It was the 26th of June, Will’s birthday, and we had just set eyes upon the spectacle of Lake Garda.
Having slept wild by the river Adige the night before, our first instinct was to strip down to our underwear and take a dip in the glassy waters of Garda. With strong winds blowing across the North of the lake, our view was all mountains and sails, fluttering and occasionally falling with inexperience. It was frankly about as stunning as most every travel agent tells you it is.
With the area around Riva del Garda the most dramatic of landscapes on offer, we hovered a while, before setting ourselves on the birthday reward of a boat ride to the south, giving us a restful day of drinking in scenery whilst the diesel engine of the Italian Lake service shuttled us the 60 kilometres south to Peschiera del Garda.
Getting a ticket and finding a seat on the top deck, we settled in, watching the idyllic towns slide into view, pause as the boat docked, and slip away as the engine roared and the diesel became detectable.
With a procession of small towns slipping by, we soon suffered from scenery fatigue, and by two hours into our boat ride, the scenery had flattened out a little. Looking again at our tickets, we saw that we had another 3 hours of boat ride across Garda to endure – oh the horror.
Docking in Peschiara, we had a quick review of the town centre. An old fort and military base on the lake, with the setting sun, our priorities set on finding a spot to pass the night. Riding into the outskirts of town, we found a grass covered turn off on a roundabout, and were soon settling in for the night in our very own field, 5 minutes from the lake front. All in all, it wasn’t a bad day to turn 25.
The next morning saw some map consulting. Just 20 kilometres from Verona, we thought it a shame to skip out on such a town, and so we packed up and pointed our handlebars towards the fair city.
Quickly, two things became apparent. One – Italian roads are not entirely the silk smooth surfaces that you find in Germany or Luxembourg. Two – Italian driving is infamous with reason. Whilst a good portion of our route into town was on bike paths, the roads that we had to tackle were questionable for two road bikes loaded with luggage.
Bumping into the city, we went past the many ancient buildings and into the main square. Among teatowels with Shakespeare’s face, we soon found the hive of lovey-buzzing that was the Balcone di Giulietta – Juliet’s balcony. Yes. As the city in which Romeo and Juliet is set, the town cashes in on anything heart-based branding it can. Wandering into the little square of the replica balcony, what was impressive was the scribbling of notes, in all languages, on any spare strip of paint.
Moving on we took in the city’s impressive Roman amphitheatre, wandered along the river and made sure to stop for a slice of fresh focaccia between bridges. Without a place to stay for the night though, we hesitated, and settled on our perfect little spot back by lake Garda, and soon put the pedal strokes in to make it there for another mountainous sunset.
Making good time, we arrived, and upon arriving at a bar for a cold glass of white wine, we soon found ourselves directionless. Though our initial goal was to head south and see San Marino, we now looked at the map and saw what was four days of flat riding to get to a small town that added to our country tally, but perhaps not for our newfound love of mountainscapes. The other objective of Liguria and Tuscany too seemed a long way away on this Southern trajectory. With the date now sitting on the 27th, we rationalised that of the time we had left, around two months, it was best to start using that time to make progress to a place we really wanted to see well – the French Alps.
Over two glasses of Trento white, we drew up new plans and made our new target Turin, allowing us to hop the border amid snowy giants. This meant our direction for the next day was decided – the western leg was about to begin. Returning to our camp for a second consecutive night, we slept soundly, with visions of Alps once more in our heads.
Turning around with our noses pointed distinctly towards the Atlantic for the first time in a month and two weeks, we made progress first around the South of Garda, surrounded by German and Russian accents and a United Nations worth of registration plates. This was, to be perfectly honest, a tough ride. Though largely flat, we persevered, and after a few little lumps out of the lake, we were on the flat and arrow straight roads towards Cremona.
80 kilometres past fields and without trees, the lack of shade was to become a common feature of the next few days. After pedalling into town in the evening, we were keen to get ourselves clean after three dirty days in the tent, and sweaty pedalling in the sun. We wheeled our bikes through the rough and worn cobbled streets of Cremona, taking in the facades of old buildings. Looking up the town shone a bit of light on just why so many street names seemed to be based around instrumentation, as the city’s most famed son was Stradivarius, who preceded Idris Elba in the little known pilot episode of Luthier.
Having found a campsite that promised electricity, wifi and showers on the edge of town, we got there in the last of the sunlight, set up our tent and headed to those showers. The forfeit of one Euro per person for a four minute spray soon seemed a little disingenuous, and the promised wifi absent, we made the most of what was there, and opted to wash our clothes in the sinks as best we could before settling down for an early night.
The next day, we rose with good intentions, but heavy legs. Having covered a fair whack of ground, the pan flat landscape in which we now found ourselves appeared to serve fantastically as an oven, particularly on the larger roads, where temperatures soared to 40 degrees. Nevertheless, we made ground towards Piacenza with the promise of some old buildings and a bit of shade enough of a lure to see us dare tackle the industrial estates that strung out to the east of town. Upon getting into the city though, we were hot and bothered, and in no mood to appreciate a civic palace – we wanted a cold drink.
Taking lunch on the steps of a church we moved on, and bumped into a Frenchman, who in delight at seeing some fellow travellers, immediately asked whether we wanted to join him in necking a cold one, and we obliged. Talking, it became apparent that this chap had just walked from Geneva, following the ancient Via Francigena, and was bound for Rome. After quaffing his coca cola in double quick time, he made his excuses, leaving us to pedal onwards once more.
And so we started to make ground out of town. Having run out of gas that morning whilst preparing a coffee, we attempted to find a camping shop, and visitng a few stores in the outskirts of town, it soon became clear that the fitting we needed wasn’t readily sourced in Italy. Rather a pain, we continued onwards, but found ourselves increasingly wedged on a poorly paved main road with a torrent of cars surging out of the city. With no bridges or linking roads for another 20km and with turning around simply not an option in blazing afternoon sun, we were looking pretty stuck.
Stef not coping the best in the sun, and Will not too keen on the relentless close passes on the main road, when signs for a train station reared up, we decided to take them. Sitting down at the station, we looked again at the map. We had ridden ourselves into a bit of a bind. Talking amongst ourselves, the station master soon took interest, and invited us into the control room, still equipped with all the levers and flashing lights that long got turned into computers in other stations. Talking us through options as he pinged and yanked levers, he suggested a train to Stradella – 15 kms further up the road, but with easy access to a bridge and a means of escape from the tangle of Autostrada and Strade Statale. Tickets to be bought on the train, the only real work would be to lift the bikes onto the train.
Hopping on just before doors closed, Will searched out the conductor, buying two tickets and getting us out of our mess. Upon arrival in Stradella, we rode north to the river, and still hot and bothered, made camp amidst a swarm of mosquitoes, who were keen to make their presence known.
In the morning, we moved early, trying our best to avoid the greatest heat in the day. With 30kms to make it to Pavia, we steadily rattled across the rutted roads and made townfall for 10am. After checking the shops for gas cartridges, we continued onwards, with our diet now limited to whatever we could spread on bread, we were starting to get a little frustrated.
Things started to turn however, as Warm Showers once again came to save us from the rapidly worsening situation. Saving us from further bites and bloodsucking, Ausilia kindly welcomed us into her home – once we got there. A further 30 kms in the heat of the day, we slowly ventured forwards, and got to Lomello for 17hrs. Greeted warmly, we were shown to an apartment, our own for the night. Sitting down later, we were treated to the pasta that we had not been able to cook ourselves the night before, and talked at length about adventures and the land in which we found ourselves – the rice fields, known to be one of the most oppressive climates in Italy. With June marking the beginning of a three month mosquito season, we had clearly chosen a good time to high tail it back to the mountains and mosquito proof altitudes.
The next morning, we rode out into the paddy fields once more. Our direction now took us past Casale Monferrato, another old fortress town, and one which brought the good news of a second night indoors – Weronika and Marco this time taking us in. This time, we had a hill climb to carry out. The picture perfect village up in the hills housing their workshop, we thought little of the 200 meters of vertical ascent it took for us to get there….Until we actually had to do it. Mostly tackled in two stretches at 17%, it was a hard climb, but the reward of a delicious risotto was enough to compensate for any uphill struggle.
Waking to the sound of a rooster the next morning, we packed our things and hit the road once more. Not too far outside of Turin now, we decided to try and tackle the final rice fields towards Brandizzo – a small town just inside the city district but still outside of the city proper. The heat and mirages further company on the road, we battled on in staggering humidity, and finally made it into town. After a search for gas threw us onto a wild goose chase for a camping shop, we decided to make camp down by the river Po.
Improvising a stove to cook our pasta out of two tins of tuna in oil, we managed to make ourselves an edible meal. Soon though, the skies turned, and having pitched all our gear, we became concerned about rainfall further upstream, and with our campspot looking for all the world like it was in flash flood territory, we relocated and bedded down…
Until the skies woke us with strobing at 1:30 am. A huge thunderstorm over head, we considered our position once more, on bare flat land, in a little tent with metal poles. The situation was not good. Preferring to chance it outside of the tent, we donned our coats and sat in the rain, watching the lightening strikes fork the fields around us.
So far, Italy wasn’t everything we had hoped it would be.
The next morning, we rode the last 20 kilometres into town. Tired and damp, we fumbled the last meters into Turin, and took in the view from the Monte Dei Cappucini. Our luck though, was about to change.
