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10.
Very early the next morning, I was cursing myself. My emergency food was a 1kg bag of rice that I’d been carrying since Austria, but sometime in the past week or so, a hole had somehow been made in the packaging and it had also got wet. It stank and was infested with small beetle like insects. I couldn’t eat that! (Although a few days later, I would have done!) After throwing it away, I had a breakfast of cold pilchards, before heading west whilst thinking my now very common phrase. “Sod it, it’ll be reet!”
The Stelvio Pass is a legendary challenge which many road cyclists hope to complete at least once in their lifetimes. The eastern Trafoi side incorporates an ascent of about 1,450m within 24kms and with its 48 hairpin bends, it is a ‘killer’ for cyclists. Fortunately, I didn’t know any of this as I went past the small villages of Gomagio and Trafoi. It was just another Alpine pass that I had to somehow get over.
Because of my early start, I was well ahead of the hordes of eager cyclists, but they soon caught me up. As they ‘zoomed’ past, they offered words of encouragement in dozens of languages. Or maybe they were just saying that I was bloody daft in the head? Some of them were in a race, I think. They had their own team cars that followed them and I got a few beeped horns and shouts from them, too. Was I in their way? Hard bloody luck if I was! Although some of the racers gave me the thumbs up as they went past and some even turned their heads around to look back at me, so I must have been doing something right? I wonder what they saw. A half starved idiot with a beard, ragged clothes, an ancient bike with big tyres and a less than orthodox luggage arrangement? Or did they just see another cyclist who was obviously struggling with the gradient?
Eventually after about five hours I reached the top. (The normal time is between ninety minutes to three hours, so I was slow!) Some of the cyclists who had recently passed gave me a bit of applause, which being British, I hated!
The top of the Stelvio Pass was a bit weird to say the least. Over the years, a small town had been built up there to cater for the tourists and cyclists, hotels, shops, car parks and even a bloody bank! Strange, very strange!
The trappings of modern society on the pass weren’t for me, as I craved peace and quiet again. (I was also totally skint!) So I wandered off to look at the trenches on Monte Scorluzzo which borders the pass. Scorluzzo, at a height of 3095m (10,154ft,) with its high level car parks, is probably the easiest mountain over 3000m in the Alps (although, not if you’ve just cycled up the pass!) It also marks the end of the Italian Front, which managed to make me feel quite sad. I had come a long way since getting off the plane in Istanbul about two months previously. Not really distance wise, as you could cycle in a more straight line to get to where I was a lot quicker. No, I wasn’t measuring my journey in miles, I was using another method: Century old battlefields. A few dozen so far...
Before my journey, I thought that I had understood everything about the war which had helped to shape modern Europe and the world as a whole, but really, I knew nothing.
I still would never know about the blind fear that warfare brings; the shelling, gas and machine gun fire, or the waiting with bated breath, knowing that you’ll probably be dead in a few minutes time. The nearest we can get to that is to read books (unless you’ve been unlucky enough to take part in more recent wars.) Books are good for learning about history, but they don’t show you what the harsh reality is really like. The only way to learn that is to get out and visit the places where the events took place. Being there helped me to visualise what it might have been like for the soldiers and civilians whose fate was entwined within that horror. From the start of the Macedonian Front to the end of the Italian Front, there was one thing that I’d noticed most of all. It was bloody hilly! Most people think of the flatter battlefields of Flanders and the Somme and the hell of the mud. Add hills and mountains to that and you get a perfect combination for the ultimate in human suffering.
Years ago, I went through a stage of trying to write some poetry, most of it was rubbish, but there was one short poem which stood out. After writing it on a scrap of paper, I left it alongside a poppy in the last trench of the Italian Front. It’s nameless, but I dedicated it to all those who died in the hills and mountains of Europe during the Great War. The British, Germans, Austro-Hungarians, Bulgarians, French, Italians, Montenegrins, Serbs, Romanians, Russians, Greeks and anybody else who I might have missed out.
“Now, as their souls will always be in exile
In the distant realm of this high, majestic land
Though far from the place where they once were born,
They will always be with us,
Night, day, evermore...”
Aye, they bloody will!
Switzerland.
Although the Swiss were neutral, the war still impacted on them in various ways.
Like all of the participating countries in World War One; the Swiss Army was mobilised during August 1914: 450,000 men in total.
At the start of the war, the Swiss were extremely worried that one side or the other would decide to go through Switzerland in order to get around the defences of their opponents. To counter this threat, they built defences which stretched well inside the border areas, in both the north where the Western Front ended and in the southeast on the end of the Italian Front. They also kept a large standing army as a deterrent. Most Swiss men were mobilised for a period of approximately two years as they weren’t actually at war and normal life had to carry on.
The Swiss also traded with both sides during the war, even in the making of munitions. Some people would say that this was capitalising on the suffering of other countries, but as they were totally surrounded by the warring nations, then they were reliant upon the goodwill of those countries in letting essential supplies through.
One thing to note with regards to the Swiss involvement was their work with the International Committee of the Red Cross, which was based in Geneva. The tracking and registering of prisoners of war from both sides was a very important aspect of their work and the delivering of food parcels to those POWs was essential to their survival. (Especially for the POWs held in Germany later in the war when food was scarce.)
They also inspected the POW camps to ensure that the conditions lived up to the requirements of the Hague Convention of 1907, which was signed by most of the warring nations (although the 1907 convention didn’t make a direct judgement on the treatment of POWs, it was still possible to meet the objectives through strong diplomatic work by the Swiss.)
From the Swiss border near the Stelvio Pass, I headed down a long and winding road into Switzerland. Once again, it was disappointing not to have to go through a proper border. Although Switzerland isn’t an EU member, they have a series of bilateral agreements with the EU and one of these is the free movement of people, hence no border.
By the time I reached the valley bottom it was almost dark and after seeing a few bear proof rubbish bins, I decided to look for a safe (ish) location to spend the night. (I’m not sure if there are actually any bears there, but I wasn’t taking the chance!) After passing through the villages of Santa Maria Val Mustair and Valchava, without finding a suitable location, I decided to sleep under a bridge which spanned a small gorge. It was a good location and one that I was lucky to find. I set my “bed” up on a small platform that was about 5ft wide. It didn’t go all the way through the bridge, so after using my bike to block the entrance, the only side open had a drop of about 20ft to the stream below. I slept well despite being hungry and having an enormous craving for some protein in my diet, a bacon sandwich to be exact!
The following morning, the weather changed. I managed to get over the Ofenpass and to the town of Susch before it began to rain. Whilst having a rest going up the Ofenpass, I discovered a patch of wood or Alpine strawberries growing under the shade of a gnarled pine tree. I wasn’t entirely sure if they were edible, but after testing a bit, I made the decision that they were. So I enjoyed a delicious strawberry breakfast, which I still dream about today!
The rain started falling heavily after Susch, whilst I was slowly trudging up the 2,500m high Fluelapass. The air was blue with my cursing and my mind had once again drifted away into my thinking mode. As I was rapidly becoming soaked to the skin, which wouldn’t help the sore bits between my legs, I began to think about who was to blame for the predicament that I found myself in. I shouldn’t really say ‘blame,’ as there was only one person responsible for the situation I found myself in: Me!
A better word to describe it would be gratitude (although I wasn’t feeling very grateful at the time.) I was and still am extremely grateful to all the people who have made me come to love the outdoors and adventure which has shaped my life. My parents were the first to introduce me to the wonders of camping, walking and the mountains and I really wished my Father was still around to see what I had done. Sadly, he had died eleven years beforehand from a sudden heart attack.
Whilst thinking about this, I came to realise that all but one of the men I looked up to as a child and a young man were now gone. (They’ve all gone now.)
As well as my Dad, there was my Grandfather, George, who as a WW2 veteran would have supported my aims. There was my Dad’s best friend, Bob, who was a legendary adventure loving Aussie bloke. (I left a poppy for him at Anzac Bay, as I’m sure that he’d have been there if he could.) Then there was Paul, the father of my best mate Jon, who was just a wonderful, kind hearted and honest bloke. And last, but by no means least, was my old Scout leader and family friend, Max. He died a couple of weeks after I returned home, after a long illness. I had planned to say thank you to him, but fate decreed otherwise.
I wanted to mention these men, as they were all responsible in some way for me being who I am today and why I decided to do that journey. Of course, there were a lot more people who were also responsible for me being there. About 37 million of them, as that’s a rough estimate of the entire casualties sustained during World War One. Although the true figure will never be known....
By this time, I had reached the summit of the pass and had started going down the other side. Food, or the lack of, was on my mind then. The little strawberries had been great, but due to my thoughts from the previous evening, I had a massive craving for protein. Nuts were out of season so that only left one option, meat. I needed meat! (If you’re a bunny hugger or vegetarian, then please miss out the next couple of paragraphs. I wasn’t being mean, I was just very hungry!)
As the streams in this area were quite small, I discounted trying to fish. This was a good idea as I’m the world’s worst fisherman and would just end up wasting a lot of time. My predicament was typical though, as I’d seen a lot of fresh road kill throughout my journey, but not when I needed it the most. Another thing I’d noticed, was a lack of rabbits in Italy, I hadn’t seen a single bunny! Anyway, I didn’t have the time to set out snares and wait to see if I caught anything. I needed some ‘fast food.’
“What else lives in the Alps that I can eat?” Was the question that was going through my head, as I descended down to the tree-line. It had stopped raining and the sun was starting to come out, as I rounded a bend and saw my dinner basking on a rock above the road.
“Oh come on, I can’t eat that! It’s cute, furry and it reminds me of my dog!”
Alpine Marmots have been hunted for their meat and fur for thousands of years. Austria and Switzerland still kill about 3,000 Alpine Marmots every year between them. They do it for trophy hunting, which I don’t believe in. The situation that I found myself in was similar to the hunter gatherers donkeys years ago and although it wasn’t good news for the marmot, I didn’t have any qualms about what lay ahead.
But how should I do it? I could have set a snare up at the entrance to a burrow and waited, but that would probably have had the same result of my attempts at fishing in the past. So as I didn’t want my scent to linger around at a burrow entrance, I found another way.
I found a half fallen tree on the edge of the forest that had a likely looking burrow underneath it. I still now, can’t believe that my strange hunting method actually worked! After a wait of about forty minutes, straddling a tree with a couple of large rocks in my hands, a marmot poked its head out, sniffed the air and decided that it was safe. Wrong! I was having second thoughts at this time, as it was so bloody cute but my stomach told me to get on with it!
The first rock missed, startling it but the second hit it right on the top of its head. I quickly jumped down and administered a coup de grace with my knife.
I was instantly sad and regretted doing it, but I now had a responsibility to make the poor thing’s death worthwhile. I thought that skinning, gutting and quartering a marmot would be similar to a rabbit, but I was wrong. (Although it has been over twenty years since I did a rabbit, so my memory might have been playing tricks on me?)
A rabbit is fairly easy to prepare; a marmot isn’t. I couldn’t skin it for some reason. The flesh wouldn’t separate from the hide! After about half an hour of butchery (correct description) I had a quite large ziplock bag full of meat. I left the remains on top of a rock for the scavengers to eat, before setting off on the long downhill road to the posh ski resort town of Davos. I really needed a fire to cook the meat as soon as possible, but it was once again throwing it down with rain, so I needed somewhere more sheltered for the night. It was also quite cold, so there was less risk that the meat would go off.
I didn’t see the centre of Davos, but I wouldn’t have been popular there anyway, as I didn’t have any brass (probably the first truly poor person in years to go through this area!) Instead, I turned right onto a road that went through Klosters. (Just as bad!)
Just before Klosters, I noticed a wooded picnic area in a small valley below the road, so I turned off. It was just what I needed, complete with a couple of picnic benches, trees, firepit, small stream and this is the best bit, a small log cabin for storing dry firewood (unfortunately, not big enough to sleep in!) After stringing my tarp up between two trees, I got a fire going. It would have been very difficult if there wasn’t any dry wood available, as everything else was piss wet through. Whilst the fire was getting going, I collected a couple of handfuls of Dandelion leaves and flowers to go with the meat. It’s interesting that these plants are considered weeds, as the entire plant is edible and quite tasty if prepared properly. I boiled it all in my cooking pot as I squared the meat, before skewering it on some sticks and placing over the flames. I cooked it all well done, just in case there were any parasites in the meat. Half was eaten then with a side of Dandelion, whilst the remainder would be eaten the day after. Soon after my meal, a storm came along which put the fire out. I was still wet, so I resigned myself to a cold and damp night, but at least I wasn’t hungry, for a change!
The following morning was dry! After an early start, just in case I wasn’t supposed to camp there, I continued down the Klosters road. I thought it must have been a Sunday morning as there wasn’t any traffic on the roads and I used this to my advantage. Like a lot of countries, the Swiss won’t let cyclists use long road tunnels. I knew this, but I chose to ignore it, as by using them I would save on a couple of hours of riding. Fortunately I was correct, it was a Sunday morning and at about 5am I managed to whizz through without seeing a single car. All was fine until I reached the town of Landquart, when I once again tried to use a main road which was prohibited for cyclists. I saw a car; a police car!
They were very good about it all. They escorted me off, before checking my passport. Fortunately they didn’t fine me, as I don’t think they’d have accepted half a bag of meat instead of money! They were kind enough to show me to a cycle trail, before letting me go on my way, but they also took possession of my trusty dog stick. Oh well, I hadn’t used it since Montenegro and it was just extra weight to carry.
The cycle trail ran alongside the River Rhine, which I followed until I turned off near the town of Sargans and headed west towards Zurich. I didn’t make it all the way there that day, as I found a perfect camping spot on the banks of Lake Walensee. It was a little beach tucked behind some woodland, complete with a sun lounger that some kind fisherman had probably left. The weather had improved considerably, as the day had been getting warm and then hot, so the first thing I did was to jump in the lake. I thought that the water would be cold, as it was fed by streams which came from the mountains, but it was surprisingly warm and I really appreciated it.
Throughout the day, I had been steadily nibbling on the cooked meat from the previous day, happy to be able to travel without constantly thinking about food and searching for my next meal. It was running out though, so I decided to sacrifice a bit to the gods by using it as fishing bait. There were a few basic fishing essentials at the bottom of my first aid kit (hooks, line, weights and a shiny thing) but I didn’t expect to use it when I put it there, although I was very glad that I had. Successful fishing is not a part of my skills set, so I did what I always do when in similar situations. I bodged it and made it work. I found a live tree branch which overhung a deep stretch of water and tied one end of the line to that. At the other end, I tied a hook, weight and the shiny thing, before putting a piece of meat on the hook. I bent the branch down towards the water, holding it in place with a long stick, a piece of string and a smaller stick, which was the trigger. If by some miracle, a fish tried to eat the meat and the hook caught in its mouth, then the movement would cause the small stick to pull out of a loop in the string, causing the branch to return to its usual position and hopefully set the hook in the fish’s mouth and bring it to the surface.
I wasn’t too hopeful, so I got on with setting up my camp and lighting a fire whilst I waited. Twang! I was surprised that it had triggered, but disappointed that something had stolen the meat. I re-set it and waited. This happened three times, but on the fourth time, just as I was ready to give up, it twanged again. This time there was a fish just below the surface of the water, I was amazed. It had only taken me 38 years to catch my first fish! It was massive! Well, about eight inches long anyway, but it was enough as I didn’t have a fridge to store the leftovers.
After gutting and trying to bone it, I skewered it on a stick over my fire. My boning attempts weren’t very good, but it didn’t matter, as I took my time eating it; savouring every mouthful.
Laid back on the sun lounger, I stared up at the millions of stars which were appearing in the darkening sky. The high cliffs on the north side of the lake were still glowing in the last light of the day. What a day! I might have been totally skint and practically worn out, but I was happy. I fell asleep whilst thinking about the start of the Western Front, a couple of days ride away.
The Western Front stretched about 450 miles from Nieuwpoort on the coast of Belgium to the then German village of Pfetterhouse (now French, although I will always think of it the other way around.) The trenches butted right up against the Swiss border and, due to not all the shooting and shelling being very accurate, the Swiss also dug trenches and dugouts to protect their soldiers, who were guarding the frontier.
Early in the war, during August 1914, the French tried to retake the areas of Alsace and Lorraine, which they lost to Germany at the end of the Franco-Prussian War of 1871/1872.
It obviously didn’t go entirely to plan for the French; the Germans repulsed the French attacks and made steady advances into France over the coming weeks. The French could only halt the German advance instead of driving them back. Where the Germans halted was where the trench lines were dug that more or less stayed the same for the next four years.
They only managed to retake the bulk of Alsace and Lorraine after the Germans retreated in 1918.
The next day, my old and decrepit bike decided that it had had enough and wanted to go home (or not as the case may have been!) After an early, promising start, the gears and chain kept jamming and I had to keep stopping to fix them. I didn’t know what the problem was, but after a morning spent stopping every mile or so, I was becoming seriously fed up and ended up hitting the rear gear thingy with a brick which sorted it out somehow! It cost me a lot of time and mileage which meant that I couldn’t get past Zurich before nightfall, so instead I headed to a lakeside park (Blatterwiese) to hopefully find a secluded camping spot.
Every man and his dog were at the park, but the atmosphere was amazing. They all seemed so happy. I sat under a tree and just ‘people watched’ for a while. In my humble opinion, the Swiss are some of the happiest people on Earth. I didn’t see any conflict or unhappiness, just a lot of people enjoying their evening in the park. Couples out for a stroll, groups having picnics and barbeques complete with not too loud music, (it wouldn’t have been like that at home!) Children and families playing ball games, people swimming in the lake and even an artist group with their easels. Everybody was very friendly, with a few people saying hello and talking to me in perfect English. I even had to politely decline offers of accommodation for the night. (Looking back, I must have been mad but I was just being careful. Plus I’m British and we don’t do that sort of thing!) A group having a barbecue nearby kindly brought a plate full of food over to me. (I didn’t refuse that!) I ate the meat and saved the vegetables for the following day. Upon hearing that my phone battery was flat, a woman offered to charge it up and return it the next morning. I couldn’t do that, but she took my battery packs and true to her word, returned them the following morning. Thank you to her, whoever she was.
Just before darkness, I found a place under a big patch of bushes to spend the night. It was a good spot, but as I was still security conscious, I set up a tripwire alarm which would warn me if anybody decided to pay me a visit. I needn’t have bothered as Switzerland is probably the safest country I’ve ever visited.
After a late start, due to meeting with the kind woman who had charged my batteries, I didn’t quite make it to the French border. Instead, I spent the next night on a little island on the River Rhine between Switzerland and Germany, near the two towns of Rheinfelden. The island was accessed by some stairs from an old bridge which connects the two countries. It was just like the park from the previous night, with people enjoying various evening activities. Unfortunately, there was no spare food that time, so I ate two potatoes from the previous night before sleeping next to a fallen tree.
During my planning, I hadn’t intended to actually enter Germany, but I also hadn’t planned on camping where I did the previous night. So, like a lot of times before, I changed my plans.
I wasn’t there for long (about an hour.) before crossing back to Switzerland from the east, near Basel. I just felt that it was right that I visited Germany for a little bit. After quickly getting through the city of Basel, I crossed the French border somewhere near Saint-Louis. (Damn the Schengen zone for not knowing which country I was in!)