Bussana Vecchia


Bussana Vecchia is a village formed in the 1450's and abandoned in the 1880s after an earthquake. It was a ghost town for many years until in the 1960's a loose organization of artists (read, hippies) decided to move there en masse. While several governmental eviction notices have been issued over the years, apparently the electric and gas agents are willing to provide, and so the artists remain -- the hippies are very old now.

There are a number of restaurants, and many vacation rental properties in the town.

I strolled the steep, winding streets, popping into shops and galleries. In one place I became very uncomfortable when a German-husband-Italian-wife artist-couple stood waaayy toooo close as they explained their art -- how they didn't hear my Personal-Space-Breach alarm blasting is beyond my understanding -- and did I want to look at their previous gallery which they now rent out as an apartment... It's very nice.

Ummmmm, grazie no. I got out of there quickly.

On one tight, meandering corsa a goose was standing in the curve. A family with kids came along and everyone was honking to make the goose speak. Everyone's phones were out, snap snap snapping photos, Then the goose turned on his heel and headed off in another direction.

While looking at menus I struck up a conversation with an Italian guy who invited me to a Salsa Music Festival in Diano Marina that night. I said 'maybe I'll see you there', but it I knew it was in the opposite direction of my B&B.

By that time the restaurants were closed (sigh,you were right, Lori!) so I headed back to the car.

Two RV's go to Bussana Vecchia


I came back down the mountain, turned left at the water, and kept my eyes open for the signs to Bussana Vecchia -- which was no small feat. I followed a sign which led me around and through, but then I found myself back at the beach... So I made a U-eee and pulled up into a giant grocery parking lot. I was able to flag down a Swiss guy with a dog,  who walked me over to the fence and pointed out how I would get to the new town of Bussana, and then on to Bussana Vecchia.

The road up the mountain was very like the road between Apricale and Perinaldo. Narrow, not so well maintained. There were no guard rails to speak of. I was in my best Old Lady mode when I came up behind two (count 'em, two!) behemoth RV's. Don't get me wrong -- these were nowheres on the behemoth scale of a giant American RV with king size bed and king size TV, but they were behemoth by Euro standard. And they were GARGANTUAN by the road-to-Bussana-Vecchia standards. And why they were traveling up that road in a pack, is beyond my comprehension. Allora.

We reached a very tight switchback on the approach to Bussan Vecchia where the second one of the RV's decided he couldn't make it. Not sure if fear got to him or what, but he just stopped on the switchback after the actual turn. There was a car coming towards him trying to get down who was trapped, and cars stacking up behind me.

One of the cars behind me didn't see the car coming down, and he made move to go around me on the curve. Jerk. He spotted the  trapped car before he made a rincoglionita move and jammed the entire highway up.

It just so happened that at the outer curve of the switchback was a driveway leading down with a gate over it. so I moved the Panda toward the outer curve for visibility, and started giving hand signals to the driver who was backing. I backed him within two feet of that gate, and then the Panda self-powered and I blew past them like I owned the road.

Seborga



Seborga is an historic town at the top of a mountain and the end of a road, still with a view of the sea.

Originally formed in 1079, in the 1960's Girogio Carbone started a campaign for Serborga to secede from Italy proper. He sited legal documentation showing that  Seborga was not called out specifically in the Italy Acts of Unification in 1861, and therefore was not officially a part of that country. He convinced enough residents of Seborga that in 1963 the populace voted their agreement, and chose Giorgio as their Prince Monarch. He kept this title until his death in 2009.

Seborga has a seal of arms, currency, and a government to help rule the principality. They have a 'border crossing' of sorts, however the guard must not work in the off season.

It was bright, yet cool and windy when I arrived. I stepped up into the city park to take in the view for a moment before walking into the old village. I popped into a little gift shop, which was apparently the official gift shop, and got myself a Visa while there.

I strolled through the wonderfully kempt streets and alleys, past fountains, and noticed that fully a third of the homes were B&Bs or vacation rental spots. I checked out the menus but nothing called to me.

After a leisurely stroll throughout the kingdom, I got into my car and ate an apple and chocolate pastry that Milena made, and headed on.

Beach Towns



The road (A10?) meanders from Vallecrosia (probably housing the same folks as Mooresville proper) into Bordighera (think, grand old houses in tony Davidson) and on into San Remo (new developments in Huntersville) -- one town butting against the other. The Mediterranean is beautiful blue on the right hand.

The roads are narrow and lawns are few, and the area is green and lush with tropical plants. Pine trees are everywhere, up against the road straight and tall, and the pavement is buckled with their woody toes grabbing for traction against gravity and a slip into the sea.

There are large pastel stucco beach homes, multi-level condo communities, hotels, and casinos along my ride. I pass a Ford dealership and a Jeep dealership just 1.5 blocks from the beach -- you could walk out the door and 20 yards right or left and have a great view of the water! There are parks with grass and playgrounds and benches one or two blocks long, on bluffs overlooking the mer.

I've mastered the roundabout and I take the route away from the beach toward Seborga with ease.

The road up was narrow and curving, with zero places to pull over to look -- and so many things I wanted to look at and photograph. Beautiful homes of yellow or champagne stucco with bright orange terracotta roofs, high above the water with 180 degree views.

Successful Travel Tips



This day my plan is to drive to three places - Seborga, Bussana Vecchia, and Triora of the witches.

An important rule of success for memorable travel is to not plan too much in to a single day. You're already overwhelmed by the 'different sameness' of the place, and communication difficulties may be sucking up more processing resources. There are elements of your trip you want to savor, experience, see and remember. Cramming too much in will only exhaust you, frustrate you and overload your memory cells, perhaps leading to a total system shutdown.

Pick three or four things to see MAX, group them in priority order with an eye toward balancing geographic proximity and not having too much of the same, give a heavy sprinkle of flexibility -- maybe a shovel full -- and you're ready to go.

I head out on SP 59 going toward the coast and Vallecrosia. I know that, while facing the Med, my destinations are to my left. I reach Vallecrosia and turn left, following the signs and my instinct.

Yogi, Oscar and Giulia


I learned that it is already off-season, and I have the entire inn to myself!

I met the dogs Yogi and Oscar, both rescue dogs, and Giulia. Yogi is a young, hyper black-and-white shepherding type dog, who was rescued from Romania. Apparently he is startled by quick motions, especially hands, because, as Milena says "they have questionable practices in Romania". Oscar is a large old Golden, mostly deaf and blind, with lumpy growths poking through his fur and a distinctly unhealthy aroma. My sense is that Oscar is on his way out.

Giulia's inglese is excellent and we discussed learning languages. She also watches YouTube to improve pronunciation and word recognition. She has a GREAT job in the winter (when there are few guests at the B&B). She goes to Milan and works as a translator for  TV. They bring soap operas or TV movies from other European countries, with the scripts which they work to translate. Then, once they have the gist of the story, she writes a new script in Italian, taking care to match the lip movements of the speakers. How cool is that?! 

Giulia came out to say goodbye -- as she's headed out with a friend for a bicycling vacation in Austria.

I organized my backpack and headed out myself.

Breakfast on the Mountain


My first night with Giulia and Milena saw me switching from city night-sounds to country night-sounds. There were lots of dogs barking throughout the hillsides, which led me to think to myself -- what's out there???

The bed was comfortable and the pillows flat and dense. It was a good night of sleep.

I got up with my alarm, stumbled onto my balcony and saw that breakfast was ready for me on the terrace.

It was a beautiful array -- there were artful touches like the teapot was sitting on a trivet made from a wood branch... it looked like a stump. And pats of butter were arrayed in a hand painted napkin holder. There was white and wheat toast, Nutella and jams, turnover pastries stuffed with apples and chocolate made by Milena, and yogurts.

I ate while looking out across the valley to Vallecrosia and beyond.

Au Gaggian


After a long hot shower and some fresh potions on my face, I felt like a new person. So I got back into the Panda and headed up toward Perinaldo for dinner.

I ended up at Au Gaggian Bar Ristorante, and after mastering the left side parallel park against a stone wall and extruding myself out the inched open door, I was still too early to eat. However, since there was only five minutes to go, the hostess/waitress took me upstairs and gave me my choice of tables.

She brought water and birra while I looked through the menu. A tiny starter was an array of three triangles of semi soft cheese, which I ate with my wonderful pane, and three white cheese straws -- flaky, crunchy goodness.

While I had the option of stuffed Apricale Rabbit, Wild Boar, or pasta cooked in Apricale Rabbit juice, I chose instead the Tagliolini Con Zucchine, Pomodorini E Menta -- which had raisins for sweetness and pinenuts for crunch. The zucchine was not the typical one we get in Charlotte. It was smaller around, had a much milder flavor, and kept a nice texture after cooking. The dish was a wonderful explosion of flavors and textures!

While I dined -- and dined, it was! -- a few other parties arrived, none Italian, testing the language skills of the waitress.

The kitchen was open to the dining room and the chef made a show for us, complete with bursts of flames and wild waving of pans.

I finished my dinner and made my slow and windy way down the mountain home.

My Room with a View


She was smiling as I drove up and parked. She held a key in her hand, and after introductions she led the way up the (black stone) steps and into the house. A generous entrance hall held a recycle station, a large coat rack, and a small sink with supplies for making coffee and tea.

Milena opened the door to my bedroom and I was amazed. It is bigger than my room at home and has french doors leading onto a small balcony with the Med laid out in the distance.

I looked down to a lovely terrace, where a dining table with umbrella was situated, and pots and pots of flowering plants were arranged.

She then showed me into the library, where a table and various chairs look through windows over the olive trees. She showed me the list of restaurant suggestions, the wifi password, asked what time I wanted breakfast, and was gone.

I headed for my private bathroom and a hot shower.

Over the Edge


I'd gotten an email from my hostesses (Julia and Milena) to say that I should not follow the GPS instructions but should use the driving instructions from the website. Try as I would, I couldn't find any driving instructions on the website. However, I had printed Google maps at several different scales, so I knew I was heading in the right direction, and I knew I was close.

I pulled over into a shoulder pullout and consulted my reservation for the actual name of the B&B -- and prayed for a sign to be found on the road. (Figuratively speaking.)

Et voila! a small blue and white sign under an olive tree came into view. I turned into the paved driveway and stopped. Certainly this can't be the place -- this little road leads straight off the side of the mountain.

I backed up and looked at the sign. The phone number was listed on the little sign, and there was no telltale arrow. Perhaps this was just an advertisement. So I pulled out my handy Italian phone and called.

"Hello Milena?"

"Is this Ms Boyd?"

"I'm on SP 59, sitting next to a little sign."

"Follow the little road down."

OMG, was I afraid. I started my Little Panda and riding the brake the entire way I crept over the apogee, made a near 90 degree turn to the right, and followed the tiny tiny road to the house, where Milena was waiting for me on the driveway.

Perinaldo


I reached Apricale and found the sign to Perinaldo.

I made the right onto the road and found myself on the narrowest road yet experienced. In NC to be on a road this narrow you would probably have followed a direction of "turn off the paved road", yet this road was paved and was taking me toward a hot shower. So I carried on.

This was also the windiest road so I slowed even more -- to a beauty queen on a convertible speed. No cars were backing up -- seems this was a road less traveled.


The Road Not Taken
BY ROBERT FROST
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


My winding road observation and cataloging of etiquette paid off, in that I met two cars coming toward me and we all stopped and looked at each other. I saw to my right an almost imperceptible shoulder, so I started turning and inching toward it. The driver of the first car rolled down her window and gave me hand signals -- go this way, now back up that way. Then with a hearty "Grazie!" the cars zoomed past me with a wave.

I made my way to the perpendict with SP 59, consulted my map for the exact location of the B&B, and turned right, back toward the coast.

Apricale


The plan worked. I made a right turn onto the main drag through town, following other cars leaving the market, and drove until a sign for Apricale, the next village over from my B&B, directed me up into the hills.

The climb was steep and quick, with countless 100+ degree switchbacks, but my Panda took it all in stride.

It was amazing how quickly my sense of my environment changed from coastal to alpine... even the air felt different. Soon, the vegetation changed into mountainous plants. Yet the sea still stretched out below, visible only at times.

The road had started narrow and became more and more so -- becoming one lane in spots. There were guard rails (of a sort) yet I knew I wasn't as confident in driving as the locals, so when one or two cars backed up behind me I would find a spot to inch over and slow to a stop... They would zoom around... and I would continue on in my old-lady speed.

It occurred to me as I was driving that the little towns were not laid out in a grid. (Duh huh, they're perched on the side of a mountain.) Instead the main road would lead though the town with houses build on each side, and then would switchback for the next stack of houses. Sometimes -- not often -- a little side street would slant off at a tight angle up or down a precipitous cut of pavement.

And always the tiny cars of the locals were parked on the non-existent shoulders or back up into their tiny driveways.