is there poodle in my noodle

Greetings from Sperlonga, a few hours south of Rome. This is the home of well-dressed, yet effortless stylish Italian chic. Walking through the streets here we feel like true skanks, mostly covered in chalk and snot, while the locals strut past in sharp boat shoes and tailored suits.

I always considered the Italians to be a slightly surly and intimidating bunch, with previous awkward encounters leaving me quaking in my very British and somewhat repressed boots.

The phonology of the Italian language is akin to a rapid machine gun fire; arms flailing as they wander around shouting exuberantly into their mobile phones; slick back hair and bravado and pressed chinos prancing down the promenade (complete with small manicured dog); nonnas sucking on spiney thistles as you wander past. One might wonder if you’ll wake up with a horse’s head in your bed.

It has been a welcome realisation that when approached apologetically and with me spouting truly terrible Italian, the bulldog frown lights up and one is welcomed in like a long lost daughter. It is in fact a joy to be surrounded by people who don’t say sorry every fifth word, humans who talk straight – and instead of smiling and then bitching, as the English might do, they just bitch to your face. It takes some getting used to, but better the devil you know, it could be argued. Today a waiter, initially shouting at us for sitting at the wrong table, ended up giving us his number for a future evening soiree.

It is a great country.

The climbing in italy is notoriously hard, and guide books prepare you for reducing your grade by two notches. As demoralising as this is, we have been thriving slamming the 5s and 6as. The technical slab climbing has been amazing, and today saw many routes dispatched.

Travelling for ages as we are on a strict budget, we have come up with some cost-saving strategies to keep us afloat. An audit of local supermarkets has involved staring agog at the shelves in the local Carrefour and Conad (affectionately renamed Gonad) where you can exchange vital organs for one salami and slice of cheese.

Lidl and Penny, however, provide value for money, and we are living off frozen vegetable mix instead of fresh, sausages, cans of Belgian lager for 70p, and £2.50 pizzas at the crag – the same cost as a packet of ham which would fill just two sandwiches. This is offset by the cost of travel, where a tank of fuel that allows us to drive for six hours dents the wallet by more than £120.

Yesterday we took the hit and smashed down to Sperlonga below Rome, a coastal town with some climbing and fancy vacation scenes. Not our cup of tea but it has been a joy to watch the prancing and exhibitionism.

We visited the local hilltop geological wonder in Gaeta, where a cave slices the peninsula in two.

As intruiging as the town was, Jem was more interested in reviewing the industrial practises of the rope access technicians, who apparently were one wrong move from plunging to their imminent demise.

One does feel slightly revealed walking around in shorts and vest top in 22 degree heat when the locals are still dressed up in trendy leather jackets and downies, casting their beady eyes sidewards as we saunter past, sweating and panting in the heat. We have also been putting some work into expanding our dashboard family, which exhibits the finest of global tat, and will almost certainly execute the passenger in the event of an automobile accident.

Onwards we quest towards Brindisi over the next few days. Sending love to everyone at home.