The Dolomites are the dramatic mountain range that runs across northern Italy and form part of the broader Alps.  They are famous for their tall grey cliffs, jagged skylines and dramatic walking trails.  Julie and I had had a big dose of the familiar mountains in the Austrian Tirol but the Dolomites were new territory for us and since we were in the neighbourhood, more or less, we had to check them out.

We crossed the border after weaving our way around and over a couple of dramatic mountains and passing through the town of Lienz on the way to the postcard perfect mountain town of Cortina d’Ampezzo in Italy.  We were told that from Cortina the Dolomites would have you surrounded and that’s exactly the case – dramatic mountains in all directions, beautiful well-kept homes in the town and scattered on the lower mountains, the skeletons of ski lifts running upward in all directions.  Cortina looked like the real deal.

We camped that night at the top of Paseo Falzarego at 2,117 metres (6,950 feet), the air chilly, the mountains standing tall above us, the setting just sublime.  The next morning the carpark filled quickly with climbers and hikers, all fully kitted out and keen to get an early jump on the dramatic mountains that surrounded us.  We could have spent the day hiking amongst these mammoths or taking the cable car to the top but we pushed on, keen to explore more of the Dolomites.

The Dolomites actually started out as an ocean floor more than 200 million years ago but were pushed upward to form their vertical walls and sawtooth ridges that we all see today.  We weaved our way up and down and around these mountains, negotiating tight steep hairpin turns while avoiding the cyclists and Italian drivers that all seemed to be in a hurry.  With the camera clicking and our necks straining we eventually topped out at Passo Sella at 2,244 metres (7,360 feet).  All around us the mountains shouted for attention and by the number of people swarming over them in one way or another it seemed they had the attention they deserved.

We followed a series of secondary roads southward, avoiding the motorway and any large towns, loving the tootle through the small mountain villages with their mix of very old, old and relatively new buildings.  Many of these communities were not geared for tourists, they were just locals going about their business in a beautiful setting.  We loved it.

Ever southward, out of the giant mountains, through gentle slopes covered in vineyards, the sun beating down again, we reached the northern shores of scenic Lake Garda.  At the town of Torbole which touches this pristine mountain lake we found a typical European campsite, everyone packed in as close as possible, sardine camping we call it, where we parked Tramp and said hello to our very close German and Swiss neighbours.  We headed down to the gravelly beach for a bit of late afternoon Italian sunshine and a dip in the cool refreshing waters of Lake Garda.  The families were playing at full speed, the happy holiday mood was all around us.  Heaven.

We were aiming for the south of France around the coastal resort city of Nice to visit friends who live the idyllic life in this Mediterranean paradise.  But never one for straight paths, we detoured a little north to Lake Como which is cradled amongst the mountains of the southern Alps near the border of Switzerland.

Lake Como is a popular playground for the rich and famous.  It’s clear blue waters, high mountain walls and quaint seaside villages draws an international crowd and was absolutely sparkling when we arrived on a hot summer’s day.

Lake Como has an odd shape, like a stick figure with only two legs and a body.  We started at the town of Lecco at the foot of one leg and followed the narrow scenic road along the coast to the perfect holiday town of Bellagio, positioned on the peninsula where the two legs meet.   After lunch we followed the road down to the town of Como at the foot of the second leg.  It was a beautiful but exhausting drive, most times too narrow for Tramp and another car to pass, Italians driving too fast, the stunning scenery drawing eyes away from the road.

We pushed on to the Italian port city of Genoa, recently in the news when a motorway bridge collapsed, taking many travellers with it, and camped that night in a Mediterranean seaside town of Finale Ligure, our most expensive campsite in Europe, sardined in with our fellow campers, the last weekend of school holidays.  Europe in high season can be hard work.

The motorway from Genoa to the French border is a masterpiece of Italian engineering. The motorway is an endless series of dramatic bridges and tunnels, sometimes one immediately following the other, cutting across the high steep mountains that plunge into the Mediterranean Sea.   From the bridges you gain fabulous views of the vineyards and flower glasshouses that have been built on narrow terraces or the ancient homes that cling to the mountain sides.  Great stuff.

In a past life I worked for an international company that had their major development centre in the mountains above the historic French resort city of Nice.  We still had friends who live in the area, truly one of the most magnificent places to live in all of Europe.  We negotiated narrow mountain roads to the village of Roquefort les Pins and the home of Tristan and Sandy and their four blond children.  From the terrace of their beautiful renovated home we enjoyed a long lunch and caught up on old times, old business, mutual friends, our respective lives.  These guys are living the south of France dream.

After a quick visit to the picturesque old mountain-top village of Gourdon we skipped down the coast to another beautiful spot, the town just south of Cannes called Mandelieu to drink, dine and stay the night with Les and Tracy.  We had a hoot of a night, telling old stories, opening another bottle of wine, making up for lost time like we had seen them only yesterday.  And the next morning we headed down to their favourite beach for a swim in the Mediterranean and a croissant and coffee overlooking the sparkling blue water.

The French know how to do coastlines and maximise their pleasure, that’s for sure, and it seemed a bit rash to leave this beauty, climb back on the motorway and head south for Spain.  But with the clock ticking on our stupid Schengen visas and the focus on exploring the Iberian Peninsula before our time expires we had to make tracks southward.  Our time in Italy and France had been intentionally brief but we visited new places, enjoyed magnificent scenery and caught up with old friends.  What could be better?