Do the trains run on time? (Caution! winding gear!)

Certainly from Domodossola, in rather impressive scenery, the train to Novara, the first leg of my journey to Aosta, left punctually.  And the train from Novara left on time, as did the final train, from Ivrea to Aosta.

After a hot, lazy morning having multiple breakfasts, I returned to the hotel to pick up my luggage to be greeted by an anxious host politely enquiring if I'd walked off with the keys to my room. I had, of course, but she was very nice about it. 

Then to the station.  For newcomers to the world of the Wrinklies, the health warning in the title of this post about "winding gear" refers to any kind of heavy machinery or engineering.  The Bro has a particular penchant for all things wound, and would much rather take a photo of a rusting heap of metal than the spectacular mountain panorama behind him.  For this reason, there will be periodic photos of winding gear both for him and other fans of oily machinery (you know who you are) throughout this blog.

The first leg took me through a steep-sided valley, past cool woods, mountain streams and Alpine farms, the trackside lined with laburnums.  Fields of maize, harvested hay and straw bales, and glimpses of vegetable plots, groaning with tomatoes and gourds.  There was also a considerable quantity of winding gear.

I noticed: a sprinkler on a corrugated plastic roof, keeping it cool presumably, and no livestock in the fields.  In fact, despite the clear evidence of fodder and bedding on the journey, I have yet to see a grazing animal.  Are they not allowed anywhere near trains?  Later, we ticked along past lake Orta, looking cool and inviting and screaming to this frustrated swimmer: "dive in!". I very nearly got off the train at the next stop.

At Novara, I clambered aboard a graffiti-covered train.

The seats were blue Naugahyde, the air conditioning from open windows, blue curtains flapping around as we rattled through the lowlands towards Santhia, a taste of the landscape next year, and then a curious dogleg southwest to Chivasso, before turning north again to Ivrea, where the Alps once more appeared. 

Wearing a mask is mandatory on all Italian public transport, and there's a serious fine for non-compliance.  However, it seems that the mask is worn under the chin this year, sometimes on the train as well as off, but it's one person per two seats, with separate doors for entering and exiting.

At Ivrea onto a big red train, with real aircon (such a blessed relief) and a tantalising glimpse of a wide river bordered by medieval buildings in Ivrea (I may get there this time, it's on the Via), and then the scenery got serious.  As we followed the route of the Via towards Aosta, there were sun-baked slopes, lined with adret (of which more in due course), villages clinging by their fingernails to the sides of impossible slopes, and castles at every turn.  Wrinklitourist got a bit excited by it all; there promise to be some fabulous walks ahead.

And finally, Aosta, dripping with Roman remains, and waiting to be discovered. Oh, and the train to Novara was late arriving, as was the one to Ivrea, so, no, they don't.

Domodossola, northern Italy

My first grateful stop in Italy is Domodossola, a bustling medieval market town just south of the Swiss border.  Nestling in the Alps, at 220m above sea level, it was a welcome sight after 11 hours of travel, starting at 4am with the drive to Bristol Airport.

Travel in these times is an eerie experience; for the most part well-managed by the authorities, and with mutual respect among the passengers.  I only had to glare at a couple of (young male) people.  Going through security was pretty much as normal, with just a lot more perspex.  There is only one way in to the terminal, past a slightly alarming booth and ceiling-mounted thermometer.  Once clear of that, all masked up, and taking advantage of a multitude of hand sanitising stations, via a sanitised bag check-in, it

 was through to the untypically half-full departure lounge, where a series of arrows on the floor offered a one-way system which, if followed precisely, gave no hope of return to the starting point.  On then to the gate, and the 'plane, which, despite Easyjob's assurances of fewer passengers was pretty rammed.

Geneva airport disembarkation, passport control and luggage reclaim was painless, and I was able to catch an early train, along the northern side of Lake Geneva, spotting the lakeside palace I'll buy when I win the lottery, and then into the Rhone valley, with bare rocky mountains rising in grotesque shapes on either side, the river itself running swollen and pale green alongside the train.  

At Brig, I changed trains for the short hop through a tunnel into Italy, to be greeted at the top of the stairs in Domodossola station by two rather fierce looking Polizia di Finanza officers, who were actually stopping the young Indian man in front of me. 

After I'd dodged them, Google maps managed to confuse me sufficiently to make the 5 minute walk to the hotel into a head-scratching 10 minutes, and I was glad to lie down in an albeit hot room and listen to the thunder rumbling in the mountains, for, Lo!, as soon as Wrinklitourist arrived, so did the rain, a phenomenon which will surprise no one in my immediate circle; I am, after all, the rain goddess, bringing rain to India, the Philippines, Spain and just about anywhere else I go.  I need the Bro here to counterbalance and bring some sun.

However, it's a bright, sunny morning today, and in the delightful Market Square, there is, appropriately, a farmers' market.  The next leg to Aosta starts this afternoon.

Wrinklies may manage a few steps.

Assuming all is well, Wrinklitourist is off to the Alps on 30 July.  Hilarious mix ups with the bookings have confirmed my ability to mess up.  This is known as " doing a Basel" in my family, after I booked a flight to Basel which turned out to be a flight to Zurich, but I only realised when I was on the 'plane.  Then there was the time I booked a hotel for a chum's splendid retirement do at a Bristol restaurant, only to turn up the day after the event.  Or the time I turned up 24 hours early for a flight to Croatia.  Or the time I read 14.00 as 4pm, and missed a flight to the Philippines.  You begin to see the theme emerging.  This time I managed to book all onward trains and accommodation for the day before I arrive.

If I manage to arrive in Aosta, my intention is to start the Via at the St Bernard Pass, and tick off about 6 stages before next year.  This means that my planning for 2021 will not need to take account of a snow-blocked stage at the start, and I should be able to start in early May.  The bro is not participating, having walked with me for three days in the Welsh mountains last week, and been shown a clean pair of heels (I like to flatter myself, in fact he was leaping gazelle-like up the steepest slopes while I puffed along behind.).

More to follow, once I am in Italy.