Erice is the perfect mediaeval hilltop town, beautifully situated for views across Trapani to the Egadi islands. Reached by a stunning 15 minute cable car ride, it is also, apparently, the ideal transmitting station for radio masts, mobile phone masts and satellite dishes.
The visual vandalism is soon forgotten in the atmospheric tumble of ancient streets. Primarily because, given the lack of space for a compact perambulator in the van, Chloe is strapped to my back and exhaustion soon takes over.
The Italian indulgence of children can sometimes lead to cultural misunderstandings. Despite the allure of the planet's finest ice cream, Chloe is insistent that all she requires for her happiness to be completed is a plain cone. Plain as in no ice cream. At all. When this is requested at the gelateria, the Italians naturally assume this is a northern European austerity measure, and the denial of a basic human right for this seemingly angelic toddler. So, with an avuncular smile they dip the end into ice cream and pass to an appalled Chloe. Meltdown ensues. Chloe is removed from the establishment, flustered explanations in pidgin Italian ensue. It's all a bit embarrassing really.
However, the arrival of Grandad, with a new Tiny Baby, has mollified her somewhat. The perfect campervan toy. Tiny. With tiny detachable shoes. And tiny removable trousers. And tiny removable jumper. I give it a week.
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