#151 | Torre Pellice to Florence, Italy

Cycling East, towards China.

Friday 8th

Torre Pellice, Italian Alps. Just completing the "Pellice Double", whereby you summit one mountain with the bicycle — the wrong one — and then descend to the valley to climb up to the hut. Whoopsy.

It's good to be back in the Alps. I can feel fresh mountain air pouring from the peaks, past me and into the valleys below me. I began the day by picking up new trainers because of foot pain with cleats. I stopped for coffee in Savigliano's beautiful market; it was market day. Met Alicia, a maths professor at the University of Turin, had another coffee (I'm back to my old caffeine-addicted ways; lock me up), and we talked about life and love. Few things are better than having a deep conversation with an absolute stranger in the mix of Savigliano's market. Around us, vegetable sellers watered their lettuce; honey sellers looked bored. 

I left the town after 1 p.m. and was late for my evening appointment. I cut through the cornfields as fast as possible.

Now, halfway through the accidental two-summit "Pellice Double", I still have a steep climb. So steep that a cyclist pulls over to tell me it is steep.

I point at my legs and give a thumbs up. He looked at my legs, laughed, and cycled off.

Why did he laugh?

All I can hear is a flood of the stream to my right as I crinkle over dropped leaves.

I'm going offline for the weekend, building cabins.

Tuesday 12

Nouveau Caffetteria Battisti, Asti. Early coffee before an exquisite day of climbing today into the Genovese hills. Later, I'll be close to Genova, as I roll towards Florence. I have a Florentine dinner date on Friday with my Godfather, which I must make. It's one of the few things I have in the diary for the rest of my life! Lol. From hereon, only birthdays and Christmases clog up my calendar.

Asti is an ornate historic Piedmontese town. Its untouched centre is surrounded by Decathlon, Aldi and retail parks. The cobbled streets in the centre are lined with castled flags, limestone shops and little cafés. Sitting in a coffee now, I see it's a small world in Asti. Every third person knows the couple on my left, and there's a smile and a "Ciao" and "Bongiorno!" 

Napoleon visited Asti and was met with a chilly reception — presumably because he just invaded. I get the sense that not so much has changed in the last two hundred years.

Later. Wild camping on the Liguria / Piedmont border. Pesto pasta eaten, tent up, sleeping bag out, roll mat inflated (and slowly deflating). That is my evening checklist. I need a new roll mat.

I had a divine weekend helping Martijn build his cabins with a couple of other dudes (featured in pic). Because of the steep climb, I arrived pretty late. The sun was gone from the valley, and a heavy dusk had set in. We set up our tents and then sat around a chunky granite table with granite benches overlooking the valley. We ate large chunks of cheese, chicken, sausage and potatoes. I was exhausted and dehydrated, having pushed my bike for an hour and a half up a steep track. 

Let's talk about what was happening on this mountainside: It's too surface-level to think of it as a construction site. It's more than that. In the mountains, these huts are surrounded by natural art and nature's exquisite beauty. It's captured (a bit like a Pokemon, I suppose), and put on YouTube. Then, this little bit of nature is available for all of us to see.

As a result: "Oh shit, there is a whole world beyond my basement flat in Hull, with my dead-end job and awful husband!"

Not to get too radical about it, but the treadmill of consumerism keeps us locked up and gagged. Consequently, very few people are free, and a similarly limited number want to be free. People don't want to be free because I don't know how: they don't know what is possible. In the song It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding), Bob Dylan wrote, "That he not busy being born is busy dying". The cabins are busy being born; reborn after a century of dilapidation. And with the birth of the cabins, I, too, felt a little bit reborn. It's possible — no, plausible — to live a simple life amid mountain peaks with a good view on a low budget.

It was not easy work, cutting and moving structural beams, polishing the limestone from the new roof, and picking dirt. But the cabin is not a story of construction but of inspiration. It's a public service to inspire others to live fuller lives. It's very cool, and I deeply respect it.

On the point of the meaning of life, Dostoevsky said it is "Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!" This is my favourite quote; the cabins manifest this message in slate, cement, and timber. While the days were spent intensely working away, we spent the evenings eating cheese and pasta, sipping tea, and having the most exciting and far-reaching conversations about life, freedom, and, of course, Napoleon. He would have crossed the Alps just above our heads.

Thursday 13th.

Sestri Levante (the coast!). Last night, I found a muddy hollow. My air bed deflated a few times, and it rained. So, no, I didn't get the best night's sleep. But it can't all be five-star luxury on the road. Spending the night awake allowed me to dive into Elon Musk's new biography by Walter Isaacson, which is immediately exceptional and an absolute joy.

Nevertheless, this morning, I got up early, found a little bar to charge my phone and have a cappuccino and then pushed on to the coast. Shallow clouds filled the valleys as I climbed up through what felt like tropical forests over the hills to the northeast of Genoa. 

I listened to Mark Manson's The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck. It is a good book, and it essentially encourages us to live more freely and honestly. 

As I topped the hills and descended to the coast, the clouds cleared (they've since returned a little). I stopped for a Coca-Cola before heading to a campsite. I have been here with Rory, Alex, and Monty some seven years ago.

Now, walking along the beachfront. There's no sun; the clouds have moved in. I've been swimming this afternoon after setting my tent. I went to dinner with Elon's biography, and the church bells chime: it's 8 p.m. The sea softly sweeps up against the sand, which glows along the coast into the horizon. Beach umbrellas decorate the beaches in strict order.

Plan to get up early and ride 130km (twice today's distance) to Pisa! Let's see how I fly.

Later. In the tent, surrounded by lightning. No sounds of thunder, however, which is odd. 

Friday 15th

Pisa. Late. Walking back to the campsite past the leaning tower. Heck, it really leans. 

Did I need that second pizza? After some rough calorie calculations, I burnt six or seven thousand calories today, so the answer is yes, although I am now struggling to walk. 

I had set my alarm this morning for the first time in ages because I had 130 km to do. Plus, the last few days, I felt quite slow. Nevertheless, I got up after a night of heavy rain, showered and started rolling through countless quaint villages, opening their storefronts to the day. After about two hours, I've done the lion's share of the climbing — around 650 m worth in one stretch — which was brutal. 

I was climbing from the coast, past La Spezia and parallel to some of the most beautiful coastlines in Italy. The hills I rode through were still soft with the morning to dew and intermittently misty. The layers of hills have way to, yes, more hills. I climbed up into the mountains. The downhill was spectacular for another 40 km, and then I followed the coastal path past grids of umbrellas set out for tourists, who lie impossibly tanned on their deckchairs or eating in their beach restaurants. The resorts' yellows and blues, or the reds and whites, appeal to me. 

Now I'm walking past the tower of Pisa, and everyone is pretending they're holding up with their hands. Fools.

Saturday 16th

Via Di Spirito, Florence. In the crowds, invisible. I'm another tourist. Could this be the most romantic city in the world? 

Sunday 17th 

Via della Vigna Nuova, Florence. My Godfather's place is special. I couldn't be further from the floor of my tent. I sit on his terrace, surrounded by an angled jungle of ocre roofs on top of yellow walls, with red shutters closed (early morning). A hundred swallows dive over the roofs like fighter jets.

There is no traffic on the cobbled stones below, just one road sweeper in the distance. I can see the Duomo, Florence's cathedral, and a dozen church towers peaking past the red tiles, which catch the light in the morning sun. A hot air balloon floats above. 

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Next up: I am undecided, probably Ancona (four days of cycling), and then to Split by ferry. I'll decide today…

Live well,

Hector