Cortados to you too.

There you are, wandering aimlessly about, minding your own business and trying to get your bearings in a strange city, when history suddenly reminds you that it happened in South America too. For an Englishman, and a European to boot (both completely accidental - thank heavens), it was a surprise to round a corner and be confronted by the Palacio de la Moneda.
The memory of Allende's sunglassed visage drove any thought of holiday sun cream from my mind, instigating a crash course in Latin American history that lasted three days. For now I'm just going to bore you by saying that democracy really is a good idea. If only we had the sense to use it properly. Perhaps that should say, if only our chosen leaders had the sense to use their power properly. Although we are the ones who choose them, are we not.
Anyway, Santiago is a city in Chile and it has the good sense to serve your morning coffee with a pretty lady. So there's that. Reasonably, it will expect you to know some Spanish but even if you don't, buying a pair of shoes can be accomplished with ease. Just don't tell anyone that all you wanted was the password for the wifi.
Nevertheless, and this is likely to be an accident of geography, Santiago de Chile suffers from a shortage of maps, not to mention book shops. This may be my fault, searching through book shops when I should have been frequenting Tattoo parlours (of which there are a surprising amount). For someone about to start cycling around a very hot country, this became a worrisome concern. Nevertheless thanks to the magic of the Internet, a thorough analysis of the route enough times etched it immovably in the mind.
I can't help but think that a lack of maps must lead to a lack of adventure. It's either that or there just aren't enough roads to justify the expense. This brings me too the oddest thing about Chile. It's dimensions are frighteningly difficult to defend. I know it has the Andes on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other but really, defending it against invasion must play on one's mind a little. I bet I could invade it myself in at least half a dozen places and no-one would notice.
But we're not here to hang around in bars and coffe shops. We are here to cycle to Mendoza. A somewhat modest goal but one that requires going uphill a lot in searing heat. Precious, as always, sits patiently waiting for me to stop being lazy. Frankly though, I am on holiday and I think I'm going to enjoy this one.

My kind of town

Today, my friends, we are all very lucky indeed. For you have two photographs to look at and I am in Trieste. There'll be more, much more, about Trieste later but first we must concentrate on Venice.
Venice, of which you can see a small part in the first photo, that is Precious posing outside a dog shop, is a very nice place indeed. Its only drawback os the number of young female american tourists gagging for it. Take them away and I bet it's a lovely, soulful place to spend some time, full of history and of memories haunting it's maze of cobbled alleyways and canals.
However, for you and me, it's a menagerie of cackling tourists and idiots blocking bridges to take a, no doubt, romantic photo to show the folks back home. I may have imagined all those young girls walking the streets drinking beer but I don't think so.
Plus be sure to get back to your hotel before dark.
Venice may very well be sinking, but it is sinking far quicker through its mercantile chase for the almighty overseas dollar than it is through rising sea levels.
So here comes the controversy.

But first I must set a scene.
When cycling through Northern Italy, three things jump out at you. The flat landscape (good), the rain (annoying) and the vicious headwind (really, really annoying). if you ever find someone who tells you that they enjoy cycling in the rain and with a headwind, the odds are good that they've already murdered a prostitute or two.
And then, you reach the far North Eastern corner, it starts a little seedily until Monfalcone is in your rear view mirror and then something quite unexpected happens. You find yourself going uphill. And just as you're digesting this unnatural change the road sweeps left and then ...
I don't know what to say about this coastal road other than all those great coastal roads you've ever seen, Highway 1 in California, the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, suddenly find themselves in a jostle for position in your affection. If anything, you'll count this one better for it's compactness and it's all downhill, oh yes.
This is mesmerising. You've been lifted 100 metres up, I'm sure, solely, to give you a good view and there, in front of you is the Gulf of Trieste, Trieste itself and a road, smooth as silk, carved out of the rockface which gently descends the 15 km to Trieste. Trieste itself is saying, "yes we know, take your time, enjoy the view and we'll be waiting for you to get here."
Then you get there.
This is a City well done. It has, as the french would say, a certain je ne sais quoi. It is clear right from the start that this City and it's inhabitants are so self assured that they do not care what anyone else thinks. It's as if they've glanced across the Adriatic, looked at the disaster that's befallen Venice nad thought hang on a minute, we best get ourselves written out of any Shakespeare's plays and keep quiet. Not for us, the unseemly tourists and girls, less pretty than ours, throwing themselves at our feet. With any luck no-one will notice us and we can carry on as we are. Let's save our elegance, grandeur, majesty, simplicity and beauty for ourselves.

I expect when the UNESCO mob showed up and said, "my word this place is fantastic, there are at least five things here deserving recognition!", the Mayor, or whatever, of Trieste tapped them on the shoulder, took them out to lunch and said, "thanks for your kind compliments but we'd be awfully grateful if you kept this place to yourself. Pretty as they are, we do not want drunk American schoolgirls vomiting on our pavements and can you imagine those tacky souvenir stalls that would pop up. I beg you, leave us alone and future generations will thank you."
And so they did.
The second photo is of Precious posing outside her owner's new employer's Head Office. As you can see it is quite grand in a 'yes we know sort of way, now would you mind not spoiling our view of the sea'. Their name is Assicurazioni Generali and, this is a slightly detrimental note, every other building seems to have the name Assicurazioni Generali carved into it's stone. Jarring though this may be, remember that it is not on huge neon advertising billboards, so in it's own way, it's the least obnoxious advertising you'll come across. Insure with us, it says, and we'll promise not to ruin your view. Plus the year 1831 tells you that they've been doing something right for a very long time.
The grandest buildings are dramatically carved out of their white stone, their neighbours compete for attention by using appropriate pastel colours. Noticeable but not, if you know what I mean. I really don't know what to tell you but a free day in Trieste is an extremely rewarding and relaxing experience.
You'll return to your hotel room and you will find that the shower works, the towels are soft and the toilet rolls are conveniently located. The wifi will be free, glory be (damn you swiss com).
Then the sun will go down and you will find yourself in a bar with pictures of smoking nuns and of fat ladies sitting on stools while their small dogs peer at you. Above you will be a photograph of (and here's where I think my Fritish may have let me down) a photograph of the biggest clown school in the world. Every bar should have one. The men/women wbehind the bar will unobtrusively ply you with small snacks and beer and when the time comes to pay the bill, they will not surprise you with an exorbitant, inflated price.
The railway station isn't littered with drunks and the facilities are free. What's that about? It's a terminus. Where are the drunks? yearning to be free, and their inevitable odours. I do hope they don't sweep them out into the sea or force then to build majestic roads through rock faces. Hmmm, I may have hit on something there. Or, more likely, they're quite happy being drunk here. It's not all wine and roses, I did spot someone, who may or may not have been an ex-yugoslavian, selling some tasteful ladies wear in a not entirely relaxed manner on the street. Having said that the trams smell of oranges rather than urine. You can't help but wonder what they make of Berlusconi here. Unless, and this wouldn't surprise me, they did make Berlusconi here.
There does appear to be some kind of election going on here. As is the nature of these things, it has brought as unseemly shamelessness to otherwise perfectly acceptable squares and avenues.
In the end you will wonder why the only thing you knew about Trieste was that it was once the capital of the Austro Hungarian empire. You will leave absolutely sure of two more things. More tears will have been shed over Trieste than over Istanbul. You'd bet yours and everyone else's house that they want it back.
Trieste - where even the flunkeys are top drawer. I'd take it over Venice any day of the week.

Ladies and Gentlemen of Verona....

....I'm ridiculously pleased to have made your acquaintance. All those little Vicolos just begging to be walked around. I suppose it's a combination of via and piccolo. Very clever and mightily apt. Much to everyone's surprise, Verona was attained. It should have been 157 km but instead, thanks to the Brescian triangle, it was 198 km. If you fancy a laugh, I'll show you the Garmin map imaging. It 'll make your eyes water.
Anyway, judging from the number of lorries on the road, at least 1 in 4 vehicles was a lorry, the northern Italians are an astonishingly industrious lot. The strange thing is that it doesn't matter what road you are on. By far the most popular sign is 'Zona Industriale'. There is no escape. You are far better off on the main roads which, at least, have a shoulder to write home about. Having said that, the roads are a dream, the smoothest tarmac and, provided you're not lost, really quite easy to navigate. Once lost, however, is a completely different matter. Even armed with a compass and map (and I'm no slouch when it comes to maps), you simply will not find your way back unless by chance. After one misadventure too many, I simply backtracked and the road that had brought me there had gone. Vanished, kaput or, as the Pythons would have it, joined the choir invisible.
Anyway, there's a reasonable chance that Venice will be attained tomorrow. That, my friends is a good thing. What with it being Thursday. That means a little breathing space plus the possibility of another day off. Woohoo! I'm going to let the winds decide for me. For now, it is a very well earned bedtime. Sweet dreams!

East Grinstead by the lake

Before we get to East Grinstead, there's something more

important to talk about. I don't suppose you'll hear that sentence again. Precious and I had a falling out over the best way to cross the lake. Precious wanted to take it on and I thought the ferry more prudent. Precious bemoaned my lack of derring do (that's not what won us the war she said) and swore that she'd find someone who shared her sense of adventure. The result is as you see, Precious has made a new friend. It's all a little crowded, although Fabiana reckons the panniers are very comfortable. Guess who has to do the pedalling. I'm not entirely sure what to make of it, although Precious is not sharing a room with me tonight. It's a scandal.

Back to East Grinstead. It is twinned with Verbania. Verbania is an Italian town on the shores of Lago Maggiore and nestled amongst Alpine foothills. Instead of terraced housing, it has lakeside villas with terraces. Instead of a grimy london residue, it has a romantic mist. East Grinstead is solidly grounded in everyday town naming principles, Verbania sounds like it springs from C.S. Lewis' pen. All I can say is kudos to whichever East Grinstead officials managed to pull this off. One must assume that no-one from Verbania has ever been to East Grinstead.

Enough frippery, I chose to stop in Como today, mainly because I'm on holiday (getting lost in Varese, twice, didn't help - total progress 3.5 km in 45 minutes. Ye gods). However, it seems that my map reading skills have fallen out of sync with timing issues. I thought it was Monday. Oops. This makes Trieste a race against time. It ssems I have one more days hard ride. We'll see how far I get in my quest for Verona tomorrow - It's miles away!

Fratelli Italia!

In the beginning was a word and the word was terrifying. Dear God, if I ever have to go through one of those tunnels again....

Arriving in Italy necessitates at least one instance of blasphemy, so I'm pleased I got that out of the way. Here we are in Domodossola, which by the way is a great name for a town. I'm in an absolutely fantastic hotel and there doesn't appear to be anyone else in it. The upshot is that the hosts are truly attentive, perhaps too much so. Precious is still excited about her climb but frankly, between me and you, it was an extremely nervous 6 hours. 5 hours 45 going up and about 15 minutes coming down. Ye gods, I was expecting the legs to turn to jelly but not through vertigo. I'll be honest, I've been up higher mountains and never once felt that I'd fall off the edge. You can't go 50 yards without a twitching arse. I am not kidding, and that was at about two kilometres an hour. Imagine it at 40, that's the bit you're supposed to enjoy. You can test your brakes as much as you like, that isn't going to make you feel any better until they truly are put to the test. Stopping in Istella was supposed to be for a celebratory coffee, the twitching didn't stop until the third grappa. Precious, obviously, was tugging at the lead for another go, the nutter. The photo is Precious gazing wistfully back down the hill. Enough of that and back to proper stuff. Switzerland had been French, at least as far as Sion and then, in a trice she became German and all the niceties that involves. Don't get me wrong, I can order the wrong thing in any language you care to choose. I would just rather not to have to sound bitte(r) when trying to be polite.

Anyway, it's downstairs to join the hosts on the terrace and sip a coffee. The view is also admirable, what with it being the Alps and that. I shall gaze up at them and thank the lord that I'm not going up another in the near future. Onward into Italy. That reminds me, if you ever get the chance, buy some loose veg in an Italian supermarket, explain that you don't know Italian in your best French/German and watch the cashier miming how to weigh fruit. Tres amusing.

Cow bells and cockadoodledoos!

It seems that I left you in Pont de Roide. How remiss of me. Since then there's been a fair bit of hillage followed by a bicycle track to die for.
You may have heard of Le Doubs. I'm not sure I had but as I stumbled uphill wondering why, I couldn't have hoped for a better result. There's a gorge through which this river runs and although you have to climb out of it, falling into it is exhilarating. Maybe there's a video, maybe not. I don't know.
I also don't know if gorge is where the word gorgeous comes from but if it is, it's extremely apt. Le Doubs is where you cross the border into Switzerland, for better or worse, and instantly you can feel your wallet getting lighter. Honestly, I don't know how they get away with it.
Earlier on in the blog, the question 'Switzerland, what's the point?' was posed and I shall attempt to answer it here. I shall award up to +5 points for the good bits and -5 for the bad.
a) Bicycle paths +5 : the one that follows the Rhone through it's flood plain is truly memorable (and I had the wind behind me) plus it's made of the tarmac that Harrods would stock (with thanks to the authors of Yes Minister).
b) Cow bells and cockadoodle doos +4 : I imagine it's quite difficult to find your herd of cattle in the morning and the melodic peel of the cow bell helps you track them down. Plus it's quite nice to hear it and occasionally brings to mind church bells. The Cockadoodledoos help you wake up to find your cattle.
c) Hotel window views +3 : Snow capped mountains.
d) Chocolate box villages +2 : Those little villages you see portrayed on chocolate boxes and sometimes in jigsaws. They really do exist and are surprisingly restorative when cycling through them.
e) Thw Swiss people +1 : Impressive linguistic skills.
f) The 1/2 franc coin -1 : Too small, you think it's tuppence when its practically 50p.
g) Swiss banks - 2 : Surprisingly difficult to find.
h) Cow bells and cockledoodledoos -3 : The bells are huge. They make you think of those ladies with the long necks. I'd like to know what the RSPCA have to say about it. As for the cocks, it's already 3pm for Heaven's sake.
i) Bicycle paths - 4 : The sadist who designed the signs needs dropping from the nearest mountain top. I expect that they're they're OK if you know where you're going but then you don't need the signs. But frankly, a sign pointing in a direction that says 72 means what exactly? Reminds one of those ridiculous signs on London's cycle superhighways which give you distances using the 24 hour clock. Thanks very much.
j) La Chaux de Fonds -5 : This is the first Swiss town that you come across when entering the way I did. You're expecting Julie Andrews to jump out from behind a tree and launch into song. Instead, you're presented with a seemingly prefabricated mess masquerading as a town. There's a reason you've never heard of it. Do not stop. Completely pointless.

So there we are then, Switzerland - Nul points. It seems that the jury is still out.

The hills have arrived

Well here we are. The first hills are behind us and while it might be safe to say that Precious took them in her stride, a little impatiently even, her jockey took a little longer to settle into his stride. Nevertheless, the Col du Ballon d'Alsace, at a relatively low 1165m, did require 8km of hard work at 7%. We are on our way. It's a bit up and down all the way to Lago Maggiore now and, let's just say, I'll be looking forward to the occasional flat bit.
Here, by the way, is Pont de Roide. It's a smallish place straddling the River Le Doubs and nestling in a valley. There's no reason why I shouldn't be raving about it. There seems to be, however, a touch of the Deliverance about it. I'll be locking the windows tonight. The good news, and it is very good news, is that they do a damn good cup of tea here, even if they do all look like Shrek.
Slightly worryingly, there's a good chance I'll be in Switzerland this time tomorrow. What's wrong with Switzerland, I hear you cry. Well, as someone I hold dear once said, "Switzerland, what's the point?". I've seen nor heard anything since that's allowed me to satisfactorily answer that question and neither do I expect to see or hear anything over the next couple of days that will help. Nevertheless, it is there and there is where I must go.
I don't know if this is interesting or not but I shall mention it anyway. In Remiremont and in Pont de Roide, there are kebab shops. There may have been more but I wasn't paying attention. Anyway, both of these shops have been called Doner Americain. That's American Doner to you, unless you're my boss, in which case it is le mange intolerable. If any of you out there have ever known Doners to be associated with America, could you please let me know.
Finally, because I'm sure you're bored by now, Precious is overnighting in the beer cellar. If I were you I'd look forward to the retaliatory puncture.