Photo: Locarno on Lake Maggiore - Prisma by Dukas Presseagentur
I’m in a hotel in Stresa, a little resort on Lake Maggiore. One of the most beautiful Italian lakes
.. from a letter Ernest Hemingway wrote to his parents in 1918.
When I came across this article 'Slow train to Locarno' in the Guardian last week, it brought back memories of a small adventure of mine while staying in Stresa some years ago.
Sarah, my wife, and I were holidaying there in the northern Italian lake area. Not much known today, Stresa was once a stop on the Orient Express and attracted the rich and famous. Another claim to fame is its setting for Hemingway's 'A Farewell to Arms.'
Towards the end of the Great War, 19-year-old Ernest Hemingway was a Red Cross volunteer in Italy. After his injury and hospitalisation in Milan, he visited Stresa and stayed in the Grand Hotel des Iles Borromees. That stay proved his inspiration to write 'A Farewell to Arms'—the story of a doomed romance against the backdrop of the Great War. Many do not know that the novel is, in fact, semi-autobiographical as Hemingway had fallen head-over-heels in love with a nurse.
The hotel in which Hemingway stayed is still there, and you can stay in the room he occupied. It will cost you around ten times what you'd pay to stay in any of the other rooms in the hotel. Then again, staying in that room might inspire you to write a classic novel.
That attraction did not tempt Sarah or me, and on the visit to Stresa, of which I write, we stayed in the hotel next door. Its name, the Hotel Grand Bristol, sounds less romantic. However, it still offered old-world elegance with its chandeliers, artworks and a majestic view over the lake. Once upon a time, it was the home of an Italian nobleman and called Villa Mercedes. I do not know why the more mundane Bristol is now part of the hotel's name.
Anyway, to my little adventure.
I'd spotted an advertisement for the train journey described in the Guardian article and thought I'd like to take it. Chatting with Sarah, she preferred a lazier day by the lake, so we agreed I'd spend the day popping into Switzerland. Then, on my return, we'd meet for cocktails at 'Daniel's', a lovely little bar we'd discovered with a veranda over the lake shore offering splendid views across the lake while you sipped your cocktail - in my case, usually a mojito. Sarah and I would follow that with dinner in one of the splendid restaurants that Stresa has to offer. So, I duly booked my train tickets.
The first leg of my journey was by scheduled train from Stresa to Domodossola. To make my scenic train from there meant an early start, and it was around seven in the morning when I left the hotel for the short walk to the station. As I've found whenever I've travelled by train in Italy (and across most of Europe), the service was punctual and clean, and the staff helpful. The only startling thing in Italy is that, at times, the ticket inspector has a heavily armed Carabinieri in tow. I've experienced the same on buses. Woe betides you if you haven't validated your ticket, and I hate to think what might happen if you don't have a ticket at all.
We arrived on time, and I soon descended, as mentioned in the article, to the platform at Domodossola station. Again, we left promptly, and it was only a brief time before the train began the mountainous climb so well described. The views were spectacular, although there were times when looking down to the distant valley floor below brought on a sense of nervousness should the train take too much of a wobble.
As in my case, most of the other passengers were there for the scenery rather than on some urgent business in Locarno, and the carriages with their wonderfully expansive windows offered everyone many opportunities to snap away as we travelled.
I arrived in Locarno around 1 pm. My ferry back to Stresa down the long lake was at 3 pm, so I decided to indulge myself in a relaxing lunch and looked for somewhere that might be typically Swiss in cuisine. I soon came across a small place where I spotted Servelat on the menu. A sausage that is not specifically unique to Switzerland (and spelt differently - Cervelat / Cervelas - depending on the region) but that is undoubtedly part of their culinary culture. Given the day was warm and sunny, I chose to sit outside and duly ordered my lunch and a glass of local beer to wash it down.
My grilled sausage, served with a simple side salad, was delicious with its smokey, spicey flavour, and the cold light beer quenched my thirst. As relaxed as I was, time began to move on, so I asked for the bill. As it arrived, courtesy of my gracious waiter, I took out my wallet and began to extract a credit card.
With an apologetic smile and in impeccable English, the waiter said, "I'm afraid we only accept cash, sir."
"No problem", I replied, returning the smile as I pulled some notes from my wallet.
Sadly, those notes were Euros, and the waiter, his smile growing more apologetic by the second, reminded me that we were in Switzerland and that, unfortunately, the restaurant also did not accept Euros. Then, with what seemed a well-practised gesture (I guess I wasn't the first customer to whom this had happened), he pointed to a cash machine in the wall of a building just across the street from where I sat and offered that I might get some Swiss francs there.
It was now my turn to apologise. Although I'd travelled to Switzerland on business several times, my vacation jaunt had not triggered that the country was outside the EU. I duly crossed the street. This was nearly fifteen years ago, and the bill was a modest ten francs, so extracting twenty seemed more than enough. Alas, that was far too modest an amount for the machine, whose minimum withdrawal was two hundred francs.
There was no alternative than to withdraw that sum. I peeled off a couple of notes from what was now a fist full of francs, duly paid the bill, and began to ponder what I might buy with the rest of my francs in the brief time I had left before catching the ferry. I called Sarah to see if she might like anything from Switzerland. There wasn't. So, what to do? There were plenty of chocolate shops and, of course, watch shops. I did not need a new timepiece or a genuine desire for chocolate. Still, I decided to visit a chocolatier, nevertheless. In the UK, good Swiss chocolate can be on the pricey side. Not so in Switzerland. Pretty obvious, really. Despite buying what seemed a mountain of it (sorry), I still had close to one hundred and seventy francs left. I, now laden with chocolate, boarded the ferry.
Some two and half hours later, I disembarked in Stresa, sated with chocolate. Despite buying a few drinks while steaming majestically down the lake (a much easier way to travel than Hemingway's hero in a rowing boat), my wallet still bulged with a surplus of Swiss francs.
I still have a few of them today, as despite returning on business to Switzerland, I only got through some of them. Those left now lie in a bedside cabinet drawer along with some Zlotys, Canadian dollars, American dollars, and other remnants of currencies that I've kept 'just in case'. They lie there along with some out-of-date English currency: a pound note, a ten-bob note (I'll let those younger than 40 or from outside the UK use their preferred search engine (mine is Ecosia) to discover what that is) and half a crown (again I refer you to your preferred search engine).
When I was growing up in the late 1950s / early 1960s, the vernacular for the half a crown coin was 'half a dollar', harking back to those heady days when a British pound got you five American dollars. And to meander back to Italy, I once paid nearly three-quarters of a million of that country’s currency for my eldest son Mark's 16th birthday celebration meal in Rome. These were pre-Euro days when the Lira was almost three thousand to the pound, and change was given in sweets rather than coinage.
I'm a firm 'European' but travelling became a little less interesting when many countries in the European Union adopted the Euro. I miss those days of Francs, Guilders, and Deutsch Marks. Mind you, given my experience with Swiss Francs, maybe standardising the currency was a good thing ….
Harry, you have such a unique skill at capturing these trips and the details you experienced. Thank you. On a related note, when I studied in Germany, I saw more than once a bus passenger publicly shamed and then told to leave immediately, with the bus stopping en route in order to accommodate said removal. Needless to say, I never forgot my monthly pass. And I owe you Happy New Year wishes!
What a lovely memory! I'll have to send it to my sister, who broke down in tears on an Italian train this fall because the ticket inspector was so mean to her. We didn't know she had to validate her ticket...the scene got so heated thought for a minute she might actually get arrested. She's still relatively convinced that he was just picking on her, so she'll be glad to hear differently!