Campervan Therapy

We’re both a little shattered by the sadness of the WWI museum, memorial and fort so when we start descending from the pass into Val Camonica, and I spy a campsite sign in Temù, even though we haven’t travelled more than 60 kilometres today, we swing into Camping Presanella and what a find it is.

Its green meadows are shaded with rowans, hazels and maples, its hammocks swinging from tall plane trees and picnic tables giving relief from the heat. Its bar and restaurant is friendly.

We pick up a book of walking trails and cycle routes. There’s so many to choose from. Our first foray is along the rushing river Oglio’ tributary, up the valley, across the wooden bridge and down the other side through forests and riverbank, with locals paddling in the basins in the rock and horse-riders making their stately way up the valley towards the high peaks. Even though Spring is long-gone, the purple loosestrife, wild chicory and carrot are still rampant.

As we pass the various exercise stations, Seán goes suddenly pale. I reassure the poor man that the pictures of the moves look more like moves suited to Superwoman so I won’t be busting them out here, and won’t expect him to either.

We end the evening with a crisp Prosecco for me and a beer for him in the bar by the local river ‘beach’, at the entrance to the campsite, while children play on slides and swings, elderly folk sit and chat, active types play tennis or paddle bat long into the evening.

The next day we wander up along the Sentieri di Latte which starts just outside the campsite.

There’s a wonderful stone house with wooden cartwheel on its front and a collection of paintings on its barn doors.

An elderly man and woman sit in the bloom filled garden reading and I like to think one of them is the unknown artist. 

We ramble by a local albergo, with a fine collection of ancient tools hanging outside and so many different stag heads.

Later we wander up through the slopes of Desart, a suburb behind the campsite, and into the woodland walks. The pines, birch, aspens, acers, wild cherries and ash trees covering the slopes but there’s also the dead larch trees, which is sad. A few years ago Seán’s nephew, Conor, who studies these things, told us about the disease which is killing larch trees. There’s swathes of the dead trees in among the green and I make a mental note to ask Conor whether it’s believed to be linked to climate change at all.

The next day we drive over the Passo dell’ Aprica and Seán has to tell me to stop with the hand signals as the road jack-knives around corners and cars tear around them with blind faith.

But it is beautiful, with the Ogliolo River frothing white as it rushes over boulders far, far below. When the SS38 finally smooths itself out into a broad valley, I’m a little disappointed as its full of sensible things like shops and warehouses and I miss the magic of the wild wooded slopes, mighty mountains and river gorges.