Bellano – Capriolo – Manerba del Garda: 169 km

Today I’m leaving Merit. I’m leaving Lake Como, the house and family that has welcomed me as their own, and I’m by myself again. Most importantly, and most emotionally; I’m leaving Merit. We say our goodbyes once more, like we did in Amsterdam, now for a time unspecified, if not finite. The unknowing makes it harder than last time. We kiss and hug, like we did when I arrived ten days ago, now with feelings completely different. We wave until the tunnel takes away our sight of each other.

It feels strange to leave. It feels almost like I’m starting my travels all over again. I’ve lost my point of reference, no immediate goals ahead anymore. I feel more alone, self-reliant and independent than when I set out, yet not in the frivolous, exciting and butterflies-in-my-stomach kind of way. It feels heavy, like a nostalgia of the past year with her is already setting in. The nagging hangover that makes me somewhat emotionally unstable doesn’t help.

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Today proves to be a difficult one. I’m not in the right mind space, and on top of that the roads are horrific. I cycle trough a 50-kilometre-long industry park it seems, with heavy trucks passing closely by me on a regular basis. I plan to travel to Bergamo but have not found a place to sleep yet. Warm Showers hasn’t proved fruitful, and campsites are non-existent. There’s no wild camping in/near the city. I arrive in the beautiful old town, but it doesn’t lift my spirits. It’s 18 ‘o clock and I’m starting to get warry of my sleeping situation. I find a camping about 30 kilometres further. I set out with a fading sun, and a likewise mindset. I feel lost, lonely and annoyed. About 8 kilometres before I reach the campsite I set my site on, I pass through the smallest of villages, as I see an old man watering his garden. Our eyes cross and he smiles, as if to say; “Yes, I approve what you’re doing, have safe travels”. I ride on but turn around and ask him if I can stay the night. The day has been long, the night is setting and I’m completely done with today. The old man doesn’t understand a single word of English, and in response shouts his son’s name. “Fabricio!” A young man, about my age, shouts something back from the second floor window before running out through the patio door. He translates my request with wonder. The old man’s grey bristly eyebrows raise as he examines me from toe to chin. They debate in Italian. ‘‘Si, certo!”, the old man finally exclaims, as he opens the automatic gate.

I set up my tent in their garden under the apple tree. I feel like I’ve somewhat imposed myself on them. That feeling disappears when the Fabricio comes and asks me to join them for dinner. The mom is home now too, we have horse meat that I don’t dare to decline. We communicate through Fabricio, which creates a weird but warm dynamic. My hardship from earlier today fades with these new experiences and their wholesome welcome.

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The next morning I set course for the Garda Lake. Last week Hans sent me a message, that he’s camping at Manerba del Garda, and if I’d be close by. We used to be colleagues at a restaurant in Utrecht, about ten years ago. We strangely met when I took my bike to the Trek bike store in Utrecht, instead of Rotterdam where I bought it. We hadn’t seen each other in forever, and coincidentally he works for Trek in that specific store. We talked a bit, I told him about my plan and he’s been vigorously following my journey ever since.

It’s great fun seeing him again. He straight away, from the sound only, tells me I have a broken spoke once I arrive. I did notice that my bike was rattling, but hadn’t cared enough to stop. I’m in good hands, Hans is a specialised wheel builder, a specialty that is quite rare these days. When my tent is set up, we go out to get a new spoke at a nearby bike shop. While Hans is at it, he services my complete bike. What a man!

We have dinner with his wife Marlies and another couple they are befriended to next to the lake. Back at the campsite we have one too many beers and talk about the colleagues who turned friends, and the ones we haven’t heard of seen since that time. We, or at least me, turn to bed tipsy and satisfied. Next stop, Verona. Maybe?