Day 1. Flying from London Stanstead, which has grown from a tent off the M11 motorway to a full-sized airport in the last 8 years. The last time I used it was on my first skiing trip (where I managed to go the whole holiday without injury, only to pop a tendon running for a flight at the airport.)
This airport is beloved by the budget airlines, since it can still be called "London" even though anyone unfortunate enough to arrive thinking they're near to the great city will find themselves some 50 miles away.
As it is the airport of choice by the budget airlines, it is naturally full of chavs and people too cheap to fly on a proper airline, like me. And so it was that I climbed aboard one of RyanAir's bargain buses and flew to Pisa airport. Though my snobby side hates to admit it, the flight was fine and the plane, though a little elderly, didn't give cause for concern.
Pisa airport was reassurringly Italian. Total chaos. Virtually no passport control or customs to speak of and full of people milling around in confusion. Wonderful. I love this country.
There is a saying in Europe - the perfect Europe is where the houses are British, the cooks are French, the lovers are Italian and it is all run by the Germans. European hell is where the cooks are British, the lovers German and it is all run by the Italians. Or something like that.
I found my farmhouse, after a 2 hour drive and something called a 'raccordo' which I decided was Italian for "really shitty bit of road". The bear approves of the view. Particulary since it was raining in England when we left...
