#152 | Florence to Muzzana del Turgnano, Italy

Cycling east, towards China.

Tuesday 19th

Bologna. Yesterday, from Florence, I headed up into the hills. Through countless cobbled streets, I left the Florentine-five-star luxury life of my Godfather, up, up, up into Tuscan hills. It got dark, and I continued to go — yes — up. Eventually, I crossed the col and walked into a dusty woodland to set camp. Heavy rain all night, and I continued to reflate my roll-mat hourly. At each inflation, read a few pages of Steve Jobs’ biography (link). A couple of quotes from this excellent book: 

• “Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

• “In the first 30 years of your life, you make your habits. For the last 30 years of your life, your habits make you.”

• “You should never start a company with the goal of getting rich. Your goal should be making something you believe in and making a company that will last.”

• “If you want to live your life in a creative way, as an artist, you have to not look back too much. You have to be willing to take whatever you’ve done and whoever you were and throw them away. The more the outside world tries to reinforce an image of you, the harder it is to continue to be an artist, which is why a lot of times, artists have to say, “Bye. I have to go. I’m going crazy and I’m getting out of here.” And they go and hibernate somewhere. Maybe later they re-emerge a little differently.”

I unzipped my tent this morning; the rain had stopped, and an impenetrable fog had rolled across the woods. I put a coffee on, packed my tent, and sat in peace, deep in the woodland, engulfed by the fog.

The day was beautiful and downhill: easy. Cutting through woodlands beside rushing streams which link miniature Tuscan villages. On the way to Bologna, I logged in to Warmshowers (a “free worldwide hospitality exchange for touring cyclists”). I applied to ten hosts, only one is available; I plan to stay with Alessio, 10 km outside Bologna.

Later. After an afternoon of being a tourist — loitering among luminous squares edged with five-metre brick arches — I cycled out of the centre to Zola Predosa. Alessio met me with a broad grin and wicked humour. Will this stranger murder me? It did cross my mind. When we entered his two-bedroom flat, the Tuscan heavens opened and drenched Tuscany in what Alessio described as “pea soup”. The air was thick. He generously put me up for the night. As a bike tourist, he sometimes opens his doors to nomads. He’s cycled in Chile, Argentina and, most impressively, crossed The Great Divide, which follows the Rocky Mountains 2,745 miles from Banff, Alberta, to Antelope Wells, New Mexico. Brutal. Hilly! Over a burger infused with mint, we talked about everything: love, life, death, and most of all, bike touring, which encompasses all of the previous and more.

So now I’m getting into bed. Warm and showered. I never did taste that typical Bologna Ragu, but the burgers are good.

Wednesday 20th

La Spiga Golosa, Malalbergo. I’ve been spoiled today — twice. Alessio took me for breakfast in his local café. It’s his favourite because it’s *not* where the drunks hang out. He pointed to a cafe bar filled with greys, each squinting at their half-pint glasses of half-drunk beer; it’s half-eight, and life is half-over at that stage. And we sat in the fresh air discussing the freedom of living out of panniers; it would be fun to do in an adventure together.

I left Zopa and then Bologna, following a dirty canal. And the banks were covered in dying trees, blanketed in impenetrable spider webs, like some scene from The Forbidden Forest. And the canal itself was thick with algae, breeding mosquitos. Each time I stopped, I would be covered. Occasionally, I’d come across what I thought was a cat or a cute otter, but as I got closer, “Rat!!” -- foot-long rats terrorise me.

Now, I’m crossing the Po Valley. I’m back to the flat agricultural lands. Half an hour ago, I pulled up at this little bakery and had three large chunks of margarita pizza with mayonnaise. (N.b. eating pizza with mayonnaise was once punishable by death in Italy). The bakery is like countless others: plastic tables and chairs, red sun shelter, and intensely local. It’s ordinary, and, as always with the ordinary, it’s bliss. Anyway, a Ukrainian mechanic and a chef, both local, struck up a conversation, both charming. They surprised me by paying for lunch. Astonishing generosity!

Later. I’ve been following the Po. There is one lone wrinkle of land alongside the Po River, a barrier that peers over the valley. It is on this wrinkle that I roll. I met two women in their late 60s, both impossibly tanned. They said their day “wasn’t too good because the weather is bad”; for me, it is a smoking hot summer day! I said as much. They said, “It always rains in England”. I agreed (how could I not). They then said you have “very pale shoulders, white shoulders” — these shoulders have been in the beating almost every day for a month. I showed them on my chest, which has not. They laughed, “So pale!” They said they were relatively pale (they could hardly have been more tanned….) They said they were “old women, and therefore no longer use olive oil to tan”. I laughed and left.

Later. A farm. I called this agriturismo, and it was closed, but the owner, who looks like a Mormon devotee, kindly offered his lawn. I set up my tent, accompanied by two horses and five donkeys. I’m in love with them.

Thursday 21st

A ferry into Venice. This is my third ferry of the day. Oh, fourth, actually, because I got kicked out of the third one because of the bicycle. I hear that fewer cities are less friendly to bicycles and Venice. They are banned entirely. 

I woke up with the donkeys and horses — a little bit like Jesus. I spent the day marching into a ruthless headwind across the Po Valley. The fertile lands of the Po lay to my left and right: beautiful brick farms, each with a dozen beehives immaculately kept, nestled among the fields. I reached the coast and discovered that the cycling path I thought I was following was, in fact, a series of ferries. The last one I’m on is entering the Grand Canal.

Friday 22nd

Fondomenta Rio Martin, Venice. Cultural hot take: I’ve been to the Gallerie dell’Accademia this morning and then to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. I suddenly realised why modern art is so extraordinary. I have never understood the significance of Surrealism, Cubism, etc. And I’ve not studied art since I was 13… I realised that each era of art must be considered in the context of the art immediately before. For example, Surrealism began in approximately 1920. Art was traditional only a century and a half earlier, like Tiepolo’s A Dance In The Country. Seventy years before then, art was even more conventional (Bellini’s Madonna and Child). So, going from one generation to the next demonstrates a leap in creativity and what art can express. With the benefit of hindsight, it’s not easy to see how radical these conceptual leaps are (we now have Beeple’s Human One and Hockney’s iPad). Art doesn’t seem so breathtaking unless you consider what came before and the conceptual leaps made by each generation.

Later. Sitting on the edge of a well next to the Basilica S.Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. Wet limestones, littered with tourists, stretch onto the canal ahead of me, on which lies a pair of gondolas. Behind them, brick-built four-story houses jumble upwards above a bar and a glass-blowing shop. Every turn of Venice is new and interesting and beautiful. Most of the buildings are rendered in soft pastel, varying shades of red and orange, and where the render peels, potted brick pokes through. When cycling to unique places, it’s tempting never to stop being a tourist. Hardcore tourists look exhausted by 4 p.m. So much walking! So much learning. I’ve decided to read in the Basilica, and it’s a delight. 

Later. Unknown resturant. The American couple next to me select their wine. 

“We’ll take this one”, says the man, pointing at the menu. 

“No, no, I don’t like it so much”, says the square Albanian waiter in a black shirt, “it’s not good wine … you pay €39 for nothing, normal”. 

The couple are shocked and select a cheaper but better wine. 

Good service — this is how you inspire trust. Be honest to your detriment.

Saturday 23rd

Agriturismo La Di Anselmi, near Muzzana del Turgnano. Late in the evening. Hell of a day. Started very slowly — I left Venice at 1 p.m. after visiting the Scuola Grande di San Rocco — spectacular — and then I sat around living the Venetian life. Difficult to cycle away from. Eventually, I got the wheels rolling and headed out from the lagoon. During one particularly aggressive storm, I stopped for a Coca-Cola Zero (my go-to when the weather turns) and called an agriturismo, which said they would host my tent. “Cool,” I said, “see you soon”. My map said it was 70 km away, and it was already four-thirty. Challenging! But not impossible. At that point, a monstrous cloud began to close in. Storms like aliens from Stranger Things loomed over the flat towns and villages. Night crept over; the weather closed tighter, and the storms evolved. By 8 p.m., the rain was heavy and horizontal; the world outside my lone lamplight had disappeared. Exceptional headwinds slowed me down; the traffic zoomed. 

Amid the darkness, I arrived drowned. The bar heaved with locals, and I sat and had a peach iced tea and bar snacks for supper. French Philip is also crashing here, and we might cycle together a little tomorrow. I’m now camping in the smoking area, which is covered. Luxury!