Dominic Perry is spending the next seven days following the Ferrari F1 team from its base in Maranello near Bologna to the Hungarian GP near Budapest. He'll be posting regular reports as the journey unfolds...

There are some things in life that are designed to let you know that you've arrived in a foreign country. Of course, some of these are overwhelmingly positive: scents, sights and sounds can all evoke both a feeling of foreignness and make you deeply glad that you've made the trip.

Unfortunately airport baggage reclaim halls are not a place where you will experience anything other than a feeling of vague ill-temper and a mounting sense of frustration and impotence as your luggage fails to arrive.

And if like us you've been stood in a badly-air conditioned, strip-light-lit hall of motionless conveyors and annoyingly giddy Italian teenagers at Bologna airport for what seems like infinity then you begin to ponder national stereotypes and wonder why on earth it is taking quite so long to get our bags from the plane to the arrivals hall. Perhaps it's because it's Sunday, perhaps it's because it's late, perhaps it's a combination of these and the fact that the staff can't really be arsed.

Eventually the bags arrive and we put this one down to experience, but then our moods are darkened by a rental car desk - yes, you, Sixt - that's shuttered up. "They left five minutes ago," we're told by their neighbours at a rival, despite us pre-warning the sodding company that we might be late.

Of course, no-one else has a car to rent us either prompting much wailing and gnashing of teeth and more pondering of national stereotypes. Bloody Italians (I feel it safe to state this free from accusations of racism as my grandmother is from Naples and remains stubbornly Italian). It's only thanks to the help of the chap in front of us at the queue for Europcar - the last place open - that we finally, somewhat grudgingly, manage to persuade someone to hire us a car, an er... elegant Fiat Cubo. So thanks, mystery Piacenza-dwelling Italian with your box of cakes and flawless English - we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

So onward to Maranello and our hotel. The outskirts don't look promising: an endless procession of drab looking factories for, amongst other things pottery, salami and random bits of industrial what-not.

It's only when you reach the town of Maranello itself do you start to see a) the scale of the Ferrari factory and b) the fact that every damn shop, restaurant and hotel (save the Renault dealer opposite the plant, natch) trades on the prancing horse. Truly this is Ferrari-town. So now it's 2.10am, my head hurts and there's a full day ahead of us tomorrow.

It's now about 10am - outside is a sunny day and the full glamour of Maranello in all its A-road bisected light industrial glory is revealed. The only thing thus far different from say, being in Smethick, is the fact that it's very warm and that occasionally very fast, very load cars are being driven nearby: braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.