#150 | Verna to Torre Pellice, Italy

Cycling East, towards China.

Monday 4th

Camping Verna di Cumiana, near Turin. My iPhone no longer recognises me to unlock. I need a haircut.

After two weeks on the road, it’s time to take a rest day. In hindsight, I could’ve rested sooner — legs are tired. 

The most special moment of this trip was quite mundane. Earlier today, I spun past a slow-moving stream when climbing towards this campsite, Camping Verna. I kicked the stand, walked down the sandy bank, and removed my shoes and socks. 

I sat, feet wet, splashing water on my face. I was, at that moment, unhurried.

Time off the saddle is as valuable as time on it. Often when you stop, the world arrives.

A brown Labrador, with its two owners, wandered down the steep sandy bank. At first, the Labrador was timid. After lurching forwards and then retreating, as nervous dogs do, it scurried into the stream. Like an otter, she swam from bank to bank, thrilled to re-discover the ground under her paws; she shook — smiled at her owners — and then jumped back in. 

This little moment was a reminder that I shouldn’t rush. And that life will come to me if I simply take off my shoes, and wait. In precisely this spirit, it’s midday, and I’m sitting overlooking the Turin valley. Campsite lizards trundle; the leaves, while still green, are limp under the hot sun — they’ll begin to drop soon after a scorched summer.

I had breakfast with Johan and Hilde, a Belgian couple with five children. Over salami, tomato jam and rough bread, we talked about how partners can be the saviour, or the disrupter, of our mental health. So too can children. 

Yesterday was a short 50km day, culminating in a brutal ascent up to the campsite. I’m now reading, and will shortly cycle (without my heavy panniers) down into Giaveno to get some pesto.

Later. My travel plans, which are sketchy at best, are disrupted. I just got good news that I’m welcome to help build some cabins close by. It’s only a few hours from here, so I will postpone my trip to Florence and stay in these hills for the next few days.

The universe is telling me to stop. I wonder why is it keeping me here.

Later. Think I will delete Instagram and write a novel instead. What about?

Tuesday 5th

Vamping Verna. Stillness. I open my eyes and I look down into the valley. 

I’m so used to being in perpetual motion in London, and also on this trip, it seems strange, alien, and wrong not to be moving. “Shouldn’t I be pushing through northern Italy now?” I keep asking myself.

I was talking to the ever-delightful VS (name obfuscated) when I said I planned to fill the next few days with another cycle tour looping around northern Italy; she asked me “why?”.

Well, I said, I’ve got to keep moving.

Again, she asked, “why?”

I paused. 

The point of the journey isn’t to continually move; the point is to explore, so I’m now exploring not northern Italy, but Verna and the surrounding hamlets. I can zoom in here.

Yesterday, without my panniers, I rolled through the foothills into the valley and took coffee and gelato next to the church. Today, I won’t even touch my bike. After porridge, I’ll visit some quaint chapels perched pensively on hilltops.

A tremendous grey cloud has slung itself over the mountains behind us. It feels good to be welcoming stillness. 

Later. Monte Freidour. I like to get high when I don’t cycle. Vertically.

I now sit on Monte Freidor. Walked for four hours: left the camp in the wrong direction and got quickly lost. Confused by endless red and white flashes painted on rocks and branches. Following these, I descended to the valley floor over orange leaves dropped in the thick woodland. Each step taken carefully to avoid turning my ankle. I’m sweaty and attract flies. 

The face of the mountain drops away so fast under me that the trees, which are at least four times my height, appear as rough moss on the slopes below. In the middle distance, the hills from the mountains behind me peater out into the flat valley of Turin, above which heavy purple-grey haze sits. 

There’s no sun in the grey sky. The hills are pulled up like an unmade bed. Straight ahead of me, it appears as if there’s one more mountainous effort to grow a peak; it got to a quarter of the size of Monte Freidour. Then, as if with a groan and an exhale, it drops into the agricultural valley and town of Cantalupa. 

I mustn’t stop for too long as it will get dark.

Later. Got lost. Unsure if I ever did summit Monte Freidour, but the peak was nevertheless nice and high.

Wednesday 6th

Vigone. The bakery wrapped up the focaccia like a Christmas present. I’m around 30 km into today’s ride.

Yesterday afternoon I realised there’s so much to see in Piedmont, and even though yesterday I resolved not to cycle for a few days, I am not ready to stop. Lol.

So I have decided on a completely superfluous, pointless and meaningless loop. I’ll cross the Turin valley, sticky with heat, and then into the vineyards of Alba 100km away.

I woke up with the orange sun splashing against the inside of my tent. I could hear the churches across the valley chime at slightly different times: an orchestra of church towers. I wept at the beauty of the downhill cruse from Verna into the valley. It was exceptional.

Now I’m in this pretty coffee shop. The Italians are talking so loudly, with such velocity, that it’s impossible to write.

Later. The Sanctuary of the Blessed Matia Vetgine del Pilone, Moretta. I’m following a European super-cycle route, called the Spring Route - via Delle Risorgive - which, for 19km knits beautiful villages together. It’s entirely flat on the valley floor. I arrived in a small village, only 1,400 villagers, settled around this vast building; it’s no longer a monastery, but rather the Provincial Institute of Dairy and Food Technologies. Somewhat less spiritual, but it points to how much wealthier Piedmont was back in the day.

Later. Osteria Fermata, Alba. The universe did its thing again. I rolled into Alba Camping, the only campsite in town. It didn’t feel right. The energy was off — I couldn’t face a “commercial” campsite after the beauty of Verna. 

So I picked up some fresh peaches and an apple. 0.45€; the attendant nearly spat at me when I tried to pay with a 20€ note. I found the exact change.

Back on the road into the town centre, I spotted a cyclist with terrible sock tan lines: he must also be a cycle tourist. Turns out he’s called Francesco and works in a kitchen here. He recently cycled to Paris (hence the tan). We had a beer, and now my tent is in his communal garden. We have breakfast arranged for 6.30 am.

Now I’m sitting in the old train station building, which is as typical as possible: Yellow walls. Thin gauze hangs over the windows. The plates are glass. Spaghetti cacio e pepe, sparkling water and hard bread on the side. A group of construction workers sit behind me, all heavy set, hands strangling their cutlery. They order another carafe and take a rolled cigarette every fifteen minutes. Opposite, a man in his mid-forties is dining alone; he leans as if without a spine, hanging over his plate. What does he dream about?

I order pudding.

Writing is a wonderful travel companion. It forces observation. Rather than sitting mindlessly, I wonder how to capture a scene in words. I then — as if waking up — see. Words are, however, intrinsically limiting; it’s impossible to capture every detail.

Yet it is possible to lay out what’s pertinent, the bits that capture the attention and give flavour to a scene: The helmet lying upturned on the table. The bicycle locked to the railings outside the wooden door to my right, always just within sight. The red lights of traffic beyond. And it need not all be glamorous: My dirty, tired, sandal’ed feet are hidden under the table. A couple walks in; they must be German tourists? They have a ruminant, questioning nature — “Is this really where we will spend the evening, darling?” If only the waiter would let the couple make eye-contact, they might leave, but they are too busy feigning a smile. People often think they’ve committed to a restaurant by opening the door. Guys, if you don’t like it, it’s not rude to go; you can leave.

Slightly later. Yes, German (called it immediately!) They sat next to me with a look which said, “It’s only you, that weird dude, and the construction workers in here, but the capacity is for fifty. Should We be worried?”

Osteria Fermata was excellent.

Thursday 7th

Bar Piazza, Carru. When I pulled up, a man pointed me in the other direction — “tourists go elsewhere”. Great, I’ll stay here. 

I’ll sleep in a B&B tonight. I found somewhere cheap next to a pizzeria. Today, I’ve lived in ignorance of my dietary requirements, and am hungry and hot.

Delicious breakfast with Francesco (he told me Alba smells so good because it’s the HQ of Ferrero — delicious chocolate wafts across the town at dawn). I did some route planning and headed into the hills, all wrinkled with vineyards. I have not seen a cloud all day, and, under the incessant sun, I’ve ridden through rolling Piedmont in all her glory. If someone were commissioned to paint a picture of the most generic yet beautiful vineyarded hills, they would paint my journey from Alba to Murazzano. It’s been an absolute joy and, most importantly, totally redundant. This trip’s whole point is to do something that needn’t be done: to cycle without purpose. Today, it has achieved that aim.

I am anchored in this mindset of only living for an outcome: I usually only do A and then B to get to C. Every action is an input to some equation. I think back to living in London; how many times did I just do something for the sake of doing it? For the hell of it? Without an answer to “why?” Never. That’s a shame. 

And on I peddle, under that whipping sun which menaces these pale pink shoulders, towards Savigliano.

Later. B&B Cascina la Barona, Savigliano. Two pizzas — eaten. Breakfast is booked for 8am. I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed, not a sleeping bag, so my legs can starfish.

Friday 8th

B&B Cascina la Barona. Woke early in this gorgeous farmhouse, hosted by Georgia and her mum. Breakfast in an hour. 

Looking out the window. I’m now within the dense purple haze I was looking down at from the Alps. It loosely sits above the olive-green fields which wrap around the farm. I stayed up late last night watching Alex Hormozi’s videos. He’s motivating, but would I want his life? Perhaps not; it isn’t accidental enough — not spontaneous enough.

I’m offline this weekend, back in the Italian Alps, building cabins, so I will send a longer update next week (inclusive of the goings-on this weekend), posted from Florence, which will be my next stop.

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I’m also posting intermittently on Insta at hector_is_lost.

Live well, 

Hector