// from mountain to city
The Hutte was designed by two famous mountaineers, Arturro and Oreste Squinobal: brothers who had travelled the world together climbing mountains. Before Oreste died, he and Arturro drew up plans for a mountain refuge in Monte Rosa, high in the Valley of Aosta. Arturro and his family finished Oreste's dream, and today Arturro's children, Marta and Emil, live the long‑held dream in honour of their uncle. Their refuge is a luxury escape nestled against the mountainside, catering for climbers, hikers and skiiers.
The Squinobals are desecnded from the Germans who migrated across the mountains thousands of years ago. They speak a dialect that is a mixture of German and Italian and it's quite beautiful. Their German ancestry is evident in the efficiency and design of the Hutte; from the solar panels that heat both the water and the floors, to the perfect carpentry that is seen throughout their home.
Built over several years, the Hutte is made of wood that was flown in by helicopter. When asked by tourists if the wood is local, Phill has been known to say "yes, there used to be a forest here!". In truth, the tallest tree that can grow in the area is only about 2 metres tall and is situated half an hour's walk below the Hutte. Photos of the Hutte's construction show people sitting on top of loads of wood, which dangle from the chopper. Mountain people, not surprisingly, have a head for heights.
I spent my time at the Hutte recovering from the week of partying in Lndon, eating the wonderful meals cooked by the talented chef Giovanni, chatting to Linea, Giovanni, Emil, Marta and Ladzo who all work at the Hutte, and hiking.
Marta suggested I visit the "Lago Blu" which Linea ‑ a danish girl ‑ swims in occasionally. It's freezing cold as Phill once discovered when, not to be outdone by a girl, he jumped in. The Lago Blue is about a half hour hike from the Hutte, along a path that is clearly marked by the "sentieri", stones showing the path's number and arrows in bright yellow pointing the way. I passed two smaller lakes and stepping‑stoned my way to a rock in the middle of one of them. On the rock, I found a tiny puddle housing tadpoles so I rescued them before the sun turned them into something the French would eat. Finally, I arrived at Lago Blu and I sat, admiring the view and eating some fruit.
The day was sunny and there wasn't much wind, so I decided to keep wandering. Looking up, I noticed two silhouettes hiking along a ridge with the snowy peak of Mantoba behind them. I glanced at the peak they had come from and thought "I can do that", so I picked out a path and started my ascent. The path I chose looked like the aftermath of a small avalanche, with green grass giving way to grey stones. Wedging my toes against the rocks, I used them as though they were steps up the mountainside. The breath runs out quickly at that altitude (2700 metres) so the going was slow, but steady.
At the top was a small cairn with a stick wedged into it ‑ the designated marker for a peak of some sort ‑ really just something to aim for. When I reached it I took out my camera to immortalise my achievement, and then nearly dropped it as I looked down and saw a near vertical cliff face right in front of me! What had been a relatively easy climb on one side was a sheer drop on the other. The photo I took shows me giggling with delight at how impossibly high I was. Like a stambecco (mountain goat) I then picked out a new path and bounded down... ok. more like a grandma because it really was bloody high, so I took it easy. But in whatever manner, I did finally arrive back at the Hutte where I was treated to a beautiful lunch. Marta, Phill and I then went down the mountain to Gressoney St Jean, where Marta's parents live, and we spent the night there.
On my last day in the mountains, Phill and I drank beer, chatted to the locals, ate and wandered around the tiny town. These days, most of the local villages are ghost towns, with the locals having departed for France and Germany and holidaymakers buying their vacated homes.
AFter lunch, Marta returned to the Hutte and Phill and I spent the afternoon swapping stories, suggesting new music to each other, then rounded off the evening with episodes of Salad Fingers. (It's creepy but funny ‑ google it.)
Today I rose early and bid farewell to Phill, leaving him in his new home where he seems happy and settled. I took the bus (the bus driver filled me in on the area's history) and train to Turin and wandered the streets for a while.
I always find it a strange sort of homecoming when I return to a foreign city that I know well. It's a little like encountering one's own ghost ‑ you pass the fountain that was your landmark, sit on the seat where you once spent an afternoon reading the whole of Harry Potter in Italian, glance towards the bridge that took you to your hostel. Only three years, during which so much and so little has changed. Licking a lemon gelato, I retraced old steps through the pretty streets and made my way back to the train; it was a sweet little farewell to a country that has found its way into my heart.
The Hutte was designed by two famous mountaineers, Arturro and Oreste Squinobal: brothers who had travelled the world together climbing mountains. Before Oreste died, he and Arturro drew up plans for a mountain refuge in Monte Rosa, high in the Valley of Aosta. Arturro and his family finished Oreste's dream, and today Arturro's children, Marta and Emil, live the long‑held dream in honour of their uncle. Their refuge is a luxury escape nestled against the mountainside, catering for climbers, hikers and skiiers.
The Squinobals are desecnded from the Germans who migrated across the mountains thousands of years ago. They speak a dialect that is a mixture of German and Italian and it's quite beautiful. Their German ancestry is evident in the efficiency and design of the Hutte; from the solar panels that heat both the water and the floors, to the perfect carpentry that is seen throughout their home.
Built over several years, the Hutte is made of wood that was flown in by helicopter. When asked by tourists if the wood is local, Phill has been known to say "yes, there used to be a forest here!". In truth, the tallest tree that can grow in the area is only about 2 metres tall and is situated half an hour's walk below the Hutte. Photos of the Hutte's construction show people sitting on top of loads of wood, which dangle from the chopper. Mountain people, not surprisingly, have a head for heights.
I spent my time at the Hutte recovering from the week of partying in Lndon, eating the wonderful meals cooked by the talented chef Giovanni, chatting to Linea, Giovanni, Emil, Marta and Ladzo who all work at the Hutte, and hiking.
Marta suggested I visit the "Lago Blu" which Linea ‑ a danish girl ‑ swims in occasionally. It's freezing cold as Phill once discovered when, not to be outdone by a girl, he jumped in. The Lago Blue is about a half hour hike from the Hutte, along a path that is clearly marked by the "sentieri", stones showing the path's number and arrows in bright yellow pointing the way. I passed two smaller lakes and stepping‑stoned my way to a rock in the middle of one of them. On the rock, I found a tiny puddle housing tadpoles so I rescued them before the sun turned them into something the French would eat. Finally, I arrived at Lago Blu and I sat, admiring the view and eating some fruit.
The day was sunny and there wasn't much wind, so I decided to keep wandering. Looking up, I noticed two silhouettes hiking along a ridge with the snowy peak of Mantoba behind them. I glanced at the peak they had come from and thought "I can do that", so I picked out a path and started my ascent. The path I chose looked like the aftermath of a small avalanche, with green grass giving way to grey stones. Wedging my toes against the rocks, I used them as though they were steps up the mountainside. The breath runs out quickly at that altitude (2700 metres) so the going was slow, but steady.
At the top was a small cairn with a stick wedged into it ‑ the designated marker for a peak of some sort ‑ really just something to aim for. When I reached it I took out my camera to immortalise my achievement, and then nearly dropped it as I looked down and saw a near vertical cliff face right in front of me! What had been a relatively easy climb on one side was a sheer drop on the other. The photo I took shows me giggling with delight at how impossibly high I was. Like a stambecco (mountain goat) I then picked out a new path and bounded down... ok. more like a grandma because it really was bloody high, so I took it easy. But in whatever manner, I did finally arrive back at the Hutte where I was treated to a beautiful lunch. Marta, Phill and I then went down the mountain to Gressoney St Jean, where Marta's parents live, and we spent the night there.
On my last day in the mountains, Phill and I drank beer, chatted to the locals, ate and wandered around the tiny town. These days, most of the local villages are ghost towns, with the locals having departed for France and Germany and holidaymakers buying their vacated homes.
AFter lunch, Marta returned to the Hutte and Phill and I spent the afternoon swapping stories, suggesting new music to each other, then rounded off the evening with episodes of Salad Fingers. (It's creepy but funny ‑ google it.)
Today I rose early and bid farewell to Phill, leaving him in his new home where he seems happy and settled. I took the bus (the bus driver filled me in on the area's history) and train to Turin and wandered the streets for a while.
I always find it a strange sort of homecoming when I return to a foreign city that I know well. It's a little like encountering one's own ghost ‑ you pass the fountain that was your landmark, sit on the seat where you once spent an afternoon reading the whole of Harry Potter in Italian, glance towards the bridge that took you to your hostel. Only three years, during which so much and so little has changed. Licking a lemon gelato, I retraced old steps through the pretty streets and made my way back to the train; it was a sweet little farewell to a country that has found its way into my heart.
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