One of the few travel essentials that
feature on my packing list, irrespective of my destination, is a story
book. They come handy during the long hours on flight or while
waiting in traffic in some far away city. Besides, on a few occasions, a
book has been of much assistance in avoiding the irksome rattling of a
gregarious fellow traveller or as a ‘Go away’ sign to
eccentric strangers with flirtatious tendencies! It could be any
book really, but preferably an easy read which wouldn’t haul you into
deep ruminations. So, it was quite by chance that I tossed in my
half-read copy of Hemingway’s, A Farewell to Arms, into my handbag
just before I left home to catch my flight to Rome. And it was a curious
coincidence too, I would realise later.
And
yet another weird and wonderful happenstance followed. After the book
had remained untouched in the dark recesses of my handbag, for an entire
week, under a pile of scraps and bits of paper, some cosmetics and used
wet-wipes, it was on the bus en route from Milan to Baveno, a charming
town on Lago Maggiore that I fished it out. And I opened it at Chapter
33 and resumed reading.
And if
that was not enough, I was precisely reading the part where Lieutenant
Frederick Henry reunites with ] his love Catherine Barkley in the small
Italian resort town of Stresa on Lake Maggiore, less than five
kilometers from Baveno where I was to stay. And later the
riveting details of Henry’s escape into Switzerland, rowing across
the choppy waters of the lake on a stormy night. Of course, this
newly acquired knowledge only increased my interest in the area I was
headed for, manifold. I wished, of course, that our hotel was in Stresa,
instead of Baveno.
It is
needless to say, that the first glimpse of the blue waters of
Lago Maggiore was a moment that would remain frozen in my memory for
a long, long time. On one side were the quarries of pink granite and
on the other the dazzling blue expanse of the lake dotted with little
islands and surrounded by green hills. Further beyond were the faint
outlines of the Swiss Alps. Tiny boats, white, yellow, blue and
red, anchored near the shores, rocked on the undulating waters of the
lake.
Our hotel in Baveno, Hotel
Splendid was splendid indeed and was right on the lake. My own voice as
I hollered in delight at the view my room afforded, still rings in
my ears! I could sit on that balcony all\ day, doing nothing, simply
watching the striking beauty of the lake and its surroundings. But I
decided in favour of exploring a bit of Baveno, while there was still
daylight.
Baveno is lovely
indeed. No doubt it was a favourite sojourn for Queen Victoria who
stayed at the Villa Branca, by the marina, and that Winston and Eleanor
Churchill chose it as their honeymoon destination! Rich in history,
Baveno is strewn with historical villas, quaint churches and other
architectural delights and its lakeside promenade offers excellent views
of the Lago Maggiore. Wandering around the central piazza of Baveno,
where the Parish Church of Santi Gervasio and Protasio and its
baptistery stand, was a pleasant way to flex the muscles taut from
sitting on the bus for hours together. Unfortunately, I missed the
famous mineral water springs of Baveno.
Dinner
tonight was on the Isola Pescatori, the fish-shaped island; a part of
the Borromeon archipelago that comprises three islands and a few islets
on Lake Maggiore, owned by Italy’s famed Borromeo family. The other
major islands being Isola Bella and Isola Madre, the former famous for
the stately mansion of the Borromeo family which has hosted none other
than Napolean Bonaparte and the latter for its gorgeous ornamental
gardens. We boarded a ferry from the docks at Stresa, which was a short
bus-ride away, as the last light of the day engaged in an intimate
coquetry with the tiny swells of the indigo waters of the lake. And
although I wanted to explore Stresa or at least visit the café reputed
for being a favourite with Hemingway, and still has his signature on
their guest album. And where perhaps, sitting at his favourite table he
conceived A Farewell to Arms. After all, Hemingway like Lieutenant
Henry was an American who joined the\ Italian Ambulance corps as a
volunteer during World War II. He suffered an injury similar to Henry
and also had an affair with a nurse just like Henry! But time was a
constraint and I boarded the ferry anyway. A cloak of shadows was
fast descending upon this tiny but pictorial island with its charming
houses with red brick roofs, the Church of San Vittore, its spire
silhouetted against the rapidly darkening complexion of the evening sky.
In fact, the island was permeated by an amber glow, from the night
lights burning in the houses. It was a pity I couldn’t make it to the
island earlier in the day when I could walk down its cobbled pathways,
sit on one of the benches on the promenade along the shores immersed in
fancy thoughts or browse through the fare in the little souvenir shops
whose shutters were now down.
Isola
Pescatori as the name, literally meaning fisherman’s island, suggests
is a fisherman’s hamlet, although currently the economy of this sparsely
populated isle pivots around tourism. And fish caught fresh from the
freshwaters of the lake and the safely guarded age-old recipes that go
into cooking it, make for an irresistible treat. Dinner was served in a
tavern perched on the edge of the island, its glass wall overlooking the
lake, flames fluttering in iron torches were the only source of light
and warmth too.
The food was
oh-so-delicious – the juicy salmon fillet topped with a lemony dressing
and served on a bed of crunchy greens and fresh fish (I do not know the
name) breaded and fried to perfection served with lemon wedges and fried
diced potatoes and finally a bowl of delectable chocolate soufflé.
Luscious, fruity wine and fresh baked bread accompanied the scrumptious
spread. Outside the glass wall, the lake shimmered with the lights from
the surrounding towns which glittered like a myriad diamonds studded
in the black cloak of night. I do not know if it was the taste of the
food or the refreshing air from the lake and the picturesque setting or
both, that the dinner here was an exceptionally satisfying
experience, almost overwhelmingly so. Back in my hotel, I sat on the
balcony for long, hearing the soft murmurs of the waves lapping on the
shore. A lonely light glimmered at the top of the hill opposite. I
wondered who stayed there, in such seclusion. Soon after, I called it a
night.
Next morning we were
headed for Switzerland! Our destination was Lugano — a beautiful town
situated in the holiday district of Tricino, on the northern banks
of Lake Lugano, in Southern Switzerland. It was a relaxed Sunday morning
in the charming town and most of the shops and designer boutiques that
lined the roads were closed. The streets almost empty other than a
few locals out on a walk or a bicycle ride. But Lugano was a feast for
the eyes. Streets festooned with immaculately trimmed beds of
colourful blossoms, ornate fountains, beautiful villas and gardens, posh
cafes and restaurants, arcades and typical Mediterranean squares,
youngsters canoeing in the lake and ducks wading in its turquoise waters
and finally the lake-side Belvedere Gardens, famous for its
camellias and magnolias – Lugano was all about brilliant hues and
pictorial
views. Here too, green
hills surrounded the lake but the mighty peaks of the Swiss Alps were
clearly visible against the clear blue sky.
Much
to my delight the peaks were snowcapped! And although the sun was
shining bright there was a distinct chill in the air. After an hour
or so of loitering in the centre of the town and lapping up a cup of
delicious cappuccino at a sidewalk café, I joined the others for our
excursion to Monte Tamaro. The best part of the excursion was without
doubt the cable car ride to the top of Monte Tamaro, approximately at an
altitude of 1600m. Monte Tamaro is a favourite with trekkers, hikers
and mountain bikers. We saw quite a few bikers, take the cable car to a
mid-point station, their bikes propped up on the cable car, where from
they set off through the dense woods, on narrow, winding mountain
trails. The cable car ride afforded some spectacular views of the ring
of lofty Lepontine Alps, the nearest ones were greenish brown or perhaps
a brownish green and further beyond they were a cobalt blue and finally
milky white, the snowcapped peaks shimmering in the sun. The valley
down below steadily diminished in size until it seemed like the face of
a board game, toy houses, toy cars, et al! And was then hidden from
view altogether till we reached the top.
At
the top, there is a café, an adventure park of sorts with some
dangerous (I thought so) rides. Imagine zooming downhill on a double-bob
sleigh or sliding down a cable along the edge of the mountain, hanging
only by a harness and a pulley! A miniature amusement park for children
completed the setting. And perched on the edge of the mountain was the
charming, stone Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, though its award
winning design hardly resembled a conventional church. The terrace of
the church is a long aisle that ends in a platform that almost juts out
of the cliff, a miniature viewing gallery of sorts and affords the best
views from Monte Tamaro. A mammoth iron cross is propped up on
the balustrade of the viewing gallery.
Lunch
comprised turkey breast cutlet, a heap of French fries and a glass of
sweet white wine, which I chose to have al fresco on the terrace of the
café, where local musicians played typical alpine music to which a few
old couples matched steps. The stinging chill in the air, the warm
comfort of sunshine, the clear blue sky and the soothing alpine music
reverberating in the mountains, what could be a more perfect
setting? Besides, the wine was already having its effects on my
excited nerves. I simply sat there, smiling.
Post
lunch, I walked down the terrace of the church, to the very end and
climbed on to the platform. Strangely, my legs were shaking. I don’t
know if it was the height, the chill or the wine. The wind blew so
strong that it threatened to blow my scarf away. The quite of the
morning was almost disconcerting. The sound of music came drifting from
the café. Otherwise there was pin drop silence. And there I was, alone,
as if floating mid air, below the giant Cross and in front of me was
the breadth taking sweep of the majestic Alps; just the mountains
and me. The hair on my neck was erect and an alien chill ran down
my spine — this was one of those few extraordinary moments that define a
life, a moment of epiphany, a surreptitious ecstasy that is
almost painful, when you feel blessed! A few more tourists had
arrived by now and were waiting for their turn. But I wanted to stand
there some more time. Perhaps, just an instant more
