"Great Teteuns!" Weekend, Part III: How Bovine

Ciao Zio Tony Fans! Welcome back to the "Great Teteuns!" weekend in Val d' Aosta and the closing chapter of my journey to discover the unusual. However, as you are about to experience, when I finally arrived at the "signature destination" of my travels, I was overwhelmed with the notion that the more we explore the unfamiliar, the more we discover the familiar. Granted, Italian culture is not so different than our own to find the similarities incredulous. But, that’s really not the point.

It’s just that when coming across a epicurean specialty called “teteun”, described simply as “cow’s udder, to which Gignod dedicates a festival”, one’s expectations are naturally set for something out of the ordinary.
Gignod is in the northwest Italian province of Val ‘d Aosta, not in Kansas, so; the setting is not what we’d expect for a Midwestern county fair.


But, it turns out the closer you get, the more things start looking familiar ...

Women gossip on benches while their husbands huddle together at the bar ...


and, of course, children want to be children anywhere ...


Which may not be so unusually usual. But, if you recall my first blog post, “Ciao Cowboy”,


... and realize that the name Gran Teton (the mountain range you see in the background) shares a mammarial association with the word “teteun”, you’ll understand why I almost fell over at what I saw sauntering by ...


The dance hall was also pleasantly familiar. Actually, the only thing out of the ordinary was how these people could dance straight up & down a wall. (By the way, on a completely unrelated subject, if anybody knows how to rotate movie video, please drop ole' Uncle T a tip ). Otherwise, having spent a few years two-stepping in Texas, I easily recognized the familiar ways of the different couples: the marchers, the shufflers, the spinners, the gliders, and the two old ladies dancing together ...



Getting to the "fait accompli" of the Feta di Tetuen was no different. Standing in line at the chow hall and eves dropping on the conversations (the best I could, as my Italian still has a long way to go and the local dialect seems to be smattered with French), I found myself in the middle of a Rotary Club or Boy Scout dinner.



Except, the wine selection was much better and served only by the bottle (in this case, a plummy young "Gamay")



Granted, what you see on the plate may not stimulate a dyed in the wool vegetarian - but, I imagine it packs enough of a Pavlovian ping to trickle the salivary glands of other omnivores out there. (By the way, the "teteun" is the organ looking piece of meat in between the chops & the sausages ... :)P

In the end, it seems that one of the many joys of traveling and exploring something new, is the comforting re-discovery of where we have already been. So, I'm glad to report that the only unusual thing I discovered at the Feta di Teteun is that cow's udder is a meat that .... well ... tastes like cheese.

"Great Teteuns!" Weekend, Part II: Woof-top of the World

Ciao Zio Tony Fans! Welcome back to Part II of the "Great Tetuens" weekend, where we stick to the low gears and visit the ancestral home of everbody's favorite cognac-toting canine, the Great Saint Bernard.


As I explained in Part I, after I had mapped out the feature meal stops on my trip to Valle d' Aosta, I had to go about figuring what to do in between. Well, what better way to appreciate the mountains then by hopping on a bike and touring them by your own sweat & blood? So, searching the map from La Clusaz (3,900 ft) I picked up an interesting looking route that would take me along the Valley of Great Saint Bernard and up a mountain pass to the Swiss border at an altitude of 8,100 feet. Little did I expect what I would discover when I got there.

Here are a few shots riding up the valley. I couldn't have asked for a better day, cool temps and beautiful skies helped keep me in a good mood,

... even when I saw signs like this ...

But, the climbing didn't get really tough until I cleared the tree line. You can see the long switch-backs snaking up the moutain side, leading to the pass. The road runs back to the dark ridge you see on the right side of the picture and to within a couple hundred feet of its crest,


... just beyond it lies the Hospice of Gran San Bernardo



I was surprised to discover that I had arrived a quite the destination. I had hardly met any traffic coming up the Italian side; but, there where lots of visitors who I suppose came mostly from the Swiss-side. It turns out that's the direction from whence Napolean came, on his way to trounce the Austrians in 1800. Here's the Little General posing for some kiss-up named Jacques-Louis David in "Napolean Crossing the St. Bernard Pass".


Here's my version, called "Ole' Paint Crossing the Saint Bernard Pass", which I took after we had descended to the bottom of the Swiss-side valley and crawled our way back-up


... for lunch, of course.


However, I couldn't help but wonder, "What's all the barking about?" To my most pleasant surprise, I discovered that the monks who maintained the hospice were the ones who bred the Great Saint Bernard to rescue avalance victims and guide travelers safetly through blinding snow storms. A small museum maintains their history, where you can learn about real-life Super-Dog heros like "Barry" (who saved over 40 lives), study honest-to-goodness St Bernard artifacts (like doggie-snow-goggles)



... and, make your own honest-to-goodness Great Saint Bernard friends.

"Great Teteuns!" Weekend, Part I: In Care of Slow Food

Ciao Zio Tony Fans! Welcome to another multipart blog post. That is, although I had originally planned my “Great Teteuns!” weekend in Valle d’ Aosta to simply sample the udderly unusual object of epicurean adoration featured in the “Feta di Teteun”, as usually happens when you open the door to a little adventure, a few unexpected surprises snuck in. So, brace your taste-buds and your quadriceps for

Part I: Welcome to Aosta, in care of the Slow Food Guide.
Part II: Passo San Bernardo, cycling to the woof-top home of the St Bernard.
Part III: How Bovine, bring your appetite and your dancing shoes to Gignod’s “Feta di Teteun”

You may recognize Valle d’ Aosta from the 2006 Winter Olympics. This most-northwestern province of Italy lies about an hour away from Torino and shares its borders with France and Switzerland. Aosta is it’s main city.



The proximity to France and it's alpine surroundings conspire to give Aosta a decidedly different atmosphere than what you might typically expect in Italy, even the street names seem from a different land. It's a pleasant town to walk through (although there is only one pedestrian street, it seems to go on forever) and with the proper guidance in hand it can be a wonderful place to stop off for lunch.



At this point, I am compelled to make unabashed plug for Slow Food's "Osterie & Locande d' Italia" (A Guide to Traditional Places to Eat and Stay in Italy). Julie and Tim had given me this opus magnificum as a going away gift on my departure for Italy. Now, the thought of what my last six months could have been without it is downright nauseating. I am not playing to hyperbole by claiming that the only reason not to immediately tear out and throw way the “where to eat” and “where to stay” pages of any other guide or magazine article is that they may come in handy if you find yourself in a public restroom without any toilet paper. Yes, it's in English - now, stop asking questions and just get it.

That said, you should know that Zio Tony’s motto for traveling planning is, “Everything else is just figuring out what to do between meals”. So, when I first struck a fancy to explore Valle d’ Aosta, the Slow Food Guide was the first place I looked to conjure up an itinerary. In particular, this was the phrase that hooked me: “… cow’s udder, to which Gignod dedicates a festival round about 20 August". Now, honestly, who could resist?


So, it was only a matter of waiting for the calendar to roll to the third week in August before I found myself driving the 2 hours between Milano and Aosta and arriving, of course, just in time for lunch. I immediately sought out the Slow Food recommended “Trattoria degli Artisti”. Along the way, this "pasticceria" (pastry shop) reeled me in where I picked up a tasty cream filled pastry for later.


... which provides me the opportunity to report on the only “you’re clearly not one of us” intolerance I’ve experienced with Italians. You can butcher their language, overcrowd their beloved piazza’s, and fluster at the ticket counter and expect nothing but understanding smiles and calm (granted, sometimes too calm) cordial manners – but, if you want the yummy cream filled pastry that you are pointing to, for goodness sake, don’t hopelessly confound the clerk by asking for “crema” when it is actually filled with “panna” – likewise, if you’d like the other cream filled pastry next to it, don’t foolishly ask for “panna” when it is actually filled with “crema” … and, be warned not to ask for either when “crema di ricotta” is on the line. Whether or not you can actually see the “cream” inside to hazard a guess is beside the point – if you don’t know what to call it, you really don’t deserve to pay for it, much less eat it. I have experienced the same confounded reactions when trying to select a “mozzarella” or “prosciutto”. Of course, you should also know that the Italian Bureau of Health and Gastronomic Welfare strictly forbids grating cheese on your pasta when any sort of seafood is involved. As is the case with any law, “ignorance is no excuse”. Besides, why would you be so rude as to order the linguine with clams after the waiter happened to mention that the porcini were fresh? And no doubt, some of you have experienced the humiliation of trying to order a cappuccino late in the day or after dinner (“No!”). At least in this case the infamous Italian bureaucracy allows for a loop hole called the “caffe macchiato”, essentially a cappuccino served in a small espresso cup. All that said, I attribute this quirkiness to Italy’s wonderfully hyper-epicurean culture, of which we are undeniably grateful beneficiaries. So, in keeping with the “when in Rome” spirit, I have adopted a simple mantra by which my foodie-kharma has joyfully feasted on many occasions: “Mi consiglia, per piacere.” (Please recommend to me).

Which brings us back to “Trattoria degli Artisti”, located in a quite alley off of the main pedestrian drag, which at that point is called Via Aubert (like I said, the street names betray an intermingled history with the French).


I selected my lunch from their Traditional Menu. Here you see my “primo piatto” (first course), a “cotechino” (cure & cooked sausage of pork, lardo, spices, and pork rind) filled pastry accompanied by a Pinot Noir recommended by the waiter. Pour on a fondue of fontina cheese and you can imagine the risk I took of wrecking my epicurean prospects beyond the first plate. However, the cotechino proved to be relatively lean (like a summer-sausage) and the Artists really pulled it off by creating a light, you-could-almost-forget-it-was-there, pastry. The local Pinot was uncharacteristically edgy, but nonetheless both tasty and utilitarian as it cut nicely through the fondue.


Having successfully avoided the potential belly-fulls of the first course, I had plenty of capacity left to take on the second, a hearty stew of capriolo (a small alpine deer) served with rough cut polenta. It’s rich and gamey flavor left no doubt that … well ... my lunch had recently been gallivanting about the cliffs and peaks that rose up around me. To take on the touch of wilderness on my plate, the waiter poured a bold & plumy Torette Superiore into my glass. Perhaps a better trained palate could corner the Torette into a more familiar varietal, but, to me it was one of those “Well, I would have never imagined!” discoveries that you hope to stumble upon when off the beaten path.


Since I already had a pastry (filled with “panna”) in my bag and a much anticipated dinner at La Clusaz yet on the horizon, I passed on “dolce” (dessert) and went straight for the “digestivo”. I wonder if science really understands how these high-octane after-dinner elixirs work. One would think that following two full courses and a couple glasses of wine with a dram of practically pure alcohol would lower the curtains and dim the lights for nappy time. However, I have experienced the restorative powers of these gastronomical defibrillators more than once. Each region toutes it’s own “magic potion” (you are most likely familiar with “limoncello” and grappa”). So, I was curious to learn the digestivo of choice in this corner of Italy. Evoking the “mi consiglia, per piacere” mantra quickly produced a bottle “Genepy” on my table. Made from the essence of a mountain herb of the same name, it delivers a wonderfully accessible compromise between a grappa and the typical herbal "amaro" ("bitter", jagermeister is technically a digestivo).


Well, at this point, I’ve clearly rambled on too long while the new blog stories keep on piling up. Which is too bad, because I’ve only just gotten done with the first meal of the weekend. So, I will try to come back and fill you in on the fantastic dinner, which was as refined and nuanced as my lunch had been down-home-hearty, that followed at La Clusaz (another Slow Food recommendation and also where I took a room). But in the mean time, I will leave you with a copy of their “Herbal” menu (the fixed price choice I selected) to practice your Italian and your appetite. Can you guess my choices?

NEW FLASH!: "Sono Arrivati i Porcini Freschi!"

Ohhhh yeahhhh ... the first-of-season, fresh porcini mushrooms have just hit Milano! I had seen hints of their arrival at this morning's market ... and tonight, Milan is dotted with handwritten "Porcini Freschi!" signs taped to restaurant windows.

Here's what I jotted down from the window of Zio Tony's fav hole-in-the-wall, "Trattoria del Corso", Corso Garibali 12:

- Porcini salad with shaved parmigiana

- Bresaola (dry cured beef tenderloin) with Porcini

- Tagliatelle with Porcini [ My choice tonight ... followed by the best Cotoletto Milanese (breaded veal cutlet) in town ]

- Risotto with Porcini

- "Filetto al'Alpine" (fillet of Porcini)

- Scallopine with Porcini

- Tagliatta (rare "cut" beef) with Porcini

- Truffled Porcini

- Fried mozzarella and zucchine with Porcini.

"What Fun a Fondo!": Uncle Tony's shoes take him on his first Gran Fondo, and, oh what a view from the top!

Ciao Zio Tony fans! Yes, it's time to slip into Uncle Tony's shoes again. As I recounted in my last post, "Obbedisco!" (Zio Tony's Tyrol Campaign), I explored the north-eastern province of Trentino over the second weekend of August. The primary motivation for that trip was to partake in my first "Gran Fondo".

What is a "Gran Fondo"? Well in the warm months, Gran Fondo's are as common place in Italy as 5K Fun Runs are in the States. Roughly translated into "Big Way", a Gran Fondo is a cycling event in which a thousand or more (sometimes many more) bikers done their favorite color of spandex and ride anywhere between 60 to 120 miles along showcase routes through the Italian countryside. Considering that Trentino is home to the rugged Dolomiti Mountains, I choose my first Gran Fondo for the monster 4,700 foot climb that it celebrates.

Specifically, the "Gran Fondo Charly Gaul" comemorates one of those astounding physical feats of sportsmanship that you've probably never heard of ... until you move to place like Italy. Charly Gaul (1932 – 2005) was a professional cyclist who hailed from Luxembourg and earned the nickname "Angel of the Mountains" for his reputation as a climber. Besides a Tour de France Yellow Jersey (1958) to hang in his closet, he also picked up a Gran Fondo to call his own because of how he won the first of his two Giro d' Italia Pink Jerseys (1956 & 1959).

The following re-cap of Gaul's epic 1956 Giro and his climb up Monte Bondone plagarizes from http://velonews.com/article/9244

" ... Going into stage 20 from Merano to the Monte Bondone summit, Gaul was lying more than 16 minutes behind race leader Pasquale Fornara with only three days of the race remaining. This was Gaul’s last chance to move up the rankings ... but Fornara and the other top riders ahead of Gaul all looked strong as they headed toward Monte Bondone above the city of Trento.

The weather turned colder and colder, and on the long, steep slopes of the Giro’s final mountain, light snow soon turned to a full blizzard as the temperature dropped to freezing point. Fornara was overcome by the cold and took refuge in a farmhouse. Other race leaders rode to a standstill before keeling over in the ditches. Some stopped to drink hot chocolate or dip their freezing hands in bowls of hot water offered by the spectators. In all, 46 of the day’s 89 starters would pull out. Gaul just kept on going ... riding through the thickening snow in his usual smooth style.


He arrived at the finish almost eight minutes ahead of the second man, Alessandro Fantini, and 12:15 ahead of defending champion Fiorenzo Magni. His face a wrinkled mess, his hands and feet turned blue, Gaul took the pink jersey, and won the Giro two days later by 3:27 over Magni. The young Luxembourger had etched his name into the annals of not only cycling, but all sports with one of the courageous and remarkable upsets in modern times."

Well, I won't be claiming any performances that approach "epic", but in experiencing that climb myself, on a perfect day in August, I can tell you that ole' Charly was one tough nut.

The Gran Fondo Charly doesn't actually follow the entire 1956 Giro route, but start's on Mt Bondone's western slope, runs down to Lake Garda, returns to Trento via the mountain's eastern valley, then makes the "Charly Gaul" climb, back up Mt Bondone to the finish line.

Here you see the colored spandex lining up for the start at the little alpine lake of Lagolo (once again, the Slow Food Guide to Italy that Julie & Tim gave me aced the place ... landing me in a B&B just a couple hundred yards from the starting line).


One thing you get used to in Italy are helicopters covering the start of a race, no matter how small, but, especially ones with bikes! Those who've been at a starting line can sense the anticipation in the faces and posture of my fellow cyclists.


I wish I could have snapped a few shots of the "peloton" descending into the valley ... it was one of those, "Wow! I can't believe I'm in the middle of this", first-time moments. But, I hope you can appreciate that I was a little busy careening down a mountain with 1,000 other cyclists.

We descended into the hamlet of Vezzano by Lake Toblino (although I lifted this pic from the website of the restaurant/castle you see at the edge of the lake, it’s the same view we enjoyed in the saddle). This delightful little corner of the “Valle dei Laghi” (Valley of the Lakes) appears to be renown for the Poli family of grappa makers. We literally passed just a few feet from the front door and sweet smells of Giovanni Poli’s artigianal distillery (http://www.poligiovanni.it/) and further along the road I sighted a conglomeration of signs pointing to at least five other Poli’s (I’m sure to return with any of you who want to venture to Trentino).


From Vezzano, we road through the Valle dei Laghi towns, orchards, and vineyards to within sight of Lake Garda. The shot I framed could very well be the same that Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe writes about from his 1786 “Italian Journey”, having traversed the same pass by which we turned back to Trento, “ ... at it’s head lies an enormous rocky ridge which one must cross before descending to the lake ... At the end of the descent one comes to a little village with a harbor ... Its name is Torbole”.


Goethe also described the peculiar wind patterns at this end of Lake Garda, blowing stiffly down from the northern valleys in the morning, then turning around just as forcefully after midday. Well, I’m here to report that over 200 years of global warming hasn’t done me any favors. Turning around at midmorning, we faced a stiff headwind all the way back to Trento, sapping our legs against the big climb ahead.

Although our route only passed through its outskirts, I had toured “The Painted City” the day before the race. Trento earns it’s nickname from the frescoed Renaissance facades that flank its streets. You can make one out on the left side of this panoramic of the Piazza del Duomo, which I snapped after having given in to the irresistible temptation of a capucinno and brioche at one of its curbside cafe’s. At this point, I have to interject that despite all the fuss the Bolognese make about their fountain of Neptune, I found this one much more pleasing to the eye and a bit more relevant considering that the Romans had originally founded this city as “Tridentum”. Overall, Trento is definitely worth a full day of exploring; but, with the mountains beckoning all around, to experience the real delights of Trentino, you’ll want to have a car (and a bike).


Which brings us back to the point of this story - the big “Charly Gaul” climb up Monte Bondone. I won’t bore you with a blow by blow description of toiling for almost an hour and three-quarters, hunched over my handle bars with the ground barely moving underneath me; instead, I think it’s sufficient to say that I had 20 km (12 miles) to climb 4,700 feet.

I would like to try to explain that finding enjoyment in that really doesn’t come from each pedal stroke; but, in the sum of them - not just in what it buys you in the end (which you will see soon enough), but also knowing that you managed them all. You can’t reach the top by cutting any of them short.

Here I am with most of them behind me and just a few hundred feet of altitude yet to climb. You can see Trento down below; that’s where the climb started. I’m dog tired but in a good mood. After watching the kilometer markers slowly dwindle down from 20, it was nice to see a number as low as 3.


Finally, here’s the view from the top. Here’s what 6,551 laboring pedal strokes buy you. Worth it?

"Obbedisco!": Zio Tony's Tyrol Campaign

Ciao Zio Tony Fans! I hope that you brought your trans-temporal passport and an extra pair of socks with you; because in this blog, Zio T stuffs you in a time capsule and enlists you under the command of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the colorful Generalissimo of Italy’s “Risorgimento”.


That is, when plotting my first incursion into Italy’s northeastern province of Trentino (en-route to my first bicycling Gran Fondo), I decided it was better to follow a route out of History’s playbook than the mainline A4 & A22 autostrade, jammed with Italians on their August holiday in this out-door-lover’s paradise of splendid lakes, intimidating mountains, and verdant valleys brimming over with fruit tree orchards and vineyards. To do that, I consulted Garibaldi’s memoir, “My Life”, in which he recounts the 19th Century military campaigns by which Italy cast off the patch-work of foreign “protecturates” that had enveloped it over the preceeding century (yet another reason to consider the Baroque "annoying") and emerged as the sovereign nation we recognize today.

Because that tale is not often told in American classrooms, I’m compelled to drill you in a brief historical boot-camp before I launch you through the time-space continuum and into the fray. Below you see the kaleidoscopic timeline of events that are collectively referred to as the Italian “Risorgimento” (Revival).


Italy 1859 -------> 1860 -------->1861 ------->1870 ------> 1919

As late as 1859, the north-western Kingdom of Piedmont (under the House of Savoy) was the only native sovereign state. Otherwise, Austria dominated the North, France the central Papal states, and the Spainish Bourbons the South and Sicily.

That status quo had been challenged by various “Free Italy” plots and rebellions in the first half of the 19th century. Most notably, 1848 & 1849 had witnessed a wave of revolts in which the Veneto, Tuscany, and Rome declared themselves independent Republics (Garibaldi embossed his patriotic credentials by valiantly garrisoning the short-lived Republic of Rome against the inevitable return of the punted-out pontiff, Pope Pius IX, under the boots of the French Army). But, such ill-fated shenanigans had enjoyed only brief moments under the proverbial Tuscan sun before the foreign overlords quickly re-grouped and snuffed them out.

Nonetheless, those funeral pyres of the Italian Enlightenment provided enough nationalistic kindling to stoke what Garibaldi and his 1000 red-shirted Volunteers started in 1860 as a relatively small brushfire rebellion in Sicily into a peninsula wide campaign that consumed all of the Spanish-Bourbon and most of the Austrian and Papal holdings. At it’s conclusion, Garibaldi famously relinquished all of his conquests to the patriarch of the House of Savoy, King Victor Emanual II, and in doing so served midwife to the united Kingdom of Italy and secured his legacy in the countless streets and piazza’s you find bearing his name today.

A few years later, at the onset of the Austro-Prussian War of 1866, Austria still held the Veneto (blue on the map) and the Tyrolean valleys and mountains of present day Trentino and Alto-Adige (the white expanse above the Veneto). Italy allied with Prussia against Austria with the hopes of giving her long time, unwelcomed suitor the boot out of what Italians considered their boot. Truth be told, practically all of the Italian engagements in that conflict were unmitigated disasters; but, Italy would nonetheless receive the Veneto as consolation prize for picking the winning side. “Practically all” excludes Giuseppe’s victorious exploits commanding the Volunteer’s Army (akin to the militia of the American Revolution). However, Garibaldi’s smashing success was not in Italy’s war prize the Veneto, but in the Tyrol. Despite his victorious march into the Austrian underbelly, those northern provinces would remain firmly in Austria’s grip until after the horrors of World War I.

An important footnote, which should help you appreciate the punch-line of this story, is that although the Italian Monarchists had gained the upper hand in the 1860 formation of the Kingdom of Italy, the scent of Republicanism (exuded by the likes of Daniele Manin, who had led the ill-starred Venetian Republic of 1848) still lingered in the politically charged atmosphere of 1866. Both sides considered Garibaldi a wildcard in the balance who, with his wild popularity and knack for military campaigning, could tip the Scales of History in either direction. Would Italy emerge from the crucible of war as a Monarchy or a Republic?

So, you are about to find yourself in the middle of that intrigue and in-between the third and fourth maps, in the year 1866 … on the left-post route around Lake Garda by which Giuseppe Garibaldi will lead you and the rest of his Army of Volunteers into History. You will begin the march at Salo(A) and by way of Anfo(B) and Storo (C) achieve your ultimate objective, Bezzecca (D), a name bound to become as familiar to Italians as Yorktown and Gettysburg have become to us.


Ready? Upon completing the trans-temporal-transformation, you’ll follow the words of your charismatic commander [plus a few “I can read his mind” parenthetical transmissions from ZT back here at time zero].

Now … close your eyes, click your … WAIT! … That won’t work … just, click your heels … and count to three …

…. swirly, swirly … spin, spin … swirly,swirly …

…. spin, spin …. swirly, swirly, swirly ……..

Nearly four years had passed since the day I was shot in Aspromonte. I soon forgot such injuries, as the opportunist - those me who are guided by the utility rather than the morality they employ - were conting on.

Rumours had been circulating for days that we had entered into an alliance with Prussia against Austria; on the tenth of June 1866 my friend General Fabrizi came to Caprera to ask me, on behalf of the Government and our own followers, if I would leave the volunteers who were gathering from every part of Italy. I left for the mainland the very same day and immediately marched to Como where the largest numbers of volunteers had assembled. [But, unfortunately, in my rush, I had forgotten to pack my bicycle. I hear there’s some great riding in the hills above Bellagio] ...

There could have been a hundred thousand volunteers, but our uninspired Government, beset by the usual fears [of me running amock and declaring my own Republic of Italy], limited the force to a third of that number. It promised to be a brilliant campaign, one which would ... rejuvenate the old matron and let her live again as in the early days of Roman glory. Yet, in the hand of Jesuitical army leaders, it all ended in a cesspit of humiliation.

All our regiments were called to the western shore of Lake Garda; according to our orders we were to operate in the Tyrol … Since it was to be Lake Garda, I asked for the flotilla stationed at Salo’ to be placed under my command, a request which was granted straight away.


An entire regiment had to stay behind in Salo’ for the sole purpose of guarding the harbour and the nearby strech of shoreline and the forts which were being built along it for defence [and to protect the heritage of where the world first heard the Violin]





[And lucky them, those who could stay behind to enjoy the bountiful fruits of the lake at places like Osteria di Mezzo ... tasty antipasti of home smoked lake fish ... accompanied by the beloved Chiaretto of Garda (leave it to the Italians to do even Rose' wines right) ... and oh, the magnificent "anguilla dal lago" (eel from the lake) ... I could march a legion to the gates of Vienna on vittles like that!]

On the third of July we left Salo’ at dawn and reached Rocca d’Anfo by midday




An Austrian outpost had been sighted from Rocca d’Anfo, at Sant’Antonio ... I thought a sudden and unexpected assault would be effective ... so decided to go ahead and launch an attack ... For a while it went well and the enemy fell back; but then reinforcements arrived ... the day finished without a decisive outcome ... I had been wounded in the left thigh ...

At dawn we found the enemy had withdrawn ... we went on to take control of Bagolino and Caffaro ...


... finally, we took hold of the Dazio Bridge and of Storo, where I set up my headquarters. Storo is a small village at the point where the Guidicaria and Ampola valleys meet and was a key position for us to gain ... especially the Rocca Pagana, a lofty peak which towers almost vertically above the village ...




We took the fort at Ampola ... and so were able to enter the Ledro valley and advance the head of our right column as far as Tiarno and Bezzecca.


The enemy had mustered its forces at the top of the Conzei valley and was coming down along it ... the Conzei valley comes down from the north and continues into the Ledro valley at Bezecca.



During the night a battalion from the fifth regiment ... was sent to reconnoitre ... when dawn broke they found themselves ... sorrounded by large enemy forces ... Pursued by the enemy the survivors fell a back on the main column occupying Bezecca and the neighbouring villages to the north; a major engagement followed.



I had left Storo at dawn in a carriage as the wound I had received on the third of June was still painful ... When I came near Bezzecca the sound of artillery fire alterted me to the battle ... I called Haug to me ... we both agreed that the battalions of the ninth regiment should occupy the hills to the left ... The taking of these positions by the regiment which was captained, I am proud to say, by my son Menotti, turned out to be a very good decision, and helped to begin to turn the situation around in our favour ... I ordered all of the officers of my staff and as many of those who were in earshot to gather the men together and urge them forward.


Canzio, Ricciotti, Damiani, Ravini and others rushed forward at the head of a small group and, aided by the intrepid ninth regiment on the left, pushed the enemy back ... Their forces made a complete retreat ... up the Conzie valley [pausing at the lovely refugio located at it’s end for some flakey strudel and a cup of proper vienese coffee] and through the mountains to the east.


After the twenty-first the enemy made no further appearance ... The 1866 campaign was so marked by disasters that it’s impossible to know whether to blame fate or those who were in charge of strategy. That fact remains that after all our efforts and all the blood we had shed in reaching the Tyrolean valleys we were ordered to halt our victorious march just as we were about to achieve our goal. This is not an exaggeration: on the very day hostilities were suspended, the twenty-fith, the way to Trento was entirely clear of enemy troops; we knew they were abandoning Riva del Garda, throwing the cannon from their fortress into the lake as they left ... General Khun, Commander-in-Chief of the Austrian troops in the Tyrol, announced officially that since he was unable to defend the Italian Tyrol he was concentrating his forces on the defence of the German side ... All the advantages were on our side ... we would have been ready for any bold undertaking!

Yet here I am recording our misfortunes for posterity to read. I received a dispatch from our supreme command ordering us to begin our withdrawal from the Tyrol: I sent a telegram in reply: “Obbedisco” (I Obey),


... which provoked the usual peevish complaints from the Manninians, who, as always, wanted me to proclaim a republic and march on Vienna, or Florence. [Instead, Italy would not become a republic until 1948]