Onward to Orta

The race up, and then down, the high passes into Piedmont is a delight. Once again it is a misty start and the air has a chilly bite, but even at departure I can see the sun gilding the peaks of the Jungfrau across the valley; the day is set fair. As we approach the summit blazing silver slants slice the swirling mist over the lake to produce a drama John Martin couldn’t have imagined let alone painted. Once the other side, we drop below the cloud and now the Nash is in its element. The smooth tyres haven’t lost all their grip, and being on my own I can swing the car through the bends knowing the front will hold and pull the slithering back-end round and back on track. It is a joyful drive, the emerging day warm and bright, the surface good. You cant find this sort of driving in Bicester. Our destination is Lago di Orta of which I know nothing.

But how is the girl with the spare tyres getting on? I know that the airport won’t be the issue, rather the succession of changes on Trenitalia, through milan central to the branch line to Orta, where trolleys or porters are unlikely to be available. Her flight departed early so I suspect that even now she is facing these challenges.

I have mixed memories of the Italian lakes. A childhood camping holiday on Lake Garda left only the memory of my father piloting the family Ford Consul up what (we remember as) Mount Tramalso, ignoring the signs saying strada pericoloso. The road surface deteriorated as we climbed steeply, narrowing with every hairpin, until it was little more than a donkey track. There came the point of no return, when turning back was no longer an option, so the only way was onward with no clue as to what lay beyond. One side ragged schist from which the slender track had been carved, the other a vertical drop, with the glitter of a lake way, way below. Silence crept over the three children in the back while the tension mounted on the front bench seat. Mum was trying to climb into the glovebox; implacable Dad was looking flustered in a way we had never seen before. It got worse before it got better. Eventually the route flattened and we started to descend. Conversation returned, Mum started clucking and ticking. In the back giggles returned, the potential for playground talk of the adventure already evident.

Latterly en passant the lakes have seemed to be overpriced, overcrowded and largely taken over by bankers and Porsche drivers wishing they were even richer than they were.

But now Orta seemed different, albeit that we weren’t there long enough to really find out. Tucked away off to the west of the bigger lakes and their touristic appeal, it seemed calmer and less flashy, with a pretty island nunnery and a medieval lakeside town.

The two contingents of cars arrived within minutes of each other and although still well north of the Apennines, there is a sense that we had arrived at the start of our ‘raid’, the atmosphere relaxed and humorous. My priority was to see if the tyre lady had arrived and whether she was also relaxed and humorous.

Yes, to both! Well mostly the second bit, but there were the tyres waiting at the desk in the reception. As predicted the problem had been walking miles through Milan station to find the right platform without any offers of help. But the courier had done really good – what a woman. The only problem was what to say to the customs man who asks 'Did you pack your luggage yourself? Has a strange man asked you accept an unusual item to carry across the border?'

All we had to do now was to enlist the help of the charming, but somewhat bemused, hotelier to locate a suitable tyre fitter in the morning.

The first thing that the Nashmen do when they arrive at a new destinaton is to take their cars to pieces, and the carpark of La Bussola hotel was ideal for this ritual. There are several reasons for this ceremony. The first is the equivalent of prep school rollcall – names are not read out, it is a visual inspection – but the purpose is the same; to see if any key components of the car have run away or escaped during the journey. Of course, one is likely to notice if big bits fall off, like a wheel, but application of Newtons laws tells us that the lowest energy level of a piece of Nash is lying in a roadside gutter, and this is where all components want to end up; a calm and stress-free retirement home, sheltered housing for the worn and weary.

The second thing to be done is the wiping. This comprises removing oil from where it shouldn’t be (forehead, seats, steering wheel, hotel carpark) and moving it to where it should be: mostly unsavoury under places, including chains, shackles, dogs, gates, and other weirdly named parts, including something known as a wriggley monkey. There are multiple other places where unwanted oil migrates to but it is not necessary to wipe these, as they are self-cleaning. Oil on these is removed when you get in and out or walk past the car, it being removed by ones clothing, particularly items recently laundered or put on clean that morning.

Of course, the most important part of this fettling behaviour is to look as if you are doing something knowledgably and of importance. Removing a spark plug and saying something like ‘ Mmm just as I thought,’ before putting it back in, is a sure winner. This is usually followed by a question at dinner:

 ‘Did you sort the problem with your plugs?’

‘Oh yes I think so – same as last time. Often have a bit of a problem with this continental fuel.’

'Maybe it's the altitude. '

'Yes, could be, and theres an R in the month.'

'More vermentino?'

It was still warm enough to swim in the hotel pool before a walk into town and dinner. The scale of the car parks in Orta gave a hint of how busy it must in the high season, but for us is had a lovely fin de saison, Death in Venice feel. Not for the last time on this trip we would meander down narrow medieval streets and wonder what went on behind the closed shutters of ancient wonky houses.

Apparently Nietzsche came here with an alluring Russian woman named Lou Andreas-Salome (along with her mother). Our Fred fell madly in love and asked his friend Paul Ree to propose on his behalf. She wasn’t interested and later upset Nietzsche by being unable to remember whether she kissed him. I find this strange as you would have thought dealing with that moustache would have been memorable even if one wasn't within kissing range.

Odd these people.  

The next morning those with tyre issues head for the centro pneumatico that the hotelier has identified as being possibly of help. They turn out to be wonderful. A great barn of a premises staffed by a herd of willing teenagers. They tackled the car as if they were the Ferrari pit crew and ina jiff are mending punctures and changing tyres. Measuring the tracking was a bit more of a challenge, but we got it much nearer to where it should be. Lots of photos, and a few euros later we were on our way heading for Toscana and the Apennines proper.

Just look at the tread on my new tyres!