In the mood for love?
A wet tour of Lake Garda is followed by some bedroom antics
Your Next Adventure Awaits!
Thanks for joining me on the serialized journey of North to Norway! If you enjoyed the extracts from my 2022 ride to Tarifa, the full book is available now on Amazon (paperback and e-book) and in select bookshops. Want a signed copy? Just drop me a comment!
This summer, Ralph and I are off to Spain and Portugal – tackling the Picos mountains, exploring Galicia, then heading to Portugal's coast, aiming for Cabo da Roca and eventually Malaga, where the bikes ship home. As you know from the blog, plans can always change!
Look out for posts on our Iberian adventures soon. But first, get ready for a taste of Italy! I'll be sharing a hopefully entertaining series about my 2024 trip to the land of opera, gelato, and pizza over the coming months.
In last week’s episode ‘Juliet’s Wedding’ I visited the beautiful city of Verona.
Having endured a sleepless night at the palatial wedding venue, I blearily wandered down to reception the next morning, resolute in my decision to cancel my second night’s booking. Another evening of relentless bass notes was unthinkable. Over a hurried breakfast, I studied the map, trying to salvage some semblance of a plan. Circumnavigating Lake Garda and heading south towards the promise of better weather seemed the only sensible option, especially with heavy rain forecast for the next few days.
The gloomy skies mirrored a deeper unease. Shortly before leaving home, my mother, in her nineties but with a mind still sharp, had begun to suffer from failing health. My visit to her had been fraught with the unspoken possibility of it being our last. The question of whether I should have left for Italy at all had been preying on my mind, yet I knew she would have wanted me to go. Nevertheless, a persistent guilt had shadowed me ever since. A message from my sisters pinged through: her condition had worsened, and they were holding a vigil for her in the care home. A profound sadness enveloped me.
In a very contemplative state, I packed the bike and set off up an industrial valley towards Lake Idro, nestled high in the mountains to the west of Lake Garda. As if mirroring my mood, the rain began to beat down ferociously. By Anfo, a small village halfway along the lake, I was thoroughly soaked, water seeping into every crevice. With the temperature hovering in single figures, and ill-prepared for such cold conditions in northern Italy, I desperately needed a warm drink and pulled into a pretty alpine-style restaurant fronting the lake. I texted my sisters again. Still no news.
The road twisted and turned through the mountains, and eventually, the sun began to peep through the murk. The powerful fragrance of cut pine filled the air – this was timber country, and great piles of freshly-hewn logs lay by the roadside, awaiting transportation to the building yards and paper mills of Milan and Bolzano. From Storo to Ledro and then down the steep slopes to Garda itself, the empty road demanded complete concentration, a challenging but necessary focus.
A text chimed through. I pulled over. ‘She’s rallying’, came the brief message. A wave of relief washed over me, and I texted back my love to be relayed to Mum. It felt wholly inadequate.
I lunched in Torbole, on Lake Garda, the views dominated by the water dotted with small, colourful boats and steep-sided mountains rising sharply from the shoreline. The sky remained thick with clouds, ranging from threatening black to a pale grey – the Dolomite mountain foothill micro-climate clearly wasn’t finished with me yet. Refreshed, yet still damp and full of four-cheese linguini, I continued southwards along the eastern side of the lake, a picturesque stretch lined with quaint villages, small beaches, and numerous opportunities for swimming, paddleboarding, and sailing – a true outdoor playground. I loved how the road clung to the shoreline, offering a constant panorama of the shifting scenery and the vast expanse of Lake Garda, the largest in Italy, twenty-five times bigger than Windermere.
At Bardolino, the road moved inland and began to climb. I glimpsed an olive-oil factory and shop tucked away from the town centre and made a beeline for it. Despite limited storage space on the bike, I’d ensured a cranny for a decent-sized tin of olio di oliva. Le Gramole was a first-class find, offering top-quality extra virgin olive oil. I’ve professionally tasted many things – breakfast cereals, butter, beer, spirits, and, of course, beer (you might guess my preference) – but never before had I experienced a tutored olive oil tasting. Maria Luisa, the flaxen-haired, dark-skinned, and rather delightfully buxom lady who ran the shop, eagerly offered samples while explaining that the olive harvest here begins at the end of October, when the fruit transitions from green to purple. Over 300 olive oil producers operate in the area, making it one of Europe’s most important centres. She poured a small amount of the precious oil into a blue glass (to avoid colour bias) before swirling it like fine wine to release the aromas. I had to slurp it, a habit that would have earned me a reprimand from Mum as a child. Swallowing neat oil took a little effort, but the flavours were wonderful, with a subtle hint of bitterness. I nibbled on bread between samples, but three were enough, and I’d already decided which I was taking with me – a surprisingly large tin that still graces my kitchen for salads and cooking.
It was time to move on and find accommodation for the night, a consequence of my hasty departure from the Palace. I wanted to head towards better weather, and leaving the mountains seemed wise. Secure parking was always a priority, and my hotels app suggested the Hotel Motel Sporting in a small village near Montodine, a seemingly remote spot south east of Milan. I meandered across the countryside, through fertile fields and past little tumble-down farms, where ancient tractors either still worked the land or simply rusted alongside unidentifiable farm implements, abandoned where they were last used. Early evening was approaching as I rode down a long, secluded lane lined with high hedgerows. It immediately struck me as unusual, an impression that closer acquaintance would only reinforce. Perhaps it’s best to quote verbatim my own online review of the place:
‘Great secure motorcycle parking, literally on the doorstep of your own motel room, with private shutters. It’s in the middle of nowhere down a discrete private driveway on a small industrial estate. Scenic it is not. The rooms were modern in 1980 but clean and big. The bathroom (jacuzzi but no proper shower) is a bit passé. No real onsite catering and only a perfunctory bar. The motel’s ’Sporting’ name clearly references bed gymnastics as the room is adorned with mirrors (ceiling, too, natch). My neighbouring German friends (sound carries) were obviously in training for the Shag Olympics. Unusual but kind of works and is inexpensive. Staff friendly.’
The review, still online, only hinted at the full experience. Suffice it to say that once again, I was thankful for a set of industrial-strength earplugs, as the German couple (though it may have been an orgy) upstairs were vocal and headboard-bangingly physical – for hours. I dived into the shower and kept startling myself as yet another semi-naked bloke appeared in the corner of my eye, until I realised it was me, reflected in one of those hall-of-mirrors illusions. Hoping Klaus and Eva might eventually tire themselves out, I headed into the local hamlet, a place seemingly untouched by tourists, to find dinner. Pizza was the speciality of the Bucali Ristorante, which appeared to be in a private house with no discernible signage, just a queue outside. After a short wait, I was in. The corner oven glowed red-hot. My intention to try something different vanished the instant I saw the delicious, crispy-based pizzas my table neighbours were devouring. After Trieste, I thought it would be hard to match their standard, but the cheesy speck was a solid 9 ½ out of 10. Fabulous.
The restaurant buzzed with the happy chatter of families – grandma, mum, dad, and the kids. I scribbled some notes while I waited, the words blurring slightly as I fought back tears. Another text had arrived, this time from Nicola, my eldest daughter. She had taken her children, Barnaby and Belle, my grandchildren, to see their Nan, my Mum. It was the last time they would see her, though none of us knew it then. Being surrounded by the noisy joy of Italian families sharing a meal – and being alone with my thoughts of my own family – well, it had tipped me over the edge. The waitress was very kind. She touched my arm lightly and smiled as she brought me another glass of wine. I understand, her eyes seemed to say. But I wasn’t sure I understood myself.
© 2025 Stephen Oliver
You can find my book North to Norway in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.