Posted: July 13th, 2009 | Author: Stephen Colling | Filed under: SOTO NEWS | Tags: Delivery | No Comments »
I am Stephen Colling – a founding partner of SOTO with David & Paul Sugars.
Now sixty-one years old, something of a traveller by nature and experience, the following is extracted from my journal of an epic journey in an aged Mercedes Sprinter Van last summer. Though factual, it is subjective, opinionated and coloured by the fact that it was not a holiday – perhaps others with more time on their hands may have a less jaundiced view of Southern Italy and its off-shore islands. However, I hope it also demonstrates SOTO’s commitment to customer satisfaction and service.
The reason I ended up volunteering to deliver three handmade four-poster beds to a tiny volcanic islet called Pantelleria marooned in the southern Mediterranean between Sicily and Tunisia, was that we could not obtain a sensible price or delivery date from any of the major carriers and the delivery was very urgent, according to the client.
By the time the goods were ready for delivery, it was very close to the absolute peak of the European high season with roads getting busier and busier building to a grand finale on the first weekend in August , when anyone with a grain of sense stays off the roads; unfortunately we did not have that option.
The most obvious initial plan was to drive to Genoa in northern Italy and take the ferry to Palermo in Sicily. However, at such short notice there were no bookings possible for freight vehicles until at least mid-August and even then embarkation could not be guaranteed. Even if it had been, the prices quoted were extortionate and the client would not wait any longer.
Day 1. Monday 28th July
The final decision to go was made spontaneously in the office and my wife was certainly somewhat taken aback when I called her to announce my imminent departure a mere hour or so after leaving the house with little or no thought that I would soon be embarking on a long journey of uncertain duration. Having dropped in to collect sandwiches and a small bag of essential wash gear and a few light clothing items, I set off around lunchtime from York, first aiming for central Norfolk to collect an old French table which we had agreed to add to the load as a favour. The roads in rural Norfolk are famously narrow, winding and slow especially in a large van and progress was not rapid. Fortunately my eldest daughter was able to put me up in her flat in north London that night.
Day 2. Tuesday 29th July.
Left Kentish Town in the small hours to avoid traffic and arrived good and early at the channel tunnel. A typically rapid and disappointing breakfast at the terminal was to be the main source of nourishment for the day. Once en route in France, I soon settled into the groove and drove steadily on autoroutes for 9 hours to Chamonix in the Alps, stopping twice to refuel both the van and myself. Out of season, Chamonix is not particularly inviting and it took some searching in the dusk to find anywhere open. I finally found the reasonably priced, very hospitable Chateau Aiguille de Midi. Here I was also able to enjoy a decent fixed price dinner and a superb bottle of local Savoie white wine on their terrace with a stunning view of the last of the sun just illuminating the peaks of snow topped Mont Blanc and its neighbours. This was a lovely way to end a long day. I settled the bill that evening and set alarm for another early start.
Day 3 -Wednesday 30th July
Left Chamonix at 5.00 am for the impressive and awesome Mont Blanc Tunnel. It was eerily deserted for its entire 8 mile length at that time of day and it was a strange feeling imagining the massive weight of Europe’s highest mountain above me for the quarter of an hour it took to drive through.
Once in Italy, I managed to get past Genova before the rush hour but as the day grew hotter the roads became busier, not much helped around Florence by huge roadworks impeccably timed to coincide with this the busiest time of the year. For the first time I was now acutely aware of the lack of air-conditioning in the old van, but I ploughed on south through beautiful Tuscany, Umbria, Lazio and Campania, reluctantly ignoring signs tempting me to deviate to fine wine making villages like Orvieto and Montepulciano, uncertain how far I would get in the day. Finally, in deepest Calabria at about nine o’clock in the evening the trusty old van and I wearily rolled into a small town called Pizzo at the very end of the toe of south western Italy. This was only a few miles from the ferry to Messina on Sicily and a very long way from the Alps. As it was again more or less dark it took time and much fruitless searching before I found the only hotel with a car park large enough to accommodate the van, the Hotel Marinella – don’t rush to look it up!
Tired but relieved to have found a place to stay, I was looking forward to a platter of the fine fresh seafood that Rick Stein would lead one to believe is ubiquitously available throughout Italy. In one word Mr Stein…cobblers! In the deep south west, where if it wasn’t the chef’s night off it should have been, a plate of luke-cold spaghetti impregnated with small pieces of India rubber claiming to be vongole (clams), mutely served, was a long way short of my hopes and dreams. It was not quite the gastronomic experience with which I had been sustaining myself for the whole day but as I was gradually discovering, was rather typical of the inhospitable, dour, suspicious nature of this impoverished corner of Italy.
Day 4 – Thursday 31st July.
Blearily taking my leave of Pizzo at 6.00 am vowing never to return, I soon reached the ferry port where still half asleep and hassled by various bogus ticket agents, I foolishly only booked a one way ticket (more anon).
The short but interesting crossing of the busy narrow Straits of Messina was a very enjoyable start to the day, disembarking on the north eastern extremity of Sicily in beautiful early morning sunshine. It is a surprisingly long way across the top of Sicily from east to west (over 200 miles) to get to Trapani, a tiny fishing and ferry port for Pantelleria and several other unlikely destinations. It was mainly a very enjoyable and scenic drive, apart from the anarchic traffic of Sicily’s main city Palermo along the way. But in true white-van-man style, I was soon pitching in like a local, butting in, carving-up, jumping red lights, speeding like a loon, changing lanes at random with no signals, obscenely gesticulating, whilst continuously blaring on the horn and generally behaving like a complete arsehole – it was the most fun I’d had so far.
Arriving in Trapani about midday in scorching heat, I had no idea how or where to book a ferry to Pantelleria, but with perspiring persistence managed to locate the appropriate ticket office. I secured a reservation in time for the afternoon sailing, although for some reason I could not book a return ticket (more anon). It was also here that I discovered that the company credit card had hit its monthly limit and would be useless for three or four days whilst the bank (HSBC!) took this long to clear funds as they did every month from our business account. Patience, never one of my strong suits, was just starting to wear a little thin. Matters were hardly improved by my mobile’s pay and go credit being used up at about £5 per minute, especially as most of the time was spent with the familiar ‘can you hear me?’ pantomime. Extraordinarily, reception at this outpost of Europe was far superior to that normally experienced in most of North Yorkshire, and somehow the office did manage to organise a hotel reservation on Pantelleria. It was nearly dark by the time the van and I disembarked after a very warm but serene seven hour voyage on a good-sized ship albeit one whose only refreshments amounted to coffee or water. Pantelleria’s tiny harbour was very picturesque populated by many colourful small boats, backed by a ribbon of colourfully lit bars and trattorias, with a single quay to one side capable of berthing this daily ferry.
I was very grateful for the pre-booking of the hotel with accompanying directions which led me about five miles out of town. Here an extraordinary large modern construction, the Hotel Cossyra Murcia, looked more than a little out of place in a very desolate barren and beach-free piece of coastline. I checked in about 20.30 to discover that the room rate had mysteriously risen by 20 euros during the intervening period from booking to arrival – that’s what I call inflation, but I was too tired to argue.
Another poor meal far from the eulogies of Mr Stein did nothing to prepare me for a most unnerving experience in the bar of this aspirational but seriously flawed establishment as it strives to mimic what it thinks a luxury 5 star hotel should be – though with service and cooking akin to Fawlty Towers, this ambition should long remain unrequited. Armed with the remainder of my bottle of over-priced thin wine from the restaurant, I selected a quiet table al fresco next to the beautifully illuminated Olympic size pool, preparing to finally relax. However only a few minutes of blissful calm had passed before I was shaken out of my dreamy reverie by a most hideous and appalling karioke event which suddenly broke out featuring the glitterati of Pantelleria. Most of the songs were American or English, performed, if that is the word, by the most unlikely collection of over-dressed individuals flaunting designer threads and jewellery to boggle the mind. Not one of the performers appeared even vaguely conversant with any of the songs’ original language or melody and the results were bizarre beyond belief or imagination – perhaps something along the lines of ‘The Sopranos do Phoenix Nights’ might come close. My only regret was that there was no one with which to share the truly surreal experience of seeing and hearing ‘Ayuh weeel surveeve’ performed by a WAG in a low cut top/high cut bottom Versace number, unsteadily balanced on a pair of Jimmy Choos and weighed down by gold bracelets, necklaces and rings with diamonds the size of dog biscuits.
Day 5 – Friday 1st August.
True to form for this part of the world, the client’s local representative did keep our 9 o’clock appointment three hours late. Eschewing pleasantries and with barely a word of acknowledgement, he curtly indicated that I follow his car to the villa. He then helpfully disappeared immediately as I tried to reverse the van down a perilous loose surfaced steep slope and into a very tight yard, where a surprised trio of local builders looked wonderingly at me, the van and its load of luxury items and wondered where it was all going to go. I was equally puzzled given the urgency we had been led to believe was imperative – it was clear that I had driven to nothing more than a building site where no habitable edifice would be ready for a very long time indeed. They decided eventually that we should unload the van of our beautiful hand-made furniture into the shed where they kept their cement, wood, door frames and tools. As it was blisteringly hot, I did not argue. Howver, unlike everyone else I had met so far in that part of the world, the builders were extremely friendly, cheerful and helpful and with all cargo now at its destination, we shook hands, they posed for pictures and with a cheery wave, I squeezed out of the steep drive extremely relieved to have accomplished the main purpose of the journey. I returned light of heart back to the tiny port of Pantelleria to purchase my return ticket to Trapani. Unfortunately everything was closed until 18.00.
Although there is nothing much of natural or cultural interest to amuse one in or on Pantelleria, especially when both shops are shut, a couple of bars stayed open and I was happy to accept the fact that it would necessary to pass the afternoon drinking cold beer, writing my journal and watching the boats in the harbour. The island itself is a tiny volcanic low-lying lump of black pumice with razor sharp edges. Little if any vegetation grows above ankle height and there are no beaches, only man-made platforms of concrete randomly poured over the rock with small ladders into the sea. Absolutely everything has to be imported except capers, which are grown commercially and are the only export. (One must assume that they are also self-sufficient in fish!) Unfortunately, during the WW2 the Allies gave the place their best shot, so to speak, flattening nearly every building, many of which, 60 years later, are still in their ruined state. The strategic significance in the Mediterranean as a base for enemy ships was the reason for this treatment and probably accounts for the less than hearty welcome I received by anyone anywhere at all. Recently it seems to have caught on as the place to go and though I tried hard, could not fathom one single reason why.
At the appointed hour of 18.00 and after trying two other ticket agencies and being rebuffed with the single word ‘Minardi’, I finally located and entered the office of the said Signor Minardi, a man of few words and by-now obligatory surly demeanour. It would appear that this gentleman has mysteriously acquired the sole concession for tickets to Sicily for departures the same day, which goes some way to explain why I could only buy a one-way ticket outward if you get my drift. The ensuing experience was singular to say the least. Despite the existence of a receptionist, what might have been a customer and doubtless definitely was Signor M himself, the office seemed to be quite unsure whether it was open or not. By now having had two earlier rehearsals, I knew my lines well and duly requested a ticket for that night’s sailing to Trapani, but I was ignored totally as if mute and invisible. Quite disconcerted, I just stood there lamely wondering what to do next, whilst this unlikely trio waited silently in crepuscular gloom as chatty as a group of Trappist Monks for about half an hour. This was quite a disturbing experience causing an attack of mild paranoia as the possibility of never being able to leave the cursed island was not one I had hitherto considered. Suddenly however, the cryptic sepulchral silence was broken by the lights flickering and their ancient computer slowly waking up and everything became clear in more senses than one, as the island’s electricity was restored to its part-time existence. Having my personal credit card debited for considerably more than the outward journey, I was nevertheless very relieved to be able to book a ticket off the island from the menacing monosyllabic Minardi. The ferry sailed at 23.00 hours and as the first on board, I was temporarily delighted to commandeer a plastic upholstered bench for sleeping purposes. Unfortunately my delight was brief when I soon discovered that sleeping was not going to be really possible as the crossbars of the bench beneath the meagre padding were strategically located to coincide with one’s hip bone whichever way round I tried and finding a suitable position became a futile pastime.
Day 6 – Saturday 2nd August.
Seven uncomfortable hours later I watched the sun rise beautifully over the tip of Sicily and decided that things could be worse. Unfortunately I was right – they could be and did get worse – it was Saturday, the first weekend day of the great Euro Italian holiday and on arrival mid-morning in Messina in searing heat, I was greeted with a scene where the whole of Sicily appeared to want to leave it, whilst the population of the Italian mainland had nothing but invasion of the volcanic isle in their collective minds. Because I had omitted to use my brain to book a return fare, I had to join a massive disorderly throng battling at the ticket booths. After actually fighting for a place in the vehicle queue including an invitation to a careless but cowardly coach driver to step out of his cab to receive a kick in the testicles for removing the nearside rear corner of my van, I was lucky enough to spot a new ticket window opening and in true Italian style hurled myself to the front of a new queue to leapfrog about a thousand people noisily and vigorously jostling at the other windows.
Back on mainland Italy, I started the hot sticky crawl north on the so-called autostrada, along with the huge volume of holiday traffic. By mid-afternoon things were not going well as I was still stuck south of Salerno. After several scenic but lengthy diversions from the half-built autostrada into the scenic wilderness of the southern Apennines, the roads did eventually improve. Mount Vesuvius came and went in the distance though without the compensation of a token eruption, and in a motorway services car park somewhere east of Rome I watched the sun set beautifully. I also bought several cans of a caffeine beverage called Red Bull which my son had assured me would keep me awake for hours. In fact I fell asleep in the cab of the van almost immediately but awoke a couple of hours later ready to go again. By now fortunately the roads had cleared greatly and I drove on to Genova in the early hours of Sunday, stopping a little further north near Alessandria for a couple of hours more sleep in the cab before passing through the Mont Blanc tunnel, spookily alone again, long before the crowds managed to block it later.
Day 7 – Sunday 3rd August.
I had now grown a beard, spent two nights with three hours sleep in total, but had saved our client the cost of several hotel nights and meals. Eager to be back with my wife and the gang at SOTO, I retraced my journey across beautiful, wonderful, civilised, courteous France and the Chunnel returning to my daughter’s flat in the early evening. Mission accomplished, smelling like a skunk with body odour, I showered and shaved and slept well that night!
I completed my return to York the following day, exactly a week and over 4000 miles since departure. We only charged the client the actual cost of the components of the journey, all receipts provided, and made every attempt to keep the cost to a minimum. To say we go the extra mile is something of an understatement!
Unfortunately thieves broke in to our office soon after my return and permanently borrowed my laptop containing all pictures of this trip – bastards!
Stephen Colling
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Posted: July 13th, 2009 | Author: David Sugars | Filed under: SOTO NEWS | Tags: Dave Sugars, SOTO | 2 Comments »
Hi there,
Welcome to our first post on the new SOTO blog. We have started this blog for several reasons but most importantly we have created it to share our burning enthusiasm for good design, ethical business and Thai themed products.
We have spent a vast amount of time, over the years, sourcing products ethically from parts of East Asia and we felt it was time to start sharing our knowledge and passion for build quality, creativity and design.
We also want to create an open forum of discussion on these topics as well as our products and the best ways to use them.
We have realised that we haven’t been sharing news with you and we felt that a blog would be a good place to start sharing it. At Soto we are committed to providing our customers with great hand made products and fantastic customer service.
We want to both engage and listen to our customers as I am sure you will have some good feedback and ideas for other things we could offer you.
Finally, I would like to welcome you to our initial editorial team which is made up myself, Paul Sugars our man in Chang Mai, Steve Colling finance and marketing, Joe McCelland SOTO home development, Lisa Norton our acquisition and new business. I am sure you will also be seeing lots of posts by Chris Norton from Dead Dinosaur, our external social media consultants who’ve helped us create this new blog.
Thanks for listening at this exciting time, now let the conversation begin.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Dave Sugars
Sales and new product development media and PR
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Teada is ready to make a ground-breaking shift of the centre of our candles range with the Candle Eclipse, coming soon in 3 colour Vietnamese lacquer.
If you’re planning to be in Thailand any time soon and are interested in the origin of Soto’s products, please send us a message and we’ll be happy to help. Although I might have to give up some of our hard earned secrets, I can point you in the direction of the best local markets, handicraft villages and Bazaars. If you’re not coming to Thailand for shopping, and it would be a waste of an opportunity to come only for shopping, then feel free to ask for any travel advice at all. We are not the lonely planet, but I have been in Thailand for 12 years, used to work in the tourism industry here, and know at least a few things that the Lonely Planet writers don’t know, or didn’t think to tell.
