Over the Albula Pass today, after which it was all downhill to Susch. Our hotel breakfast included prosecco, which I couldn’t resist but had only a few sips of. Otherwise the day would have gone downhill immediately.
We started by retracing our steps last night a few miles back to Bonarduz, in light rain. There was a shorter alternative, but that involved a thousand-metre climb. Even with the bravado of a morning sparkling wine inside me, that was not going to happen.
After Bonarduz we had long functional main-road riding down to Thusis, where we took a train to Tiefencastel nine miles away. This wasn’t to dodge distance, but for our safety: despite being on the Swiss National Cycle Network, the road here is said to be lethal because of two long dangerous tunnels, and cyclists are warned in the strongest terms to avoid them by taking the train or bus. Even Sustrans doesn’t do that.
From Tiefencastel the long climb up Albulapass began, mercifully much quieter than the motorbike-infested Grimselpass we’d tackled a few days before. This was our final big pass of the trip, and we were encouraged by the fact that it’s less challenging than some of our climbs hitherto, and downhill pretty much all the way afterwards. So I could greet with a smile the sign at the start saying ‘munta 940m sin 14km’, whatever that means.
The ascent took three hours, and as usual we were riding separately, so that I could stop whenever I wanted to listen to a bird or take a photo or drink some lukewarm water or just give my bum some respite by pushing a bit. The road wound through alpine villages and woods and meadows and gorges and mountainsides and I was happy. Very happy.
We did join briefly for lunch at Bergun, where I took a phone call from home about some work on my return. Sixty years ago, Switzerland was so distant and exotic that they staged Bond films here. Today I could chat free and at length to someone in York thanks to Tesco Home From Home. Don’t worry, Brexit will soon put a stop to that, and make continental Europe seem distant and exotic and expensive again. (Yes, I know Switzerland is not in the EU. I’m talking telephony.)
I got into my rhythm and cycled, and sometimes walked, gently and steadily upwards. I went through a village called Preda, and thought admiringly of a very good singer of that surname, Irena, who I was in an opera with in 2006. She was Carmen, a siren and sex symbol who gets some great tunes, and I was Remendado, a battered and scruffy ne’er-do-well who contributes briefly and shoutily to the odd ensemble. We were skilfully cast.
Taking part in operas in my minor roles was a fantastic and exhilarating part of my life at that time, surrounded by talented, attractive and focused musicians, and the experience confirmed to me – knowing my musical ability – that what I was meant to do, above anything else, was, er, go cycle touring.
Anyway, it began to drizzle as I ground my way to the summit, but couldn’t be bothered to rain properly, so I could enjoy my moment at the top.
The sign said 2315m, 7,595ft, and there was a satisfying feel of mountain remoteness to the inevitable hotel and cafe.
And now the swoosh downhill. More concentration required, firmly applying brakes down a long succession of tight hairpins plunging down very wet roads into a new vast valley before me. Nigel was waiting in a bus shelter at the bottom; we snacked and set off down the straightish, gently-down main road that took us easily and satisfyingly along the final few km.
Place names round here have a Romansh cast to them, and could have come from a 1960s science fiction movie: Zuoz, Zernez, S-chanf.
Our hotel was in Susch, coincidentally the sound I’d heard from my bike blasting through puddles for the last half hour, and was a satisfying combination of alpine-village lodge and 1960s Swiss jumble sale.
Our final night in Switzerland, like almost all the others, consisted of convivial bike-based chat in our hotel room with supermarket sandwiches and cans of beer. Which very much suited me.
Miles today: 58
Miles since Chancy: 350