keep going, then turn left

It’s contract-signing time and we’re driving down. I say we but wife does the driving while I assume the mantle of the far heavier navigating responsibility. (I don’t drive as I take the drinking part of ‘drink driving’ very seriously. I did once take a driving test but as I calculated it would be safer to hit a stationary car on my left rather than one moving towards me on my right, my tendency to commandeer the pavement robbed me of vital points) We make a relatively early start as we’re only stopping one night en route. Arriving at Dover without mishap, we take the Sea France ferry to Calais – eat your heart out, Eurotunnel – and having enjoyed an overpriced and over-caloried breakfast, hit the motorway with a vengeance. By 6pm we’re at Nuits St. George and half an hour later checking into a pleasant little hotel in Beaune. We’ve covered 480 miles and thrown a substantial number of euros into motorway baskets. Superb meal but surely the wine could be cheaper – I can see the raw material growing outside the window.

By 6pm the following day we’re at our destination. We’ve covered 915 miles. I’ve arranged to meet the owner of charming apartment in a pretty square in Dolceaqua. I don’t, however, know what she looks like and the square is packed with people enjoying a children’s choir. Having unsuccessfully propositioned several women of undoubted probity, I am rescued by the lady herself. A drink at a nearby café is suggested and I retrieve wife from the car.
Dolceaqua is picturesque and the apartment high up in the centro storico. (who says I don’t speak the lingo?). We dine and sup well that evening, particularly enjoying the local Rossesse di Dolceaqua, reputedly a favourite wine of Napoleon, presumably Bonaparte rather than Solo.

The next day we meet up with our new best friend, Vittorio, and after a delightful lunch in San Remo, where we are joined by Eliana, the local representative of the UK –based estate agency and, perhaps, the most helpful, attentive individual we have ever met, we walk towards destiny and the notario’s office. (Refer to my first two blogs, dated 20th and 28th July for a fascinating account of this meeting.)

Now we have an official contract. The house is ours. How do we celebrate? What about a trip to Genoa and the wonders of Ikea! I hate shopping. I hate shopping for anything. Wife loves shopping. Wife loves shopping for practically anything. Do you see a potential problem here? After a long and tedious motorway journey, we see Ikea but we can’t get to it. Tempers fray a little but after a couple more circuits of industrial Genoa we are there. (Sometime later) Having ordered beds, sofas, wardrobes, tables and a myriad variety of other items, we linger a little longer to enjoy a hot Ikean beverage. Idly I peruse the rather lengthy receipt. It doesn’t take even me long to realise that the young assistant, (Italian perfect, English rubbish), has got significant elements of our order wrong. As the entire order is to be delivered to the house in our absence in a month’s time, can you imagine the drama of getting the wrong items replaced when we do turn up? Well can you? We track down the assistant and point out the error of his ways.

A day or two later it’s time to go home. But now we have two homes. We’ve enjoyed strolling round our Italian property. We’ve arranged for the Italy-based estate agent to ensure safe delivery of the Ikea order and to let us know when it happens. Then we can plan our first stay under our own roof. The journey back is uneventful and we even manage to achieve some non-motorway driving. By 10 pm the next day we’re home, warmly greeted by cat, post, telephone messages and email. Our Golf has done us proud and there’s a total of nearly 2,800 extra miles on the clock.
Does the furniture arrive? Are we informed? When will son get a proper mention? Didn’t I tell you not to mention ivy? Tune in again next week? No. We’re off to Italy!