Distance Walked: around 910 miles
Current No. Blisters: 0
A week ago, I was writing from the Hospice of the Great Saint Bernard Pass. Indeed, my early afternoon arrival at the pass successfully raised the population up there by around 10%. The Hospice has a capacity of around a hundred and eighty people, if I remember correctly. And when we (happy) few sat down for dinner at seven, I counted ten other people, all of whom volunteered at the Hospice. Some had been living there on a continual basis for a few years, with only the odd trip down to Martigny for a bit of thicker air. I was the only visitor, though they mentioned an American pilgrim had made the journey a few days prior.
Communication, as always, was easier in person as opposed to over the phone, not least because I could wave my hands about, to make up for my horrific French. As such, I found out that when I had rung the Hospice from Bourg-Saint-Pierre, they had actually told me there was a fresh coating of 13 centimetres of snow, not a total of 3 centimetres, as I had misunderstood. There was quite a bit of laughing at this, before some serious and rapid sounding discussion (impenetrable for my limited understanding, save for the odd interjection of my name…). The seasoned alpine experts of the pass were discussing the difficulties of the day after, on the (apparently) more difficult descent, into Italy. They reached an agreement, and slowed down – telling me that the road was snowed up, completely, for a good way, and this included the avalanche gallery, running parallel to a steep mountain drop. They recommend crawling into the gallery through a hole, which might or might not have been avalanched-in, to pass inside the icy and pitch black gallery. I just nodded, and ate my strawberries (first of the season, brought up by one of the road clearer chaps on the Swiss side, who’d climbed up the way I had to deliver a punnet).
I was the only person to attend the evening mass, except the priest himself, and a server, making it my first time in a congregation of one. It was a pleasant affair though, and came with a feeling of some significance, cloistered away in the basement chapel of the historic Hospice, surrounded outside by night and snow, saddled between the ridges leading to Mont Blanc, and the Grand Combine. I roved the silent, and empty halls of the Hospice a while, before heading to a warm bed.
After breakfast, I made ready to leave. Outside the windows, the dawn seemed to have birthed no horizon; only dispersing the darkness into an all-encompassing homogenous white of snow and cloud. I said farewell, paid my 55 franc bill, and pressed on out into the snow, having been told to follow a single set of footprints down to the avalanche gallery, and down into Italy.
I didn’t even notice the border. Someone must have forgotten to draw a fresh line in the snow. I just passed by, following the footsteps in the snow, heading out into the white. The few scattered buildings at the pass faded in and out of view, alongside the statue of St Bernard, looking down from the mountainside.
At some point the clouds cleared a tad, and streaks of blue cut through the skies, with something of a vague horizon also appearing. The path took a hard right turn, following the mountains. My mind dwelled on both the steep sloping drop on my left, and the traces of past avalanches up the mountain to my right. Sliding down though was not too much of a concern, given my feet seemed to sink at least a foot into the snow with every step. I tried in vain to keep the snow out my boots.
The avalanche gallery soon loomed near, under the brightening skies, with the views down the mountainside into Italy beginning to look very impressive indeed. As I approached the gallery, I could make out the dark hole leading inside. Only on getting within touching distance did I realise how small it actually was. I crawled in on my knees, arriving at the top of a pile of snow, inside the darkness of the gallery. I decided against walking down, and instead made a (rather wise, in hindsight) decision to slide on my bottom down the icy mound. I’m sure any observer would have found it absolutely hilarious, to watch me sliding down the ice, punting along with my walking stick. Fortunately, I was absolutely alone in the silence of the tunnel.
I hobbled along the icy road surface down the gallery, making it to the other end, where an even smaller hole in the snow presented itself. Daylight shone in, inviting me to leave the cold echoes of the tunnel. I tried to crawl out, unsuccessfully. With the backpack on, I was too tall to escape, even on my knees. So I dropped to my belly, and slither-pushed my way forwards, once again relying on the walking stick. I could feel the backpack scraping on the snow roof of the hole. After half a minute, I embarassingly flopped out onto a sunny snow pile, in full view of a couple of Italians, who were there to clear the road.
From there onwards, it was excellent going. The mounds of snow melted into the tarmac, and I made fantastic progress on the descent. I even dared to rejoin the footpath, once the snow was in full retreat. The weather cleared further, and stunning views of Italy opened up. What a welcome.
I descended down into the warm valleys all day, eventually stopping at Gignod, just short of my target (Aosta). The 1500m of descent had been both beautiful and tough, and I was ready for a rest at a campsite that had conveniently presented itself.
The next day was rather brutal – a forty two kilometer hike down, firstly into Aosta, and then down the Aosta Valley to Saint-Vincent. Most of the route was along a cycle path, following the Dora Baltea river on its journey towards the Po. I was rather roasted on this walk, with the owners of the next campsite remarking that I looked positively “bronzato” by the evening. I made a nice lunch of ham, cheese, bread and wine on the banks of the river, and slogged on after this to the campsite. I was rather disappointed to find that this already rather poor value campsite charged three minutes of hot water for a shower at two euros. I was in no mood to mask my disapprobation, but I did cough up the money.
At dinner, I did manage to secrete a little Italian. Unfortunately, it was accompanied by a good deal of half-French, and some Spanish, dredged up from my mirky memories of primary school. Apparently, more than one European language in a day, ties my brain in serious knots.
The following day, I packed my bags, hid my walking stick in a good sized bush, and made for the train station once again. If there was one thing I learned in rural France, with miles between shops, or services of any kind, it was to take advantage of any opportunities that make themselves known. One such opportunity was being contacted by a company in Lincolnshire for a really rather attractive job. I applied a month ago, and they had invited me to interview. And so, once again (and for the final time on this pilgrimage) I left the official way, and integrated a north Lincolnshire industrial facility into the pilgrimage. I interviewed on Wednesday (I think it went well, and certainly I didn’t go all that way for nothing – I enjoyed raising a few eyebrows!). I’m currently back at home, straining upon the start, so to speak, like a greyhound in the slips. I await the cheaper flights (Tuesday), and then will be back on the road to Rome, with maybe thirty days to go.
