Turtmann Valley, Switzerland - White van man

White van drivers can drive you crazy. I had one right up my tail as I cycled through a long tunnel on the Simplon Pass, my route from Italy to Switzerland. But I didn’t mind this time … the white van driver was Bart in his camper!

Those of you following my bicycle blog will be expecting tales of the hardships of tent life and the challenges of the long road home but be prepared to be surprised … even shocked! As, for a short time only, I have swapped the tent and the bicycle for boots and a campervan. One week ago, on a cold, grey day, up in the late winter snows, I pulled up onto the 2005m Simplon Pass, one of the few Alpine passes open at this time of year, and found what I’d been looking for … a large white van, with two high windows, a satellite dish and a good-looking Belgian man!

Three weeks after parting in Italy, Bart and I are back together for a spot of walking in the Alps. Our base is Bart’s campervan … it’s a bit of luxury compared to my tent with kitchen, a bathroom complete with a hot shower, lounge/dining area and satellite TV so we can snuggle up and watch movies on the cold evenings. There is a part of the van that Bart calls the “garage” where all the play things are stored – several bikes, skis, snowshoes and sledges. Above 2000m it’s still winter in the Alps and on our first day in this valley we sat at the door of the van and watched as a north wind brought fresh snow to our little camp spot and the mountains and glaciers that rise sheer above us. But where the snow has receded colourful Alpine flowers poke up through the ground, as do the frisky little marmots that we see everywhere. The van has wifi for internet access, no matter that we are currently parked up in an empty dead-end valley. Don’t ask me exactly how it works! And yes … there are aluminium chairs … though it’s been a bit chilly for sitting outside.

Before we tucked ourselves away in the Turtmann Valley for a few days with the cupboards well-stocked with food, we took a short detour and cycled up to the swanky tourist resort of Zermatt. The bikes were chained up and we hiked high into the woods through gorgeous villages of wooden chalets before putting on our snowshoes and trekking through the snow to get a spectacular view of one of the most famous mountains in the world, the Matterhorn. It’s sheer rock walls rose above us into a blue sky as a cold wind whipped across the little top that we had climbed for a good view. We took the express route back down on our plastic sledges. Here in the Turtmann Valley, the van is parked up beside the river where we take our water and each day we walk up into the snow-covered mountains above us. Sometimes we are hiking through the forests alive with cuckoos, deer and squirrels and above the forests we strap on our snowshoes to get higher up into Alpine peaks, passes and cirques for sweeping panoramas that take in another famous mountain, Mont Blanc. On the way back we are always looking for a good slope and some hard snow to sledge down.

And at the end of each hiking day, I can come back and enjoy a relaxing coffee in the white van with my white van man!

Photos and words on Flickr.

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Lago d'Orta, Italy - A day in the life of ... ME

6am I’m up with the sun in a campground south of Bologna. It’s the day after I cycled over the Ponte Vecchio and north out of Florence. Campground was cheap for these parts at 10 euros but it is right beside a highway, a railway line and another highway under construction. Lovely! 

6.45am After a bit of kit packing I’m eating breakfast – corn flakes with sliced banana and dried fruit and nuts mixed through, followed by a fruit smoothie made with the rest of the milk and handy little sachets of fruit puree that you get in the shops, followed by coffee. 

7.30am Fully packed, on my bike and on the road, joining a stream of rush hour traffic heading into Bologna. Shortly after, my secondary road merges without warning onto a stretch of Italy’s A1 motorway. Ooops! I’m off again in under a mile, before the “polizia” pick me up and choose another road towards the city.

9.15am After an array of junctions and highway flyovers, I’ve found the right road west and I’m pleased I’ve navigated successfully across the outer urban sprawl of Bologna. I reward myself with coffee and a mini meringue at a “pasticceria”. I have to join one queue to get my meringue, a second queue to get my coffee and a third queue to pay for it all. Italian efficiency!

10.45am I stop for my second breakfast of a banana and rice cakes with Nutella and pick up things for lunch at a little supermarket in Anzola in case I don’t pass another one before everything closes for siesta. A local cyclist, a mature lady in full hair, make-up and designer outfit, chats to me. She thinks I’m very brave to cycle alone. People have said this to me throughout the trip and they say I must be very strong to which I reply “no, just very slow”. 

1.30pm I pull over into a village park in Ravarino for lunch - a stack of rice cakes with cheese and tomato, dried fruit and nuts, some rather expensive cherries, a 100g chocolate bar and an apple. I’ve enjoyed the morning’s cycle as I’m now rolling easily across Italy’s plains, a welcome relief from the never-ending, steep climbs of the mountains. The towns here may not be as spectacular but they are pleasant, homely, full of cyclists and empty of tourists. There is always a little treasure to find when you cycle onto a beautiful piazza or across a gorgeous old bridge. I lay out my laundry that I handwashed last night to dry in the sun. 

2.45pm I’m stopped on the outskirts of the large town I have to cross today, Carpi, trying to figure how the roads in front of me relate to the map – they don’t really. A local cyclist, Luca, pulls up beside me and offers to cycle with me across town to show me the way and I get a little tour into the bargain as we weave our way through the network of bike paths which are such a feature of towns in this part of Italy. Carpi was another little treasure with its enormous piazza overlooked by the castle and church, and its trendy pavement cafes tucked under the colonnades. It’s a stinking hot day now - I drink a cold can of coke in the piazza.

5pm After crossing more flat miles of farmyards, orchards and flooded fields of rice, I arrive in Guastalla and buy groceries from the Co-op for supper and tomorrow morning’s breakfast. I only buy a few things to add to what I’m already carrying but it comes to 10 euros. I’ve been amazed throughout the trip how expensive groceries are everywhere and I didn’t budget for that or for eating as I much as I have. I also get as much water as I can carry on the bike as I don’t know where I’ll be camping tonight or if I’ll have a water supply.

6pm No campgrounds on my route today so I’m starting to look for a spot to camp off to the sides of the quiet back road that I’ve chosen for this reason. I see a bike path heading into the trees and turn off onto it. It joins the banks of a huge river, the Po. I’m sure I’ll get a spot along here but cycle further to make sure I’m well away from the road access. I find a picnic table with a bit of mown grass beside it and decide this will do for a camp spot. I cook supper at the picnic table – a delicious medley of rice, green beans, tuna and tomatoes followed by fruit, rice cakes with Nutella, coffee and some sultanas. I have enough water left to wash off the worst of the day’s suncream, sweat and dust.

8pm A local cyclist stops for a chat. I ask him if its OK to camp here. He says there are lots of “serpentis” and there is a better place a mile further on. I don’t need much persuasion to follow him! It’s getting dark but we cycle to a restaurant on the banks of the river, its bright lights reflecting in the water. Next to it there is a sort of watersports club with an area for informal and free camping. There is a motorhome already there. I thank my second “road angel” of the day and with a shake of hands he disappears into the night. I pitch the tent as the sun sets over the Po, chuck everything inside and lock the bike to an adjacent tree.

9pm Write up my journal on the netbook and add up the distance I’ve cycled today (123km or 76 miles). Quick look at the map to note the route for tomorrow then lights out and I get off to sleep.

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Florence, Italy - Frenzy in Firenze

A long time ago my friends Graham and Andrew went on a group holiday to Florence. For years they have bored me with their tales of that trip – “Florence this” … “Florence that”. At last I can now bore them with my own tales! 

The cycle north to this beautiful city, which the Italians insist on calling Firenze for some reason, was an idyllic mix of rolling hills of vineyards and olive groves, and gorgeous little towns stacked on the hilltops … so many that I stopped taking photos or even remembering their names. It was always “Monte-something-o”, the clue to their lofty location being in the name. Some days I melted under a fierce sun and other days shivered in torrential rain. On those wet days I sat out the heaviest downpours in bars as every village has one. I had to remember to ask for my coffee “molto caldo” or it would come at a luke warm temperature, insufficient to heat me up after a soaking. The menfolk of the village can always be found sitting outside these bars during siesta. The amusingly-named village of Grotti had an electronic community notice board opposite the bar and so the menfolk sat there for hours, watching it spell out such fascinating facts as the pharmacy opening hours. It was the most exciting thing in Grotti. As I wasted away from malnutrition waiting for the “alimentari” to open so I might buy groceries for supper, I joined them. The pharmacy in Grotti is open … like most things in Italy … hardly ever! 

The last section of the ride has been most notable for a few little acts of kindness. One evening, after a long day of cycling and without a campground on my route, I was struggling to find a spot to put up the tent. It’s usually not a problem – late afternoon I simply start looking for a dirt track that heads off the road into the woods and somewhere along it will be a perfect little place for my tent in the dappled sunshine below the trees. But that day I just couldn’t find it. So I ended up asking a chap who was working in his garden if I could camp in the field next door. He said “yes” but as I was getting the tent out, came down to tell me that I could use the empty apartment below him instead. He gave me the key and that night I enjoyed a sofa-bed, a kitchen and a hot shower! Then there was the greengrocer who gave me free bananas when he learned I was cycling to Scotland and a kindly campground manager who donated milk and fruit when the shops were closed again. 

A few more miles and I rolled into Florence which was a bit of a shock as traffic, tourists and souvenir stalls crowded the narrow city streets. These last two weeks I have been cycling in a different world of quiet rural villages going about their business where bent-over grandmothers sweep the pavements and old men in flat caps poke about in the woods along the empty back roads. I’m not sure what day it is and I’ve forgotten who is Prime Minister … though I hope it’s not still that Thatcher woman. If you want lots of cultural information about Florence, you are reading the wrong blog! I simply had a pleasant time on a grey, wet day ambling aimlessly along the banks of the grotty Arno and crossing back and forth on the famous Ponte Vecchio with its quaint little jewellery shops. Yes, I admired the Duomo and the Baptistry doors, and giggled with the girls at the many naked statues of well-endowed men at the Palazzo Vecchio. But my favourite sight in Florence was Il Porcellino, a beautiful, life-size sculpture in brass of a wild boar tucked away in the Mercato Nuovo. I placed a coin in his mouth which is said to bring good luck and rubbed his snout to ensure a return to Florence. Judging by its shine, millions of tourists have done the same.  

I know this is an outrageous thing to say about one of the world’s most famous cities but I wasn’t blown away by Florence. A couple of days before I had cycled through a tiny town to the southwest of the city called San Gimignano. With its ancient towers and narrow streets reaching into a blue sky above a delightful Tuscan scenery of red-roofed farmhouses amongst rolling hills of vineyards and olive groves, I thought it oozed much more charm and magic than its more famous neighbour. But what do I know? 

I do know this … that my friend Andrew wrote a funny story about that holiday to Florence all those years ago and he’ll be peeved that I stole the title which was … Frenzy in Firenze!

To see new photos on Flickr - click on the Flickr link on the right then on the Italy folder!

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Barrea, Italy - I smell ... therefore I am!

Since arriving in Italy by ferry from Greece, campgrounds, and therefore showers, have been quite hard to come by. And so I think that maybe … if you were to stand too close to me … you might say that I smell! 

The first day of cycling in Italy for me and Bart was a dreary ride up the ugly coast north of Brindisi, where our ferry arrived. But at least on the first night we found a lovely camp spot and put the tent up inside an old cow shed in an olive grove. I do mean lovely! It was a beautiful old building with a large arched doorway and all its original features … except the cows! We soon left the coast and cycled up into the hills that form the spine of Italy. Here we found attractive old towns with sunny piazzas overlooked by grand churches and old men sitting outside cafes. We cycled up higher into the hills where the little villages became clusters of flat-roofed buildings stacked precariously one on top of the other on vertical mountainsides or, annoyingly for the loaded cyclist, on the very top of the hills, like the pretty old town of Melfi. I must admit that we did get a shower in Melfi as we stayed in a hotel – a treat from Bart at the end of our time cycling together. Bart is now forging ahead of me to catch his plane back to Belgium. Already I miss him and snuggling up in the tent together but we’ll meet again in a short time. 

Cycling solo again, I battled headwinds across the ugly but appropriately named area of Benevento where the only place I could find to camp was behind the football pitch above the small village of San Salvatore. I laughed to myself in the evening as I thought I had found a quiet spot but didn’t count on football practice starting and the floodlights being switched on full-beam! Next day, I started cycling big climbs over 1000 metre passes up into the spectacular mountains of Abruzzo, Lazio and Molise National Park. My efforts were rewarded by views of pretty villages at the foot of snow-covered mountains and quiet roads that wound their way through spring woodlands awash with wildflowers – I recognise the yellow primroses and purple cyclamens – and resounding with the calls of cuckoos and the drumming of woodpeckers. I found a beautiful camp spot on a grassy ledge above the village of Pizzone with the mountains all around. I’d been looking for a spot to pitch the tent in the late afternoon but the mountainsides were so steep that my tent would have slipped down like butter off a hot knife. At last I came upon a small farm with surrounding woods and terraced fields. I asked the farmer, who was chopping wood and tending his goats, if I could put my tent up for the night. He said yes with a sweep of his hand across the landscape that seemed to say “help yourself to any spot in Italy”. The view was gorgeous down the valley, especially after dark when the lights of the villages twinkled like those on a Christmas tree. Even the smell of manure overwhelmed my own smell on another evening without a shower! 

Today I am in an idyllic mountain village called Barrea but I have the triple delights of a campground, internet and a shower! So tonight I do smell again … but at least I smell of roses! 

Photos on Flickr - again, not many as the weather has been mostly grey and wet.

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Igoumenitsa, Greece - The silence of the lambs

Let’s get some things straight. I don’t do fashion or make-up; I don’t do babies and small children; and I certainly don’t do dancing. But somehow, at some point cycling somewhere in Turkey, I promised Bart that I would do traditional Greek dancing once we got to Greece. As we neared the ferry port for our boat to Italy, I thought I had got away with it!

As soon as our ferry from Crete had docked at the port for Athens we jumped on our bikes in the half light of early morning and started cycling north, eager to make a bit of fast time. But the weather had other plans and again and again over the next few days we found ourselves cycling through heavy downpours when we couldn’t even see the road for torrents of muddy water. We warmed ourselves in dark, smoky roadside cafes where the old men of the little villages we cycled through gathered in the mornings. We even checked into cheap hotel rooms a couple of times to escape the wet. As we cycled on through misty mountain towns we noticed many households were killing and skinning sheep as gunshots rang out across the valleys, silencing another poor sheep or lamb. We soon learned that Greece celebrates Easter one week later than Western Europe and that mutton is the traditional dish served on Easter Sunday. We also learned that on Easter Sunday every shop and every gas station and every restaurant is closed! And of course … we had no food … only the smell of roasting mutton drifting across the road. On empty stomachs we pedalled north then took a quiet road along the coast where we lingered over the map beside a campground that looked closed, trying to decide our best options for finding food and a place to pitch the tent. Within seconds we were being ushered inside to join the family for a traditional Easter lunch!

A whole sheep was roasting on the barbecue and the stereo was belting out Greek music as bottomless glasses of wine were pushed into our hands. Then the traditional meal was served - the sheep entrails were difficult to stomach but the mutton itself was delicious. And, of course, the Easter celebration wasn’t complete without some traditional Greek dancing and, with a bit of tuition from our hosts, I was able to fulfill my promise to Bart! As we board our next ferry across the Ionian Sea, I’m now looking forward to picking up some Italian fashions!

More photos on Flickr – not many but it’s been too wet to get the camera out!

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