Italy: Day 6 Pilgrim’s progress

There are certain obligations a Moto Guzzi enthusiast accepts, the highest of these callings is to park outside the famous red gate. Meaningless to many this act of returning a trusted companion to its birthplace feels right, as if repaying some of the 47 years of service.

Pilgrimage complete I trusted the convalescing sat-nav to guide us to the Stelvio Pass. That didn’t go well. An hour later I found myself convinced that we must have visited Switzerland in a mostly subterranean voyage, back in Mandello del Lario. This may, I accept, not be entirely the sat-nav’s fault. After its errors episode I had brought in its predecessor as a back up, gaffer taped to my tank bag. I feel that some differences of opinion arose between the two as to which waypoint was current.

I despaired and adapted, planning a new route to the south that should take me to a campsite near the pass by around 6pm. This new route had a single waypoint, Berzo san Fermo, that I missed and was rerouted up a magnificent, terrifying mountain road, only to be directed back down again. The algorithm, perhaps rightly has an issue with U-turns on single track steep hills, I know that I do. On the flip side the view was once again fantastic.

It was a slog, a magnificent sometimes terrifying slog, many miles, many more tunnels. I hate the tunnels, they remind me of work, long stretches of darkness being passed by more confident or reckless companions, just hanging on to see the light. Often the light is an all too brief respite with no other course but to dive back in. The tunnels themselves are an engineering marvel , civil and social, so it goes. I kept going, I have kept going, In compensation for the dark times the sat-nav treated me to another vista.

The tunnels stopped, we were ejected into the congested traffic of Bormio, once clear the roads rose the bucked and twisted as if to throw this rider off. It got steep, really steep, too steep for your average mount and cold, bitterly cold through my mesh jacket I stopped shaking to don a waterproof. I was tired, so tired I forgot to close the pack, then up and over the final rise into a carnival of stalls and motorbikes. I had crested the Stelvio Pass, by accident.

I stopped, dog tired and soaked it all in then considered my immediate options. Find a hotel here or descend the wet serpent to an unknown and unbooked campsite. I tried the nearest hotel explaining that I had no reservation to the receptionist standing next to a wall of unadopted keys. €19 or €90 I didn’t hear and didn’t care, a room and a shower awaited. I got strong ‘The Shining’ (Overlook Hotel) vibes from Hotel Passo Stelvio and crossed the road for a pork and venison bap from Bruno’s Hot Dogs, washed down with two bottles of unfiltered beer.

Fed and showered I set my electronic charges to charge and crossed the road to a bar with some semblance of life and a, I presumed Russian proprietor, more beer and scribbled notes that grew into this nonsense, then off to bed.