We had planned to drive like nutters from the Amalfi Coast to a known-good (i.e. clean) camp site so that we could freshen-up and do our great lump of pent-up clothes washing. Oh, and do some food-shopping too, as we’ve only got Cup of Soups left. The next day, we would get the nineteen hour ferry to Barcelona and roll off the other side looking and smelling fresh, ready for business.

What actually happened is that we drove like double-nutters from the Amalfi Coast and got to Rome a couple of hours before schedule — and crucially before that night’s ferry departed. Given all that we needed to get done before continuing to Spain, The Squifter somewhat foolishly suggested that it might be possible to get onto the ferry that night, postponing our chores further. With the proverbial red-rag billowing in front of me, I drove even harder (well done Yoko) and got us to the port about an hour before the scheduled departure time. After some anxious moments in the queue–the bloke in front of us took ages to get sorted and we had no clue when the embarkment gate was due to shut–we managed to procure the two cheapest tickets possible (i.e. no cabin).

I had so been looking forward to spending the next nineteen hours of my life on my laptop, learning how to program Ruby, writing e-mails and crafting insightful blog entries. Instead, the lullaby rocking of the vessel sent me straight to sleep in my armchair for nearly the full allowance.

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