In search of Catholicism

It was 1 O'clock before we managed to break ourselves loose from the man with the mystical wooden shapes in the adjoining garage. He had, on a number of occasions, said encouragingly "Oh, but I mustn't keep you", and yet somehow had managed to continue to show us "just one more thing"... As we departed he kindly gave us each a clay pendant with the image of Christ on it, and also a pendant for "strengthening the chakrahs (sp.?)" - he gave me one for health and gave James the one which is supposed to be all about sexual potency, he explained... I opted to wear Christ, and popped my health in a pannier in case I needed it later.

Jacob Shepherd, James' friend from Winchester/Cambridge (who had walked from San Gimignano overnight to meet us with a half case of wine for the journey...), cannot have been expecting to spend the morning being lectured by an Italian about alternative therapy. However he took it all in good spirit, and after a bit of further chat, we parted ways. I hope he caught the bus back to Florence. It's a long way to walk.

Just as we were coming into Siena across the most amazing Tuscan countryside (like nothing you find anywhere else, truly), we passed the German couple I'd spoken to at breakfast on their bicycles going the other way. Excitingly, we were now entering the part of Italy that my cousins come from: the Chigi family, a family with old Sienese roots. If it had been any other time of year, it would of course have been my first reaction to meet up with them. However, with Il Palio (the great twice yearly Sienese horse race) taking place in just 2 days time, it would not have been fair to disturb. And we were running late anyway.

Siena was, as expected, a hive of activity. As we entered the tight streets of the walled city, the members of Pantera, one of the 17 contrade, were blocking our path, singing traditionally very rude songs about the opposition districts. I know Siena well, James had been there once before; it is not a place for tourists during the Palio period: they get in the way and the Sienese make it quite plain to anyone who doesn't know what they are doing that they really ought to sod off. Getting down through the streets with our bicycles was hard enough, so we contented ourselves with looking at the 'square', waving at my cousins' palazzo and enjoying the amazing atmosphere around the city.

We set off south towards San Quirico d'Orcia, the other Chigi stronghold in Tuscany; it is easy to see why Tuscany is such a popular tourist destination - the scenery is nothing short of astounding, with parched farmhouses standing alone with an avenue of cypress, the odd stone pine, surrounded by arid ploughed fields of burnt red soil.

The popularity of the area pushes the prices up, of course, and we were forced to settle for a room in a little village outside San Quirico, in a 3* hotel (not that I'm complaining). After a look round the town we set off for Bagno Vignoni, into the d'Orcia valley again from the hill fort. Arriving in the charming little village, we checked in to Hotel Le Terme which was, as the name would suggest, next door to the Hot Springs. It was late, so we postponed looking round till the morning and ate well in the excellent hotel.

I phoned my mother that evening, who reminded me that Bagno Vignoni, rather than San Quirico d'Orcia, was in fact where the cousins operate. I have a great suspicion that we may in fact have been staying in their hotel, too... so I won't begrudge them the price too much! The next day we spent the morning looking round the lovely little town, dangled our feet in the sulphurous water which made them feel all tingly and fixed James' pannier rack (with string, of course!).

We were definitely due a pointless diversion, and the Italian road authority, despite it being a Sunday, had closed a short tunnel on the main road, forcing us up a 500m climb to get over the same hill. In fact it turned out to be worth the climb, as the view from the village at the top was stunning, and there were even some kind Germans with their camper van on hand to offer us some water! Danke...

We were quite excited upon getting to lake Bolsena, simply because it was panoramically beautiful and we hadn't seen water since the coast at Viareggio. We decided to stop for the night, so that James could go to the Carabinieri. With the help of a piece of Pilgrim info from a tourist office earlier in the day, we found the convent of the Sisters of St. Christine and asked the lovely nuns (none of whom can have been taller than 5') whether there was any chance of staying the night. The mother superior was called and it was decided that it would indeed be possible, so we shifted all our stuff into the room whilst the superior told me the story of the convent and the church.

It seems the church next door is quite important since it is the site of the miracle of the Holy Sacrament. A Bohemian priest in 1263 came to the church and whilst he was administering communion (correct me if I'm wrong, I was having to pick this up in Italian...) the bread jumped the gun as it were, turned into the true body of Christ a tad too early, and dribbled blood on the altarcloth. The stained cloth itself could be seen in the little side chapel of the delightful church with a rather fun Italian 16th century altar back.

The order of nuns with which we were staying had sister convents all over the place, and one of the sisters spent a happy ten minutes explaining how excited she was about a big trip they were all planning to St. Peters - lots of their sister sisters (as it were) were going to come and stay in Bolsena and then they'd all go and see the Pope. I think there were only four or five nuns in this convent, but they were extremely jolly, and full of vitality: the first we saw of them was one of them scurrying off to the pizza takeaway shop!

With a heavy heart and words of encouragement, we left Bolsena the following morning after a successful trip to the police station. I cannot commend highly enough the hospitality of these lovely Sisters in their convent overlooking the distant water: here, truly, we found to what extent Catholicism is 'one big family' - something I have always found sadly lacking in the Anglican faith.

From one lake to another, we made excellent progress across the hills through Viterbo and on to Bracciano, nestled on the hills next to the lake with which it shares its name. Prices were predictably high here, and to be honest with you, whilst it was a charming town, with a vast fortress and lovely views over the lake at sunset, I was yearning to be back in the simple, icon scattered accommodation of the convent.

Having said that, there would not have been the opportunity in a convent to have watched Il Palio itself, and we were very fortunate to catch it on TV that evening. It suspends belief for some people that an entire city can get so worked up (the whole place shuts down completely for a week) over a race which lasts about 75 seconds. However, having seen this year's race on television, and having had the priviledge of witnessing a race in the flesh, it is quite clear to me that this minute and a quarter is possibly the most adrenaline filled moment of the entire Italian calendar. This, I suspect, will go down as one of the great races, won by Tartuca (the Turtle contrada) who led all the way, but were nearly caught on the line.

But the race was all over. And it was nearly all over for us. Next morning, I woke up at 7. The alarm went off at 8.30. I was in no mood for sleeping - the excitement of the final installment of this trip was coursing through my veins. We set off around 10.30 with the intention of arriving just after lunch in St. Peter's Square. After a second breakfast (15 grams of hotel french toast and a croissant doesn't get you very far...) we passed the ring road, smiled at the sign saying "ROMA" and hit the suburbs of the "capital of the world", as Goethe put it.

Negotiating the traffic, the one-way systems and the cobbles, we followed the river, rounded the enormous fortified Castel S. Angelo and turned into the Via della Conciliazione. St. Peter's Basilica positively glowed in the sunlight and as we rode west along the long avenue, the magnificent piazza opened up in front of us, to reveal its full glory. I can only imagine how James felt - never having been to Rome, arriving here after 24 days on a bike, in the heart of the Catholic world. I suspect that, just as I cannot describe the sensations I felt when I first arrived in Santiago de Compostela, he too will have difficulty discribing how he felt on his arrival here.

For me, even after 4 pilgrimages (3 to Compostela, and now one to the Vatican) I found it incredibly difficult to isolate what I felt. After 1965 kilometers or so on a bicycle, one has seen so very many different places that they all somehow merge into one; in 24 days, one meets so many varied people, from the Egyptian road-side fruit seller to the nuns of Bolsena, from the motor-cycling friar of Chartres to the countless people who have helped us on our journey, be it physically (the Swiss cleat-screw man in Vionnaz, those who have kindly offered accommodation etc.) or metaphysically through kind words of encouragement, that it can be hard to separate them in one's mind.

Quite genuinely, it wasn't until I sat in the cathedral side chapel and ran through my diary that I could put my mind in order - I was still in travelling mode, my legs ready for the rest of the day's work, my mind searching for a place to sleep. But we had a hotel, and there was no physical distance to travel. Until that moment in the Cathedral, I couldn't answer if it felt a long way, a long time, a difficult task or not.

I sat in the side chapel and thumbing through my diary, tried to recall all the people we had encountered en route. As I worked my way through, page after page, I recalled people buried in the journey past: seemingly insignificant people, like the lady who told us she always took the little road into town because the big one was dangerous, people such as the hotel owner who kindly gave us "Bernie", our fluffy St. Bernard dog as a mascot.

Progressively everything slotted into place: it had indeed been a long way, a journey through 5 countries, taking 3 and a half weeks: a long time, yes, but no longer than necessary: an effort, yes, at times even a struggle, but always a surmountable one. Above all it had been eminently enjoyable and fulfilling, made so in no small part by James' company.

Physically this journey is over. I know from my other experiences on pilgrimage, however, that emotionally this trip will never leave me, will rear its head at the most unexpected of times and in the most unexpected of circumstances, and as clichéed as it may sound, will in some way or other continue to mould our lives until the ultimate journey is finally complete. As the mother superior told me in Bolsena: "Pilgrimage is a state of mind; never forget that."


I don't know how many people, or indeed who, has been reading this log. Either way, whoever you are, I hope that you have enjoyed reading it and that perhaps I might have planted in someone somewhere the seed of travel, perhaps even of pilgrimage. Anyone can benefit from a trip like this. It does change lives, and what's more, it's incredibly enjoyable. Just get up and do it!

Until the next time,

"Ultreia!"
(Spanish phrase of encouragement to Pilgrims)

Easy Pisa

Where did I get to...? Ah yes, the cathedral in Pisa. As I mentioned, after discovering the certain special things that made our hotel fall squarely into the 1* bracket, we went to use and visit the cathedral. The initial shock came when upon presenting ourselves at the door, we were abruptly told "Ticket!?". I didn't know if it was a statement or a question at the time, but it didn't really matter. We put on the "You would make pilgrims pay to use your church for what it was built for, eh?" face, and were similarly abruptly sent to another, smaller, side door. Here we were told, no, no, no, this is only for praying. Well, yes, actually.
Despite the undeniable beauty of the small side chapel, with its stunning carved ceiling, fairly intimate altar and wonderful array of paintings around the walls, I cannot honestly say that this was a place conducive to prayer, since it was really just a bit of the church roped off from tourists: sadly rope is not an effective barrier to the sound of yelling children, chattering tourists, and the frequent flashes of cameras. It certainly gave the impression, be it true or not, that religion had been brushed firmly into the corner here. Having said that, I do appreciate the efforts that had been made to keep that corner apart from the masses. Having used the chapel for what was, I imagine, its original intended use, we bought a ticket and touristed our way around the rest of the staggering edifice.
Enormous, impressive, beautiful, expansive, expensive, awe-inspiring even: all words that sprang to mind. But also, for me, cold, vacuous, devoid of religious focus, distant... Sadly, I felt that both its design and construction combined with the the prostitution of a building originally crafted for the public good in mind, had rendered impotent any sense of holiness. Don't get me wrong, I am well aware that churches are not maintained without funding, but to make an entry fee mandatory, in my view, is to suggest that the church stands no longer for openness and acceptance, but rather is an enclosed, almost preserved, but stale antiquity. I personally think that Bath Abbey, amongst others, has got the policy right - give people a personal welcome as they come in, offering them the opportunity to contribute £2 or more if they want.
Rant over. Despite all this, I think the building is quite remarkable - in particular, James astutely noted that if you stood in the middle and looked west, the building resembled, in shape at least, Trinity College chapel; looking East however, it resembled much more St. John's. There is a truly amazing carved pulpit, in marble, which is definitely worth five minutes and the collection of vast paintings around the walls is remarkable though hard to see owing to bad lighting.
We took a walk through the centre of the old town, down to the river, which is undervisited as it is all of 500 yards from the cathedral. The great thing about the cathedral square, with the leaning tower, the cathedral and baptistry all in the same, easily accessible open space, is that it is very easy tourism. One might say it is the Classic FM of tourist sites - there's lots of open space, so everyone can take the same photo, and get the whold group of buildings in the view finder. For the more adventurous, you can get a photo taken where you seem to be holding up the tower (we've all seen one at some point I think!), and there are little stalls selling food, drink, postcards and off-the-back-of-a-lorry Vercase, Vouis Luitton, and Guchi sunglasses etc. dotted all along the square. The hotels are all within 5 minutes of the cathedral, so this is genuinely the perfect place for lazy tourism.
I think that's why lots of people I know, and indeed myself (after my 2002 trip) think that Pisa is industrial and boring. In fact, to my surprise as much as anyone's, the old town of Pisa is really very beautiful. True, there is nothing to do. But the old buildings and little squares are very well preserved, and most of them are tourist free.
So I guess that despite grumpily trying very hard not to like Pisa, actually we both did.

The following morning however, it was Friday 13th. The walls of our room were freckled with mosquitos squashed during the night and our bodies were freckled with bites. We had waged war under the cover of darkness (our arsenal including citronella and a big swatting-book) and, as with all wars, both sides had taken heavy casualties. Scratching and tired, we rolled out of bed. Breakfast was enjoyable though in a nearby cafe (1* hotels not being the centre of the breakfast world), and we set off eventually after failed Internet searches for hotels and diary writing, at about 12.30.

A tail wind of about 15 knots gave us a heafty shove in the right direction, and soon, after very little effort we came to a little cafe in a small town called Pontedera. The day had been going well so far, the route very Tuscan, with pine trees, vineyards and sunshine. It was at this point that James asked me where his passport was. It turned out that it wasn't in his panniers, my panniers, or in fact anywhere except where-ever he had left it: a piece of information which wasn't readily available. He rang home, and his father rang the hotel, he being an Italian speaker. When he rang back, he reported that the hotelier had been as "helpful as a dung-beetle". The hadn't found the passport (or even looked I suspect). James' dad, brilliantly however, gave us the number of the british consulate in Rome, who actually answered the phone, indeed actually answered the phone in a British accent! Apparently he can get a new one in Rome when we get there. So please, readers, don't panic... it's all under control, there's no need to send aid parcels etc. we're fine!
We cycled on along the beautiful wide valley past San Miniato (but just looked at the monastery from a distance) until we came to the genuinely industrial Poggibonsi. Everyone in Tuscany knows that Poggibonsi isn't very nice. That's why they crowd all their industries in there. After chasing the tourist office round the town a couple of times, the lady in the office, the first genuinely helpful Italian of the trip, found us a B&B in Colle Val d'Elsa. We cycled off.
This little village, spilling over the side of a hill, is an absolute charm and delight. The lady of the B&B speaks perfect Aussie english, and the old town is truly gorgeous. As I parked our bikes in a garage round the back of the building in which we are housed, I was captured by the garage owner who had kindly offered its services. "Come and see what I'm doing", he said. I went. He was retired it turned out, and operated a little workshop out of his other garage, where he made beautiful geometric shapes in wood and those infuriating little puzzle toys which you can never put back together. He told me that each shape had a different meaning and power, and that in order to complete the puzzle correctly I would have to have a well centred mind and my left and right brain in harmony. I took the puzzle back and fiddled with it while James had a shower.
10 minutes leater I had cracked it, and feeling rather smug, took it back to him. James joined me. Garage-man looked at it, and wanted to know my technique. Apparently I hadn't used the technique of the master, I had 'right-brained' the puzzle - too scientific, he said. I lose.
He started to explain about some of the shapes he made, some of the carved images, energy centres, masculine and feminine geometry, Icosohedrons... in a slightly 'hair-shirt and sandals' way, it was absolutely fascinating. He said that in his retirement he was studying the similarity of religions etc.
Eventually we were both hungry, our energy levels were sufficiently balanced, and it was 9pm. The walk up into the old town was beautiful. If you are passing YOU MUST VISIT COLLE VAL D'ELSA. As the B&B lady put it, it's an imperfect, better version of San Gimigniano, without the tourists. Gorgeous. We'll both be sorry to leave, but I suspect, as with so many of the little places we have passed through, we'll be back.
Jacob, James' friend arrived this morning, so James has spent the morning with him. He walked here overnight from San Gim. (puts our cycle to shame I think) and in good spirits (mostly Grape vodka(!)), told us he hadn't slept for 48 hours. Italian coffee is a marvel of modern science!
I chatted over breakfast to a delightful couple, teachers, from Germany. They had a guide book and gave me some numbers of hotels in San Quirico d'Orcia, near where we hope to arrive this evening.
Four days to the Vatican: excitement is building, particularly for James who has never been there. I hope St. Peter, and his basilica, will live up to expectations. We have already booked our hotel - "ain't no stopping us now... we're on the move!" (that great lyricist Tina Turner, I think - or was it Sister Sledge?).

Coasting along

It was good to get away from the non-sound proofed peeling veneer of the hotel in Alessandria. Air conditioning and sound proofing (and indeed, stylish decoration) comes at a 3* price in Italy, and we weren't in the mood for paying for it. James went to the cathedral before we left, whilst I tried to find a new pair of shorts. I've always had a fairly small waist size. However in the large department store in the town, the smallest size of shorts were a 44 inch waist!

James came out of the cathedral complaining that it was all very lovely and all that, but he couldn't cope with the loud banging from the renovations - I had been lucky, the night before, as the workmen had just finished, leaving me to look round in peace.

We set off East and South through little villages towards Bosco, avoiding the large roads for a change. As we were passing through Bosco we looked back to see a remarkably large building, possibly a church, which definitely needed investigating. The sign on the door suggested we go round the side and find the old lady with the key. So we did. A few minutes later, we heard loud clunking noises as the numerous bolts were pulled back. Judging from the echo, it had to be a big building, though we still had no idea whatsoever whether it was a church, a monastery, an ecclesiastical zoo for all we knew!

As the door drew back, it became clear that this was one of Italy's hidden treasures: this was the 16th century church of a monastery founded by Pio V, who was originally from the village. The old lady (exactly the sort of old lady you would expect to find lovingly looking after a chuch in the middle of nowhere), upon realising that given enough time I could understand a certain amount of Italian, took enormous pride in giving me a personal guided tour, whilst James pottered around taking photos. She was a veritable fount of information, telling me all sorts of things about the paintings, each of the numerous antichapels and about how they moved the altars around over the centuries because they didn't like the design... the Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen of monks perhaps - they even put a feature wall behind the altar...

Signing her visitors book, we bade the lady farewell and continued on to Gavi. For some reason we were both finding the going extremely hard, but after a hearty lunch, we set out on the climb to the top of the Passo della Bocchetta. It was about 32 degrees and this was a seriously tough climb. Indeed, as James exclaimed at the top, it was possibly even harder than the alps themselves, despite being just 700m or so to the top. The view from the top, however, was possibly the best so far: it was such a clear day that we could see all the way to Genova and to the sea beyond - at least 25 km.

The downhill was fast and furious and within about 45 minutes we were in the city. Thanks to Italian sign-posting we had an unexpected foray onto the autostrada at one point, but the police soon told us where to get off: imagine riding into London on a bike over the Hammersmith flyover...

In the end, we rode straight through Genoa since there appeared to be only 4* hotels there. Further along the coast however, we found an adequate, but rather overpriced, 2*. Warned by the hotel owner to watch the prices carefully, we went in search of supper, which was procured from a lovely restaurant overlooking the crashing waves. Afterwards, out of desire for an ice cream, we stumbled on an Italian institution: the gelateria we went to, turned out to be the evening meeting point for most of the local residents. Groups of teenagers, mothers meeting up with young children and the more venerable members of the population all gathered at this central point to eat gelati and sit on cushions on the pavement cunningly provided by the shop. There was one child, about 3, who was making a concerted effort to destroy a vending machine with its pram. But noone cared - everyone was having a jolly evening with their friends, apparently in complete security.


The following morning we stopped in a bar for breakfast. I am excited to announce that I have found Osama Bin Laden. He was sitting next to me in the cafe, eating a croissant and reading the newspaper. I even have a photo to prove it. (p.s. for any CIA people reading this... it wasn't actually Osama Bin Laden, merely someone who resembled him. Osama is not an Italian, and so there is no need for you to rush off an bomb Genova.)

The coast road was familiar to me from my trip in April 2002, from Rome to Santiago de Compostela: a wonderfully beautiful but hilly road, as it followed the very steep valleys running down to the sea, each with its own lovely little resort town. "Le cinque terre" is one of the most beautiful regions of Italy, with sheer rocky cliffs, forests, and deep blue-green seas. From Sestri Levanti, where we had lunch, we began the climb to the Passo del Bracco. I remembered this pass from last time as being rather difficult as there is no shade and at times it is very steep. As last time, it was a scorching day, but we made good time, as we're getting rather better at hill climbing now.

The descent took us towards La Spezia. There were very few hotels, and the one's that did exist were full. However, about 8 km west of La Spezia, we did find one in a lay-by next to a fuel station. A slightly overpriced room was compensated for by very cheap food. We slept well until the local cockerell did its thing for an hour from about 4am.

We set of fairly early (er... 9am) and covered the short 10km to La Spezia where we stopped for breakfast. Finding an Internet cafe, we looked for hotels in Lucca and Pisa. There was nothing available for booking online, but we did find some 2* and 1* which provided phone numbers. What they failed to tell us was that the code had changed so none of the numbers worked. We would have to chance it once again, but as we were getting closer to Tuscany, hotels would become harder to come by.

It was never going to be a difficult day of cycling along the coast. And it was made even easier by the fact that there was a convenient trailing wind. The road from Massa to Viareggio along the coast could not have been more packed full of hotels and tourists if they tried. When one could glimpse the the sea, it was beautiful, but seeing past the chalets was unusual. The flat riding certainly made a change, but it was rather dull. We had lunch in a resort restaurant, and then made haste to Pisa to catch the TIC before it shut.

Would we make it? Well, of course we would. Despite our fears that the Tourist Infor Centre would shut at 6, it actually stayed open till about 9pm. Arriving in the Piazza del Duomo, we made appropriate oohing and aahing noises at the tower and its edificial friends. We got a list of correct phone numbers from the TIC and within minutes, had struck gold. Or so we thought.

The 1*, excellently priced, Hotel Gronchi was suspiciously close to the cathedral to justify its low price. But on arrival, and finding our room to be fairly pleasant, though sparse, and the bathroom to be functional but 40 yards down the corridor, we were at a loss to find anything wrong with it. However, it was James who first noticed both the snoring from next door, clearly audible as though it was being piped through the wall by loud speaker, and also the fact that the beds were not entilely stable, or in fact, beds. Indeed, when it came to sleep later that night, it was quite a skill not to fall off the humpback bridge effect mattress. They squeaked too. And as James put it, were about as supportive as the Titanic.

We went to the cathedral in the evening, which I shall elaborate upon/rant about at a later time and then grabbed a bite to eat, for which I'm certain we were charged double, as the small fizzy orange beverage from the Coca-cola company could not possibly have cost £2.80.

Internet time running out. Bye.

Torino Borino

And so it turned out that Torino was even fairly dull on a Monday morning too. A smattering of shops were open at 10am when we visited the cathedral, with the most active thing around being the after-funeral party situated on the steps.

The cathedral in Torino smelt faintly of incense, making a change from the smelly central square. Very bright, marble and fairly echoey, it wasn't the most inspiring of buildings, but it was in no way unpleasant. It is of course the home of the Turin shroud, supposed to be the burial shroud of Jesus Christ, but now largely discredited after carbon dating. It still poses questions however as it seems to conform in every way to the story of the crucifiction (crown of thorns, spears and all). A genuine puzzle for modern science and a real draw for the inconically religious. It was hard to tell, behind the armoured plexiglass, whether the image before us was the real shroud or a photograph of the same, which I suppose only added to the mystery of the whole thing. Nonetheless, it is a truly remarkable object and James, quite rightly, was rather pleased with his photograph (photos might be available at a later date).

We wanted to go to Asti for lunch, about 50 km away. The route was planned and we headed east to pick up our road. Crossing the river by some truly remarkable buildings (why to places always hide their true treasures till you're leaving?) we found a sign to the right to "Asti SS10". The SS10 was certainly the road we wanted, however I was absolutely (well 95%) sure we needed to turn left. But being English, we took the view that signs are not designed to betray, rather to help. In Italy (steep learning curve coming) they are in fact designed with the specific intention to confuse and throw you off your tracks. We headed blindly off down the wrong road, consistently being signed to "Asti SS10". I glanced in passing at one of those enormous maps you find at bus stops and noted that the "you are here" arrow was not entirely pointing in the place where "you thought you were or ought to be". We were in fact on the wrong road heading south towards Genova. A rapid re-assessment of route and a few stops to ask for directions brought us right.

The route that we actually took, was a mixed blessing: whilst 5km longer, it had the advantage of avoiding the big roads and also a couple of foot hills. Sadly for us, the countryside, however, was terribly boring. Unless you like cornfields, that is: in which case it would have been fascinating. There weren't even any hills to punctuate the flat! We lunched on baguettes, various, and ice cream which in shape resembled a section of bowel. Nice.

More boring countryside brought us to the industrial section of Asti, which was dull, except for the small egyptian man and his son who ran a fabulous fruit stall from a caravan in a lay-by. The peaches we had from there (7 for €1!) were the best I have ever had. We nattered in broken italian and english until it was time to get on. Asti itself would have to wait for another day.

Dull fields of corn came and went. The odd village passed by, as did a tractor or two. The sky was boring and grey. I don't want to sound defeatest, but it was genuinely a drag cycling today.

We arrived in Alessandria at about 5.15, found a post office, the information centre (which was not very helpful as they don't book hotels like they do in France), and then fairly swiftly a hotel. The cathedral here is an absolute must see. For me it is only just behind Chartres, but in a completely different way: small and intimate, with about 20 side chapels, there can't be more than a square inch of ceiling which is not covered with glorious frescos and mosaics. There was considerable renovation going on in the nave but this only added to the feeling that this church was well looked after.

We had a drink in a cafe on the square before dinner in a pizzeria (obviously!). With our Red Erik beer, we met a man from Sicily who was an antiques importer in England and Milan. We nattered for a bit and promised him a postcard from Rome.

So that was day 16. Not what one might call stunningly exciting. Tomorrow we head to Genova - over the mountains, and down to the sea!

Smelly Pilgrims, Smelly Town

Italian city planners tend not to take any notice of pollution controls, have scant understanding of sewerage, and have a random distribution algorithm to tell them where to put their housing blocks. This last fact is I think the cause of the vast contrasts between streets, and often completely incongruous but adjacent buildings, that one finds in many of Italy's less famous towns.

Aosta, about the size of Cambridge but very different in location, was something of an exception. Nestled in the mountains, not enough of the buildings in the centre had managed to fall down or been bombed in the past century so the council had been forced to build it's concrete monstrousities just outside the city walls. To make up for this obvious disappointment, however, they had built them in abundance. The centre of Aosta itself was delightful though, full of Italian tourists, and one could clearly see why the Pope takes his holidays there.

Turin is a rather different place. The first thing that one notices on arrival, particularly by bike, is that it is vast. Any concept of a green belt certainly hasn't hit the city whose outskirts began (in the form of industrial estates) about 6 kilometres before any semblance of a building older than 40 years was visible.
Without an accurate map, the only indication we had of how close we were to the centre, was the apparent age of the buildings. As predicted, 1970s housing blocks were strewn all over the place, but as we rode further down the Corso Giulio Cesare these gave way to pre-war houses, then to slightly crumbling turn of the century buildings.

Eventually we got to an old Ironwork market, which must have been 1850 or so. This was next to a square where a large number of stalls were just packing up their wares. Thinking we were close to our objective, we asked a few people for the appropriate street and kept being directed down the road to the station. On we went. The station seemed an awfully long way away. Asking again we were told to carry on futher. By now we were passing old Italian city villas, some of which must have been 16th century or earlier.

Eventually we found it. An affordable 3 star hotel which we had booked in Aosta with the intention of having a day off on Sunday. The hotel itself was what one might expect - fairly spacious with talked-up amenities (like the "ice machine on the ground floor" which was actually the receptionist reaching into an ice bucket and putting some ice into a glass). The room itself, and I imagine they are all like this, is rather special though, as it has a very high painted ceiling, an indoor mezzanine unusable balcony with ballustrade (!) and stained glass windows. What's more, the beds were comfy.

In order to get to Torino, it had been necessary to cycle 125 kilometers. This was achievable since the majority of the route was downhill from Aosta and then, once we had got to Ivrea, across the plain to Turin. The Aosta valley is fascinating, dotted every couple of miles with a castle and with vines suspended on pillars surrounding the frequent villages clinging to the very steep hillsides. James and I were at odds over which side was nicer: I preferred Italy, he Switzerland. Either way, the scenery was spectacular.

Quite suddenly and without warning by means of foothills, the steep mountains gave way to an expanse of plains. We lunched at the hill fort town of Ivrea, a high walled city plonked on top of a mound to guard the valley up to the pass. Everything was shut. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen quite such a completely shut city in all my life. Saturday afternoon in August is not Italy's active time.

Nor, it turns out, is Sunday. Turin could be a really lively and interesting place, full of modern shops inside stunning old arched arcades running in some cases for about a kilometer! Architecturally this place is stunning, to the point that one can start to take the perfectly preserved centre for granted. However, as with Aosta, step outside the old centre, into the hub of the modern city, and things change.

The old city is comparatively quite tidy, when put against many cities of the world. The centre of the modern city is the market we passed through last night. This morning, without any stalls and with noone having bothered to wash it down, the whole market square smelt of a rather unpleasant combination of fast food, guerkins, smelly men on buses, and rotting vegetables. There is an excellent bus and tram service here, and this square seems to be the central hub where everyone changes bus: hence I am somewhat bewildered at why the people of Turin actually put up with the hideous stench. Maybe, I conjecture, it is a cunning plan to prevent tourists from clogging up the trams? Or perhaps all people from Turin smell like this and as a result they are immune. I don't know.

Apart from the fact that there isn't anything open which doensn't require standing up for long periods of time (museums etc.) so the location is somewhat dull in substance (owing to it being Sunday), the rest day couldn't have come at a better time. All four of our legs have been complaining today about having to be a tourist, clearly a sign that it was time to stop for a day. Tomorrow, however, we will set off once more, hoping to make Rome in 10 days, on the 18th.

Serendipitous stormy days

I'll be honest with you... I was unimpressed with Dijon: the streets were full of traffic, it was smelly, the cathedral was only marginally more inspiring than a flattened hedgehog and, to cap it all, the only mustard available to put in my junk food baguette (all that was available at that time) was English. I have a sneaking suspicion that Dijon's treasures, and indeed mustard, lie in spending a couple of days there and having time to penetrate the walls of the undoubtedly interesting buildings that exist there.

There was one thing which I really did like however, and this was the case throughout the local area: many of their public buildings and larger houses have colourful glazed tile roofs in the most extraordinarily fun patterns. It certainly makes a change from double roman tiles or slate which until now has been the standard.

We left Dijon without further ado on route for Dole. There was clearly a shift in the weather pattern in the air as an East wind was slicing its way across the wheat fields making it decidedly difficult to make much headway. The fields gave way to the suburbs of Auxonne, a delightful little town where we stopped for an invigorating drink boost - we have discovered grapefruit juice mixed with red orange to be an excellent energy drink (or you could stick with carrot, banana and extract of rubber band or whatever Dr. Atkins recommends these days).

Dole didn't commend itself to us terribly well in the evening as we hadn't been through the middle, but after his evening constitutional walk, James announced that it was quite pretty actually. Personally I was most interested in getting my washing done, but that would have to wait for the morning.

The laundry was, fortunately, not closed for the holidays (which is just as well as even the clean clothes were beginning to smell a little dubious!). Rain had been forecast, and as we got to the laundry it arrived. Most of the town had been caught unawares and were hurrying back to their cars in an attempt to keep their freshly baked baguettes from going floppy: it seems the French, like the English, take just as little notice of what their forecasters say and prefer to chance it.

Just as we were leaving, Dole showed us its handsome face in the form of some lovely public buildings along the hill from where we were staying. The road out from Dole was delightful and passed through poplar plantations containing more mistletoe per square foot (sorry, metre) than I've ever seen. After passing the official scouts 'pétanque' centre, we stopped at a 'brasserie' for lunch. We were astounded to find a 4 course meal plus coffee and wine for the equivalent of £8. It seemed to good to be true. It was: but on the bright side what a fantastic way to use up appalling cuts of beef and any stale bread or cheese left over from last nights customers!

Poligny was a charming little town, with more Dijonnaise glazed roofs and a lot of tourists. Perhaps they correllate? We were by now nearing lake Geneva, and with this rise in tourism, there was an anticipated rise in prices. We were required to rise, also, to the challenge of a 350m climb in altitude, our biggest yet. It was quite tough but we made it in the end (just as well - the alpine climb would be over 2000m). There is a delightful hotel at the top of this hill which I recommend anyone with a spare £150 knocking around to consider visiting. We didn't, but we took the opportunity to fill up on water and I tried to explain to the proprietress the rather problematic differences between anglicanism, catholocism, anglo-catholicism, low-church...

Champagnole looked nice, but we shot through as we wanted to get a little further and complete the 500m climb to St. Laurent. It was all going very well until, arriving at the top of the steep bit of the climb, the storm looked like it was about to break. Ominous signs stared to appear such as drivers, in really very wet cars, with their lights on, frantically gesturing or us to turn back. No way! There was bound to be a hotel along the road. There was.

We pulled up to find it full. Or rather, they were waiting for the last people to arrive in a couple of minutes, so we could wait to see if they came or not. They did. The hotel receptionist tried the other hotel within 6 km, but it was full. Then something rather unexpected happened. The couple who were to have the last room came downstairs and, after asking the price of the room, decided to leave. We took the room, which turned out to be enormous, with elaborate french furniture, chintz and a 1970's television and I fixed my second bathroom of the trip (again, plug problems), always a recurring theme on these trips.

The storm broke.

Over supper, we watched a vicious thunder storm mercilessly lash the mountain and thought how different things could have been if we'd been left out in the cold that night. It was by far the best meal of the trip, my lamb cooked to perfection, James' trout a real dream (apparently).

After a rather un-pilgrimesque sleep-bonanza owing to some jolly comfy beds, we set off in the morning for St. Laurent, where we stopped for some breakfast. We had, before leaving, taken a coffee on the sunny hotel terrace, as we watched fishermen cast their lines into the little mountain stream. The route towards Lake Geneva took us over our first mountain. At 1250m it was only a baby really, but the climb was still tough, since our legs were still adapting from the endless corn plains of the north. The ascent started in earnest at Morez, which appeared to be the international home of ophthalmic clinicians in case you wanted to know.

Within a kilometre of the summit it became more and more evident that we were in fact being chased by a thunder storm. The first spatters of rain appeared. We pedalled faster trying to outrun the beast. Finally we got to Les Rousses, where we found a restaurant to hole up for the storm. Again, we had miraculously escaped a drenching by seconds, since as our salads appeared, the thunder rain arrived.

We bade farewell briefly to France and crossed into Switzerland where we reached the summit and began the rapid descent to Nyon on Lake Geneva. The view from the top was slightly disappointing as we should have been able to see all the way from Geneva to Lausanne. Sadly the area was heavily forested, but the views across the lake were amazing when they appeared.

Descending the 700m to the lake, we found the ferry to Yvoire, and after a bit of persuading got them to let us on with our bikes. We chatted merrily about beer cafes with the captain, who disconcertingly looked out at where he was going rather infrequently as he steered the boat nonchalently across 'Le Leman'.

Back in France again, and we found it almost impossible to push our bikes through the throng of tourists that were justiiably in Yvoire, a fabulously well preserved, but hence now utterly spoilt, traditional little fishing village. The road along the lake was busy and rather dangerous. Eventually we found a hotel (after chasing a few phantom ones first) on the main road through an industrial estate between Thonon and Evian (where they bottle the local tap water). It was back to reality tonight - lumpy beds, a tiny room and a loo/shower on the floor below. Kindly, the hotel had thought to put a bidet in the middle of the room.

It would be a complete lie to say that Day 13 was anything remotely close to difficult. Starting out fairly early with the intention of visiting the tourist office in Evian we cycled the 3km that were necessary to achieve this. James went in search of breakfast whilst I went to book a hotel somewhere up the Great St. Bernard pass in the alps. Being French the tourist office wasn't really allowed to help me ind accommodation in Switzerland but they were kind enough to give me some numbers and let me buy a phone card. After a pain au chocolat I felt prepared to talk to the Swiss on the phone. Procurement of a hotel turned out to be unexpectedly easy - whereas the pass I had used in Spain 2 years ago had had no hotels at all here there appeared to be loads. I booked one, fairly arbitrarily.

After using up the remaining credit on the phone card, we set off along the lake, past the evian bottling plant which looked like it was leaking as the lawn sprinklers were on, and eventually came to the Swiss border. Stopping for our last French coffee we took a final look at France and then skipped into Switerland for the second time in the same number of days.

The novelty of Swiss Francs suddenly dawned on us (we hadn't needed to buy anything Swiss yesterday) and so I visited the bank. It was at this point that I realised I had absolutely no idea what the exchange rate was. The bank was shut for lunch but the cash machine allowed me to take out various values between 50 and 500 francs. Out of sheer curiousity we opted for 200 and decided to see how far it would take us. I still don't know what the exchange rate was, but I have a suspicion that Switerland lived up to its reputation as a rather expensive place.

We followed the surprisingly industrial but nonetheless stunning Haute-Rhone valley south towards Italy. Stopping in a little village called Vionnaz because we liked the church tower, James discovered that he had lost a screw from his cleat (the metal thing that attaches your shoe to the pedal). I had fallen to talking to a young boy who was, I suspect at the instigation of his mother, helping Dad clear out the garage. He was, like all 12 year olds, fascinated by the bikes.

Ever the optimist, James suggested I ask the father whether he might happen to have an appropriate screw. Ever the pessimist, against my suspicions, I did (bear in mind that this screw is a specialist piece of equipment, allen key controlled, only a centimetre long, bevilled... this was a longshot in the extreme). About 5 minutes later the father returned with an older gentleman and a new screw. We reattached James' foot. I will probably never know if there is someone giving us a helping hand on this trip or not but serendipitous occurrences like this, and finding hotel rooms miraculously vacated etc. certainly give one hope. But on this occasion it didn't stop there. We wanted to visit the church. Was it open, the old man asked? But of course, the father's wife was the person who held the key!

In fact the church was pleasant, but of no great architectural or design value. Nonetheless the tower was really fun and the view spectacular back towards the lake, with the sun lighting the hills. We promised to write a postcard to them when we arrived. It was after all the least we could do.

The route to Martigny was pleasant enough with a tail wind and we avoided any storms that were forecast. We stopped at a 'tea house' in which the waitress, when asked what types of tea she sold was genuinely puzzled and answered 'hot and peach', and then commenced the first part of the climb to Orsières where our hotel would be for the night. This looked quite tough on the map and we were expecting a tricky climb at the end of the day. However in reality the climb would truly begin the next day. We were glad however to get 400m of the climb to the summit out of the way and slept passably in our rickety hotel run by a man who appeared not to be a fluent speaker of either Italian German or French but maintained he was infact Swiss French... hmm an accentual issue perhaps?

It was judgement day, so to speak. Had we picked up enough latent fitness to get to the top of the Col du Grand Saint Bernard. Equipped with the cuddly St. Bernard dog (called Bernie obviously) which the hotelier had kindly given us to help us out, we set off after talking to 2 german motorcycling couples who were also heading to Aosta today. It was 10am. The sun was trying valiently to push out of the way the clouds capping the steep sides of the valley, and as predicted by the flurry of arrows pointing up the road on my map, it was fairly tough going.

We acheived the first 400m of altitude without stopping, and took our first break (other than for photos etc.) at Rive Haute. The views were stunning and James in particular was excited by them, being very much a mountain person - much photo snapping occurred. There was little sign of the rain storms we had last night on arrival (close escape yet again!) and so we continued. The road flattened out somewhat (to just 1 in 20(!)) between Liddes and the entrance to the tunnel which takes the main road through the mountain. Just above the reservoir, with the valley sides narrowing rapidly, we left the main road and started the extremely steep 6.5km climb to the pass. It was tiring work. Up till now we had both been surprised at how easy the climb had been. This was Tough (with a big 'T').

Passing cars and motorcycles shouted encouraging remarks and cyclists passed on helpful comments like 'only 2 kilometres to go...' James turned out to have great ability when it came to cycling up the steep bits, sticking in a low gear at a slow speed and just plugging on. I was I confess having the odd problem with the really steep bits. In fact my knee decided it was time to pack it in about two kilometres from the summit. Even James was reduced to walking though for a fair share of the last section - it was, put simply, uncyclable.

We scored the ascent 3-1 to us: the mountain had definitely scored a point at the end where we had to walk but it wasn't enough to stop us getting there. We had done it. I can't tell you how happy we were. Americans might have yelped, high fived, who knows what. We British pilgrims, at 2473m up, took a photo and forced a conversation on an English family who were trying to leave.

Panoramic views from the top forced James back into overexcited camera mode. We went up to the tourist centre, and got a few postcards. Our search for lunch was interrupted by the news that storms were imminently forecast. I popped my head into the delightful church at the hermitage at the pass to find that James had set off down the hill looking for the church. I caught him up 2 miles into Italy and we rushed off down the mountainside. It really was astonishingly steep, if not to mention the act that it was rather fun too!

We were both genuinely surprised at how much we had climbed - the road just kept on descending. We stopped or a brief coffee as a storm passed overhead and then we were chased all the way to Aosta by another fat grey cloud. We could see the sheets of rain behind us.

Aosta turned out to be quite a nice place: the sort of place that all of Italy comes to on holiday at least. We found a hotel outside the city walls and after a brief shower went in search of an internet cafe: we are currently sat in a smoky Pool/snooker bar. James is researching hotels. I am hungry.

Up an alp. Interim report: to be completed tomorrow.

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We are in Orsières, up an alp on the way to Italy.

I don't have time to write at length as, quite frankly, I want to go to bed, but more importantly, the lady proprietress scares me and I think she may want the computer back. She is currently washing up her kitchen knives.

Will

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