The Ride North – From Athens to the Alps and Back
After lunch with Luca, I hit the road.
In just over an hour, I crossed the border into Italy.
Riding toward Milan, the highway allows for a steady 130 km/h cruise.
The air is still, and the only wind I feel comes from the speed itself.
The road stretches straight ahead, leading me toward the setting sun — and I follow it.
As the sky turns red, the decision to spend the night in Verona feels inevitable.
I take the next exit, follow the signs to the city center, and find a small hotel nearby.
Check-in, drop my gear, a quick change of clothes, and I’m out again.
I walk through the old streets, find a restaurant, and — of course — order moussaka, pasta with tomato sauce, and a glass of local Merlot.
In the morning, I wake up early, have breakfast at the hotel, and head back to the highway.
The bike settles again at 130 km/h.
Milan – 169 km ahead.
As I near the city, traffic thickens, then clears after about half an hour.
Once again, the road opens, smooth and fast.
At the next exit — Aosta — the highway turns toward the Alps.
The road follows the Dora Baltea River, a beautiful flow cutting through the valley, born from the glaciers of Monte Rosa.
The scenery is stunning. The closer I get to the Alps, the narrower the valley becomes — villages with wooden houses, red rooftops, and snow-capped peaks.
At a junction, I have two choices:
Right — climb up to the Great St. Bernard Pass, or straight — into the tunnel toward Switzerland.
I choose to climb.
The road winds sharply upward.
The temperature on the dashboard drops steadily — 3°C.
Now I’m riding through the heart of the Alps, and the view around me is beyond words.
At the top of the pass, I stop.
The Italian flag flutters behind me, and farther ahead, I can already see the Swiss flag.
I enter a small restaurant on the Italian side, warm up over a plate of pasta, and continue toward the border.
Along the way stands the Great St. Bernard Hospice, at 2,469 meters above sea level —
where monks once bred the legendary St. Bernard dogs, rescuing lost travelers in the snow for centuries.
The hospice was founded back in the 11th century by a monk named Bernard of Menthon,
and that’s where the name Saint Bernard comes from.
A German couple stops to admire the bike and snaps a few photos of me with the lake behind.
The descent into Switzerland is just as dramatic and beautiful —
the road winds through Bourg-Saint-Pierre, then along Route 21, sliding down a gorgeous valley toward Martigny.
After about an hour of riding, Lake Geneva appears to my left.
Soon I’ll reach Lausanne.
The sun sets behind the lake, and I realize I’ve been riding since 9 a.m. — nine hours straight.
The beauty of the road made me forget the fatigue.
By nightfall, I find another hotel, grab dinner, and fall asleep.
“Hey, Petros, I thought I’d drop by for coffee — I’m in Lausanne,” I say over the phone.
“Maybe come for dinner instead?” he replies.
“With pleasure,” I answer.
That afternoon, I park my bike outside the home of Dr. Katerina and Dr. Petros,
in a quiet green village not far from Lausanne.
Their house is warm and welcoming. On the table — a spread of appetizers, wine, and smiles.
We talk for hours.
Martina tells me about her passion for embroidery — delicate, handmade pieces that remind me of the ones my mother used to make.
Later we sit down for dinner.
Their polite, kind son Nikola joins us.
Katerina serves an incredible meal — green salad, seasoned rice, slow-cooked beef in rich broth.
Petros pours red wine.
We eat, talk, laugh — another glass of wine — and Katerina insists on dessert.
She brings out a cake I can’t stop eating, served with Greek yogurt and candied quince.
A dessert I’ve never tasted before.
It’s late. I say goodbye to the wonderful family, ride back to the hotel, and sleep like a baby.
Morning.
I get back on the bike and ride through Swiss beauty that feels like it belongs in a movie — or a fairy tale.
Interlaken lies between two lakes, Thun and Brienz, surrounded by snow-covered peaks.
It’s one of the most popular gateways to the Jungfrau region.
A perfect mix of breathtaking scenery, mountain sports, and quiet moments by the water.
The main street, Höheweg, is lined with cafés, shops, and views that seem painted by hand.
The sight of Jungfrau rising in the distance — unforgettable.
As the day grows late and cold, I ride back to Lausanne.
Tomorrow evening I’ll meet Carla — a friend I met years ago during one of my rides in South America.
Born in Peru, she now lives in Switzerland.
She built an amazing brand — Carpaca — importing high-quality clothing made from alpaca wool.
At 8 p.m., we meet at a restaurant.
Both of us are happy to reconnect after so long.
Carla gives me a beautiful alpaca wool scarf.
Between the clinking of glasses and plates, I listen to her tell the story of her business —
Carpaca —
and of the gentle, warm fibers of the alpaca.
At the door, I meet Pingo, the owner’s corgi —
a small dog with the confidence of someone who clearly runs the place.
I sit beside him; the owner joins for a quick “dog talk.”
Outside, the Swiss air is crisp and cold.
I wrap the scarf around my neck — it’s soft, light, and perfectly warm.
Carla walks with me until our paths divide — she heads home, I return to the hotel.
On the way, I realize I set out for five days… and it’s already been ten.
“Who’s counting,” I smile to myself.
The next morning, I begin the ride back.
Across the Alps again — through the St. Bernard Pass,
down to Milan, and from there toward Ancona,
where I’ll catch the ferry back to Greece.
The ride to Milan feels shorter this time.
I leave the highway and drift onto the narrow country roads.
Villages, fields, orchards — the real Italy passes by.
It’s beautiful, and it smells of earth and cut grass.
Peace settles over me. All I need is a quiet place for the night.
I spot a small inn by the road — can’t tell if it’s a farm or a family guesthouse.
I roll up to a large iron gate.
A young woman comes out to open it,
and I ride slowly along a gravel path that ends at a wide green lawn.
Two women and the owner greet me with warm smiles.
“I’m Chantal.”
“And I’m Martina,” says the other.
I unload the bike, settle into my room, and head out to the terrace.
The two of them are sitting by a small round table, chatting.
I join them, and soon we’re talking easily — they both speak Spanish,
and suddenly everything feels familiar.
I tell them I write a travel blog and ask if I can take their photo.
“Like this? In these clothes?” they laugh.
“Tomorrow morning,” they say, “we’ll dress nicely for the pictures.”
I smile and agree.
The owner calls me for dinner.
Martina explains, “We make the pasta ourselves, and the wine — it comes from there,”
pointing to a small winery across the field.
I eat slowly and think to myself — how wishes have a way of coming true.
It reminds me of when I was a kid —
when I wanted something badly enough, I’d just think about it until it happened.
Childhood thoughts, I tell myself.
I thank the three kind women and head to bed.
Morning again.
I step out onto the balcony, breathe in the scent of the countryside,
sip my coffee, and think how much I’d love to stay here a few more days.
I pack the bike, say goodbye, exchange numbers with Chantal and Martina,
and promise to send them the photos and the blog link.
Chantal opens the gate, and I roll out onto the narrow road —
another village, then another.
By noon, I reach the port ticket office.
Two tickets — one for me, one for the bike.
This time, I take a cabin.
At 3 p.m., the ferry lifts anchor and heads into open sea.
The hours pass; a voice over the speakers announces that dinner is served.
I sit down to eat, enjoying the food and the atmosphere of the sailors around me.
And I think — I only meant to go away for five days,
just to break the routine.
At seven in the morning, a crew member knocks on my cabin door.
“In one hour,” he says, “we’ll arrive in Greece.”
I left Athens, rode north through Albania,
then to Ohrid in North Macedonia.
From there, back through Albania, across Montenegro, Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, and into Italy.
I climbed the Alps through the St. Bernard Pass, crossed into Switzerland,
and then returned the same way — back through Italy to Ancona,
where I boarded the ferry to Igoumenitsa,
and four and a half hours later, I was back in Athens —
right where the journey began.
