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A week in the Aosta Valley, e un po più.

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Born of the despondency induced by the wet, muddy and lonely traipse through Belgium, I looked for a way I might spend a bit more time in one place rather than just riding through – so as to met and get to know some people a bit more than previously on my travels. Somewhere in the Saarland of Germany I read a blog post about volunteering work on farms on a short to medium term basis in exchange for meals and board. My interest was piqued – I investigated further and signed up for the Italian list and contact details. A week on, a farm upon entering Italy seemed a good idea as it would be a useful resumption of my meagre efforts to learn the language.

By the time I left Strasbourg I’d found a farm in a suitable area of Italy (it made sense for it to be in the north-west so that I could ride there). This planning and the setting of a tentative arrival date, and improving weather, I think helped give extra purpose to my riding – it’s nice to have little goals to work towards sometimes instead of just wandering and aimlessly exploring. It was a much happier week – but then the mountains were bigger and I got covered in less rain and mud; but even when it was muddy and wet, it seemed less overwhelming.

So that is how I came to spend a week on a small family-run organic vineyard on the slopes of the beautiful Aosta Valley. A brief introduction: Gualtiero, Liana, Bea and Edo have about three hectares of a variety of grapes and a small winery. Most of the grapes are particular to the local area and the vineyard was started by Gualtiero’s father, I think, about seventy years ago. As well as grapes, there’s a substantial garden growing (and kiwifruit vines – home!) and Liana is a fantastic cook – we seem to eat predominantly from their garden and other local produce. Bea studied viticulture in Pisa and has recently returned home – she was the contact for organising my stay and I think as well as having volunteers to stay and help with the large amount of work to be done, volunteers come so that Bea has new people to meet as she’s very sociable and keen to practice her English speaking.

It’s been a tremendous week, far exceeding my expectations – the work on the vines is pleasant in the sun and heat is not too onerous; there’s has been plenty of little trips here and there in the valley outside of work to see new things; the food and wine has been unbelievably good (I’ve eaten so much fontina cheese, drunken great wine and probably a bit too much grappa); I’ve had the chance to speak a lot of Italian (I think my speech is improving, but my vocabulary isn’t really and with a small vocabulary I really struggle to understand Italian spoken at a normal pace – still it’s a lot of fun); the people (the family and other volunteers alike) are friendly and funny, keen to learn English or Italian as appropriate; and I’m loving being back in proper mountains (if the work get a little boring, one only has to sneak a peak at the scenery for respite).

There’s just one small problem – I don’t know how I can leave, yet I know I have to. On one hand, the desire to ride a bike and explore this country for the next two months still beats strongly; on the other, it’s so damn good here and I’d almost be a fool to leave. I was planning to leave today after nine days, but I just can’t do that yet.

Every meal is taken sat around the table (I’ve not seen the TV on all week) and with a swell in numbers of volunteers over the weekend we’re now up to ten people in total – Sundays so far seem to be particularly festive (helped by yesterday being Liana’s birthday) and the wine, grappa and scotch was almost as abundant as the food last night. So after last night and the upcoming harvest day on Wednesday (we’ve been harvesting most of the time so far, but this Wednesday a large amount of friends and family will arrive for the day to help bring in the Pinot Grigio), I’ve not even made a move towards my bike today. Yet, I’m really looking forward to going home to NZ in December for, at least, five months – so I have to leave sometime and the longer I leave it, I think the harder it will be…

Enough soul-searching: a few pictures and details of what I’ve been doing for the past week. Unfortunately, I don’t tend to carry a camera when I’m working – so there are not many photos of grapes and vines, but I’m just going to assume you know what they look like. Work for the most part has mostly been starting the harvest of the earlier ripening varieties of grapes, and to some extent thinning leaves around the grapes to let the sun in and a bit of bird, bee & wasp protection. It’s pretty easy work, but enjoyable in the sun and heat passing the time chatting or in companionable silence with good people. Every so often something reminds me strongly of my younger years when we had a berry and kiwifruit orchard – the little orchard tractor (this one’s a Ferrari, I prefer the Massey Ferguson 35), riding on the back of the venerable Hilux (must be almost as old as me & more suited to Barry Crump scaring Scotty to bits or being almost-destroyed by the Top Gear crew) avoiding overhanging branches and generally working with vines. Ah, nostalgia.

Fenis Castle – out for a drink after work.

The fruits of the labour – well, last year’s.

Bea was heading up into the mountains for the night to play the violin with some musical friends – she took Amy & I along as apparently it’s beautiful up there. It was. We wound our way up a side valley to about 1600 m and as the day ended the big wide sky opened up above us. As I understand it, the premier amateur observatory for Italy is at Saint Barthelemy due to the lack of light pollution. While Bea played, Amy & I wandered – the moon was a bit bright for star gazing but it was a beautiful evening all the same. We stayed the night in the grandparents’ former home, got up early, collected yet more produce from the garden and descended back to breakfast and work. I resolved to ride my bike back up the big hill to visit again when I got the chance.

One lunchtime when it was a little cooler I forsook a siesta and went for a little ride climbing a fair bit as I followed the valley-side east.

Right across the road from the house, a neighbour started to dig to build a new house a while ago. He found Roman ruins, so his house now has to go somewhere else as the site is now an archaeological dig, with some bits apparently pre-dating the Romans by a couple of thousand years too.

It’s a struggle to leave such waking and working views behind.

We actually had a little rain Friday afternoon, so the grapes weren’t able to be harvested until they’d dried out Saturday afternoon. I seized my chance and biked back up the hill to Saint Barthelemy – considerably easier than Great St Bernard due to lack of luggage, even though it seemed steeper in parts. Once I reached the village I stopped for slice of cake at the bar of Bea’s friend. The nominal goal of the day was to reach 2000 m – this seemed easily achievable as I was consistently climbing 100 m each ten minutes. However, behind the village at around 1950 m the sealed road ended and the double-track led me into a gorgeous valley where the climbing stopped. I met a father and son (thirteen years and only studying five languages) who were riding up the valley. With the promise of being able to buy fresh cheese from a dairy, I tagged along happy to be chatting a bit in English and a bit in Italian.

The promised cheese didn’t eventuate, but I hardly need any more and the stupendous views were more than enough consolation. I had to go a little past the last farm and the new refugio to get my two thousand metres. I returned for lunch at the same bar – due to some misunderstanding, my soup was pretty much a bowl of fontina cheese interspersed slightly with bread, cabbage and onion. Wonderful cheese overload & a local dish too – but not as filling as promised. I dashed back down the hill about five times faster than I climbed it – there is something quite fun about pinning a mountain-bike into hairpin corners at 60 km/h and passing cars down mountain roads. Perhaps when I’m to old to be shaken to bits and cleaning mud off me and my bike, road-biking may be an alternative.

Oh, after a lifetime of not being able to understand why people eat figs – the ones around here are amazing and I now eat figs. And the first crop of liquorice was taken from the garden today – promptly weighed out and put in a few bottles of previously un-infused grappa. Chewing on the liquorice sticks from the bottle we finished last night was about as close to alcohol as I came today. Apart from the sampling in the winery – which is full of bright shiny stainless steel vessels, bliss. The vessels are getting a thorough hot-water pressure clean at the moment to prepare for the start of winemaking in earnest on Wednesday. They’re process vessels – naturally I’m interested in seeing that, unfortunately.

That’s about it of note really – just my inability to say goodbye and leave remains. I’ve got to stop making good friends in such different places around the world; I think my chances of continuing being able to visit them are unsustainable.

bikepacking, bikes, Europe, family, GPS, travel

Great St Bernard Pass

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I crossed the Alps on my bike – via the Great St Bernard Pass. While hardly the Andes by frog, as far as my modest cycling achievements go – in an absolute sense (of metres climbed and time spent climbing) it’s one of the biggest and also most memorable. It was made all the more special by finding out only the day before that my grandfather used the same route, albeit it in the opposite direction, some sixty-five years before me on his European cycle travels. While I had hoped to cross the Alps by bike on this trip – it was further east on an off-road route taking several days that initially had my interest. But as I no longer wanted to wait so long to head into Italy, this route looked the best option.

While I’ve had the odd big day of climbing on the bike, I’ve never attempted two thousand metres with no downhill respite before. As such, I had no idea how I’d go – with or without a laden bike. My small amount of research beforehand, while checking exactly where to go, told me that the gradient wasn’t too steep, only kicking up a bit at the end after the main road enters the tunnel and the original road continues to the pass. I wasn’t overly concerned, but prudence had me up early just in case it turned into a really long hard day. Another reason for staying in a hotel the night before, besides getting a decent sleep, was the free breakfast – well fuelled up, I headed out into the nicely overcast morning.

It was cool seeing the road signs giving such options as the pass, Chamonix or Verbier. Another time, in different circumstances I could have been in either of those last two mountain-biking or even skiing. But there was only one objective for the day. The climbing started straight away, but it was easy to stick to my plan of just spinning away, and not wearing my legs out early by using a gear slightly harder that would have me really pushing on the pedals. It just happened that it was the weekend, so there were few trucks/lorries on the road – all the cars, motorbikes and coaches gave plenty of room too as there was rarely a cycle lane.

Eating breakfast I had seen a couple of mountain-bikers ride through town, I caught these two up sometime later. The pair were from Germany and heading to Nice with all their luggage carried on their backs. It was nice to chat about our respective trips and good ways for carrying luggage on a MTB. We parted ways as they headed towards Verbier to ride a different route with more off-road over – I was tempted to join them, but the mention of significant hike-a-bike and staying in a hut many kilometres short of my intended destination put me off; plus emulating Grandad’s ride was also a priority. With so many hours to while away going up one hill, there was plenty of time to think of grandparents and all the stories and things I could have learnt from them if I’d have spent more time. But I suppose that is the way – you don’t realise such things when you are younger.

Still pleasantly mild, the cloud hadn’t lifted much so my view was limited to my immediate surroundings. I didn’t bother to take a photo until stopped at some roadworks. Down to single-lane traffic and long traffic light phases, this gave the nice affect of spacing the traffic passing me out thereafter into something like y = (sin x) + 1 (I had a lot of time to think).

I carried on my merry way as the cloud started to dissipate, concentrating on tucking my elbows in a bit thus relaxing my shoulders and therefore the lower neck that always seems to get so tight. As it threatened to get rather warm (most of the way it had only been 15 oC) I was sent into a few kilometres of galleria – those tunnels open on one side. While cool in there, it did amplify the noise and made that aspect less pleasant – especially with large coaches or packs of motorbikes passing. The main road left for the tunnel and those not simply transiting through the Alps were left on the road to the summit.

The Ogre resting in the sun, briefly escaping the galleria.

The road kicked up a bit, some sections apparently up around ten percent gradient – but I happily span away with gears to spare. Every so often at significant milestones (2000 m for example) I promised myself some water or a snack – I was surprised later to realise that I did all of this on a Snickers bar, a few handfuls of nuts and about a litre of water; a good breakfast sure does help.

Napoleon had crossed the pass in 1800, so there were occasionally signs and large pictures of attesting to the event. I was pleased not to be bringing forty thousand troops with me. Since the galleria, a pair of Germans on road-bikes also on tour (smaller backpacks than the mountain-bikers) had been around. I was slightly slower than one, but happy to be slightly faster than the other. Only now, with a couple of hundred of metres left to climb did I relent and use my easiest gear – even so, I rarely had to stand up and push the pedals; only sometimes standing briefly to have a little relief from the saddle.

There wasn’t a lot to see at the top – but at least there was a sign to pose with. While not the hardest climb or ride I’ve ever done on a bike – being back in such big mountains (it’s been too long) and getting such an ascent completed was vastly satisfying. I hope Grandad can understand that I’ve done so – although I strongly suspect that he had it a lot tougher riding up from the Italian side in the forties. I’ve no idea how much he was carrying on his European tour, but for all I know his bike back then could have come close to mine in mass.

The view down to the lake on the other side of the pass was quite nice. The buildings at the other end are just over the frontier in Italy.

I resisted eating at the top, preferring to start the exhilarating descent down the road to Aosta – often sitting at fifty kilometres per hour, sometime breaking sixty, it was all a little surreal on my bike. Only pedalling to pass cars, such fun, I had to stop every so often to take in the view. At such speed, the wind was amplified so in brilliant sunshine the arm-warmers and then my jacket went on. I passed a small eatery that seemed to be built in a hovel in the side of the mountain – it looked good enough that I turned around and rode back up the hill. A hearty country meal of many small spicy sausages and polenta hit the spot.

Stopped at more road-works – outside the village, Saint Rhemy, that Grandad records in his album as the last heading out of Italy.

Further down the valley, the roofs had changed again.

Although I could have bypassed Aosta itself as I was going a little down the Dora Baltea valley, I wanted to get at least a brief look of this largest city in the Aosta Valley region. The region, in the extreme north-west of the country, is the smallest and least populated of all the Italian regions – it is so small, it is not even divided into provinces. It’s obviously mountainous and has the Italian slopes of Mont Blanc (now Monto Bianco), Mont Rosa and the Matterhorn on its borders. Aosta had a large piazza in its centre that was very busy for a Saturday afternoon. Down in the valley it was a lot warmer with a strong wind blowing up from the east. I didn’t need much excuse for an ice cream.

Finally, as I rode into that wind for ten or so kilometres, my legs started to voice their opinions on the efforts of the day. Climbing off the valley floor my cycling day ended when I found the family-run vineyard at which I will spend a week. More of that in due course, that rounds out the biking related events of what I expect will be a day memorable to me for many years to come.

bikepacking, bikes, Europe, GPS, travel

Back into mountains

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I’d promised my legs an easier day today – in light of the punishment that the Juras had handed out and what was sure to come in the Alps. And for once, the easier day plan actually eventuated. I set off at nine to follow the southern shore, approximately, of Lake Geneva until there was no more lake and then I’d follow its source – the Rhone.


I stopped every so often to take in the view and eat croissants.

I rode past the Evian bottling plant (which I’d always assumed was in Switzerland, but was actually in France) – the source of such an aspirational waste of plastic.

Evian itself started off rather poorly, at least on the road that I came in on, but seemed to be quite the destination for the well off.

After lunch overlooking the lake, I crossed the border (there were actually Swiss border guards, not that they wanted to do anything so mundane as check my passport) and thought I’d better snap a few last pictures of such a large lake and the looming mountains as I then headed south following the Rhone up-river.

From this point until the end of the day it was mostly cycle trails away from the road – but being in an ever narrowing valley not ever far from the railway or motorway. There was a surprising amount of big industry for such a spectacular setting – it has been said that the Bow Valley is a bit over done with its cement and aggregate plants as you drive in from Calgary to the Rockies, that’s got nothing on this part of the Rhone valley. As the valley narrowed, the clouds also closed in until there was need to put all the wet-weather gear on for only about fifteen minutes.

Of course, I knew there was no way out of this valley to my intended destination without a big climb – even so the mountains were getting alarmingly large and surrounding.

The sun came out, so there was at least a chance for to get a picture of the strangely coloured Rhone.

With a nice round hundred kilometres for the day (but very little climbing, only about 600 metres, and little off-road effort), I arrived in Martigny – where I’d promised myself my weekly hotel stay as I really want a good night sleep before I cross into Italy (hopefully) tomorrow. Mind you, this is the end of the third week and only the second hotel stay – maybe that’s what I did wrong the first week in wet Belgium.

The castle overlooking Martigny.

They have covered bridges here too – such sights always remind me of my stay in Pennsylvania.

I like that I’m getting close to Italy – it’s not uncommon to see Italian included in the languages on signs and so forth and a bit is spoken. The hotel receptionist began speaking to me by saying “tell me” which I’ve not heard for a while. After a short stroll around town in which I manage to miss a rain shower and I’m disappointed by European portion sizes – can they not see I’m a hungry cyclist in danger of fading away – I returned for an early night before my attempt to cross the Alps the next day.

bikepacking, bikes, Europe, GPS, travel

Many metres lost

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For the first time in three weeks I rose to brilliant blue skies and they stayed that way all day. I did find the disadvantage of not wild-camping and hiding in forests – clear skies mean a lot of dew, so the tent went away just as wet as if it had been raining! I’m sure I didn’t notice the extra mass.

As a region, the Jura, that prides itself on its clock and watch making pedigree, I’ve noticed an odd tendency for the church clocks to double chime. That is, they chime the number of hours that has just been reached and then about a minute later the chime is repeated – so at noon, you get twenty-four strikes of the bell to tell it is so. This does have the advantage of if you forget to count the chimes or lose interest, you get another chance. While I was sitting eating breakfast in the dining room, very civilised compared to my usual method of eating baked goods in my tent, the grandfather clock also did this. The village church was only across the street, so four lots of chimes at nine in the morning became a little repetitive!

Knowing the Geneva was about 800 metres of altitude below me, I had hoped that I would ride to the end of the Jura plateau and then coast /speed down to the lake. Alas, this was not the case – as I passed Belfontaine I plunged down to the valley only to have to recover all those lost metres and more besides to reach the top of the pass. I’ve hardly a speedy rig for long road climbs, so there was plenty of time to enjoy the sunshine, the cool of the trees and the views across the valleys. The ski-fields were getting bigger – for the last few days I’d been in cross-country skiing territory, and saw some more people out training on the road on roller-skis.

Around the corner, there was the summit of the pass and Mont Blanc.

At last I made the top of the six hundred metre climb and could speed down to the lake below. Even more reason to ride with one’s mouth closed, I found small swarms of gnats to contend with. They were OK, I hit something bigger – I think a bee – while I was doing about fifty km/hr; how it managed the time to sting me, I don’t know, but I’ve a slightly itchy neck. The terrain flattened out to farmland and then I was standing above the Large Hadron Collider. Being that most of the interesting parts are ninety-five metres below the ground there’s not a lot to see – the big shed was fairly unremarkable. On the plus side, the world didn’t end.

From where I came.

I tried the panorama function on my camera for the first time…

As well as being a logical point on my route (the big lake rather dictated that I pass through the city), I wanted to return to Geneva so that my only memories of it aren’t as a four year old getting my hand stuck in an elevator door and standing in a roof-top garden listening to that distinctive sound of European ambulance sirens. Unfortunately, my memories are no better now – I found Geneva to be wholly uninteresting. And that was on a glorious late-summer’s day where plenty of people were out and about enjoying the sun and being by the lakeside. Perhaps it was because I’d just spent a few days in the Juras and found them to very nice.

One of the two photos I took in Geneva – I could see this fountain from the top of the pass before I descended, but didn’t know what it was at the time.

My legs, particularly my left calf, were beginning to tell me that I hadn’t bothered to stretch them the last two evenings and they’d done quite a bit of hill work. I resolved to follow the road around the south-east side of the lake and hopefully not put them through too much over the next day and a half. The highlight of Geneva was the bakery stop on the way out of town – when I explained my trip so far, the guy gave me a free donut and croissant. There wasn’t a lot of competition in Geneva for best moment.

The real estate was rather swanky on the way out of the city beside the lake. It toned down a bit when I crossed back into France, but the chances of finding a good wild-camping spot were less than the previous few days. When the second sign for a campsite came up, my legs had had enough for the day and the prospect of a shower, being clean and putting my tent up while there was still sunlight to dry it were too tempting.

Yvoire is the village just across the road and it is a delight. Right on the edge of Lake Leman (Geneva), it’s got an old castle, ramparts and fortified gateways. Not to mention plenty of little twisty streets, no cars in the centre and plenty of bright summer flowers. A nice spot for a strange bit of time on the bike with no luggage and a tasty dinner.

The slimmed down Ogre out for an evening ride.