Via Roma Continued: Genova to Florence.

April 6, 2015

Friday

Susana, the girl on reception points out on my map of Italy places in Tuscany worth visiting; saying, don't go to Pisa. There is only that a stupid tower that leans. Lucca is nice and you a must visit Arezzo. Good humouredly I interrupt, but I want to visit Pisa to have my photo taken with the tower.

Another thing to report this departure morning is, I couldn't find my right cycling mitt. I turned out my pannier where I kept them, thinking it may have slid down, but the mitt wasn't there, nor anywhere. Now this is real annoying. Cycling mitts, the padded fingerless gloves that cushion the hands against road-shock and protect the palm of the hand a little in the even of a fall are like socks in the laundry basket: one of a pair of your best socks go missing and you're stuck with a nice odd sock. Cycling mitts are more important and you get what you pay for. Mine, twenty-seven euros. They do come cheaper, but again, they are important. If it were Summer, losing a cycling mitt would be a disaster, as the back of the hand would in no time be horribly sunburned. As it is I feel naked with the right-hand bare riding out of Genova.

I continue where I left off. On Via Roma coming up out of the underpass by the quay-waterfront. The road isn't called Via Roma: it has the name of the Roman empera that had the road built to access what is today Southern France and on to the Iberia peninsular. Matheas the guy running the hostel told me his name, but I don't remember. The road surface coming out this side of Genova, is a lot better than entering the city from the west. But riding out of a city I've always got a bus in the way. I overtake it stopped at a bus-stop; then it catches me, passes and swings in in front of me, stopping at the next stop. Such is the ride this morning.

Once out of Genova, the road rises and descends along the hilly coast through narrow streets of one town after the next. And the weather which has been nice, with cloudless blue sky again this morning, is on the change. Dirty grey cloud now shroud the hilltops and when cloud block out the sun, it's cold. My mitt-less right-hand is cold.

And today is Good Friday. There is a holiday look about everywhere, meaning shut. But Susana assured me today isn't a holiday in Italy. In all the built up streets I pass through, I don't see any supermarket. There's lots of cars looking like they're off for the holidays. And a jam behind a van making a delivery.

By noon I'm hungry and fed-up riding, not knowing will I come upon a shop open today when, I arrive in Rappello. I push the bike away from the main through-route along a crowded pedestrianize street. There are lots of cafes and places to eat to the side; so much so, it's difficult choosing which will be best. However I settle on a typical Italian bakery. There's a bit of a queue. A good sign and when I come back out, there's a bench where I sit and eat. The chunks of mozzarella cheese on the pizza slice are incredible, as is just about everything I've eaten so far in Italy. Afterwards I find a café and sit over a cappuccino for an hour with map and notebook on the table.

Later in the afternoon I do find a supermarket open, following signs well off the main through-route in a large town. Then by six when there wouldn't be much time left until I'd have to look for a place to camp, I'm leaving Sestri Levante where the road goes inland, but there's a coast road continuing south to Chinqua Terras, which Susana and others have told me is a most see. Five antiquated villages on the coast, but there is only a path which I've been told isn't rideable, so I have my doubts. A cyclist I rode along with in the morning told me it is possible to take a train. I told him if that's the case, I'll rather give it a miss. He also mentioned tunnels on the road there.

Not far along said small coast road I come to a long queue of cars and campervans waiting at a red traffic-light. We are waiting for quite a while with the occasional oncoming vehicle coming the other way, when the light goes green and riding forward with the line of cars, I soon find a narrow tunnel ahead. At just over two hundred metres, it is short, it is lit, I've my tail-light and flashing-light on, and riding hard, I'm soon back out in the open again; but, there is yet another ahead. This time the sign has a length of 463m. I ride in through the hillside archway once again, underground with loud humming din of cars coming up from behind and passing and ride hard toward the daylight archway at the end (these are the tunnels the cyclist alluded to). Emerging back out, there's only a short causeway to yet another tunnel mouth. A car in the passing line of cars sounds it's horn disapprovingly and the person in the passenger side, empathises the point by wagging their finger. Then I see why, as the sign at the entrance is 1385m: a longish tunnel and also, there's a no-cycling sign.

There's a path to the outside among boulder moraine that tumbled to the sea, but it stops abruptly and there is no place level or large enough, free of stones to place a tent; and even if there was, there would be the danger of a loose stone ravelling down the slope upon the tent. I investigate more. If there was a safe place for the tent, it would be idyllic with waves lapping in on the rocks below. Up from the short path to the side of the tunnel mouth are steps which lead up to a small one room house. The house looks to be empty a long time. There's no glass in the small window through which I peer. On the floor inside is an old iron bedstead with damp mattress with mouse droppings thereon. The garden is level, extending out over the tunnel mouth, has wild flowering shrubs and is a jumbled mess; old tiles, broken chairs and, there's an old Botteglia bicycle laid on it's side, rusting. The old man that last lived here's bike. He mustn't had much money, as he rapped rope around the rim of the rear-wheel and held it in place round the combined rim and rope circumference with wire ties, as a substitute for a rear tyre.

I start portaging the panniers up. I have the front pair up and am just looking at the ground for the best spot to place the tent, when, out of nowhere a man appears strolling towards me. My first instinct is to make friends and so I smile but he isn't smiling, he appears quite sinister; something odd, even dangerous in his eyes; it feels like suddenly coming upon a snake on a path. He wears an expensive black business suit, though thin and bony, olive completion and rap-round sunglasses across the top of his bobbed straight jet-black hair. If they were making a movie about the Cosa Nostra, this man would fit a stereotypical leading roll. There is a language barrier: he says something: he doesn't seem concerned I'm here. Then he sneers and continues walking and is gone.

With my heart in my mouth, I return with the panniers to the bike. I am not staying here. The tunnel lights are green so I race back through. I ride back to the main route and turn right. The road climbs for a kilometre or so, then continues across steep hillside without any houses anywhere, but it is difficult finding a level place to camp. The rare place that is level, I stop to investigate, but find they are overgrown with briars: a thorny disaster for a tent. I keep on going with lights on the bike. it being well after dark when I eventually come to a suitable camp spot in among shrubbery up on a cutting above the road.

And the coast from left to right which I cycled along, now well clouded over.

Saturday

I am comfortable where I chose to camp and sleep well, not hearing a sound until morning, when I hear rain lightly drumming the tent fly-sheet. The thought of staying put here for the day crosses my mind, but I don't have enough food. Anyway it is only a few spots of rain and soon ceases altogether.

Looking at the watch when I eventually move, it is half eight and I'm on the road at ten, climbing a long hill with dirty grey cloud looming low and distant brattles of thunder. I feel I don't want to be climbing as rain looks imminent. Foggy whiffs of cloud float lower down the dark pine slope to the side.

Reaching the "Passo Di something" the rain is holding off. There's a bit of a break in the cloud revealing a patch of blue sky. I open the front left pannier to put on my winter-gloves because, my un-mitted right-hand is cold and will get colder on the way down. There the lost mitt is, sticking out of an interior pocket. I am elated that I now have a pair of mitts again.

On the level the fresh air is fragrant pine and yellow blossom shrub. The road then winds sharply down into a valley and the cloud closes in again, becoming very murky. The thunder is ever nearer and there come on spots of rain, so I stop and put on my raincoat as, the spots intensifying to persistent rain. The legs of my shorts in no time become saturated, cold and heavy against my legs.

Ahead I ride into a small place and pull into shelter under the veranda front of a bakery. Being around noon, I buy a couple of slices of pizza and sit on the bench outside eating. Customers pull up in cars and make a dash for the bakery as it rains harder. Lightening illuminates the sky, followed by crack and roll of thunder. A touring motorcycle with silver box panniers staggers along to the bakery front to a halt and the rider looking sodden, appears to be in two minds whether to wait out the rain here, before gunning the bike gently and moving off again down the road.

While sitting looking out on the rain I think if there is a hotel I'll check in no matter the tariff. Then rather than sit any longer getting cold I decide to grit my teeth and ride on in the rain, at least twenty kilometres to the next town. However when I come out of the veranda to the roadside, I do see a hotel a hundred metres ahead. There is a bar downstairs, so perhaps I'll sit in having coffee for a while to see what the weather does.

I order a cappuccino, take a seat and spread my map out on the table. When the man come with coffee, it is a large cup with plenty of chocolate in the froth on top.

As I write I am still looking out in hope. The rain doesn't seem too bad now, as it seems to be brightening up, until I focus the eyes and see the shafts of raindrops coming down. It is now twenty to two, so I'll give it another half hour.

A man with a pistol come in, but it is safe in a holster. The man a carabiniere, silvered haired and I can't picture that he has ever used it in anger. He orders a drink and chats jovially with three other men at the bar. There isn't any interest shown for the football on the TV: Roma play Napoli, one nil in the seventy-third minute.

It is now five past two and the rain has eased. I set off again.

Sunday

Well I should have listened to Susana's good advice and headed for Lucca yesterday afternoon; instead, from the large town of La Spezia, the Pisa 73km sign looked too enticing, so here I'm in Pisa by noon and the only thing is that stupid tower; though, being lunchtime, the town is a nice enough place for a few hours.

I cross over the Arno and into a long pedestrian street, Via Italia, enter an Italian fast food place and order a kebab. A man behind the counter, it is his job to take flatbread continually out of an earthen oven using a long shafted tool; one of which, is sliced and salad and ingredient placed inside for my kebab.

Once I've eaten I cycle slowly along Via Italia, through hoards of visitors, to a large oval piazza with some kind of flee-market. It was an overcast cool morning riding here, but now with all the hanging around it's feeling freezing cold, but first I'll have a coffee before going further.

I sit with my raincoat on huddled at a pavement table over coffee, writing my notes.

When I get going, shivering on the bike as I ride back along Via Italia, cross the Arno river, a white coffee hue with houses in pastel shade along it's bank. I turn right off the bridge, following the river inland on an avenue lined with slender tall umbrella conifers, out to a highway east toward Firenze against a chill north east wind, like ice cutting into the chest. It is colder than that afternoon I arrived in Cherbourg back at the end of February. Colder than those first few days starting off in Ireland.

The Arno river valley is one town ends where another begins for a long way after leaving Pisa and toward late afternoon I'm anxious, will there be any place I can camp. Also I need water and being Sunday, all petrol stations are shut. It is rare to find an outside water tap, but I find a water tap at one, but the water has wisely been turned off. Then on the forecourt of another, there's a tap, which luckily has water.

The cloud breaks up but there's still that chilly cutting north easterly. A sharp early spring afternoon, but toward six it's mainly countryside and the valley is now narrow and I can see woodland on the hills to the left. At a turnoff on the left, I see the side-road from it climb into the woodland, so take it. It is a bit of a steep climb, but once cresting the hill there's a track off into the woodland to the side. I ride a good way in until finding a perfect camp spot on leaf-mulch well away from civilisation.

Monday

Bright sunny morning with such varied and marvellous birdsong; an ensemble of squawk, chirp and cheep all with rhythm and metronomic time. Meet a group of mountain bikers on the ride back down the track to the road and am greeted by half a dozen shouts of "Chao!" as we pass. The track is muddy and slippery, but rideable, being gradual downhill. On the level approaching the exit onto the road, there is a track-width puddle which I ford with care when, there's a sudden spoke twanging crunch and break sound from back-wheel. Looking down, expecting damage, but nothing looks broken: it sounded like a twig jamming in the spokes and breaking; however, the wheel is still running perfectly true. But for whatever reason I stop after rolling a few bike lengths more, get off and have a better look. I see the rear part of the mudguard broken off and together with support-stays is missing: a straightforward, twig stuck to mud-clogged tyre, going up under mudguard, jam and snap. I lean the bike on the deep verge-side and run back and find the broken off mudguard.

In sunshine it is a lot nicer on the road this morning as the river Arno valley narrows to gentle green hills with snowy mountain range and peaks yonder to the left.

Easter Monday means it is like Sunday; large groups of cyclists, wearing identical colourful club jerseys sweep along two-abreast on the other side in tempo to loud Italian chatter and with tailwind, while I struggle with that same icy north easterly of yesterday. All petrol station are still shut and most other businesses look to be shut, though passing through Basso, there's a café open; timely, as it is eleven. I have a salami and rocket in olive bread sandwich and a croxisant to my cappuccino. I don't much like sweet sugary things these days. I rarely eat chocolate, perhaps once in a while as a treat; not as much as I use to when younger. I prefer cake and pastries, though in limited amounts; too much is sickening. In Lidl on Saturday I picked up a seventeen cents bottle of fizzy lemonade instead of water by mistake. It tasted gross. Though Sunday afternoon when I was thirsty and low on sugars, it tasted okay; so much so, I drunk a full water bottle full in one go.

There is a stupid long hill, about twelve per cent gradient and three kilometres length, though the climbing is warming and the verge a carpet of yellow dandy-lions in full spring bloom. Finally cresting the hill the city of Florence is revealed beyond the olive grove slope downward, filling the valley below.

Arriving in the city centre shortly after two, it is impossible to move with a loaded bike because of the crowds filling the streets. On one of less crowded spots, a bridge, see other cycle-tourers: a couple with silver Ridgebacks in Renyolds 725 tubing, 700c wheels and drop handle-bars and with Carridice panniers. Nice, though they admire my Dawes and would've bought Dawes for themselves, but their budget limited them to slightly cheaper bikes. She has a Scottish ascent and he Yorkshire, though he corrects me, saying he's from Stock-on-Trent, but living in Manchester. Near enough. They relate paying twenty-five euros each for campsite on Saturday and only available pitch is poorly drained hollow, so wow to wild camp more. Before splitting I lend him oil to put in his lock, as the rain got into the mechanism and it is stiff.

Have a ride around in streets on the circumference of hoards. Know there's little change of finding accommodation, so will ride on out off town, but first will get something to eat. I don't know what I was thinking at the time, in the main piazza, see café and menu posted: pizza mozzarella, eight euros, not overly expensive, but when I get a seat and look at the card, the drinks: a litre bottle of water, four euros: medium beer-seven euros. Well I was hungry. The pizza nothing special; in fact the bread was tough and the topping was tomato paste; the cheese tasteless. Together with a beer which was good and refreshing in the sunny piazza, and water which I needed, the bill come to nineteen euros.

Riding back over the bridge where I saw the other cyclists, I continue on a narrow street to the south, intend on riding out of town and find a place to camp in woodland, but on a street corner, see a sign "Ostello"

The hostel is nineteen plus one euro tourist tax for the cheapest dorm of twenty-six old metal bunk-beds in a row. I am assigned a top bunk which I don't much like and down on the floor there is little room to manuver between the next bunk. The bathroom such a walk through a long corridor with steeps up; then down and up again. The kitchen is basis; no work tops, just ceramic tiled bench with electric hob. In a word: a dump. Florence isn't cheap. The wifi glacial, as I wait for the spinning icon to load, hoping to get journal up to the present by Wednesday.

Today's ride: 292 km (181 miles)
Total: 2,250 km (1,397 miles)

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