Well, dear reader, they say that a change is as good as a holiday, so I hope you will thank me in allowing you a brief respite from the meandering verse of Tom as I invite you to hold my hand and skip forth into the next instalment of our little adventure...
As a quick reminder, you were left with our 6 intrepid adventurists sat in the heart of the Czech countryside, bleary eyed and as yet undecided as to their intended destination for the day. By the time the tinkering was finished and the vans were packed, the sun had quite comprehensively passed over the yard arm and it was decided that a short trip (3 hrs or so) to Salzburg was the order of the day/evening. With MEL Dad on the case we quickly had an established route and a predicted arrival time to the nearest minute and were looking forward to a gentle drive and some relaxing Austrian hospitality at the end. Or so we thought...
Whether the imposed itinerary was a cruel trick right from the start or whether it was modified en route due to a small but significant change in the solar winds we will never know, but MEL Dad had decreed that our intended relaxing two country hop was to be a mere figment of our collective imagination. So 20 hours of driving, two fuel stops, 5 countries and an inordinate amount of profanities later we found ourselves in the heart of rural Italy with lifeless limbs, bleeding eyes and a footwell overflowing with empty cans of Redbull. But how, I hear you ask, did such a tranquil jaunt into the foothills of the Austrian Alps transform into a driving regime of such totalitarian proportions as to rival the efforts of some of Austria's most driven alumni? Well, I suppose I best enlighten you....
The road to Salzburg started well, and it was agreed that a stop in the local Czech town of Klatovy was required in order to rectify some of the more cowboy efforts that Ian had used to ensure the Cheetah was present and correct for the offing in Hyde Park. After much gesticulating and pointing, we eventually found a Czech mechanic willing to free the now well stripped gearbox oil plug. Said plug was duly released and the now bone dry cogs were given the well deserved dollop of oil they had been screaming out for over the last 800 or so miles. Bearing in mind the small but significant fact of a total inability to speak any Czech whatsoever and the initial effort invested in getting our willing but confused mechanic to undo one nut it was felt that Craig's suggestion that we subsequently get him to have a quick look at the synchro meshing and gear linkages was a little ambitious.
Pit-stop complete and with the Cheetah now purring along with a newly found zest for life the team were Salzburg bound. What happened over the next few hours is somewhat of a mystery and the cohort of van based travellers are still at a loss as to exactly when, why and by whom the decisions were made. Suffice to say that somewhere between Klatovy and Salzburg suggestions were made and decisions were taken. The plan initially developed into pushing on to Innsbruck, thus allowing a gentlemanly spot of skiing and a civilised glass or two of schnapps in one of the glacial resorts the next morning. Agreed by all, this, in hindsight, perhaps should have been the one and only alteration to the plan. But sadly it was not to be, and as the weariness set in the propensity for rational analysis of a rapidly developing plan became less and less prevalent.
As the malevolence and apathy took hold, MEL Dad saw his opportunity and pounced with ruthless efficiency to deal another striking blow in his battle against enjoyment, cultural appreciation and local interaction. "Lo!" he decreed regally from his throne-like home that was the passenger seat of the Cheetah, "Let us not stop here and embrace the delights of an Alpine ski resort, cheap Schnapps and pig-tailed Austrian women by the name of Heidi," as he waved his rolled up map of Europe in a distinctly sceptre like manner, "let us continue unabated into the darkness until your minds become numb, your behinds sore and you have pins and needles in your little toes. For if you embrace this with all your hearts we shall, by the grace of God, make the fabled land that is Lake Garda. Oh and it'll be dark too". His subjects slept, his driver coughed at the wrong moment and, as in all good dictatorships, policy was passed.
Lake Garda came, and went, we think. It was eventually agreed that the distinctly black area between two well illuminated areas of urban sprawl was indeed one of Italy's most picturesque tourist attractions, but without being blessed with the increasingly rationed commodity that is daylight, a confirmed identification could not be made. It being night time our MEL did allow us the rare but oh so revered opportunity to stop, set up camp, and God forbid, sleep in a horizontal position. What it failed to factor-in was that turning up to a campsite at one of Italy's top tourist attractions at 3am in the morning in the middle of the school holidays might not be conducive to being welcomed with open arms. After half a dozen failed attempts at securing a pitch there was really only one option left. "Shall we keep driving guys..."