Italy - What Did The Romans Ever Do For Us?

Shuttupa-your-face...  Chit chat in Bari

When the ferry docks at Brindisi the usual flurry of activity sees passengers and vehicles spill onto the quayside and into the town.  Nobody's hanging around, though, and following their lead I pick up the main road and start heading north.

Bari - hidden gems

My plotted course has me following the eastern coast line, and I figure this will be warmer and dryer than the rest of the country.  It's both of these things this morning, and I call in at Bari for an early lunch, to sit in the sun and enjoy some lasagna - you know what they say... when in Rome.

The town is delightful - in the old quarter tall residential family fortresses nudge and nurdle the walking visitor, closing ranks at the end of a little alleyway, or grudgingly allowing passage through a tight archway.  Navigating the narrow streets on the big GS is a delicate operation.  Getting a stag party into a nightclub would be easier than than this. 

I'm trying to follow the scooters as they zip between pedestrians and disappear into the shadows, but 'zip' is a word I've never used to describe progress on the Bavarian, and with good reason.  The baritone rumble echoes loudly off the stone walls and I feel a little embarrassed.  But I needn't have worried: this is Italy, and even the most severe looking grandmother gives me a nod and a wink in approval.  They like their motors out here.

 

My digestion of the hearty pasta is hindered when I return to the highway:  I find my stomach in knots as a series of flying Italian four wheelers bear down on me and scorch past in a blaze of flashing headlights.  I'm hardly dawdling, and know to keep a vigilant eye on my rear view mirrors.  Yet this road is like the back straight at Brands Hatch; every Alfa Romeo has an an alpha male at the wheel, apparently determined to put in a good qualifying lap.  These guys drive really fast and very aggressively.  I use international hand signals to convey how safe their driving is.

Down south, plain walls

I make a studied decision to leave the coastal highway: this is more significant than you might think.  By heading inland, I'm taking a chance that the weather will turn against me: winter showers on slippery mountain roads are no fun at all. 

For now, I have good weather on the coast, but take the chance anyway: I stop for the night in a hotel in Isernia, a modest casino town in the hills 100km north of Naples.  Today was about covering a decent distance, but tomorrow will provide - if the good weather continues - the fun that I've been seeking.  I text my brother (who's busy riding down from England), and we agree to adjust our planned meeting point: we'll now convene in Florence.

Autumn riding doesn't get much better than this, eh?

For the whole of Thursday I revel in the superb countryside of central Italy.  It's mid-autumn here and the colours are glorious - bright yellow and copper browns, sparks of red too, reminding me of the famous 'fall' that sweeps across Canada like a wild fire.  Into this blaze of leaf-litter my GPS leads me - onto minor roads and remote valleys, which is not where I'm expecting but who cares!  The route is so much fun I let the Garmin take me where it will - I have time and fuel, so swoop down the dry hairpins merrily.  This is wonderful riding: the equivalent of kicking through piles of crisp beech tree leaves with your gumboots on.

I want to return and explore some of these remote old towns

I'm delighting in the surprise glimpses of tight-packed towns clinging to the cliffs, wedged into gullies or teetering on a hill top.  These seasoned settlements are reached by roads that follow the countryside and I carve cleanly along the contours like a farmer's plough. 

Eventually, time catches up with me and I'm still a fair way from Florence. My riding appetite has been sated and I turn onto the autopiste for the last ninety minutes.  The SPOT tracker blinks green with satisfaction, sending out signal blips to the satellites and marking my progress.  My brother, Steve, has reached already the hotel we've reserved in Florence and watches as the signals come closer.

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Beautiful enough to make you stop and stare, even as others rush home.

Our plan for a pre-breakfast early morning jog around Florence has hit a snag.  Morning has broken, but so are the brothers McMullen.  Beer and pizza has a lot to answer for, because that is how we spent most of our first evening.

 We continue to catch up, talking animatedly on subjects far and wide, familiar or foreign;  feeling a bit grizzly initially, it's not very long before the charms of this beautiful city refresh us.  We echo a 'wow' was we approach the huge duomo cathedral, and then utter a few less repeatable expressions as we try to ascend the 463 steps up to the viewing walkway around the dome. 

There's a cool, cloudless sky and it's sunny and warm up here on the roof of the great cathedral.  Red Terra Cotta tiles form an undulating veneer to the city below.  We admire the 360 degree panorama and get our bearings as well as our breath back.  From my Lonely Planet Guide:

Begun in 1296 by Sienese architect Arnolfo di Cambio, the world’s fourth-largest cathedral took almost 150 years to complete. Its neogothic façade was designed in the 19th century by architect Emilio de Fabris to replace the uncompleted original, torn down in the 16th century. The oldest part of the cathedral is pierced by Porta dei Canonici (Canons’ Door), a mid-14th-century High Gothic creation – enter here to climb up inside the dome.  Wander around the trio of apses, designed as flowers on a stem that is the nave of the church and so reflecting its proper name – Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore (St Mary of the Flower). 

So there you go.  Inside, the dome is decorated with the most magnificent multi-layered scenes: kings up above, and hell and damnation below.  Terrible punishment is being dealt out to the shocked figures only metres above our heads, and cherubs look on as sinners tumble into the fiery abyss. 

The punishments in the other panels were too graphic for posting here...  Makes your eyes water, though.

Chastened - or just plain tired - we emerge back at street level and continue with our informal walking tour of the historical city: 

Florence from above; here just 10 degrees from the 360 on offer!

Cradle of the Renaissance and home of Machiavelli, Michelangelo and the Medici, Firenze is magnetic, romantic, unrivalled and busy.  (Lonely Planet Guide)

David ponders the injustice of it all

We stroll the bridges, pause in a placid plazza for pizza and a beer, and admire the replica sculptures in the Palazzo Vecchio - masterful works even to these uneducated eyes.  Interestingly, for David at least, it's not true what they say about men with big hands and feet - just ask Michelangelo.

A day slides by so easily here and we've had a great time in the city.

I'd love to return to Florence again - there's plenty more to learn.  However, it's now Saturday morning and Steve and I load our respective motorcycles and hit the Tuscan highways.  My big GS is trying not to giggle at the sight of our new companion, but the latter soon proves herself.

Steve has come by a 1978 BMW R80/7, an 800cc lump that bears the BMW badge with pride.  She's still going strong - dickey tick-over aside - and pulls well up the hills.  Braking on the way down is evidently less effective and I'm watching with concern as Steve looms apace into my rear view mirrors:  we soon learn to leave plenty of stopping distance between us!

Sibling rivalry...  1978 vs 2010

 Picking the most scenic of several local A-roads, we're working our way up a valley and through the hills.  These are ski resorts, later in the season, and some road corners already hold a dusting of ice crystals.  We take it gently over the main pass, but otherwise are having heaps of fun.  Steve's steed speeds up and he even gets a few bugs splattered on the front of his helmet.

Down below we cross a junction that holds a bikers' cafe.  I haul on the brakes and Steve manages to do likewise, and we pull up amongst a very flash collection of racing motorbikes - gleaming red Ducatis; the best of the polished Japanese bikes; a few KTMs and a couple of Triumphs.  But my big Beemer gets a wave of interest and respect, and Steve's classic raises many an eyebrow too.  We're a couple of strangers here, but the bikes have won us friends right away.

Fashionable Milan

Sunday sees us reach Milan, where we visit the international motorcycle show.  I get to gawp at pretty models (the bikes) and Steve does likewise (the girls).  I'm not sure who leers the longest, but our lascivious attentions are no worse than from the hundreds of hot-blooded Italians who hum around the bikes with love in their eyes.

Out in the car park the late afternoon air is cooling.  We've just squeezed in a quick trip into fashionable Milan on the metro, seen another huge cathedral and now it's getting late.  Our brotherly powers of telepathy serve us well and we succeed in navigating the motorway ring roads without drama - back to the cabin campsite where we're taking shelter.

Tomorrow we'll try and cross the Alps, and with the weather predicting morning temperatures of -6 degrees, things could get tricky.

Full gallery of photos can be seen here: Click here to Italy photo gallery...