MOVING TO ITALY
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| the donkey with a cow skin |
On this puzzling note, we branched in the forest and descended on a steep path along the torrent that escaped from the Merveilles lake. Red ants were everywhere, busy gathering food and building material for their nests, large mounds of wood fragments and earth. One had better avoid standing next to one of those nests for fear of being under attack, as it happened to me while I was easing myself. A lot of swearing and leg shaking later I had managed to get rid of all my tiny biting attackers.
Down in the valley, flowing through a flat area, the torrent had turned into a gentle water stream. Afternoon sun rays were caressing the grass in which marmots were busy going about in search of food or simply enjoying the sun with their peers, while looking for bugs in each other's fur. But as soon as one of them would notice danger, it would whistle an alert and everyone would be ready to hide or flee.
We spent the night at the refuge de la minière in the old mining complex of Vallauria transformed into a private refuge. The place has been renovated by the Neiges & Merveilles association created by Raymond Hirzel, with the purpose of allowing individuals from diverse backgrounds to mix in a special place, socially neutral, in the hope that they could interact freely. To this effect, a library, a gaming space, a well stocked bar, among other things, were created to encourage people focus on engaging through their respective passions. The association was created at the end of the 1950s and the site redeveloped in the 1960s by a group of Renault employees, willing to experiment, in search of a new societal alchemy.
At dinner, we debated with our neighbours, a couple and the father of the woman, whether walking sticks were a good thing. The guides of the valley of Merveilles had advocated against the use of sticks because they limit one's sense of balance. Our view was that the sticks were indeed like an extra pair of legs, very helpful when the eyesight is not perfect and definitely a relief to the knees in descent. The woman was in favour of no sticks, her future husband saw them as positive globally and the old man was thankful to have them, now that he was less fit. He was however very keen to talk about the engravings of Mount Bego and recommended us to visit the site next to the green lake with a forty meter long stretch called the sacred path in the valley of Fontanalbe.
The next day, we used the pass of Vallaurette to enter the valley of Fontanalbe which is separated from the valley of Merveilles by Mount Bego. Clouds and fog played with the peaks, progressively letting more space to the sun and transformed the appearance of the landscape by the minute. In the vicinity of the pass, an old solitary ibex was grazing next to the ruin of a bunker from the early 20th century. The ibex turned its head away as it saw us and moved further away. On the other side of the pass, clouds were flirting with the ridge of the mountain and covered the valley of Fontanalbe with darkness. We could see old barracks where, a century ago, Italian soldiers were posted to monitor the movement of French troops that were stationed nearby. Fortunately the clouds eased up by the time we had reached the Green Lake, down at the beginning of the valley. A park ranger reminded us that walking sticks should only be used with pads to avoid scratching the rocks and possibly damage the carvings. Yes, we had put the pads on already! We followed the marked itinerary to see the sacred path amidst a superb landscape composed of orange rocks, chaotic peaks and the intense green of the peatlands traversed by a tea-like water. The symphony of nature could be heard in the air.
We left the pristine beauty of the Green Lake and descended towards Casterino. Halfway down, in front of a small stone house, two couples were having lunch at a wooden table under the attentive scrutiny of their black dog seating very close to the table. They had most probably driven up to the tiny house for the weekend. The place, somehow, had an Italian flair. Our stay in Casterino was the last night we would spend in France during this journey. It was therefore a milestone after three months of walking. We stayed at the Hôtel des Mélèzes, a cosy place with large wooden balconies, whose rooms were decorated with teddy bears and vintage mountain accessories.
The next morning, bidding France goodbye we looked at the two donkeys who had decided to come and look for company in front of the hotel by the bridge, braying in despair under the bright morning sun.
The hills on the opposite side of the river are full of military barracks and bunkers, revealing the strategic nature of this border zone. Ownership between France and Italy has fluctuated over the centuries and so has the nature of defensive structures. Fort Giaure, like the fortress at Col de Tende and a number of other fortresses in the region, was built at the end of the 19th century. Fort Giaure can only be appreciated when looked from above because all the buildings, now derelict, are covered with a layer of grassy soil. A moat has been dug around the fort itself and a drawbridge allowed access to it. The entire complex was built with stone and wood. Concrete bunkers were added on the hills later on in the early 20th century corresponding to the new warfare requirements. One can't help thinking how hard the life of soldiers must have been in the inclement months of winter. They probably killed their boredom with stocks of tobacco and alcohol that might have blurred their vision and the sense of time? Writing letters or playing games with gloved hands? But also, on better days they were surely enjoying the beauty of the landscape in silence, like the smoker contemplates the twirls of his cigarette's smoke in the sunbeam.
One a less warlike note, as we climbed the grassy hill of Fort Giaure we discovered our first edelweiss on this trip.
We were now in sight of the actual France - Italy border. We just needed to descend towards Limonetto. The horizon was darkening and thunder could be heard rumbling in a distance which had the unconscious effect to quicken our pace despite the narrow steep path amidst rhododendron bushes. We were soon overtaken by a man and two children, the elder of whom was black. They apparently had the same concerns than we did with the approaching thunder. The path ended at a fountain next to a cheesy farm house in front of which a cat enjoyed a siesta in an armchair and a couple of stuffed animal panthers guarded a bunch of plastic flowers that stood on top of an empty wine barrel. We did not stop too long to enjoy the view as the first raindrops started to fall. The cows in the field overlooking the farm looked, against the light of the dark sky, like a biblical flock in search of better days. The rain intensified and persuaded us to put on our favourite rain ponchos for the rest of the journey to our night stay.
A treat, a boutique hotel with just four rooms, run by a German lady married to an Italian Five Star party member. The place, called Arrucador, had the charm of a comfortable home as soon as one entered, forgetting the rain outside with a proper Italian coffee served on a cow skin sofa. The rooms were very comfortable too. It was, after this long day of going up and down, a delight to go straight under the shower before slipping into bed, in the warmth of the quilt, so as to emerge from it only shortly before dinner time. A bit of self-conceded laziness. There, we debuted our exploration of local Italian red wines with a Barbera d'Alba which accompanied very well an excellent three course dinner that was, how not to, concluded with a grappa while trying to understand what the Five Star Movement, through the mouth of its cooking representative, thought about Europe. It transpired that they were not against the concept of Europe, but some changes were necessary so that Member States could have a bigger say in the use of the money they paid into the European budget which would then be reallocated to them. We left it at that and went for a good night's sleep.
After breakfast, we were off for to our first day on the Grande Traversata delle Alpi (GTA), northbound, that would take us up to Torino. The weather to tackle our first Italian pass, the dreadful pass of Ciotto Mien, was nice. Climbing on one side, was like a walk in a garden, albeit steep towards the end, going through pastures with occasional rocks protruding from the grass where we saw two chamois running uphill at full speed as in denial of Earth's gravity.
But on the other side of the pass, things looked different. It was a vertiginous descent on a tiny abrupt path of small loose stones along the edge of a large scree. It was just one of those moments when one thinks of all the things one would have wanted to do before exiting this world, because a wrong step could just mean the end of everything. Of course, danger is always very subjective. But then, I stood there like an idiot in front of the abyss, the option of turning back wasn't one really. So better not look at the countryside for too long to avoid feeling dizzy. There we went, sticks ahead, one foot at a time, focusing on the immediate square meter of the track, obliterating mentally the view on the side of the abyss.
Fortunately a metal cable was run for safety along the riskier parts of the cliff. In fact, past the first hundred meters, it had become much easier which relieved most of the tension accumulated in my body. That experience, though, would remain a stressful memory that would spoil most of the following day, for fear that such a passage might happen again. And, at the same time, it would help finding other places "much easier and comfortable". A few hundred altitude meters lower, we made a picnic break by a lake. From there, it was no problem to look back at the pass which was now looking remote, like a bad dream, but also much less scary.
The rest of our journey to Palanfré, a hamlet made of stones uninhabited by just one family in winter, took us in stages through some scrub then a dense beech forest which opened on a water fountain. Through all our journey in the Alps, water was never far. We were sometimes asked, in some of the hostels we stayed at, to fetch some drinking water from the fountain by ourselves because a law forbade them to offer drinking tap water. In other words, it is fine if you buy bottled water from them, but they can't serve tap water for free. So we went regularly filling our jug to the village fountain from which everyone drank.
The resident family in Palanfré is running a cow milk farm and produces cheese (ricotta, cheese with beer and other flavors). Somehow this was the equivalent of the French "vacheries" we had seen in the Mercantour.
2.30pm, the Albergh of Palanfré was busy with lunchers, out of which many French people. The atmosphere was relaxed, but one thing at a time, the staff had to finish serving lunch before they could allocate our rooms. We had coffee and a large bottle of sparkling water, our ritual if we arrived somewhere in the early afternoon.
We were soon joined by an 18 year old German girl who was, like most people on the GTA, walking southbound, towards Ventimilia. She had started her walk early June at the Gries pass, on her own, with no prior knowledge of the mountains, the snow and was travelling on a shoe-string budget of thirty euro a day. She quickly learnt how to navigate mountain paths and hooked up with more experienced travellers. To save costs she was eating muesli at most meals. She would, however, very often be invited for dinner by people pitied her for eating only muesli. She told us she indulged once in a while in a treat, an ice-cream. That day was her treat day. She ordered an Eskimo and marveled at its prospect until it got brought to her. She took her time to savour it, that is to say, the time the ice cream would not be completely melted.
Jessica, waitress at the Albergh, showed us to our room. She had long peroxide hair, a vast amount of hair surrounding her rather pale face. She wore a tight black pair of jeans, revealing her feminine curves, and, on her head, a pair of glasses to keep her hair away from her face. She was serving like a joyful little bird occasionally humming opera arias. She looked like a sweet version of Lolo Ferrari before any plastic surgery.
After a good night's sleep and a robust Italian coffee, we collected our panini (sandwiches) for lunch and left for the Gabetta pass. This time it was grass on both sides, with a narrow path along the cliff. Trinita was our night stop. Again a hamlet with a few houses and a church that would have been founded by monks. Much lower, in the relatively narrow valley, ran a torrent with countless tiny mosquitoes that rushed over us the next morning as we left for Entracque, the town where we hoped to do a bit of shopping.
All café terraces were busy with late morning coffee drinkers who were exercising their right to hear, read and/or comment the latest news. The churches had peach-colour neo-classical facades ornamented with frescoes. They looked very sophisticated in contrast to the other buildings. Curiously the city has grown on both sides of the river and it looked like each side could have been independent from the other.
We were now well stocked up and ready to go back to the mountains. But first, a day of rest was planned at a small hostel, Baita Monte Gelas, usually a good place to access Mount Gelas or go to the pass of Madone de Fenestre in Mercantour.
The passion for eating and drinking was visible on the manager's face. A little reddish skin - for the sun is strong in the mountains - a pair of lively blue eyes, a smiling mouth always in search for something to say. He could speak French, his wife happened to be from Nice. He was the de-facto public relation person of the inn. His wife was cooking and they also had a couple of helps. He would always be around at meal time, taking part in the service. In the evening, he would usually have to speak German and French sometimes, because many Germans travel along the GTA.
Italians are keener on day tours, especially those living in the region. They usually go out for lunch. The manager was therefore speaking Italian at lunch time with the customers who had come for a hearty portion of polenta with cheese, meat in wine sauce (spezzatino), or mushroom sauce. Of course a bottle of Barbera d'Alba or Nebbiolo was a nice complement.
The alternative to a lunch in a rifugio is to go for picnic to an altitude lake with cold but clear water. We observed that the second passion of Italians after food is sun-tanning. Going to spend the day picnicking under the sun next to a lake is next to the perfect Sunday program.
Back to Baita Monte Gelas, in the morning of our rest day, I felt very sick with headaches and a burning throat, I believe a cold had taken hold of me. After breakfast, I buried myself in my sleeping bag, which I had always found too warm, and boiled inside for four hours before making a break for a good polenta with rabbit stew and then went back to my sleeping bag for a few more hours. Believe it or not, that treatment cured me in just a few hours, at least the headache and most of the throat-ache! Since then I look at my sleeping bag from a very different perspective!
But on the other side of the pass, things looked different. It was a vertiginous descent on a tiny abrupt path of small loose stones along the edge of a large scree. It was just one of those moments when one thinks of all the things one would have wanted to do before exiting this world, because a wrong step could just mean the end of everything. Of course, danger is always very subjective. But then, I stood there like an idiot in front of the abyss, the option of turning back wasn't one really. So better not look at the countryside for too long to avoid feeling dizzy. There we went, sticks ahead, one foot at a time, focusing on the immediate square meter of the track, obliterating mentally the view on the side of the abyss.
Fortunately a metal cable was run for safety along the riskier parts of the cliff. In fact, past the first hundred meters, it had become much easier which relieved most of the tension accumulated in my body. That experience, though, would remain a stressful memory that would spoil most of the following day, for fear that such a passage might happen again. And, at the same time, it would help finding other places "much easier and comfortable". A few hundred altitude meters lower, we made a picnic break by a lake. From there, it was no problem to look back at the pass which was now looking remote, like a bad dream, but also much less scary.
The rest of our journey to Palanfré, a hamlet made of stones uninhabited by just one family in winter, took us in stages through some scrub then a dense beech forest which opened on a water fountain. Through all our journey in the Alps, water was never far. We were sometimes asked, in some of the hostels we stayed at, to fetch some drinking water from the fountain by ourselves because a law forbade them to offer drinking tap water. In other words, it is fine if you buy bottled water from them, but they can't serve tap water for free. So we went regularly filling our jug to the village fountain from which everyone drank.
The resident family in Palanfré is running a cow milk farm and produces cheese (ricotta, cheese with beer and other flavors). Somehow this was the equivalent of the French "vacheries" we had seen in the Mercantour.
2.30pm, the Albergh of Palanfré was busy with lunchers, out of which many French people. The atmosphere was relaxed, but one thing at a time, the staff had to finish serving lunch before they could allocate our rooms. We had coffee and a large bottle of sparkling water, our ritual if we arrived somewhere in the early afternoon.
We were soon joined by an 18 year old German girl who was, like most people on the GTA, walking southbound, towards Ventimilia. She had started her walk early June at the Gries pass, on her own, with no prior knowledge of the mountains, the snow and was travelling on a shoe-string budget of thirty euro a day. She quickly learnt how to navigate mountain paths and hooked up with more experienced travellers. To save costs she was eating muesli at most meals. She would, however, very often be invited for dinner by people pitied her for eating only muesli. She told us she indulged once in a while in a treat, an ice-cream. That day was her treat day. She ordered an Eskimo and marveled at its prospect until it got brought to her. She took her time to savour it, that is to say, the time the ice cream would not be completely melted.
Jessica, waitress at the Albergh, showed us to our room. She had long peroxide hair, a vast amount of hair surrounding her rather pale face. She wore a tight black pair of jeans, revealing her feminine curves, and, on her head, a pair of glasses to keep her hair away from her face. She was serving like a joyful little bird occasionally humming opera arias. She looked like a sweet version of Lolo Ferrari before any plastic surgery.
After a good night's sleep and a robust Italian coffee, we collected our panini (sandwiches) for lunch and left for the Gabetta pass. This time it was grass on both sides, with a narrow path along the cliff. Trinita was our night stop. Again a hamlet with a few houses and a church that would have been founded by monks. Much lower, in the relatively narrow valley, ran a torrent with countless tiny mosquitoes that rushed over us the next morning as we left for Entracque, the town where we hoped to do a bit of shopping.
All café terraces were busy with late morning coffee drinkers who were exercising their right to hear, read and/or comment the latest news. The churches had peach-colour neo-classical facades ornamented with frescoes. They looked very sophisticated in contrast to the other buildings. Curiously the city has grown on both sides of the river and it looked like each side could have been independent from the other.
We were now well stocked up and ready to go back to the mountains. But first, a day of rest was planned at a small hostel, Baita Monte Gelas, usually a good place to access Mount Gelas or go to the pass of Madone de Fenestre in Mercantour.
The passion for eating and drinking was visible on the manager's face. A little reddish skin - for the sun is strong in the mountains - a pair of lively blue eyes, a smiling mouth always in search for something to say. He could speak French, his wife happened to be from Nice. He was the de-facto public relation person of the inn. His wife was cooking and they also had a couple of helps. He would always be around at meal time, taking part in the service. In the evening, he would usually have to speak German and French sometimes, because many Germans travel along the GTA.
Italians are keener on day tours, especially those living in the region. They usually go out for lunch. The manager was therefore speaking Italian at lunch time with the customers who had come for a hearty portion of polenta with cheese, meat in wine sauce (spezzatino), or mushroom sauce. Of course a bottle of Barbera d'Alba or Nebbiolo was a nice complement.
The alternative to a lunch in a rifugio is to go for picnic to an altitude lake with cold but clear water. We observed that the second passion of Italians after food is sun-tanning. Going to spend the day picnicking under the sun next to a lake is next to the perfect Sunday program.
Back to Baita Monte Gelas, in the morning of our rest day, I felt very sick with headaches and a burning throat, I believe a cold had taken hold of me. After breakfast, I buried myself in my sleeping bag, which I had always found too warm, and boiled inside for four hours before making a break for a good polenta with rabbit stew and then went back to my sleeping bag for a few more hours. Believe it or not, that treatment cured me in just a few hours, at least the headache and most of the throat-ache! Since then I look at my sleeping bag from a very different perspective!
Images:
1/ the donkey with a cow skin
2/ the green lake in Fontanalbe
3/ Fort Giaure
4/ the view from Ciotto Mien
5/ Polenta and rabbit stew (coniglio)
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| the green lake of Fontanalbe |
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| Fort Giaure |
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| the view from Ciotto Mien |
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| polenta and rabbit stew |
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