No, We Were Not German! by Ron Trill

Many years ago, after a couple of holidays in France, Jean and I thought we would venture further afield- an out and home from Geneva, eastwards through Switzerland and returning via northern Italy. And a memorable tour this turned out to be. Not only was it our first venture into the Alps and some great and glorious scenery, but we have a particular memory of a hotel at Romagnano in Italy.

Some years before there had been trouble and unrest in Italy’s German speaking province, the South Tyrol, (also known as the Alto Adige after its main river). There was a move to hand the province over to Austria, but most of its inhabitants, with strong memories of German occupation during the second world war, were naturally against this. Feelings ran very high. The C.T.C. Gazette, (as it was then called), advised members not to visit the area.

All this was in the past when we left Geneva and we did not intend leaving the tourist routes in Italy. The river Adige would be well to the east of us, anyway. So we rode along by Lake Geneva, discovered the Swiss “Tea-houses” with their “Café Complets” (roughly a full Continental-type breakfast and just the thing for a hungry cyclist’s coffee stop), and found a hotel at Vevey at the far end of the lake.

We continued eastwards up the Rhone Valley, climbing slowly, until we had reached Gletch at something over 5,000 feet. Plenty of snow here and some great scenery. We also admired the skill of the Swiss engineers who built the railway through the Alps. Still eastwards and over the Furka pass, we stopped to look at the Rhone Glacier, shrunken from its former glory. Down the other side of the pass, we turned right, just before Andermatt, for the St. Gotthard pass (or San Gottardo as it is known locally). It had not long been cleared of its winter snow. There were 37 hairpins on the way down to Airolo, although I have no doubt that by now this busy road will have been straightened.

Continuing down the long tongue of Switzerland which bites into Italy, we came to Lake Lugano, and found a hotel at Porlezza at the east end of the lake, and there we met a C.T.C. party. Much talking, and the evening passed quickly. We rode as far as Lake Como with them the next morning.

This brief and breathless account of our first week is leading up to our stop at a hotel in the small town of Romagnano. A couple of days after leaving Lake Como, on the ‘Home’ leg of the tour, we came to this town, a little bit off the popular tourist route. In Italy, afternoon is siesta and all small towns shut down completely. Shops close, the streets are deserted- and hotels merge into other buildings and are not easy to find. At about 6 pm it all changes again: lights come on in shops, hotels are neon-lit and the streets are crowded.

It was about 5 o’clock when we arrived in Romagnano and it took much searching to find a hotel, which we eventually did in the outskirts. Our room was at the top of the building and there was no hot water. Unusual, but after the long search for a room, we accepted this. Later, having relaxed a while, changed and generally sorted ourselves out, we went down to the dining room, and here we met a reception committee. The proprietor, elderly and seemingly embarrassed, supported by his youngish daughter and a number of townsmen wanted to know our nationality, it seemed. Yet they did not want me to produce our passports.

As we knew next to no Italian, and they knew as much English, the ensuing discussion had a slightly surreal aspect. At one stage I found myself talking in my limited French to the daughter who was fluent in the language. This did not seem to work, either. There was a tension building up, yet it was obvious that the proprietor, the daughter and the rest were thoroughly decent people who were under pressure not to have Germans in the hotel. So, not wanting to be thrown out, I did what I should have done at first, and produced the passport. When the daughter pronounced us “English” the tension went out of that room like air from a burst tyre, it was smiles all round, and they could not do enough for us. Later, when we were looking at the menu and trying to find out the nature of a certain item, there was a deep voice from the back of the restaurant: “Ros’ Beef”. When I hear those words, even now, I think of that hotel; we have never been back.

Following our evening at that hotel, the rest of the tour was no let-down. We returned to Switzerland by way of the St. Bernard Pass (of which more perhaps shall be divulged in a future article...), and then along the south of lake Geneva and a corner of France, to the airport and home.

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