It is always sad saying goodbye to my old school friend, Pina, and her family. It’s also always sad leaving the grandeur of the castle-topped peaks of mountain-walled Aosta Valley.
We plan to break our dash down the A1 to Tuscany’s Fiesole, which perches on the olive grove covered hills just above Florence, in Parma. Parma is Italy’s capital of food, because it’s got to be said, how can anyone resist prosciutto and Parmesan? Pina’s family are from Emilia Romagna, near Parma, and she recommends the city to us. There is a camperstop in Parma, but our hearts sink as we bowl up as it’s almost in the Lidl carpark, and with all the charm of that carpark too.
Neither of us have patience with camper stops on busy ring roads so Parma will have to wait for another time when we’ve got our act together to book into a hotel in the centre.
We hot-foot it to nearby Tabiano Terme, and Camping Arizona, where we met Pina with her dad years ago. The spa town has a faded charm, overlooked by dramatic Tabiano castle.
The parks in front of the thermal baths, which treat breathing disorders, are a little less manicured than they used to be. Many hotels are closed. These days asthma inhalers are super-successful at managing the illness, so perhaps that’s why there’s a ghostly calm about the town these days. Still, our aperitivi come with herb infused ham pastries, a real treat as we sit in the café watching the world go by.
The next day, we leave the A1 and wind through olive groves, past sandstone Orvieto, which perches on the bluff of a cliff, the same honey colour as the rock itself. We squeeze the van up the turning to Camping Fiesole, recommended to us by our good friends, Sue and Paul, Mary and Martin – and what a recommendation it is.
The swimming pool and restaurant hang from the mountain with Florence laid out below in all its mystery. The Duomo’s dome sits centre stage, blue silhouetted mountains in the distance.
Our pitch offers us up undulating hills, silvered with olives, shaded by Mediterranean pines and holm oak. Our first foray takes us up Monte Ceceri to where Leonardo Da Vinci tried out his ‘flying bird’ (rudimentary aeroplane to us). His assistant, Tomasso, broke a leg in the attempt, mind you.
We then follow the winding mountain tracks down to the caves created by the quarry men, stone masons and sculptors, who were often part of the same family, as they worked the Serene stone that adorns much of Florence.
Often, they’d sculpt pieces here as well as quarry it. I’ve always been bowled away by the skill of unsung artisans and working people, but also the big names got some of their stone from these quarries too, Brunelleschi, Da Vinci, etc.
There’s a postcard view everywhere you look in Fiesole, from the town hall with its stuccoed coats of arms and flower festooned loggia, to convents, monasteries, Etruscan walls, and, not to be missed, the Roman theatre and baths; an Etruscan temple; and Longobard tombs.
Sitting eating gelato in the town square is a perfect way to while away time after all that history.
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