As the old chap had graciously volunteered the use of his car, as well as funding the trip almost in its entirety, we figured he should do the interesting driving. With that in mind, we pointed the nose towards the autobahn and headed south for Austria. Once more, derestricted autobahn greeted us and we settled into a gentle 130mph cruise, occasionally vacating the outside lane to allow the passage of thundering black Audis sat on their imposed limiters. It’s an unreal way to travel but before we knew it we were heading off the autobahn and into glorious countryside.
The further south we proceeded the more picturesque the landscape became. We stopped at a service area just across the Austrian border which would rival even the mighty Teebay in its beauty. It was quite an introduction to an amazing country.
We found ourselves running through a verdant gorge, apparently a plateau among the peaks. The land evidently rich in minerals and even richer in rainfall, we ended up ploughing through heavy precipitation for a couple of hours. Sadly this coincided with the best driving of the trip so far. Exciting roads in fine condition, surrounded by beautiful countryside, punctuated by pretty fortified medieval villages. It was just a shame that progress was interrupted by the weather.
Eventually we emerged in Italy, though by all accounts a very Austrian part of Italy as everything was in German and it looked like Austria. I guess the Italians don’t worry about anything north of Lake Como.
We were staying in a small town called Prad am Stilfserjoch. This sits within the Stelvio National Park and just north of the famous pass of the same name. The town itself is an intiguing mix of ancient, subsistent farming juxtaposing modern facilities and tourism resulting from the town’s spectacular location. Once again not being blessed with time we stuck to our hotel, which was central and scored highly for an underground garage. We spent most of our time here bewildered by which language to speak, but German seemed to be reasonably effective and we got by. In fact by the time we got to France a week later we barely knew how to speak at all, having battled valiantly with schoolboy French, Germany and Italian in a single day. Even English was becoming a struggle.
Thursday morning was, mercifully, fine after the deluges of the previous day and the roads were dry. We were heading for our four-day rest point in Milan and had decided to cross the Passo dello Stelvio to see why it has become so legendary, not just in car circles but also among committed cyclists and motorcyclists.
Well, based on the evidence we found, the cyclists should be committed. We were starting on the north side which seems to be the more touristy and busy. Once we’d worked past some joggers and their convoy of support vehicles we found ourslves in a crocodile of cars as the road meandered up through the trees, the hairpins increasing in number with the altitude. The driving at this stage wasn’t too slow and the views fantastic so we enjoyed working our way higher through the arboreal cover until eventually popping out above the tree line.
Wow! Having only ever seen the Alps from the seat of Boeing’s finest before, the sight of the Alpine peaks disappearing into the distance briefly took our breath away. Epic doesn’t cover it. The sheer enormity of the landscape is mind-boggling to a newcomer. It disappears in all directions – up, down, left, right…you name it.
Above the tree line and we weren’t too worried about the speed of our ascent, we simply sat back to enjoy the ride and the stunning views. On the northern side of the pass, the hairpins come thick and fast, they’re tight and generally lined with stone walls to stop you falling off. We found on the left handers we could get a better swing if I glanced up the hill to see for any down-coming traffic, and the old chap would do the same on the right handers. It worked well and we enjoyed running with the windows down with that seismic exhaust sound bouncing off the mountain beside us.
If I might be cautionary, there were moments of frustration on the first half of the journey. The cyclists are, perhaps understandably given their endeavours, a little wobbly sometimes and need a very decent wide berth. It helps tremendously having two pairs of eyes on the look-out for potential hazards. The motorcyclists can also prove troublesome as they see no issue with going three-wide as you pass a cyclist. With that in mind, we came to the conclusion that perhaps the Aston was a little big for the northern face, but it came into its own on the descent.
We saw a few interesting motors on the pass itself including a couple of Lotuses and a sonorous Ferrari 308 GTB, being driven as intended. However, it seemed mostly to be populated by holiday-makers. I suspect if we’d attempted a dawn raid then things might’ve been different but given the relentlessness of our schedule we elected to play it safe and just revel in the experience.
Once at the summit, we elected not to stop and instead started our descent. The southern side was considerably less busy and progress was far more brisk, with space to overtake safely and easily. The brakes held up well to the hairpin abuse and before we knew it we found ourselves at a popular viewing spot next to a waterfall where the whole world seemed to open up in front of us. The road wiggled its way down the valley before disappearing towards the horizon, flanked by bleak mountains. It really was the most phenomenal view and we stopped for a few minutes to try and take in the enormity of it. We were so lucky to pick a clear day with the clouds high above the snow-capped peaks.
After much open-mouthed wonderment, we remembered that the spectacular ribbon of tarmac was ours to enjoy so we hit the road again. The pass continues dropping through sinuous hairpins before leveling out, following the hillside and clinging on through glamorous and evocative galleria tunnels. Many of them were damp and narrow so oncoming motorcyclists were an occasional cause for concern but open-windowed bursts of throttle soon made up for any momentary heart-stoppers.
As the road levelled and opened out we found ourselves in Bormio and the end of the pass. As we entered the town, a group of Italian-registered supercars with door roundels headed towards us. Scores of exotics evidently headed for the pass streamed past us including Ferraris, Lambos, Merc SLS, Vipers and even a Koenigsegg. As tempting as it was to turn round and blast back over the pass with them, we pressed on towards Milan and the surroundings turned from rocky to pastural to, well, a bit dull and flat.
Finally, though, it was starting to feel like Italy. Having completed the best of the day’s driving we paused at a roadside cafe for an espresso before I took to the wheel for a stint. It was when consulting the map to check the next leg of the journey that we noticed how closely we would be passing Lake Como. It seemed rude not to call in for a look so we speared off the autostrada and headed for the water, into a desperately pretty little lakeside village.
As the locals sat by the shore chatting we grabbed a gelato and admired the view. What a stunning location – no wonder the great and the good choose to spend their summers there. Sadly we couldn’t pause long asMilan was waiting and we had an appointment with rush hour traffic.
Sure enough, the Milanese traffic jams were as crazy as we expected. Major ongoing roadworks meant sat-nav fooling diversions so tempers were on the verge of being frayed when we arrived at our hotel. One saving grace was the unexpected popularity of the car. The Italians apparently don’t only have eyes for Ferrari and we enjoyed numerous waves and camera phone appearances. Shame the car’s occupants probably lacked a little of the usual Milanese glamour.
The central Hotel Vittoria was to be our base from Thursday until Monday and we were looking forward to putting down roots for a couple of days and getting stuck into another great weekend of motor racing – our first trip toMonza.
