← PreviousThree days in SloveniaFrom Slovenian rain to Italian tunnels, our road takes us from the damp forests of Kranjska Gora to the sunny valleys of Friuli. Between warm encounters, spectacular descents and makeshift playgrounds for Clémence, each stage reveals a new face of Europe. Three days packed with kilometres, in which we measure the magic of travelling by bike as a family.
Tuesday 16 September
Crossing mountains comes with its share of drawbacks. You obviously have to climb relentlessly, but you also have to face fickle weather. The peaks catch the clouds and are slow to let them go. It rained for much of the night and the ground is soaked when we wake up. The sky is low and grey; it would take a miracle to dodge the drops. We wait patiently for check-out time, 10 am, hoping for a break in the clouds that never comes. It's just raining a little less, so we kit ourselves out as on stormy days, with rain trousers, overshoes, waterproof jackets and the huge tarp that covers Clémence's trailer.
Luckily, as it happens, we only have thirteen kilometres to ride, on a separate cycle path. Riding on the road in these conditions is really no fun; we much prefer these damp woods, especially as the treetops more or less shelter us. The rain comes and goes in intensity and seems to be getting angrier as we reach Kranjska Gora. The town sits at a tripoint with Italy and Austria and also has a small ski resort. We can barely see the surrounding mountains as we arrive, and we take refuge in a café that doubles as a launderette. It lets us run a wash while we drink hot drinks.
Since the weather is against us, we make an exception to our usual routine and eat out. Everyone speaks perfect English in Slovenia and we have no trouble making ourselves understood. We eat a burger and sausages in a wooden chalet to the sound of loud 80s hits. We notice that Slovenians love loud music in every public place. We drag out lunch long enough to be able to go to tonight's hotel. It's a four-bed room in a modest building, where we can still park our bikes in the common room.
We don't hang about and head out in search of a playground despite the gloomy weather. It's modest but it's enough for Clémence, who finds her happiness in small structures by inventing games. The sky doesn't clear and the mood in town is glum. Slovenians don't smile much; their faces are cold and hard, which adds to the dreary atmosphere. We head back for Clémence's snack and cartoon while Cassandre goes for a run. The restaurants in town are all overpriced or serve only meat and grills, so we decide to buy groceries and eat a cold dinner in our room while watching the World Athletics Championships. Not the most eventful day of our lives.
Wednesday 17 September
We've already been back in Europe for a week. Seven full days in which we've had plenty of adventures and crossed two countries, while a third is waiting for us with open arms: Italy. The clouds have scarpered, the sun has the whole sky to itself and a beautiful day lies ahead. We have about forty kilometres to ride today and it should go fast: we've done nothing but climb for the past three days, and now we're going to roll down through the Italian mountains.
We make a detour to the Kranjska Gora lakes, two small artificial ponds with splendid reflections of the surrounding peaks. Big fish swim slowly in the clear water and keep us company on our quick loop around them. Clémence is having a great laugh running over the pebbles with her hands in her pockets, until she suddenly falls forward with no way to catch herself. Her elbow is grazed, which sends us off to order hot drinks at the only café there. In Slovenia and Croatia, prices at tourist spots aren't sky-high the way they are in France. You pay less for the view than you would at home.
There are only six kilometres left to the border, on a gentle climb, and we're soon over the other side. Suddenly we're passing more and more touring cyclists, many of them speaking German; we assume they're Austrian or Swiss. That's because we've joined one of the most popular cycle routes in Europe: the Alpe-Adria, a 410-kilometre route shared between Austria and Italy. Part of it follows an old railway line, and the abandoned stations are unmistakable traces of it. In South Korea, though, every one of these railway buildings would have been converted for cyclists, with shelters or toilets. Here, you have to go into town and pay to relieve yourself.
In Tarvisio we stop for focaccia and rediscover Italian hospitality. We watch people chatting in the street, smiles on their faces and no barriers between them. The cycle route keeps winding through magnificent valleys, alongside the railway, the motorway and a country road. We stop at a small playground and take the opportunity to fix the inner tube on the Touring's rear tyre. It's been going down constantly for several days, so we find the hole and stick on a patch. We've lost count of our punctures since we set off!
Going downhill the whole way, we devour the stage at full speed, and it's still mid-afternoon when we reach today's accommodation. It's a little house in the equally little village of Pontebba; the instructions are pinned to the door and we can let ourselves in even though no one's there. We settle in and Clémence discovers a room full of children's toys, her idea of paradise. The owner, a cheerful-faced Italian woman, arrives shortly afterwards with her daughter, who is the same age as Clémence. We chat for a bit before going shopping in the heart of the village. The terraces are lively, and even though there are fewer than a thousand inhabitants, you can feel a soul and a bond between them. We fall asleep in a happy village.
Thursday 18 September
We're surprised to find other guests at breakfast. Two couples, Czech and Slovak, riding the whole cycle route. We spend an hour chatting, a pleasure we'd forgotten. They tell us about their lives in Switzerland and Slovakia while Clémence plays in her room. We leave at 10, delighted to have swapped slices of life with other cycle tourists.
Italians are moles. They dig horizontally into the earth, go through mountains, poke their heads out the other side to spot another mountain and more tunnels to dig. We never stop going through galleries in the rock, and those are just the cycle route's. There are just as many for the railway and the motorways that eat into the hills. These sit on huge viaducts held up by pillars, which has the advantage of keeping them away from the little villages in the valleys. Only the distant noise hints that they're there.
In an age saturated with information, words tend to get worn out. We rave about nothing and throw superlatives around. And yet every adjective that comes to mind riding down this road is spectacular. It's marvellous, in the original sense of the word. The mountains around us are all so different yet so complementary. Some have chiselled summits of sheer peaks, others are soft like ice cream frozen halfway through melting. Their names hardly matter, because together they form a vast whole that gives the place a foretaste of paradise.
Cyclists have clearly got the message, and there are hordes of them riding up or down. After about fifteen kilometres we stop at Stazione Chiusaforte, a community café for cyclists in an old station building. There are tools, games, maps and above all bikes everywhere. We're truly in our element; Clémence can even play on a balance bike that's free for anyone to use. It's getting close to noon and things are getting crowded, so we decide to give up our spot. We barely need to pedal to move; we just glide along this little ribbon of tarmac surfing down the mountainside.
Italian villages have the particularity of boasting gorgeous historic centres, and we make the most of the little town of Venzone to eat focaccia on a shady terrace. We then carry on with our crazy descent to Osoppo, where we arrive much earlier than planned. Alessandra is waiting for us on her doorstep and welcomes us in perfect English. And for good reason: she was born in South Africa to Italian parents. She welcomes us with open arms and shows us her spacious house. We drop our things before heading out to the local playground. Clémence still refuses to play with other children and even gets cross when they come near her. That doesn't stop her having fun for a long time, and after a bit of shopping at the grocery, we head back to the house.
Alessandra is very chatty, a great conversationalist, and once Clémence is in bed we spend the evening talking with her. She tells us about her life in southern Africa, her ties to Italy and her career, and we talk about a thousand things. She opens several bottles of excellent local wine, assuring us they won't give us a headache. It's been so long since we spent an evening like this that we really savour the moment.
On the road