August 27, 2006
Bormio - Berbenno di Valtellina
The run of fine morning weather continued. We ate breakfast, paid the bill and retrieved the bikes from their subterranean lodging. As we were loading them, another pair of cyclo-tourists stopped outside the hotel. One of them got off his bike and approached me. He asked in English, if I knew of a bike shop in town. I said I would ask inside. The girl on the desk told me there was, but it was closed on Sundays. The two cyclists were Hungarian. They were camping, their bikes were heavily loaded. One of them had two broken spokes on his rear wheel. It looked like they'd be staying another night. We shook hands, and wished each other buon viaggio. They had said they were keen to tackle Il Passo di Gavia, we on the other hand were destined for the low road, through La Valtellina and so set off towards Sondrio. La Valtellina is the name given to the valley of the river Adda, which we would follow to where it empties into Lake Como.
On the way out of Bormio is the entrance to a new tunnel. Like the one outside of Thusis [see above] this is prohibited to cyclists. We were a little late in sorting out our route and had to swing round and back to pick up the old road. In fact the first 10km of the new road is underground, in either tunnel or gallery, built, I presume, to provide year-round access to Bormio, a ski resort in winter. Our route, passed through the villages of Piazza, Cepina and Tola before climbing up the valley side, to a point where there was access to the new road at a junction in a gallery. We remained on the outside of the mountain and after another climb passed through a tunnel of our own, not too long and totally free of traffic. We dropped down to the village of Le Prese, which on this Sunday morning seemed bleak and remote. We continued down the valley to Sondalo, where we detoured into town to buy bread. The only place open, selling food was what the French call un traiteur. I queued behind people buying ready-made Sunday lunches.
Back on the valley road, the landscape opened out and after an exhilarating descent to Grosio and Grosotto we found ourselves riding through extensive apple orchards. Garden of Eden style temptation, though without the assistance of Eve, [Barbara, who later tut-tutted] proved overwhelming and two big red apples found their way into my handlebar bag. We stopped to eat in a bus shelter near Servio. Two elderly touring motorcyclists stopped in the car park of the nearby restaurant to munch on two big red apples.
In Tirano we had coffee on the main square. We continued to follow the main valley road which by now had merged with our road and was carrying both local and through traffic. It was too busy for comfort. We took, awkward to follow, side roads, through Villa di Tirano and Bianzone, before we were once again deposited into the traffic. At Tresenda we stopped to debate our next move; the main road, flat, fast and very busy, or the side road which may or may not be hilly? From looking at the map the back road did not appear to demand too much of a fight with gravity, though ominously it was named Via Panoramica. We chose the quiet route, or put another way the 5km+ climb.
I stopped to wait for Barbara at the first village up the hill, whose name I never discovered. It had been a long climb and I had a long wait. It rained for a while. Barbara, on arrival, was less than pleased, victim of the psychological trap of imagining her climbing days to be over. Convinced now, that we had reached the summit of our diversion, we got back on the bikes and continued uphill for another 2km. Once over the crest, we were heading downhill at speed. This Via Panoramica's not so bad after all. Above Ponte in Valtellina, we took time to admire the view. A man in his sixties, evidently trying to walk off a long Sunday lunch and accompanied by a younger woman, [wife, mistress or daughter we never found out] stopped to pass the time of day. As well as recommending a hotel further down the road and letting us know he was from Milan, he told us that at one time, Ponte in Valtellina boasted thirty two churches.
'It must have been a very holy town,' I suggested.
The woman giggled. 'No, no,' he said 'Each family had its own church.'
'Just wealthy then,' I thought.
From there, still descending, we passed through Tresivio and the wonderfully named Poggiridenti into the Sunday quiet of downtown Sondrio. We followed signs for the road out, the A38 and arrived at a roundabout, only to discover that bikes were prohibited. Almost instantaneously a small 4WD pulled up behind us. A woman got out and made us understand that there was an alternative route. She then indicated that we should follow their car. They took us to a cycle path by the river. She and her husband, the driver, got out of the car and gave us further instructions for what to do ahead. We were to leave the path after a km or so, cross the river by a road bridge, then follow a path on the other side. We followed their instructions but found our exit to the bridge blocked by a barrier gate. We were about to continue as we were, when our guardian angels re-appeared. I lifted the loaded bikes over the gate, we crossed the bridge and we were given further instructions. They, themselves had done cycle touring in the past, a trip to Munich was mentioned. 'This path goes all the way to Morbegno,' said the woman. 'Oh no, it doesn't,' I would say to myself later.
Still, we were glad to benefit from the kindness of strangers. The cycle path was free from traffic of course, but we had to pick our way through other, mostly slower cyclists, dog walkers and families out for a Sunday stroll by the river. At a tributary of the Adda, the path turned south to cross this side stream by road. From the crossing we turned back towards the Adda. It was from this point that the cycle path's direction became less clear, its surface less cycle-friendly. We had passed a couple of horse riders. We passed them again. 'They know something we don't,' I thought. I followed a track by the river bank, then had to turn back when the surface turned to vegetation. We took a turn to the left, diagonally through fields and eventually came upon the road to Berbenno, where we were planning to spend the night. We passed the horses again. I was beginning to wonder if they were real horses or some kind of spectral apparition, unconstrained by geography.
At the junction of the main valley road, I asked a woman for directions to a hotel. Did we want to eat as well. Yes we did. She told us to follow the main road back towards Sondrio. For part of this stretch we were able to avoid the still urgent traffic by using the frontage road of an industrial estate. This looked a very unpromising location for a night's rest. After a kilometre or so, we reached the Hotel Salyut, a modern concrete building. At the front of the hotel was a stylish bar and the windows of the large restaurant. Deep into the dark interior, was the reception desk. An old man came to answer my enquiries. 'Do you have a room for tonight?' [of which, more later] 'Yes.' I checked in, asked where to park the bikes and in order to do so, took two trips round the back of the hotel, through the empty underground car park, and back into the hotel by means of a corridor, where I was to leave them.
The room was dark and gloomy and obviously unaltered since the hotel was built, I would guess in the seventies. It was clean, though and everything worked.
I showered, then went downstairs for a beer. I sat outside on the terrace, watching with some amazement, the constant flow of traffic. It must be people returning to the northern cities at the end of their holidays, I concluded.
Barbara came downstairs and we went to eat in the big restaurant. The biggest dining room I'd been, in since staying at a Stalinist hotel in East Germany in 1991. We and four young Italians with tattoos were the only customers. The waitress was both friendly and helpful and among other things, we tried the aforementioned Pizzocheri [buckwheat noodles with potatoes in a cheese sauce]. I asked for PizzoCHERi. My pronunciation was corrected to PiZZOcheri. Italian is full of tricks of stress like that. The city of BERgamo is not BerGAmo. For Italian food, pizzocheri seems a little on the heavy side, but the winter up there is pretty cold. I was recently reminded of pizzocheri, while in a café in Hither Green, South-east London. A cardboard notice pinned to a wall offered chicken kofte with rice, humous, salad, pitta bread and chips for £4.50. That should hit the spot.
After dinner we sat outside again and I drank more beer. The traffic was still full on. It seemed that we and the young Italians were the only guests. I wondered how the hotel survived. My first impression of the Salyut was that it was the kind of place where a long-distance truck driver might bring a casual female acquaintance. None of the fast-moving drivers outside were inclined to stop. A brochure that Barbara picked up claimed conference facilities. I suppose a conference would fill the restaurant.
Today's ride: 100 km (62 miles)
Total: 503 km (312 miles)
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