Italian Camping - Living La Vida Lido
We travelled from Tuscany over to the Lido. In Tuscany, we went Dutch and stayed at a campsite full of holidaymakers from Holland. Not having booked, we were given a hard-baked mud patch near an outdoor water tap with splendid views over the seas of shiny motorhomes parked neatly in precision engineered rows.
It’s hard to describe the psychological effects of spending a week as two five footish unstructured shorties with no real daily plans, in the land of the clockwork giants. The campsite, full of tall beautiful blonde bodies, stirred early. Gentle 5k jogs before macrobiotic yoghurt breakfasts followed by a wholesome day of scheduled sports activities. Relaxing and entertaining 7.45 to 9.45, lights out by 10.15. We finally escaped, feeling stumpy, inadequate and exhausted, but with the guilty pleasure of knowing that we didn’t know where we were heading to next. And we didn’t care.
We ended up at the Lido. Stretching like a white finger across the mouth of Venice, the Lido is a silvery spit of sand and campsites. And it’s August. This means that the Lido is at its hottest and busiest, jam-packed full of Italian families, all making beach holiday memories. This mass exodus means that as we travel down the spit, campsite after campsite is full, and no we haven’t pre-booked. We have learned nothing from our Dutch friends. Finally, at the bottom of the spit, we find a small family site. No pool. No water slides. But they do have chilled Prosecco on tap, sold in refillable litre bottles and three minutes over the sand dune you can dive into the warm Adriatic. Not advisable after a litre of Prosecco - I speak from experience!
We park up and unpack the bare essentials for shelter; a small tent, roll mat, sleeping bag and our latest purchase: we pushed the boat out this year and bought a gas-fired lantern. In contrast, the concept of travelling light doesn’t seem to apply to Italian family camping holidays. Nobody and nothing seems to get left behind. The tents, tardis-like, have awning built on awning filled with comfy seating, string lights and TVs playing endless football games. Outdoor fridges seem never to run out of cold canned beer. Ariels hang precariously above the tarpaulin from the nearby tree branches. Even the budgie is brought along, caged pride of place next to the tv football game.
The Lido is the ideal base for visiting Venice. The Vaporetto (bus boat) takes you right into the jaws of Venice and the Grand Canal. You can ride the Vaporetto all day for around 20 Euros. Fantastic value and quite a relief as the August heat makes walking exhausting. Nothing prepares you for the hazy sunken city appearing like a shimmering mirage in the distance. It is truly one of the wonders of the world that everyone must see. We wander around Venice dodging the crowds, searching out quiet alleys and the shade. Labyrinthine and old. There seem to be unknown stories to find here. I crave quieter and cooler times when I can spend more time seeing what Venice is really like; when the ice-cream and pizza eaters have gone away and all that is left is the faint sound of the sea gently lapping against the canalside walls.
We return by late afternoon to the campsite. At six, each evening after a hard day bronzing, lines of Italians young and old, wait impatiently for showers, every man, woman and bambino, wrapped head to foot in belted hooded terry-towel dressing gowns. It’s a curious sight that I have only ever seen in Italy. The highly organised Dutch, no doubt have a rota to avoid any such unnecessary queuing.
By seven o’clock, the sun cools and the smokiness of fire pits and barbecues fills the air. Laughter, football and the revving engines of scooters echo around the site as families laugh and chat into the wee small hours. And, inevitably, the Prosecco bottles will need refilling again tomorrow.
It’s hard to describe the psychological effects of spending a week as two five footish unstructured shorties with no real daily plans, in the land of the clockwork giants. The campsite, full of tall beautiful blonde bodies, stirred early. Gentle 5k jogs before macrobiotic yoghurt breakfasts followed by a wholesome day of scheduled sports activities. Relaxing and entertaining 7.45 to 9.45, lights out by 10.15. We finally escaped, feeling stumpy, inadequate and exhausted, but with the guilty pleasure of knowing that we didn’t know where we were heading to next. And we didn’t care.
We ended up at the Lido. Stretching like a white finger across the mouth of Venice, the Lido is a silvery spit of sand and campsites. And it’s August. This means that the Lido is at its hottest and busiest, jam-packed full of Italian families, all making beach holiday memories. This mass exodus means that as we travel down the spit, campsite after campsite is full, and no we haven’t pre-booked. We have learned nothing from our Dutch friends. Finally, at the bottom of the spit, we find a small family site. No pool. No water slides. But they do have chilled Prosecco on tap, sold in refillable litre bottles and three minutes over the sand dune you can dive into the warm Adriatic. Not advisable after a litre of Prosecco - I speak from experience!
We park up and unpack the bare essentials for shelter; a small tent, roll mat, sleeping bag and our latest purchase: we pushed the boat out this year and bought a gas-fired lantern. In contrast, the concept of travelling light doesn’t seem to apply to Italian family camping holidays. Nobody and nothing seems to get left behind. The tents, tardis-like, have awning built on awning filled with comfy seating, string lights and TVs playing endless football games. Outdoor fridges seem never to run out of cold canned beer. Ariels hang precariously above the tarpaulin from the nearby tree branches. Even the budgie is brought along, caged pride of place next to the tv football game.
The Lido is the ideal base for visiting Venice. The Vaporetto (bus boat) takes you right into the jaws of Venice and the Grand Canal. You can ride the Vaporetto all day for around 20 Euros. Fantastic value and quite a relief as the August heat makes walking exhausting. Nothing prepares you for the hazy sunken city appearing like a shimmering mirage in the distance. It is truly one of the wonders of the world that everyone must see. We wander around Venice dodging the crowds, searching out quiet alleys and the shade. Labyrinthine and old. There seem to be unknown stories to find here. I crave quieter and cooler times when I can spend more time seeing what Venice is really like; when the ice-cream and pizza eaters have gone away and all that is left is the faint sound of the sea gently lapping against the canalside walls.
We return by late afternoon to the campsite. At six, each evening after a hard day bronzing, lines of Italians young and old, wait impatiently for showers, every man, woman and bambino, wrapped head to foot in belted hooded terry-towel dressing gowns. It’s a curious sight that I have only ever seen in Italy. The highly organised Dutch, no doubt have a rota to avoid any such unnecessary queuing.
By seven o’clock, the sun cools and the smokiness of fire pits and barbecues fills the air. Laughter, football and the revving engines of scooters echo around the site as families laugh and chat into the wee small hours. And, inevitably, the Prosecco bottles will need refilling again tomorrow.
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