The first pedal stroke leaving home feels different when the journey is long. You set off as early as possible and watch the Varese area wake through new eyes. Lake Varese stretches awake; the Valganna looks different from the main road. A coffee at the border listening to old men chat, then a shortcut through Switzerland, with its touristy pseudo-seaside vibe around Lugano and its wide cycle lanes.
Lugano is crowded with visitors from every corner of the world, and the road towards Porlezza throws in a few steep ramps where the heat bites—only to reward the effort with magnificent mountains rising from the pure blue water. Back in Italy, things feel more down-to-earth. The cycle path towards Lake Como winds through woods, small lakes, farmland and pastures before a fast descent reaches Menaggio, where international tourists reappear. Bellagio lies straight across the water; they must have arrived by boat.
Further north the lake grows quieter. An intermittent cycle path bypasses the tunnels of the statale and reveals astonishing scenery. How much motorists miss by rushing underground—and how much peace they leave behind. Still rubbing sleep from my eyes, I reach Cremia for the first swim of the trip.
Without lingering, I continue north. Narrow cycle paths make speed impossible, forcing me back onto the statale. Campsites are everywhere, mostly occupied by Dutch and German holidaymakers. They hold little appeal; I want to sleep wild. After the lake ends and I cross the Pian di Spagna, I reach the Adda’s mouth. Google calls it a wild beach. The last bathers leave as I take a swim and choose a spot for the tent.
Night falls. Summer festival music drifts from afar, and fireworks from some village sagra sparkle on the horizon. These are the days for it. All that remains is to sleep—if the kids at the barbecue a few hundred metres away ever quiet down.
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