Pass One

Sunday morning. We've planned an 0800 departure, and get away at exactly 0800...GMT, that is, 0900 Roma time. We have had a great time with Cate, Marco and their kids, but are reminded of the Czech proverb; "Visitors are like fish, after two days they start to smell".

Quickly out of Roma, onto the GRA and thence the A1 North via Firenze, Bologna, Milano. Relatively quiet Sunday traffic, good roads, we blast along, aspiring for 90 - 95 MPH I am inevitably drawn over the magic "ton" for the sheer naughtiness of doing it. There's a school of thought to the effect that the fuel economies of 75MPH are worth being patient for, and that's probably true. However, it fails to consider the Italian school of tolls. €29.50 each for the 600km Roma - Milan. Consider that €33 will fill both bikes, and suddenly fuel consumption is a minor issue.

As a transit day, the weather has been ideal. Low cloud blots out the sun, making it cool enough for pleasnat riding. Visibility is about 5km, and the forcast rain almost leaves us alone, except for some drizzle near Milano.

North of Milano the cloud drops lower. We pass Lake Maggiore, but can only see the nearer parts. The rest vanishes into the soup. GPS delivered us to Domosomosola or something like it, the last town in Italy. The Alps are a different map set, to be loaded tomorrow. In the traffic we'd become separated by a few car lengths, so I arrived at the Swiss border first. The car ahead of me was waved through, the guard glanced at me waved me through and turned his back on me. Perhaps he saw the UK plate as I passed, but for whatever reason, he gave Og the third degree.

Being now in Switzerland we're already on the first big name pass; the Simplon. We've already ridden alpine passes in Sweden, Greece and Italy, but this is the first certified biggie. It's damp, the road surface is wet, but good. Traffic and commonsense mean a cautious climb. Lots of hairpins, several tunnels and as we get higher the fog thickens until we cross the actual pass without realising until too late. So we stop and return for a photo. Visibility was barely 100m.

Dropping down towards Brig things cleared quickly, and were much drier. 9.5% descent for some silly distance, most of it through "galleries", a sort of half tunnel that has the low side open, supported by pillars. Very speccy, but there's not much opportunity for a photo stop. Swiss weather is looking better than on the Italian side, too.

We turn right at Brig, heading for Glietsch, which is the common connection of the Furka, Grimsel, and Neurfen passes. I've misread the map and think it's only 19km (it's really 55) so start harbouring thoughts of a lap of the Furka/Grimsel before it gets dark. The road is narrow, winding along the valley floor through village after village. Quite slow, and the nearer we get to Glietsch, the wetter it gets. In Glietsch it's misting rain, so we decide to stop. There's not much in Glietsch, a grand hotel and a road junction. The hotel looks deserted, but there are lights on. As I'm about to go in, Og points out a stone building in the distance, halfway up the Furka pass, and says " Now that would be a cool place to stay, but I bet it's only a restaurant". So I go into the hotel, a Marie Celeste experience. Eventually I find a living soul who dissappears to consult and returns to advise that the hotel is closed tonight. She recommends "The Belvedere", and indicates up the Furka pass.

I report to Og, who notes some little orange figures way up on the roadway and tells me of the huge crashing crunching noise he just heard, sounding, he thinks, like a rock fall.

We head off up the famous Furka pass. We find the little orange vest clad figures directing traffic around a rock fall. Only about half a dozen rocks, but rocks of a size that one on it's own would ruin your day completely.

Og's dream is realised. The Belvedere is built in a hairpin on the Furka pass. Stone, quaint, imposing, 95 Swiss francs per person per night, and the only show open for miles around. Two single rooms, so at least they have two bathrooms to clean!

The hotel is old, with the look of an Agatha Christie novel; wide, creaking stairways, long hallways, an open fire in the sitting room. The rooms are small, but have stunning outlooks in the fading light. Hopefully the camera caught it. We head for the bar, but there isn't one. We're ushered into the dining room, which is built into the hairpin, rounded, with picture windows so that you can peer down onto passing cars. Some beer, some food, some amusement supplied by the Americans, then to sleep to the sound of running water falling off the Rhone Glacier. Which just happens to be 100m away.