Through the Alps

The ride north on the toll roads, back into Europe, is mundane but relaxing. ‘Highway Patrol’ I call it. Punting along, curiously detached from the land through which I’m travelling, watching it like a soap opera as it’s reality passes by just out of touch. Curious glimpses of European life sweep by, a farmer stares through a rusting van in a field, a girl sits in an isolated plastic chair with a thermos and a newspaper. Unable to stop and stare at the citadel on the left, with it’s undoubted eons of history. Securely bound by corrugated steel from the rough neighbourhoods in the outskirts of a city. Guided safely and soporifically by the huge blue and green signs , onwards always, because I have a destination again. To Italy.

Near Grenoble I lose the toll roads for smaller, more intimate routes. The Alps rise from the plain like knees in white bed sheets. From a distance the snow seems to blanket their features into anonymity, but as I close in their individuality becomes apparent. Cliffs and corries, rounded shoulders and knife edge arêtes. Every time I come here the size of them astounds me. I have to be careful not to have another ‘vista related accident’. (The Trollstigvien is extremely picturesque and this may have contributed to the demise of my Enfield. Although the road WAS in dreadful condition.)

Near Corp I stop at a fantastic campsite and pitch my tent on a little terrace that looks out on the Grand Tete de L'Obiou, a rugged peak with a shroud of mist that plays around it’s cliffs all evening. I eat my birthday dinner (a tin of Ravioli and a Kitkat) under a brilliantly clear night sky and reflect that not only are there worse places to turn 34, but you ain’t seen the stars till you’ve seen ‘em from the mountains.

Next day the road over the Col du Saint Bernard is shut, so I resolve to go round by Chamonix to get to Courmeyer. Turning a corner near Sallanches, Mont Blanc appears in all it’s massive glory. I’d forgotten how appallingly bloody big it is. I can also see Aguille du Midi and Mont Blanc du Tacul. Nostalgically I pick out my route up Tacul in 1990. ‘Great trip’ I say to myself and look ruefully at Mont Blanc, which defeated me.

I cruise through Chamonix, decide to stay a few days, realise the campsites are still a foot deep in snow so regretfully head on to Courmeyer. Through the tunnel to Italy, Courmeyer is also under a thick white blanket. Eventually I stop down the valley in Aosta.

Italy is very much how I imagined it. From the high Alps with its’ twisting roads and mountainside redoubts, to the plains further south and miles of meticulously farmed agriculture. Square, small windowed brick farm houses with terracotta tiled roofs scatter the landscape. It’s easy to imagine this landscape has changed little since the Romans decided that they didn’t want Scotland after all and they should build a great big wall to keep us out of ‘their bit’ of Europe.

Well times have changed and here I am, and despite the fact I confidently believe I could train a chimp to drive better than the average Italian, the place is spectacular, and when they’re not trying to run me over, the people are warm and friendly. I’m hoping to be in the Apenines tomorrow for a well earned rest and to tick off another mountain range!