dante
Although we had already spent time in many beautiful towns during our stay in Italy, Verona was the first town to which Serena immediately warmed. Refusing to admit that she is a hopeless romantic, the allure of Verona was attributed to the refreshing lack of crowds, the beautiful pink and white stonework, and the fact that it is just the right size for one and half days of contented rambling.
Home in Verona was Ostello Villa Francescatti – a not-for-profit hostel, run by friendly people, serving huge breakfasts of un grande boule de café au lait, rolls and jam, and set in a huge, beautiful 16th century villa. For the purposes of making our travels appear all the more idyllic and romantic, we will omit the fact that the dorms were somewhat prudishly segregated and thus that Verona’s vaunted romantic aura had no opportunity in which to work its magic. Mind you, had we a family we could have luxuriated in one of the family rooms at only a few euros more. Now if that isn’t a contradiction in moral standards we’ve no idea what is … actually, to be fair because we were married we were offered our own room if one came up but on the day we checked in we were stuck with our separate bunks at separate ends of the building.
Arriving in the early evening, we threw down our packs then hit the town, ending up at the Hosteria All’Orso, where we ate the best pasta of our entire trip: fresh, handmade pasta in beautiful, tiny ear shapes, served in a broccoli sauce and with crumbled sausage on top. No, it doesn’t sound tempting, but the broccoli was roughly pureed, creating a delicate, almost creamy sauce without the heavy richness of cream, and the meat was delicately spiced and crisply fried, perfectly garnishing the dish without taking away from its feature: the perfect pasta.
The restaurant was packed with local Italians, and while we almost sheepishly drank our cheap carafe of Soave white wine and lingered over our pastas and salad, we enjoyed watching and listening in on their raucous Sunday night celebrations, fuelled by large amounts of food, wine and verbose passion. We were sure we would end up back at the same restaurant on future nights, but the lure of a cheap and easy meal at our hostel and then a long, late evening picnic, kept us away. Indeed the picnic was an unexpected delight: the place we had initially chosen to eat was closed so grabbing some fresh rolls, goat’s cheese, proscuitto, figs, beer and limoncello from the friendly local store, we headed up the hill to Castell San Pietro where, along with other tragic romantics, we watched the light of the day fade and down below the night lights of Verona light up, before we slightly tipsily crept down the hill and back to our rooms, just before the midnight curfew had us shut out and sleeping in the garden.
duomo dome
Unlike the larger Italian cities we visited, Verona doesn’t boast an endless collection of art galleries – except for the enjoyable Castelvecchio castle cum museum. The sights of Verona were found by walking and gawking. Picking up one of those naff little tourist organisation guides, you know the type with lots of pictures and even more hyperbole, we followed most of the five suggested walking itineraries. This took us past and/or into churches, piazzas, palaces, mansions, to Romeo’s house and Juliet’s balcony and also past room upon room of lawyers offices.
juliet's balcony
As there seemed to be more lawyers per capita than humanly possible, Serena briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a rich Veronese layer, burning her cash on a trendy apartment with exposed wooden beams next to an ultra new, ultra cool, ultra tiny art gallery, buying up on far too many of the beautiful interior decoration items filling shop windows, dressing to the nines with funky retro outfits and beautifully crafted dresses and riding a bicycle with more accessories than you could poke a spoke at. Bikes were the transport of choice in Verona and Ben snapped pic after pic of sexy bicycles or cute/quirky bike accessories. Clearly not enough just to have a bike, here it was necessary to love your bike and show that your love was eternal.
spoke-n for
bike town
roar
bike bling
We enjoyed wandering the streets, listening to the singing of mass, watching people ride along and seeing the huge bright blue or bright pink bows proudly displayed on the doors of houses that had just received a new addition to their family. Following some narrow, twisting alleyways we came across a beautiful cloister with verdant green grass. We popped into various churches, and admired the large houses that ran along the river’s edge, some displaying faded frescoes from bygone days.
lovely verona
We had hoped to catch some of Verona’s famed summer opera season, held in an ancient Roman amphitheatre. The night we arrived Bizet’s ‘Carmen’ was being performed, but by the time we had found out about it, it had already started. The remaining nights of our stay nothing was on and although we toyed with the idea of returning to Verona on on our way from the Dolomites to Venice, slow Sunday train connections conspired against us and we had to content ourselves with catching a handful of pieces performed by a local guitar and violin busking duo (easily the best buskers I have ever heard: these kids were hardcore classical nuts who looked like their instruments rarely left their sides).
Saying goodbye to beautiful Verona, we boarded a train to Trento and rushed to the bus that would take us up the mountains to Madonna di Campiglio. The slow, winding bus trip lead us through the most spectacular scenery we have come across to date. For two hours the bus snail-paced its way through a spaghetti strangle of hairpin bends; up, up and up. We stopped in at small lakeside mountain towns, winding past mountains covered in fir forests and houses with steep, gabled roofs designed to withstand months of heavy snow. It was such a ferociously different landscape to what we had travelled through and we wondered at what compels people to live their lives out in such beautiful but remote and harsh conditions.
In the last half hour of our trip we twisted up into a high valley over which loomed dramatic, rocky mountains. Much of what we were looking up at was above the treeline – gone were the lush green fields or the soft fir and beech forests. In its place were awe-inspiring, intimidating mountains still densely covered in snow at the height of summer. We gulped and wondered whether we had overestimated our abilities – surely these breathtaking, scary peaks were not what we would be walking through in the coming days? Our approach was to not think about it. As there was no point in being terrified by what we were planning to attempt, we decided simply to ignore it.
approaching the brenta dolomites
At 4pm, after more than 6 hours of travelling we got off the bus in Madonna and promptly spent close to an hour walking around, turtle-like with our heavy packs, desperately searching for the ‘centre’ of town, a toilet, somewhere to eat our late lunch and the information centre to check up on the latest weather details. Eventually finding everything, we were equipped for hatching a plan for the next few days. And our plan was this: pick up harnesses, helmets and ropes with carabiners, spray our hiking boots with a waterproof spray in order to improve our dismal prospects of having dry feet during our walk, and study our newly acquired map. We had consulted the alpine guide centre, and worked out a route suitable for complete beginners without ice axes, crampons and walking poles.
That night we crammed our hiking gear, all of our warm and waterproof clothing and some food into our small daypacks. Our ‘walk’ was to start easily: a bus into town, then a long cable car up, up and up to the mountainous Rifugio Grostè. From the top of the mountain, in one of the most isolated seeming places we had been, we made a quick mobile phone call to Venice (Australia has a way to go before its mobile phone coverage is even a tenth as good as anywhere else we have travelled). And then it was on with the walk.
which way?
Clouds swept in, swirling around the mountains, then parting: giving us brief glimpses of the beautiful green valleys below. Having never done any alpine walking before, it was surreal to be so high up in the mountains. Their immense size resulted in a certain beauty: not a conventional beauty by any means but rather a beauty caused by being faced with such a stark reminder of the dramatic forces that create our world.
serena strolls the dolomites
After a few hours of walking, broken by the odd snow-ball fight which seemed a little strange after sweltering in Florence only days beforehand, we reached Rifugio Tuckett. Stopping here to sun ourselves, eat lunch, drink coffee and people watch, we thought about how good it would be if walking in Australia could be like this – pleasant walks with rewarding food and views staggered at civilized intervals. And so with the easy part over, we hauled on our via ferrata gear and started the second part of the day’s ‘walking’. Via ferrata or ‘by iron/iron ways’ as we think it must translate, are the routes through various parts of the Dolomites in which iron ladders and cables are set up to enable walkers to pass through rugged, mountainous terrain. They date back to the First World War, when they were set up to facilitate communication and passage across the mountain ranges, and since then a few further routes have been added (though in order to reduce environmental damage, no new routes have been allowed for many, many years).
the walk to come
The idea with via ferrata, is that you wear a harness, from which you are able to clip yourself to a cable. In the event that a gust of wind blows you, or you misplace your footing on one of the narrow ledges and fall, the plan is that instead of falling hundreds of metres to your death on the mountains below, your gear will keep you (relatively) safe. The technique is fairly straightforward, and it comes down to how comfortable you are as to where you clip in and where you simply hold onto the cable as you pass by. For much of the first day the sections of via ferrata were not too challenging, although a peek over the side of the ledges reminded you that there was a long fall in store if you weren’t paying attention and your gear was to fail you.
a day one ladder and cliff stretch
At 6 o’clock we climbed up and over the final ridge, into our home for the night. ‘Home’ was Rifugio Alimonte. Accustomed by now to city dorm rooms, tents and simple meals, Rifugio Alimonte had all the hallmarks of five star luxury. Warm fires, lots of friendly people talking – though nobody else with English as their first language, a good range of drinks from which to choose and the luxury of super fluffy, warm and fresh doonas meant we were in high altitude heaven. We celebrated the end of our first day’s walking sitting on a bench outside the rifugio, a half litre of Italian red between us we watched the clouds roll in and swallow the path we had just finished walking along. Moving inside we were presented with a menu from which we were to choose our salad, entree, main and desert. Not accustomed to eating such a large meal we wondered whether just a bowl of pasta would suffice, but decided it would be rude not to do as everyone else was. So we ordered our spaghetti bolognese, our bistecca (beefsteak) and schnitzel, our salads and our creme brulees and proceeded to demolish everything, relishing the simple but well-cooked food and amazed to discover how easily we packed away a day’s worth of food in one sitting, and that fine food could find us in such a remote location.
home sweet home
Post dinner we put on every warm layer of clothing we had to venture back out into the cold to watch the day draw to its end: watching the shapes emerging from the bilious clouds swirling all around us, finally parting with a triumphant flourish as the moon rose to unveil a previously hidden jagged peak only 500 metres away, ensconced in fluffy cloud since our arrival. As we went inside the last of the guests were finishing their grappas and we crept into bed, our curtains open in order to watch the stars and the moonlit peaks – such a foreign view to us.
our backyard
Day two revealed a beautiful cloudless morning and the full impact of the beauty of where we were staying hit home. We were nestled amongst steep mountains, looking across to yet more snow-crested mountains and down to winding valleys. Having been almost disappointed with the ease with which we had accomplished the via ferrata the day before, we were hoping for something more challenging: and the first steps of the day should have warned us that this would bring us much closer to the terrified adrenalin rush we had been seeking. Having climbed our way up the icy, almost glacial mountainside above our rifugio, we reached the saddle: our view over the other side of the mountain arriving complete with icy, cloth-piercing wind. The first iron ladder, leading us further up the pass, wobbled at our touch and we were glad in the face of the finger freezing wind to clip ourselves into the cable that ran alongside it. The series of three iron ladders led us to a sheer mountain side, with a path barely 50 cm wide. Clipping ourselves in again, we leaned over and looked below. Whoosh: a rush of adrenalin coursed through our veins as we took in the steep drop of nothingness falling away below us. Finally we were truly up amongst the highest peaks, far above the tree line and amongst the craggy rocks and snow which had intimidated us from the bus the day before.
a long way down
Had we known how challenging that day’s course would prove we may have chosen to head back the way we had walked in. But the challenges steadily grew, almost imperceptibly until you were doing things you certainly wouldn’t have tried any earlier: each time you decided to brave one challenging section you found yourself confronted 20 minutes later with something even scarier again. In good conditions the path would have been exciting but relatively safe. We discovered we weren’t to be blessed with such conditions: we discovered at the end of our trip that this had been the snowiest summer for 25 years.
Despite it being mid summer there were still lengthy sections of snow and ice – we were becoming a little envious of the better prepared walkers with their poles and ice axes. Several sections of cable were buried beneath metres of snow: meaning that instead of safely walking along the cliff edge people had instead forged a thin path across the almost vertical bank of snow. Crossing these sections involved leaning heavily into the mountain, plunging your hands into the snow and ice for a small amount of extra grip, then treading slowly and carefully in the footsteps of the person before you. Although far from impossible, the knowledge that you would plunge down the cliffside at the slightest slip on the ice was enough to encourage utmost concentration.
the bit we would happily have missed, or at least tackled with an ice axe
After four hours of almost constant cabling, cliff-face walking, ladder climbing and picking our way down mountain passes, crossing wooden planks roughly bolted in where the cliff cutting had crumbled away, we arrived at the end of the via ferrata for the day. Here we were to turn right to Rifugio Brentei. The path was clearly labelled on our map, but due to the heavy snow, the red markers were obscured and even after 30 minutes of hunting about the best we could find was an iron plaque with an arrow pointing down the unfeasibly steep and treacherous mountain of snow. Consulting our map again we considered whether to change route – there were two rifugio nearby and more via ferrata leading back to where we had started out on the first day. Despite being demanding, the prospect of via ferrata, with the comfort of being clipped in, was almost preferable to the plunge down the glacial mountainside. But the alpine guide had told us to go for Brentei, so that is the path we decided to follow.
Searching in vain for fresh footprints that might suggest a suitable way down, we slowly worked our way down the steep and slippery mountainside. At one point it was necessary to get a rock and smash footholds into the icy snow, painstakingly inching across to a slightly less sheer drop. At this point we vainly wished we had an ice axe, crampons and the walking sticks (sort of like ski stocks) that we had seen other people using. But carefully, if somewhat treacherously, we managed our way down the mountain: only to be overtaken by a crazy mountain goat local man and his son, happily tearing their way down the mountain and kindly passing on their ice axe to Ben so that he could make his way down the steepest parts in his less than suitable boots (mind you, mountain goat man had on open walking sandals, like Tevas). Once down the bottom, we saw the wife and daughter of the friendly Italian family working their way far more safely down the middle of the mountain: the rocks that had seemed so steep and impenetrable from the top turned out to be a much easier path down. Somewhat annoyed but also exhilarated from the path we had taken, we thought about what an easy path it would have been had the snow not been so thickly packed across the pass. By this stage our hands were slowly warming up again, the small cut Serena had endured had stopped leaving bright red blotches in the snow, and there was a clear path to the much longed for Rifugio Brentei.
So following a warming lunch of pasta and minestrone soup, we made our way down the final 700 metres of the mountain. We were exhilarated, exhausted and fully aware that this was the best walking we had ever done. It turns out there is nothing quite like alpine walking: and the via ferrata enabled us to get right into the extreme mountain peaks, unlike anything we had experienced before. Despite there being challenging sections, we had never despaired at what we were facing and thanks to the adrenalin pumping through our veins we hadn’t been especially terrified at the time. In fact we were already planning later attacks: for this visit we had no more time, but in future years we hope to go back and with a bit more planning and a bit more gear there are some more challenging pathways we would like to take. Hopefully our next visit won’t coincide with the coldest summer in 25 years.
Although we considered chilling out and recovering on the day following our walk, there were still more mountains to climb and the weather was due to turn foul so, ignoring our creaky knees and the odd cut and scrape we had incurred on our adventures, once again left out campsite and hit the morning bus into Maddonna. From here, we had a slightly easier day planned than our previous excursion. Grabbing lunch from our favourite deli/supermarket, we took a chairlift up the first 500m. Here, we decided it was just the right time for a much needed cappucino and cake, so choosing an outside table we sat down to enjoy the views and to fit in a short bit of people watching. Around us were a bunch of Italians in their 50s and 60s. They were beautifully geared up with fancy alpine clothes, hiking boots, backpacks and walking poles. Although all geared up and looking ready to launch into the six to seven hour walk, a closer inspection revealed that it was unlikely they would make it past the easy first half hour to the lake. Complete with books, newspapers and cigarettes, the closest many of these hiking boots were going to get to hiking was the hop on and off the chairlift.
day three, the saner option
Deciding against the attractive idea of joining them and staying in a deck chair eating and drinking for the day and admiring the views, we started on our walk, taking js up through the mountains and past five alpine lakes. Winding up a further 900 metres, we walked past mid-summer flowers, and further up into some gently snow touched slopes. We were delighted to see in full flight a beautiful pack of chamois or other large, dog sized animal that moved like playful, childish deer. But to be honest, what we like most about this walk is that it had us staring at what we had achieved over the two previous days. Yep, that long, steep hillside of snow really was the route we had taken back to Rifugio Brentei. And those craggy mountain tops were the craggy mountain tops that WE had managed to climb.
the first lake
the fourth lake (still life with benjamin)
The beautiful weather had given way to dark, ominous clouds and we carefully calculated our chances of getting home without being rained on (we doubted snow was possible at these heights). The changing weather, however, brought out more beauty with the mountains surrounding us taking on dark, steely, almost blue tones. After lunch and a short detour (we couldn’t resist one further lake and one more small summit,) we wound our way through stands of beautiful green forests of fir, then beech. With an hour more to go before we would make it back to town, we calculated that we would just miss the 5.15pm bus: which meant we had plenty of time to kill before the last bus home and what better way to kill it than with a beer at Rifugio Lago Nambino overlooking the last of our five lakes. We toyed with following our beers with some of the local grappa, but as we weren’t entirely sure how long it would take us to get back to town we reluctantly decided to skip the grappa and head home.
serena + beer
And so with one day left in the Dolomites and a whirlwind tour of Venice and Madrid to come we decided our last day would be spent at the campsite; reading, relaxing and writing about our adventures. The following morning, saying a sad farewell and vowing to come back (a week or two for Serena’s 31st or 32nd birthday is the current plan), we caught our bus back down the mountain. We caught the train from Trento to Bassano del Grappa, the most stunningly beautiful train ride we have ever taken (yes, even cooler than Puffing Billy), past more lakes, through more mountains and past tiny villages brimming with summer holidayers escaping the heat. Finally, from Bassano there was a dull train ride through the plains to reach Venice … and Venice is what we’ll tell you about next time round.
B+S
