put Verona back till after Easter. We break the news to Ian and Lisa that we may be around for some time, and they seem to take it in good grace. We're going to need to visit the 'cantina'. Their local winery provides top quality vino at rock bottom prices - €1.20 per litre. Even better than this, the bulbous nosed assistant, obviously the worse for wear on perks, managed to charge Mark €0.46 for 30l of wine, missing the decimal point by two whole places. Even Mark thought that was a bargain. The children are enjoying being indulged.
They have adopted Lisa and Ian as their 'other' mum and dad. They wander round an antique market, asking when something takes their fancy, 'If you were my mum and dad, would you buy that for me?', to which the answer is always 'yes'. We go on a picnic and spend the afternoon competing to make the best doll from the stuff we could find. Frida works in a team with Ian, making a twig 'couple'. The nut falls off his figures head - 'She kissed him so hard, his helmet fell off', she laughed. So did we. The night before we are due to leave, Mark has a severe asthma attack. Ian's sister is due to arrive, but Mark and he are forced to set off to find emergency medical assistance. Three hours, a pharmacy, a hospital and a visit to the night doctor later he arrives back totally cured by the Italian medical system (of ever wanting to see a doctor again). And all for a mere €46.
We have to pick Ottilie up from Malpensa Airport the next day. The girls hand over control of the barn, complete with kitchen, toilet, beds and a swing, to Roisin and Bobby, Ian's neice and nephew. Before we leave I check my emails. There is contact from Isabel at The Guardian. She has requested amendments to the piece I have written. We have three hours before we leave to pick up Ottilie, and I spend it all remembering, researching and writing. I have spent hours previously cutting it down to the specified word count, and find myself having to put all the detail back in – but hey, it's for The Guardian, what does it matter? When we finally head off, Mark attacks the track admirably, the love shack is light, we have left half our belongings in Ian's shed. We'll be back. 
We hit the Autostrada – doesn't make our car go faster though. It's all so confusing, none of the towns on the signs are en route – but the road seems to have the right number so we go with it and arrive at the airport 15 minutes late. There she is, the lovely Otter, all smiles and loveliness. It's Chewbacca! she laughs as she sees Mark's impressive facial hair, and he is renamed The Wookie henceforth.
We head straight off to the Colombo's farm East of Milan, wondering how people tolerate paying to be stuck in a traffic jam for hours on end – we drive 50km in two hours and arrive at the farm after a 14 year absence. Ottilie is so stressed her skin is rebelling, but the relaxation process begins immediately. We spend a day ligging and laughing at the kids attempts to roller skate. It is our first glimpse of 'real life' since leaving- jobs and homework rear their ugly heads and I have the semblance of a panic attack about what the kids might have missed at school – but it's too late to start worrying now.
We make our way to Lake Como- the internet has turned up no open campsites, so we are taking a chance on finding a likely spot and are delighted to find a tiny place right on the banks of the lake. There is a trampoline for the kids, a bar and no other takers, and we set up camp, awning and all and squash in.Ottilie is sleeping on the floor of the caravan – for 2 days we are 5, and in the morning we all pile into the big bed and eat easter eggs and biscuits for breakfast before making our way to Bellagio in the sunshine
We eat pizza and ice cream, look out at the lake, totally surrounded by mountains, then going home for a roast dinner curtesy of the caravan's tiny cooker. It snows heavily in the night, Mark has to go out at 3am to re-erect the awning as it blows madly in the wind. The morning brings blizzard conditions, the mountains on the other side of the lake are covered in snow. We take the soaking awning down and fold it up on the wet mud before locking it in the top box - our fingers aching from the cold. It is done before 9am, and we head back to Malpensa. We have three hours, but weather conditions are grim. There is one road around the mountain and one that goes over the top. As we head south on the coastal road I see a sign – strada chiauso – seen that one before – so we head off by the only alternative road, up into the snow covered mountains. This is a bad thing. 
We soon realise the foolishness of our actions as a car drives towards us from the top, it has a good 10 inches of snow on its roof, and outside the snow flakes have grown to the size of biscuits. Mark spots a driveway and a rare opportunity to turn the car. I get out to guide, but he is heading towards the edge fast and there is a step between the road and the driveway. I scream at him to stop but too late, the car is grounded on the tarmac, it's underside screeching and crunching as it comes to a halt. Shit, this is bad. We cannot reverse, and daren't go forward. We are blocking the traffic going up and down the mountain. I envisage the kind of machinery that will be needed to get us out of this mess, look at the snow and am totally at a loss as to what we should do. Mark gets out to inspect the situation, then orders the girls out of the car. The chassis lifts a fraction but it's still not clear. The people in the cars are loosing their amused expression as they realise the effect our dilemma could have on the rest of their day, but before it gets ugly, Mark is in the car – he is driving it on – it creeks and scrapes and moves slowly round – then ,yes! We are back on the road! Triumphant in the face of seeming impossibility once again! Chewy The Dude. We get in and drive off, realising at the bottom of the hill that the road will be closed in a couple of weeks – not today .
We have lost time, but it still looks doable, so continue towards the airport, gliding down the duel carriageway at speeds of up to 60mph, but look, there is a car passing, a man staring in, showing me a badge and telling us to pull over. 'Is that a policeman?' I ask Mark. It might be, so we stop on the road and wait. He is an ugly little man, and gesticulates for us to wind down the window. He establishes that we speak very little Italian, so addresses us in English. 'Give me the keys' he says, as he pushes his lily white hand into Mark's face. He takes the keys and smells them then asks us if we use drugs. No. Have you been selling drugs? No. He asks to see our money while explaining that some English people have been reported for doing a deal up the road. We have €15 between us, and he soon realises his mistake, hands the keys back and drives away, leaving us confused and even later than we were already. It is Easter Sunday and our thoughts of empty roads – surely the Italians will all be at church – prove unfounded. It is packed and we crawl the remaining 20km to the airport, arriving less than an hour before Ottilie is due to depart. But she gets away and we arrange to get back in time for the shoot in April.
Back at the Columbo's farm we have a little more time to relax. We've inadvertently gatecrashed their Easter celebrations, but they reassure us it's fine so we do the Aperitivo thang, drink campari bianco, eat the dinner Giovanni has been cooking all morning, then go for the traditional passegiata with Andrea, Nicole and the kids. The banks of the river Adda are as packed as Oxford street, crowded and rowdy with groups and families making barbeques, picnics or just walking along, dressed up to the nines. We had walked the same route on our previous visit, when it was tranquil and empty, and the contrast is startling. A man who we had seen at the farm when we left is walking towards us from the oposite direction, and we realise he has driven to the 'walk', suddenly noticing the number of vehicles parked around the place. These people love their cars more than the English.
We return to the farm through traffic jams and are relieved to be fairly isolated again, and make preparations to leave the following morning. It has been lovely to be treated as part of their large family for a few days, lovely that they just adapted their plans and made us part of them, but as ever, all things must come to an end, and we eventually leave for Verona, a mere 2 hours drive by experienced reckoning.
They've obviously never done it pulling a caravan. 5 hours and endless traffic jams later, we pull into the walled town of Verona with no idea of where to camp or what to do. Italian holiday season starts late, and most of the campsites don't open till April or May. The Tourist information tells us there are none open, just an automated camper park so we drive around aimlessly shouting at each other as it looked like the only option. It is horrible, stuck in the middle of as busy road junction. A tar-mac triangle with markings for pitches and a place to empty your chemical toilet – if only we had one. We decide the €10 fee is not good value for money, then drive on to the carpark just outside the town wall. We are right next to the moat, it is grassy, quiet and free. Much more amenable. We are not the only campers on the block, our neighbours seem to be living there on a more permanent basis. We plot up for the night in preparation for our visit and are up at 7 the next morning. The car park is filling up in a strange regimented manner. Each new car pulls into the space directly adjacent to the last. They are getting nearer and we are parked at right angles to the markings. Mark moves the caravan with me and the girls inside -we've been desperate for this moment for the whole trip – to a double parking spot, and we continue our preparations as the cars slowly surround us. Togged up and in we go, towards the Roman Arena, the third largest existing in the world. First, coffee. We sit in a cafe facing the roman monument, then notice the coffee is €4.80 a cup and make a hasty exit. Searching the side streets for something less salubrious, we find a spacious pool bar, quiet vast and authentic. Frida orders her customary chocolat calde and is presented with the most delicious confection, more like a mousse than a drink, a happy girl. We use the facilities and make our way back to the Arena.
Outside we are accosted by two gladiators, much to the girls' delight, and pose shamelessly for photographs. Inside, Silvie translates the all the Roman numerals she can find and we wander round the vast corridors, catching the occasional glimpse of clear blue skies at the top of the marble staircases. It is so intact. We talk about what it would have been like all those years ago, with the gentry and public milling around in their togas. We move to the inner corridor, where the servants and gladiators would go about their business and see cages – for lions? It is so impressive, we feel like detectives working out what what would have happened in each location all those years ago. Next for the main event. We walk out into the arena itself, into the sunshine, into history manifest. A fantastic lesson – the girls make a video report and Mark and I fain a gladiatorial battle in front of the bewildered sight seers before leaving the site. Pizza at Bella Napoli, then on to Juliette's balcony – there's Shakespeare to discuss as well! Education, Education, Education. I'm feeling vindicated again. 
We go to the amphitheatre and museum, get an ice cream then return to our cosy home in the car park. Gas is low, and we have seen nowhere selling it, so we reserve the dregs for tea in the morning and hope we'll find some tommorrow. We're up and off early again, heading to Venice through Vicenza and Treviso driving through their ugly outskirts, horrified by the neglect of the beautiful farms and the proliferation of industrial buildings. The sky is grey, the roads are packed, the signage is myriad, this is not what we had expected of the country, so commercial and spoilt, even the girls comment on it. It is not the ideal place for a road trip. We arrive at Punte Sabione and stop make our way to the Miramar, where a friendly welcome and a shop selling gas awaits us. We will catch the water bus into Venice in the morning. The prices are exorbitant – it will cost us €84 for a 36 hour pass, but hey, it's Venice! 
The next day, in the pouring rain, we make our way to the boat stop, and after a false start on account of their no card payment policy, make our way across the lagoon to arrive at St Mark's square. The rain has stopped, blue sky is being unveiled and even the crowds of anoraked tourists can't detract from its splendour. We wander. Frida is enchanted by the masks in every shop window, while me and Mark pray she doesn't want to 'buy one with her own money'. Silvie is counting bridges, stopping at every one and waiting for the gondola to pass under it before rushing hysterically to the other side, hardly noticing that they are waving at her cuteness. We spend the day exploring the narrow streets, taking turns to lead the way, busily going nowhere in particular. We ate ice creams opposite the giudecca in the newly arrived sunshine, just being on the water lapping up the vibe, The Wookie and Princess Leia showing their kids the wonders of the world. A lovely day. 
We leave from St Mark's Square with the sun setting over the lagoon, planning what to do with our remaining day. Unfortunately there is a difference of opinion. I want to go to the Doge,s Palace and Mark mainly doesn't want to get involved with the crowds. Arriving the next morning there's hardly a queue at all, but Mark's still not keen, his argument has failed to materialise, but he is even averse to small queues and tries to maintain his position regardless. It doesn't work and we make our way in to the ticket office, getting our family ticket for much less than expected – Mark's objections are dwindling – then into the courtyard, up the Golden Staircase, through leather lined, map covered and painting encrusted rooms. Stopping to draw and discuss their purpose before moving on to the dungeons, the children exhaling for effect over the Bridge of Sighs, imagining the dispair of the condemned citizens catching their last glimpse of the city.
We leave 4 hours later and take a picnic on the steps of the Salute. We are starting to feel like freaks, everyone is staring at us – because of the picnic? Because of Frida's furry boots? Because we look like visitors from another planet? Frida is part lapping it up and part outraged. She points the camera at the passers by as they stare - 'let's see how they like it!' she exclaims . What a gal. We show off for the audience before catching another water bus to the Museo Correr. It closes in less than an hour – ah, we wanted more time to see it all, instruments, equipment, painting, sculpture, just not enough time...We do our best to fit it all in, losing each other, finding each other and after leaving, feeding corn to the pigeons and eating more ice creams before leaving Venice for the last time. It's a sad moment, from here on we are homeward bound, final destination Longton Avenue. But before we get there we travel East via Mantova, stopping overnight near its mercury polluted lake, then an early stop at the incredible church at Grazie. It has a stuffed crocodile suspended from the roof, devotional offerings pack the chapels and the walls are covered with small hands, hearts, breasts and eyes. There are wooden sculptures in every alcove, lifesize figures awaiting gruesome deaths, soldiers, milkmaids, princes, children look down at us. Frida is overwhelmed and walks around with her eyes downcast attempting piety, while Silvie lights a candle for all her friends, but really she just wants to play with fire. On to Sabbioneta, the ghost town.
The guide describes it as an having the air of an abandoned film set - two palaces, an olympic theatre, three grand churches, and about 12 inhabitants as far as we could make out. Great for us. We picnic, camp and make a film. Mark and I even manage a glass of wine at the only open bar while the children climb trees in the main square – there is no one else around. The next day we make our way to Velleia, the ruins of a Roman town in the Appennino Piacentino.
Up we go, minding our own business when once again we are stopped by the police. What are we doing? where are we going? Are we going to camp up there? He checks Mark's licence and looks us over, but fortunately having a mucky caravan is not against the law, even in Italy, so we make our way to the huge partially excavated site. The girls are freaked out by the guardian assertion to watch out for vipers, so we tip toe around looking more at the grass than the ruins. There is so much left to be excavated that I am convinced we are going to find treasure so go off looking hopefully for a relic, a piece of gold, anything they haven't found yet, but to no avail. Ah well, it was a bit of a long shot anyway. We stay a couple of hours, cooking up some food in the caravan, then make our way back to Ian and Lisa's farm for a few final days.
Ian has made a pie with 'hello gypsies' written on the top, and we slip in right where we left off .There is table football, a mountain of dirt to transport to the terrace in waiting and piles upon piles of old wood and brambles to burn, so while Lisa and I risk life,limb and eyelashes with our home made braziers, Mark sets to work with a wheelbarrow and spends days going back and forth digging and tipping while the girls spend their time catching up with schoolwork and making a bar for the workers in the barn. We christen it the Cengia Benda Bar, and relax at the end of the day with apertivos and table foot tournaments. We head off for the alps to check out a mountain pass, but after two hours driving, and a photo stop at Bra, we don't seem to be any closer.
We abort the plans to toboggan on the snow capped peaks and visit Dogliani instead, where Ian can't resist buying a cake from the patisserie for Rovers forthcoming birthday. We stop on the way back to coo at a baby donkey at the side of the road. We visit the local second hand 'mercatino' 30 minutes drive away, and come away with as much stuff as we can carry for a mere 10 euros, and go to view a beautiful mansion house with its own chapel, woodland and views over the valley. It is for sale for a mere €180k and quite tempting, just round the mountain from Ian and Lisa's farm – if only we knew how to make money fast...We go back and make preparations for leaving.
The Guardian has contacted me again with bad news. It's too long, they couldn't fit it in the family special, maybe they'll use it in the summer. I am not amused, but resist Mark's suggestions of phoning and demanding payment. - as Ian concurs, if I do that I'll blow my chances of ever getting published. We have a party for Rover's birthday, pile all the stuff in the caravan, and head off up the track for France. We are going to visit the Pods in Roussillon en route, Wim Wenders is going to be there, it's all very exciting.
France and the final exit.
So we're driving off towards the Autostrada, weather still grim but feeling relaxed, we negotiate a slippery bend, and find a lorry jack knifed right in front of us. There's no time to scream, Mark is pumping the brakes, but the caravan is sluishing us forward, everything is in slow motion as we come to a halt 4 inches from total write off. Mark can hardly speak, he is ashen faced, and we wait in stunned silence for the truck to move on. Not a good start to the day but at least we're still alive. Within an hour we are passing through the tunnel that marks the border between Italy and France, driving North and upwards on the Route Napoleon, We are headed for the Cornich Sublime which follows the canyon de Verdon, our preferred destination for the night. We are high up in the mountains again, there is mist and rain but the views are still spectacular. We stop to look down at the cloud filled valleys below us – a clear day would have been beautiful, but the grey mistiness has a certain charm of its own. A fter the dizzying heights of Grasse and the Pas de La Faye, the terrain flattens out and we eventually park in a wooded valley. The kids run around, looking for a likely spot to pee, there is a white camper van running it's engine, parked close and the other cars have us in their vision as they pass. They give up trying to hide and just do it, but not in a nike way. We follow suit. within ten minutes our fellow campers have gone – it's obviously all too crusty for them. In the morning we have coffee, buy bread in the nearest town and push on up canyon. Why do we do this to ourselves? (always finding the 'most interesting' road on the map – i.e. the steepest, windiest, most dangerous road available). It closely follows the corse of the river, 200m below us down a vertical drop. The water is turquoise, meandering (like the bloody road) hither and thither into the distance. We stop and peer over the edge at the Balcons de la Mescla and all suffer instant vertigo - except Silvie, who wants to cross the barrier and climb on the ridge. We stop for coffee with a view. Frida has the usual, Silvie buys a biscuit as big as her face and we share a coffee 'cos we're officially skint. We can see a road on the other side, skirting the edge of a the gorge and joke nervously about it being our road. Surely it can't be. It's not really ideal for a caravan. Ten minutes later we see the cafe from the other side of the gorge and continue onwards, me holding tightly to the door handle just in case...The car is a legend and despite all the groans and creaks of the caravan, pulls it over the summit.
We will stop for for lunch at the Lac de Ste Croix and still shaking from the breathtaking, terrifying pass, we pull up in a car park on the shore. Suddenly there is a crowd (of 7), people are taking pictures of the rig and walking towards us like they know who we are – maybe the blog has been more popular than we'd anticipated; perhaps we have become famous in our absence ? But no, it is a French crusty mob – dog on a string types. Despite the huge sign - 'Camping Sauvage interdit' they are, and have been for the last 10 days. Cool. Julien introduces himself. He is friend of Mattieu and Sasha, one of the posse they were meeting up with after we left them in Marrakech. They have seen photos, heard stories and handled the tickets Frida made for the open air film show. We talk while the girls stare at the 2 beautiful puppies. It's a small world. We retire to the caravan and cook eggs on toast. It is raining so we play cards and read stories on the big bed. The girls are desparate to get their hands on those puppies, and when the rain stops they hang about smiling for long enough to get invited over. Turns out they found them in a bin in Morocco with their 6 dead siblings and smuggled them through the border. Hopefully they weren't rabid, eh? We drove on, Irmin and Hildegarde's place is in our sights, we are following Sandra's precise instructions – in 100 metres there is a left turn, we turn left into a driveway, but oh no, it was less than 100m and this isn't right. We realise we have driven, between two tightly spaced pillars, into the wrong house. The owners are driving towards us from the opposite direction, wanting to get out of their blocked driveway. We have it off pat, she reverses like a dream with minimum stress and maximum confidence. Mark has recently pointed out that in order to reverse the car a) he needs to be able to see me, and b) the hand movements I make need to relate to the movement of the steering wheel, not the caravan. The pillars are safe, it glides out, nearly hitting a car coming along the lane. Not to worry, it is Eustace and Rene, they are expecting us. We arrive and are provided with gin and tonics within 34 minutes. Wicked. Hildegarde offers us one of the many lounging contraptions to relax on, but we have been sitting in a car all day, so waft about in the boho surroundings, sipping our drinks standing up, it's all very langourous. We are obliged to go out for pizza, Irmin is having dinner with Wim Wenders, the egos have landed - so it's off for a pizza for us mere mortals. I've been hoping the €20 I have in my purse was going to last us as far as the shores of Blighty, but it no longer looks possible. The pizzas are good, and we go back to the house that is a lounge and try to integrate. We consider the perks of being the Pope - whether he has a personal fortune or an allowance to spend, but it seems he has none, because better than this, he has all his needs attended to -kinda like being super rich but without the guilt. The personification of catholicism indeed. Wim tells us anecdotal information about thePope's crimson slippers – probably he's met him – we are 1 degree of separation from the Pope - and Isabella Rossilini for all that, and Denis Hopper, and anyone else you may care to mention. They go to bed early, they have a plane to catch in the morning.
So the next day is chill time. The kids get some fishing rods and head down to the pond to catch tadpoles. We enquire about the possibilities of a boat, and find it upside down in the grass. After making it ponworthy, Pod gets in and the kids all get a ride. For the afternoon's entertainment we fire up the hamam, and sweat the afternoon away, sitting between heat sessions on yet another lounger, and guess what? It's about time for an appertif – so we sip sparkling wine on the heated bed, wrapped in soft towels, and warm blankets while the children play spider girls, whooshing their towels around like wings. Poddy comes back from the cellar with a second bottle to find Mark in bed with his wife, drinking fizz and smoking a fag. But no, it's all good clean fun. We are relaxed and superclean, Sandra has even scrubbed me down in the shower. During dinner, Pod takes Mark to fetch more wine from the cellar.
They come back with a huge bottle, a litre and a half, it's so rustic it doesn't even have a label. God it's good for vin de pays, he fetches another, then another. Over dinner the next evening, Pod brings its charms. Irmin looks slightly startled before telling us it was the only wine he cared about in the whole cellar. It was supposed to be kept to grow old gracefully. Oops. All very Black Books. We have to go. We have an appointment with destiny in the shape of our actual lives back home. Lara donates Hazi, her favourite toy to the girls for a holiday, we say goodbye, and off we go to our final destination.
All day and all night driving. We stop somewhere and nowhere at midnight, it's pouring with rain, the ferry's gonna be tight.
In the morning, in the immortal words of Leo Sayer, the sun is out, the sky is blue, there ain't a cloud to spoil the view...and despite it being Sunday morning we find a patisserie open. It is our last day, Euros need to be spent, we buy extravagant cakes for the first time since Portugal then drive along and choose our spot. There is more cake than anyone can eat, and we have coffee and hot chocolate on tap. Frida is the waitress and I am the cafe wench so we while away an hour before we push on. We are driving through wine country, all the towns have names we recognise from the labels on the bottles we can't afford to buy anymore. Next we e hit the Somme, graveyard territory, and the conversation turns to the war - the children asking about great grandfathers and the roles they played. during the horror. Strangely we stop off at the only German WWI cemetery in France. It has Jewish as well as regular German graves, and it is strangely poignant that in such a short space of time they changed status from allies to enemies. The fickleness of politics, eh? We shed our tears and manage to drag the children away from the scale model of the local burial grounds and the cross made by the local nursery children, and before we know it we are closing in on Calais.
Everything is fine, the children are playing and laughing hysterically in the back of the car. But suddenly the mood changes, there is panic, there is misery, there is a plastic dolls head attatched to Silvie's finger...I look round- it is like a horror film, the head is lolling on her little finger, her face is contorted and tear stained, and all that comes out of me is hysterical laughter. We stop and I make her pose for a photograph before taking action. Mark has a scalpel, it is really tense because her finger has swollen and there is no gap between the neck and the finger. He has nerves of steel, and after cutting away the head, he goes straight for the thick plastic ring that is surrounded by her bulging f;esh. He manages to cut it off without drawing blood. After this drama, everything is smooth, and before the hour is out, we arrive at the familiar shores of Calais. 
We are early. It's unheard of. Ten minutes later I am cooking mushrooms and garlic in butter, the delicious smell is wafting out of the caravan door, Mark is chatting to some English bore in the queue about taking up skiing after separating from his wife...he is trying to find a commonality, but can smell the mushrooms and can't concentrate. We sit on the bonnet, the four gypsies, and soon scare him off and eat. We are going to be taken home, we are quiet and reflective, it is surreal, in two hours time all of this will be the stuff of memory.
