Tuesday 1900
On the Italian/Swiss border heading to Innsbruck
Crossing Milan by taxi is painless, although I am surprised that my Thomas Cook European Rail Guide doesn’t suggest that I can get from Centrale to Lambrate by simply catching the train that connects both stations with the airport every thirty minutes. The journey passes uneventfully, but the driver’s habit of counting his takings as he drives is somewhat disconcerting.
There’s one fail safe way to know you are in Italy, there is an extraordinary amount of graffiti. Everywhere is covered. Railway carriages and locomotives seem to be a special target.
The Trenitalia Regionale first class carriage is full of people who clearly have not paid the supplement. That’s not snobbery; it simply reflects the fact that there clearly is not a regular inspection of tickets. I note that the loo just flushes the deposit directly on to the track. Isn’t there a European regulation about that sort of thing?
I am heading to the Franciacorta wine region and the tourist board has reserved a taxi for me. I arrive safely at the delightful Cappuccini Hotel, but the driver’s persistent habit of texting from his mobile telephone as he drives does not instil confidence.
I have technical difficulties with the shower, already much needed midway through the hot and humid day, well how am I to know there is a device to empty the water hidden behind the shower curtain? I am similarly technically challenged with the hi tech coffee machine, which stubbornly refuses to work. Later I am shown the on off switch at the back.
The main reason for being here is to look at the wine. The sparkling variety is what they do and Franciacorta is its name. Unless you’re a wine buff, you probably haven’t heard of it, the Italians keep 95% of the stuff for themselves.
Berlucchi started off less than 40 years ago producing 3,000 bottles a year, now the output is five million. Between them and one other, they produce have the country’s output. I need to don a jacket is to visit the chilly cellars, where somewhere between 13 and 15 million bottles are stored, many of them being automatically turned by computer.
The grapes are all hand picked in late August Around 200 workers are brought in from Bangladesh and Thailand to do the back breaking work.
I am given a very special treat by being invited to view Guido Berlucchi’s home until his death, which he gave to a foundation to ensure it didn’t fall into the hands of unloved relatives. In the interests of research I try a glass of two of the product.
I will refrain from discussing the accompanying parmesan cheese, local sausage, Parma ham et al in any detail because a friend has suggested to me by email that all I have seemed to do so far on the trip is eat and drink. Which is a somewhat accurate assessment.
Elide, my Italian guide, who speaks impeccable English as well as teaching French, suggests a quick trip to Monte Isola, the biggest island on any European lakes.
It’s one of these places where cars are banned for the 1800 inhabitants who have to get around by bike or moped. The local priest of course has a car. It’s cobbled and hilly, not good news for someone whose foot was almost severed from his leg, so, after a quick drink, we head back to the jetty for the advertised boat. Which doesn’t arrive. After much telephoning, it turns out that ‘the timetable missed the fact that the 1647 only runs on weekends’, so we are stranded. Elide takes charge, commandeers a boat, which apparently circumnavigates the entire northern peninsula of Italy before depositing us in the charming lakeside resort of Iseo.
Back at the Hotel du Charme Cappuccini, I am concerned that I am not assigned the room occupied by the reputed ghost of this 16th century former monastery. While I ponder the reality, take a swim in the pool, heated to bathwater temperatures by the output of the hotel’s air conditioning units.
Marco Pelizzari, whose hotelier father started the renovation work of the complete ruin in 1988, now seems to run everything, a tall order for a 28 year old. Mind you, he was brought up in the industry living, he says, in room 102 in another hotel until he was 10 and here at the Cappuccini in room 109 until he was 20. Now married with two children, one aged 7; he’s clearly a quick learner.
The following paragraph should be skipped by anyone sensitive about food writing.
Marco’s chef produced the most wonderful home baked bread including parmesan crackers and thin bread sticks called, I think, Grissini. Quite wonderful porcini mushroom soup, the hotel’s own very distinctive lemony olive oil. Fettuccine or some other sort of pasta stuffed with prawns, simply divine pork in honey.
Marco chose the wine to mark the passing of a wine producer friend aged just 52. Out of respect, I left a bit of the Montepulciano Marina Cvetic for the Gods. Or maybe the ghost.
After a wonderfully welcome full night’s sleep, Elide is on the doorstep bright and early to take me to the Il Mosnel wine cellar in Camignone. A very different proposition to Berlucchi, Lucia Barzano and her brother are very happy not to increase their production beyond their annual quarter of a million bottles.
I love Lucia’s idea of sending me out for a bike ride with Roberta, her able assistant who studied English in Cardiff for six months.
Cycling through the family vineyards is an absolute delight, aided by the need to quaff the best part of a bottle of Il Mosnel Franciacorta, strictly in the interests of research, of course. The Barzano’s grapes are, I learn, picked by a team from Poland, who will complete the job in just 15 days.
Back at the cellar, I tell Lucia that I think the idea of cycle picnics is brilliant. I can tell that she’s pleased and has clearly warmed to me but, as she owns two dogs, I decide that I won’t ask her to marry me.
Elide kindly drives me to Brescia to catch my train to Verona, then Innsbruck. As I write this, the crew has just changed from Italian to German and we have gone into a very long tunnel. In a little over an hour, it will be the Brenner Pass and Italy will have changed into Austria.
In four days I will have travelled through four countries. I have had my luggage scanned just twice and not waited more than 30 seconds in total for it to be done. I have not queued once for passport control and I am carrying well over 20 kilos of luggage with no question of any supplements to pay.
On the downside, I have somehow mortally wounded the LCD screen of my digital camera, so will need to go shopping in Innsbruck.
Where I do not expect to find the prices low. Never mind, I’m a birthday boy next month, so I deserve a treat.
