Derringer lay asleep at the bottom of the bunk in a patch of bona fide Italian sunshine, exposing his golden belly fur to the warmth steaming through the window. For a long moment I just lay there, enjoying the unusual sensation of sunlight that I could feel as well as see, something I hadn’t experienced since last autumn. Yet soon my stomach let me know what it thought of a supper of wheat beer on a load of nothing, and Derringer took a break from sunbathing to wind up his feed-me whine. I had parked on quite a busy country road. While the traffic barrelled past the window, I broke my fast on excellent rye bread, Gruyère cheese and coffee and counted my euros. I had spent a hair-raising amount, most of it on fuel. How could one van drink that much juice? Answer: easily. It was ancient and all I seemed to have done so far was to grind up and down endless hills and mountains. I consulted my map and looked at the long shaft of Italy’s boot and decided there was only one answer: live on sandwiches and stick to the motorway.
