Friday, 27 March. The van is loaded, Jim is in his crate, and somewhere past the German border it slowly starts to sink in: we're really going. The weeks before were a blur of saying goodbye, sorting the last things and more dinners and drinks than our bodies could handle. Daphne visited her grandmothers, friends came by one last time, and everywhere there was that feeling of something ending and something beginning, at the same time.
The last four weeks before departure we lived in a holiday home belonging to our friend Marco, because we had already left our own house behind. We lived out of boxes, selected what needed to come to Italy and drove the rest to a storage unit. What you can't take with you, you store. What you can't store, you let go.
In the van we installed a steel crate for Jim, big enough to stand and turn in, with a cushion inside. Comfortable enough for a dog that has to travel 1,500 kilometres. We'll write a separate story about travelling with a dog to Italy later, because there's plenty to tell.
Day 1: Schnitzel and crystal clear water
On the first day we drove to Lautrach, a small village next to Illerbeuren, about an hour from the Austrian border. A cosy family hotel where time seems to stand still. We had a Schnitzel and a Cordon Bleu, because if you drive through southern Germany and don't do that, you don't get permission to travel on.
Along the hotel flows the Iller, a river with crystal clear alpine water. So clear you can count every stone on the bottom. Jim loved it. So did we. A good first stop.
No passage without Schnitzel
Day 2: A frozen lake and a drowned bell tower
On the second day we deliberately chose not to take the Brenner Pass. Too busy, too boring, too many lorries. Instead we took a quieter route that brought us past the Reschensee, the lake in South Tyrol where the famous drowned bell tower of Graun rises from the water. We stopped to look and it was more impressive than expected. The lake was mostly frozen, but along the shore the water had found a way, a stream so clear and blue that the frost hadn't been able to grip it. The bell tower stood motionless, half in ice, half in air. The kind of sight that makes you go quiet.
After that we drove through the apple and pear orchards of South Tyrol. And although you're technically in Italy, it doesn't feel like it. All the signs are in German with an Italian subtitle. The people speak German. The houses look Austrian. It's as if someone moved the border on the map but forgot to tell the residents.
Two nights at Lake Garda
After five hours of driving we arrived at Lake Garda, where we had booked two nights in Malcesine. A beautiful place, that much is true. The white mountain peaks around the lake, the little villages clinging to the hillsides, the water that shimmers an almost unreal blue in the sun. It's not hard to understand why people have been coming here for decades.
What's also not hard to understand is why it's so touristy. Lake Garda is firmly aimed at the German market, and you notice. German language menus everywhere, German newspapers at reception, and us doing our best to order something in our broken Italian but consistently getting a "Dankeschön" in return. Apparently we look more German than we thought. Or maybe our Italian still sounds like German with Italian words thrown in. It's not our kind of place, to be honest, but as a stopover on the way south it's perfect.
Malcesine, Lago di Garda
We also took a boat trip to Limone sul Garda on the other side of the lake, a village that owes its name to the citrus trees that grow everywhere there. Narrow, steep, colourful and exactly the kind of place where you briefly forget you're actually on your way somewhere else. Jim was welcome everywhere and behaved as if he'd lived at Lake Garda for years.
Sunset at Lake Garda
Monday: through the Po Valley to Le Marche
On Monday we drove the final stretch. Through the Po Valley, via Verona, Modena, Bologna, Rimini, Ancona. In the rear view mirror the white peaks of the Alps, getting ever smaller. Ahead of us the road south.
Somewhere past Rimini the landscape changed. The flatlands gave way to what we know from Le Marche: green hills that roll like a slowly breathing body, the occasional village on a hilltop, cypresses like exclamation marks in the landscape. In the distance the white peaks of the Sibillini Mountains. We felt more and more excitement. The good kind. We're nearly there.
Meanwhile we had kept Alwin and Bionda updated on where we were. The last message back was short: "Great, the coffee is ready."
"Somewhere past Rimini the landscape changed. The flatlands gave way to green hills that roll like a slowly breathing body."
Arrival
When we drove onto the grounds of Villa Alwin Beach Resort (VABR), Alwin and Bionda were outside waiting for us. Anyone who knows them knows they are enormously enthusiastic and warm people. We noticed that immediately. Handshakes, hugs, and an energy that says: great that you're here, we're looking forward to working together.
First, coffee. Outside, in the sunshine. Jim happily exploring his new habitat as if he'd lived here for years. No hesitation, no restlessness. Just sniffing, running around, lying down contentedly. When Jim feels at home, that's usually a good sign.
After the coffee, Alwin and Bionda showed us our accommodation for the coming months. One of the beautiful lodge tents on the resort. We were amazed by the size. We know tents from previous jobs and from trade shows, but not like this. A full living space with a veranda and even its own garden where we can retreat in peace. This will be our home for the coming months. That feels good.
Rain, wind and then the sun
Le Marche is a beautiful green region with fruit orchards, sunflowers and wine. And for all that green you naturally need rain. That arrived the day after we did. And not just a little. A proper front with wind and rain that reminded me of those badly timed camping holidays back in the Netherlands, when you wake up at three in the morning to a flapping tent sheet and wonder why you ever thought this was fun. But from spring onwards it rarely rains. Two days later the sky was bright blue again and we haven't experienced it since.
I'm writing this blog on Easter Sunday. In our garden. In shorts. We've both already got a bit of colour on our skin. The rain is forgotten, the sun is here, and VABR looks stunning. Right on the sea, cleverly laid out, with an atmosphere you feel immediately.
We're impressed. And we're looking forward to telling you more about it soon.
But first, a little more of the silence. And of the coffee, which here, we have to admit, is a good deal better than back home.