Childhood memories
When I was still a toddler, my parents spent their holidays in one of the southern, Italian-speaking valleys of the canton Graubünden – the Bergell or Val Bregaglia. So during at least three summer weeks, I (and later also my brother) were carried through the mountains. A couple of photos is all that remains as proof, but I was curious if hiking there would uncover memories buried in a lost corner of my mind.
We took the train on the glacier express route through some remote valleys connecting Chur with St. Moritz and then traveled onwards with the bus, past the string of lakes on the plateau of St. Moritz and Silvaplana up to the Maloja pass road. Which – mental note to myself – would be nice thing to do also by bike or even canoe. And then maybe learn kite-surfing on the lake of Silvaplana.
The cheaper alternative
But I am digressing into the future (hopefully). For now, I found the small, family run hotel “La Stampa” in Casaccia, just below the Maloja Pass, where some amazing pictures by the Swiss painter Lukas R. Vogel were on display (and I was almost tempted to buy one that would have set me back 1500 USD – one of those where the mountain is visible only as a collection of snow fields in the light, with a black bench in the foreground).
We decided to sleep in the common room/dormitory for 35 USD per person and discovered that the common room can easily become a double room – it seems as if not too many people stay in the common rooms of Swiss hotels that are not Youth hostels. Good for us.
Annoying bug(ger)s
We left our main luggage in the locker and headed down the valley. The Maloja Pass is a favourite among motorcyclists, because of the beautiful landscape and the winding pass road. Luckily, after an hour of walking their waspish buzz was drowned out by the sound of the river in the valley.
Local food
As it was Sunday, and Switzerland (or at least its more mountainous regions) is one of the few areas where shops actually close over the weekend, we were happy to find a seat in a small Kiosk in Durbegia around lunchtime. They served most excellent sweet chestnut pie and home-made Salami.
That familiar feeling…
So far, I hadn’t felt any familiar tingling looking at the glaciers peaking across the dark rock walls of the mountain range on the other side of the valley. But later on, when we arrived in Soglio and descended further to Castasegna at the Italian border in the shade of chestnut trees, I guessed the origin of my fondness for Doro and the upper Ticino. The same white houses with stone roofs, closing in on the narrow, crooked alleys between them. They cling to the rocky walls like oisters, and most of the year, they are just as silent. The quiet, closed shutters of the houses testify to how many of the young people have left in pursuit of happiness to the cities or abroad.
Those who remain are their parents and grandparents, who themselves had earlier on made their living far away from where they have returned to now. They live in villages without sunrays in Winter, and do not move to the sunny and dry pastures hundreds of meters above them in Summer anymore. And so, within just two generations, the forest has reclaimed most of the steeper pastures, and the valleys look again wild and pristine – although they are bereft of a variety of fauna and flora that thrived on alpine pastures.
Swiss National Day Celebrations in Casaccia
The change became even more evident in the evening in Casaccia. As it was the first of August, Swiss National Day, we decided to attend the celebrations. A couple of tables were enough to seat all attendants, and there were few young faces among them. But there was home-made cake and sausages for sale (the proceeds was intended for the renovation of the valley’s only ski lift), a woman sang some traditional songs, kids were clutching their lampions and in the end, someone even lighted a volcano.
They are few, but determined to stay.
