Monday 15 December 2008

Hello there all !

Sorry it has been a while, and sorry that this is not posted from Italy. As many have gathered, I decided to return to England after the Citta Eterna, following a gruesome few days being treated rather less than charitably by nuns. It wasn't just the nuns fault, but it felt like the final straw after two months of exalted and terrible extremes: Italy is a lovely place, but my it is disorganised. To be frank, negotiating The System was driving me insane. Nothing works, or rather nothing is predictable, so one is constantly trying to stave off disaster. Since the Italians are individually extraordinary, disaster was always averted, but not being able to count on anything has its downside. So, given the warnings of death and kidnap, and one or two rather unpleasant encounters in Lazio, plus the sense of the mort de la saison, I decided to come back, cultivate a little patience, and hope that the army deal with the Comorra before the spring. Then, I shall fly into Rome, pick up the Via Appia, and continue where I left off. 

Just in case you perhaps don't understand why I despise and love this country in equal measure, I should like to share with you what happened as I left to fly home. 

I took the Via Appia south, which was a hideous A road and dual carriageway, but, according to the (rubbish) maps, the only route to Ciampino. Once there, I asked the man behind the counter what I needed to get my bike home. The man from Easy Jet said I had to purchase a bike bag. The man from Ryan Air told me to turn my handlebars around. Hence, i phoned my brother (therefore saving 200Euros) and got a flight the next day with O Leary's (alleged) charlatans. 

On returning, naturally enough, it turned out that it wasn't so easy. Ryan air were keen to charge me 15euros per kilo over the 15kg limit. Since I have a bike, you can imagine this turned out to be quite expensive. Like many others, I duly spent some time digging out the heaviest things and putting them into carry on luggage. 

As I stood, at the counter, frankly pretty furious with Mike O Leary and the intransigent rudeness of the silly bint at the desk, a bald headed chap emerged from somewhere and began to take a keen interest in my bike. Giving it the once over, he confessed he used to be a cycle racer, and asked me what I was doing in Italy. We got chatting, as ever, as I told him my adventures, and he asked me why I was going home. 

Now, since he was nice, I toyed with the idea of lying, but eventually, I decided to be honest: I was sick and tired with Italian bureaucracy and inefficiency. I longed for (can you believe it?) Germanic orderliness and things that worked. I was going home to recouperate and marshall my forces to enable me to tolerate another two months of extreme joy and despair. 

Rather to my surprise, he shrugged and agreed with me. 
"Even for the Italians, Italy is exasperating', he said. 

Having given me advice on where to go and what routes were interesting, he was about to leave, when it suddenly occurred to him that the contents of my panniers were all over the floor. He asked me why, and following the honesty is the best policy ethos once again, I told him, 
"Because of the bloody, mercenary, deceitful S**!!ts at Ryan air. "

Nodding in understanding, the man turned to the woman behind the counter. 
 'If this girl is over the weight limit, forget it' he said. 
I goggled in horror, only now seeing the little Ryan Air badge. He merely winked and smiled. When she protested about 'the computer' he snapped back, apparently totally disinterested in her excuses.  
"Just fix it! There is a queue."

Thus I checked my luggage, free of surcharges, and was kissed on both cheeks and sent home.

It didn't end there, amici: passing through security, I was stopped. A handsome Customs officer  informed me I had a knife in my bag. Dash it all!  I had unloaded my first aid kit into my hand luggage, and my Swiss Army knife was in the box! I shook my head and explained, 
"I had to unload my baggage. Is there any way I can go back and check another bag?" 
The guard, looking rather handsome and dashing, may I say, in his uniform, shook his head, "You haven't time."
"Can I send it by post?"
He shook his head again. 
"But it was a present from my brother!" I wailed. "I need it for my bike: its got a bike tool on it!' 
This, it seemed, was the secret code word; the Open Sesame for the Italian Customs.
"You have a bike?" His eyes gleamed. 
"Yes, I just checked it through security."
"Have you, by any chance, any tape?' 
Since, like all cyclists, I carry gaffer tape like a security blanket, I fished in my pocket and drew out the cyclist's answer to all ills. He took it off me, tapped his nose and winked. 
"No promises; but wait there, Signorina. I'll be back."

With that Terminator announcement, the Italian custom's man disappeared whilst I awaited the fate of my knife. Ten minutes later, he returned, giving me the thumbs up sign. 
"I have taped it beneath the luggage label, so they won't see." 
And thus, the wonderful Italians _ for the second time in Ciampino - reminded me why I love and loathe this place. Nothing works, because no one obeys anything inconvenient. They love nothing more than doing exactly what they want. If what they want is against the law, rude, inconvenient...well, its unfortunate, but that's just life. Rules are mere guidelines, there to be assessed in individual circumstances. If they don't roughly concur with what suits, they can be ignored. As a result, the System, usually byzantine and stupid on paper, becomes even more utterly unworkable in fact. I doubt I have ever been to a more ill-disciplined country, nor a country with a more healthy sense of pragmatic tolerance. Everything about Italy is unmanageable, mad and infuriating. I have never been so emotionally labile than in the two months I spent here. But neither have I seen people so ready to help. People rise above the madness with a charm which is infectious. It is chaos, but it is rather marvellous, too. I both despise and adore Italy; it certainly isn't boring. It really is, on all levels, a place of operatic extremes. 

Ciao for now. Watch out for the springtime!

Vx

Thursday 2 October 2008

Hello again. This time from Umbria, although only briefly as tomorrow I drop into Viterbo and hence Lazio, home to a football team for whom Paul Gascoigne, I believe, once played. Oh, and the Citta Eterna...Caput Mundi...Rome!!

But for me, despite the temptation to plunge along the SS No. 2 Via Cassia, and finsh my pilgrimage, Viterbo holds an allure which cannot be denied. Not only one of Italy's most beautiful Renaissance gardens, but the Terme dei Pape - the Pope's own personal sulphurous mud bath. Yes, it is my intention to spend the day blobbing in gloop and having some handsome Italian give me a massage. I am glad to say that I don't think Pope Ratzinger is due to join me, as we all know the German's predeliction for letting it all hang out in the steam room.

But rather than future delights, what of the past, I hear you cry? (you really should modulate your voices). Well, Florence and Umbria have heartened me somewhat, despite the continued travails of the non-open tourist offices. Having seen the cave where St. Francis of Assissi hung out before they built the Basilica of his name, I also feel rather more fatalistic about things. If F of A could live in a 2 by 4 scrape in the ground, I'm sure I could tolerate a night in a field. (though he did die of TB of the spine, so more than one night is not recommended.

But, to be honest, Tuscany's wonders have won me over - most obviously in the stunning 'Renaissance landscapes' of the Val d'Orcia. They are competely unnatural, designed even, by our forebears into an 'ideal of good governance'. But, oh, they are ravishing, and not only I think so, since they have been recognised as extraordinary by UNESCO.

Imagine if you will long slopes of ochre, chocolate and putty coloured land, dotted with the occasional lone cypress. Or long avenues of said cypress snaking along a road, or punctuating the sky along the ridgeline. Each shallow fold seems more perfect than the last, since the men who work this land are truly artists of the ploughshare. They work the fields into all sorts of shapes, so the ridges and furrows catch the light in different directions. It is so empty and tranquil after the big cities of Tuscany: almost a desert under the shifting shadows of an enormous cloudscape. I cannot imagine how it is in the height of summer. Absolutely simmering, and rather surreal, I shouldn't wonder.

On top of all this, of course, are more of Tuscany's gorgeous mediaeval villages, perched above the haze at around 500 m. I have to thank Albino of Saluzzo once again for guiding me to Pienza, truly the most glorious location of anywhere I have visited. The place itself is listed by UNESCO for being a perfect little mediaeval hamlet, but it is the huge panorama of the Val d'Orcia which makes it magnificent. In the morning, I walked along the parapet of the citadel watching the blue valley emerge below, and in the evening, I watched the long shadows fall and the villages glittering above the dark valleys. Radicofani, in the far distance, is the last bastion of Tuscany, and seemed to float in the sky at 800 m.

As you can imagine, all these hill top villages meant lots of slogging climbs, but I am getting used to the effort - reward bargain that is Italian cycling. A racing cyclist who passed me the other day sang out, quoting U2 I believe, 'It is a beautiful day', and I had to agree with him.

Since then, I have loitered with the Sisters in Cortona - a film set city (quite literallly, since they filmed Under the Tuscan Sun here). Despite its fame, it is really rather nice, with the upper town a delightful maze of alleys, Etruscan walls and olive shaded piazzas. Then Perugia, another Etruscan city and home to the famous mentor of Raphael, Perugino (Didn't like him either: very glossy and loud with these horrible little heads of cherubs everywhere). Thence to aforementioned Assissi, and one of the holiest places on earth, which hasn't stopped the Italians building a bloody great autostrada beneath it. But this didn't mar its splendour, at least not for me, since I was adopted there by the marvellous Rita.

Every time I think I have had my lot with Italy, someone like Rita emerges to persuade me otherwise. She was a tour de force; the kind who should work in the tourist office, since she did a lot better finding me accommodation than they did. They were shut - quella sorpresa - and so she took me under her wing and invited me into her shop and spent a good half hour ringing up nuns trying to find me a place for the evening. Since it was coming up to St. Francis's birthday, this was no easy task, but my, she was up to dealing with it. I don't know how many in the 152 convents and monasteries in Assissi she called, but I ended up with the Sisters of St. Brigid of Sweden (except they all seemed to be from India). Thus, I stayed long enough to see the famous frescoes of Giotto that literally changed the history of art forever. But I find I must go and eat, so you will have to wait for that, and the first use of empirical perspective, simple narrative, human scale and 3D volume...

You are, no doubt, relieved.

Ciao

Vx

PS Before I go, I must just mention the simple gorgeousness that was Todi. Another one of those turreted Town Halls with external stairs going to a balcony above the Piazza, just like a mediaeval painting. It occurred to me there that this is what Italy at its best is: the familiar backdrop for so much; from art to the settings of the plays of Shakespeare. Such places are still the hub of civic life: Todi's piazza was a throng of strolling people, old men taking coffee and children playing some kind of British bulldogs. There are times, usually on Sunday mornings, when the church has disgorged the locals into the square, when Italy more than lives up to its billing. Not in the big things, but in the small joys of day to day civic life. I am beginning to realise that Italy is about the extremes of pleasure and frustration.

All Roads lead to....

....Rome!

Just.

Technically, I am staying in the smallest sovereign state in the world, the Vatican City, but they don't have an internet cafe and the Pope is too busy to loan me his computer. But I do have a room with the City itself, and a real Room with a View, too, overlooking St. Peter's. And when I say 'overlooking' I really mean, 'next door', since it is to all intents and purposes on the Piazza. I can virtually shake hands with one of the ginormous statues on the collonades, and watch the queues of ant-like tourists from my bedroom window, marvelling at just how patient us camera wielders are when it comes to staring at famous buildings (my turn tomorrow, when I try and get into the Sistine Chapel).

How did I wangle this wonderous spot, I hear you ask? Well, it is all part of Being a Pilgrim and Being Lucky. Not, I hasten to add, because this was in any way organised. Rather to my surprise, there were no flags out and no Pilgrim welcome. In fact, there wasn't a reception spot of any kind, which struck me as rather surprising, given that Rome is the No. 1 pilgrim destination in the world for Christians. But, that notwithstanding, there is nothing. Niente. Rien. I was left wandering around feeling a little flat, being treated like just another Tourist. But I suppose I am really, despite 2,500 km of cycling, so I duly went to ask in the Tourist Office. They, of course, excelled themselves in being utterly useless, so I asked a passing posse of padres. (Posses of Padres are ten a penny round here). Having thus trapped a whole load of priests into showing Christian charity, I was directed to ring on the doorbell of the Franciscans. And since that doorbell just happened to be next door to the Pope, Wabbit and I will wake tomorrow to the bells of St. Peter's. (I know that Il Padre was looking forward to an audience with Wabbit, but unfortunately, we have arrived a day too late for that. Can't win them all, Benedict.)

Just as I was feeling rather pleased with this good fortune, another Funny Thing Happened On The Way to the Forum. (Actually, it was on the way to the Basilica, but I have been waiting about 2,000 km to say that!!). You know I mentioned those long serpentine queues, reaching half way around St. Peter's Piazza? Well, it seems that Being a Pilgrim has other advantages, if you are a girlie pilgrim and don't mind batting your eyelashes at the Swiss Guard. (Not an onerous task, I can tell you. At least, not given the Swiss Guard I got to bat my eyelashes at).

It happened thus: After being told that the Priest who could give me a Testimonial for completing the Via Francigena was away, the man in the TO suggested I go to the Sacristy. Since the Sacristy was in the church, this involved queuing. A lot. As I have the patience of a gnat when it comes to queues, I think I must have looked rather disappointed. Thus, showing a peculiar interest in doing his job, the man from the TO suggested asking the Swiss Guard, the elite force of the Vatican City army. So I did. And, my he was handsome that Swiss Guard. (And one has to be extremely handsome to look handsome in the red, green and gold stripes, puff ball skirt and funny hat, I can tell you. )

Anyhow, having lifted the barricade and escorted me up the stairs, (much to my delight and the consternation of the assembled hoards of queuing tourists), the Swiss Guard saluted me (I kid you not) and told me to come back if I needed anything. ('Anything at all', in fact, he reiterated) As a result I spent much of the time when I should have been awed by the majesty of St. Peter's interior having rather secular thoughts about just what kind of anything at all I dare ask for....

Even then, the pleasures didn't cease as preferential treatment was heaped on preferential treatment (and we all know there is no pleasure more uncharitable nor pleasurable than getting in ahead of a lots of Americans and Germans). When the assembled hoards were accosting the poor man from the Sacristy to bless their water, waiting dutifully behind the red cordon, I was ushered in, much to the surprise and envy of the multitude, merely to get a stamp on my Pilgrim Card. I have to come back tomorrow for the Testimonial, but I am not complaining if it means I get chatted up by the Delta Force of God and Switzerland.

But, seriously now. St. Peter's. It's quite big, you know. (Although I understand there is somewhere in the Ivory Coast, of all places, even bigger.) But...oh, I know I am going to upset you Italians, but it has all the atmosphere of a railway station. It is vast and wide, but it doesn't have warmth or any kind of spirituality. The building didn't move me so much as impress me. I gawped dutifully at the roof and the Michaelangelo dome, but it was an shock and awe not uplifting or intimate.

In fact, of all the churchs in Italy, only Orvieto cathedral has actually moved me. The difference? Well, my friends, Orvieto is Gothic. It is known as the Gilded Lily of Italy, and looks like a cross between a wedding cake and an altarpiece. But though the outside is stunning - all white and pale pink marble interspersed with gold mosaics - it is the austere, dark and cool interior that made me gasp with its beauty. A huge soaring vault - though without embossed arches - and that lovely Gothic sense of narrow height and the strange aethereal light from stained glass windows. There is something in the dimensions of Gothic architecture that, in and of itself, lifts the soul. At least, lifts my soul.

Nevertheless, I am pleased to say that I fulfilled my promise to Father Paolo, and will write to the Bishop of Pavia, as also promised. Thus, leg 1 at least, of my journey is complete and I am contemplating what to do about the next one. This has all become rather more urgent due to the news that the army have moved into Calabria, since there has been something of a killing spree going on by the Cormora (that's the mafia). Likewise, all I meet in Italy tell me I am half insane to contemplate going alone into Sicily.

So the options are thus:

1. Go for Sicily by boat from Salerno and back again, thence to Basilicata, skipping the toe of the boot and the Comorra.

2. Skip Sicily and take the Via Appia (??) to Puglia and thence up the Adriatic coast, avoiding the worse areas of drugs and vice and gangland violence.

3. Go for the whole caboodle and risk getting shot and coming back in a black body bag.

Mmmm. I am tempted to say 'You decide', but given what you made me do last time, I shall fight the temptation.

Will let you know after chatting things over with Jen and David and no doubt changing my mind many times.

Ciao!!

Vx

Sunday 21 September 2008

21st Century Grand Tour

Buongiorno Tutti!

Sorry it has been so long - I have been far too busy living it up in Toscana, attempting to cram my apparently far too tiny mind full of the all the treasures this land has to offer. Suffice it to say that I have now retired from the lists, beaten to an unaesthetic pulp, bleeding from every major orifice as all the knowledge gleaned from five hours in the Uffizi Gallery tries to find itself a place to stay. (I know how it feels, as Tuscany's other surfeit is the incredible number of people it manages to cram into its lovely towns.)

Today you find me in Siena, trying but failing to stir myself to some cultural heights and instead finding the allure of the glorious scallop shaped Il Campo far to difficult to resist. This, may I say, seems to be true of most people - tourists and Sienese alike. It seems that every town activity is conducted here; reading, basking, eating (illegal unless standing up but flouted by all Italians as a mere inconvenience), pretending to revise...everything except having sex basically.I suspect the Sienese birthrate is low.

It is an interesting observation, however, that along with the Piazza Signoria in Florence, these are the first town squares where the Municipality and not the Church has (literal) centre stage. Here in Siena, the frothy pink and white marble Gothic monstrosity (yes, I did say Gothic and monstrosity in the same sentance) is a mere side show. It is even a sideshow in the artistic treasures department, since the Palazzo Pubblico - you know the one, you've all seen Francesco da Mosta, its that huge battlemented sand -coloured job with the big old tower - is the main draw here too. Inside, though it does little to show off or educate about its treasures, are some of the most magnificent and instructive allegories you'll see. Room after room of them. There is one of the first realistic pictures of a landscape in art history (a Simone Martini, I think), and a rather jolly sepia toned fight scene by some chap called Vanni. But taking the laurels is the allegory of good and bad government that the Council of the Nine (sounds like something from the Lord of the Rings, but it was in fact the Nine Lords who used to run Siena) commissioned from some chap I've never heard of to remind them of how to behave. As a consequence, even despite the depredations of the dasdardly Florentines, Siena had its high point under their benevolent (ha!) rule

But lovely though Siena is, it is a mere sideshow compared to Florence, which is just bursting at the seams with Great Art. One afternoon I saw the greatest sculpture gallery in Italy. The next, the greatest gallery (some say) on earth. Lazing in the above mentioned Piazza Signoria, I sat in a Loggia beside great Roman artworks which would make the British Museum pale. And as I did so, I looked on not just one gigantic sculpture, but three, one of which was David, by Michaelangelo. Only the Greatest Sculpture on teh Planet.

Actually, it turned out that I was looking on a copy of David, since the Italians have a nasty habit of ripping out these great works and bunging them in a gallery. The generous would say this is for restoration and conservation purposes. I am beginning to think it is more mercenary than that. I don't understand why one needs to remove an altarpiece from a cathedral and put it in another bit of the cathedral called the Museo dell'Opera next door, unless it is to collect all the good stuff that is transportable and charge another 7 euros for us sorry punters to see the real thing.

Anyway, that minor grouch aside, I have a confession to make. I have to make it Sotto Voce, since if any Italian hears me I might be taken out and shot. You know that chap Michaelangelo Buonarotti? The best sculptor / painter / artist that has ever lived? Well, I kind of don't like his stuff much. The stuff I do like tends to be unfinished. I think this makes me a complete philistine and if I admitted this out loud, I would be extradicted or something.

The truth is I found MA's David a bit, well, camp. All I could think of when I saw him posing in front of the Palazzo Vecchio is the great Neo Renaissance Man, Dr Jonathan Millar's assessment of him - 'He looks like a rent boy trying to pick up a trick'. And you know, knee bent and looking slightly off centre, he really really does. His head is too big for his body too. That said, I didn't get to see the original at the Galleria dell'Academia (note not the greatest sculpture gallery in Italy but another in the same town...see what I mean. I think these blighters spread their stuff around deliberately...that or they have so much that they can't fit it all in the same place....).

Anyway, when it came to it, after two days of queues and pre-booking my Uffizi marathon, I simply couldn't bear the thought of another life time spent with Japanese, Russian and Chinese tourists. So I sloped off instead to some other church - Santa Maria Novella or something, - where they only had Masaccio's Trinity, the first use of scientific perspective in art, on the wall. Oh, and a crucifix by the great Giotto, who prefigured empiral perspective and thus the Italian Renaissance. Oh, and a whole heap of stunning frescoes by various of the world's greatest ever artists...Ghirlandaio, Vasari, Lippi...so consequently, no one else was there.

I have another confession to make, too, which probably makes me not only a philistine, but a totally hopeless case - I'm not that keen on Leonardo da Vinci. I know, I know. I'm expecting the Holy Roman Inquisition to arrive any moment. But every thing I've seen by him reinforces my opinion that he was a better sketcher than a painter, and its his unfinished works that boggle the mind.

So, I hear you asking, who in this crowd of genii (??? geniuses - I am becoming illiterate!!) did impress me amongst the 40 odd rooms of the Uffizi and the myriad more in the Bargello? Well, it is sculpture that has stolen my heart along with the frescoes - Donatello is rather marvellous, and his David is strangely appealing, despite the fact it was lying face down on a box being restored when I came in. Giambologna's colossal Neptune in the Piazza Signoria also has a strangely compelling quality - if only from its sheer size. But the thing that really captivated me and still holds me captive, was Cellini's bronze 'Perseo'. I'm not kidding, despite the fact that it is quite literally standing amongst the great works of Antiquity and the Renaissance in the Loggia beside the Palazzo Vecchio, you can't quite take your eyes off it. Even David and Neptune seem to be looking over, wondering who this young upstart in bronze is across the square. It is simply magnificent, full of movement and energy and a kind of Loki-ish mercurial and dangerous quality. The musculature on the back is astonishing and the grace and refinement of movement and balance makes this over-life size hunk of metal seem light. I know Cellini had a high opinion of himself, so he'd no doubt agree with my assessment, but honestly, if someone offered, that would be the piece I would take home.

I've just realised that in amongst all this, I haven't even mentioned Sandro Botticelli. Yes, his Venus and Primavera are as good as they look...but, oh, I could go on all day in this artistic name dropping, because the Uffizi storerooms make the National Gallery look crap. By the time I reached Raphael - he's somewhere around room 25, I honestly could hardly have cared less. The man himself could have been standing, giving an explanation of his paintings and I would probably have gone and had a cup of tea. When Caravaggio arrived at the very end of the expedition - I mean, exhibition - I literally whizzed by going, 'oh, yeah, they are quite good'. I felt a bit like Steve Martin in LA Story, when he rollerskates around the art gallery.

You'll no doubt be glad to hear, however, that it hasn't all been Grand Touring - a couple of days ago I was in Chiantishire. I hate to admit it, because I know the Blairs like it, but it really is very beautiful. It is another one of these places that feel like souped up England; England as it never was but ought to have been. Wooded ridges and rosehips in the hedgerows; bird song and tranquility. Of course, the English idyll idea only last as far as the huge villas, avenues of cypresses and olive groves. Then there are the long rows of vines, the Iron Giant of Chianti Classico, but not as neat and ordered as in Champagne. Nor in the patterned tesselations of Montferrato and Langhe. Instead, they are mixed with woodland and olives and the mountains are much bigger, so it isn't a monoculture. Consequently, I liked it much better, and could have cycled through it for hours. Well, I did cycle through it for hours, but given it was pouring with rain for half of it, I decided to cut it short and come here.

So there we are - caught up at last ! What a relief! I have been feeling guilty, living it large without letting anyone know. But I should perhaps also confess the other reason for my not writing, and that is I have been thinking of coming home. Until I hit Florence, and despite the loveliness that was Lucca, Italy had, I'm afraid, been driving me mad. It isn't the big stuff, but the little stuff that matters. Stuff like maps labelling places and marking roads. The fact that despite the fact the map tells you you're in the country, there are enough cars to fill a French motorway. The fact that Italian villages seem to spread outwards to meet one another in a series of Tam Oil stations and out of town crap. And that plastic bottles are a new species of hedgerow plant in many places and everywhere looks like it needs a good wash. Add to this the general rubbishness (that is the polite way of saying it) of the Tourist Offices and the fact they are never signposted and are located in the most illogical part of town (usually outside the main drag in some dreary suburb except in the biggest of tourist towns). Factor in the fact that finding them at all outisde said huge attraction and that they are apparently never open is another draw back. Plus their habit of closing on Mondays. Or every day that is not the weekend. Oh, and the fact that they don't know of one another's existence, so that I am always cycling 'blind', and you have the recipe for a very stressful holiday. But Florence and Tuscany have renewed my faith in that this is worth it, and hence I shall carry on for the moment. But, honestly, in Pisa I reallly had my moments of thinking of booking a flight home. And if the Torre Pendente can't stir your inspiration, surely something is wrong????

More anon. Things do seem to be getting better. Or maybe I am getting more tolerant of our exasperating Italian bretheren.

Vx

Wednesday 10 September 2008

Steep'd in Honey'd Indolence

I know that is the wrong poet for these literary shores, but I generally prefer Keats to Byron or Shelley (The only Byron I can recall is the fabulous Gaior; wholly inappropriate but wildly romantic: 'Who thundering comes on blackest steed with flashing bit and hooves of speed' (or something).

Anyway, today I discovered utter contentment. How can I convey the complete bliss of lying on hot rocks under a wide blue sky, listening to the swell plosh against the shoreline ? Or the deep contentment of occassionally slipping into the water and bobbing about on the wake of yet another vast yacht cruising past? Or watching the fishes shoal around the breakwater - little electric blue jobs, about the size of a mackerel, flitting about in swarming slivers. Then getting out and doing nothing again, perhaps laughing to myself at the sheer unalloyed pleasure of doing nothing at all. It only needed a bronzed God to emerge, Poseidon-like, from the waves, and my birthday would be complete.

Yes, another year has gone by. Thanks for all the messages and calls. As you can tell, it has been a bit of a blinder: wandering the hot and dusty footpaths of the Cinque Terre villages and lemon and olive groves in the morning and doing absolutely nothing in the afternoon. Nothing is such a nice thing to do after a month of being on the road, you know. Yet, already, I feel the call of the mountains and stealth bike, I fear, is also itching to be released from his (expensive) cubby hole here in Portovenere's poshest hotel and hit the road once more - for the Tuscan hills and Chianti shire. It is a tough life, I tell you.

Now, before I see just how many gelati it is possible to eat in one day (most of my calories seem to come in liquid (iced tea pesca) or semi-liquid (aka ice cream) form these days), I will summarise my plans for the next few weeks for all those who are talking or thinking of joining me (go on, you know you want to!).

1. Tuscany and Umbria for the rest of September, reaching Rome by October 3rd (hope you can join me Jen, David and Guilliamo! Be so cool to be there for Will's first birthday!!!!!!! In Rome!!!!)

2. Amalfi the week following (if you can make it Phil?), before getting the boat for Sicily (Val?? Still interested in seeing the old country again?)

3. Planning to monster up the adriatic as the weather gets worse and reach Ravenna by end October / early November (Dan, Fran, this will be the Abruzzi zone).

4. Then Bologna, Mantua, Padua, Ferrara etc. in some kind of logical order before Venice and the Veneto (Rob, still okay to drop round yours and say hello to the family?)

5. Crossing the Alps again by the Reschen pass (1,500 m) Hopefully it will still be open in mid / late November, otherwise I guess I'll stop around Trentino. (Gill, these will be the Alps again, if you really want mountains!!)

Old Hags - that Etruscan spa has a place waiting for us, with hot and cold running masseures, you only have to say the word.

Off to have a slap up meal and sing myself happy birthday en terrasse now.

Vx

Tuesday 9 September 2008

Lazee Dayz amongst the Maize

Hello there, Peeps

You find me in fine spirits today despite edging ever closer to another annual milestone. But since I feel I am, like Merlin, getting younger with every hour I spend in Italy, I don't really mind. I especially don't mind since I am spending my compleanno basking on the shores of the Tyrrhenian se, aka the Mediterranean (apologies for spelling). I am on the edge of the Cinque Terre, and will shortly be holed up in the most expensive and luxurious B and B or hotel I can find in Portovenere, from where I can take a boat up the coast, or to an island complete with monastery..there is no limit to the joy, I can tell you. Even more so since when not pootling in UNESCO World heritage listed landscapes and villages, I can take a dip in the Golf dei Poeti, following in the footsteps (or is that the breaststrokes?) of those 19th century bad boys, Mad Bad and Dangerous To Know Byron, who apparently swum across said gulf, and barking mad Shelley, who patently failed to swim across it, since he drowned here in the early 1800s.

Anyway, since I las dropped you aline frmo not so enchanting PavIa, I have been having abit of a kulture-fest. Went to Cremona, home of all things violin and a simply splendid mediaeval ensemble of Palazzo, Duomo and baptistry (plus best gelati in the world. Mmm, melone !). But best of all, Cremona was also, temporarily, home to the World Fishing Championships, held in the local canal no less (an image of all these pro fishermen trying to haul anything but Tesco shopping trolleys out of the Tinsley docks still lingers).

I stumbled on the championships after a day of perfect pottering - sun bright and hot, air fresh and the sky a peerless blue. The rice fields shone particularly golden that morning as I followed in the footsteps of Archbishop Sigeric in the 8th century, nearly fording the Po at Corte St. Andre on his route to Rome. Anyway, in taking my wandering path through the paddies, following the sluices and levees, I happened across a row of fisherfolk for as far as the eye could see. Never seen anything like it. Apparently the English are the men to beat (one Sir Alan Scoton or something), and there is something of a grudge match thing going on between us and the Itis. Catch it now on Sky Sports. Or not, as you wish.

Anyway, all this fishy activitiy meant that my accommodation in Cremona was not as romantic and deilghtful as the town deserved (let that be a warning to me to check the schedule of the World Angling assocition next time around). Not that staying above a Chinese restaurant really mattered, however, since I also stumbled on something even more interesting than fat fishermen: the Tavola de Sant'Agata, a panel which rivals Cimabue in importance as a precursor of Renaissance figurative art.

Things got even more high brow after that, as I set off for Patrma, with music, gastronomy and painting vying for supremacy. Despite the glories of Prosciutto cotto and sprinkable cheese, I think music and art won in the end. Music in the guise of one Giuseppe Verdi, whose birthplace and villa I passed amongst the maize fields. (Geraldine, you will be pleased to know that I paid due tribute by cycling along singing a little bit of Rigoletto and Traviata, which seemed to surprise, but not displease the local townsfolk of Busetto.).

Art, however, probably edged it in the end, with two great masters and their masterpieces - Corregio and Parmigiano. Now, I'm not a huge fan of Renaissance painting, quite frankly. I can only tolerate so many soulful Madonna and Childs before I get a bit,well, bored. But I am a total convert to Renaissance frescoes - utterly magnificent, a festival of life. I am by no means any kind of expert or even a knowledgable amateuyr, but even the most profound artistic dunderhead can recognise genius when she sees it. Corregio was clearly one such genius - St Paul's room in Parma is jaw-droppingly brilliant, not just in the rendering of the variety of human forms, but in the psycology of man. The difference from all the mediaeval stuff I saw in France is amazing but then we are talking around a half century after. These were delightful, cheeky and knowing little cherubs, graceful greek muses and wise philosophers and various classical figures posed as statuary. the perspective and trompe l'oeil was fabulous, it looked as if the figures were climbing or peering around balustrades that weren't there.Parmigiano - a master of Mannerism (an elaboration (some might say copy cat) of Raphael and his school), not only seemed to have painted figures but ahve created characters and individual personalities. I can really understand why they saythe Renaissance is about humanism and science as much as art. Without wishing to claim these people prefigured Freud or anything, it is clear that along with a more profound understanding of the human body that came from its study through dissection, there was a greater understanding of the human mind. These figures don't seem passive at all: in fact, it is rather intriguing how them seem not only to look back at you, but to be considering your looking at them with a wry amusement, as if they know something you don't.

Sadly, the most famous of all the masterpieces Parma has to offer - the Corregio cupola in the cathedral (all the great and the good crowding upo to heaven, seen from below, rather irreverently, with legs dangling beneath the clouds) was hidden from view by restoration works. Still, no hardship to come back and eat more ham.

The next day there were more frescoes - the famous grotesques at the Castle of Torrechiara. These too were marvellous things - all curvilinear, misty romantic castles and classical ruins. But there was something rather sybbaritic about them too - the strange half women half lion phantasmagoria and the sheer number of graceful forms. Though it was beautifully done, it didn't have the realism and power of the earlier work, but then,it wasn't intended to. This was self indulgent venery, about worldly pleasures and pursuits, a little decadent, a little about showing off power. The crowning glory was a 3D map of the lords domains on the ceiling of the gold room, so he and his lover could survey their territories if they got, er, bored.

Perhaps you'll find it a relief to knw that after all this frescoe feasting, yesterday has been more about real landscape than landscape art. I crossed the Ciso pass at 1041 m through what I can only say is some fo the loveliest scenary thus far. The road was a joy, shaded by a forest of durmast oak and sweet chestnut and winding up with the perfect gradient. Just enough to make it challenging not too slow to be dull, but with no horrible steeps as per the Grand St. Bernard when it feels like you thigh muscles will fear apart at any minute. The downs too, were a delight - into Toscana and then Liguria, on a perfect surface, with no traffic and enough slope and swooping curves to really hurtle without too much white knuckle terror. I did not pedal for over an hour!!!! Whizzed through wood cloaked Appenine hills, with a backdrop of some truly scarey shards of marble sticking up like teeth to the south east of me.The only downside was the Autostrade, which although distant, was noise pollution of the worse kind. But since I was laughing and whooping myself, I didn't really notice. The most fun I have had on a bike since the Pyrenees, when I did much the same thing racing the timber trucks.

And so,two days of indulgence and real decadent pleasures to follow. I cannot wait. Then I am off to Pisa to meet my brother - Andrew this time - as I have heard that it now takes two to hold up the Torre Pendente. But, you know, even more than seeing the Piazza of Miracles in Pisa, I am looking forward to washing my clothes. It is the small pleasures and the small things that really count, you know.

More anon.

Ciao

Vx

Wednesday 3 September 2008

Lemons into Lemonade

Hello all from Lombardy!

Am in Pavia, or PavIa as they say it here. I would like to say that I love it, as it is a nice little ancient university town - one of the most ancient in Europe I believe, sometime around the 10th century, beating both Cambridge and Oxford into a cocked hat. But I confess, after a 110 km day, through the oppressive humidity of the Lomellina plains, I was decidedly underwhelmed. It isn't the town's fault, exactly, since it is nice enough really, and it does claim a Duomo designed in part by Leonardo da Vinci. It is just that the seething mass of outskirts horridness and arriving to find that the Office of Tourism had moved from its advertised location (helpfully, as ever, on the very edge of town (what is wrong with these people?)) meant that when I finally tracked down its new location, it had shut. This meant, at 5.30, and without any obvious hotels, I had to find somewhere to stay. Mercifully, the ole Lonely Planet yielded one place which only charged 120 euros per room.........................! (I thought that book was supposed to be for students and gap year wastrels for God sake!) Anyway, mercifully it turned out that the deluxe palazzo option had a scrubby two star literally next door, so I am sitting here with a sweet little chap in the reception letting me use his computer to say hello to you all.

PavIa also redeemed itself for another reason, which prompted the title (a saying given to me by three Aussies I met staying in Barolo a couple of nights ago.) Having finally got myself settled, I decided to go and visit the said Duomo to find it swathed in scaffolding and plastic (apparently a bell tower fell down a few years ago and killed four people so it turns out Leonardo wasn't all that crash hot an architect) Anyway, feeling that the day was compounding rubbishness on rubbishness, I was about to stomp off and go back to my room, when I saw two men approaching in black cassocks and dog collars. They said hello and I ended up telling them what I was doing, so the Bishop of Pavia (for it was no less than he) asked me into the Archbishops Palace, a magnificent building opposite the said church. Now, inside this building (which is, incidentally, not open to the public) was a fabulous marble staircase adorned with Old Masters. He led me into a room full of paintings of archbishops and bishops, of which he, it seems, it the 108th. (By way of comparison, our Archbishop of Canterbury is no. 104, which must put Pavia as an bishopric dating from at least the 6th century.)

Anyway, the Bish and I got talking a bit, despite my having confessed to not being Catholic, and so he ended up taking me into another room. There on the wall was a painting of John the Baptist and the Virgin Mary by none other than Leonardo the Rubbish Architect. It was fantastic, I must say and only me there staring at it. And nice too, to see it as part of the furniture, rather than yet another old master on a gallery wall. When I finally left, the Bish blessed me despite my not being Catholic, wishing angels to follow my wheels. His young companion, dear ole handsome Father Paolo, then showed me out of the palace, asking me in that glorious gorgeous English-Italian to say a prayer for him when I reached Rome. Then he touched my cheek (the ole charmer) and said 'bellissima' and wished me on my way. This is what I mean by fate and lemons into lemonade, my friends: even when things seem crap, somehow they turn out for the best.

And, in retrospect, despite the Agip refineries, the Lomellina plains were rather beautiful, at least for much of the way. I have finally changed from the fruit basket of Piedmont to the endless golden riceries of the Po. Indeed, since I last mailed, I have been climbing through vine country, through the truly lovely mountains of Monferrato. The only downside was the climbing bit, which was sometimes wickedly steep and in the baking heat, was pretty killing. But the views from the village of La Morra (570m), as promised, were utterly stunning - crossed hatches vineyards contouring rolling hills as far as the eye could see. They are not far off harvest and the vines are turning slightly yellow, and the grapes are draped, huge and purple, just off the ground. Plus I have been doing the ole Agriturismo, stayed in a lovely one just down the road from Barolo, where I met the said Australian ladies. The hostess, Rafaella was also lovely. I will post the address for all those thinking of going off in search of Italy's best red wine.

But, before I forget !!! (So much has happened people, it is really difficult to keep up!) Here is another story of Italian niceness, this time from the lovely mediaeval bourg of Saluzzo.

I arrived, as always, hot and sweaty to find the tourist office of former Marquisate of Saluzzo closed until 2.30 pm. I was about to sit in the shade and sulk, rather exhausted, and wait for Italy to open up shop for the afternoon. But a chap peering out of a window saw me and invited me in for coffee.

Now since his place was actuallly a restaurant, I assumed I would end up paying for it, but no, acqua fresca and coffee duly arrived for free. And lovely generous and very very sweet Albino the Restaurant owner kept dashing off and telling me places to go and things to see. Even before the tourist office opened, I was armed with all I needed to tell me that I should stay a couple of days. So, because of dear ole Albino, I ended up at the Castle of Manta and discovering some of the finest International Gothic frescoes in Europe. Fate, again, you see. They were fantastic, lining the walls of the baronial hall, depicting the Fountain of Youth and the heroes and heroines of antiquity. All that mediaeval, crazy maze, out of perspective drawing and the men and women pattern cards of venery and hunting amidst the greenery. Another room was full of later Mannerist frescoes: wall to ceiling classical imagry of dragon slaying, apollo and bacchus. It turns out that this narrow corridor around Manta, Cuneo and Lagnasco was the means for the Renaissance to penetrate Piedmont and influence the Kings of Savoy. Sometimes, I feel like the luckiest person on the planet. Added to which, I ended up staying with the nuns that evening, and they were the nicest and friendliest nuns you'll ever meet! Then I went off to eat at Albino's - which turns out to be Saluzzo's finest restaurant - and the food was consequently absolutely lovely....I mean, really really really good. And he told me all about each dish (and there seemed to be millions of them) and where the food came from and what made it a regional speciality. And since Albino was the loveliest man in creation, he ended up giving me a bottle of very good Italian red wine to go with it (Barolo something or other, for those in the know). When I INSISTED I pay, he shook his head and said you pay for everything you eat but I pay for the wine! But I feel slightly better as I told the Aussies to go there last night and I hope he's made a huge profit from them!!!

Then, I realise, I have told you nothing of the lovely Pinerolo, and the gorgeous apartment in the pretty little mediaeval town (not the only thing gorgeous in that mediaeval town, may I tell you girls...). That was really interesting (!) as the family - who were really welcoming - turned out to be protestants (I think, originating in the Waldensians - proto-protestants of mediaeval times). Torre Pelice, just up the road, is an important Protestant sanctuary in the heart of the Catholic north. Honestly.....can I talk about fate again without risking boring you all to tears??

Sorry its been a bit of a chaotic post - very tired after my hot and bothered day.I am now off to worship at the Sanctuary of the Golden Arches....yes, McDonalds is across the road, and I really can't be bothered with a sit down meal before I collapse. Apologies to all Italians or food lovers. But I have been eating like a Princess for days now. (On this subject, before I go - Italian tomatoes....I have never tasted any tomatoes as good as these. Plus their peaches....infact, all their fruit tastes of....fruit....Now I must go before I start sounding like bloody Rick Stein!

Vx

Thursday 28 August 2008

Fallen on My Feet Again

Do you know, I am starting to believe in Fate? Just when I think that some minor upset will thwart, irritate and lead to disaster, I find that actually, my plans were not as good as the alternative.

Take minor hiccup no. 1 - no accommodation in Pont St. Martin. Here was I, all primed to stay at the site of the world's largest single span intact 1 AD roman bridge over a mountain torrent, when it turned out there was no room at the proverbial inn. Nor the not so proverbial BnB. After much phoning and deep anxiety at 5.30, I duly ended up in a Agroturismo in nearby Donnas. Now Donnas had not, on first encounter, struck me as anything very special. A kind of scrubby strip village along the main / only valley road; beside the river which is little more than gravel at present, alongside not only the Autostrada but a railway line. Not outwardly prepossessing, but how wrong could I be! Behind the roadside delapidation, Donnas turned out to be a jewel; a bit of a grubby jewel, but a gem nonetheless.

Donnas was fantastic firstly because of the Romans: this was the Romans main route into Gaul. They have duly left their cart tracks along a long paved section of the Via Gallia, which passes under a massive arch hugging the mountain wall. It felt pretty amazing to walk along, quite literally in the footsteps of Augustus Caesar.

Secondly, Donnas was brilliant because the 21st century strung out village hid a mediaeval bourg virtually untouched by time. A pace back from the road ran a parallel road of mediaeval cobbles and the old town gates where they had collected tolls in the Middle Ages. Donnas was apparently something of a flourishing little tax haven, with trade up and down the Via Gallia flourishing for a thousand odd years. As a result, the single street hid a plethora of ancient houses, tunnelled passageways and even a leper hospital. No one else was there, so I had it all to my ownsome, able to imagine my bustling mediaeval merchants to my hearts content.

Lastly, but by no means leastly, the Agroturismo was fantastic. If you haven't tried them, I recommend you do. It was on the other side of the Autostrada and in another world entirely; one of maize fields and tabacchi and ancient farms. Not picturesque, but really Valdaostan, and after several days on the road, I decided to have a day off. What a great choice that turned out to be, because my host Monica and her family were truly wonderful. When she offered me a lift up the Valley Gressoney, famous for being the home of the mediaeval Walsers (migrant German speaking Swiss from the Valais who came in the 12th century (great yogurt, by the way)), I imagined that I would merely be dropped off and have to make my own way back. Instead, she dropped her two 'enfants terribles' Emil and Giovanni with her mother and spent half a day showing me around. We went to the local Fontainemore museum, where there were videos of the pilgrimage to the Sacred Monte of Oropa which included her mum and grandma, then she drove further up the valley to introduce me to her friend Etti, who was her son's English teacher and a guide at the local Ecomuseum. Between the two of them, I had a personal tour of the ancient life of the valley and the traditional Alpine way of life (it was hard). Then, finally, Monica took me half way up a mountain, to a little hut/bar at 1,400 m or so. She went off to see her mother for an hour and left me to the stupendous views of the mountains and the smell of woodsmoke as the evening sun began to sink. They, bang on time, she arrived just before the chill of nightfall and whisked me back to my lovely bedroom at the farm! So, by way of thanks, may I recommend to you the 'Lou Rose' in the Valle D'Aosta. Fabulously placed for all manner of walking, hiking, snow shoeing, skiing, langlauf, cycling and historical bimbling. Oh, and they make fantastic biscuits too. I did buy some to send back to you all, but ate them all. Sorry.

Then, minor hiccup no. 2

Now, to understand this, you need to know my technique for accommodation, employed successfully during my long lovely days in France. Basically, it invovles grabbling a list of BnBs and a map of the Tourist Offices and their opening hours. I then scoot off until my legs and my anxiety requires that I find somewhere to stay the night. That usually kicks in around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, when I am getting a bit fatigued. However, Piedmonte, which arrive suddenly with red tile roofs instead of stone 'lose', and flat and the flat wide and humid valley of the Po, did not facilitate this technique. After 20 km of cycling, I arrived at Ivrea, a smallish town with a big old red castle on the borders of Piedmont. After much searching and pigeon Italian (they have put the TO in the most inconvenient place ever), I was informed that the nearest TO was in Turin.

Turin was only 60 k away, but on a direct route nationale through the boring valley; I wanted to see Canavese, the old hunting reserves of the Savoy Kings. Still, they gave me two huges books of accommodation, which since my Italian is woeful, did not seem to do much more than add weight. Nevertheless, ever the optimist, but with temperatures now soaring above 30, I set off Into the West.

Now, I had been expecting, after days in the mountains, a few more days of jolly downhills. To be quite frank, I still feel like I am owed them after the hell that was the Col of St. Bernard. But the Canavese turned out to be anything but low rise; it was picturesque all right, but it was picturesque hilltop village at 470m kind of stuff. The hunting reserves straddled the outlying spurs of the mountains, sticking out like the limb of a croissant into the plains. I felt bitterly betrayed by Italy and the Gods as I hauled myself upwards - again - for making me work so hard.

Yet, yet...What should I discover but that this strange outlier is actually one of the most important morainic masses in the world? Now, this might not sound that exciting to you, but remember, I did my Ph.D in all this glacial. So I got to bimble about, albeit rather painfully, in the forested calm of the Balteo glacial moraine complex! Not only that, joy upon joy, but I got to explore a series of rather crumbly old red pan-tile little villages too. Several of which, may I add, turned out to have some enormous ducal residences, known laughably as the "hunting boxes" of the Dukes of Savoy. UNESCO listed, no less. Eventually, buoyed by the day, I even plucked up courage to ring an Italian woman, and lo, ended up, with a little bit of pigeon Italian on my side and more pigeon French on hers, in a very nice Fruit n Veg. AgroT outside Cilie. The only downside was that they were vegetarian, but the upside was pretty up, since we had a hell of a laugh over dinner, trying to understand what one another was talking about. (Oddly, since then, my Italian comprehension has improved markedly, so that in weird Babel Fish type way, I can gather an understand without understanding a word of what's being said.)

Now, minor hiccup No. 3. Saving the best till last.

Having left L'Isola Che Non C'e, I arrived at the Royal Palace of Veneria Reali - another one of those Savoyard palazzos that seem to litter this place. I had imagined the village, given the palace is bigger than Blenheim, would be smithered with bed and breakfasts and places to stay. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a strangely inhospitable corner of an otherwise pleasantly hospital region. The woman in the TO was not only useless but rude, and the maps even more so, since they did not name the roads nor show where the bed and breakfasts and hotels were. Eventually, after aimless wandering, I ran into a jolly postman, who had to ask the Caribinieri where the places were. But it turned out all were full, which was not entirely unexpected, and that the only reasonably priced hotel (a real grot hole by the station) was closed,....for the holidays. (!!) Since I object to paying 150 E for a room unless I am actually staying in the Royal Palace, I was now hating Italy and its chaos and longing for the easy efficiency of France. I was so fed up I even called my brothers, though thankfully they were both out, so they did not have to listen to me moan about wasting 2 hrs mooning about to no avail. Instead, after sitting on a wall for a bit, I decided to bite the bullet and do what I had been putting off: braving the cycle into the million strong suburbs of Turin. I was already boiling hot (since it was now about 2 in the afternoon) and imagining all sorts of ugly Fiat factories and near death experiences a la Lausanne (didn't tell you about that did I ! Ugh....lorries....!).

Once again, my friends, the Gods knew better than I what was good for me, because not only was the ride into Turin amazingly easy - it was almost pleasant, if unedifying in the aesthetic sense - but Turin turns out to be the most utterly gorgeous city at its heart. I think it might turn out to be my italian Troyes. And I'm not just saying that because Alfredo comes from here (hello there!), but because it is a kind of Italian Vienna at the foot of the Alps. It isn't mediaeval cobbles and great gothic cathedrals, but it is just littered with the ducal residences and baroque palaces and elegant squares and boulevards of the former Kings of Italy. It has a relaxed, refined air of slightly reserved graciousness, mixed with the passiagata (apolgoies for spelling) you'd expect of Italy. It also has great ice cream. I have spent three days lounging between old fashioned coffee houses and gasping at the beauty of the Piazza San Carlo at night. And since I have had Alfredo as my text message tour guide, I have also tapped into the Torinese's Torino, and consequently know the best places for coffee, ice cream and the like. My first night I hung out with the stars, at Brek, where they filmed the Bourne Supremacy, pretending to be an incognito star. But I really hung out with the cool crowd last night, when good old Alfredo hot footed it from his holidays in the Canavese (quelle coincidence!) to give me a whistle stop tour of the Torinese hills. Honestly, I cannot recommend this place more highly for a weekend city break even if you lack a personal guide: loads to see, endless ice cream (and they are also famous for making chocolate!) and the Alps a mere stone's throw away to the north. I even got to see their pale shadows, sadly a little faded by evening and heat haze, but in winter, the view is apparently the best in the world (okay, I think Alfredo might be a little biased, but I can see it would be pretty special even without the eye of faith). So, there we have it. Once more I have come to the conclusion that the Gods know better than we do what to do. As I discovered in France, the best thing about these cycle trips is that you learn to ride the road and not the map.

Off to some great monastery now, on the advise of the locals ;o) and then will head south to Pinerolo, Saluzzo and the hills and vineyards of Montferrato. Cannot wait. Well, can wait for the hills actually, but heigh ho, it must be done.

Ciao

Vx

Friday 22 August 2008

Yodel-odel-odel-eh-hee hee

Buona sera tutti!

Hello from sunny Italy - in the regional capital of Aosta to be exact, after several slogging days crossing the French Jura and then the Swiss Alps. I'd like to say that it has been fun, and I suppose in a perverse kind of way, it has. It has also been painful. You cannot imagine how hard the 8000ft (2000m) climb to the top of the Grand St. Bernard Pass was. I am already editing it out of my memory: Every time I look along one of Aosta's pretty little narrow streets and see some monsterous Alp at the end of it, I have to remind myself that I was ever up there. Seems utterly incredible to me, even though it was only yesterday.

I was lucky, to be frank, because there was a weather window. It has been something of a wet summer in the Alps and hence they have had snow - yes, people, snow - most weeks. In fact, two days before I topped out they were looking rather more alpine than I might have bargained for. But once again, the Gods relented and gave me two unexpectedly perfect days: the first allowed me to climb up to the tiny and very very very Swiss, Alpenhorn at dawn, cowbells and geraniums from every windowbox village of Liddes, at some 1,300 m. Because there was no wind and the road surface was nice, the air fresh but the sun warm, it was really quite a pleasant climb. I was tired but buoyed with the prospect of what the next day would bring - the hardest day of my entire route. But the map said there was nothing worse than I had already done.

My friends, the map lied. Oh Holy Hell, it really really hurt. If I were some Bianchi clad teak limbed hero type, I suppose I would say I took it in my stride but I didn't. It took every drop of vitamin Y and yorkshire grit I possessed not to get off and push. But I didn't. Not one single pace. That is a measure of my ridiculous stubborness.

The first bit, if I am honest, though steep, was almost painless because all the pain was lost amidst the utter terror: Alpine tunnels with huge lorries are not fun, may I tell you. And these tunnels, climbing uphill, went on for several kilometres at a time. Five, if I remember correctly. I thought I had taken a wrong turning and gone into the Mont Blanc tunnel or something, but no. This was just a covered road. I was so grateful to come out the other end of it, when the heavy traffic takes the long St. Bernard Tunnel, that I thought sheer relief would carry me up the last 800m of ascent in a mere 6.5 km. It didn't last beyond the first corner.

It was Joe Simpson 'Touching the Void' stuff. I literally crawled up snow post to snow post, resting in between. The road just went on forever. It took me hours and hours, but mercifully, the Alpine winds held off, the sun shone and every single motorbike and whippet legged alpinist cyclist who passed me at least raised their hands in acknowledgement or cried 'bon courage', bravo! and any number of marvellous things to raise my spirits. A sicilian chap stopped and called out 'Piano, piano' (softly, softly) and one chap, on a racing bike, kept calling down the mountain as he whirled ever higher up one hairpin bend after another 'allez allez allez!' It didn't so much make it easier as make it possible. When I was in the last 0.85 km (oh yes, I was counting every 0.1km by then), a chap ground passed and said 'Bravo Bravo, Signorina'. And I said (in french) 'Well, I'm not there yet'. He replied: 'No, but I believe you will make it.' And I did. 2443 m or so - 8114 foot. There was snow and impossibly savage cretes and a - happiness itself - massive monastery hospice with Great St. Bernard Dogs in it! My joy was complete.

But it was the bike that was really the star, as ever. And so it continues to be. I spent about 2 hours at the top, enjoying the hospitality of the Canons and spending at least an hour discussing the merits of the petit velo with various interested parties. SJS cycles / Thorn should pay me a commission, frankly, because so many people took their details from me!

Then I set off down. Now, in a way, I had been dreading this more than the ascent, having horrible memories of the vast nothingness of the Gorges du Tarn and knowing this could be so much worse. Mum used to say 'Don't fall off a mountain' and I had very real fears of doing just that. But, secretly, I also thought it might be rather invigorating, hurtling down 2000 m at 60kph. I even set up a frame for my camera so I could film the descent for you all. I needn't have bothered.

Almost as soon as I crossed the border, the Italians, God bless them, marked the difference between themselves and the Swiss. No neat little hospital corners road this, no Tour de France col with a beautiful surface. It was little more than a gravel track. In places it WAS a gravel track. There were half finished road works all the way down to the tree line and in places the road was little more than dust. I must have burnt all the rubber from my brakes bumping over the rutted remnants of tarmac. My descent was almost as slow as my climb.

But the Italians lived up to other stereotypes too: The workmen all called out Buongiorno, and some chap grinding uphill in some flash car stopped, despite the long queue behind him, and asked me what I was doing. When I told him, despite the blaring horns, he proceeded to invite me to come and stay with him in Puglia when I passed that way. Since there was now a long snake of cars, I waved him off but thanked him. It was a wonderful gesture, though. Even when I arrived at the Hospice at St Oyen - more Canons of St. Bernard (not the ascetic chap,but another, rather more jolly type, by the way) I was adopted by first an old lady of the village, then the entire long bench table of old gents and ladies. I ended up signing a card for some parish priest who had just gone to Chad to be a missionary. They told me to sign myself Vittoria of England, so he probably thinks they had a seance for a long dead old bag of a Queen.

Since then, its been downhill all the way in the geographical sense but mercifully not in other ways. Had the whole blooming hospice practically see me off this morning - at least 30 people standing around waving at me. Then I swooped into Aosta - a mere 15 downhill kilometres - quite literally singing all the way down. My singing teacher will know which song! :0)

Aosta turns out to be pleasant, if not exciting, with lots of vestiges of the Romans and quite a lot of merchandising. If one thing I have really noticed between Switzerland and Italy it is the incredible proliferation of shops. The Italians strike me as a very commercial kind of people - in a mercantile, be busy and economically active kind of way. But it isn't commercial in the sense of giant Tesco, more in the density of small shops in every cubby hole on every street. Like a bazaar. But, as I have said earlier, what really strikes me about Aosta is that every where you look there is an Alp. It is almost terrifying how high they are.

I first saw them, quite unexpectedly, as I whizzed down from the French Jura and swung around a bend on my way to Lausanne. The weather was perfect, with hardly a cloud in the sky so every crete and cornice was visible. I confess I swore. They were absolutely enormous, filling the horizon left and right and Mont Blanc looking like a giant and slightly malevolent meringue. Yet, the next day, they were gone, until I pulled into Lausanne, and the weather cleared and I got to go on a paddle steamer like some curist from the Belle Epoque. That was a very unexpected and lovely 2 hours, soaking up the sun on the deck of the Cezanne, mountains turning from misty blue to very real and solid rock as we neared the shore. Then it was in the jaws of the mountains, and into another fabulous thunderstorm, although this time Thor and Odin and his cohorts had the good grace to wait until I had found somewhere to stay. But wow! It was fantastic - real Gotterdammerung stuff - detonations and artillary fire from peak to peak. The sky was so dark it was like night time. Glad I saw it, but glad I didn't get caught in it going up the Col.

Just briefly, I would like to share some observations about Switzerland that you might find unexpected. Firstly, it was quite cheap. Yes, really. I seemed to stay in accommodation that would not have put Patrick Swayze and 'Roadhouse' to shame. Bread was expensive, but not much else really. And I hate to tell you, it wasn't as neat as France. French roads are clear of everything - no glass, nothing. Swiss roads have glass collection mechanisms called cycle lanes. And the towns were kind of grubby and the tourist offices were disorganised - yes, really, disorganised - so maybe it is only the Bernese Oberland where they are all hospital corners and picturesque.

Now, I must go before I end up having to take out an overdraft merely to pay the bill. They have already taken my passport details, as this is the new Italian anti-terrorist law. So I can't even do a runner! I was intending to stay another day but think I will head off down the mountain and do a little more ruralising.

Oh, one more thing - no criticism of the Swiss or Italians implied - I miss France. I really really do. Maybe it is only the facility with the language (although it was French Switzerland), but I think it is just the French. Sigh.

Vx

PS: Don't miss their keyboards though. In Italy, they believe in QWERTY like the rest of the world. Marvellous race.

Ciao!!!

Vx

Saturday 16 August 2008

The Definition of Chaleur

Those of you who have followed my previous wanderings through France know that I rather like Burgundy and am less than enamoured of Champagne. Here, in one day (yesterday, actually) is the perfect illustration why.

Yesterday morning, I left Langres, in Champagne, where I had been staying in a little hotel in the Citadel. My bill was somewhat more exorbitant than I usually tolerate, but after 230km in two days, I had refused to go back down the ridiculously steep hill to find somewhere cheap. Anyway, I was appalled to note that, for the first time in 6000+ km; the first time in France, as a matter of fact, I had been charged a whopping 8E to put my bike - yes, my bike - against a wall in their closed courtyard. Naturally, (because I can be really quite stroppy, you know), I protested. The lady kindly agreed to cut the bill in half. Oh, so only been ripped off to the tune of 4E then. Great. Welcome to Champagne.

An hour later, I crossed the watershed of the Marne. I know it sounds fanciful but something happens here. I noticed it before, when I went to Cluny and crossed into the Maconnais. The sky seems higher, the light more glassy and brilliant. The silhouettes of buildings seem sharper, as if they had been outlined in ink. And for the first time this trip, the sun shone with southern intensity rather than weakly through grizzling or threatening skies.

Oh, it was gorgeous. I wish you could all have been there, because it was the perfect illustration of why I do these trips. I cycled through wide pastures, once again grazed by lumbering white cattle, and passed in and out of scented forests, which encircled the low hills. There were grating crickets and dancing butterflies and buzzards soared the thermals, their high pitched mews rendering a ravishing solitude to this corner of France. I was back in the paradise of small things: the fields of gold sunflowers their faces turned southwards and strips of ripening corn. Then I noticed that there were no longer spires in the tiny villages, but strange little bell-shaped clochers tiled in coloured and glazed patterns - the toits bourguigone. I had, at last, crossed into the former Free County of Burgundy; once part of the Holy Roman Empire and latterly, Spain.

After days of comparitive isolation in the wheat fields and vineyards, suddenly there were waving tractor drivers and cars tooting their horns. I arrived in Gray and asked someone for help finding my chambre d'hote and they whipped out their iphone equivalent and spent 15 minutes trying to help me out. When that didn't work, he went to ask in a cafe and between us we found a plan of the town. So Benoit (for that is his name) proceeded to copy a little map of where I needed to go. And thus, after and exchange of photos; the obligatory 'Bon continuation', I cycled off to the Rue de Hussards.

Now, since I found my chambre d'hote (which was, incidentally, gorgeous) you might think that the story ends there. But, you reckon without knowing the Comtois idea of chaleur. Who should pop around a couple of hours later but Benoit, to give me the photo he had taken of me for my blog. Amazing. As I said before: what a country and what a people. I will never grow tired of being in France.

To cap it all, I then spent a fantastic evening with mine hosts, Eric and Benedictine. I was forced (well, not much force involved actually) to sample various wines of the region: a great white from the Jura; another fabulous blanc sec from Savoie and a truly epic Cotes de Beaune red. We had a four course meal for 10E (the wine alone must have cost more), and chatted into the night about the problems of the French economy, why Nikolas Sarkozy has a Napoleon complex, and where I might stay in the next stages of my route. Not content with simply giving me ideas, my hosts even called somewhere to check availability in Besancon. I thought nothing could equal the chaleur of Patrick and the marchands of Semur en Auxois, but it seems I had reckoned without Burgundy's imperial sister over the Saone. Nothing, it seems is too much trouble for the Comtois. No wonder the Flemish say that to eat well; drink well and laugh a lot is to live like a Burgundian. I simply love it here.

Wednesday 13 August 2008

The Beautiful South

What a day! An amazing race south through Haute Marne, following a fantasitc piste cyclable along the canal. The poor souls in their cars were ploughing up hill and down dale and I was pacing along, watching the landscape change. Champagne's low rising plains and empty stubble fields retreated and green hills began to rise from slopes of bright green pasture. The tops were clad with pocket woodland and suddenly there was bird song, and the small day to day delights/ the lonely cries of honey buzzards circling and the grate of crickets as the day waxed into full summertime. Somewhere beyond Chaunmont (I am now in Langres) the Marne began to tuirn from a thick sluggish green brown vein to a gushing brook, cascading over weirs and half hidden in thickets of willow and briar rose. It was utterly enchanting, and even better for being more or less effortless. I could enjoy the changing landscape, secure in the knowledge I was not - yet - going to have to climb those lush green hills or meandering through the winding valleys.

The landscape is definitely changing, my friends. I bought new maps today and my, they are getting scary. It is no longer very easy to find a good route: all those rivers I have been happily following are now reaching their sources and, in fact tomorrow I will cross an important watershed: the plateau of Langres if in fact the point at which the rivers no longer flow towards the Channel or the Atlantic, but towards the Mediterranean. Burgundy is just across the way and Franche Comte beckons. As do the Jura. What I find ,most worrying is that there don't appear to be any minor roads any more (at least not ones which don't look like varicose veins) and so I shall have to risk becoming roadkill at the same time as risking a coronary.

Yes, I find I am slightly dreading that first gulp-tastic view of the Alps. Not long away now, mes amies! I can almost here the yodelling from here.

a bientot

Vx

Tuesday 12 August 2008

A Tale of Two Cathedrals

I know that I am supposed to be en route to Italy and not meandering around mediaeval France anymore, but I hope you will allow me a little detour here and there for some cathedral wandering. Laon is amazing: early Gothic (12th century) and an influence on Chartres, Reims, Amiens...all of the others, really. It stands on the top of a hill and from a distance has something of the Bram Stoker / Whitby Abbey about it. Gaunt and faintly skeletal open towers looming over the southern plains, built in dark stone to make it even more, well, Gothic (in the romantic sense of the word). But inside it is stunning: very light and clean and airy. Apparently influenced by the Cistercians (those ascetic types who believed in a life of work as a route to God). I don't usually go for Cistercian stuff coz its just a bit too pure, joyless and austere for my tastes, but Laon is utterly harmonius. Also, despite the hoards outside, it was completely quiet so I got to sit and contemplate nothing very much at all, which is more or less my favourite pastime on these journeys.

Reims by contrast, was absolutely massive: monumental columns in a dark and narrow nave. No wonder the church was pleased to have this as the site of coronation for over 1000 years; since Clovis in the 7th century, I believe. I defy even the most vainglorious French Kings, (in what is a pretty long list), not to be humble before God in such an imposing place. But the rest of the town is pretty crappy: the war again, I'm afraid. Oh, and 1960s architecture.

Anyway, now, after a short sprint down the Marne, and a slightly longer slog over the rolling former wheat fields of Champagne (not all grapes, you know) I am on the borders of Lorraine: in Joinville. The birth place of the tiresome teenager Joan of Arc is just down the road, but after several up and down yomps across the grain of the land and 100+km of cycling, I have called it a day. I am holed up in a tiny hotel whose carpet is thinned and colourless with age but the bath is huge - a great deep iron footed job. It is also a place where my presence in this bar/tabac playing constant 80s music (the Police at the mo, in case you're intrested. Walking on the moon. Aha 'the sun always shines on TV when I came in, which as friends will understand; felt like fate after my long lasting school girl crush on Horton Market.) is beginning to occasion lots of remark. I envisage a jolly evening explaining what on earth I am doing to lots of incredulous old men in the bar of my hotel. Ah, the joys of long distance cycling. Still; tomorrow is going to be fun: following a piste cyclable all the way to Langres...then I will finally leave Champagne, which is definitely a Good Thing (or would be if I weren't entering the beginnings of the Jura). Must go. They are starting to play French music and there's only so much I of Jonny Halliday I can stand.

Cheers!

Vittoria (I met some Italian pilgrims also cycling this way and hence this is now my name)

The Glorious Dead

So, the east of France. After missing out much of this last time, I am surprised to find how very different it feels. The most obvious thing is that the war - well, wars - are everywhere. Not only in the "tombes" of the Commnwealth, which are quite honestly ubiquitous, but somehow in the slightly sombre mien of the place; the wind blown plateaux, the undefendable plains and the grizzling skies. I cannot imagine what it must be like to live here, amongst the constant reminders of the darkest aspects of the human soul; the flags and obilisks and the long lines of crosses and gravestones.

The Somme was beautiful but terrible. There was not one village without a cemetary of some kind, usually set back discretely from the road and marked with a black and white sign. I stopped once or twice, but there are too many to stop at them all, which felt terribly disrespectful. They are all so tidy and quiet and intensely moving in this raw and empty setting. Impossible not to cry, frankly, because there are just so many graves. Thousands. Then, at Bray sur Somme, there was the French flag and Union Jack flying by the roadside at the entrance to the town and in Laon cathedral (about which more to follow), a small sign on the wall: a thank you "to the million of the British Commonwealth who fell during the 1914-18 war. Most of whom remain in France." Incomprehensible loss. Very sobering.

Sunday 10 August 2008

In Remembrance of Times Past

So, back on the road, and still coming to terms with all the things one forgets: like the fact that the French; God bless them, use a keyboard where the A and the Q are mixed up and the M is located somewhere in the alternate universe that is the alt grnd key.

Other things: hills hurt. They really do. They hurt only marginally less now than four days ago, when I set off with Brother Dan from Calais, heading for Rome. But I am slowly getting used to the screaming thighs and inching up with gritted teeth. Oh, and the getting back on the bike after a short break....,mmm, did my bum hurt that much last time? It seems that long distance cycling is like childbirth, one forgets the bad bits as soon as it is over.

It was a bit odd, beginning again, if I am honest. France wonderful but familiar, and my mission, to get through it as fast as possible to Italy, rather different than that of two years ago. But nonetheless, this lovely country never disappoints. It was typical Flanders stuff: canals and sweeping views and untroubled calm. So many fishermen, sitting by the water and staring at nothing very much at all. Coming to France is an instant slow down. Stress just melts away.

But the real gem was Ardres. It had a cobbled square overlooked by a big white church, and the usual French post-lunch hub-bub of the daily shop. We went into the T.O to find accomodation and ended up having our photos taken for the notice board, because we were pilgrims. Then had a bargain chambre d'hote in the middle of nowhere and a pilgrim meal of home grown veg and local pork for 10 E.

The next day was memorable for wholly different reasons: firstly being woken repeatedly by the most monumental storm. Then, for chasing around the fringe of another storm, heading south from the ole Chausee Brunehaut in Artois (found out Brunehaut was a Gauloise Queen, in case anyone is interested).

At first, leaving an unremarkable agricultural village called Tincques, it looked like we might make it. Unfortunately, we were half way onto a wide open agricultural plateau when it became obvious that we wouldn't. The sky was biblical and the thunder coming in unholy rumbles and cracks with terrifying frequency. We told ourselves there was only a bit of cloud to cloud lightening to worry about, but the thick shaft of fork lightning sundering the rise just ahead of us soon persuaded us otherwise. The trouble was, there was nothing but us on this plateau and apart from two piles of gravel by the side of the road, we were the highest things around. So we did the only thing we could: got off, dumped the bikes by the gravel and ran to lie in the hay a few metres away as the storm passed right overhead. I can vaguely remember saying to Dan that I didn't want to die. I remember, too, thinking of those stupid puzzles - you know: a piece of cloth, a box and a dead man found in a field - and wondering vaguely if someone would find us like that later, only a little more deep fried. But eventually, the rain hurled down slightly less aggressively, the sky rumbled more to itself than directly overhead, and we made a run for it back to Tincques.

We sat out the second set of squalls in a bar tabac; started again only to make about 100 metres when the sky opened once again and the lightning sliced the sky on our route, so retreated to the petrol station cafe/hotel: Eventually, I called the tourist office in Arras and explained we were stuck by the Armaggeddon going on outside, and they found us an amazing ferme chateau. Unfortunately, it turned out to be in Penin - just up the road we had been trying to cycle up for the last two hours which was the centre of the Mordor-esque son et lumiere going on outside.

Once the rain slackened slightly and there hadn't been lightning for - oh; ten minutes or so - we sprinted back up that damn plateau, still in the hurling rain. As we did so, a chap in a battered red Renault drew alongside and asked if we had somewhere to stay. Then another chap in a battered beige Citroen 'trott trott' asked us if we were heading to Penin. It turned out he was from our ferme chateau and had come out in his van looking for us! What a country! What a people.

Have to go now; but will fill you in on the route to Laon and Reims next time.

A bientot, mes amies!

Tuesday 22 July 2008

Friends, Romans, Countrymen!!!


Hello there, all. Well, here I am, sitting in Cambridge, once more packing up the grubby socks and the wicking t-shirts and wondering why I have so many summer dresses when all I ever seem to require is the odd linen shirt and a pair of rather tatty cycling shorts. Yes, somewhat terrifyingly, given the woeful standard of my Italian and the even more limp-spaghetti like state of my thighs, I am off on the ole stealth bike once again. 

After finally completing my magnum opus on mediaeval France, I am off on the Via Francigena, the old pilgrimage route to Rome and Caesar's (not sure which one, probably the ubiquitous Julius) 'Route to the Sun'. Given the state of the English summer, the latter is rather appealing. The prospect of the 2,400 m of the Grand St. Bernard Pass over the Alps less so. 

For those of you who are already scheduled to meet me, may just be tempted into joining me (how about that Old Hags Convention in the thermal spas of the Etruscans?), or just like to follow me whilst you fester in your cubicles, clearing the Augean stables of corporate life, here is a rough outline of my route: 

Canterbury - Val D'Aosta (ca. ten days) via Arras, Reims, Châlons en Champagne, Franche Comté, Lausanne and (gulp) the Grand St. Bernard. (Monks and puppies apparently in residence). (And you all know how fond I am of monks ;o) )

Val d'Aosta, Piedmont and Lombardy (ca. 3 weeks). Wandering the highways and byways of the former Kingdoms of Lombardy and Savoy, from Aosta to Turin, taking in the Spumante of Asti, the vineyards of Montferrato and wending east along the hot and humid valley of the Po as far as the violin-making capital of the universe, Cremona.

Tuscany, Umbria, Lazio (ca. 4 weeks) serious loafing this, around the Renaissance landscapes of the city states of Florence, Siena, Lucca. Expect a photo of me holding up the Torre Pendente single-handed. Then skirting south and east - Perugia, Assissi - before an audience with Pope Ratzinger in the Eternal City.

The former Kingdom of Naples and Sicily (ca. 3 weeks). Heading inexorably south, I plan to traverse the Pontine marshes (as was), dodging the environmental health disaster that is Naples to bob along the Amalfi coast. I'll probably get a boat to Palermo from Salerno and then explore Sicily and the Boot heel as the weather begins to cool (a bit).

The Adriatic coast (ca. 3 weeks): returning north to take in Ravenna, Bologna, Verona, Vincinza, Mantua, Padua, Venice, the Palladian villas of the Veneto, and maybe even Trieste and a bit of Slovenia / Croatia, before sprinting north up the Adige via Bolzano and Trentino to see if I can make it over the Reschen Pass (1,500 m), former Via Claudia Augusta (50AD), before winter closure. 

So I shall reach Innsbruck just in time for a bit of Gluhwein, a spot of ski-ing and the odd Christmas market... 

International phone no. to follow for those in the know. 

Saluti a tutti quanti!