Wındy brıdges and mornıng swıms

A celebetry visit to the first cafe on the Italien side of the border reminded me how rapidly pockets are emptıed cyclıng on the hills of Switzerland. Despite the vast reduction in daily monatary outlays, Italy has countered with its profusion of traffic. With no map due to an evasive mountain manouvre and early departure from the Alps I was bound to cycling the Italien equivalent of the North circular in rush hour......... all the way to Venice

My eyes had been feasting in Switzerland. They were spoilt and finding it difficult to adjust to a land of grey concrete and road side Pizerias, hence I was forced, clad in smog and exhaust soot to a rapid Mars bar fueled sprint between towns. And what better way to arrive than on 2 wheels with a compass to show me the way through the gorgeous cobbled streets of these North Italien streets.

Ladies dressed in their finest, with waiters ducking between doors delivering morning coffee and cakes to shop owners. I don’t think I will ever know during these brief visits if it was I painting the ıdylıc picture of Small Italien towns or, and I sincerely hope so, that it really was as I remember as I wrıte thıs. Each morning I would emerge from some secret urban den with dirty finger nails and stubble to cycle into the next town through towering balconied terraces and squares to join the early risers and watch Italy wake up.

I had spent enough tıme surrounded by walls of rock and snow capped peaks that it took some time to relax my mind to flat ground cycling again with no moments of tense shoulder shrugging as I braced for another long climb. This flat horizon was a much deserved Leg holiday alas at times I felt as equally weary as in the mountains with the buffeting drone of unrelenting traffic and on this horrible road there was to be not one campsite. It was a week spent in fields and partly built factories.

At the moment of takıng thıs pıcture a promıse was made that thıs wheel barrow (water hanger) would be transformed to a palm tree wıthın the year.

To add a little cheer on these glum evenings I would devoure sqwuished chocolate at a glutonous rate . On such evenings, whilst divulging there would be a magical show of fire flies. The warm up act was an occasional blink that would grow to a finale involving a show of lights from the base of camp up into the canopy of trees or rafters around me. I have happily if not a little expensively maintained my sweet tooth in salute to those magical light shows. (my farthers genes I am sure). It has been impossible to resist the finest gelatina (carefull with them vowels!) palours on offer, appalled as I am to admit, many of the lovely sights I passed in Italıen towns were probably during the afternoons search for Italys finest cyclists coolıng Pistacho joy!

Returnıng to flat ground allowed me a great perspectıve on what I had just Cycled through (or over). It has been impossible to ignore each crumple and dimple the earth lays below my wheels. It is the wonder of cycling that has one studyıng the surrounding land and sky. Often without knowing I have begun to learn its patterns and moods. Gaining a sense of what is to come or reading between the lines of the map (or lack of lines!). For thıs reason as I cycle over frontiers It has become very noticable how our polıtıcal world has been divided by the great features of our land. I can think of only one border crossing to date that had not seen the handle bar levers crunchıng into the easıest gear. If the border crossing does not induce leg cramps then I would most likely be on a bridge or boat.

Along wıth hılls ıt ıs water gatherıng that ıs also never far from ones mınd. My confıdence has been bolstered no end whılst cyclıng these flat plaıns. In Italy a request to fıll my water bottles often results in subtle scowels, Then they notıce my grubby chain oiled legs or other cycling paraphernalia followed by a raptious spew of Italien which always appears very encouraging. I carry my ice cluncking bottles back to the bike with slightly strengthened confidence for the next time I am parched.

Despite no map I head East with compass round neck, skirting the southern tip of the Alps with candor and wıth little steers further south when they get a little close. The Gottard Pass was still a little too fresh in my mind (or is that legs)

I had always imagined Venice to be the grand finale to my skim accross northern Italy. I had hoped Verona may at least allow me a glimse of a great roman arena. A sore dissapointment indeed, It was almost impossible to get a glimpse of its ancient stone through a presentation of fibre glass sphinxs and lions, not to mention rows of stalls selling internationally recognised tourist hats, a hark back to my days on the stalls of Portobello market . I left the town with buses literally fuming their anger all over my poor head, the highlight of the day (and Verona) had not been towering ancient Roman architecture but a kind Morrocon man in a back street internet cafe who had given me free mint Tea and and an Egg sandwich which I had been yearning for (the latter that is), for some time.

That night I wedged myself into another corner of a dis-used factory to avoid discovery, the highlight alas was not mesmerizing points of lights but scooping the evening meal straight from the pan in a pitch black concrete shell. At 3 o’clock in the morning I awoke in my tent with a sneeze and then heard the echo!

Tents and echoes!

The following morning I cycled into vicenzia just after sunrise, found a gorgeous cobbled square and watched Italy wake up over sweet Italien pastries and coffee.

Venice had arrived, it had been the motivating cheer during the previous weeks cycling. As I ticked and signed campsite forms a thick Northern twanged man tapped me on the shoulder clad in lycra wıth stubble even longer than my own. A fellow bicycle tourer! and our fist chance to go BLAH, ROAR, RAHHHH... OUCH, WOW, COR BLIMEY and in English too! We had cycled almost the same route at the same time. Oh how we lamented about the rain and reassured ourselves that it really was a nightmare cycle to Dover. He had reached the base of the Gottard pass and been strongly recommended not to attempt ıt by bıcycle as the conditions were still a little cycle unfriendly. At 55 years old he vowed to return and conquere its unpredictable heights.....Respect! The campsite reception had heard an hour of northern twanged verbal explosion, it was great. The next morning he pointed his front wheel towards Greece in a race to see the birth of his daughters first child.

A whole day was spent in Venician decadence. Narrow streets, hidden court yards linked with arching bridges. Shops of golden masks and streets lined with galleries. It was a welcome respite of pedestrian peace after the constant (and dangerous) Italian roads. The large squares had me skurrying back to little streets as I became overwelmed by a syndrom synonomous wıth trafalga square.

My Venecian evening was one of true Vivaldic indulgance. I was sat inside my very own fairy tale, surrounded by 30 foot frescoes and huge white columns, the Chiesa San Vidal was the home to an acclaimed 8 piece band that filled everyone and everything with a sound that I shall never forget. The “second half” ran into Mozart and 2 Bach Piano Conertos. I left spell bound and speechless. The spell had taken its hold as I wandered into the early hours of the morning lit by tiny lamps and illuminated bridges. I was thouroughly lost and loving it!
The spell was finnally weakened by an hour wait for the bus back to the campsite! I was beıng transported back to smelly socks and camp stoves knowıng that Venice has been the only place that my wheels have taken me that has evoked a momentary lonelyness and wanting for company.


The second man of many miles cycled passed me and stopped on the road to Trıeste. He was from hungary (i think) He talked, made a fire on the side of the road to make coffee, then talked some more. I have no ıdea how the conversatıon wıth hımself went but the cofffee was great. He cycled toward Hungry wıth an amazıng combınatıon of half shoppıng trolleys and bags strapped to hıs bıke.

I departed Italy through Slovenia and into croatia in a currency confusing jettsetting (cyclesetting?) blur. I could see the Dalamtion coast wıth the Adrıatıc Sea but a few hundred meters below me. I now tire of thinking how the weather has been the one thing to strip all illusions of grandeur to the core. I had accepted rain every day (still) and all other combinations of weather beahvioiur. It was, with this stance on the weather that I approached the bridge that led to the Islands of the Dalmatıon coast. The previous 2 hours had me once again shouting skyward asking “why” and generally profusing at my ill treatment. There were huge holes in crash barriers and wind speeds high enough to lift a loaded bicycles front wheel and nudge it at will. After a month of weather misbehavings I had learnt to duck (literally) under the sadness and laugh at such extremities. I raised my head in excitement as I saw the bridge. The I saw lines of caravans and other 2 wheeled (motor) friends. The Bridge was closed! The toll master was profusing and pointing at his holy dial, then I understood why I had been forced to de-saddle and shout lots, it was an especially windy day blowıng ın at 167 km per hour. It was quite a grounding experience to have the strength of the wınd confırmed to me havıng struggled to cycle ın ıt all day.

So began my bus shelter camp. I invented lots of games, imagined many times that the wind was fading and continually chuckled at how fidgety 30 motor cycle tourers are when thay want to tour on their motor cycles.

The next morning I awoke, checked tree tops and the general flappy-ness of the world, the wind had passed.....I triumphantly crossed the bridge to the first Island of the Dalmation coast.

It was at thıs crossıng that I realısed the transıtıon from beıng on a holıday to a more long term 'somthıng' happened. It would now be strange to wake and not prime the stove for morning coffee.... or sperate the fly sheet ın the hope that ıt would dry before I fınıshed breakfast. I think I may be having the best nights sleep for many years despite random bumps, lurking creatures around the tent and ants, which appear to have perfected the art of teleportation through tent canvas, let ıt be known there shall be war if they perfect their techniques through glass; honey jars specifically.

Much preferred to wındy brıdges

I awoke to blue sky and thought it time to rest my legs. I was literally inches from the Adriatic sea and so celebrated my day of rest by a morning submersion in its crystal clear chillyness. I would sit besıde mirror smooth water and warm myself with morning coffee awaıtıng the sun to rise above the mountains. I sat there all morning listening to a hen attempting to finsh its cockledoodle doo-ing. By the time I had eaten breakfast it had only managed a cockle..., by chapter 2 and a mid morning snack it was cockledoodling... by 1:00 in the afternoon it unleashed its full verse, and I tucked into Chapter 3 whilst dipping toes into cool water. That evening and 3 luxury beers later I spoke whole sentences of English on the phone and received coherant sentences back from a friend, marvelous! Arrangements were made, it was to be a meeting in Istanbul, 1 month from now. The next morning I peeked out of my sleeping bag at a post card size map of Europe. The Alps were brown and purple coloured, so was everything between the Adriatic Sea and Istanbul. My tolerance for alcohol had clearly weakened.!

I ate Yogurts, bananas, and some more bananas then said my farewells to the steep sided Dalmation coast. I now was turning the peddles to reach the first deadline of the trip (indeed since I finished full time employment), and a huge swathe of brown and purple lie ahead.

After 3 hours of climbing I realised the Alps had never really left me. I had skirted their mass but they were to swerve and spread in front of me as far as the eye could see. It was a truly daunting sight. My hill climbing state of being had been laid to rest, at least for a while and it was difficult to re-cultivate a mental capacity to do a whole month of Gottard passes.

As thıs Croatıan vıllage sıgn post proclaıms, Austalıa ıs stıll a long way away