San Gimignano to Monteriggioni

San Gimignano to Colle Val d'Elsa 27 October

Italian parking rules: "Just put 'er anywhere." We still laugh when we see cars just sort of poked in towards the kerb. Or left running with no driver. "Mate, don't be so uptight, no probelmo, si?"

We thought we had said farewell to San Gimignano but it didn't work out that way. We first realise that it will haunt us for hours when, fifteen minutes outside the city gates, I see a woman filming us walking towards her, then pan to the horizon. I follow the camera and gasp at the sight. There it is perched on the top of the hill.

The woman is an artist from Milan, making video art, it's a good place to do it, plenty of material! We walk off and hear footsteps running, she is chasing after us to get our email address to send us some of the photos she has taken of us.

For most of the day, every time we crest a rise San Gimignano is still in sight, getting gradually smaller and smaller, its towers making it look weirdly like a tiny skyscraper city. 

It's a short day today, due to lack of accommodation options at a better distance. Quite a nice feeling to wake up with only 11 km to walk, leisurely start to the day, stroll off and start on the set of rolling hills that will take us to Colle Val d'Elsa. Perfect weather, cool and clear.

We've been off-road for a couple of hours when two jolly German men stop us for a long chat. They are on a group tour, where their luggage is taken from place to place, and they wander in between. Out little backpacks fascinate them and we end up having an enthusiastic philosophical discussion about life, material possessions, trekking, life, the universe...they are so full of joie de vivre that I almost expect them to break into a hearty German song.

In no time we are at Colle. We've (almost) spent more time taking photos than we have spent walking. The first sight of Colle is very uninspiring. Someone had told us it was a pretty little ridge top town, but it looked grimy, gritty and flat. What's going on? We find the tourist info place and aha, the pretty part is definitely ridge top, up......there. The Signora explains that it is very panoramic to walk up but very (she searches for the word, then puts her hand at a sharp angle) "Steep" we suggest. "Si, steep". So steep that there is a lift. But it is broken this week (of course!). We set off, but feel rather smug to be able to climb this supposedly impossibly steep slope quite easily.

The mediaeval town is a little strip of buildings, originally controlled by two families, one part each. Plus the Medicis, naturally. Their stamp, and their crest, is everywhere in this entire region.

I found a book in English in Venice, The Lives of the Artists Vol II, which I thought at first was bit stilted until I realised that it was written about 1500. The author, Georgio Vasari, was an artist and architect but became rich and famous by writing two books about artists who had been recently alive, and one, Michelangelo, who was still alive and with whom Georgio had worked.

We now keep finding buildings designed by Georgio, and mentions of him in information leaflets. It is ridiculously appealing to stand in front of a building designed by him, it feels very personal.

Apart from the normal gaggle of mediaeval buildings: a few merchants' houses, a couple of churches, a Medici palazzo or two, an arched bridge, Colle's only claim to fame is that it produces 15% of the world's crystal. So there are lots of shops with startling window displays.

When we go to dinner we almost need sunglasses. Last night the glasses we had were so scratched it looked at first glance as if they were grubby. Tonight they are Rosenthal, very fine and as clear as ....

We had looked for somewhere to eat, and go back to a place that looked nice. It is pretty funny. We open the door and there is a rock behind it to stop it swinging open. So our first words, thinking we have knocked something over are, "Scusi". The owner rushes forward, bends down to pick the rock up, explains profusely that everything was fine, the rock is there on purpose. (He must have to do that for every diner.) He then shows us to a table and puts the menus down.

Three seconds later La Signora is beside us with her notepad. We send her off. Thirty seconds later the Signor is there. R puts his hand on his heart and looks plaintively at him, "I'm sorry, I just need a minute to look".

We order, get our simple meal (we only have one course, which the Italians must find very strange), and while we eat the Signor roams the empty dining room, staring out the door, circling back, asking if everything was ok, bounding back to look out the door again. But the room is warm, the food is good and those glasses are something special.

What do we eat? R has lamb chops cooked in red wine and rosemary, with a sprig of rosemary on the plate, I have minestrone soup.

There's a school group on exchange with the local high school staying at the hotel (whatever happened to billeting?) and the place is full of teenagers, sitting on the stairs, dashing in and out of rooms. We thought we would have to chuck them off the computer when we got back from dinner but they have now disappeared.

So another lovely day draws to a close. Tomorrow Monteriggioni, it looks like something really special, if you're into ancient walled towns. But it is funny how you start to take things like "built in 1200" for granted after a while.

Colle Val d’Elsa to Monteriggioni 28 October

No, stop, don’t read another word until you’ve Googled Monteriggioni…

Ok, back with me now? Can you understand what All the fuss is about? We walked for a few hours, looking for it, knowing it would just pop up and be instantly recognizable. Every hill has a fort, a farmhouse, but no, no, no, then we walk over the crest of a hill and, Oh my, it stops us in our tracks.

We start the day by getting a lift from the hotel owner to take us out through the lower part of Colle with its busy scary roads. He drops us right where the Via heads off into farmland and forest. In the far distance there are snow-capped mountains – it’s lucky we crossed the alps when we did, there must have been some heavy snowfalls right behind us, and it is true it is getting colder, we’re racing South ahead of the vicious chill of winter.

We’re walking along and are whisked back to Spain, a big grove of Holm Oaks. We saw these beautiful lush rounded oak forests in one part of the Camino and we are surprised to come across them again here until it dawns on us that it is probably about the same latitude.

We spend most of the day on forest paths, stepping carefully over rough white stones and boulders when suddenly we stop, poke at them and exclaim, “That’s marble!” Need a bit of polishing, but then, call in Michelangelo, let him have a crack at them, see what he comes up with.

Now we are, as you will undoubtedly recall, following the ancient route of Sigeric, appointed archbishop of Canterbury in 990 who walked to Rome to get his official stole from the Pope (couldn’t he have had it posted to him?).

Well Sigeric walked back again and documented his journey, and presumably that of a pretty hefty retinue, valets, advanced party, cloak carriers and so on. That’s how it became one of the three big pilgrimage routes in the middle ages. In our guidebook the places he wrote about (I can picture a little scribe with robes and a tonsured head scratching away with a quill on parchment by the light of a tallow candle) are shown and today we come to one of them.

The Abbey of Isola was a stopping place for pilgrims for hundreds of years, but it all started with Sigeric stopping off for the night there, and it gives me a shiver to think that his feet had walked in through the gate on this exact spot.

But enough of that, we need lunch and for that we have to get to Monteriggioni.  Up a steep path, through the gate and into the town.  It’s very cute, but there isn’t much of it, just big enough to hold a garrison and the people to feed and house them.  It is very picturesque, shame about the people in the shops and cafes. They are so very off-hand. Is it inbreeding, or lack of manners or too many rude tourists, or just too many tourists that has shut off their smile reflex? Something has. But it is a pity, because seeing the photos of it before the tourist trade, falling down and impoverished, you would think they would be oh so grateful for the river of gold that flows through there day after day.

We walk past the nice looking little hotel and ask about somewhere to stay, hoping for a cheaper night and are directed to the pilgrim hostel, special rate for pilgrims with a credencial, the pilgrim passport we get stamped every day. Monteriggioni looks up, it is pretty basic, bunk beds, but a room on our own and a wonderfully nice and helpful woman doing a few days volunteering there to take care of us.

We have probably the worst shower yet, in a strong field. The water is freezing, then after a long time it spits out a dollop of boiling water, just enough to trick you into soaping up and lathering your hair, then back to freezing again, while it heats up another little bucketful. We get clean and adjust our attitude.

Then we walk out to walk the walls, the only attraction here.  It is free to pilgrims with a credencial. Yippee, we save a whole 3 euros, but it feels like a win. We do the circuit with the jaunty air of people with more right to be there than just your ordinary tourist.

Having done that, we sit in the square and there is nothing else to do in this teeny tiny place, so we go in to the hostel and get ready for dinner. Delfina, the volunteer, has offered dinner cooked by her (the price is a donation) and it seems like a good option. We have a good family style meal, around the kitchen table with Delfina and another pilgrim, Alain a Frenchman, who used to run factories in Poland and is now doing the Via in sections, two weeks at a time. 

Delfina has done the Camino as well, twice, once on foot and once on pushbike, and has just spent two weeks cycling through East Africa, so we had lots to talk about.  I asked the question that has puzzled me for weeks. Why is it that French people do so well on their diet. Alain says, “We eat exactly the opposite of what they say we should but yes, somehow it works for us.” Delfina chips in, “In Italy we are slim because we eat a lot of pasta. It’s the pasta.” R says, “Maybe the problem is not the food. People are fat in England, America and Australia. Maybe it is speaking English!.”

Florence to San Gimignano

Florence to Ponte a Cappiano 23 October


So we say goodbye to lovely Florence and our lovely 4 star hotel ( we can walk around the bed! soap and shampoo! eggs for breakfast!) and head for the train that will deposit us back on the track. An hour later we are unpacking our wet weather gear as the train nears the station and the grey sky turns to rain.
As we near Altopascio, our destination, two police officers board the train and bail up a group of three young blokes, 2 Italian-looking and one African. After filling in pages of forms and checking all their ID and papers they chuck them off the train at the next station, peering suspiciously at them as the train moves off.
Altopascio station is so small I don’t realise there is a platform. But we hop down, trot off and spend the next hour unpleasantly walking along a busy road before finally striking off into the bush. The guide book is less than perfect (how we long for John Brierley’s magic touch in his guidebook in Spain, I think he knows every pebble along the way) and we end up bush bashing a fair bit, being attacked by snakes (well...R saw one slither off) and snared by thorns from wild roses all along the way.
A week of soft living, swanning around as tourists, has taken its toll. We get tired, sore and grumpy. But we arrive at Ponte a Cappiano about 3. This is a one-horse town, its only feature being a little covered bridge over the river built by Cosimo de Medici, Duke of Florence as part of a system of sluices and weirs to control the marshlands and encourage more fish. It has buildings all along it on both sides and over the top. The Duke didn’t plan ahead very well though, it’s just one lane, which makes for busy through traffic even in a backwater like this. The little cars that Italy is full of (with names like Panda and Jumpy) scream through when it is their turn to go.
We see that the reception for the church hostel where we plan to stay - the only possibility in the town - opens at 4 so we go and get a coffee next door. We don’t think much happens here, the old blokes outside the cafe discuss us up and down and regale everyone who wanders by with everything they have found out about us. We hear pellegrino! Australiano! a Roma! a piedi! over and over again.
At 4 we knock on the door - no answer. Over the next hour and a half we try again and again, and we phone her (impossible to understand her answer). The girl in the cafe calls her for us  ( coming in 5 minutes). Another half an hour passes, she calls again (coming in 20 minutes). Still we wait, getting, I’m sorry to admit, a bit antsy about it.
Eventually, as darkness starts to fall and the chill sets in, I bang on every door on the bridge and try each one. One opens, I go in and start calling, louder and louder. Finally someone replies, I have clearly woken him up, but he gets it, calls the lady, tells her there are two people waiting for her, and she tells him to bring us in. We sit on a couch for another half an hour.
From the look of it, I am seriously underwhelmed at the high likelihood of bunks with no sheets, or blankets, or pillows. I threaten to go out and start hitching - no taxis in this dump.
But finally the Signora shows up, opens the door. We have a dormitory to ourselves, it’s clean and the beds have sheets, blankets and pillows. Okay, I settle down and adjust my attitude.
We go out to eat in the only possible spot, the same cafe, have a pizza and are now back in the hostel. It seems mainly to cater for youth groups and had a dining room for 20. We sit on the couch morosely, wondering what to do to fill in the time till bedtime. Demolishing a block of chocolate seems like a good start, which we are now doing.
The place does have fabulous beams, though, a fireplace that stretches halfway along one wall, beautiful stone staircases and it is warm. And it is certainly true that we have never before slept anywhere built by a Medici.


Ponte a Cappiano to San Miniato 24 October

What a difference a day makes la la la, 24 little hours lalala. Sounds like a song I used to know.
We have our dismal little breakfast of a tub of yogurt in the empty dining room of the hostel and set off. It is grey, chilly and soon begins to rain. Not hard, but hard enough to make us stop and put on our Goretexes. The scenery is starting to look decidedly Tuscan-esque, little ochre-coloured buildings backed by hills outlined in pencil pines.
It’s a short day - tomorrow will be a long, full day away from villages with nowhere to stop along the way, so we have to stop where we can. Oh darn it, it’s San Miniato, which just happens to be one of the famous hill villages. Oh well, we’ll just have to put up with it, haha.
As we walk we can see it in the far distance, a mediaeval town strung along a hilltop, and we head towards it all day. We realise we have made a mistake, we have booked to stay in pilgrim accommodation in San Miniato Basso, now we understand that Basso means at the base of the hill. The pretty part is up there and San Miniato Basso is a nothing little place. The pilgrim accommodation is cheap for a reason.
So we decide to cancel the booking, and go up and look for something in the picturesque village up the top. It’s a steep pinch to get up there, but well worth it, we walk into a little slice of history and find ourselves in the Piazza Buonaparte - lordy that man was everywhere and his name has now morphed into Italian!
Where to stay? There is supposed to be a huge monastery here but we can’t see it. There’s a restaurant open and we ask the Signor.
“You want B&B or hotel? ”
“Either. ”
“I’ll make a call...She’ll be back in an hour. 50 euros or 60 with breakfast, she does a good breakfast”. He looks like the right person to judge.
“Fine” We sit with a coffee (me) and wine (R) and the Signor brings us out a plate of complimentary bruschetta. He’s got a big paunch, a big smile and we are laughing and enjoying ourselves. Piles of garlic and tomatoes are nonchalantly arranged on the tables and there is a friendly waitress, Francesca, who has done the Via from here to Rome.
The B&B owner’s daughter Katya arrives, and leads us a few metres up a steep hill and into a house which is truly remarkable.  The landlady, Anna, has clearly never heard of less is more. For her, more is more. Every inch of wall and most of the floors are covered with decoration, artwork, objets d’arte, bric a brac, little details artfully arranged.
A pair of red dancer’s shoes on the chair just inside the door, a screen with scarves draped on it, lace, antique nighties, necklaces. There is stuff absolutely everywhere and a profusion of colours and patterns. Anna must be artistic because she pulls it off.
We go up three flights of steep narrow stairs and into our little attic room with a steeply sloping roof. We can stand up straight for only a couple of metres inside the door, then it’s bend down and scuttle around. How on earth did they get the chest of drawers up here? The bed?
We move some of the items back against the walls for fear of breaking our necks during the night. Then R says, “Oh, there’s a petal on the bed.” As we look we realise that silk rose petals have been strewn across the bedspread. It’s like that, not a square centimetre wasted if you could put something on it. Plain tiles in the bathroom - why not paint flowers on them? Why not indeed, and while you’re at it, how about on the cistern too? It is utterly captivating.
Then we meet Mumma. I’m into the sock washing ritual when R comes in with a blissful smile on his face. “I’ve just been sitting in the kitchen. The Signora is making the bread for our breakfast tomorrow!”
He also says, “Come down, I can’t understand something she is trying to tell me.” I go down, an elegant, warm and vivacious lady flings her hands out to grasp mine and insists I eat some homemade Italian baked cheesecake - oh, ok! I finish my slice, “Have more”, she cries, “have it all.” Tomorrow’s breakfast bread is indeed a little mound of dough set to rise under a white cloth.
Then  I set myself to try to understand her. She is inviting us to come with her to Vinci, birthplace of Leonardo da because there is a chestnut festival there today.  Will we go? Of course! Two other ladies appear and we all pile into the car.
The Signora drives with great enthusiasm, a few near misses and a constant lively conversation with the others, all talking at once. One of the women, Aida, speaks English (as well as Italian, French, German and Albanian) and is very chatty and interesting. It makes a great difference to have her talking and translating, which she generously does all afternoon.
We career along the road to Vinci, go and inspect the house he was born in, then the tower in this very pretty town, then we start the walk down the main street. Anna knows so many people, she has run restaurants and is famous for her recipes apparently, so it is a very pleasant stroll, stopping to chat all the way.
There are stalls of fabulous local salamis, cheeses, honey, sweets and the main attraction, roast chestnuts. It is obviously a popular little festival, crowds of people are walking, but as the street is small and steep it is very intimate and attractive.
We sample lots of produce, such interesting flavours. We’re watching a massive hunk of pork being sliced to order and a woman turns to tell us in great detail how her mother used to make bread from chestnut flour, put a slice of hot pork in it and roll it up like a crepe. Exquisito! Exquisito! A chorus of agreement goes up from everyone listening in.
When we have walked all the way down, we wander leisurely all the way up again. Back at the car, we need to fit another lady in to go back to San Miniato with us. No-one wore seat belts anyway, what for? The Signora hasn’t actually hit anything.  So we squish in, to cries of OK Signora? The noise of all those  Italian ladies talking at once is hilarious.
We tear back to San Miniato, it’s one way street loops around the crest of the hill with a heartstopping collection of buildings (oh, there’s the monastery) and then into the Signora’s house. Kisses all round and we say goodbye to all these lovely women.
We stroll up to take a closer look at the lovely little streets, arched stairs and walls, all highlighted by the golden light of the streetlamps. It starts to rain and we decide that history is all very well, but it’s time for dinner.
So we are back in the restaurant. We start with truffle pasta. This is a world renowned centre for white truffles as well as the more ordinary black ones, and everyone her says, “Just once in your life you should taste truffles.” Ok, twist our arm, we’ll try it. Oh my, that’s nice! This is followed by a surprise meal, the restaurateur tells us that this region is also famous for white pork, so we agree to try it. We then realise that we misheard him and what we are having is wild boar. I’m a bit nervous but when it comes it is very dark meat that tastes exactly like slow cooked beef, delicious. We finish, just for once, with a dessert each. What a great meal!

San Miniato to Gambassi Terme 25 October

Rain squalls and thunder all night and we set off in steady rain.
Hang on, back up, first there is breakfast.
The Signora has laid the table with doileys over the mugs, flowers, a jar of silver teaspoons, a tray with old silver cutlery and knick knacks on almost every inch. We sit down to a plate with a heart shaped pastry covered with a thick layer of soft caramel. Anna, a whirlwind of activity beside us in the little kitchen, then proceeds to bring out that bread, full of sultanas and with a little pot of home made jam, a thin pastry filled with warm soft ricotta and chocolate, herb bread with slices of salami, an egg baked to perfection in the oven, white firm and yolk soft.
We wash all this down with freshly squeezed orange juice and pots of coffee and hot milk. After such energy and generosity we pay the Signora a bit more, over her protests, and waddle out, clutching a bag of breakfast leftovers she presses on us.
Now we get to the rain. The town is slick and shiny and very steep. The first excitement of the day was R slipping down the steep and narrow staircase at the Signora’s, bump, bump, bump down on his back with me watching in horror. Ian’s definition is proving very useful - no ambulance, get up and play. He is a bit banged up on the corners but nothing really serious. I wonder how many people have fallen down those treacherous stairs in the last 500 years. Lucky it wasn’t the next flight, they’re stone.
Anyway the next little excitement was the sight of our path to get us off the street and onto the track - a very steep brick pathway leading down and covered in green moss. Oh dear. I hang onto the railing in teh middle and immediately my feet whoosh out from under me, leaving me hanging like a kid on monkey bars. I shoot a foot out and connect with an upright. Ever so carefully we hand over hand until we reach the bottom.
Did I say we are in Tuscany? Did they get the details right when they landscaped all this? Yep, from horizon to horizon it’s all rolling hills, olive trees in neat rows, earth-coloured farmhouses framed with pine trees. Light green, dark green, olive grey and gold. It’s just a photo from a book on Tuscany in every direction.
It should, however, be bathed in sunshine, which it definitely is not. It rains and stops just enough that we put on our jackets, then get hot when it stops, take them off, it starts to rain again, we wait to see if it will pass over and then put them on again. But we are now damp and start to steam. Before long we are as wet inside as out.
We are off-road, but the guidebook being a work in progress, we miss a turn and have to strike across country on our own, taking the long way around the hill instead of the short cut across it. It starts to rain steadily and the first of the day’s kindnesses happens.
We are sitting on a low wall with a handful of houses scattered around when a little van stops across the way and a woman delivering bread hops out. We ask her where there is a cafe and she starts to give directions then smacks her forehead and says, “But it’s Monday, so it’s closed.” (Of course!)
Then she suddenly bounds across to us and hands us a bag with a piece of thick crust pizza loaded with cheese, some baked flatbread, and a couple of deep fried sugary pastries, then drives off with a wave.
We are looking in the bag with delight when kindness number 2 happens. A man comes out of his house and calls to us. We gather up our things and follow him into a lean-to shed beside his house, full of wood and garden tools. He pulls out two chairs, motions us to sit, drags over a fruit box and puts a slab of wood on top to make a table. Then he gives us a wave and leaves.
We eat our picnic out of the rain, then off we trek. It’s a long day, made longer by the mistakes on the route, and by the increasingly gluggy paths of clay getting wetter and wetter. Every now and again we scrape our boots, but it’s slippery going and slow, and a boot  full of clay hangs like a dead weight.
We can’t find anywhere to stop so we sit beside a vineyard. I’m lying spreadeagled on the wet ground and it’s time for kindness number 3. A man comes out of his house and checks to see if I’m ok. We’d rather not have the rain, but it has given us some nice moments today.
We finally drag into Gambassi Terme, our destination, a very small town, and find the only place to stay. It’s shut tight, but we call the phone number on the door and the Signora tells us we can stay there tonight. We manage to clarify that she won’t be back for about an hour or so, and we sit outside gradually getting more and more chilled through and gloomily wondering just how long she might be, and whether we could find a way to get to the next town, and how we come to be in another Dogville.
However, she appears just when she said she would, lets us in, tells us to drop the key in the letterbox when we leave tomorrow and buzzes off. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s clean, the heater is on to dry our boots and the shower is roasty toasty. We put on clean dry clothes and the evening is looking up. We’ve there is even a laundromat, the first we’ve seen, and we decide to wash everything. “Well, lookee thar May-Belle, that thang can wash yur socks ‘n’all jest bah puttin’ a coin in that thar slot! “
Now to find somewhere to eat, or, if there’s nothing open, a pretty strong probability byteh looks, bread and cheese in the room.

Gambassi Terme to San Gimignano 26 October

Bye bye Dogville.
We wake up to overcast skies but a brisk wind blowing, which gets us off to a good start as it seems likely to blow away the clouds. Gambassi redeems itself as we leave, a coffee in a bar, a nice little bit of old town with all the normal sights - brown walls, shuttered windows, arches - and the most interesting thing about it, someone we meet.
We are hesitating on a corner and R sees a man standing in his garage beside a vintage car. When we show interest in it and ask to take a photo he backs it out, then opens some fine large gates into a spacious courtyard with views over the countryside to give it a proper setting. It is a 1949 Citroen, glossy black and perfectly restored. It would have been his pride and joy except that his eyes almost mist over when he talks about an Alfa he has spent the last 5 years restoring.
Then we notice the house behind the courtyard and ask about it. His parents’ house. A massive block, now occupied by him, with his sister, a doctor living in Florence, owning one floor and his brother, a lawyer, on another. What had his occupation been, and how is his English so good? He had been a banker, and gives exactly that air of culture and comfort.
The rest of the day is typical Tuscan, frequent pauses to drink in the scenery with a lot of exclamations plus lots of walking up and down hills. You can’t have those gorgeous vistas - the farmhouses perched on a hilltop with the orchards, vineyards, pine trees - unless you have the hills. And after our brush with the tedium of the rice plains we’ll never complain about hills again.
Because of the rain over the last few days, though, the ground has turned to soggy clay, everywhere there isn’t gravel or grass it is hard going. The guidebook says in summer this stage can be very hot and exhausting, but today there is a chill wind blowing. One particular hill we nickname Bog Hill and we drag up it, our boots getting heavier and heavier with every step as they add kilos of sodden grey clay to the bottom. There’s not a stick or stone in sight to scrape them so we plod on up until we reach a crest and get to work on them.
But all day we have been watching the towers of San Gimignano on the horizon getting closer and closer. It’s like something out of The Wizard of Oz. Magic towers from a fabled place.
By the middle of the afternoon we arrive, walk through the arch of the city wall and find a place to stay.
San Gimignano’s bad luck is now its good fortune. From being a thriving town for hundreds of years it fell into poverty and because of that its architecture and character have been fixed in time. It is absolutely beautiful, entrancing. It’s those Medicis again. During its heyday they built the lovely towers, churches, buildings, even throwing up a second city wall as the population expanded. So now it’s all there, and it is so easy to imagine life there in around 1300.
We are staying in a family owned hotel, the building was bought by their grandfather in 1990 and lay empty for a long time, but the family has now developed it and runs it. They have, however, maintained many of the features and the feel of the mediaeval structure. It even has the original well in the building, you can see water in the bottom of it and the pulley and chain which have clearly done a lot of work. I think about the women of the time climbing these steep stairs and dragging buckets of water up hand over hand with that chain.
We are sitting in the little downstairs bar where the computer is situated when a troop of American women bursts in, moving chairs, making themselves at home, and generally giving off an air of confidence and power. They are good looking, well-dressed, extroverted. They proceed to set up wine, cheese, olives, pesto, bread and settle in to having a good time.
They are very friendly and cheery and invite us to share their food, so we end up having some nibbles and conversation. They are interested in what we are doing, we are interested in them. Among the five, there is a psychologist, an international fashion consultant, an inventor, a captain for United Airlines flying 747s and a master sommelier. It’s like the opening to a novel.
What are they doing in San Gimignano? They were having lunch one day in New York and decide to come to Tuscany for week and visit a different vineyard every day. As you do. It sounds so exotic and they are having such an exuberantly good time.

In San Gimignano 27 October

Nothing to say, can’t describe it, look at the photos...
Oh well, OK. I’ll have a crack at it.
Just for the record, R has just come back from the shop and handed me a slice of panforte so good I feel like crying.
We have walked all day (does that sound familiar?). But we have walked inside the dimensions of a mediaeval city. First stop was a walk all around the city walls, it took a couple of hours (one hour for walking, one hour for photos) which was very interesting.
We saw the corner towers, the inner and outer walls, the old water supply (a series of arched reservoirs with water still running into them from a spring). We climbed up and look over the countryside.
We met a young couple from Normandy with kitted out touring bikes taking a year to travel to Istanbul. (We exchange blog addresses, theirs is www.grainesdepignons.blogspot.com).
When we have done all the walking we can think of and are chilled through we hunt down a cafe in the sun and have a coffee. We remember how the old town in Prague was so exquisitely preserved by its years of communism, no advertising, no crass buildings, now all changed apparently, but here they have realised the value of hanging onto the beauty, and it is stunning, interesting, picturesque and quaint all at once.
Having run out of adjectives we return to the hotel where I am trying to capture some of the feeling of it. And we haven’t yet got to Siena.

Photos Aosta to Florence

Bard Forte, near Aosta, Italy

Aosta Valley

Pverone town square, Italy

 

Venice

 

Coffee in Piazza del Signoria

 

Ravenna to Florence

Ravenna 19 0ctober

"So", Andreas says, "if you have to choose, go to Ravenna instead of Florence." Now there's no way I'm going to  miss Florence, so it looks like we have to go to Ravenna. And here we are.
 
The big lure of Ravenna is not its pretty piazzas and graceful streets, although it gets a tick for both. But it's still just a pleasant small town. What brings people to Ravenna is the mosaics.
 
We've seen a lot of Roman mosaics, and they are nice, very nice, very interesting, with great vignettes of daily life that bring history to life. People dancing, shepherds, cooks and butchers at work, people lolling about having a good time, children playing. These are not the mosaics of Ravenna.
 
The first difference is that these mosaics are from the early Christian church. Like around 400 a.d. And they are incredibly vivid, some gold, but mostly bright blues and lots of green. There are all the usual suspects that show up in paintings later - lines of apostles, baptism in the River Jordan scenes. But, as well, really  interesting pictures of the court of the time, Justinian and Theodora, and another ruler Theodorus. And scenes of the sky with stars. And one mosaic with 99 different birds faithfully reproduced.
 
There's a mausoleum built by Galla Placida who was a daughter, sister, wife and mother of emporors and who ruled Roman Western Europe for many years. A mosaic of her in Brescia (we bought the postcard) shows a very beautiful woman with pearl earrings and necklace who could be walking down any street around here right now. Except that she happened to be that well-connected.
 
There are 8 world heritage sites for these mosaics in Ravenna, and you could spend hours staring at them, except that most of them are on the ceilings and you'd get an awful crick in your neck. Art appreciation only goes so far. There are chapels and churches with long lines of mosaics down the sides, and ceilings full of them, shining and sparkling as the light catches them.  Paint fades, but mosaics keep their colour, it is stunning.
 
It's all very clever - in a museum we saw one close up and getting the detail right so a face looks like a face ain't that easy. What looks just right from a distance, like from the floor of a massive church looks quite different close up. Lips a ragged line of tiny different coloured tiles transform into a realistic mouth. Those guys knew what they were doing. It is astonishing just how vivid they still are, and how lively. It is awe-inspiring to think of these being done 1500 years ago.
 
We tick the sites off one by one, each one an absolute delight, lovely graceful plain buildings on the outside, then astonishing inside. After the first one we knew what to expect. Was it worth it (cost of train trip, two nights in hotel, two days not walking)? Oh absolutely. We are eager to get walking again, but we wouldn't have missed Ravenna. We're going to love the photos.

 
Ravenna to Florence 20 October

This is the thing about Florence – it's still there after all this time. This is the other thing – despite the fact that those buildings have been there for upawrds of 500 years, I remembered it all completely differently. Clearly we needed to come back just to set things straight.

We have an early start in Ravenna, breakfast then trot down to the station. It is another very easy transfer from there to Florence, despite the fact that the train we were going to catch was cancelled, you just don't pick up small details like that in the announcements. This was going to make us miss our connection in Bologna, but, as usual the ticket office lady was very helpful and sorted it all out. Then, zip, like magic we arrived in Florence.

Something nice happened on the way – that flat, dreary landscape emerged into lovely rolling wooded hills. Woo hoo, we can't wait to get back onto that track.

But first we're going to have the Florence moment. There's a phenomenon here that we have noticed before. In France we read that there was a particular bloke who in about 1300 designed lots of castles, two in France that we know of, and Carnarvon in England. And we thought, maybe it was like this – when you wanted a castle designed you'd say to your courtiers, “Get the castle guy, will you.” And we think maybe there was a mosaics guy, too. And now in Florence there was for sure the palace guy. But working just for the Medicis, whipping off mansion afer mansion all over the area. He didn't flit around Europe, he just rolled 'em out here. Every time you turn around here, there's another one.

Now the Medicis were an interesting lot, immensely wealthy and powerful, but with a huge interest in the arts and the sciences. They were not just out hunting and jousting, as patrons they were creating museums full of fabulous art – Donatello, Della Robbio, Michelangelo, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, Giotto. They were also developing libraries of the most advanced learning of the day. They were responsible for creating the beautiful towers, churches, statues. Their legacy is everywhere in this city, the old town is a beautiful jewel of a place.

The cathedral is a wedding cake masterpiece of white, green and pink marble, with the huge campanile (bell tower) beside it, 400 steps up to the top. Infront a baptistery with a ceiling full of gold mosaic.

How did we decide where to stay tonight? The guy on reception at Ravenna (who speaks 5 languages and has an African parrot he has had for 27 years which speaks English) was very friendly and helpful. He was curious about our walk and wanted to read the blog, and says he has a blog himself (thetalkingparrot.com). Anyway, to cut a long story short, he got us a great price on the Best Western here, where we are now ensconced, happy as larry and feeling in the lap of luxury compared to some of the places we have stayed.

These interesting twists happen all the time, and we are never sure what our next few days will bring. After Florence we are back on the road and on the first night will be staying in the only place available at a suitable distance, a convent, one star (but that was all that was needed over Bethlehem...)

Florence 21 October

We set out today to have a tourist day around Florence. We decide not to see museums, but just to wander around the major sights and enjoy the city. Great decision. First big surprise – I found the sight I had remembered from Florence, the Piazza dei Segnoria, an open piazza with the Palazzo Vecchio, a particular colour of the buildings and a particular tower on the palace. There it was! I was so delighted that we had to take a squillion photos and go and have a ridiculously expensive coffee in the piazza to sit and stare at it for another half an hour.

We wander up to the fort on a hill at the top of the town, no tourists around, just steep little streets leading up to huge fort walls and down again with snippets of views of Tuscan hillsides. By then it is peak hour – it's hard to remember that people actually live in these towns and go about normal lives until you see them racing home from work. But there they are in their little cars, zipping up those cobblestoned streets.

Eating in our room tonight, we've bought a picnic, so easy in Italy – cheese, olives, bread, salad, pickled capsicum, bottle of wine.

Roppolo to Venice

Roppolo to Vercelli 15 October 2010

Well, Roppolo was pretty special. The friendly, funny meal with the family round the kitchen table, then breakfast with freshly cooked biscotti di lombardi, apple cake, toast, cheese. Photos at the gate and general warm feelings all round.

Straight up, past the castle and into misty scenery. A few hills then flat, flat , flat. It's rice country and it is dead flat and as a result rather tedious to walk through. On steep mountain slopes it can be hard to believe it wouldn't be preferable to be able to walk along flat ground. There are also some cornfields, with corn being harvested. But we are just going from A to B. The Roppolo B&B owner's daughter Neva is a pre-school teacher in Santhia, our destination - how tempting to ask her for a lift, but it would have blasted our credibility into outer space, so no, no, no, we plod along instead. Temperature nice, feeling fine, but just dull.

Get to Santhia and, as planned, catch the train for the last section to Vercelli, avoiding the miles of suburbs on the outskirts of the town. The next train was due in 10 minutes, we hopped on, got off 20 km later - how easy! I can see touring by train in Europe in the future, it works well.

When we get to Vercelli station we buy our tickets to (gasp with excitement) Venice for our little interlude! Tomorrow!! 39 euros each, it seems ridiculously easy and cheap.

I had hoped to connect with a parcel sent from home (thanks Jess) in Vercelli, but we cant find the guy's address and have to abandon the attempt. Lucky there was nothing valuable in it, just conveniences.

The town looks seedy and dreary until we walk through the old town, past the 13th century cathedral and into a maze of mediaeval streets. Wonderful vistas of alleys, lanes, grand buildings, little terraces, churches and towers. Georgous! Vercelli redeems itself.

We try for the restaurant in our hotel - full - so go to a pizza & pasta place nearby and have just finished a great meal, cheap, cheerful and tasty, recommended by the vivacious ladies at the next table. Renato lashes out to have a wickedly rich and sweet canoli to finish.


Vercelli to Venice 16 October 2010

Italy does uniforms really well. The policemen look so snappy in trim outfits of black and red with a white leather chest strap and a jaunty gun on a slim hip. Even the ticket collectors on the trains look sharp.

Now here is something interesting - the last place on the mainland before Venice is Mestre. And Renato is descended (and thus also our girls) from David and Sarah Ramsay's eldest son David jnr and his wife Kate de Mestre. I don't know the lineage, but there must be some Italian blood in the family.

We're up at 6, sitting on the station in a chill wind, waiting for the train to Venice. The train is so full there are even some people sitting on the floor, but it's quick and convenient and on time. We arrive at St Lucia and - what's this? A Grand Canal! I feel like jumping up and down with excitement. Little boats are zooming up and down. We catch a little ferry like a bus and after a bit of confusion due to an inadequate map, find our way to the right stop - Rialto - aah, isn't that just too too evocative! Over the next few hours, in the little space around our hotel, between the Rialto and St Mark's Square, we get lost 3 times. A maze of little alleys, little canals, little bridges, none of them named on our map.

Rather to our surprise the hotel is ok although the room is minute. If I tell you that between the ensuite and the bed is a metal strip on the corner because there's no way to get into the bed without bumping past it, does that give you a clue? But the water is hot, hot, hot, a rarity and the heater is on, on, on, so the first thing to do do in this city of dreams is the washing, and get it hung up on my little don't - travel - without - it clothesline.

Then out to discover the most beautiful city in the world. Is it? Sydney is definitely a contender, San Franciso is lovely, Siena is wonderful, never been to Rio, but Venice is absolutely right up there, and all in the space of a pocket handkerchief.

We go into a shop to buy some cheese and olives and a woman comes in with an umbrella. The shopkeeper, very agitated, calls out to her to "Close the umbrella!" He's prepared to lose the sale, which he does, but he is clearly alarmed at the bad luck it would cause. I think there's still a lot of mystery and magic here in these dark streets.

We see a poster for La Traviata and go to investigate. Just around the corner and over a little bridge in an old church. It is hilariously rather like a very high quality school performance. The man trying to make people line up in the foyer later appears in the chorus on stage. The door to the wings opens and closes in quiet bits with snatches of conversation off stage. The soprano is working absolutely to her capacity and chickens out of the final high note at the end of Act 1, but it is immensely enjoyable. "They've got the accent really well," whispers Renato, and we almost laugh out loud.

Ther's a tiny orchestra, and sitting in the front row we are so close that we have to pull in our toes as they go in and out between acts. The musicians are all having a good time and seem very friendly, and the one on front of me has clearly stepped stright off a Roman coin and picked up his flute.

We like a lot of operas, but I have a special fondness for La Trav because every time it brings back a particular memory. We went to see it when Zoe was 6 weeks old and I still remember sitting there thinking how happy I was to have this lovely baby. There's one part that brings the memory rushing back every time.


Venice day one 17 October 2010

It really is true, I was born 100 years too late. I should have been in India in the Raj and I definitely should have been in Venice on holiday for the season, taking a house on the Grand Canal for 3 months and going in a gondola every night to balls.

But, here we are in 2010, and yes, here we are. We are always lucky with the weather, it's a constant affirmation, and we are lucky again today. It's raining when we wake up and, we think, "Great, that will thin out the crowds." I had been thinking hmmm, Sunday, every alley will be thick with people (if Venice is sinking as they say, I think it is because of the weight of the tourists, it's busy now, I can't imagine what it msut be like in summer) . But it is very cold, blowing a stiff wind, and there are gowing piles of broken umbrellas in the corners. So now they will huddle in the bars and cafes morosely eyeing off the rain.

We set off and at the first turn come to a surprise - the canal has risen and flooded the alley. Looking ahead St Mark's Square is under water. Suddenly the stacks of things that look like low trestle tables make sense. They have been transformed into walkways above the water.

We retreat strategically, put on our wet wether gear, boots and gaiters and re-launch. No shuffling along walkways for us. We wade through to St Mark's Basilica. It's Sunday and Mass is in progress, tourists walking quietly along the edges, the seats full of devout Catholics there for the service.  But, oh, the inside is startling. From about 4 metres up every inch is covered in mosaics in gold leaf and bright colours. It all looks a trifle dusty, like most cathedrals but it's, well, a bit high for the maid to reach with ehr duster. The architecture is rather Byzantine, but after all it is nearby, the East, I mean. We stand, staring up in astonishment and listening to the choir until the service finishes.

Then we splash out into the square again. There is a faint whiff of, how do they do their drainage under water, but no don't think about that. The view across the Grand Canal to the beautiful domed church and along the bank, lined with gondolas and those postcard buildings, is so so pretty. What is it about the light in Venice? Maybe it is because there is water everywhere and it lightens and brightens everything.

We move on to a trio of museums, all linked. It's rather overwheming - icons, paintings, historical itmes from Venice in the middle ages, Roman relics. After a couple of hours Renato begs for mercy and we retreat to the hotel for a bread roll followed by a siesta.

Then out to the Rialto again on the other bend of the Grand Canal, the famous bridge with the merchants shops on it. We catch the ferry to the stop for our evening's entertainment, a concert, Vivaldi 4 Seasons and violin concertoes by Corelli and Goldoni, in a church in a very graceful piazza.

We fill in the time waiting for it to start at 9pm in a little restaurant where we are having minestrone, pizza and salad. Then off to the concert, with the mellow silky sound of baroque instruments. Stradivarius came from here, along with stacks of musicians for hundreds of years. It seems that any night you could just pop round any corner and hear fantastic chamber music, opera...aah.


Venice day two 18 October 2010

Burp - 'scuse me! Venice is such a rich diet.

A feast, actually. All day it's like looking at all the pictures you've ever seen of Venice. Those famous views of the Grand Canal with the Doge's Palace, St Mark's Square, domes and spires. And little waterways, alleys just wide enough to fit a gondola, usually with a gondola gliding along. Tiny, arched bridges one after another.

And it's not kitsch, despite all the tourism. There are plenty of shops and street stalls with tacky souvenirs, but most of the shops have beautiful silk, glass, jewellery, leather. And lots of art. It's a classy town, managing to milk the tourists and yet stay oh so cool. And oh, so beautiful. The buildings are delapidated and grubby, but so very atmospheric, so very confident of their elegant lines, their impeccable pedigree. And I'm amazed that, although there are hotels everywhere, so many of the waterfront palazzos look as if they are still privately owned.

There is scaffolding covered in hessian dotted around St Mark's  square. Even half of the front of the basilica is being restored and hung with hessian (of course!). I might come back to see it unobscured one day. One tower in the square cracked and 3 days later collapsed. There seems to have been pretty constant renovation going on for hundreds of years, so it's no surprise. The amazing thing is how it all continues to stay up at all.

We head straight for the Doge's Palace and emerge reeling from the ceilings loaded with gilt and paintings. Tintoretto and his studio must have been working overtime in this town, they're everywhere, and they left a big mark on the Doge's digs. The Doge was elected for life by the group of wealthy families and the palace has a measured air of solemn power and prestige. But the building is light, lacy and delicate, with pale stone and fretwork and all the detail on the inside. How far are we from the East again? The two Moors striking the hour of the great bell  at the top of the tower in the square give a clue.

We're pretty comfortable with the buses now - the ferries, that is - that run up and down the Grand Canal, so we hop on and hop off at a stop called Accademia, to visit a major gallery there full of Bellini, Tintoretto, Tiepolo etc etc. Not to mention the earlier icons, the later landscapes. Renato was excited to get there but has now officially seen enough crucifixion, martyrdom, beheading and related scenes and way too many annunciations. Oh dear, it's Italy, there's going to be more. Even in the churches here, it's everywhere, massive paintings covering big slabs of wall, by famous names. "So different to Spain," I say, "they don't do gold much." "They didn't have South America to rip off," says Renato. Oh yes, of course.

We cross the Grand Canal to the point opposite St Mark's, quiet, warm and sunny. The church with the beautiful dome is disappointing close up, but we wander leisurely all the way back through the little streets and bridges back to the hotel. Late in the day we take the ferry to the last stop, the Lido, to see another view of the town, then back for dinner.

At the end of the evening we can't bring ourselves to end the day, so we walk back to the Grand Canal to see the lights on the water, then back for a final look at St Mark's Square. Three groups of musicians are playing, people are standing around watching and clapping. Renato buys me a long stemmed rose. I keep staring at St Mark's Basilica, trying to capture the memory of its delicate beauty.

But we've been here 2 and a half days now and haven't been invited to any balls - it's time to move on.

Nus to Roppolo

In Nus 10th October

Not much to say about the day. More hills more forest paths. We took the easy option a couple of times to avoid steep climbs (I think I’m still recovering from the climb up to Grand St Bernard) and although I felt great today decided not to push my luck. It is strangely dry with similarities to Australian paths, dusty underfoot and gravelly. Big change from the lushness of Switzerland. There is still water rushing down from the mountains though, zipping along channels created in the middle ages to irrigate the fields, and gushing up through grates every time is is forced through piping.

Now sitting in a nice little restaurant in Nus. We stopped a couple of layabout looking boys to ask where we could eat. When we said we were from Australia they jumped around like a Kangaroo. Then to our surprise we saw him at the next table with a family group and as we got up to leave he was working the pizza oven. Unexpected. It was however a great recommendation. Dinner was spicy spaghetti and green salad, ham and cheese crepe (crepelles) , a platter of local cheeses, half a litre of light local red wine and a carafe of mineral water.

Back to the hotel thinking how helpful and nice people are being. Quite a contrast to La Belle Epoque Hotel in Aosta – there was a sign at reception there saying it is Strictly Forbidden to wash clothes, eat or drink in the room. Put like that it just makes you want to do these things doesn’t it? So we did, all three.


Nus to Issogne 11th October

Amazing – we hardly have any walking through forest paths today. Well, a bit, but lots on quiet back roads. We take a diversion from the main route to see Fenis Castle which turns out to be fabulous. R is not into looking at castles today so he sits in the sun and checks out the route, but I have a private tour as the only English speaking person there.

The Dukes of Gallant ruled this whole valley for a couple of hundred years, several brothers installed in castles dotted all along, but this is the jewel. Cleverly fortified with the normal massive walls and turrets, but also with narrow doorways and floors of different levels to slow up invaders if they managed to breach the defences.

The Dukes lived here in luxury, it was a time of  showing of your wealth and power, if you had any, and they turned it into a showpiece for luxurious lifestyle of the time. In the early middle ages (think 1200 – 1400) it had inside its walls a vineyard, a vegetable garden, a cistern for 25,000 litres of water and a garden where the lords and ladies could entertain their guests.

In the process they added a fireplace in every room and a kitchen fireplace big enough to roast two whole cows at once and with a chimney two storeys high to heat a whole massive wall. But, best of all, fabulous frescoes in the entrance area, still vibrant and lively, of St George slaying the dragon, and a whole series of philosophers holding scrolls with wise sayings on them. There was a chapel with a whole bunch of apostles and a bedroom for the lord with a zoo painted on the walls, camels, hippos. Amazing.

Sadly, after evidently having had such a good time here, a few hundred years later the family degenerated into squabbling, went to court and had to sell everything. It was used by the local farmers in the 19th century to store hay and animals and was falling down, when a local architect bought it, took it in hand and with a team of his architect friends fixed it (along with several other castles) and gave it to the state. Pretty noble of them  - haha.

Drooling over Fenis castle sets us back a bit but we trot along through one pretty little village after another. Then a bit of a forest path, then into a larger town called Chatillon. It is getting very cold and a stiff wind is blowing. We can’t seem to find the route and we still have 10 km to go, to get to Issogne where we are booked into a B&B. We estimate we wouldn’t reach there till about 7pm, across steep mountain tracks getting dark and into a strange village at night.

So we decide to catch a train – no. Bus? No. Taxi? Yes, the stationmaster, just leaving for the day, points to a sticker for Willi’s taxis on a post on the platform. We call, yes he can be there in 10 minutes and will take us.

A large black Mercedes pulls up and the driver,  let’s just call him Weird Willi, hops out. Willi is wearing camouflage gear, he has a strange manner, a tic where he purses his mouth repeatedly, and he speaks very  very slowly. His hands are very white and he has waxed his arms. If you think this all sounds a bit odd, wait for the best bit. Will has definitely used hot rollers in his hair this morning. Chatillon doesn’t look like  a party town, but I’m sure Willi takes off his army pants, puts on stockings and stilettoes and kicks up his heels every Saturday night.

We’re relieved when we arrive in Issogne, we later admit that we were both wondering if he would suddenly veer off into the forest with a little chuckle.

When we arrive in Issogne, it is up a long steep road, and it is very dark and very cold. We can’t imagine how we would have found our B&B. Once inside it is bliss. It’s a whole house. The landlady mostly lets it to people for longer periods – most recently to some young students who were studying eagles in the mountains around, how exotic! So we have more than one room, and a kitchen, and a slow combustion stove, a couch, and, what’s this thing? A washing machine! What extremes of luxury!

There is, however, nowhere to eat in Issogne. The only restaurant is closed because it’s Monday  (of course!) So we buy some provisions, and, having a kitchen (!) with saucepans and all, cook ourselves a meal. Steak and three veg. How odd, it almost feels like real life.

We spend the evening lolling back on the couch, and watching Driving Miss Daisy in Italian.  There’s an interesting mixture here, we can get by in  French, sort of, because most people speak it -  the whole valley is officially bilingual. But the local people speak dialect called Franco-Provencal. And the tv has nothing in English, further north we occasionally connected with a movie in English or BBC news, but not now.

Issogne to Pont St Martin 12th October

Tell me, how many is too many photos of outrageously beautiful mountain scenery with little mediaeval villages in front? Do you think that at some point the camera would belch, rub its tummy and say, Sorry, can’t manage another one? We’ll probably find out…

This valley is rightly famed for its scenery. The mountains here are massive, huge hills and then behind them another whole range at aeroplane height. From the sky right down to our feet. Monstrous mounds of rock, oh so high, with layer after layer of mountains folded in between and back into the far distance. But the most beautiful thing about them is that they are all in layers of different shades of blue. Exquisite! We haven’t seen enormous crags like this since Montenegro in (then) Yugoslavia many years ago.

R points out a heartstopping sight – pitons in the sheer surfaces where rock climbers have been at play. They must be completely crazy.

Blue sky today after days of mist. Sandra, our host, is pleased. It’s grape harvest day for her and the weather needs to be fine. All across the valley wiry, leathery people are bringing them in. The prosperous commercial vineyards have trolleys on tracks to bring the grapes up these precipitous hillsides, like the scenic railway at Katoomba.  And the vines are trellised to allow for mechanised picking.

But the little family plots still have the vines on frames at head height.  Sandra says it is because it was a good use of land – you could grow vegetables underneath.  Harvesting these is hard work – reach up, pick, load into tubs, struggle up the hill to load them into the ubiquitous, stinky little farm vehicles, motorcycle at the front, tiny ute tray at the back.

A man stops to talk, tells us that Pont St Martin is 20 minutes straight ahead, but if we follow the Via route it goes, up, up, 2 hours. He throws his arms in the air expressively. We thank him, then R says, Never ones to shy away from a challenge… And up we go. It climbs 130 metres in altitude pretty much straight up, but a good gradient for us to tackle in our new, improved state.

Everywhere there are fantastically lush vegetable gardens, garlic in rows, big red knobbly tomatoes falling off the vines, bushes of brilliant green parsley. And in every garden now, beautiful roses. I think about Maria’s roses. I thought she just liked them, and they are certainly very pretty in her front yard, but I now realize it is much more than that, it is deep within her DNA.

We are startled to see a massive fortress castle looming up in front of us – Forte Bard. As we come closer it takes our breath away, a huge conglomeration of turreted and walled fort on the top of a piece of rock so high that there is now a cable car to take visitors up to it. Yet again we say, How did they do it!!!

Sheltering in the lee of Forte Bard is a very pretty mediaeval village, full of artisan shops and inviting restaurants, but we press on. Halfway down the hill we stop for lunch, sitting in the sun on a stone wall and munching our bread roll and apple.  A little car stops on the narrow road and a woman asks us if we are doing the Via – yes. Where are you from? Australia. Australia! Her face lights up, she exclaims with pleasure, she blows us a kiss with both hands and off she goes.

There is a striking sight on the way into a little village called Donnas, a Roman road cut into the cliff face along the line of the hill, with an arch into the village out of the solid stone. This is pretty amazing, but what gets us more is the wheel ruts 2000 years old worn into the solid stone roadway. It really fires up the imagination.

We arrive in St Martin after a lovely day. Perfect weather, and we are striving to have Goldilocks days – not too long, not too short, just right, and this is just right. There is the Roman bridge the town is named after (and everywhere mentions of the luck of it not having been destroyed in heavy allied bombardment of the town in the second world war).

A few steps away is our B&B. Sandra in Issogne had booked it for us and negotiated  a pilgrim discount for us (she gave us one too, after she saw our pilgrim credential with the growing number of stamps in it). When we see it we are so happy, you never really know what these places will be like and we are willing to be happy with whatever, but it is just lovely, spacious, stylish, new, with a startling view of a mountaintop out of the bathroom skylight.

We head out to what is apparently the only place to eat, and almost accidentally order tripe. That was a narrow escape! I decide we will have the set menu, we should know better really, it’s cheap for a reason, but I see soup, that will be ok, and vitello trippas, vitello is veal, that will be fine. R says Hmm, trippas sounds suss. And when the waitress looks it up in her dictionary it is indeed suss. Insides, she says, rubbing her stomach in explanation. Eek! We opt for the roast pork option.

The first course of soup is – let me ask you, soup sounds nice and light, doesn’t it? When it comes it is a brick heavy bowl of cabbage, melted cheese and layers of bread sitting sodden in soup stock. Hearty alpine food – ha, they scoff at the cold in these parts with that kind of food.

Weighted down by the meal, we stagger back to our room.

Three weeks and just over 400 km completed.


Pont St Martin to Ivrea 13th October

Geez there are a lot of ugly dogs in this part of Italy.  Great rangy, unkempt dogs with teeth bared. As we walk into a village they leap out of sleep into frenzied barking, hurling themselves at the fences. This sets off a chain reaction among the other dogs, so that we hear our welcome long before we even reach them and after we pass. It would be great to have a catapult, just to get one back. R, more direct, suggests capsicum spray, and we fall about laughing at the thought of it.

We have a lot of trouble finding our way onto the path through one village and a man, standing leaning on his stick and chatting to a friend,  offers to show us the way. He says that he is on his way to a funeral and in my very special brand of Italian I manage to ask if it is his. Oops. He holds his back and grimaces in pain to say, not feeling great, but not dead yet.

The route today is a bit flat, a bit dull, and passes a lot of power stations. We finally reach our destination, Ivrea, and walk in through Nob Hill. There’s money in concreting, says R. These houses are astonishing, huge mansions with enormous manicured grounds.

Down, down to the town set beside the river, past the castle (or course!) and the old city walls. It looks very grand, and would undoubtedly be very fascinating to explore that old town, but it is up on a hill and we are dragging through looking for the railway station at the far end of town, where the B&B owner will pick us up in her car.

She turns out to be delightful, and it is another gorgeous place, full of lovely furniture and knick knacks and, best of all, the walls covered with the owner’s own wonderful art.

We shower, change, book tomorrow’s B&B and walk 15 minutes to a restaurant. Swordfish for me, a pizza for R – he says it is the best he has ever had. Great meal, now back to our lovely house for the night.


Ivrea to Roppolo 14th October

What a nice couple that was. The Signor agrees to drive us outside the scruffy, noisy edge of town to put us on the track and we start our day at Bellengo. Can we pay you for your trouble? He takes a step back in what we now accept as a normal reaction to our offer – Absolutely Not, you are pilgrims.

We wander around for a little while trying to locate the start of the track. We ask some road workers, You are from Australia? My parents live in Canberra. They can’t help us, but they ask a man standing outside a café. He tries to direct us, then says, come with me and walks a kilometer or so with us and waves us off on the right path.  Say a prayer for me in Rome, he says with a wave.

The first village we come to is still asleep except for an elderly lady sweeping her front step. You’re from Australia! You’re walking to Rome! Bravo! – and she makes the sign of the cross over us to keep us safe.

Because of being taken a few km at the start, it’s a short day, so we take our time, wandering along. It’s easy walking. We come to a little village, Piverone, perched on the top of a hill, with a little piazza that looks lively. We stop for a coffee, and watch the scene. There is a clothes stall, an old woman buys some long johns. There is also a stall with a great array of cheeses, doing  a steady trade. At the other end of the square children are playing in the playground of a school, running and squealing. Two grandmothers, each with a pram, stop in the middle of the road for a long chat, every now and again someone comes over to admire the babies. A little truck loaded with grapes drives through.

Two women come and have a chat, fascinated by us. Then a group of elderly ladies walk by, one suddenly sees our packs and it creates a sensation among them, asking what we are doing, exclaiming, smiling, congratulating us.

It’s now too far from the border for French and too far from any big town for English, so we are marooned in a sea of Italian. It is always amazing, though, what you can convey with a few key words and gestures and a big smile.

It’s flatter here, down from the mountains and trailing down the last of the hills in the Piedmont before arriving in Tuscany. We pass persimmon, pomegranate and fig trees all full of fruit, but confime ourselves to  an occasional handful of grapes.

We arrive in tiny Roppolo to an outstanding welcome. Shown to our very pretty room on the ground floor of an old building tucked behind a Romanesque church. (What is that round part called – the nave? the apse?). We are offered tea or coffee in the garden, then the host happily agrees to us using his computer to get another installment of the blog done.

Through the antique joinery of the window I can see the garden, a persimmon tree loaded with fruit, some wrought iron chairs and a stone table. Inside the furniture is pretty, elegant and interesting, the floors are stunning original tiles. How old? I must ask at dinner, which by the way will be, since we are pilgrims, with the family and free.

One night in the mountains when I couldn’t sleep I created this masterpiece – what do you think?

I wish I was as nimble as a little mountain goat
I could bound around the mountains or skip around a boat
Across the rocks and roots of trees I simply would be flyin’
I’d hardly touch the ground, I’d be as fleet of foot as Ryan.
I’d scale a slippery slope with grace and down again with ease.
So can I be a mountain goat
Just for tomorrow, please?

New Photos!

Grand St Bernard to Nus

Grand St Bernard to Nus

Our room at the Hospice is lovely. Pannelled entirely, floor ceiling and walls in golden pine with two extremely comfortable old fashioned beds with doonas in yellow seersucker. There's an antique table and desk in the room. It's shared facilities but somehow that feels different in a monastery. It's super-clean, everything is, and walking on huge flagstones in a cloister to get to them just feels different. Even a motley lot of coathangers doesn't give you the grubby feeling a cheap pension wardrobe does. And no locks on the doors, that's an interesting thing to comtemplate.

The whole building is awesome, perched on the little saddle between these huge ranges. Everywhere 1600 and something or 1700 and something is chiselled into the doorways. So many famous names passsed through here, Charlemagne and Napoleon to mention just two. Napoleon came through with 40,000 men, created an enormous impact, every town in the area seems to have a record of it on display.

We take our boots down to the bootroom, down in the cellar. The floors are protected by everyone having to wear slippers. In French these are called pantoufles. Doesn't that word seem just so warm and fluffy, visions of cocoa and knitting beside the fire?

The hospice has been here for a thousand years (it really has!) and the monks have an amazing history of rescuing and succouring travellers in trouble. The famous St Bernard dogs with their brandy bottles around their necks have saved countless lives and there are fantastic old photos from 100 years ago of the monks, hats on, robes flying skiing downhill with the dogs on rescue missions.

There is also a local history of guides which was a privilege of the local villagers. Amazing pictures of them bringing up people on stretchers (some bound for the morgue that was also here). Apart from the other dangers, avalanches are common here.

It is very cold and a thick fog has blown in. The weather today has been perfect, clear and blue, but there was snow down to 1500 metres a couple of weeks ago, so we are lucky (although I would have been excited to see some. Not complaining, though, even a bit too much would have stopped us in our tracks) . The pass closes to cars on October 15. In the winter this is a very popular site for cross country skiing, the fitness level that would require is awe-inspiring.

Dinner was lovely – half a dozen other people I guess (as well as a whole school group of young teens, but they ate in another room, with deafening noise). Two Swedish women who are mountain trekking guides in Switzerland, very confident, and fluent in English, three women who are doing some day walks in the area and a lady who has been serving here as a volunteer for a few months and will go home on Sunday.

We had a lovely friendly and chatty meal, lots of good cheer. In the middle something funny happened. The one who has been here was explaining why she comes to volunteer. She does a week or so of prayer and contemplation, then works, preparing rooms for the guests, running the little video theatre where there is a movie about the history of the place. She was just telling us that one of the things she loves is the peace and silence. Just as the words left her mouth a horde of teenagers ran past the door shrieking. We all collapsed in laughter.

Renato has been saying for days, Someone will lend us a computer. And he asked at dinner, I wonder if any of you have a computer we can use. Of course, says Jacqueline, who has been to Australia, I have a laptop (we took a few minutes to struggle through working out what laptop was in either of our languages) and we could keep it overnight. So we went to our cosy, lovely little room and got some more onto the thumbdrive before the battery went. Now to find a place to send it from.

Time for bed. Tomorrow Italy and the long walk down towards Aosta.


Grand St Bernard to Etroubles 8 October

Sorry, can't write. Every time I pick up my pen La Signora brings out another sensational course of what is turning out to be a memorable dinner. We were sitting in her very pretty bar and restaurant filling in some time in front of the Swiss tiled heater and asked her about dinner. She claps her hands across her ample chest then flings them wide. Do you have confidence in my cooking? Of course Signora! So out it comes. We're up to three divine courses so far, how many more! Don't know don't care. Just bring it on. It's just us in the restaurant and La Signora is fully engrossed in the kitchen just for us, pots banging, steam rising.

When we first walked in and said we were Australian, her face lit up, she grasped my hand (Australians are always popular, because we are not brits, yanks or germans and people have family members who have come here).

Nothing much else to say about today. Lovely morning at the Hospice, breakfast with several of the ladies, then in came the guides and their troop of vikings with a great gust of testosterone, dumping bags and backpacks, pulling on boots and getting ready for the day's activities. These were the clients the Swedish girls had been waiting for (they offer high energy trekking with yoga and at the end of the day massage). Renato asked to join the group but resigns himself to walking to Rome instead.

After 3 courses the Signora says vegetables from my garden, ingredients not from the supermarket. No kidding! We had 1. Finely sliced smoked pork with chestnut relish 2. Shredded white cabbage, tomato, local fresh cheese (fontina) and prosciutto 3. Vege soup with local chees from the mountans and one aniseed flower 4. apple and blueberry compote with whipped cream and a sweet bisuit (dolcetta).

That was the end of the day but at the beginning we set out and it was mostly downhill to Etroubles.

The photo op at the start of the day was rather hampered by the thick fog. Leaning out the window of our room it was cold and damp. But once we are on our way, the scenes are quite ethereal. The start is a difficult descent, we take a slight wrong turn around the statue of St Bernard, ghostly in the fog and it is tricky to get down and back on to the path.

Past the avalanche galleries, roofs over the road. I don't care if you would be safe, I reckon if you were driving along, minding your own business and an avalanche came down over them, it would still stir you up big time.

Stunning scenery again all the way down, managed to get a coffee and tried to get food at lunch time – doh – this is Italy. Closed for siesta of course.

At one point, the path was closed because of concreting and we are wandering around trying to find a way down the mountain. A man dashed over to show us how to find the path by climbing some fences and following the river down, He had ridden a bike for part of the Camino a couple of years ago.

We walked on to Etrouble sustained only by chocolate which we always carry for safety and found a darling B&B and this fantastic tiny restaurant with its great slab tables, bench seats and La Signora.

It's cold and dark, the mist has closed it's clammy hand around Etroubles but we are warm, dry and well fed.

Etrouble to Aosta 9 October

Adios rosti says Renato as we sit down to dinner in the Gourmand de Pelerin in Aosta, a little underground restaurant with a low vaulted ceiling of patterned brick and hello pasta. In front of us are plates of tagliatelle alla funghi, local wine and a carafe of crystal clear, local sparkling mineral water.

After an unpromising start, dragging ourselves through the suburbs at the end of the day, this has proved to be a great little town. Like the food, it is a totally different culture. Down the valley on the southern side of the Alpes and into La bella Italia. The centre is a big town piazza, thronged with families walking the evening passagio, back and forth, chatting and greeting each other, just like we first saw in the Greek Plateas so many years ago.

Said goodbye to pretty, artisitic Etrouble (with sculpture scattered everywhere) this morning. It was still covered in mist. What follows is a very pretty and very downhill day through leafy lanes. A new colour today – orange is in the mix. Sensational autumn leaf vistas along the forest pathways look almost surreal through the veil of mist. Towards the end of the day we can see Aosta further along the valley and the landscape has subtly changed to have a slightly Tuscan air with pencil pines on some of the hillsides.

When we finally arrive in Aosta, we find a little adeqate hotel room and go out to explore. The town has Roman walls, bridge, towers and the old town is very attractive but it is so Italian people dress, walk, talk act differently. Within 30 km – amazing. The lithe, brown, shaggy haired young women with short skirts tottering along on high heels, the brash, nattily dressed young men with tight pants and cool sunglasses swaggering along the road in groubs, masters of the stubble beard.

And no more bonjour, in France and Switzerland even people walking into a coffe shop would say a general bonjour to the room and you couldn't walk past anyone in the street with an exchange of greeting, Here, nothing. Now one more thing that is very noticible. Tootle do do loo car horns. Actually horns at all – we haven't heard one since Paris. On our day walking along the Rhone we even watched a car spend about 5 minutes patiently and carefully moving through a flock of swans with out so much as a bip of the horn to move them off the road, but here the boys like noise and speed.

Aosta to Nus 11 October 

Sitting in a bar in Nus haveing a cuppuccino with the television blaring, like Spain, loud mindless TV. The jounalist is doing an ad for coffee, walking down the street sideways interviewing people and just walked into a lampost – intentional? The audience loved it anyway.

We had a short day today, we had to break the 37 km stage into two and the villages en route are so tiny so we had to stop at only 14 km and here we are in little nothing Nus installed in a 55 Euro hotel room. The foyer and dining room are a perfect period piece. They would have been the cat's pyjamas for two star decor when it was done oin the 1960s. Heavy wood furniture, ceiling lights on wagon wheels, strange panels of mirroring. However, the rather dour man at reception has let us use his computer to type this up for the blog.

Vervey to Grand St Bernard Pass

Vervey to Villeneuve 2nd October 

Sun dropping down the mountains to our left, we’re sitting in an outdoor cafe built on a jetty in Villeneuve. There are only 2 things to write about today, it’s a short day but fantastic.

We start by walking 8 km beside the lake agaian, out of Vevey and through Montreux, site of the famous annual jazz festival. It is a beautiful day and people are out in force, the locals on bicycles or beautifully dressed walking their elegant dogs.

This is a tourist town and there are massive hotels along the waterfront called Palace and Majestic. The area has splendid flourishing gardens and parks all the way along.

I was just pondering the observation that all over Switzerland young children walk home alone from school, doors are left open, there are no bars on the windows, wood is stacked and left in the forest, there are vegetable patches on the mountainside and the public toilets always clean and with toilet paper and taps to flush that you turn on and then off and the authorities confidently expect that you will actually do it. And then in Montreux I went into a public loo and it had the blue anti injecting lights. What a shock. I can only assume it is because Montreux attracts millions of international visitors every year.

Something else interesting has occurred to me, maybe it’s different in the North but here in the south the Swiss are dark – brown skin and brown hair.

Now the second part of the day, Chillon Castle. Oh!!! What to say! It’s like a flipping filmset but it has been there just like that since the 15th Century perched on a little island in the lake just past Montreux. Very complex and with internal buildings which gives a fantastic feel for what it must have been like centuries ago. And all the tourists wandering around actually add to the sense of what bustling life must have been carried on there. Fairy princess castle. We love it and it was hard to tear ourselves away. We’re so glad today is short k’s. We take out time and soak it up.

Now in Villeneuve, a couple of k’s along, looking back at the setting sun, picks up the buildings all along the beachfront to our right, including that magical castle, now dwarfed by a huge expressway crossing the valley far above on massive pylons.

Long day tomorrow, but a great destination, very excited about that.

Villeneuve to St Maurice Sunday 3rd Oct 

So Renato says, you want a definition of looming – look up there　! Mountains everywhere all day which we know must soon be climbed. Finishing with this evening St Maurice jambed between two massive rock walls, gigantuan slabs of grey harsh rock.

Tonight a strong wind is whistling through the town, not cold but you can sure imagine how it is when winter sets in.

On the other hand, today has been blue sky and warm. We set out from Villeneuve and having said goodbye to the Hotel du Soleil with the nice hotelier who let us use his computer to create a word document then email it to the blog sitting in the breakfast room, how helpful (unlike the fat ugly pension owner in Vevey (Pension Burgle) who wouldn’t let me take a cup of tea up to our room after breakfast).

The road strikes out from the lake and heads for the hills. The massive range of mountains, the Dent du Midi, (teeth of noon – go figure, but it is jagged) is there all day, has been for days, it dominates the landscape. We get closer and closer and it moves around but it’s always there.

Now it’s beginning to be autumn and we are walking right beside the Rhone river (I never really knew where that was before). It is a swiftly flowing grey green river with the odd kayaker on it. We walk on a path right beside it nearly all day, with autumn leaves showering down.

There are lots of cyclists around, even a professional looking peleton. Then we see a huge velodrome world cycling centre and the sound of someone commentating an event inside. Ready set go…bang! Blah blah blah blah. Now this really gets me – you know those cheap motels, with a tacky picture hung, slightly crooked, on the fake wood panelled wall, you know, the one with a sparkling river, a sweep of autumn leaf trees on the curve of the river on the left and at the back the mountain with a dusting of snow. That’s the picture we walked through all day. Nature can be so tacky sometimes. I was determined to soak my feet in the cold water but the path was too high and the bank too steep so we ploughed on, and on, and on. We finally gave in and lay down under some huge piping to a factory on the hill to get some shade. Later on we found a place to scramble down and soak our aching feet in the cold water. Despite being beside the river we were short of water. Renato drank the river water. I didn’t dare because of my sore tummy. It’s been difficult to find anything to eat on the hoof. I’ve mostly been surviving on yogurt and apples so I definitely didn’t drink the river water. I’m now gingerly starting to put things back, little invalid bites of bread dipped in soup, a tiny sliver of cheese.

Anyway after walking miles very thirsty we were very pleased to see a camping area with apparently an open cafe. The people were a surprise, a Swiss guy who spent 27 years in India and now runs a cafe in the shadow of a mountain range in Switzerland and his charmingly lucid English wife. We had a cool drink, filled up our water bottle and staggered on to our destination – the Abbey of St Maurice.

Now there^s a lot of history with this abbey – it has been continuously in use since 515AD. St Maurice is a martyr who, fighting with his team of christians for the Romans, was ordered to massacre a group of christians, refused, and he and his thousands of men were executed. Made him famous, here anyway. We rocked in, were taken by an aged monk in black to the hospice house, shown our room, showered and went down to dinner. Met the Abbot – very suave and sophisticated and English speaking who told us that they are canons (and made it clear that he is bishop of the region).

There has been lovely singing while we waited and a group of men walked through while we were waiting to eat. I think Renato would have eaten with the gang but a woman would never do, so we dined alone with the elderly monk making crazy conversation. He had lived his whole life here in the seminary (since about age 13). The building is huge, awesome. We walked around the town, nothing much there, buffeted by the wind. Now in our monks cell, warm dry bed and wondering how to spend the rest of the evening. Whoops – where is the plasma screen? These monks really live lives of deprivation.

St Maurice to Martigny 4th October 

The wind howled all night, wailing through the cracks in the shutters. We don’t dare open them in case the wind teaars them off their hinges and sends them to Italy. There since (we reckon) about 1700 and destroyed at our hands.

Down to breakfast in the Abbey, alone this time. The benign old monk shows us in and leaves us to our loaves of bread, slab of cheese and a whole bowl of jam. We asked to see the fabulous treasury but are told firmly that it is closed.

Now it is lovely to be tucked up under a cozy dooner when the wind is whipping round the building but of course we have to get out in it. It is crazy – my mantra for the day is (tune of I’m to sexy for my shirt) is It’s too windy for my hat.

We trudged all day through this narrow valley and the wind doesn’t let up. Now rain is unpleasant, but wind is obnoxious. It’s like it’s alive, and pushing into it at every step is exhausting and depressing. It messes with your brain. At one point we round a corner and the wind almost knocks me off my feet. I hear myself cry out Oh! as I battle my way around.

So it is a great relief to head off into the forest and one of the spectacularly simple walks along a path with earth and leaf underfoot and not a soul to be seen. There are chestnuts and walnuts lying on the ground and when we get to Martigny, we pick two pears from a trellised orchard. Martigny is a bigger town than we expect and we set out to do a few chores. Internet cafe directly across the road. And my old walking pants have finally died, falling to rags. I‘ve been sewing them up but they’re too precarious. So the lady at reception directs us to a sports store like Rebel where I find the perfect replacement. Now eating vegetable soup and waiting on a ham omelette and a plate of rosti for Renato to arrive. A couple walked into the restaurant and we had a great conversation. The guy has hiked to India in the 70s and was in Afghanistan. Very interesting and also very cultured. Martigny is a very arty town and this couple had come to see a particular artists exhibition. An interesting thing about Martigny – the town water is pure ice melt from Mt Blanc. Back in our room at the end of the night we see something striking. Some lights along the top of a massive dark hill, just a few houses up there, so high they look like UFOs hovering.

Martigny to Orsieres 5th October

No way, it’s too much! Throw me a bag of adjectives I need some more. Out of Martigny looking at a long day, only 20km but a lot of up and down. Now I had been anxious about this section because it was said to be very steep (tick) very narrow (tick) and very strenuous (tick). An amazing path – too narrow for horse or bike, so only walkers can drink this particular nectar. And sweet it is. Only as wide as 2 boots side by side and there’s a long long drop through the trees. Concentrate, don’t make a mistake, this is no time for a misstep. You would have a megapixel close up look at the autumn leaf as you crash through the branches all the way to the valley floor far below. In a few places there is a bit of chain to hang on to but mostly it is just go very slow be very careful. Up up up, the down again, surrounded by the outrageously beautiful forest in all the colours. Then into a pine forest, soft damp pine needles underfoot. We scramble over huge tumbled rocks covered in moss, struggle up steep slopes picking our way. Out of sight there is a road with a steady hum of traffic but the forest has a thick silence. Every now and again we emerge and see stunning vistas. After hours of this the countryside changes, opens out. This is Heidi country – tell you what, if you are scything those steep stepp hillsides you are definitely not going to any pilates class to keep your core happening.

Martigny has (wait for it) a cow fighting event and some of the big black cows we pass look seriously mean. They aren’t call betsy or buttercup, they’re called crusher and stomper. With a big broad black head with hefty horns.

We could see our destination in the distance, but took a wrong turn. A sign was missing from a post and we ended up climbing to 1142 metres getting a bit anxious as we went higher and higher. I keep thinking this is so beautiful and it’s so absolutely stunning, and I’ll never be back here, and we’ll get there in the end.

We follow our hunches and are almost all the way down again and can see Orsieres again but not exactly how to get there. Then we meet a couple out for a walk, we ask them, they take us back a little bit and we discover we are staying at the same hotel. They bring us right to reception and they say to the patron, we found some Australians, but Houston, we have a problem. Renato and I lost sight of each other in the forest today. He stopped to photograph a fungus and didn’t see I had turned uphill. We had an increasingly anxious time, unable to find each other. We were both yelling but the sound was swallowed up. We took a little while to reconnect and when we did I found that Renato, panicked and rushing, had slipped and fallen on steep rocks, sending boulders cascading to the valley floor. He has hurt his arm and shoulder. Using Ian’s definition if it’s an Injury call an ambulance, if it’s hurt get up and play, we decide to continue and see how it settles. Oops! Or as the young frenchwomen say, oopla! With a charming smile and a carefree toss of their ponytail. I think if you said to them, got a problem, both of my legs have just been cut off their response would still be Oopla! Flash! Toss!

Orsieres to Bourg St Pierre 6th October

How do we know it’s Wednesday? Because as we walk through a little village at lunch time and I said, no chance I know, but I’d love a fizzy drink lo and behold, there was a little restaurant and we zoomed over to it. But zut alors! It is closed – ferme Mercredi (Wednesday) of course! Any way we used the facilities – ie pull the still damp socks out of the pack and spread them on one of the tables. Settle down in the sun to have a nice long relaxed boots of feet up ahh!

We climb up and up today to 1640 M but it’s a nice steady gradient all day. Through very lovely mountain scenery with picture book houses perched on the mountain side. There is a higher narrower path as an alternative so we choose that. Only as wide as a cow path really with stunning views and then a long dark track thriough the pine forest. It’s so quiet, just a muffled thud of boots.

I really like that in this country, they assume you have half a brain, and will use it. Everything is not fenced off, locked off, forbidden. Childrens playgrounds still look like fun. Why do you need two sides to a walking bridge? Just take care, you can see it’s steep. Dont’t go near the edge, you can see it’s high. Yes you can hunt deer in the forest if you’re careful. There is an occasional sign like along the rivers as they tumble over rocks on the way down from the mountains – don’t hang around in the river bed, water can come down in torrents unexpecedly. But mostly it’s use your commonsense. We came on a fallen tree across our path in the forest and had to get round it. Renato climbed over then said don’t do that, it could fall. Oops that would be a long fall. Use your commonsense! I wish I was as nimble as a mountain goat. We go so slowly, testing the footholds, putting the boots flat on a steep loose surface, edging round difficult tree roots. I often think how Ryan would go here flitting through the forest, bounding from rock to rock, his feet hardly touching the ground. The hills go up down up down, just choose one. Either would be fine – maybe just up. Whoa wait a minute, just up is the meseta on the Camino in Spain. Up and up and up to a huge flat plateau scoured by relentless icy headwinds. No, cancel that order, up and down is fine.

Anyway it gives the opportunity to keep rounding corners and see…no don’t tell me, let it be a surprise, here it comes..voila! a hill with a cluster of houses with shutters and window boxes, a fountain spilling into a trough, a tableau of mountains in the background with a stream tumbling down, an old man leaning on a stick, you’re walking? Yes we are from Australia, we are walking from Besancon to Rome. The eyebrows go up, a big smile missing a few teeth cracks the weathered face. He pushes his hat back a bit to Rome! Ohh la la! We look nonchalant and humble as we walk off.

Walking provides an opportunity to ponder the big questions like this. They don’t do tea and coffee in the rooms here, but in this town, high in the mountains where we are kept awake by the sound of cow bells, there is a jug and tea bag in the room, but why do they use whitener instead of milk?

This is the absolute first place where it is untidy and slightly grubby, but the heaters switch on, and the lady in reception is so jolly and helpful, letting me sit in the reception office to use her own computer. And she has two lovely border collies there too. Hordes of Italian road workers come back to the hotel from work, calling out as they pass me, bo soir, Signora.

Just now finishing dinner – Renato has rosti with deer salami and local cheeses and Maggie has vege soup and provencale salad. Very nice. Now tired and ready to end the day. Tomorrow…very exciting, walking to the Grand St Bernard Pass!

Bourg SP to GSB pass Thur 7th October

This won’t take very elaborate description Renato said. It was steep. Really really steep. I’m not kidding, really steep! 2472 metres pretty much just up over about 10 km fort he last 1000M. Like climbing stairs only it was rocks, narrow paths, crossing little streams. But we made it!!

Up out of BSP and before you could blink it was far below. I had imagined walking through forests today but almost immediately we were above the tree line. Russet heather, tiny wild flowers, great lumps of rock and on every side massive brown mountainsides with snowtopped crags in the background.

We lunched at some very old farm bldgs, low rock hut, hunched against the hillside with sod on the stone roof. I guess they were for blizzards to save the lives of animals and people. We lie in the sun behind a rock wall out of the wind and sleep for a while, stretched out in the soft grass. Then up again. The signs show not mileage but walking time and we are pretty perfectly average except that we add half again for little breaks to drink, photos (just one or two) and standing looking at the scenery, gasping and throwing superlatives around.

Stagger up the last bit, the air is pretty thin and it is extremely hard going. R’s fine but I’m done. Then into the Hospice where a lay brother welcomes us, invites us to take our packs off and pours us each a breakfast bowl of black tea. We chat (sort of) as best we can without a common language. Out of the sludge at the back of my mind I find that another french word rises to the surface like a bubble of gas in hot roturua mud.