travel (not spain)

I’ve just got back from a long weekend visiting Liz in Italy. I’ll write something about the visit soon, but first a word about the French… merde! Those work-shy-cheese-eating-surrender-monkey-striking-railway-upsetting French… we love ‘em. I took the train to Italy, well, three trains, two overnight. First from Oviedo to Barcelona (12 hours or so) which went without a hitch, my first time using couchettes, or litera as they call them here. Six to a compartment, six narrow bunks and thin blankets and cotton sheets. I did get to talk to a maoist gnome (or rather I was talked at by a maoist gnome… but that’s for a future post… the one about the people you meet on trains) but I also slept quite well. After a day in Barcelona I got another trai… waitaminnit… that sign says (in Catalan and in Spanish) Due to a French train strike the service to Milan will be by bus. BUS! Bloomin’ French….

I ended up having to explain about the strike to a few rows of disgruntled non Spanish speakers (Japanese, Canadian, American) all of whom had just followed directions and gestures and now found themselves inexplicably on a coach. And not a coach like those lovely Argentine ones, oh no… Ordinary, upright seats, no blankets. It was an uncomfortable night, and we were woken early by the flashes of the Japanese as we drove through the Alps at dawn. It looked lovely but I would have preferred a bed. And the coach took a couple of hours longer than the train would have… so fifteen hours of cramped neck ache…

The third train was from Milan to Padua (Padova as the Italians misspell it). Milan station is the single most perfect example of facist architecture I’ve ever seen. It’s enormous, and designed to impress. ‘Well, at least he made the trains run on time’ sprang to mind. This train was late… only by ten minutes but that’s enough to be a metaphorical two fingers to Il Duce in my book. I met Liz at the station in Milan, she had arrived from the airport not long before I decoached stiffly.

Still, the return journey went without a hitch, and let me tell you, I really did miss out on a bed on the outward leg. The trenhotel Salvador Dali had four proper beds to a compartment, wide enough to roll over without peril, propper mattresses too, not just hard cushions. It’s a fine thing to go to sleep as you roll into Turin, and to wake up as you roll out of Girona and head to the bar for a freshly made coffee (hello british rail operators: even the trolley car in italy had an espresso machine) and a sandwich made with fresh bread. The only downside is the fact that it took me two days, but if you have time, it’s the only way to fly.

Ennerdale and Buttermere Originally uploaded by itsjustanalias.

She claims to have enjoyed it…

We walked up from Seatoller to Windy Gap, leaving the car at 5pm and reaching the top of Aaron Slack breathless and wet from almost constant drizzle at 7:30. The view from windy gap suggested that we wouldn’t need our backup plan, the clouds looked to be finite, there was sun.

So we contoured right from Windy Gap and took this one just as the Ennerdale valley looked on fire.

We reached Inominate tarn at 9 and had a spot of tea. We were out of the wind and the rain seemed unlikely. It was a bit chilly though. At around 10:30 we settled down into the sleeping bags (Liz used my bivvy bag, I used a plastic emergency bag) and watched the stars until we fell asleep. There were a couple of short showers overnight but the feel of light rain on your face is really quite pleasant.

At 5:30 we got up, had a cup of tea and rolled up the bags. Then the rain started in earnest. We walked back via Honister pass soaked to the skin arriving back at the car just as the rain stopped (which was good, we could get changed).

Then on into Keswick for a big brekkie at the Lakeland Pedaller and the Friday papers.

Liz said she wants her own bivvy bag now (yay!)

“If you look on your right you can see the wool factory. On your left is the marshalling yard for the city’s sanitation department.”

We took the guided city tour of Colonia in Spanish but unless our grasp of the language is getting worse this is what she said…

That’s a little unfair, the city of Colonia is pretty old (1650s) and very pretty. The tour, however, took us to the suburbs and past the aforementioned attractions (which reminded us of western Ireland).

Colonia, and this part of the world, were subject to Portugese then Spanish rule, then Portugese again, then Spanish, then… you get the picture.

The city is on a peninsula, 40km across the Rio La Plata and a world away from BA. On the north (Uruguay) side of the river there are beaches and peace and quiet. The city has a ‘centro historico’ where the guide cheerfully pointed out the differences between Spanish and Portugese styles..

The Portugese streets have one, central drainage ditch, the Spanish have two, one on either side (makes me wonder what used to happen at the border in Europe). The Portugese houses have tiled sloped roofs whereas the Spanish have flat roofs. The strange thing is that there are dozens of them side by side.

Even in the off season it has the feel of the Bunratty folk park, with Candombe drummers and dancers (candombe is a folk dance of Uruguay) and (shudder) mime artists… called the gaucho mimes… it must be hell in the summer.

But the beaches… mmm I can just picture relaxing with some mate and watching the yachts on the river.