Check in, but can one ever leave the Hotel Nuova Grosseto?
Thursday 26th July 2008
Until drained by Count Wazzisnamio in whenever, this part of the eye-talian coast once was the mysterious-people-disappear-in-there-forever, swampy, malarial badlands of Tuscany.
6.00am: a degree of maybe-I'll-disappear-here-for-ever-an-all perturbation is gnawing at me.
6.10am: Admittedly I've done a few dodgy, penance-worthy deeds in my time, maybe even exceeded the odd speed limit … But Please, Big Fella (or Woman:•), I hope Your Wrathfulness ain't seriously thinking of having me paying for my sins by consigning me indefinitely to this waiting for a purple package purgatory.
6.30am: Is the small shower cubicle I'm in shrinking?
6.45am: Pack bag. Ready ignition coil replacing tools.
6.52am: Fate tempted, un-pack bag, put tools away.
7.00am: Italian Hotel breakfast of croissant & marmalade, a small white bun & small white cheese, washed down with one healthy, pink fruit drink and a caffeine laden doppio espresso.
7.15am: Sudden urge to rush out and buy postcards and stamps from the kiosk in the piazza.
7.25am: to 8am: Write jaunty, having fun, wish you were here (instead of me) messages on postcards.
Bah, another hour at least before the post is due …
8.05am: From the balcony of camera cent'otto ( ), watch the bustling comings and goings in the Piazza Marconi – A pink scooter weaves through the rush hour traffic and glides to a halt: pink helmeted Mother, with matching pink helmeted nipper standing on the footboards, body safe between mothers outstretched arms, nippers hands hanging on to the ‘bars between Mummy's hands at the controls. Child dismounts, hands pink helmet to mummy, then skips off to join assembling tangle of diminutive chums awaiting the school bus.
This mornings Tuscan sky is clear, clear blue from skyline to skyline. Up above innit, an Italian Air-Force Mirage goes after-burner-roaring-soaring from 10,000 to 30,000+ feet overhead.
It’s a gonna be another Scorchio in Grosseto – and the passing nymphettes below know it, comfortably, coolly scantily clad … pheeew!
8.15am: Cold shower.
8.20am: Take scissors to bristles and trim back wild-man style facial growth that’s been ignored for the last few listless days.
8.45am: Look in the mirror - eeek - start hacking away at unruly head hair.
8.55am: Brrringa-brrring – “Buongiorno Mr.,Graaahm. Your thinga, it hasa come!”
Scene of pale, naked englishman joyfully cavorting about small hotel room in Italy at news of purple package arrival.
8.56.30am: Quickly clothed englishman runs down stairs and, eager to get at it, almost snatches The Purple Package from the hotel receptionists hands … “Mi a Scusi Signorina.”
021-Craigs-Purple-Package.jpg Oh Joy & Celebration ... Craig's Purple Package has Come!
9.00am: Outside Hotel Nuova Grosseto, with tools at the ready, off comes the 900’s seat, off goes the 900’s ear-piercing alarm … ooops! Passing Italian rush-hour-isti frown at me.
Back to business. Tank off. Purple package ripped open … the new 2&3 ignition coil fitted, connected and the engine fires up on the first push of the button … aaah! Sweetly firing on all four – indeed - “purrs like a thing that purrs for a living ...”
Now so, I’m gonna be properly mobile again. Hooray!
‘Phone The Half-Italienne to let her know I’m about to be under way. She promises to keep wearing the ‘lucky’ earrings.
022-GPz-HI-900-Earring.jpg The GPz earrings, designed by ©, handcrafted by Michael Duerden, Worn by the Half-Italienne.
(The Half-Italienne comment
s "After all, they do keep him on the road, away from those allurements…")Then on the blower to Gpz Zone Central. Thank You, Craig … Tanti Baci Signore Ruote Bianche!
Then hotel bill paid, the bags packed and it’s Bye-Bye Grosseto as the 900 and I get back on the road south.
It's jolly hot and sweaty and I don't care that there's an appallingly putrid, malodorous air from the convoy of ten stinking garbage trucks trundling along nose to tail ahead of the Gpz and me. Y'see I have a fully restored, 900r instant response ignition system wired to the lightly held twisty thing within the palm of my right hand.
A prudent mirror-signal-manoeuvre, a couple of flicks of the left foot, and a firm twist of the right wrist and a nod towards Our Blessed Lady of Acceleration … wahoooooo – Maximum Velocity! Ten-nose-to-tail-Trucks passed in as many seconds and woooah there … just a wee bit … as at such momentum, there's rather more fresh air blasting past me than I can comfortably cope with. Though tank bag and pillion position bungee'd luggage do seem to smooth airflow somewhat - lessening that head wobble inducing turbulence that one may be familiar with from high speed spurts along 'race-track straights' (ah, indicated 155, 2-up, 1987’ish).
The 900 behaves impeccably as progress continues south into that Mad Dogs & Englishmen heat of the midday sun. The only cause for deceleration from the air-cooling comfort zone pace being the need to refuel the motorcycle and top myself up with a litre or two of cold water.
On the move again. After a while, and 1,877'ish road miles from Myross Island, see a hulking, ferking great blue grey cone shape appearing through the heat haze ahead … so assume 'It' must be the About-Due-To-Erupt-At-Any-Moment (in Geological timescale) Vesuvius - which means I must also be approaching the scary rumoured They'll-Nick-That-Beloved-Motorcycle-Right -Out-From -Under-'Ya-Arse Naples.
Oooer.
Now, Gentle Reader, think me foolish and jeopardy assessment topsy-turvy, but in terms of potential peril for a man on an already somewhat behind schedule mission to Malta, which is the riskiest worse of the dodgy two to get too close to?
The Potential Rip-off, or the maybe about to be Blown-off?
Errr-um ...
Best steer a rapid, straight-between-'em course.
Soon find cause again for a Thank Heavens for the 900's fan override switch. This Thanksgiving given while negotiating a mighty-slow-moving-tail-back. The cause of which being a north-eastern european truck that's succumbed to the heat, boiled over and stalled, stationary in the centre lane of the autostrada that bypasses Naples. The poor driver guy, marooned in his un-air-conditioned cab, in a strange land, stuck between a Lotto rock an'a well'ard place, with irate at the delay Italians hurtling by on either side.
These Italians … irate and driving and potentially deadly and very much to be kept a wary eye on and accelerated away from.
Once past Salerno, the road gets rather jolly good for the appreciation of other aspects of the Gpz. As ever, the 900 is at home, faultless, on rails around an absorbing variety of bends that flow smoothly from straight to straight, wailing echoing through tunnels, bursting out into the open over bridges above valleys between steep hills.
Can I Please have another go Mister?
9.00pm: The 900 is parked almost at the end of a concrete path leading from the coast road to the waters edge of a deserted sandy beach, 2,000 road miles from Myross Island.
Ten yards off shore I'm stripped off and swimming appreciatively about, savouring the moment in the mirror calm, sunset pink sea at a place called Sapari.
Here, look -
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Towelled dry and at arms length in a 1/15th of a second exposure through a 24mm Nikkor at f4 on Fujicolour 400.
Gawd, I look a miserable git. But I was actually very happy - concentrating on keeping the camera steady.
Naturally, after a long hot day, culminating in such a pleasantly refreshing aquatic interlude, my thoughts turned to the seeking of the further gratification of wine, food and a soft bed to sleep in peacefully. The indulgences sought were soon found on offer, just a couple of miles or so south along the coast road, at the four star Santa Maria Le Piane Hotel. A tastefully modern establishment with discrete off road parking and a fine, mosquito excluding air conditioning system. My room had a jolly spacious en-suite shower, with just the right temperature water and plenty of dry white towels. The sleeping compartment was equally spacious, including a well stocked mini bar, double bed, BBC showing satellite TV and an easy to operate bedside telephone for reporting progress to the Half-Italienne destination … plus, in the morning, an interesting buffet breakfast with spot on espresso - and all for 55 euro. But that's in the morning, at just the start of Day Eleven of - Myross Island to Malta.
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Day Eleven - Myross Island to Malta.
Route SS18.
Friday 27th June
Awoken early, sleep disturbed by a tremor deep rumble … leapt immediately out of comfortable bed – dozy consciousness convinced this was It - The Earthquake - or The Volcanic Eruption – or The Cataclysmic Act Of God(dess) that would come between Me And My Half-Italienne Destiny! … but, er, uh-hu, it was just a ponderously long freight train travelling slowly south on the nearby coastal railway line, beyond the road adjacent to the hotel and beneath the steep, tree covered foothills rising into the high mist above.
On my feet now, first thing I do, open shutters and look down from the balcony, check to see the 900 still where I secured it last night.
Aw, c’mon - Bet you’d do the same, standing there, out on the balcony, just as bleary-eyed and anxious as I, and as naked too.
All around outside the early day looking ominously cloudy, air feeling heavy, muggy. Listless lizards lounging about in open ground between the bushes, waiting for some warming morning sunshine.
Feeling a tad’s listless and lizard-like myself, take a refreshing shower.
Click. Boil hotel room kettle for anicehotcuppaItalianHotelteabagtea … mmmn … not Barry’s™, but not bad.
Click. Italian TV Weather Girl ain’t saying anything even remotely ‘Scorchio’ this morning, but pointing seriously at clouds and lightning symbols at about where I am on her map.
Oooer … will today be the real wet test for the oversuit?
Better get a move on.
Drip. Just re-packing the black bag gets me sweaty. Shower again.
Pay the 55euro bill plus call charge for Half-Italienne communication.
Load the 900 and we’re off – Hoping it won’t start raining, cos it really is so humid that, within an oversuit, I’d soon be as dripping with sweat wet as if I’d not bothered putting it on in the first place.
Continue south on the coastline holiday resort SS18 route.
After Sapri, the road starts a curvaceously tempting fast climb up to just beneath the misty hilltops, whereupon, after a rapid deceleration for negotiating a blind bend, I encountered a couple of parked-up Polizia pointing their radar at me – but cos I’m such a cautious old codger, and already very well aware of the ‘freestyle,’ straddling the white line nature of Italian drivers, was actually negotiating the blind bend rather sensibly slowly.
Exchange of ‘Better Luck Next Time gestures,’ then accelerate away up on the elevated coast road sections, where all is refreshingly cool, but the roller coaster is soon dropping down to sea level again, where ‘It,’ me and the 900, all get fan override switch on effin’ Hot (in Italiano - Molto Caldo! How’s that for necessity teaching an old dog new tricks).
This after Sapri going south section of the SS18 is a fabulous route to ride a motorcycle. The vertiginous, half way up the coastal cliff hugging road provides the going-for-it-rider with plenty of opportunity for heavy braking (both planned & panic) into an interesting variety of rising or descending tight turns, to be followed by the right hand twisting bellowing, echoing, hang on tight acceleration up or downhill, sounds bouncing off of the rock face on the other side of the road as ya hurtle along toward the next blind left … but just you be careful if you do, cos there are all sorts of travelling hazards to spoil your fun. Number One among’em being those ‘freestyle’ Italian drivers.
Blimey.
I thought I was progressing along in a quite respectably rapid hooligan fashion, until suddenly, unexpectedly caught and passed by a less-than-cautious, he’ll-die-young-Italian-lad … (or was it VR in training?) hustling a modern scooter thingy around the bends at impressively maximum angles of lean (yeah, I know … I should be ashamed - not keeping up. But honest, Gentle Reader, I was on unfamiliar roads, with distractingly stunning, precipitous views being revealed to me at almost every turn … and almost each turn revealing at least one oncoming Italian driver bowling along in the middle of the road, seemingly intent upon biffing me off course and over the low parapet, to fall slow motion, tumbling end-over-end-far-far-far-splash-down into the blue mediterranean sea below).
Hot and bothered by such alarming excitement, this auld fella soon had to stop for his heart pills, some water, and a convenient photo-op for you lot … see -
024-Somewhere-Along-SS18.jpg
Pause for being hot & bothered after fun & games somewhere along the SS18
Carry on, carry on over substantial bridges spanning the there since before time, boulder strewn channels that lead flash-flood-waters safely down from the mountains to the sea.
Descending to the flat coastal plain, mountain cloud and misty weather gives way to sea level clear blue skies and lots of ‘Gosh but the sun is just so hot!’
Auuugh – too hot and dripping with sweat sticky for wearing my northern european leather gloves. So, ride along bare knuckled for half an hour … start to notice feelings of back of me hands beginning to get a tads sun burnt.
3.30pm: Stop in next town for fuel.
Spot a nearby motorcycle shop.
Stop, side-stand down, 900 engine off, me off, hot-foot into Moto Emporium.
Mime hot hands to staff … they laugh.
Yes, of course they have light and airy summer gloves …
I hand over dosh. Gloves over hands … ride off, cool-hand-happily.
025-The-Gloves.jpg
Dosh passes from sweaty palm to sweaty palm.
Cool gloves fit like cool gloves.
Head and body still somewhat distractingly hot as the 900 transports me smoothly, effortlessly, ever southwards through the heat hazy bright light.
Concentrate, I try to, on the early warning spotting of those ‘freestyle’ Italian drivers; the seeing and understanding of signposts; the staying awake and attuned to the rhythm of the road and the making of progress along heat shimmering, simmering straights, twisty roads through old towns that lay siesta sleepily under wide curving Highways mounted on concrete stilts wafting away up in the air … to Reggio Calabria and a ferry to Sicily.
7.00pm: GPz discretely into Reggio Calabria. 900 around busy town long enough to get cut up in traffic and beaten to a between a car and a coach gap by a blonde girlie on a moped. Thistles. To prevent further embarrassment within sight of strangers, search for and find the dock, then the dock-side ticket office. Purchase for just nine euro a ticket for both the 900 & I on the 9pm ferry to Sicily.
026-Ticket-At-725pm.jpg
The 9pm Nine Euro ferry ticket to transport Man & Machine to Messina.
7:30pm. At rest dockside.
Waiting to be summoned aboard the mighty Ostfold ferry to Sicily ...
027-Reggio-Calabria-730pm.jpg
Waiting 900 and Ostfold ferry bow, posers, Reggio Calabria Dock.
Start Loading ...
028-Ferry-To-Messina-9pm.jpg
9pm. Loaded aboard the Ferry to Messina.
(July 2026 note/edit: Have to be honest here and admit that in my haste to get across the Straights of Messina, I entered the wrong part of the Reggio Calabria to Sicily ferry port, unwittingly found myself aboard an HGV roll-on-roll off commercial vehicle ferry, and not one of the smaller, nippier constantly back and forth across the straights car ferries that I later realised might have been a more immediate and speedier choice to get across and get on keeping on, upon. owel, ya'live and learn.)
That sinking feeling.
9.30pm: Midpoint of the crossing from Reggio Calabria. After 2,210 road miles of being in charge, it’s like being a helpless participant aboard during a gargantuan game of nautical dodgems in the dark. Your Out of Control, Concerned Old Fart, watching from the top deck of the ferry, seeing the navigation light motion of an oncoming dark leviathan. Steadily closer and closer, then gone from view blended deceptively and disappeared into background ribbon of coastal illumination strung along the Sicilian side of the constantly busy straights of Messina … random Act Of God(dess) leaving me bobbing about in a life-raft, my motorcycle commencing the rusting away beneath the waves, the sunken victim of a collision … but no alarms sound … and ships that do, pass in the night.
10.00pm: Safely docked and ashore on Sicilian concrete … headlights on, set off south on SS114, soon discover local drivers are an altogether dangerous bunch of fellows to be amongst, all careering about as they do in a most disorderly Friday night fashion.
After 16 miles or so of cars up my arse much too up close and personal dodgems with anonymous Sicilians in the dark, decided it prudent to call a halt to my travels at the Hotel Nizza, in the centre of Nizza di Sicilia.
35 euro per night and 900 securely locked and alarmed in the shadowy recesses of the hotel garage. The manager’s black limo then parked protectively between the Gpz and any prying eyes passing by on the street. Yeah Ok, I’m maybe a touch paranoid … but that doesn’t mean that Plot Central ain’t real !
...ahem.
029-Hotel-Nizza.jpg
Hotel Nizza, for a safe and secure night - plus great take-away nosh from a place still open on the other side of the street.
My nervousness assuaged across the road from the Hotel Nizza by the efficacious calming of a litre of ice-cool Morretti birra applied to self in process of washing down a most delicious and generously proportioned slab of hot bread containing layers of cheese-an’ham-an’onion-an’mushroom-an’tomato-an’spinach cartocciata like comestible, scoffed in its entirety at the counter of the cartocciata/focaccia take-away. Now, Gentle Reader, I really, really, really seriously recommend you stop at this particular Sicilian fast food outlet and sample their cartocciata/focaccia … mmmn, mmmn - Five Star Yum-Yum!
Buuurp!
Hotel room has an Ok-it’ll-do shower, a comfortable double bed for instant flopping out on, a tiny TV set to stare-squinty-eyed-at, a remote to operate the noisy AC and heavy, armour plated shutters in place over the windows …? Ponder possibility of un-provable mutual execution of favours link between Plot Central and The Mafia. Especially as Slightly Intoxicated plan of telephonically whispering of the sweet nothings into far off ear of the Maltese Half-Italienne is complicated by a dodgy looking phone that won’t let me do any dialling outta da room … Slightly intoxicated plan also baulked by receptionist’s “no-eh-spicka-dai-inglezi …” and then totally thwarted by my woefully ignorant of Italian beer befuddled english brain and cartocciata/focaccia’s sake bloated beer-belly distracting attenzione from my Numbskulls speech translation centre …
hic …
zzz … 2,226 road miles from Myross Island.
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To be continued.