A light bulb at 3.00am
May 8th
It occurred to me that any Odyssey needs its crud… Cyclops?
In fact it would not be an Odyssey if it didn’t have it.
Today we have the evildoers, Trump, Putin etc. and the ever-seeing social media and news feeds.
There are government departments which want their pounds of flesh.
The enduring quality of any great fiction like the Odyssey and the Old Testament is it has enough truth within for you to believe it.
A bit like why the UK succumbed to Brexit with Farage and Johnson serving up… urgh lies.
The council elections are happening in the UK.
I wonder what will happen?
Half truths or even plain BS.
I was reminded of the Bulgarian truck driver Maximilian we encountered.
He was lonely in his truck… he even considered the Earth might be flat.
Somehow he remained fated and would travel to Brindisi overnight.
I had suggested he might test his theory and run his truck off the edge… but I said he might not be able to afford the fuel!
That’s if there is a fueling station on the edge of his type of insanity.
For sure you can subdivide life’s journey into sections which have hope, despair, love, frailty… indeed everything that makes us human.
I guess in this instance I have some purpose…
An exhibition in a bar in a square in a town which was the nearest place you might put Penelope and her loom.
A figure in legend… mythical.
You have a Telemachus with you.
You have the clichés which suit the story.
I guess a good story writer can shoehorn anything together to make it fit…
More Homer Simpson than Homer from the 8th century BC for myself.
Let’s face it, with madmen like the Orange Oaf being elected in supposedly the biggest democracy you might even consider we deserve what we get.
So it must have been as Odysseus considered his world and his son and the reason he went to fight in the Trojan Wars.
So you realise that Helen shouldn’t have married Menelaus if she thought somebody like Paris might turn up. But then she was probably bullied!!
Then Paris was your rich toy boy who had everything… like half the role models on Netflix or Prime TV.
Wouldn’t even today most women waltz off with the superman who is a prince… and vice versa by the way.
Or is virtue making a comeback… nah.
Anyhow on that note I will try to sleep.
As any person must find it difficult with monsters around in a world of capricious gods and even the good guys are pretty bad.
Nothing it appears is right today.
So you need your own moral compass.
And try not to become like the worst of humanity.
Lights out and to sleep now on a happy note I hope.
I wake up 7.15 and get some cereal.
That wasn’t a great night’s sleep.
I check to see what’s going on.
An email has arrived about some crud.
I deal with it as best I can.
Ross emerges and we talk about going to Bagnoregio. It is a mountaintop village on a plateau in the middle of a sort of giant doughnut.
I did a geography degree with environmental science but overexposure to Netflix has degraded my analysis of even simple geomorphology to sugar-coated food from the USA.
We set off along the lake, picking up some fuel along the way. Ouch, it is 2.10 euros a litre for petrol.
But the place we buy it is Bolsena… that is a lovely town with a fortress overlooking the lake.
Driving through the bucolic countryside you realise why you are here… to dream of Turner or Wordsworth or Thomas Hardy country.
No you are not.
This is Italy!!
We get to our destination and park up.
We scan for potential painting thieves.
It’s hot and they are too lazy we conclude.
Now parking used to be easy.
Put in the coins… get a ticket.
Now it’s… go to the right ticket machine, not the one for motorbikes.
Figure out the Italian Mensa test for getting the ticket.
We failed that, but by talking with a German techie and combining our nearest skills we finally got a ticket.
We walk on and see our destination across the way.
The big issue with Bagnoregio from where we are is you have to descend a lot of stairs and lose height into the valley before you ascend the new bridge.
It’s mindless… like fell running.
Anyhow we get to the beautiful town on the bump and it’s mercifully free of tourists.
It isn’t really a doughnut… it’s more the positive space rendered negative with Einstein’s equation for quantum theory.
Lovely buildings of mellow stone.
Little curated shops.
Metal chairs bereft of bums beckoning. Just waiting for the ample bottoms of the world to plop themselves down.
Cheeks clenched, the coffee machines huff and puff coughing out coffee like Stephenson’s Rocket.
The bums jiggle on the metal chairs.
Ross and myself are a bit blasé.
We have been here before. The last time we bought a ring suitable for a pontiff… kiss-my-ring-size ring you whatever mother f—
Completely impractical… like a double poison macchiato ring!!
We do our bit for the chair-sitting bit.
The crowd is now arriving.
After twenty minutes we leave this forbidden world.
The bridge is also used for motorbikes of workers I presume and a sort of turbo golf trolley with an Arnold Schwarzenegger-style bloke gripping the wheel maniacally as he shoos the tourist flotsam to the side imperiously. He has luggage for tourists… possibly the ones he is directing off the bridge into the precipice below!
A Chinese tour group is nearly mown down, saved by the tourist flotsam leader with their pennant.
I ascend the stairs on the other side of the valley. It is now sunny and the perspiration is definitely on the brow.
Talking about huffing and puffing machines… this is the Mr Blobby overweight puffer trying not to have a heart attack.
We get back to the car park.
Our precious load of art is still intact!!
We put Bolsena in the sat nav and drive back to the castle museum overlooking the town.
We park the monster Discovery in front of the church opposite. It’s 30 minutes only, but God appears to be shining his rays on us.
The fortress is compact and has a small museum.
We potter around looking at the volcanic origins of the lake.
The timeline of human occupation has its highlight here of the Etruscans.
They were really something.
Probably my favourite overall culture.
Originating from a Greek/Turkish blend from Lydia they had populated this part of Italy.
They simply did things with style… more fantasy.
Griffins for example… not many places you see them.
Ascend the spiral stair to the battlements and get a panoramic view of the lake.
A jumble of roofs made from orange tiles in various degrees of degradation… a higgledy-piggledy sort of anarchic perfection.
You might call it organic.
Not planned.
Not false.
Entirely human endeavour next to a sublime lake created by subterranean forces.
A metaphor for us humans really.
We clamber back in our own monster machine as the drizzle starts to fall.
The sun is now gone and the lake is more grey… still with white birds marching along the shoreline.
Pizza this… trattoria that… but tastefully done pop up occasionally.
We see and reject a steak restaurant.
We head on for places beginning with G or P… the white on blue zings out on the signs as the drizzle lessens.
Then like an arrow… there is a sign that says Bolsena Lake and a name of a restaurant.
It’s a delicate name.
Lucretia or something.
Something sweet and alluring.
I ask Ross to check it out.
The restaurant is called Il Capriccio and it’s run by a delightful couple called Laura and Rodolfo.
We park up and toddle into the outside patio which faces the lake.
There are some large umbrellas and the view is beautiful of the lake.
Unlike a lot of places this butts right up to the shoreline and is natural.
Laura sets our table with its white cloth and delivers the cutlery and glasses.
It’s under a very large umbrella, so any drizzle is stopped.
Ross asks if they have Franciacorta.
Laura says the wine is on the QR code and there are numerous incarnations of that sparkling wine.
We had only come across two before.
So that’s a revelation.
We choose the rosé Franciacorta which when delivered has a bit of oak.
It certainly isn’t your average bubbly… gutsy you might say.
The food menu is very interesting indeed.
Lake-style lobster roll.
Handmade pici with nettle sauce, canal shrimps and lake caviar.
Blue tagliatelle with freshwater white fish ragout.
Guinea fowl with truffle.
Braised veal cheek with crispy onion.
I won’t get into it… but the above is what we ate.
I ended up with guinea fowl main course and Ross ended up with veal cheek.
We ended up choosing a Vermentino white wine with a tree on it.
The pasta course was delicious.
My guinea fowl in a sort of French-inspired sauce.
Laura tells us she lived on Pantelleria for 20 years. She knows the Ben Ryé which we love.
Again Laura is very particular on the sweet wines.
Ross has a Friulano.
Mine is a passito.
A cat has joined our party and it says a lot about the owners that they got a vet out to the poor chap because he had been attacked.
The cat was a tabby and looked fully recovered from its ordeal.
This restaurant is lovely.
Tranquil and inside even better than the outside.
We had plenty of water.
A snooze.
Then headed back to the accommodation.
It was raining heavily then.
You might call it a write-off.
Still the owl did hoot and the bats still moved around against the pewter-coloured sky.
The sun tried to make an appearance as it set.
Great yellowed roads stabbed out from its centre like searchlights looking for anything lurking on the lakeside.
We had a cuppa.
I bade Ross a good night’s sleep as we pondered the world and its woes and highs.
It had been a day of spectacle, culture and gluttony in that order… all as you might expect of the highest order in this neck of the woods.
Of course great company as well.
I forgot to mention a stellar piece at the museum.
A great white bath-like porphyry stone coffin with statues of nymphs and Dionysus… urgh a good way to go you might say.
Can I put in my order now?
May 9th
It’s a sunny day.
We have decided to depart… the place near the lake has been great.
I didn’t really feel a connection with the owner… not his fault… he was multitasking and we were ‘names’.
But a pool covered in tarpaulin, the drive being relaid… the tremendous view of Bolsena Lake and the olive grove inclining to its shoreline made up for these inconveniences.
We decide to stop for lunch on our 3-hour drive to Ancona.
The journey over is relaxing… like Dorset without the traffic. I have to say the Italian roads are not quite like the Spanish. The suspension gets perfection on certain sections and a good hammering on others.
Familiar towns from previous visits to Tuscany and Umbria impress themselves… castle this and Lago that with Todi, Terni, Assisi.
We plump on Gubbio… it’s easy and no traffic wardens and we know it vaguely.
Scurrying around the place I try to find a shop that previously I had bought a couple of art books from.
I can’t find it. So near, yet so far.
Ross tries to find a suitable eatery.
But it’s sunny and we are not going to go for the dark dungeons of this medieval masterpiece of a city.
Flags with various emblems adorn many windows.
It’s pageantry… still living and on religious days great effigies are paraded round the streets.
It’s very warm in the sun.
Olive oil, cheese, meat, sausage, ham, herbs… everything that the land can give is neatly packaged for the tumult of tourists in a multitude of small shops oozing character.
Norman Rockwell hard lines bisect the street from dark and light… the sun is intense.
Rejecting by phone analysis a couple of contenders we have wandered into the main square in front of the great residence of the count of this famous town.
The castle-kind of residence has a famous panelled room… oddly the original is at the museum in Central Park, Manhattan… the Italians have a copy!
It’s baking.
We spy just off the square a place with red and white tablecloths…
Ross says it’s on his radar… but at the lower end of the spectrum given our culinary delights the day before… but it is good for what it is…
Like Odysseus of old we have stumbled on a gem.
It was also rather empty outside on these chairs and yet it stood perfectly poised on the edge of the square and the main street.
Perfect for people watching.
We were joined outside by two young waitresses who gave us the limited menu… one it turned out was teaching the other how to serve customers.
It’s mostly meat or cheese or things you might combine with these two vital ingredients at this place… Norcia come to Gubbio.
So we plumped for meat… ham and cheese… turning vegan that day appeared a non-starter.
… I popped inside and asked for garlic bread and was told no.
The chef was indeed the owner and was initially a little gruff… but we assessed later he probably just got sick of tourists asking stupid questions.
But we also ordered lasagne and truffle pasta from the bespectacled waitress.
We spoke a little to the waitress and encouraged a couple to join us on our gastronomic journey as they hovered on the street looking at our plate of food.
As we attacked our mountain of ham, cheese, prosciutto I caught from the corner of my eye a man with a white shirt. It had blue Ancient Greek text.
Not sure what it said.
But maybe it’s a sign from Hermes… we are on an Odyssey let’s face it.
As he walked slowly I noticed he had a rucksack with a see-through panel.
Inside was a small dog… either that or it was one of those nodding toys… a dog version.
I thought it must be very hot in its plastic bubble…
I have to say it might be asphyxiating.
Anyhow I mentioned it to the couple next door and then it came to me the dog must be hot.
… then with some comic timing we both said “hot dog”.
We proceeded to tell the chap next to us and the waitresses.
The hapless dog-carrier man then wandered back and sat in the shade opposite us.
I went inside the restaurant to get a bowl… I could only find a tin tray.
Ross had guzzled our water so I took water from the people next door. They didn’t bat an eyelid.
I went over to the chap and spoke with him.
His name was Frank… from between Milan and Genoa. He got the small dog out and explained that he had a little water giver… like a baby bottle.
The dog needed to see his wife all the time… and hence the see-through bubble.
He was a really nice chap as were the others at the other tables either side of us.
I returned to the table and we all waved at Frank and the diminutive dog whose name was Roona…
Ross went inside with the waitress called Giulia and he chose a sort of fruit cake for dessert.
As we were attempting to hack into Frank reappeared with his wife and their friend.
It was now quite a gathering.
Later on I grabbed a walker off the road and they took a photo.
Marien and Alessandro
Giulia and Mamela
Imle Losmun
Ulf the giant
David & Ross
…. Pottery pig, cat in background
Carl and the wondrous dog Roona
The café served great food and even the chef-owner was washed with a sort of Gubbio rose-tinted spectacle glow.
We toddled off… found our car with no ticket and drove sleepily to arrive at Ancona Grimaldi ticket retrieval circa 4.45.
Ross went in.
He emerged asking for a wallet.
Went back in.
Came back out and said they wanted vehicle documents.
I resolutely went back in. This was a new twist.
A bit of tomfoolery or bureaucracy the Greeks had invented to surmount even the Italians.
I looked at the pocket Mussolini through the hatch and shoved the whole Land Rover pack of shit you get with the car at her.
She waded through it and then rather than exploding… found something which gave her the telltale information.
We escaped and then took 10 minutes trying to find 16.
It appeared that 15 existed, but docking area 16 was like a Harry Potter made-up dock area which led those waiting to Elysium.
No it wasn’t.
The arrival of the Grimaldi ferry reminded everyone that grim by name and grim by nature was the guarantee of company.
But later I have to say like an old shoe you get used to its lovable qualities.
We got on board and found we were sharing a bed… not good.
Anyhow the cabin was big and I wanted to listen to the Saracens v Bristol game.
Remarkably we could get it.
We settled down in the plastic, glass, plexi and chrome-plated world. Think blue Barbie with truckers… not Kens.
I looked at the cocktails on the menu…
I ordered a G&T and Ross a spritz.
They were served up in plastic tumblers… no orange for the spritz or lemon for the gin.
I cannot think of drinks more removed from those depicted than those received.
Still Gordon’s and Schweppes with a bit of ice still does the job… even with designer gins and Fever-Tree… which I don’t doubt are good.
Saracens having survived playing with 14 men for 20 minutes had beaten Bristol… the score 41-28 appeared comfortable… it wasn’t with so many penalties.
We went for dinner.
It was 8.30pm and the queue for the grub looked like casting for a remake of The Dirty Dozen.
Dark swarthy bearded truck drivers you might say might only be outdone by sweaty Teutonic bald Germans covered in leather from thousands of miles on their BMW bikes.
I spy an area hardly occupied. A kind of San Marino or Andorra in the middle of Vegas.
A Vegas devoid of eye candy of any persuasion I might say.
Anyhow this area turns out to be called Burgerholic.
I had seen this name on the previous ferry, but had erased it from my memory as one is apt to do with anything unpleasant. Burgerholics I guess are like alcoholics only they want patties of reconstituted fat, gristle, guts, flour, salt, flavouring.
Sounds perfect against joining the long march of Chiang Kai-shek for the other dodgy food.
Anyhow we sit down and are approached by one of the Greek mafia-style waiters.
He takes our order of double burger and chips.
I ask for milk.
He rejoinders:
“You mean beer.”
I parry back bumping at the menu.
“Urgh… soft drink.”
Of course we end up with Fanta and Coca-Cola.
As they say:
“If you are going to die by drowning you don’t need more than 2 metres”… but it seems more heroic to die porterhouse with burger and ersatz Coke.
Anyhow the food arrived and as it goes the Burgerholic produce was edible.
It was seared with trucker engine oil or Michelin tyre skid residue I think as well to give it more grip on your intestines as you tried to digest it.
It’s now 10.30pm and we are being kicked out of burger land.
The crew of the grim ferry mostly have an audible voice spectrum you might say similar to The Godfather.
Two guys had tried to enter the Burgerholic area with trays laden with food from the other area.
They had been marched out by a growling mafia grimmer as if they were naughty children.
So the land was protected from the swarthy truckers.
But I have to say they do a bit of a hard job driving stuff all over the place. It’s not easy with diesel prices going through the roof. A harder job of making ends meet was getting harder.
The cabin was big… the shower worked and the ultra-blue shampoo reminded me of my childhood.
I guess that’s it.
I had become a big softy in my dotage.
Old-fashioned soap and just washing went a long way.
So more a generous state of mind than a posh brand needed to be embraced.
May 10th
Another night on the Grimaldi ferry.
The shower worked fine and I cleansed my hair with the luminescent green shampoo.
I could get used to it.
It reminded me of washing powder from my childhood back in the north.
I have still got hair… so happy days!
Ross and myself got to breakfast and joined the line at the cafeteria-style run.
Your card needs scanning for the essential business elements.
A croissant, ersatz orange, natural yoghurt, water and lastly a coffee.
You also get a plastic spoon for the yoghurt.
I pop on a small milk which I will pay extra for.
I test the system by putting two little thumbnail-sized honeys on the tray.
I proudly announce to Ross that somehow I got something free from Grimaldi.
No such luck.
I had mistaken olive oil for honey.
There was a god and Grimaldi had him in their pocket.
Or maybe this was the devil’s preserve.
I read a bit in the morning.
It was uneventful… but of course very interesting looking at the various characters on the boat.
80 percent of the people on board must be Bulgarian, Greek, Romanian, Italian truck drivers.
They were interspersed with ladies with dyed hair or people sleeping on the chairs in sleeping bags. There were a few French and German judging by the car selection. We saw somebody with a Scotland shirt, but apart from that nobody from the UK.
Lunch was now upon us and the dining room was pretty full.
It’s the fact I had prepaid for the food that got my goat a bit.
They sold it as saving a bit… but to be honest the magazine on board was slick. It had articles on sustainability, corporate brilliance, history, hotels to booking hotels… nice.
But why is the food cold?
It was so grim.
But that aside… I am no snob.
It was made twice as bad by it being served tepid and almost served up by people who filled the trays like slop for the pigs.
There was one chap who really was keen on you getting what you had paid for.
I thought it was like the chap turning the wheel on a piece of torture equipment.
“Have the sweet… you paid for it!!”
Of course your own position was made to look worse because lorry drivers probably don’t pay for their own meal.
They fill their bodies with fuel.
What does it matter it is cold?
It’s a sort of resignation.
For my part these hard workers deserve better!!
Stanley Tucci should do a study of ferry food.
We expected to arrive at Igou by 7.30pm.
By some miracle we arrived early… 4.45pm.
We got off great and started on the 100km to our hotel.
It’s a super evening.
The code worked for the gate and the chap who welcomed us was engaged and helpful and pleasant.
His name is Dionysus… aptly named I think.
We ordered a takeaway in.
Gyros… the little sandwich things.
Souvlaki cheese and pork.
Chips.
Greek salad.
While we waited Dionysus rustled up two G&Ts.
Too much Greek food was ordered… it was tasty mind you.
We sit on the edge of Greece facing Lefkada.
So many Roman invading armies have trod this area… it reads like a boys’ own book of bloody conflict.
Now it just looks benign.
Ready for more holiday development.
It’s been rather uneventful really today.
But that’s good to take a breather.
The hotel room is new… the hotel built in 2020 is a family business and we are told mum and sister will be on hand in the morning.
Dionysus’ wife is called Olibidia (Olympus).
It’s good to see everyone chipping in.
Just nice.
David Jackson
11.05.2026