South of the great Alpine passes in eastern Switzerland the feel is decidedly Italian. Emerging from the Gotthard tunnel, which lies under the pass of the same name, one finds the Swiss German –schwyzertutsch- replaced by predominately Italian, with a little Romansch thrown in too. We’re on a train headed south along a route which has been used for commerce and conquest –both inextricably linked of course- for at least 5,000 years. Most of the route into Italy is hemmed in on both sides by the flanks of impressive Alpine peaks or their robust foothills. The passage to this day is watched over by ruined castles and towers, ghostly reminders of the historical importance of this route.
We spend an afternoon in the village of Thusis, climbing high over the town to visit the vertiginous ruins of Obertagstein castle, a medieval outpost. Surrounded by substantial portions of precisely placed stone, it’s not too difficult to imagine being a lookout, monitoring movement of men and materials in the valley below.
This part of Switzerland is known as Ticino –the German speakers call it Tessen- and it has a character all its own. Not only are all the signs in Italian, but the further south one travels the more Mediterranean is the ambiance. More sunshine graces Ticinese valleys than reaches the brooding Alps further north, and vineyards cover terraced mountainsides.
Bellinzona interrupts our train ride south. This picturesque town, a favorite of the English painter William Turner, has been a fortress since Roman times. It holds a prime position in guarding access to three high Alpine passes: the Gotthard, the Lukmanier and the San Bernadino. Three castles stand here, reinforced by the Milanese forces in the 1200’s to repel the Swiss invaders from north of the Gotthard. To no avail, by the way. Today Bellinzona embraces her status of being part of Switzerland. Make no mistake, the Ticinesi are proud of their Swiss heritage and nationality, but also cherish their Italian-ness, especially when it comes to Dolce Vita. These Swiss will just as quickly scoot off to Milan for their chic big-city needs as they will to Zurich.
Further south Locarno beckons. This city on the shores of Lago Maggiore was a glass-manufacturing town in Roman times, and its excellent Castello Visconteo museum is home to an extensive collection of Roman and Bronze Age artifacts. Yes, a lot of humanity has passed this way prior to my humble forays here. For the past few centuries sunny Locarno with its palm trees swaying in the Fohn breeze, has been attracting tourists from the chilly north.
Another lake side city on the Italian fringes of Switzerland is Lugano, and it begs the restless soul for an overnight stay. I obey the call, and we find a simple pension with tiny rooms a stone’s throw from the lake. The proprietress knows enough “hotel English” to get us settled in nicely. The tangled cobblestone streets of Lugano are easily shared by plainly-dressed old ladies carrying baskets of cut flowers as well as flashy folk in their Aston Martins and Maseratis who are in town to tend to their money. Lugano, like Zurich, is an international center of banking, and if there’s anything the Swiss do particularly well it’s handle money.
The Lago di Lugano shoreline is prime for walking and we hike to Gandria, an hour away along the shore above the blue-green water. We walk through groves of olive trees and terraced vineyards, down quiet lanes through silent, tiny villages. Gandria is a jumble of buildings crowded onto the steep lakeside. It’s on the passenger boat line, so we take the next boat back to Lugano, the sun sinking low over the water and hills beyond.
Riding a Swiss Post bus from Lugano to Tirano, our route enters Italy as the road follows the Lago di Como shoreline. The 100-year-old Bernina Express train line heads back into Switzerland from Tirano and elegantly climbs over Bernina Pass, at 2323m the highest pass in the Alps over which a rail line passes. The Swiss are consummate engineers, with tunnel building their forte. Swiss trains go places that normal people would deem impossible. My Swiss friend Roli tells me that his countrymen are forever building tunnels. “We see a mountain and –besides climb it- we must build a rail tunnel through it!” He gleefully points out on the map a dotted line representing the longest tunnel in the world. Under the Alps, on the Zurich to Milan rail line the finished tunnel will be 58 kilometers long. Under construction for several years now, it will be completed by about 2018. And they’re working on it twenty-four hours a day.
Just beyond and below Albula Pass, which is still buried in snow in late April, we get off the train at Preda to walk the rail line trail to Bergun. The Swiss, justly proud of their engineering feats, have created this 8 Km hiking trail to highlight some of the Bernina railway’s engineering elegance in the form of corkscrew tunnels and soaring stone viaducts.
We enter the Ober Engadine valley and come to the town of Pontresina, where our hostess Reka, surrounded by her busy and bright-eyed little bambinos, welcomes us to the backpacker’s hostel. She feeds us potato rosti and other simple delicious fare as dusk falls over the valley. Later, son Taylor and I stroll a meadow above town, watching for the first stars to appear. More than that, we’re watching for the full moon to rise above the towns of St. Moritz and Sameden across the valley.
As that orb comes into view, preceded by a glow silhouetting the craggy skyline, my mind is full of recurring thoughts about being far from home, under the same celestial bodies that marvel me there, but in a much different land; a land of different heritage, history, landscape and people. Different ideas and different ways of doing things. And it occurs to me that this is what it’s all about, keeping ones eyes open to the possibilities in looking at things from different perspectives of time and place.
It’s a beautiful night. I look out the window of the hostel before I drift off to sleep. The moonglade on St. Moritz lake is spectacular, but I can’t keep my eyes open and soon I’m dreaming about digging a tunnel under Mill Mountain.
By Johnny Robinson [email protected]