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?