Bronzolo's Going Solo

Bonjour indeed, I'm in sunny old France. It has been a long journey. I'm only just in France, mind - Germany's but a stone's throw away. Strasbourg is delightful, but more on that in a minute. Thank you all for reading, by the way. It makes it all the more worthwhile. Let me know how you're doing in the comments below!!! if you like. Whatever happens, I'll be here. Though not for long, as I'm leaving for Luxembourg this afternoon. They have delicious ice cream there, of all kknds of flavours, so that's a real draw.

If anyone's at a loss for a nickname for me, search no further: Bronzolo is fine. In fact, it's better than fine. Bronzolo rocks, and that's a thing you can't deny, like the fact that there are nine million bicycles in Beijing.

When I last posted here I was in Italy. Since then (it's been a long while) I have been through Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland and Germany, and now find myself among tourist trains and endless croissants in Strasbourg.

Going over the Alps was ridiculous. It was perhaps a ridiculous idea to begin with, but that it might be one of the most difficult legs of the trip, nay, of my entire life (tres grandiose, TJ), didn't even cross my mind.

I followed the Adige river upstream for three days. Obviously going upstream means going uphill, and going uphill for three days is always going to be fairly tough going. Well, it was. But, as one might expect, it was also superb. The views were spectacular, the scenery humbling, and the passing cyclists tended to engage in at least a mild form of comraderie.

The first two Adige days were relatively easy: the river flowed softly, widely, like a momentous, indolent snake, winding its massive way through giant rocks jutting up towards largely cloudless skies. Byootiful, sí. I hopped from Trento up to Bozen and then to Merano without much trouble, and drank in the mountains as I went. At each stop I gorged on locally grown apples, plums, peaches and nectarines, and felt the juices of each imbue my sense of self with all manner of loveliness. I also ate other things.

I discovered that the north of Italy, the region which borders Austria, is a land of two languages. Up in the hills, the people speak German as well as Italian, but it's a twisted, embellished sort of German, which is nigh on incomprehensible to a passing English novice. It was, however, refreshing to be understood and to vaguely understand those with whom I spoke.

Meran(o) sits right in amongst it all, at the meeting point of two waterways. It's an alpine spa town, with hot springs and pools which are forbidden to anyone who doesn't waltz up with a wad of euros and lay them at the elephantine feet of the township's mascot - a bloodthirsty beast of a bison which stands at 35ft and billows black smoke on passers-by. That's not true, but the spa and wellness centre is expensive.

In Meran(o) I spent a dodgy night in a dodgy spot in a dodgy park. It was a night that I'd rather not relive, but if you ask me about it in person I might tell you.

At some point after Meran(o) I took a wrong turn and climbed ridonkulously for what felt like an age. 5km later I saw a sign for a place I didn't intend on visiting, nor passing, and turned my sorry self around. However, I did pass this beaut of an art-house on the way up (and on the way down), so I made my pointless excursion a little less pointless by immortalising it with a photograph.

The day I spent cycling up to the Reschen-pass was the most steepest and gruelling of all, and was made all the more comically exhausting by the hoards of happy-go-lucky alpine families mountain-biking their way DOWN the neverending hill I was hating on. Hating is a strong word. No okay I wasn't hating, but I did feel a tiny bit destroyed.

Very near the top, I saw with my own eyes the sacrificing pools of Reschen. Here, I was informed by a loquacious local, children are fed to the giant and unrelentingly voracious mountain gods, once a week, in order to appease them and consequently ensure fine weather. The children are first marinated in these pools of saline solution and paprika, and are then gobbled up by those with the huge teeth. Strange customs ere, methought.

When at last I reached the summit, I was delighted to find a descent. This was my payout, and I enjoyed it stupendously. On the way down, I whipped through numerous alpine ski towns, whose wooden lodgings looked just to die for, nestled in amongst the hills.

I camped this night just outside a town called Pfunds, and in the morning met a German cyclist who very much looked the part. We followed the same route down to Landeck. There we parted, each with a whistle, and I sped on to the west.

On the way to Liechtenstein (still many a mountain to go...), my left knee gave up. Or, rather, it was defeated. I weighed my options and thought it best to respond to the wishes of my body, and so took a train 40km to Bludenz, on the edge of the hills. I cycled through a big valley, round one more mountain and arrived into Vaduz.

!

This capital city has just over 5000 residents, and actually, as a settlement, is fairly underwhelming. They use Swiss francs and sell local white wine for 2.50 a litre. I enjoyed them both, on the bank of the river.

In the morning I said tschüs to Liechtenstein and entered Switzerland! How many countries is that now? I don't even know!

Switzerland's great, probably for more reasons than I even found out, but --- it is hideously expensive. I saw the prices in supermarkets and thought I'd find the exchange rate to be between 1:3 and 1:1.5. In fact it's almost one to one. It's just a pricy place.

Zürich is actually very little like what I expected. The route there was almost entirely along three large lakes, the last of which forms Zürich's coastline. The city really is a delight - cobbled courtyards, Romanesque cathedrals and lovely parks. I visited a museum called something and saw an exhibition called Gardens of the World.

The last two days have been pretty nice. Pretty rainy - actually, pretty torrential. I've covered quite a lot of ground and am now content to chill in Stras for a while longer. Today is my 30th day, and my body is growing tired. My ankle tan lines are preposterous, my head perpetually grubby, my wisdom tooth aching, my cognitive capacity waning, my vocabulary wilting, my sense of self departing, my lists growing longer, my posts sparser, my blah blahher, blah blahher. Etc. My facial hair is starting to startle even me.

For financial reasons I have decided to continue to Calais after Brussels, in order to get a ferry back to UK. So, now, entering what appears to be my final week, the last stretch, I reflect on my travels and I think

French plums are the best so far. Very juicy!