Hello all from Lombardy!
Am in Pavia, or PavIa as they say it here. I would like to say that I love it, as it is a nice little ancient university town - one of the most ancient in Europe I believe, sometime around the 10th century, beating both Cambridge and Oxford into a cocked hat. But I confess, after a 110 km day, through the oppressive humidity of the Lomellina plains, I was decidedly underwhelmed. It isn't the town's fault, exactly, since it is nice enough really, and it does claim a Duomo designed in part by Leonardo da Vinci. It is just that the seething mass of outskirts horridness and arriving to find that the Office of Tourism had moved from its advertised location (helpfully, as ever, on the very edge of town (what is wrong with these people?)) meant that when I finally tracked down its new location, it had shut. This meant, at 5.30, and without any obvious hotels, I had to find somewhere to stay. Mercifully, the ole Lonely Planet yielded one place which only charged 120 euros per room.........................! (I thought that book was supposed to be for students and gap year wastrels for God sake!) Anyway, mercifully it turned out that the deluxe palazzo option had a scrubby two star literally next door, so I am sitting here with a sweet little chap in the reception letting me use his computer to say hello to you all.
PavIa also redeemed itself for another reason, which prompted the title (a saying given to me by three Aussies I met staying in Barolo a couple of nights ago.) Having finally got myself settled, I decided to go and visit the said Duomo to find it swathed in scaffolding and plastic (apparently a bell tower fell down a few years ago and killed four people so it turns out Leonardo wasn't all that crash hot an architect) Anyway, feeling that the day was compounding rubbishness on rubbishness, I was about to stomp off and go back to my room, when I saw two men approaching in black cassocks and dog collars. They said hello and I ended up telling them what I was doing, so the Bishop of Pavia (for it was no less than he) asked me into the Archbishops Palace, a magnificent building opposite the said church. Now, inside this building (which is, incidentally, not open to the public) was a fabulous marble staircase adorned with Old Masters. He led me into a room full of paintings of archbishops and bishops, of which he, it seems, it the 108th. (By way of comparison, our Archbishop of Canterbury is no. 104, which must put Pavia as an bishopric dating from at least the 6th century.)
Anyway, the Bish and I got talking a bit, despite my having confessed to not being Catholic, and so he ended up taking me into another room. There on the wall was a painting of John the Baptist and the Virgin Mary by none other than Leonardo the Rubbish Architect. It was fantastic, I must say and only me there staring at it. And nice too, to see it as part of the furniture, rather than yet another old master on a gallery wall. When I finally left, the Bish blessed me despite my not being Catholic, wishing angels to follow my wheels. His young companion, dear ole handsome Father Paolo, then showed me out of the palace, asking me in that glorious gorgeous English-Italian to say a prayer for him when I reached Rome. Then he touched my cheek (the ole charmer) and said 'bellissima' and wished me on my way. This is what I mean by fate and lemons into lemonade, my friends: even when things seem crap, somehow they turn out for the best.
And, in retrospect, despite the Agip refineries, the Lomellina plains were rather beautiful, at least for much of the way. I have finally changed from the fruit basket of Piedmont to the endless golden riceries of the Po. Indeed, since I last mailed, I have been climbing through vine country, through the truly lovely mountains of Monferrato. The only downside was the climbing bit, which was sometimes wickedly steep and in the baking heat, was pretty killing. But the views from the village of La Morra (570m), as promised, were utterly stunning - crossed hatches vineyards contouring rolling hills as far as the eye could see. They are not far off harvest and the vines are turning slightly yellow, and the grapes are draped, huge and purple, just off the ground. Plus I have been doing the ole Agriturismo, stayed in a lovely one just down the road from Barolo, where I met the said Australian ladies. The hostess, Rafaella was also lovely. I will post the address for all those thinking of going off in search of Italy's best red wine.
But, before I forget !!! (So much has happened people, it is really difficult to keep up!) Here is another story of Italian niceness, this time from the lovely mediaeval bourg of Saluzzo.
I arrived, as always, hot and sweaty to find the tourist office of former Marquisate of Saluzzo closed until 2.30 pm. I was about to sit in the shade and sulk, rather exhausted, and wait for Italy to open up shop for the afternoon. But a chap peering out of a window saw me and invited me in for coffee.
Now since his place was actuallly a restaurant, I assumed I would end up paying for it, but no, acqua fresca and coffee duly arrived for free. And lovely generous and very very sweet Albino the Restaurant owner kept dashing off and telling me places to go and things to see. Even before the tourist office opened, I was armed with all I needed to tell me that I should stay a couple of days. So, because of dear ole Albino, I ended up at the Castle of Manta and discovering some of the finest International Gothic frescoes in Europe. Fate, again, you see. They were fantastic, lining the walls of the baronial hall, depicting the Fountain of Youth and the heroes and heroines of antiquity. All that mediaeval, crazy maze, out of perspective drawing and the men and women pattern cards of venery and hunting amidst the greenery. Another room was full of later Mannerist frescoes: wall to ceiling classical imagry of dragon slaying, apollo and bacchus. It turns out that this narrow corridor around Manta, Cuneo and Lagnasco was the means for the Renaissance to penetrate Piedmont and influence the Kings of Savoy. Sometimes, I feel like the luckiest person on the planet. Added to which, I ended up staying with the nuns that evening, and they were the nicest and friendliest nuns you'll ever meet! Then I went off to eat at Albino's - which turns out to be Saluzzo's finest restaurant - and the food was consequently absolutely lovely....I mean, really really really good. And he told me all about each dish (and there seemed to be millions of them) and where the food came from and what made it a regional speciality. And since Albino was the loveliest man in creation, he ended up giving me a bottle of very good Italian red wine to go with it (Barolo something or other, for those in the know). When I INSISTED I pay, he shook his head and said you pay for everything you eat but I pay for the wine! But I feel slightly better as I told the Aussies to go there last night and I hope he's made a huge profit from them!!!
Then, I realise, I have told you nothing of the lovely Pinerolo, and the gorgeous apartment in the pretty little mediaeval town (not the only thing gorgeous in that mediaeval town, may I tell you girls...). That was really interesting (!) as the family - who were really welcoming - turned out to be protestants (I think, originating in the Waldensians - proto-protestants of mediaeval times). Torre Pelice, just up the road, is an important Protestant sanctuary in the heart of the Catholic north. Honestly.....can I talk about fate again without risking boring you all to tears??
Sorry its been a bit of a chaotic post - very tired after my hot and bothered day.I am now off to worship at the Sanctuary of the Golden Arches....yes, McDonalds is across the road, and I really can't be bothered with a sit down meal before I collapse. Apologies to all Italians or food lovers. But I have been eating like a Princess for days now. (On this subject, before I go - Italian tomatoes....I have never tasted any tomatoes as good as these. Plus their peaches....infact, all their fruit tastes of....fruit....Now I must go before I start sounding like bloody Rick Stein!
Vx
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Thursday, 28 August 2008
Fallen on My Feet Again
Do you know, I am starting to believe in Fate? Just when I think that some minor upset will thwart, irritate and lead to disaster, I find that actually, my plans were not as good as the alternative.
Take minor hiccup no. 1 - no accommodation in Pont St. Martin. Here was I, all primed to stay at the site of the world's largest single span intact 1 AD roman bridge over a mountain torrent, when it turned out there was no room at the proverbial inn. Nor the not so proverbial BnB. After much phoning and deep anxiety at 5.30, I duly ended up in a Agroturismo in nearby Donnas. Now Donnas had not, on first encounter, struck me as anything very special. A kind of scrubby strip village along the main / only valley road; beside the river which is little more than gravel at present, alongside not only the Autostrada but a railway line. Not outwardly prepossessing, but how wrong could I be! Behind the roadside delapidation, Donnas turned out to be a jewel; a bit of a grubby jewel, but a gem nonetheless.
Donnas was fantastic firstly because of the Romans: this was the Romans main route into Gaul. They have duly left their cart tracks along a long paved section of the Via Gallia, which passes under a massive arch hugging the mountain wall. It felt pretty amazing to walk along, quite literally in the footsteps of Augustus Caesar.
Secondly, Donnas was brilliant because the 21st century strung out village hid a mediaeval bourg virtually untouched by time. A pace back from the road ran a parallel road of mediaeval cobbles and the old town gates where they had collected tolls in the Middle Ages. Donnas was apparently something of a flourishing little tax haven, with trade up and down the Via Gallia flourishing for a thousand odd years. As a result, the single street hid a plethora of ancient houses, tunnelled passageways and even a leper hospital. No one else was there, so I had it all to my ownsome, able to imagine my bustling mediaeval merchants to my hearts content.
Lastly, but by no means leastly, the Agroturismo was fantastic. If you haven't tried them, I recommend you do. It was on the other side of the Autostrada and in another world entirely; one of maize fields and tabacchi and ancient farms. Not picturesque, but really Valdaostan, and after several days on the road, I decided to have a day off. What a great choice that turned out to be, because my host Monica and her family were truly wonderful. When she offered me a lift up the Valley Gressoney, famous for being the home of the mediaeval Walsers (migrant German speaking Swiss from the Valais who came in the 12th century (great yogurt, by the way)), I imagined that I would merely be dropped off and have to make my own way back. Instead, she dropped her two 'enfants terribles' Emil and Giovanni with her mother and spent half a day showing me around. We went to the local Fontainemore museum, where there were videos of the pilgrimage to the Sacred Monte of Oropa which included her mum and grandma, then she drove further up the valley to introduce me to her friend Etti, who was her son's English teacher and a guide at the local Ecomuseum. Between the two of them, I had a personal tour of the ancient life of the valley and the traditional Alpine way of life (it was hard). Then, finally, Monica took me half way up a mountain, to a little hut/bar at 1,400 m or so. She went off to see her mother for an hour and left me to the stupendous views of the mountains and the smell of woodsmoke as the evening sun began to sink. They, bang on time, she arrived just before the chill of nightfall and whisked me back to my lovely bedroom at the farm! So, by way of thanks, may I recommend to you the 'Lou Rose' in the Valle D'Aosta. Fabulously placed for all manner of walking, hiking, snow shoeing, skiing, langlauf, cycling and historical bimbling. Oh, and they make fantastic biscuits too. I did buy some to send back to you all, but ate them all. Sorry.
Then, minor hiccup no. 2
Now, to understand this, you need to know my technique for accommodation, employed successfully during my long lovely days in France. Basically, it invovles grabbling a list of BnBs and a map of the Tourist Offices and their opening hours. I then scoot off until my legs and my anxiety requires that I find somewhere to stay the night. That usually kicks in around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, when I am getting a bit fatigued. However, Piedmonte, which arrive suddenly with red tile roofs instead of stone 'lose', and flat and the flat wide and humid valley of the Po, did not facilitate this technique. After 20 km of cycling, I arrived at Ivrea, a smallish town with a big old red castle on the borders of Piedmont. After much searching and pigeon Italian (they have put the TO in the most inconvenient place ever), I was informed that the nearest TO was in Turin.
Turin was only 60 k away, but on a direct route nationale through the boring valley; I wanted to see Canavese, the old hunting reserves of the Savoy Kings. Still, they gave me two huges books of accommodation, which since my Italian is woeful, did not seem to do much more than add weight. Nevertheless, ever the optimist, but with temperatures now soaring above 30, I set off Into the West.
Now, I had been expecting, after days in the mountains, a few more days of jolly downhills. To be quite frank, I still feel like I am owed them after the hell that was the Col of St. Bernard. But the Canavese turned out to be anything but low rise; it was picturesque all right, but it was picturesque hilltop village at 470m kind of stuff. The hunting reserves straddled the outlying spurs of the mountains, sticking out like the limb of a croissant into the plains. I felt bitterly betrayed by Italy and the Gods as I hauled myself upwards - again - for making me work so hard.
Yet, yet...What should I discover but that this strange outlier is actually one of the most important morainic masses in the world? Now, this might not sound that exciting to you, but remember, I did my Ph.D in all this glacial. So I got to bimble about, albeit rather painfully, in the forested calm of the Balteo glacial moraine complex! Not only that, joy upon joy, but I got to explore a series of rather crumbly old red pan-tile little villages too. Several of which, may I add, turned out to have some enormous ducal residences, known laughably as the "hunting boxes" of the Dukes of Savoy. UNESCO listed, no less. Eventually, buoyed by the day, I even plucked up courage to ring an Italian woman, and lo, ended up, with a little bit of pigeon Italian on my side and more pigeon French on hers, in a very nice Fruit n Veg. AgroT outside Cilie. The only downside was that they were vegetarian, but the upside was pretty up, since we had a hell of a laugh over dinner, trying to understand what one another was talking about. (Oddly, since then, my Italian comprehension has improved markedly, so that in weird Babel Fish type way, I can gather an understand without understanding a word of what's being said.)
Now, minor hiccup No. 3. Saving the best till last.
Having left L'Isola Che Non C'e, I arrived at the Royal Palace of Veneria Reali - another one of those Savoyard palazzos that seem to litter this place. I had imagined the village, given the palace is bigger than Blenheim, would be smithered with bed and breakfasts and places to stay. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a strangely inhospitable corner of an otherwise pleasantly hospital region. The woman in the TO was not only useless but rude, and the maps even more so, since they did not name the roads nor show where the bed and breakfasts and hotels were. Eventually, after aimless wandering, I ran into a jolly postman, who had to ask the Caribinieri where the places were. But it turned out all were full, which was not entirely unexpected, and that the only reasonably priced hotel (a real grot hole by the station) was closed,....for the holidays. (!!) Since I object to paying 150 E for a room unless I am actually staying in the Royal Palace, I was now hating Italy and its chaos and longing for the easy efficiency of France. I was so fed up I even called my brothers, though thankfully they were both out, so they did not have to listen to me moan about wasting 2 hrs mooning about to no avail. Instead, after sitting on a wall for a bit, I decided to bite the bullet and do what I had been putting off: braving the cycle into the million strong suburbs of Turin. I was already boiling hot (since it was now about 2 in the afternoon) and imagining all sorts of ugly Fiat factories and near death experiences a la Lausanne (didn't tell you about that did I ! Ugh....lorries....!).
Once again, my friends, the Gods knew better than I what was good for me, because not only was the ride into Turin amazingly easy - it was almost pleasant, if unedifying in the aesthetic sense - but Turin turns out to be the most utterly gorgeous city at its heart. I think it might turn out to be my italian Troyes. And I'm not just saying that because Alfredo comes from here (hello there!), but because it is a kind of Italian Vienna at the foot of the Alps. It isn't mediaeval cobbles and great gothic cathedrals, but it is just littered with the ducal residences and baroque palaces and elegant squares and boulevards of the former Kings of Italy. It has a relaxed, refined air of slightly reserved graciousness, mixed with the passiagata (apolgoies for spelling) you'd expect of Italy. It also has great ice cream. I have spent three days lounging between old fashioned coffee houses and gasping at the beauty of the Piazza San Carlo at night. And since I have had Alfredo as my text message tour guide, I have also tapped into the Torinese's Torino, and consequently know the best places for coffee, ice cream and the like. My first night I hung out with the stars, at Brek, where they filmed the Bourne Supremacy, pretending to be an incognito star. But I really hung out with the cool crowd last night, when good old Alfredo hot footed it from his holidays in the Canavese (quelle coincidence!) to give me a whistle stop tour of the Torinese hills. Honestly, I cannot recommend this place more highly for a weekend city break even if you lack a personal guide: loads to see, endless ice cream (and they are also famous for making chocolate!) and the Alps a mere stone's throw away to the north. I even got to see their pale shadows, sadly a little faded by evening and heat haze, but in winter, the view is apparently the best in the world (okay, I think Alfredo might be a little biased, but I can see it would be pretty special even without the eye of faith). So, there we have it. Once more I have come to the conclusion that the Gods know better than we do what to do. As I discovered in France, the best thing about these cycle trips is that you learn to ride the road and not the map.
Off to some great monastery now, on the advise of the locals ;o) and then will head south to Pinerolo, Saluzzo and the hills and vineyards of Montferrato. Cannot wait. Well, can wait for the hills actually, but heigh ho, it must be done.
Ciao
Vx
Take minor hiccup no. 1 - no accommodation in Pont St. Martin. Here was I, all primed to stay at the site of the world's largest single span intact 1 AD roman bridge over a mountain torrent, when it turned out there was no room at the proverbial inn. Nor the not so proverbial BnB. After much phoning and deep anxiety at 5.30, I duly ended up in a Agroturismo in nearby Donnas. Now Donnas had not, on first encounter, struck me as anything very special. A kind of scrubby strip village along the main / only valley road; beside the river which is little more than gravel at present, alongside not only the Autostrada but a railway line. Not outwardly prepossessing, but how wrong could I be! Behind the roadside delapidation, Donnas turned out to be a jewel; a bit of a grubby jewel, but a gem nonetheless.
Donnas was fantastic firstly because of the Romans: this was the Romans main route into Gaul. They have duly left their cart tracks along a long paved section of the Via Gallia, which passes under a massive arch hugging the mountain wall. It felt pretty amazing to walk along, quite literally in the footsteps of Augustus Caesar.
Secondly, Donnas was brilliant because the 21st century strung out village hid a mediaeval bourg virtually untouched by time. A pace back from the road ran a parallel road of mediaeval cobbles and the old town gates where they had collected tolls in the Middle Ages. Donnas was apparently something of a flourishing little tax haven, with trade up and down the Via Gallia flourishing for a thousand odd years. As a result, the single street hid a plethora of ancient houses, tunnelled passageways and even a leper hospital. No one else was there, so I had it all to my ownsome, able to imagine my bustling mediaeval merchants to my hearts content.
Lastly, but by no means leastly, the Agroturismo was fantastic. If you haven't tried them, I recommend you do. It was on the other side of the Autostrada and in another world entirely; one of maize fields and tabacchi and ancient farms. Not picturesque, but really Valdaostan, and after several days on the road, I decided to have a day off. What a great choice that turned out to be, because my host Monica and her family were truly wonderful. When she offered me a lift up the Valley Gressoney, famous for being the home of the mediaeval Walsers (migrant German speaking Swiss from the Valais who came in the 12th century (great yogurt, by the way)), I imagined that I would merely be dropped off and have to make my own way back. Instead, she dropped her two 'enfants terribles' Emil and Giovanni with her mother and spent half a day showing me around. We went to the local Fontainemore museum, where there were videos of the pilgrimage to the Sacred Monte of Oropa which included her mum and grandma, then she drove further up the valley to introduce me to her friend Etti, who was her son's English teacher and a guide at the local Ecomuseum. Between the two of them, I had a personal tour of the ancient life of the valley and the traditional Alpine way of life (it was hard). Then, finally, Monica took me half way up a mountain, to a little hut/bar at 1,400 m or so. She went off to see her mother for an hour and left me to the stupendous views of the mountains and the smell of woodsmoke as the evening sun began to sink. They, bang on time, she arrived just before the chill of nightfall and whisked me back to my lovely bedroom at the farm! So, by way of thanks, may I recommend to you the 'Lou Rose' in the Valle D'Aosta. Fabulously placed for all manner of walking, hiking, snow shoeing, skiing, langlauf, cycling and historical bimbling. Oh, and they make fantastic biscuits too. I did buy some to send back to you all, but ate them all. Sorry.
Then, minor hiccup no. 2
Now, to understand this, you need to know my technique for accommodation, employed successfully during my long lovely days in France. Basically, it invovles grabbling a list of BnBs and a map of the Tourist Offices and their opening hours. I then scoot off until my legs and my anxiety requires that I find somewhere to stay the night. That usually kicks in around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, when I am getting a bit fatigued. However, Piedmonte, which arrive suddenly with red tile roofs instead of stone 'lose', and flat and the flat wide and humid valley of the Po, did not facilitate this technique. After 20 km of cycling, I arrived at Ivrea, a smallish town with a big old red castle on the borders of Piedmont. After much searching and pigeon Italian (they have put the TO in the most inconvenient place ever), I was informed that the nearest TO was in Turin.
Turin was only 60 k away, but on a direct route nationale through the boring valley; I wanted to see Canavese, the old hunting reserves of the Savoy Kings. Still, they gave me two huges books of accommodation, which since my Italian is woeful, did not seem to do much more than add weight. Nevertheless, ever the optimist, but with temperatures now soaring above 30, I set off Into the West.
Now, I had been expecting, after days in the mountains, a few more days of jolly downhills. To be quite frank, I still feel like I am owed them after the hell that was the Col of St. Bernard. But the Canavese turned out to be anything but low rise; it was picturesque all right, but it was picturesque hilltop village at 470m kind of stuff. The hunting reserves straddled the outlying spurs of the mountains, sticking out like the limb of a croissant into the plains. I felt bitterly betrayed by Italy and the Gods as I hauled myself upwards - again - for making me work so hard.
Yet, yet...What should I discover but that this strange outlier is actually one of the most important morainic masses in the world? Now, this might not sound that exciting to you, but remember, I did my Ph.D in all this glacial. So I got to bimble about, albeit rather painfully, in the forested calm of the Balteo glacial moraine complex! Not only that, joy upon joy, but I got to explore a series of rather crumbly old red pan-tile little villages too. Several of which, may I add, turned out to have some enormous ducal residences, known laughably as the "hunting boxes" of the Dukes of Savoy. UNESCO listed, no less. Eventually, buoyed by the day, I even plucked up courage to ring an Italian woman, and lo, ended up, with a little bit of pigeon Italian on my side and more pigeon French on hers, in a very nice Fruit n Veg. AgroT outside Cilie. The only downside was that they were vegetarian, but the upside was pretty up, since we had a hell of a laugh over dinner, trying to understand what one another was talking about. (Oddly, since then, my Italian comprehension has improved markedly, so that in weird Babel Fish type way, I can gather an understand without understanding a word of what's being said.)
Now, minor hiccup No. 3. Saving the best till last.
Having left L'Isola Che Non C'e, I arrived at the Royal Palace of Veneria Reali - another one of those Savoyard palazzos that seem to litter this place. I had imagined the village, given the palace is bigger than Blenheim, would be smithered with bed and breakfasts and places to stay. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a strangely inhospitable corner of an otherwise pleasantly hospital region. The woman in the TO was not only useless but rude, and the maps even more so, since they did not name the roads nor show where the bed and breakfasts and hotels were. Eventually, after aimless wandering, I ran into a jolly postman, who had to ask the Caribinieri where the places were. But it turned out all were full, which was not entirely unexpected, and that the only reasonably priced hotel (a real grot hole by the station) was closed,....for the holidays. (!!) Since I object to paying 150 E for a room unless I am actually staying in the Royal Palace, I was now hating Italy and its chaos and longing for the easy efficiency of France. I was so fed up I even called my brothers, though thankfully they were both out, so they did not have to listen to me moan about wasting 2 hrs mooning about to no avail. Instead, after sitting on a wall for a bit, I decided to bite the bullet and do what I had been putting off: braving the cycle into the million strong suburbs of Turin. I was already boiling hot (since it was now about 2 in the afternoon) and imagining all sorts of ugly Fiat factories and near death experiences a la Lausanne (didn't tell you about that did I ! Ugh....lorries....!).
Once again, my friends, the Gods knew better than I what was good for me, because not only was the ride into Turin amazingly easy - it was almost pleasant, if unedifying in the aesthetic sense - but Turin turns out to be the most utterly gorgeous city at its heart. I think it might turn out to be my italian Troyes. And I'm not just saying that because Alfredo comes from here (hello there!), but because it is a kind of Italian Vienna at the foot of the Alps. It isn't mediaeval cobbles and great gothic cathedrals, but it is just littered with the ducal residences and baroque palaces and elegant squares and boulevards of the former Kings of Italy. It has a relaxed, refined air of slightly reserved graciousness, mixed with the passiagata (apolgoies for spelling) you'd expect of Italy. It also has great ice cream. I have spent three days lounging between old fashioned coffee houses and gasping at the beauty of the Piazza San Carlo at night. And since I have had Alfredo as my text message tour guide, I have also tapped into the Torinese's Torino, and consequently know the best places for coffee, ice cream and the like. My first night I hung out with the stars, at Brek, where they filmed the Bourne Supremacy, pretending to be an incognito star. But I really hung out with the cool crowd last night, when good old Alfredo hot footed it from his holidays in the Canavese (quelle coincidence!) to give me a whistle stop tour of the Torinese hills. Honestly, I cannot recommend this place more highly for a weekend city break even if you lack a personal guide: loads to see, endless ice cream (and they are also famous for making chocolate!) and the Alps a mere stone's throw away to the north. I even got to see their pale shadows, sadly a little faded by evening and heat haze, but in winter, the view is apparently the best in the world (okay, I think Alfredo might be a little biased, but I can see it would be pretty special even without the eye of faith). So, there we have it. Once more I have come to the conclusion that the Gods know better than we do what to do. As I discovered in France, the best thing about these cycle trips is that you learn to ride the road and not the map.
Off to some great monastery now, on the advise of the locals ;o) and then will head south to Pinerolo, Saluzzo and the hills and vineyards of Montferrato. Cannot wait. Well, can wait for the hills actually, but heigh ho, it must be done.
Ciao
Vx
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