Mr and Mrs Bean Go Camping in Puglia: Tales of Asian Loos and Other Inconveniences

Brand is all important on an Italian beach

Brand is all important in Italy. So before leaving for a camping trip to Puglia I had to invest in an expensive pair of sunglasses. How much you ask? Well, let’s just say more than the cost of a week’s camping, but the sunglasses play an important part later on in our story.

To get from Ancona, our point of departure, to Puglia is a long, long drive. As you go further South in Italy, it becomes hotter, the driving becomes worse and many more of those Southern Italian stereotypes turn out to be true. Like, for example, the food becomes incredibly tasty and jam-packed with flavour.

We arrived at our campsite near Gallipoli, to be greeted by a friendly youth dressed as a woman with very large fake breasts. The type of get up that would have my mother saying, what’s the country coming to, with moral standards like these?’ Our own immediate question was whether or not this had anything to do with Gallipoli’s reputation as cool gay resort of the moment, but it turned out to be just the meet and greet routine of our campsite.

I should probably add at this point that I am more into glamping than camping, and more familiar with the type of campsite in Devon or Suffolk where we are alone, camping alongside some illicit Scrumpy marketing operation or out the back of a pub. But this year we were going on holiday with some friends with kids, and what is a minefield of hassles for adults is a bundle of fun and adventure for children.

So this supersite, with campervans, caravans and hundreds of tents was a big shock to the senses. Never mind, once our transvestite welcomer had done his piece, an almost Germanic efficient system processed us and sent us on our way. Tents these days are so easy to erect that there is nothing worth mentioning about this aspect of the trip. Except perhaps for tent pegs. Whilst we managed to keep feet and toes intact, the odd primal scream during the night provided evidence of an impact. Seasoned ‘campies’ use bottles of water and other artefacts to anchor guy ropes and ensure there is no tent peg directly outside the entrance for that long hike to the loo during the night when senses are part functioning and eyes half shut.

And there we have it. The hardship of camping is not cooking, for you can always eat out. It’s bumping into tent pegs, long treks to achieve anything and loos, loos, loos. How can you schedule your morning ablution ritual when several hundred others are playing the same game? It was quickly apparent that there was one proper loo for 8 other Asian loos, and everyone of course wanted to use the real one, more or less at the same time. Some made their intentions obvious, queuing with newspaper in hand or clutching a packet of fags. For some reason these days Doctors never seem to mention the health benefits of cigarettes keeping you regular, especially when mixed with real ale. Unfortunately the Germanic management systems did not stretch to a loo booking system.

I swear the proper loo was occupied for four solid, continuous days, a testament to someone’s cooking prowess or lack of roughage in their diet, or else someone quietly passed away in there. Why would anyone want to install an Asian loo anyway? They may be easier to clean but labour is cheap in Southern Italy.  Few Westerners have the muscle tone to effect a proper squat and the shoe (or worse foot) -drenching flushing action was completely out of place in a site boasting four stars and campsite of the year awards. So luxury is really having your own Western loo, or an en suite bathroom, in which to read the Financial Times or your chosen literature at your leisure or these days do a little nerding on your I Phone. Bring on the Winnebago!

The Bean moment occurred in the campsite supermarket. In Italy, you have to don surgical gloves before selecting your fruit or vegetables. One size fits all and what may easily fit some dainty Southern Italian becomes a somewhat tight fit on my large hands proportionate to my six foot four frame. So after a small struggle I carefully selected six ripe peaches, placed them in a bag and continued around the supermarket, heading for the dairy counter. Suddenly I realised the bag had burst and I was leaving a trail of peaches behind me. Easy, I returned to the fruit counter, donned fresh surgical gloves, picked up the peaches, returned them, and selected some replacement ones. Oh, and I had to take some of those lovely ripe plums too for good measure. Once more I set off for the dairy counter. Once again I realise I am leaving large clues of my progress, this time with a trail of ripe plums, deposited like some incontinent dog’s doings at one metre intervals.  More surgical gloves, several long minutes later testing plastic bags, and soon I am making good progress to the dairy counter again.

Ping! A lens falls out my very expensive sunglasses. I stop to retrieve it, thinking some surgical gloves would have come in handy at this point as my hands are a little greasy with suntan cream, but refusing to countenance yet another trip back to the fruit counter. It doesn’t matter that my vision is now blurred until an old lady asks me to help her by taking something off a high shelf. I can barely make out the packet, so it’s not too surprising perhaps that I dislodge several packets and start a sizeable avalanche of spaghetti, orechiette, fusilli, penne and macaroni. Time taken to buy 6 peaches, 6 plums, a few yoghurts and a loaf of bread? Approximately 45 minutes. Percentage of friends involved in hunt for me: 100.

Most things went smoothly after that until we decide to use the Laundrette on the last night. Here’s a little Bean test for you. There are four machines. Three are white and an unknown brand, the fourth is stainless steel and states ‘Miele Professional’. None actually states anything useful like ‘washer’ on it in any language. Which would you choose? We place all the clothes in the shining Miele, select the programme ‘Coloureds’, and the only strange feature is that there is nowhere obvious to put the soap. Maybe this is the professional part of the machine we think, and throw in some detergent through the main door. In with the token and the Miele Professional bursts into life. It is only then that the noise it makes and the emission of hot air gives the game away that it is in fact a dryer………..Never mind, stop the machine, wash the clothes by hand, return them to the dryer and what should have taken 5 mins to load and leave has taken nearly one hour. Of course, nowhere did it say that this machine was a dryer, and with that your Honour we rest our case!

The point is with camping, you really have to organise or plan very little entertainment or sightseeing because you will spend most of your time queuing for the only non Asian loo, trailing 5 mins backwards and forwards to the shower block to wash dishes, get the shampoo/towel/toilet paper/shaving foam/soap or whatever else you have forgotten, or performing other basic tasks. But in this campsite it probably does not matter if you have no time to go out. The best meal we had all week was in the campsite restaurant and it was dirt cheap to boot.

Below left: these sea urchins did not stand a chance. An Italian delicacy despite or because of their dreadful flavour, reminiscent of  Durian fruit to which they bear a surprising physical resemblance

Below right: the Beans enjoy a drink just as the loo became empty