Bardolino

 

CHAPTER 1

 

We are off to somewhere in Italy. We don't know exactly where because Gran is recovering from a major operation and the nursing home gave us only a few days notice of the dates on which we could go. Meg has negotiated a cheap last minute deal to an unknown resort and hotel. It made packing a little more difficult than usual. As I always make a mess of packing that may turn into an advantage. The date nominated by the nursing home was particularly inconvenient. August 3rd is Mum and Dad's Diamond Wedding Anniversary. Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad. They got a telegram from the Queen.
We do know we are flying to Verona, the city of Romeo and Juliet and that we are on an Air 2000 flight. Air 2000 are the leading luggage wreckers in the charter airline business so perhaps packing was an irrelevance.
We are met by Alison who informs us we are in the Hotel Fiordiliso in Bardalino on Lake Garda. Forty minutes later we are allocated room 2 in a small family run, typically Italian, two star Albergo. The room is a little dark a little small, but perfectly acceptable. Bardalino turns out to be a much better resort than a red wine and we are delighted with its traffic free narrow streets of which there are about five all of which are set at right angles to the promenade. The five streets are linked with a number of short side streets. The buildings are in a soft golden stone and the businesses mainly dedicated to ensuring that we do not go without food drink or entertainment. One thing we know from earlier sagas is that the Italians are brilliant at enjoying themselves and expert at having a good time. One street is twice the width of the others and therefore the focus of social life. It has a big church at the top inside which they hold services and outside which there are Alison tells us regular free concerts. Where the street meets the prom or more correctly the harbour and landing stage is a place of much deeper spiritual significance. CRISTALO'S. In the first saga, written in 1981, we visited Italy via the Mont. Blanc tunnel for the sole purpose of having an ice cream. The best ice cream in Italy is made in the North. The best ice cream in the North is sold at Cristalo's in Bardalino. We will be returning here at regular intervals in the ensuing pages.
Lake Garda is beautiful. It is 100 kilometers round and shaped like an axe, the handle of which runs North East to South West. The blade is at the bottom of the handle facing South East. Bardalino is in the middle of the cutting edge of the blade. At the NE tip of the handle is the town of Riva. Here the shores of the lake soar up to the mountains which form the end of the Dolomites. The sides of the handle are formed by two spectacular mountain ridges which have tapered to hills by the time they reach the blade and by the end of the lake at Peshaira the land is nearly flat. A narrow twisty road circles the lake. On the western shore they have had to tunnel through solid rock in places. There is a good bus service and a quite complicated series of boats serving the pretty little lakeside villages. Bardolino has a marina with more power boats than yachts. The lakeside is formed by a narrow promenade which is tree lined with benches every few meters. Mallards swans and blackheaded gulls patrol the edge of the lake polishing off the rolls stolen from the breakfast tables of the town. Between Cristalo's and the big church we find an excellent tourist information. All the maps are free and there are hosts of 'Manifestations' going to occur during our stay. When we mention hill walking the staff are keen that we should visit Prada. We leave with maps, manifestations and a complete set of bus and boat time tables. The street is very crowded but the effect is lively rather than stifling. For dinner we are allocated a table to share with Simon and Natalie. They are younger than our children but more and more people seem to be nowadays. Simon designs Rovers and Natalie teaches at an inner city comprehensive. He is from the south, she from Sheffield, they have just moved to the Cotswolds. Much more of them later.
Dinner is simple and typically Italian, confirming our high opinion of La Strega, the recently opened Italian Restaurant in Eckington. It turns out that Natalie probably knows the owner.
There is a pasta or soup course, a meat or fish course a choice of sweets. Wine from a short wine list is extra and costs about #5 a bottle. We natter away as we eat until we realise we are alone in the dining room with a very fidgety waiter. We stroll the town doing nothing in particular. Most evenings are spent this way so I won't bore you with endless repetitions. The only thing that varied was our choice of ice creams. These are listed in Appendix A.

CHAPTER 2
BATTS CATTS and HYDROFOILS

Breakfast is a fruit drink, some hard dry rolls which is why they need dunking in the lake before they are digestible, and lots of coffee. I can live with that. Alison's welcome meeting is a bit dull, adding little to what we learned from tourist information, and has no free drink, there is however to be a free wine tasting on Thursday so we note that and book two seats or should I say stones in Verona's Roman amphitheater for Carmen. After our experience in St. Petersburg we are going for one which we know has tunes. Most of her other trips sound horrendous, six or seven hour coach trips.
Plan A is to take a boat to the axe handle but its 11-30 and the next batt in that direction is not till 14-15. Plan B is to catch the next boat wherever it is going. At 11-45 there is a Service Rapido, that's the hydrofoil, to, Sermione, a town on a peninsula to the south.
Sermione is the posh resort of the lake lots of 5* people with 5* hotels and shops to cater for them. It has an impressive castle and a path right round the peninsula. The path at one point affords a view of the 5* diners in mid dinner. The women are wearing hats and the men dark suits and ties as the flunkies carry hot steaming trays to the tables. Meg photographs swans that are carrying bread to the lake to dunk it. Even 5* people get dry rolls. The temperature is only hot but the humidity saps your strength and with our crystals well and truly drained our resolution not to eat at midday succumbs to the seductive scent of a wood burning pizza oven. Sitting in a shaded courtyard under a magnificent display of bougainvillea eating delicious crispy pizza and slurping soft Italian red wine is to be highly recommended.
Having ticked Sermione from our list we return to the quay to discover that we have missed the last boat to Bardolino however there is a catamaran to Garda due any minute. Those who were listening to Alison this morning learned that it was possible to walk from Garda to Bardalino in 50 minutes but should not be attempted in the mid day heat. I wasn't listening, I was trying to convince 4 year old Sam(antha) that the fly she was trying to swot was my pet and called Cedric, so we catch the Cat and walk back in 35 minutes in the hottest part of the afternoon. At dinner we continue to explore the wine list. We have been offered a number of whites, the list tells us they are dry, medium dry, medium. They all taste different but in dryness they are identical. The house Valpollicella is much better than the Bardolino but neither are as good as the house wines we are being offered at lunch time which the waiters assure us are Bardolino. Simon and Natalie tell us the tale of their villages unwellcoming committee. Shortly after they moved in, a knock at the door revealed a Mrs. double barreled something who said she represented the church and wanted to make sure they felt welcome. She explained the village magazine did a special piece on arrivals and people who left called Hello and Goodbye. She wanted to know what religion they were, they weren't! She wanted to know which church they regularly attended, They didn't! Having established that Simon's surname was Parker she referred to Natalie as Mrs. Parker only to be told that her surname was Hancock. The concept of the village being polluted by people with separate single barrels was too much for the poor woman and she fled down the drive. When the magazine was published the Hancock- Parkers infestation of the village had a veil drawn over it. When they eventually leave they expect a special good riddance copy to be published, perhaps with double barreled street parties.

CHAPTER 3

A WINE WANDER

An overnight thunderstorm had freshened the air so we planned a walk in the low hills behind Bardolino. A footpath map indicates that two view points can be attained via a number of free wine tasting vineyards. The storm must have been harder than we realised because several paths are storm damaged and significant amounts of debris are strewn about the roads. There is no sign of surface water and the lake was full before it started so where it has gone is a mystery. The map is coded with paths, tracks and mountain bike trails. I call in at the first wine tasting while Meg sits in the shade.
"You are too late" I am informed. I inspect my watch, it is 10-30 AM.
"What time do I need to be here by"
"No you are too late! Come back next year"
The second wine tasting either does not exist or has been dismantled.. I abandon the grape and take a mountain bike trail that hasn't been biked on all Summer. The track emerges where it should and we find the small church at the very top of the hill. There is no view because of the tightly encircling conifers and the interior in inaccessible because a service is in progress. The map tells us the route to the next view point involves a significant descent before we can climb to it. Just as we are setting of, two Germans emerge from a path which does not exist. It seems we are on the border between Bardolino and Garda and they do not show each others paths. We squint at the Germans map while they inspect ours and we make the planned trip without and descent on a lovely leafy path. This time the views over Bardolino and Garda are terrific. I expect Meg to want an hours sunbathing on top but she has a hankering to visit the rather attractive Trattoria we found nestling in the vineyards on our ascent. On the way we encounter several unlisted paths and get slightly lost. We meet the Germans, they too are lost. We find the trattoria and order tortellini and tagliatelle.
"What do you want to drink?"
"Mineral water please"
"Mineral water? You are in Italy!"
"Yes but we drink a lot of wine in the evening"
"You are in Italy in the middle of a vineyard, I suppose you drink Australian wine."
"Yes and French, German, Spanish, Bulgarian and Italian. We don't drink any English wine though."
"The Italian wine is not strong, you can drink bottles of it without any bad effects"
"Just mineral water please"
He brings the mineral water and a quarter litre of his delicious house red. I ask him if he serves any Australian puddings. As he doesn't we order tiramisu instead.

CHAPTER 4

CARMEN - A BAD LOT

The tour companies have the opera stitched up. The performance starts at 21-00 and the public transport stops at 20-00. No matter how hard we try we cannot find a do it yourself method so we take the organised trip at the rip off price. We are instructed which lamppost to meet at after the performance, to use the toilets before we go in, to sit at the top where there is more air and to use entrance 23 because the queue is shorter. He was right, it is. The performance is in the Roman amphitheater and the unnumbered stone blocks to which our #27 entitles us are hard and hot. We purchase cushions and climb to the penultimate row. There is welcome slight breeze. We find stones that have an uninterrupted view of the massive stage. My particular stone is a piece of shoddy stonemasonship and I'd like to give the guy whose job it was to smooth it a piece of my mind, but he has been dead 2000 years. I look for the loudspeakers, there aren't any?? The stage is a good 100 meters away!
The atmosphere is gay and vibrant as we tuck into our packed lunches supplemented by Valpollicella in Pepsi bottles. We have been searched on entry for any glass or metal. Others are fed and watered by the endless stream of vendors who sell:- filled rolls, cushions, beer, programmes, c.d.'s. Their method of progress is original, they simply trample over anything on their route to a potential customer. They can walk over stones, cushions, sandwiches, limbs. One of them when out of cushions conducts a third of the arena in the more singable bits of Carmen. An ancient man carries a gong to centre stage and sounds a crescendo then one gong. The process is repeated at five minute intervals with two and finally three gongs. He accepts the rapturous applause of the peasants on the stones while the #100 seats fill up with 5* people. They have just missed our final rendition of Toreador. The lights dim and the plebs light candles. The stage bursts into life. Carmen enters and her rich contralto carries to our distant stones unaided by electronics. Dashed clever the Romans. The performance is inspiring though how much is due to the arena itself is difficult to determine. A woman in front of us faints, a girl sitting quite near is sick, clearly the atmosphere affects different people differently. Between acts the stage crew completely reconstruct the stage while the vendors work their way through the menu. They are now selling:-crisps, beers, cokes, fruit. The top people are gonged back to place and Carmen continues to wreck the lives of everyone she comes into contact with. They use the vast stage brilliantly, so while the main action takes place centre stage, the cast of thousands fill every crevice. There is a group dancing over there, children playing here, a juggler wandering about, women gossiping, men arguing, horses, donkeys its very colourful and the music magnificent. Carmen gets her thoroughly deserved come-uppance around 01-00AM but takes even more deserved curtain calls for another quarter of an hour. We wonder at what time our courier considers the performance over. The posh seats have been empty a long time when we leave. There is quite a crowd at lamppost 8 when we arrive. We are marched half way across Verona to where Marco has inconveniently left our coach. This significantly reduces his tip as does the awful music he plays when we have our heads full of Bizet. We are deposited at the Fiordiliso at 02-30 but are still singing Carmen two days later. We have already decided to go again, but cannot agree on the opera. Meg fancies Aida because its grandeur will particularly suit the arena. I lean towards Rigoletto because of a line in "Some like it Hot"
"We was at Rigoletto's with you Spats"

CHAPTER 5

MORE MESSING ABOUT IN BOATS

Surprisingly we fail to miss breakfast and catch the early batt to Limone, a long, sleepy sail. We poke about its attractive narrow streets then another batt takes us to Malcesine. From the brochures this seemed the most beautiful of the lake side villages, in reality it is no better or worse than all the others we have seen to date. It does however have the main ski lift up the mountain so we collect details for a future excursion. The castle looks more interesting than most but the idea of a Pizza seems even more attractive. We do our usual oven searching routine and are not disappointed. Our chosen restaurant is opposite a souvenir shop which no passer by has the will to resist. Intrigued we investigate and can find no justification in the goods on offer. We decide that it must be due to its position, at the top of a short hill with no obvious reason why the tourist should proceed any further. Panicked by the sudden lack of an objective the tourist dives into the shop and makes a purchase as a displacement activity. It is a marketing ploy I have not met before.
Alison said it was impossible to walk to Lazise. Technically she was right but the exterior walls of the private gardens which block the path have a narrow ledge which can be reached via a precarious sloping plank and the gaps you have to jump are not all that far. Really after lavada walking in Madeira it was pretty simple stuff. Because it cannot be walked, the walk to Lazise is much quieter and prettier than the walk to Garda. There is a well stocked bird sanctuary and some small sandy beaches. From Lazise we Batt to Peshaira and consume more tasty pizza.
Each night we stroll the town, kick the flagpole and have an ice at Crystalo's. Tonight there is an open air concert in the street. The Philharmonica Bardolino which are mainly wind instruments, perform rock around the clock in the way that only a poor untalented, uncoordinated group of musicians can. They are later joined by a choir that put more oomph into some Italian songs. Overall you just about got your moneys worth considering it was free.
We visit Verona using public transport and a guide book. It is well worth the effort and we take the whole day. We do the squares admiring the buildings and statues then visit Juliet's balcony. Meg manages to take unconventional photos of Juliet's statue as most tourists queue up to be pictured fondling her. For L5000 you can peer over her balcony. This is the main preoccupation of fat Germans. Romeo would not have waxed so lyrical for them. We climb a tower and visit a disappointing big church before doing the castle before lunch. Refreshed we seek out two more churches which would never be found without a guide book. St. Lorenzo's is beautifully simple, St. Zeno's has magnificent bronze doors similar to the baptistery in Florence. Our return route takes in the peaceful cloisters of St. Bernardo's monastery. The square by the arena has cafes, fountains and a broad pavement on which gentlemen from Verona stroll Ramblas fashion.
We have been here a week and I am putting on weight at an alarming rate so before breakfast I run to Garda and back, in spite of the fact that I am running very slowly, I manage to overtake a bicycle. After breakfast I undo all the good work by attending the free wine tasting. Being free, the wine tasting is to wine tasting's what the Bardolino Philharmonic was to Carmen. Incredibly some of our party buy the acidic fluid we are tasting. I limit my purchases to a spray for the skin abrasions I have developed running and limp off to doze in the shade while Meg basks in the sun and reads philosophy.
Sam and her Mum join us and we play with Sam's new ball firing gun until we break it. Sam is unperturbed but Mum is alarmed at having to explain it to Dad. I admit to Sam that I do not have a pet fly called Cedric but insist that I did have a pet duck called Dimples and a pet gannet called Gertrude. She finds the fly called Cedric more believable than either of the real pets.
We warn reception that we are going to absent ourselves from breakfast in order to beat the queues at the Malcesine ski lift. She rearranges breakfast for 07-00. A bit disappointing that, I was looking forward to missing the dry rolls. At 08-45 the lift is queueless and as we ascend to 6000' we are fortunate to meet an experienced walker who directs us to the best route along the ridge. We certainly would not have chosen path 651 red white red, because the start is feint and rough. After half an hour it transforms into a magnificent exhilarating ridge climb to Cima del Rosette (7000'). The weather is changeable, engulfed in mist one moment clear sky the next. Sometimes we have cloud to the east and clear to the west. The ridge is deserted, we meet one Italian and an English couple, they were singing 'The hills are alive'. We sit on Rosette, waiting to see if the mist will clear sufficiently to tempt us to ascent Altissima but by the time it does, we are out of time. So we limit our excursion to a stroll to its base and a vow to return. A party of Germans are descending at about the same rate. One of them is talking loudly and incessantly we sit among the flowers and butterflies for fifteen minutes the reclaim the mountain peace. The mist returns, it is eerie, like walking in soup. Meg claims she now knows what it is like to be a noodle. Three more Germans are ascending. One is aged about four and is talking incessantly. Her parents must be very proud.
We get the usual rewards for our efforts, a feeling of tiredness and exhilaration. The sight of many new flowers, butterflies and big birds. The distant dolomites are protruding through the haze, snow capped and sharp. A mammal, probably a marten screams in a corrie below us. There is a magnificent echo, the marten continues for some time, either confused or showing off. After dinner we go to a classical piano recital. We offer bundles of lire to various officials but the performance is free. A talented young man plays Beethoven, Chopin and Scriabin for a couple of hours to a half full house while outside thousands of people eat ice creams.
For our day off we walk to Garda and browse the sunbathe. In the evening we share a pre dinner bottle of wine with Simon and Natalie. We are desperately trying to find the right one to take home in bulk. They have enjoyed the opera as much as we did. After dinner we stroll to Cisano where tonight's manifestation is to be the distribution of fried fish and wine and bal musical. We speculate as to what form this manifestation will take but we are assured by the Italians skill at enjoying themselves that it will be worth the lakeside stroll in the dark that S & N have declined. Meg notes as we near Cisano that all the pedestrian traffic is in the opposite direction. Unperturbed we press on.
It is exactly as translated. They are giving away fried fish and wine. The wine is good, the fish tasty. A group of youngsters mount a stage and plug in their electric guitars. they proceed to play Viennese waltzes, mazurkas and tangos, yes tangos. We get the opportunity to practice our Argentinean flick.
Young Italians are throwing stones in the lake. Not as we would, skimming, or throwing at a target, or throwing as far as you could. They are concentrating on volume throwing as many as they can as fast as they can. They are trying to move the entire footpath into the lake. Some are throwing with both hands. Some do not have time to look where they are throwing and gravel is showering into wine glasses. Some locals are feeding the vegetarian swans with fried fish. Soon the swans move 50 metres off shore but whether it is to avoid the gravel or fish is not clear.
We take the bus to Riva. The tourist information guide is free but weird.
Start in the Piazza November 3rd.
Various buildings of interest are described. Some are interesting because of their architecture, some because of their age and some because of their inhabitants, commemorative plaques abound. So far all is normal. The next direction is to the Piazza Catena which is similarly adorned with plaques.
Next we return to the Piazza Nov 3rd.? So it continues. If after you finish you trace your movements on the map provided it looks like an octopus.
Riva is more Austrian than Italian except for the Pizzas which are the best yet. It is set at the end of the axe handle and is permanently windy so it is the windsurfers paradise. If you haven't got a wet suit you haven't got a life (worth living). The lake resembles a seething ant hill unusual in that the 'ants' are garishly coloured. The road down the west side of the axe handle was constructed on Mussolini's orders. Well you would not have attempted to build it unless ordered to by a homicidal megalomaniac. It is a series of tunnels, some close to the lake with portholes and some deep in the mountain. Occasionally there are bends that spiral for many hundreds of degrees. We stop at Gargno, yet another small pretty port. Everything is cheaper on this side of the lake. Meg spots a girl walking two dogs, one huge the other tiny. We presume she has bought her big dog its dinner and is keeping it fresh.
We catch the Service Rapido back to Bardolino but it is not behaving normally. To start with it is seven minutes late. It probably lost time mowing down windsurfers. Secondly though it calls at all the places on the time table, it is calling in a different order, so it flashes past some ports to cries of dismay then shortly afterwards returns to pick up those passengers who are still waiting. This is not much use to the people who wanted to go to where it has just been.
The evening passes like all non eventful evenings which are distinguished only by the ice cream flavours.

CHAPTER 6

GHOST TOWN

We are getting to like the public transport so set off for Mantua. The first bus takes us past the Gardaland theme park. We have not seen as many people in all the villages put together. It is thronged with old an young, like bees round a honey pot. Well, it keeps them away from the bits that we like. We have to change buses in Peshaira and there is a 40 minute delay but they have a strategy to keep us occupied.
"Where is the bus station for the Mantua bus?"
"Straight up the hill"
"Is this the bus station for Mantua?"
"Yes"
"Can I have two tickets for Mantua please?"
"I have no tickets for Mantua you can get them in the bar across the road"
"Do you sell bus tickets?"
"Yes"
"Can I have two tickets for Mantua please?"
"I have no tickets for Mantua you can get them in the kiosk at the bottom of the hill"
"Do you sell bus tickets?"
"Yes"
"Can I have two tickets for Mantua please?"
"I have no tickets for Mantua you can get them from the bus station at the top of the hill"
"The trail has led us back to you, "do you sell tickets to Mantua or not?"
"I will have to ask my Boss"
He sells us two tickets to Mantua just in time to catch the bus. Apparently they only had a few left and do not like parting with the last ones.
The bus is of course relatively empty and no one else is going all the way to Mantua, well there are probably dozens of people who want to go but they had not finished the obstacle course in time.
The journey is not without its amusing moments. Negotiating a narrow village street hampered by some appalling parking the bus makes contact with a parked bike. Calming the irate owner takes about half an hour. Once we are back in motion the bus starts to ship water. It is not raining but each time he brakes, water cascades from the overhead luggage rack. We get mildly soaked and switch sides. There are no bottles on the rack but the 'leak' gets steadily worse and the aisle is awash by the time we reach our destination. Scuba equipment would not be inappropriate.
Mantua is closed and empty, but the Ducal Palace is open. In spite of Alison's advice to give this a miss because it takes too long to see, we decide to give it a go. The girl in the ticket office is related to the bus station staff in Peshaira. we are clearly interrupting something much more important. Eventually she parts with two tickets and snaps something in Italian. We 'no comprendo'. She snarls in the direction of an adjoining room which has no furniture or exit. We are joined by others and mill around until a guide appears through a locked door and makes a long Italian speech. We ask her to repeat it in English or German. She speaks no English, there are no English or German guidebooks or information. An Italian English speaker in the group tells her friend and us, that the "guide" has explained that she knows nothing about the palace or its rooms, she is not there to answer questions, just to make sure we stay together. A border collie would have been much better. At various points in the tour strays are rounded up and deviants brought into line. She is noticed at one point turning an information board round so that we will not be delayed by reading it. She must be on a bonus to get us round fast. Some of the rooms have English information that they have omitted to remove. The rooms themselves are very attractive, even grand. They would have exploited them much better in the Hermitage. Here they have collected a few bits of sculpture and dotted them about. The March by Pisanello is disappointing but the Mantegnas are good. He is the most famous painter of Mantua, we note that all the figures in his pictures are glum. In spite of the race, the visit takes two hours and was worth it. We see the sights, the squares are terrific, like Verona only empty. The churches are closed, the girl in the cafe is like the one in the palace. We wander round the empty streets seeing what we can from the outside until it is time to find our bus station. It is a vast open busless space. We step over the two back packers sprawled across the entrance of the ticket office. To one side, pushbikes are tethered to a hitching rail. The nothingness is vast. You know that behind the shutters of the encircling buildings narrowed eyes are watching to see what you will do next. Its deathly quiet. You wait for the Serge Leone music knowing that the next person to come round the corner will be wearing a poncho and have a cheroot clenched between his teeth. It isn't, its a young girl. She must be the one who's husband has been chased into the hills and who has to 'cooperate' with the bad guy to save her child.
The bus arrives, we are to be the only passengers. It crawls along the empty streets desperate to keep to its schedule. The bus driver finds us frustrating. In England we have signs, do not stand in front of this lime, Do not speak to the driver while the bus is in motion. In Italy someone has to speak to the driver. If someone is a petty woman, she often sits on his knee. He chunters away, partly to us and partly to himself. At last a woman boards and he makes up for lost time telling her all his problems, which are probably us.
There is another free piano recital tonight. Maria Thomas is playing Tode, Tode Schumann and Tode. The Todes are all first performances. Even the Schumann is Clara not Robert. Meg chooses a seat near the exit. The introduction is performed by a Rossano Brassi lookalike, after his lecture he introduces Marie who looks more like a Spanish dancer in yellow black and red. Her playing is very expressive. The Tode is not exactly awful, more dull. She plays a number of short pieces, thoughtfully standing and bowing so that we know where the end is. They are hand written on loose sheets, Tode has not yet managed to persuade someone to print them. Rossano Brassi arranges them whilst she plays a much longer piece that has a few dramatic bits. As she takes the applause she whispers to Rossano, I reckon she is saying "If we give them an interval they will all leave so you keep them talking while I have a short break". He loves talking so we get a lot of what Brahms and Liszt thought of Clara Schumann. Some people leave and others fall asleep. We stay to hear the Schumann which is very Liszt like but as Rossano introduces the final Tode, we head for Crystalo's.

CHAPTER 7

ALTISSIMA

"Two tickets to Prada please"
"Garda?"
"Prada!"
There ensues a long pause while he checks some lists. He scratches his head. He seems to have forgotten we are there.
"Prada?"
"Prada!"
"When do you hope to go?"
"In about ten minutes" We show him the timetable.
"Are you German?"
"English"
"I have never sold a ticket to Prada. In ten years I have never sold a ticket to Prada. There are no tickets to Prada"
"Do you want a return?"
"No"
He hand writes two tickets to Prada.
"Be sure to come back" he says." There is nothing at Prada, but today everyone will be there because it is a festival".
We board the bus but have to get off at Garda, the driver points to a smaller bus. This takes us to St. Zeno di Montagne via a series of hairpin bends. St. Zeno looks great. There are people busying themselves round stalls, a fair, and what looks like a German drinking tent. A long bar and rows of trestle tables and benches. We are transferred to an even smaller bus which proceeds like the tourist guide to Riva. Every few kilometres we find ourselves back in St. Zeno. Finally the bus wrenches itself away from the beer tent and resumes the snaking climb. Every layby, every forest clearing has an Italian picnic in full swing. An Italian picnic has four of five tables groaning under mountains of food. Twenty or thirty chairs and fifty people of all ages. Sometimes the cars are drawn up into a circle round the tables. They are very dynamic.
Prada is an albergo, a bar and a ski lift. There are about twenty times the number of people here that we saw in the whole of Mantua. We purchase a ski pass and study the people in front of us to work out how to board the lift. The lift is in the form of a flat bottomed basket with a door in the back. On the ground, there are two red circles ten metres apart. Meg stands on the first circle and has ten metres to climb aboard then I have to follow her. The basket carries us silently up the mountainside at tree top level. Slowly the view of the lakes and mountains reveals itself. The ride takes twenty minutes. The second stage is a single seater lift of the type where you stand on the mark and the lift whacks you behind the knee, a sort of self loading conveyor belt. I will leave the reader to speculate about the inelegant method of unloading. The great incentive is the fact that if you don't unload you will soon be on your way back down the mountain. We climb for five minutes to the refuge for coffee and to consider alternatives. A there and back walk or the whole ridge to Malcesine? There is no way you can decide until we know what rate of progress is possible. We decide to walk the ridge for two hours and review the situation. The path is one of the most beautiful we have ever walked. We are heading north, to the east is a valley in which the church bells of the mountain village of Fereria are chiming the festival. On the west is the lake and views of the mountains beyond. The path which is much easier going than the section from Malcesine switches conveniently from one side to the other at regular intervals. We pass some spectacular limestone pinnacles and reach the Telegraph in 65 minutes instead of the 90 minutes on the signpost. All hill walking signs use time rather than distance. We switch onto path 651 which does as much descending as ascending and much twisting and turning. So you have the added anticipation of wondering what awaits round the next corner. We never catch a glimpse of Altissima which is the unspoken goal of the walk. Time is running out when it appears, guarded by a steep climb as all good mountaintops should be. First there is a morale sapping descent. We are dead on the two hour rubicon. Meg decides to go for it. What a wonderful wife!! The ascent is suitably stiff and excitingly narrow. We pass several caves excavated during the war. The views are truly magnificent. Shades of Goat fell, Lose hill, Ben More, Le Buet, Le Puy, Teide, et al, come to join us. We settle down for a well deserved picnic of bread, cheese, fruit and chocolate biscuits. I am about to start my third biscuit when there is the unmistakable rumble of thunder.
"That can't be thunder"? Meg inquires.
"I don't think it can be anything else"
The dozen or so people who where sharing the peak with us have mysteriously vanished. Meg takes a 'rain check' on the unexpired remainder of her lunch break and sets off at breakneck speed down the slope. I consider a sprained ankle about ten cubed the possibility of a lightening strike. The storm appears to be about five mile away and not moving very quickly. I think we will probably get very wet but nothing worse than that. Meg has a theory that lightening has to strike someone and if we are the only people here we are 'dead' certs. Several others agree with her because they are all taking path number 5 which is a hopeless route to nowhere but descends quite quickly. We follow 651 towards the lifts. The frequency of the thunder increases and occasional bolts of lightening shine brightly against the black cloud. When the mist enshrouds us it seems much nearer but when the mist clears, the storm has not moved. Meg is somewhat assured by the fact that people are still using the path in both directions. We retrace our steps in well, under two hours, and on the final descent to the lift, on the west side of the ridge there is no wind, mist and the black cloud is invisible. People are happily climbing in pleasant conditions and there hasn't been a rumble of thunder for half an hour. I decide to sit and enjoy my third chocolate biscuit. Instantly there is a rumble of thunder, from the west this time. Meg blames my obsession with biscuits for the weather. A bit illogical for an intelligent woman. We ride the graceful lift to Prada Alta. and kill the hour till the bus is due in the bar with coffee and beer.
It is festival night in the hotel and we are to have a special meal with extra courses and yummy cakes. Unfortunately it leaves no room for Crystalo's ice cream. We walk instead to Garda for the boat races which we just miss, and the fireworks display which is enhanced by the lake. It has a predictably high oho ash factor and some fireworks we have not seen before. they are accompanied by "Chariots of Fire" "The Ride of the Valkyries" "Carmina Burana" and "Rock around the Clock"
For a big finish we return to Verona on our last night to see Aida. The grand setting is ideal for this opera but it doesn't quite hit the heights of Carmen. In any other circumstances it would have been a mind blowing experience. The highlights of this trip were without doubt Carmen, the ridge walk and Crystalo's. There are several tratorrias I would like to revisit when hungry. We never found a decent red wine to bring back. On our return we were delighted to find that Gran was twice the woman we had left and she has continued to make a splendid recovery.
APPENDIX A
Where the street meets the prom or more correctly the harbour and landing stage is a place of much deeper spiritual significance. CRISTALO'S. In the first saga, written in 1981, we visited Italy via the Mont. Blanc tunnel for the sole purpose of having an ice cream. The best ice cream in Italy is made in the North. The best ice cream in the North is sold at Cristalo's in Bardalino. We will be returning here at regular intervals in the ensuing pages.

Crystalo's menu.

I will omit all the usual flavours which you can get anywhere and all the fruits like Strawberry Gooseberry etc.
The additional items were:-

Coconut
Maron Glace
Tiramisu
Zuppe Inglesi Dave's favourite
Cassis
Brianca Meg's favourite
Banoffe
Melun
Melun Verde
Strega, and most other liqueurs
Creme Caramel
Chocolate came in milk, dark or white
Striacatello
Flan
Ginger

Crystalo's for second helpings 1999

Three days after a partially successful attempt to see a total eclipse of the sun in Cornwall, we are listening to our Eclipse rep giving a totally misleading introduction to Lake Garda to our fellow groupies. He is telling them;-
"You must take our evening excursion to Laisze as it is the only way to get to this beautiful town."
20 boats a day call there and it is walkable!
"A trip to Venice is Unmissable, it is so romantic"
It will be stinking hot and crowded!
"Our full day trip to the Dolomites is a unique opportunity to see the mountain scenery and avoid the intense heat"
As an alternative to siting on his coach for six hours you could catch the local bus to Prada, and save £40 in addition to 51/2 hours.
He seems obsessed with Health and Safety and warns us about diving in the shallow end and slipping in the shower. By the time he moved onto the procedure for mealtime I wasn't listening which is why our first meal came as a surprise.

Dinner was at 7-30 precisely. At 7-25 a panzer division of Germans blocked the entrance to the dining room. By 7-31 they were blitzkrieging the buffet while we were trying to solve the seating arrangements. The blonde found us a table and wrote our names on a ticket. Ridley-4 pers. We went to inspect the wreckage of the buffet. The Italians were defeating the Germans with a policy of constant replenishment. Our table for 4 already had an excellent seafood dish on it and we assumed the buffet was a supplement. We ordered ½ a litre of house red and enjoyed our meal. When we finished we looked round to find the Germans had remained seated. Our waiter cleared the dishes, tipping the cutlery back onto the tablecloth. The lasagne was served. Meg took a deep breath, I plunged in. The lights went out.
The electric storms often cause power cuts but not this time. The lights had been put out the better for us to see the flaming boar that was being paraded. I took a deep breath, Meg had to pass. After dessert, the Germans left

Tonight is the regatta we saw four years ago. The oarsmen stand 4 to a boat and row forwards. Rather fast. But the key to winning is how quickly you manage the 180 degree turns.
The evening finishes with truly spectacular fireworks.
We spend our first full day sussing the place out over "Lago di Gardas" ( huge blue gin laden cocktails) we try to compile a schedule that will accommodate new attractions in with the four experiences that we had specifically come to repeat

1 Carmen in the arena
2 Lunch in the vineyard
3 The walk from Prada to Malcesine
4 Ice creams at Crystalo's

We risk a superb crispy pizza at lunchtime. Dinner is only 3 courses. The trio Broz are performing at 9-15 so off we set as the rain starts to fall. Meg returns for her umbrella. By the time she has got it the heavens are open and I return for the cagouls. The young/old couple we met earlier are astonished that we are persisting
."At least the concert will be under cover" says Young
We arrive at the venue which turns out to be an open air cloister.
The trio outnumber the audience, us, by 50% There is cancellation in the air. We scupper that by paying our money and an enterprising individual works our that you can get 20 or so chairs under the covered walkway. The audience partake in furniture removal. The trio rehearse a few passages.
20 more people turn up and the Broz family give a splendid performance. Variations by Vivaldi, a trio by Bach Some Boccerini, an unknown Italian and Beethoven to finish. Brava brava, bravo. The violin was 21, the viola 16 and the cello 15 such talent.
We drink delicious expresso in a tiny bar.

OBJECTIVES 3 & 4

We walk to the town that can only be reached on Anello's evening cruise (the cruise never got there apparently it was cancelled due to last nights rain.) On the way we call at Crystalo's for a Zuppe Inglesi and achieve objective 4 The lakeside path has been much improved in the 4 years that have elapsed so an awful lot of pedestrians and cyclists are getting to see the mediaeval town. After pizza we catch one of the 20 phantom boats back to Garda.
Wednesday dawns cloudy. How cloudy? We muse.
"Will it lift?" today is scheduled for objective 3. We set off but Meg has forgotten something so I go on alone to the bus station.
"Two singles to Prada per favor"
"Have you got a bike?"
"No" I reply to this strange question.
"What is more I don't have any money either"
The English speaker's I the ticket office fall about but the official isn't put off. He proudly demonstrates how I can serve myself on his computerised ticket dispenser should I ever come into money. Meg turns up with the money and I demonstrate the machine. The bus has been modified. The back three rows of seats have been replaced by cycle racks explaining the question. En route the bus calls at Torri which looks very attractive. We modify our schedule.
At Prada the clouds look much more depressing but Meg hasn't come all this way for nothing so up we go. For details of the ascent see "Bardolino" but insert thick mist for wonderful view. At the top we can see very little but an immediate descent seems pointless so we decide to walk to the refuge-signposted 15 mins. The wide track climbs fairly steeply. At a junction reached in under 5 minute the right fork is signposted "shrine" and marked red/white there are no makings straight on. We are really looking for red/white/red 651
On the basis that somewhere is better than nowhere we follow the sign and reach the shrine. The path seems to die out. We return to the junction and take the other path. The mist lifts encouragingly but the path is now marked blue and we are well past 15 mins.
" At least the path is ascending" says Meg encouragingly.
The path starts to descend. Meg waits while I go on to explore I soon reach a col and red/white/red 658. My compass cofirms it is heading in the right direction. We have by passed the refuge but we know where we are. We toil upwards and reach the spectacular section we remember well. Eerie in the swirling mist but very enjoyable. Last holiday we walked this ridge twice. Once from each end but never met in the middle. From this end there is much more climbing than I remember and I am a little concerned about the number of people I have told in the past that it is a relatively level walk. Well might I be for we have now reached the previously untraversed middle section. It plunges up and down on hard rock or loose scree. We have been going for three hours so stop for a picnic. We meet another English couple who are coming from Malcesine they ask how far it is to the top. We describe the difficulty before them. They tell us it has taken them 3 hours to reach here. We wish each other luck and set off. If we thought the last km. Was hard we are now confronted with a smooth slab of rock inclined at about 45 degrees and about 100 metres in length. A steel chain has been fixed into the slab. I set off pausing after 20 feet because Meg isn't following
"Some of the pegs are missing" she complains
"They are called petons Love"
"What they are called is irrelevant, they are missing!"
"They have just come out, its OK so long as the top one stays in"
"What if the top one comes out?"
"Ah…"
After that there is still plenty of up and down. We take a last break on top of La Pocette then press on. The last boat is 5-20.
The path is very uneven towards the end and we are very tired. The mist is back down so we have very limited vision but after a couple of false alarms due to ancient disused ski lifts we find the lift and descend in time for the boat At lake level the sun is burning. The ridge took a full six hours and we drank 2 litres of water. If the mist had lifted we would have been most uncomfortable..
We dine at the second sitting tonight We have been moved by the blond to a table for 2. This is the same size as a table for 4 but rotated through 45 degrees. I hoped we might be seated with the English couple in the next room. We have paused briefly to speak with them on a number of occasions but they never invite us to join them. Meg thinks there is something odd about them.
"What exactly?" I inquire
"He is much older than her"
"Most people think I am much older than you! Anyway, they are not as odd as the couple behind you"
Meg hadn't had a good look at the two twenty stone men who shared the table behind. Every day they played cards or backgammon very seriously. The wrote down all the backgammon moves, no doubt for post mortems.
I wake early and decide to test the pool. I have it all to myself and enjoy the luxury. When I return Meg points out that it was probably empty because it didn't open till 8-00. In the shower I glance at the floor and am horrified to find it covered in flies. I dowse my head and hundreds more join them I inspect my body and its covered in them. I squirm with disgust and turn the shower on full until I am clean. I am holding a running conversation with Meg all the while who assumes that is why they need time to clean the pool. She is horrified when I pinch her comb to get the flies off my towel, but there aren't any???
The "flies" had been specks of blue fluff off my brand new towel.
We are off to Torri
"What time is the next bus" I ask my friend yhe ticket seller.
"The next bus is 11-30 but the 10-30 hasn't gone yet. The market in Bardalino is causing chaos."
We wait. A bus arrives. It is neither the 10 nor 11 30.
After the efforts of yesterday sitting on the lake front at Torri reading our books is sublime. As is the restauant which projects out over the lake on stilts Torri has a greater variety of shops than Garda and we stock up with presents for grandchildren
Thursday is wet and a variety of options including objective 2 are ditched. The nearby inland village is having a folk festival.
"Do you have a program of events?" I ask tourist information
"No but it's a very nice festival"
"Will there be folk dancing?"
" Oh no, I don't think so. There will be something to drink and small shops selling sweets. There may be some music, it will be very nice!"
Wearing our cagouls we set off up a tiresomely busy road then reach a path through a pleasant valley. It is a health track which means that at intervals there is some basic equipment with a picture of a matchstick man performing some exercise which seems unrelated to the apparatus. The Italian instructions seem only to relate to the number of repetitions for the unfathomable exercise. Near the top we recognise the Graham wrecker.
At the top of the lane there is no clue to the next direction either by the path or in the Tourist information notes. I decide to rewrite the notes. We find Costermano with its unusually attractive simple church. It has a cycle race start and finish line and some fairground attractions. A notice proclaims that at 21-00 hours Gerry and his musicians will perform. We will be attempting objective 1 this evening but before we leave we have a coffee in a café that is notable for its toilet which is big enough to hold a dinner dance, and a picture of a fire extinguisher which must be useful if you come across a picture of a fire

30% of OBJECTIVE 1
..
The heavy rain continues unabated. The tour company will not cancel the trip to the opera.
"You have to take the bus to Verona and if the performance does not start you will get less than half your money back. The prospects seem so slim that I suggest its worth £28 not to waste the evening, but somehow we cannot bring ourselves to make this decision. Once on the coach the weather starts to brighten but our guide dampens us with the reminder that the strings cannot play with only a few drops of water. They will not cancel the performance less than 2 hours after the start. We must take our stones 2 hours before the scheduled start time. We jostle towards entrance 59. Someone says we will not be allowed to take umbrellas inside so Meg tells me to conceal the 4'long 6'diameter brightly coloured umbrella we bought this afternoon. I am wearing shorts and a tee shirt.
We settle on our stones and enjoy our picnic and the hubbub and the Mexican waves. The sky is clear. At 9-00 the lights go down and 20,000 candles are lit by the rock dwellers. The gong banger bangs her gong for the third time . The conductor takes his baton and the rain starts. 20,000 umbrellas are unfurled. 2 ¾ hours later with 4 or 5 interruptions we have been thrilled by the first act of Carmen. During the interruptions Flamenco dancers stayed on stage to entertain us. The second act starts with "rhythm of the dance" the whole stage is a mass of rhythmically swirling colour but as the number ends the rain starts again and as they have now past the money returning point the performance is terminated. Ironically before we are out of the arena the skies clear and the rest of the evening is starlit. We both agree we had rather seen 1.3 acts than got our money back.

OBJECTIVE 2 + 1 AGAIN
We have reached the last day already. We climb to the Madonna. Most tourists idea of a hill walk. Then push on to the top of the rock which has a monastery. We are trying to find the trattoria in the vineyard and so achieve objective 3. The footpath map is as useless as ever but the paths are good and we find our trattoria easily but too early. We meander round the area. The occupants of a luxury hacienda must think we are casing the joint. Back at the trattoria we enjoy the best pasta of the holiday and this year we are able to enjoy the wine. In sipte of this sumptuous meal we are piggish enough to order multiple ice creams at Crystallos when we get to Bardolino.
There is time on the day of departure to reflect that 3.33 out of 4 is quite good as we drink another Lago di Garda. Italian food is great but their coffee and ice-cream are mulatto boueno. We have been very busy and yet done so little. Only four ice creams! Only 3 pizzas! The only boats we caught were back to Garda. After a walk Most nights we spent drinking expresso while we watched the moon over the lake. That's what holidays are about!!