The Joy of Sticks: August 2022

A man is not standing anywhere, in fact he is descending, descending like calculus, where discernible changes could encompass an act of faith. an hour and a half ago the young folk told him it was 30 minutes to the bottom, this information coming the second time they passed him, skipping (sadly not a relative term) down the track.

Nick (for it is he) is plodding, he has the definitive plod, Dobbin returning from a hard day in front of the plough does not plod like Nick, rather he wends his merry way, confident of oats or hay, Nick is confident of sudden death, a broken ankle, missed supper, turning into a prune and, excruciating cramp (if none of the others apply; apart from the ankle) at three in the morning.

He is in San Vigilio, a small resort in the Dolomites that is TOO BLOODY LOW, as usual he has picked for his first walk something that Robert Falcon Scott may have baulked at (Cherry Goddard may be an apt simile). Up until half way down the descent he has had a decent time of things, the up was an horrendous debilitating slog ameliorated by nature's beauty, "Crikey! Look at them flars! Oh look an Eagl..., oh it's gone, maybe a buzzard, probably an eagle though." After 3.5 hours he hits the col, listens to the wheezing (and widdling) of the mountain bikers and then sets off along the delightful path that contours along exposing him to Gentian (not an Alpine holiday without Gentian), there are others including Alpine Poppy, which he doesn't remember seeing before. Sadly, like the cloud no bigger than a man's hand on the horizon, he has realized that all that "up" engenders a similar down, though, as it turns out, only in height, the descent is a lot worse, a 1500 metre staircase of shattered limestone. The Dutch people he meets at the start of the descent, effectively question his sanity (it is only two thirds of the way down that he does), though to be fair they had completed the ascent and knew the drop-off points that an unfit elderly man might come across on the way down - and possibly several bounce-off points as well.

At the end of the day (there was a lovely waterfall just before, but he can't be arsed) Nick debauches onto the main road an hour from home, but still in time for the last bus - hosannah! It is the Feast of the Sacred Heart, there will be bonfires, they will be unobserved by certain parties.

So what's happening? Nick has gone on holiday, cutting a rapier's path between, rail strikes, Terminal chaos, engineering works, other commitments and committals and Covid. He has arrived in the sort of Hotel where the wine costs 25 quid a bottle, but they don't insist you drink it all at once (for Nick this is a nightmare dilemma). Arrival night was spent doing astronomy in the dark sky area, mainly in Italian and in low temperatures, Old Men were invited onto the set of rickety steps to view various galaxies and nebulae, providing them with a sparely lit view of the inside of their spectacles/retina, just about saw the Milky Way, not as good as the caravan.

This brings us to Day 2, the room is on the second floor, there are stairs and a lift, what shall he do to get to breakfast? The brief compression of the quadriceps femoris as he attempts the first step provides sufficient sensory input to propel him to the lift. He has decided on an easy day and is heading to Kronplatz, a small plateau made of schist, apparently sitting in the crumple zone between the African and Eurasian plates. The bus journey to the bottom of the cable car is one of those typical Alpine ones that would have the entire Arriva crew out for danger money in a jiffy, but to average Giovanni Publique is another of them borin' drives innit? Kronplatz has the aforementioned cable car or a path, the blessed relief provided by Ibuprofen points him in the direction of the path, and so he ascends, arriving at the top only ten minutes past the par time, though to be fair a degree of uncertainty regarding the function of his lower bowel may have provided increased (if you'll pardon the phrase) "motility". The top has two enormous resto's one of which is open, it also has an enormous bell, the Concordia, which, seeing that it is now Midday is sounding some sort of knell, or possibly opening time.

After an hour Kronplatz is done, Nick descends by cable car in order to catch the 13.05 bus, the lack of people at the bus stop causes suspicion, which is sadly confirmed by a perusal of the timetable, there is no 13.05. The choice is now to go to the pub, sit on one's arse or walk down a different route; let's see if the pub is open... the choice is now to sit on one's arse or walk down a different route. At this point he must have lost his presence of mind... the start of the route was fine, the next five miles of inclined tarmac not so much.

The spa. In order to bounce his muscles about, he went to the hotel spa, bubbled in the jacuzzi, concussed himself with the waterfall, tried swimming against the jets in the pool (not recommended without goggles, your eyelids start to fibrillate as you get closer to the jets), then suffered the angst of the English person in a spa in another language. The showers were open, the sauna had proscriptions against anything but towels, so do you wear your trunks in the shower and then doff them for the sauna, or not? There was no-one there, he freestyled, though today there was an Italian lady, in a bikini, this added to the confusion, not the bikini, the ethos.

Day the third dawns, at 9.00 am Nick joins the party off to Experience Nature, the weather forecast is predicting that most of the experiencing will be aquatic, it is however wrong - mercifully (incidentally as our narrator taps this, the following day it is heaving down). The party consists of the usual breakfast crew, who all firmly believe that Nick's Italian is super-par due to his mastery of "Buon Giorno" and "Buona Sera". The tour is led by David, the hotel manager, because of the forecast they have abandoned the idea of the Cinque Torre, in favour of the local national park, "Culos!" as we Italians say. The park is lovely, there is a red-backed shrike to spot, vanilla orchids to sniff and horseflies to swat, though potentially Nick's great age and reaction time may not be up to this, as a view in the mirror the next day attests. Lumpiness aside, they arrive at the restaurant/hut (exit through the gift shop) and order totally unnecessary huge lunches, apart from Marco who channels his inner Austrian and has a huge beer instead. Nick dives into Kaiserschmarm, a very large chopped pancake with jam, something he has always avoided as unnecessary, however tempted, still, "when in the Dolomites...".

The afternoon is spent in quiet contemplation aka digesting, and navigating the traumas of the spa, in the evening he will navigate a Campari spritz (one should probably not drink the recommendation of the local bar fly) a large piece of venison and the first quarter of book number 2, a previously unread John Buchan which is surprisingly funny (obviously from his pre-Calvinist era).

Day 4 -Deluge. The gentle thud of Alpine rain hammering on the balcony rouses Nick from the arms of Morpheus, "Hmm, raining, I can think of nothing better than taking one of the bikes and seeing if my waterproofs are." In the basement he finds the bikes, amazingly for hotel bikes, they are palatable, so he plumps for Sexy (Number 6) a nine-speed Trek with a sufficient height discrepancy between his crotch and the crossbar that will enable him to a) mount and b) pedal. Katerina at reception provides him with two maps and a lock, after a quick estimate of his physical well-being she revises the route to avoid the steep bit,

"Where I live is very steep!"

Mumbled Ladin for, "Please yourself!" "In that case go down here."

It was very steep, He takes Sexy for an amble up it.

After that it was a gentle climb through the forest for the next 10km, absolutely delightful apart from the incessant downpour. At one point Sexy and he ford the stream to investigate a campsite, actually for possible toilets, the toilet block wasn't, so they ford it back again. The bridge was 50m further on. Towards the end Nick is drawn to the sound of a game bird wobbling away in the new larch forest, failing to spot it, he makes a video to playback the unmistakeable lekking call of the Capercaillie for David. David listens twice and identifies a goat - what an idiot.

On to the rifugio at Pederu where Nick is assailed by the unmistakable babble of American Citizens on vacation, it was Backroads Cycling who had bussed the whole tribe to the top of the road so they could coast down, he attempts to steer one or two to the delights of the off-road descent, the first was determined to go as fast as possible, the others ignore him - so a cappuccino is ordered and a drying session commenced. By this time (having got as far from the hotel as possible by road) the sun comes out, the weather turns balmy, so he also turns and coasts back down the uphill route. Realising that this meant arriving back in the village almost before he'd left, he elects for another drying session with the plus of nibbling a protein bar (this, in itself is a minor miracle, normally such delicacies are eaten in times of boredom, times of crisis, times and in-between meals).

"Aha!" Thinks he, "I can go and look at that waterfall!"

200 metres up the track to the fall, the noteable lack of the sound of any roaring cascade, the continual uphill nature of the path, he can't be arsed.

Whizz. Zoom. Kaboo..., "Fancy a walk up this one Sexy? Thought so." Kablammo, "Oh we're back"

As the afternoon precedes and various articles of clothing dry out, the peace and quiet of our, now recumbent, hero are occasionally disturbed by small bits of grit bouncing across the parquet as the backsides of his clothes dry out, yes, it was the sort of mountain bike that doesn't have mudguards, the sort of bike favoured by young people and mid-life crisisers, a social-media mountain bike.

It is Ladin night, there is orange juice with Campari, various charcuterie, dumplings and slow-cooked unidentifiable meat, perhaps pork; for pudding, hot berries and ice cream. John Buchan continues, tomorrow...

Is Day 5. Slightly against Nick's better judgement he joins the nature hike, there are children, one of whom can spot a Crested Tit hiding behind a sequoia, I mean there are no sequoia but you get my drift. At the car park several miles up in the mountains, as the minibus pulls up, an ancient gentleman emerges clad in a tabard carrying the sort of shoulder bag used by bus conductors for a century, he shifts from foot to foot before being noticed, and then collects the nominal car parking fee. The team mosey off up the forest track, spotting Nutcrackers, a corvid Nick has not familiarised himself with, and watching other birds fly off before identification apart from, "something with wings - not a bat.". After an hour or so they arrive at the rifugio and then continue towards the summit, after 500m they stop to explore the panorama. Then they turn round eschewing the cross on the top a mere 30 minutes away, dudgeon ensues from one member of the party, slightly ameliorated with a half of weiss, it is at this point that David imparts a hugely important piece of information: German Scientists have determined that the best isotonic sports drink in the World is ... a non-alcoholic weiss beer, this means that he is halfway through the second best isotonic sports drink in the world!

Vaguely refreshed they descend the same way, but with less nature. Nick and Marco have English improvement lessons culminating in trying to explain why a Bearded Tit is a Bearded Tit. The journey home is accompanied by thunder, and the heavens open five minutes after the return to the hotel - a bike ride is obviously in the offing! Instead Nick showers and vegetates. At dinner, there are Swedes, allowing him to talk, the floodgates open, they have been coming to this hotel for 25 years, mainly for ski, however, it's still a recommendation. Marco gives Nick a glass of his novelty rose to taste.

As the previous day was the penultimate, this means that today is the last day. An early breakfast sees Nick on the 8.30 bus to Pederu, as he gets off the bus he cannot find his 'kerchief, his suntan lotion, or indeed, his hat. He therefore elects for the most treey of the two routes and starts up the zig-zag road to the plateau, i.e. he climbs Snowdon before reaching a, comparatively flat bit, where he is greeted by cowbells and the gentle flapping of the flag on the first rifugio - it's too early, he finds the path that bypasses the road and heads off along it, there is a paucity of trees, so he flits from shade to shade like a portly ninja. Eventually the next rifugio appears amongst the knell of cow bells - still too early. Halfway to the next one he spies Marmot spying on him, for those of you who don't know Marmot, imagine a guinea-pig with a tail, dressed in an oversize onesie. The next rifugio appears, it's lunchtime, it's shut!

The next half hour is spent looking for the path, Nick can find number 27 which he doesn't want, he can find a path that doesn't exist, but he cannot find that path that's right there on the map... unless it's that one -it is! As he breasts the first rise there is a thud of rodential feet as the Marmot who has been ambling along the same path becomes aware of a human being - surprise all round! the path turns the corner and contours down along the cliff before eventually disgorging him on a track, where the map says turn right. A delightful ramble through the woods brings him to a hut standing in magnificent isolation, seeing as he is looking for a continuation of the track, magnificent isolation is something he doesn't want, a hut by the side of the thoroughfare would be much better appreciated. After another half-an-hour of off-piste exploration he admits defeat, and retraces, 200m beyond the junction he finds the right turn, "BUMS!". At the bottom of he purchases a beer, and then, rather than wait for the bus decides on the bosky walk to the next stop, sadly this turns into a bosky power walk as the distance to arrival-of-next-bus ratio trends towards the negative.